Monologues for memorization. Reading prose works - "living classics"

Texts for learning by heart for the competition “Living Classics-2017”

V. Rozov “Wild Duck” from the series “Touching War”)

The food was bad, I was always hungry. Sometimes food was given once a day, and then in the evening. Oh, how I wanted to eat! And so on one of these days, when dusk was already approaching, and there was not yet a crumb in our mouths, we, about eight soldiers, sat on the high grassy bank of a quiet river and almost whined. Suddenly we see him without his gymnast. Holding something in his hands. Another of our comrades is running towards us. He ran up. Radiant face. The package is his tunic, and something is wrapped in it.

Look! – Boris exclaims triumphantly. He unfolds the tunic, and in it... is a live wild duck.

I see: sitting, hiding behind a bush. I took off my shirt and - hop! Have food! Let's fry it.

The duck was weak and young. Turning her head from side to side, she looked at us with amazed beady eyes. She simply could not understand what kind of strange, cute creatures surrounded her and looked at her with such admiration. She did not struggle, did not quack, did not strain her neck to slip out of the hands that held her. No, she looked around gracefully and curiously. Beautiful duck! And we are rough, uncleanly shaven, hungry. Everyone admired the beauty. And a miracle happened, like in a good fairy tale. Somehow he simply said:

Let's go!

Several logical remarks were thrown, like: “What’s the point, there are eight of us, and she’s so small,” “More messing around!”, “Borya, bring her back.” And, no longer covering it with anything, Boris carefully carried the duck back. Returning, he said:

I let her into the water. She dove. I didn’t see where she surfaced. I waited and waited to look, but I didn’t see it. It's getting dark.

When life gets me down, when you start cursing everyone and everything, you lose faith in people and you want to scream, like I once heard the cry of one very famous person: “I don’t want to be with people, I want with dogs!” - in these moments of disbelief and despair, I remember the wild duck and think: no, no, you can believe in people. This will all pass, everything will be fine.

They may tell me; “Well, yes, it was you, intellectuals, artists, everything can be expected about you.” No, during the war everything got mixed up and turned into one whole - single and invisible. At least, the one where I served. There were two thieves in our group who had just been released from prison. One proudly told how he managed to steal crane. Apparently he was talented. But he also said: “Let go!”

Parable about life - Life values

Once, one sage, standing in front of his students, did the following. He took the big one glass vessel and filled it to the brim big stones. Having done this, he asked the disciples if the vessel was full. Everyone confirmed that it was full.

Then the sage took a box of small pebbles, poured it into a vessel and gently shook it several times. The pebbles rolled into the gaps between the large stones and filled them. After this, he again asked the disciples if the vessel was now full. They again confirmed the fact - it is full.

And finally, the sage took a box of sand from the table and poured it into the vessel. Sand, of course, filled the last gaps in the vessel.

Now,” the sage addressed the students, “I would like you to be able to recognize your life in this vessel!”

Large stones represent important things in life: your family, your loved one, your health, your children - those things that, even without everything else, can still fill your life. Small pebbles represent less important things, such as your job, your apartment, your house or your car. Sand symbolizes the little things in life, the hustle and bustle of everyday life. If you fill your vessel with sand first, there will be no room left for larger stones.

It’s the same in life - if you spend all your energy on small things, then there will be nothing left for big things.

Therefore, pay attention first of all to important things - find time for your children and loved ones, take care of your health. You will still have enough time for work, for home, for celebrations and everything else. Watch your big stones - only they have a price, everything else is just sand.

A. Green. Scarlet Sails

She sat with her legs tucked up and her arms around her knees. Leaning carefully towards the sea, she looked at the horizon big eyes, in which there is nothing adult left, through the eyes of a child. Everything she had been waiting for so long and passionately was happening there - at the end of the world. She saw an underwater hill in the land of distant abysses; climbing plants flowed upward from its surface; among them round leaves pierced by the stem at the edge, fanciful flowers shone. The upper leaves glittered on the surface of the ocean; those who knew nothing, as Assol knew, saw only awe and brilliance.

A ship rose from the thicket; he surfaced and stopped in the very middle of dawn. From this distance he was visible as clear as clouds. Scattering joy, he burned like wine, rose, blood, lips, scarlet velvet and crimson fire. The ship went straight to Assol. The wings of foam fluttered under the powerful pressure of its keel; Already, having stood up, the girl pressed her hands to her chest, when a wonderful play of light turned into a swell; the sun rose, and the bright fullness of the morning tore the covers off everything that was still basking, stretching on the sleepy earth.

The girl sighed and looked around. The music fell silent, but Assol was still in the power of its sonorous choir. This impression gradually weakened, then became a memory and, finally, just fatigue. She lay down on the grass, yawned and, blissfully closing her eyes, fell asleep - truly, soundly, like a young nut, sleep, without worries and dreams.

She was awakened by a fly wandering over her bare foot. Restlessly turning her leg, Assol woke up; sitting, she pinned up her disheveled hair, so Gray's ring reminded her of herself, but considering it nothing more than a stalk stuck between her fingers, she straightened them; Since the obstacle did not disappear, she impatiently raised her hand to her eyes and straightened up, instantly jumping up with the force of a spraying fountain.

Gray's radiant ring shone on her finger, as if on someone else's - she could not recognize it as hers at that moment, she did not feel her finger. - “Whose thing is this? Whose joke? - she quickly cried. - Am I dreaming? Maybe I found it and forgot?” Grasping the right hand with her left hand, on which there was a ring, she looked around in amazement, torturing the sea and green thickets with her gaze; but no one moved, no one hid in the bushes, and in the blue, far-illuminated sea there was no sign, and a blush covered Assol, and the voices of the heart said a prophetic “yes.” There were no explanations for what had happened, but without words or thoughts she found them in her strange feeling, and the ring already became close to her. Trembling, she pulled it off her finger; holding it in a handful like water, she examined it - with all her soul, with all her heart, with all the jubilation and clear superstition of youth, then, hiding it behind her bodice, Assol buried her face in her palms, from under which a smile burst uncontrollably, and, lowering her head, slowly I went the opposite way.

So, by chance, as people who can read and write say, Gray and Assol found each other on the morning of a summer day full of inevitability.

"A note". Tatyana Petrosyan

The note looked most harmless.

According to all gentlemanly laws, it should have revealed an inky face and a friendly explanation: “Sidorov is a goat.”

So Sidorov, without suspecting anything bad, instantly unfolded the message... and was dumbfounded.

Inside, in large, beautiful handwriting, it was written: “Sidorov, I love you!”

Sidorov felt mockery in the roundness of the handwriting. Who wrote this to him?

Squinting, he looked around the class. The author of the note was bound to reveal himself. But for some reason Sidorov’s main enemies did not grin maliciously this time.

(As usual they grinned. But this time they didn’t.)

But Sidorov immediately noticed that Vorobyova was looking at him without blinking. It doesn’t just look like that, but with meaning!

There was no doubt: she wrote the note. But then it turns out that Vorobyova loves him?!

And then Sidorov’s thought reached a dead end and fluttered helplessly, like a fly in a glass. WHAT DOES LOVES MEAN??? What consequences will this entail and what should Sidorov do now?..

“Let’s think logically,” Sidorov reasoned logically. “What, for example, do I love? Pears! I love it, which means I always want to eat it...”

At that moment, Vorobyova turned to him again and licked her bloodthirsty lips. Sidorov went numb. What caught his eye were her long uncut... well, yes, real claws! For some reason I remembered how in the buffet Vorobyov greedily gnawed at a bony chicken leg...

“You need to pull yourself together,” Sidorov pulled himself together. (My hands turned out to be dirty. But Sidorov ignored the little things.) “I love not only pears, but also my parents. However, there is no question of eating them. Mom bakes sweet pies. Dad often carries me around his neck. And I love them for that..."

Here Vorobyova turned around again, and Sidorov thought with sadness that he would now have to bake sweet pies for her all day long and carry her to school around his neck in order to justify such a sudden and crazy love. He took a closer look and discovered that Vorobyova was not thin and would probably not be easy to wear.

“All is not lost yet,” Sidorov did not give up. “I also love our dog Bobik. Especially when I train him or take him out for a walk...” Then Sidorov felt stuffy at the thought that Vorobyov could make him jump for every pie, and then he will take you for a walk, holding the leash tightly and not allowing you to deviate either to the right or to the left...

“...I love the cat Murka, especially when you blow right into her ear...” Sidorov thought in despair, “no, that’s not it... I like to catch flies and put them in a glass... but this is too much... I love toys that you can break and see what's inside..."

The last thought made Sidorov feel unwell. There was only one salvation. He hastily tore a piece of paper out of the notebook, pursed his lips resolutely and in firm handwriting wrote the menacing words: “Vorobyova, I love you too.” Let her be scared.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Ch. Aitmatov. “And the day lasts longer than a century”

In this confrontation of feelings, she suddenly saw, having crossed over a gentle ridge, a large herd of camels, freely grazing along a wide valley. Naiman-Ana hit her Akmaya, set off as fast as she could and at first simply choked with joy that she had finally found the herd, then I was scared, I got chills, I became so scared that I would now see my son turned into a mankurt. Then she was happy again and no longer really understood what was happening to her.

Here it is, a herd, grazing, but where is the shepherd? Must be here somewhere. And I saw a man on the other edge of the valley. From a distance it was impossible to discern who he was. The shepherd stood with a long staff, holding a riding camel with luggage on the reins behind him, and calmly looked from under his pulled-down hat at her approach.

And when she approached, when she recognized her son, Naiman-Ana did not remember how she rolled off the camel’s back. It seemed to her that she had fallen, but who knew it!

My son, dear! And I'm looking for you all around! “She rushed towards him as if through a thicket that separated them. - I'm your mother!

And immediately she understood everything and began to sob, trampling the ground with her feet, bitterly and fearfully, curling her convulsively jumping lips, trying to stop and unable to control herself. To stay on her feet, she tenaciously grabbed the shoulder of her indifferent son and cried and cried, deafened by the grief that had been hanging for a long time and now collapsed, crushing and burying her. And, crying, she peered through the tears, through the sticky strands of gray wet hair, through the shaking fingers with which she smeared the road dirt on her face, at the familiar features of her son and still tried to catch his gaze, still waiting, hoping that he would recognize her, because this It’s so easy to recognize your own mother!

But her appearance did not have any effect on him, as if she had been here constantly and visited him every day in the steppe. He didn't even ask who she was or why she was crying. At some point, the shepherd took her hand off his shoulder and walked, dragging the inseparable riding camel with its luggage, to the other side of the herd to see if the young animals who had started playing had run too far.

Naiman-Ana remained in place, squatted down, sobbing, clutching her face with her hands, and sat there without raising her head. Then she gathered her strength and went to her son, trying to remain calm. The Mankurt son, as if nothing had happened, senselessly and indifferently looked at her from under his tightly pulled hat, and something like a weak smile slid across his emaciated, blackly weathered, roughened face. But the eyes, expressing a dense lack of interest in anything in the world, remained as detached as before.

Sit down, let’s talk,” Naiman-Ana said with a heavy sigh.

And they sat down on the ground.

Do you know me? - asked the mother.

Mankurt shook his head negatively.

What is your name?

Mankurt,” he answered.

This is your name now. Do you remember your previous name? Remember your real name.

Mankurt was silent. His mother saw that he was trying to remember; large drops of sweat appeared on the bridge of his nose from tension and his eyes were clouded with a trembling fog. But a blank, impenetrable wall must have appeared in front of him, and he could not overcome it.

What was your father's name? Who are you, where are you from? Do you even know where you were born?

No, he didn’t remember anything and didn’t know anything.

What did they do to you! - the mother whispered, and again her lips began to jump against her will, and, choking with resentment, anger and grief, she began to sob again, trying in vain to calm herself down. The mother’s sorrows did not affect the mankurt in any way.

YOU CAN TAKE AWAY LAND, YOU CAN TAKE AWAY WEALTH, YOU CAN TAKE AWAY LIFE, SHE SPOKE OUT LOUD, “BUT WHO THOUGHT UP WITH WHO DARES TO ENSURE THE MEMORY OF A MAN?!” OH LORD, IF YOU EXIST, HOW DID YOU INSPIRE THIS INTO PEOPLE? IS THERE NOTHING EVIL ON EARTH WITHOUT THIS?

And then lamentations burst out of her soul, long inconsolable cries among the silent endless Sarozeks...

But nothing touched her son, Mankurt.

At this time, a man riding a camel was seen in the distance. He was heading towards them.

Who is this? - asked Naiman-Ana.

“He’s bringing me food,” the son answered.

Naiman-Ana became worried. It was necessary to quickly hide before the Ruanzhuan, who showed up inopportunely, saw her. She brought her camel to the ground and climbed into the saddle.

Don't say anything. “I’ll come soon,” Naiman-Ana said.

The son did not answer. He didn't care.

This was one of the enemies who captured the Sarozeks, drove many people into slavery and caused so much misfortune to her family. But what could she, an unarmed woman, do against the fierce Ruanzhuang warrior? BUT SHE WAS THOUGHT ABOUT WHAT LIFE, WHAT EVENTS LEADED THESE PEOPLE TO SUCH CRUELTY, savagery - TO ERASE THE MEMORY OF A SLAVE...

After scouring back and forth, the Ruanzhuan soon retreated back to the herd.

It was already evening. The sun had set, but the glow lingered over the steppe for a long time. Then it got dark all at once. And the dead of night came.

And she came to the decision not to leave her son in slavery, to try to take him with her. Even if he is a mankurt, even if he doesn’t understand what’s what, it’s better for him to be at home, among his own people, than among the shepherds of the Ruanzhuans in deserted Sarozeks. That's what her mother's soul told her. She could not come to terms with what others were coming to terms with. She could not leave her blood in slavery. What if, in his native place, his sanity returns, he suddenly remembers his childhood...

She did not know, however, that upon returning, the embittered Ruanzhuans began to beat the mankurt. But what is the demand for him? He only answered:

She said she was my mother.

She is not your mother! You don't have a mother! Do you know why she came? You know? She wants to rip off your hat and steam your head! - they intimidated the unfortunate mankurt.

At these words, the mankurt turned pale, his black face became grey-gray. He pulled his neck into his shoulders and, grabbing his hat, began to look around like an animal.

Don't be afraid! Here you go! - The elder Ruanzhuang put a bow and arrows in his hands.

Well, take aim! - The younger Ruanzhuan threw his hat high into the air. The arrow pierced the hat. - Look! - the owner of the hat was surprised. - The memory remains in my hand!

We drove away side by side without looking back. Naiman-Ana did not take her eyes off them for a long time and, when they disappeared into the distance, she decided to return to her son. Now she wanted to take him with her at all costs. Whatever he is

It is not his fault that fate turned out so that his enemies mocked him, but his mother will not leave him in slavery. And let the Naimans, seeing how the invaders mutilate the captured horsemen, how they humiliate and deprive them of their reason, let them become indignant and take up arms. It's not about the land. There would be enough land for everyone. However, Zhuanzhuan evil is intolerable even for an alienated neighborhood...

With these thoughts, Naiman-Ana returned to her son and kept thinking about how to convince him, persuade him to run away that very night.

Zholaman! My son, Zholaman, where are you? - began to call Naiman-Ana.

No one showed up or responded.

Zholaman! Where are you? It's me, your mother! Where are you?

And, looking around in concern, she did not notice that her son, mankurt, hiding in the shadow of a camel, was already ready from his knees, aiming with an arrow stretched on a bowstring. The glare of the sun disturbed him, and he waited for the right moment to shoot.

Zholaman! My son! - Naiman-Ana called, afraid that something had happened to him. She turned in the saddle. - Do not shoot! - she managed to scream and just urged the white camel Akmaya to turn around, but the arrow whistled briefly, piercing her left side under her arm.

It was a fatal blow. Naiman-Ana bent down and began to slowly fall, clinging to the camel’s neck. But first, her white scarf fell from her head, which turned into a bird in the air and flew away shouting: “Remember, whose are you? What is your name? Your father Donenbai! Donenbai! Donenbai!”

Since then, they say, the bird Donenbai began to fly in saroseks at night. Having met a traveler, the Donenbai bird flies nearby with the exclamation: “Remember, whose are you? Whose are you? What is your name? Name? Your father Donenbai! Donenbai, Donenbai, Donenbai, Donenbai!..”

The place where Naiman-Ana was buried began to be called in the Sarozeks the Ana-Beyit cemetery - the Mother's rest...

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Marina Druzhinina. Cure for the test

It was a great day! Lessons ended early and the weather was great. We just ran out of school! They started throwing snowballs, jumping in the snowdrifts and laughing! I could have fun like this my whole life!

Suddenly Vladik Gusev realized:

- Brothers! Tomorrow is a math quiz! You need to get ready! - and, shaking off the snow, hurried to the house.

- Just think, counterfeit! - Vovka threw a snowball after Vladik and collapsed in the snow. - I suggest letting her go!

- Like this? - I didn’t understand.

- And like this! - Vovka stuffed snow into his mouth and gestured around the snowdrifts with a broad gesture. - Look how much anti-control there is! The drug is certified! A slight cold during the test is guaranteed! If we're sick tomorrow, we won't go to school! Great?

- Great! - I approved and also took anti-control medication.

Then we jumped in the snowdrifts, made a snowman in the shape of our head teacher Mikhail Yakovlevich, ate an extra portion of anti-control food - just to be sure - and went home.

This morning I woke up and didn’t recognize myself. One cheek became three times thicker than the other, and at the same time the tooth ached terribly. Wow, a mild cold for one day!

- Oh, what a flux! - Grandma clasped her hands when she saw me. - See a doctor immediately! School is cancelled! I'll call the teacher.

In general, the anti-control agent worked flawlessly. This, of course, made me happy. But not quite the way we would like. Anyone who has ever had a toothache or been in the hands of a dentist will understand me. And the doctor also “comforted” him one last time:

- The tooth will hurt for a couple more days. So be patient and don't forget to rinse.

In the evening I call Vovka:

- How are you?

There was some hissing in the receiver. I could hardly make out that it was Vovka who was answering:

The conversation didn't work out.

The next day, Saturday, the tooth, as promised, continued to ache. Every hour my grandmother gave me medicine, and I diligently rinsed my mouth. Being sick on Sunday was not part of my plans either: my mother and I were going to go to the circus.

On Sunday, I jumped up just before dawn so as not to be late, but my mother immediately spoiled my mood:

- No circus! Stay at home and rinse so that you get better by Monday. Don't miss classes again - it's the end of the quarter!

I’ll quickly go to the phone and call Vovka:

- Your anti-controllin, it turns out, is also anti-circolin! The circus was canceled because of him! We need to warn you!

- He is also an antikinol! - Vovka picked up hoarsely. - Because of him, they didn’t let me into the cinema! Who knew there would be so many side effects!

- You have to think! - I was indignant.

- The fool himself! - he snapped!

In short, we completely quarreled and went to gargle: I - the tooth, Vovka - the throat.

On Monday I approach the school and see: Vovka! It also means he was healed.

- What's up? - I ask.

- Great! - Vovka patted me on the shoulder. - The main thing is that they got sick!

We laughed and went to class. The first lesson is mathematics.

- Ruchkin and Semechkin! Recovered! - Alevtina Vasilievna was delighted. - Very good! Hurry up, sit down and take out clean leaves. Now you will write test, which was missed on Friday. In the meantime, let's check your homework.

That's the number! Anticontrollin turned out to be a complete fool!

Or maybe it's not him?

______________________________________________________________________________________

I.S. Turgenev
Prose poem “Alms”
Up close 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 they were 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.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Week of enlightenment. Michael Bulgakov

Our military commissar comes to our company in the evening and says to me:

- Sidorov!

And I told him:

- I!

He looked at me piercingly and asked:

- “You,” he says, “what?

- “I,” I say, “nothing...

- “Are you,” he says, “illiterate?”

I tell him, of course:

- That's right, comrade military commissar, illiterate.

Then he looked at me again and said:

- Well, if you are illiterate, then I’ll send you tonight to La Traviata [an opera by G. Verdi (1813–1901), written by him in 1853]!

- Have mercy, - I say, - for what? The fact that I am illiterate is not our reason. They didn’t teach us under the old regime.

And he answers:

- Fool! What were you afraid of? This is not for your punishment, but for your benefit. There they will educate you, you will watch the performance, that’s your pleasure.

And Panteleev and I from our company were aiming to go to the circus that evening.

I say:

- Is it possible, comrade military commissar, for me to retire to the circus instead of the theater?

And he narrowed his eye and asked:

- To the circus?.. Why is this?

- Yes, - I say, - it’s very interesting... They will bring out a learned elephant, and again, redheads, French wrestling...

He waved his finger.

- “I’ll show you,” he says, “an elephant!” Ignorant element! Redheads... redheads! You yourself are a red-haired hillbilly! Elephants are scientists, but you, my grief, are unscientists! What benefit do you get from the circus? A? And in the theater they will educate you... Nice, good... Well, in a word, I don’t have time to talk to you for a long time... Get a ticket and go!

There is nothing to do - I took a ticket. Panteleev, who is also illiterate, received a ticket, and we set off. We bought three glasses of sunflower seeds and came to the First Soviet Theater.

We see that at the fence where people are allowed in there is Babylonian pandemonium. They pour into the theater in droves. And among our illiterate people there are also literate ones, and more and more young ladies. There was one and she poked her head up to the controller, showed her the ticket, and he asked her:

- Excuse me, he says, comrade madam, are you literate?

And she was foolishly offended:

- Weird question! Of course, competent. I studied at the gymnasium!

- “Oh,” says the controller, “at the gymnasium.” Very nice. In that case, let me wish you goodbye!

And he took the ticket from her.

- On what basis, - the young lady shouts, - how can this be?

- “And this way,” he says, “it’s very simple, that’s why we only let in the illiterate.

- But I also want to listen to an opera or a concert.

- Well, if you want, he says, then come to the Kavsoyuz. All your literate people were gathered there - doctors there, doctors there, professors. They sit and drink tea with molasses, because they are not given sugar, and Comrade Kulikovsky sings romances to them.

And so the young lady left.

Well, Panteleev and I were let through unhindered and taken straight to the stalls and seated in the second row.

We are sitting.

The performance had not yet begun, and therefore, out of boredom, they chewed a glass of sunflower seeds. We sat like that for an hour and a half, and finally it got dark in the theater.

I look, someone is climbing into the main place, which is fenced off. In a seal cap and a coat. A mustache, a beard with gray hair, and such a stern appearance. He climbed in, sat down, and first of all put on his pince-nez.

I ask Panteleev (even though he is illiterate, he knows everything):

- Who will this be?

And he answers:

- This is deri, he says, zher. He is the most important one here. Serious sir!

- Well, I ask, why is he being put behind a fence for show?

- “And because,” he answers, “he is the most literate in opera here.” This is why they put him on display for us as an example.

- So why did they put him with his back to us?

- “Oh,” he says, “it’s more convenient for him to dance with an orchestra!”

And this same conductor unfolded some book in front of him, looked into it and waved a white twig, and immediately the violins started playing under the floor. It’s pitiful, thin, and I just want to cry.

Well, this conductor really turned out to be not the last person to read and write, so he does two things at once - he reads a book and waves a rod. And the orchestra is heating up. Further more! Behind the violins there are pipes, and behind the pipes there is a drum. Thunder rang throughout the theater. And then he barks from the right side... I looked into the orchestra and shouted:

- Panteleev, but this, God forbid, is a Lombard [B. A. Lombard (1878–1960), famous trombonist], who is on rations in our regiment!

And he also looked in and said:

- He is the one! Apart from him, there is no one else who can play the trombone so well!

Well, I was delighted and shouted:

- Bravo, encore, Lombard!

But out of nowhere, a policeman, and now to me:

- I ask you, comrade, not to disturb the silence!

Well, we fell silent.

Meanwhile, the curtain parted, and we see on stage - smoke like a rocker! Some are gentlemen in jackets, and some are ladies in dresses, dancing and singing. Well, of course, the drinks are right there, and the same thing at nine.

In a word, the old regime!

Well, that means Alfred is among the others. Tozke drinks and eats.

And it turns out, my brother, he is in love with this very Traviata. But he doesn’t explain this only in words, but everything by singing, everything by singing. Well, and she answered him the same.

And it turns out that he cannot avoid marrying her, but it turns out that this same Alfred has a father named Lyubchenko. And suddenly, out of nowhere, in the second act he strode onto the stage.

He is small in stature, but so personable, his hair is gray, and his voice is strong, thick - beryvton.

And right away he sang to Alfred:

- Well, so and so, have you forgotten your dear land?

Well, I sang and sang to him and upset all this Alfredian machination, to hell. Alfred got drunk out of grief in the third act, and he, my brothers, created a huge scandal - with this Traviata of his.

He cursed her out loud, in front of everyone.

Sings:

- “You,” he says, “are this and that, and in general,” he says, “I don’t want to have anything to do with you anymore.”

Well, of course, there are tears, noise, scandal!

And she fell ill with consumption from grief in the fourth act. They sent for a doctor, of course.

The doctor arrives.

Well, I see, even though he’s in a frock coat, by all indications our brother is a proletarian. The hair is long and the voice is as healthy as a barrel.

He went up to La Traviata and sang:

- Be calm, he says, your illness is dangerous, and you will certainly die!

And he didn’t even write any prescription, but simply said goodbye and left.

Well, Traviata sees, there is nothing to do - he must die.

Well, then Alfred and Lyubchenko came, asking her not to die. Lyubchenko already gives his consent to the wedding. But nothing works!

- Sorry,” says Traviata, “I can’t, I have to die.”

And indeed, the three of them sang again, and La Traviata died.

And the conductor closed the book, took off his pince-nez and left. And everyone left. That's all.

Well, I think: thank God, we have been enlightened, and that will be ours! Boring story!

And I say to Panteleev:

- Well, Panteleev, let's go to the circus tomorrow!

I went to bed and kept dreaming that La Traviata was singing and Lombard was quacking on his trombone.

Well, the next day I come to the military commissar and say:

- Allow me, comrade military commissar, to leave for the circus this evening...

And how he growls:

- Still, he says, you have elephants on your mind! No circuses! No, brother, you will go to the Council of Trade Unions for a concert today. There, he says, Comrade Bloch and his orchestra will play the Second Rhapsody! [Most likely, Bulgakov means the Second hungarian rhapsody F. Liszt, which the writer loved and often performed on the piano.]

So I sat down, thinking: “Here are the elephants for you!”

- So, I ask, will Lombard play the trombone again?

- Definitely, he says.

Occasion, God forgive me, where I go, he goes with his trombone!

I looked and asked:

- Well, what about tomorrow?

- And tomorrow, he says, it’s impossible. Tomorrow I will send you all to the drama.

- Well, what about the day after tomorrow?

- And the day after tomorrow back to the opera!

And in general, he says, it’s enough for you to hang around circuses. The week of enlightenment has arrived.

I went crazy from his words! I think: this way you will disappear completely. And I ask:

- So, are they going to drive our entire company like this?

- Why, - he says, - everyone! They won't be literate. Competent and without the Second Rhapsody is good! It's just you, illiterate devils. And let the literate one go in all four directions!

I left him and thought about it. I see it's tobacco! Since you are illiterate, it turns out that you should be deprived of all pleasure...

I thought and thought and came up with an idea.

I went to the military commander and said:

- Let me declare!

- Declare it!

- Let me, I say, go to literacy school.

The military commissar smiled and said:

- Well done! - and enrolled me in school.

Well, I tried it, and what do you think, you learned it!

And now the devil is not my brother, because I’m literate!

___________________________________________________________________________________

Anatoly Aleksin. Property division

When I was in ninth grade, my literature teacher came up with an unusual topic for a home essay: “The main person in my life.”

I wrote about my grandmother.

And then I went to the cinema with Fedka... It was Sunday, and a line lined up at the box office, pressing against the wall. Fedka’s face, in my opinion and in the opinion of my grandmother, was beautiful, but always so tense, as if Fedka was ready to jump from a tower into the water. Seeing the tail near the cash register, he squinted, which foreshadowed his readiness for emergency actions. “I’ll find you by any trace,” he said when he was a boy. The desire to achieve one's goals immediately and at any cost remained a dangerous sign of Fedka's character.

Fedka could not stand in line: it humiliated him, because it immediately assigned him a certain serial number, and, of course, not the first.

Fedka rushed to the cash register. But I stopped him:

– Let's go to the park instead. This kind of weather!..

– Are you sure you want it? – he was delighted: there was no need to stand in line.

– “Don’t ever kiss me in the yard again,” I said. - Mom doesn't like it.

– Am I...

– Right under the windows!

– Exactly?

– Have you forgotten?

– Then I have every right... - Fedka prepared to jump. – Once it was, that means that’s it! There's a chain reaction...

I turned towards the house, because Fedka carried out his intentions at any cost and did not put it off for a long time.

– Where are you going? I was joking... That's for sure. I was joking.

If people who are not used to humiliating themselves have to do this, one feels sorry for them. And yet I loved it when Fedka Sled, the thunderstorm at home, fussed around me: let everyone see what I am like nowfull-fledged !

Fedka begged me to go to the park, even promised that he would never kiss me again in his life, which I did not demand from him at all.

– Home! – I said proudly. And she repeated: “Only home...

But she repeated it in confusion, because at that moment she remembered with horror that she had left the essay “The Main Person in My Life” on the table, although she could have easily put it in a drawer or briefcase. What if mom reads it?

Mom has already read it.

– Who am I in your life? – without waiting for me to take off my coat, she asked in a voice that, as if from a cliff, was about to break into a scream. - Who am I? Not the main person... This is undeniable. But stillWhich ?!

I just stood there in my coat. And she continued:

– I can't do it anymore, Vera! An incompatibility has occurred. And I propose to separate... This is indisputable.

– You and me?

– Us?! Would you mind?

– And with whom then? – I sincerely didn’t understand.

Always impeccably self-possessed, my mother, having lost control of herself, burst into tears. Tears often crying man don't shock us. And I saw my mother’s tears for the first time in my life. And she began to console her.

None literary essay, probably didn’t have that effect on mom strong impression like mine. She could not calm down until the evening.

When I was in the bathroom getting ready for bed, my grandmother came. Mom didn’t let her take off her coat either. In a voice that returned to the edge of the cliff, not trying to hide anything from me, she began to speak haltingly, as I had once said:

– Vera wrote... And I accidentally read it. “The main person in my life”... School essay. Everyone in their class will dedicate it to their mothers. This is undeniable! And she wrote about you... If your son was a child... Eh? We need to leave! This is undeniable. I can not take it anymore. My mother doesn’t live with us... And she’s not trying to win my daughter away from me!

I could go out into the corridor and explain that before winning me back, my mother’s mother would have to win back my health, my life, just like my grandmother did. And it would hardly have been possible to do this over the phone. But mom started crying again. And I hid and became quiet.

– You and I must leave. “This is undeniable,” my mother said through tears, but already firmly. – We will do everything according to the law, in fairness...

– How can I live without Verochka? - Grandma didn’t understand.

– What about us all... under one roof? I'll write a statement. To court! There they will understand that they need to save the family. That mother and daughter are practically separated... I will write! When Vera finishes the school year... so that she doesn't have a nervous breakdown.

Even then I stayed in the bathroom, not taking the threats about the trial seriously.

…In the struggle for existence, one often does not choose means... When I entered the tenth grade, my mother, no longer afraid of my nervous breakdown, fulfilled her promise. She wrote that my grandmother and I should be separated. Separate... And about the division of property “in accordance with existing judicial laws.”

– Understand, I don’t want anything extra! – the man squeezed out of the tube continued to prove.

– Suing your mother is the mostsuperfluous business on earth. And you say: there’s no need for unnecessary things...” she said in an impassive, non-appealable tone.

“You need someone who is needed. Needed when needed... Needed while needed!” – I mentally repeated the words that, like poems etched in my memory, were always on my mind.

When I left home in the morning, I left a letter on the kitchen table, or rather, a note addressed to mom and dad: “I will be the part of the property that, according to the court, will go to my grandmother.”

Someone touched me from behind. I turned around and saw dad.

– Go home. We won't do anything! Go home. Let’s go...” he repeated frantically, looking around so that no one would hear.

Grandmother was not at home.

– Where is she? – I asked quietly.

– “Nothing happened,” dad answered. - She went to the village. You see, on your piece of paper at the bottom it is written: “I left for the village. Don't worry: it's okay."

– To Aunt Mana?

– Why to Aunt Mana? She’s been gone for a long time... She just went to the village. In my native village!

– To Aunt Mana? – I repeated. - To that oak tree?..

The mother, petrified on the sofa, jumped up:

– To which oak tree? You can't worry! What oak?

– She just left... No big deal! - Dad exhorted. - It's OK!

He dared to reassure me with my grandmother’s words.

– It's OK? Has she gone to Aunt Mana? To Aunt Mana? To Aunt Mana, right?! - I screamed, feeling that the ground, as it happened before, was disappearing from under my feet.

The best. Nikolay Teleshov

One day the shepherd Demyan wandered across the lawn with long whip on the shoulder. He had nothing to do, and the day was hot, and Demyan decided to swim in the river.

He undressed and just got into the water, he looked - at the bottom under his feet something glittered. The place was shallow; he dove in and pulled out from the sand a small light horseshoe, the size of a human ear. He turns it over in his hands and doesn’t understand what it can be good for.

- “Is it really possible to shoe a goat,” Demyan laughs to himself, “otherwise, what good is such a little thing?”

He took the horseshoe with both hands by both ends and was just about to try to straighten it or break it, when a woman appeared on the shore, all in white silver clothes. Demyan even became embarrassed and went into the water up to his neck. Demyanov’s head alone looks out from the river and listens as a woman congratulates him:

- Your happiness, Demyanushka: you have found such a treasure, which has no equal in the whole wide world.

- What should I do with it? - Demyan asks the water and looks at white woman, then onto the horseshoe.

- Go quickly, unlock the doors, enter the underground palace and take from there everything you want, whatever you like.

Take as much as you want. But just remember one thing: don’t leave the best there.

- What's the best thing about it?

- “Lean the horseshoe against this stone,” the woman pointed with her hand. And she repeated again: “Take as much as you want until you are satisfied.” But when you go back, don’t forget to take the best with you.

And the white woman disappeared.

Demyan doesn't understand anything. He looked around: he saw a large stone in front of him on the shore, lying near the water. He stepped towards him and leaned the horseshoe against him, as the woman said.

And suddenly the stone broke in two, the iron doors opened behind it, opened wide by themselves, and in front of Demyan was a luxurious palace. As soon as he holds out his horseshoe, as soon as he leans it against something, all the shutters in front of him dissolve, all the locks are unlocked, and Demyan goes, like a master, wherever he pleases.

Wherever you enter, countless riches lie.

In one place there is a huge mountain of oats, and what a heavy, golden one! In another place there is rye, in a third there is wheat; Demyan had never seen such white grain in his dreams.

“Well, that’s it! - he thinks. - It’s not just that you feed yourself, but the whole city Enough for a hundred years, and there will still be some left!”

"Oh well! - Demyan rejoices. “I got myself wealth!”

The only trouble is that he came up here straight from the river, as if he were naked. No pockets, no shirt, no hat - nothing; nothing to put it in.

There is a great abundance of all sorts of good things around him, but there is nothing to pour into, or wrap in, or carry away with. But you can’t put a lot into two handfuls.

“We should run home, haul the sacks and bring the horse and cart to the shore!”

Demyan goes further - the room is full of silver; further - rooms are full of gold; even further - precious stones - green, red, blue, white - all sparkle, glow with semi-precious rays. Eyes run wide; you don’t know what to look at, what to want, what to take. And what’s best here is something Demyan doesn’t understand; he can’t figure it out in a hurry.

“We must quickly run for the bags,” - only one thing is clear to him. Moreover, it’s a shame that there’s nothing to put even a little bit into right now.

“Why, you fool, didn’t I put on my hat just now! At least into it!”

So as not to make a mistake and not forget to take the best, Demyan grabbed both handfuls of precious stones of all sorts and quickly went to the exit.

He walks, and handfuls of stones fall out! It’s a pity that your hands are small: if only each handful was as big as a pot!

He walks past gold and thinks: what if it is the best? We must take him too. But there is nothing to take and nothing to take: the handfuls are full, but there are no pockets.

I had to throw off the extra stones and take at least a little bit of golden sand.

While Demyan was hastily exchanging stones for gold, all his thoughts scattered. He doesn’t know what to take, what to leave. It’s a pity to leave every little thing, but there’s no way to take it away: a naked man has nothing but two handfuls for this. If he applies more, it falls out of his hands. Again we have to pick and place. Demyan finally became exhausted and resolutely walked towards the exit.

So he crawled out onto the shore, onto the lawn. He saw his clothes, hat, whip - and was happy.

“I’ll return to the palace now, pour the loot into my shirt and tie it with a whip, and the first bag is ready!” And then I run to get the cart!”

He put handfuls of his jewels into a hat and rejoices, looking at them, how they sparkle and play in the sun.

He quickly got dressed, hung the whip on his shoulder and wanted to go again to the underground palace for wealth, but there were no doors in front of him anymore, and the large gray stone still lay on the shore.

- My fathers! - Demyan shouted, and even his voice squealed. - Where is my little horseshoe?

He forgot it in the underground palace, when he hurriedly exchanged stones for gold, looking for the best.

Only now he realized that he had left the best things there, where now you would never, ever enter without a shoe.

- Here's a horseshoe for you!

In despair, he rushed to his hat, to his jewelry, with his last hope: wasn’t “the best” lying among them?

But in the cap there was now only a handful of river sand and a handful of small field stones, which the whole bank is full of.

Demyan lowered his hands and head:

- Here's the best for you!..

______________________________________________________________________________________

The candle was burning. Mike Gelprin

The bell rang when Andrei Petrovich had already lost all hope.

- Hello, I'm following an ad. Do you give literature lessons?

Andrei Petrovich peered at the videophone screen. A man in his late thirties. Strictly dressed - suit, tie. He smiles, but his eyes are serious. Andrei Petrovich’s heart sank; he posted the ad online only out of habit. There were six calls in ten years. Three got the wrong number, two more turned out to be insurance agents working the old fashioned way, and one confused literature with a ligature.

- “I give lessons,” Andrei Petrovich said, stuttering with excitement. - N-at home. Are you interested in literature?

“Interested,” the interlocutor nodded. - My name is Max. Let me know what the conditions are.

“For nothing!” - Andrei Petrovich almost burst out.

- “Pay is hourly,” he forced himself to say. - By agreement. When would you like to start?

- I, actually... - the interlocutor hesitated.

- The first lesson is free,” Andrei Petrovich hastily added. - If you don’t like it, then...

- Let’s do it tomorrow,” Maxim said decisively. - Will ten in the morning suit you? I take the kids to school by nine and then I'm free until two.

- “It will work,” Andrei Petrovich was delighted. - Write down the address.

- Tell me, I'll remember.

That night Andrei Petrovich did not sleep, walked around the tiny room, almost a cell, not knowing what to do with his hands shaking from anxiety. For twelve years now he had been living on a beggar's allowance. From the very day he was fired.

- “You are too narrow a specialist,” said the director of the lyceum for children with humanitarian inclinations, hiding his eyes. - We appreciate you as experienced teacher, but here is your subject, alas. Tell me, do you want to retrain? The lyceum could partially pay the cost of training. Virtual ethics, the basics of virtual law, the history of robotics - you could very well teach this. Even cinema is still quite popular. Of course, he doesn’t have much time left, but for your lifetime... What do you think?

Andrei Petrovich refused, which he later regretted. New job it was not possible to find, literature remained in a few educational institutions, the last libraries were closed, philologists, one after another, retrained in all sorts of different ways. For a couple of years he visited the thresholds of gymnasiums, lyceums and special schools. Then he stopped. I spent six months taking retraining courses. When his wife left, he left them too.

The savings quickly ran out, and Andrei Petrovich had to tighten his belt. Then sell the aircar, old but reliable. An antique set left over from my mother, with things behind it. And then... Andrei Petrovich felt sick every time he remembered this - then it was the turn of the books. Ancient, thick, paper ones, also from my mother. Collectors gave good money for rarities, so Count Tolstoy fed him for a whole month. Dostoevsky - two weeks. Bunin - one and a half.

As a result, Andrei Petrovich was left with fifty books - his favorite ones, re-read a dozen times, those that he could not part with. Remarque, Hemingway, Marquez, Bulgakov, Brodsky, Pasternak... The books stood on a bookcase, occupying four shelves, Andrei Petrovich wiped dust from the spines every day.

“If this guy, Maxim,” Andrei Petrovich thought randomly, nervously pacing from wall to wall, “if he... Then, perhaps, it will be possible to buy Balmont back. Or Murakami. Or Amadou."

It’s nothing, Andrei Petrovich suddenly realized. It doesn't matter whether you can buy it back. He can convey, this is it, this is the only important thing. Hand over! To convey to others what he knows, what he has.

Maxim rang the doorbell at exactly ten o'clock, every minute.

- Come in,” Andrei Petrovich began to fuss. - Take a seat. Here, actually... Where would you like to start?

Maxim hesitated and carefully sat down on the edge of the chair.

- Whatever you think is necessary. You see, I'm a layman. Full. They didn't teach me anything.

- Yes, yes, of course,” Andrei Petrovich nodded. - Like everyone else. IN secondary schools literature has not been taught for almost a hundred years. And now they no longer teach in special schools.

- Nowhere? - Maxim asked quietly.

- I'm afraid not anywhere anymore. You see, at the end of the twentieth century a crisis began. There was no time to read. First for children, then the children grew up, and their children no longer had time to read. Even more time than parents. Other pleasures have appeared - mostly virtual. Games. All sorts of tests, quests... - Andrei Petrovich waved his hand. - Well, and of course, technology. Technical disciplines began to supplant the humanities. Cybernetics, quantum mechanics and electrodynamics, high energy physics. And literature, history, geography faded into the background. Especially literature. Are you following, Maxim?

- Yes, please continue.

- In the twenty-first century, books were no longer printed; paper was replaced by electronics. But also in electronic version The demand for literature fell rapidly, several times in each new generation compared to the previous one. As a result, the number of writers decreased, then there were none at all - people stopped writing. Philologists lasted a hundred years longer - due to what was written in the previous twenty centuries.

Andrei Petrovich fell silent and wiped his suddenly sweaty forehead with his hand.

- It’s not easy for me to talk about this,” he finally said. - I realize that the process is natural. Literature died because it did not get along with progress. But here are the children, you understand... Children! Literature was what shaped minds. Especially poetry. That which determined a person’s inner world, his spirituality. Children grow up soulless, that’s what’s scary, that’s what’s terrible, Maxim!

- I came to this conclusion myself, Andrei Petrovich. And that is why I turned to you.

- Do you have children?

- Yes,” Maxim hesitated. - Two. Pavlik and Anechka are the same age. Andrey Petrovich, I just need the basics. I will find literature on the Internet and read it. I just need to know what. And what to focus on. You learn me?

- Yes,” Andrei Petrovich said firmly. - I’ll teach you.

He stood up, crossed his arms over his chest, and concentrated.

- Pasternak,” he said solemnly. - Chalk, chalk all over the earth, to all limits. The candle was burning on the table, the candle was burning...

- Will you come tomorrow, Maxim? - Andrei Petrovich asked, trying to calm the trembling in his voice.

- Definitely. Only now... You know, I work as a manager for a wealthy married couple. I manage the household, business, and balance the bills. My salary is low. But I,” Maxim looked around the room, “can bring food.” Some things, perhaps household appliances. On account of payment. Will it suit you?

Andrei Petrovich involuntarily blushed. He would be happy with it for nothing.

- Of course, Maxim,” he said. - Thank you. I'm waiting for you tomorrow.

- “Literature is not only what is written about,” said Andrei Petrovich, walking around the room. - This is also how it is written. Language, Maxim, is the very tool that great writers and poets used. Listen here.

Maxim listened intently. It seemed that he was trying to remember, to learn the teacher’s speech by heart.

- Pushkin,” said Andrei Petrovich and began to recite.

"Tavrida", "Anchar", "Eugene Onegin".

Lermontov "Mtsyri".

Baratynsky, Yesenin, Mayakovsky, Blok, Balmont, Akhmatova, Gumilyov, Mandelstam, Vysotsky...

Maxim listened.

- Aren't you tired? - asked Andrei Petrovich.

- No, no, what are you talking about? Please continue.

The day gave way to a new one. Andrei Petrovich perked up, awakened to life, in which meaning suddenly appeared. Poetry was replaced by prose, which took much more time, but Maxim turned out to be a grateful student. He caught it on the fly. Andrei Petrovich never ceased to be amazed at how Maxim, who at first was deaf to the word, not perceiving, not feeling the harmony embedded in the language, comprehended it every day and knew it better, deeper than the previous one.

Balzac, Hugo, Maupassant, Dostoevsky, Turgenev, Bunin, Kuprin.

Bulgakov, Hemingway, Babel, Remarque, Marquez, Nabokov.

Eighteenth century, nineteenth, twentieth.

Classics, fiction, fantasy, detective.

Stevenson, Twain, Conan Doyle, Sheckley, Strugatsky, Weiner, Japrizo.

One day, on Wednesday, Maxim did not come. Andrei Petrovich spent the whole morning waiting, convincing himself that he could get sick. I couldn't, I whispered inner voice, persistent and absurd. Scrupulous, pedantic Maxim could not. He has never been a minute late in a year and a half. And then he didn’t even call. By evening, Andrei Petrovich could no longer find a place for himself, and at night he never slept a wink. By ten in the morning he was completely exhausted, and when it became clear that Maxim would not come again, he wandered to the videophone.

- The number has been disconnected from service,” said a mechanical voice.

The next few days passed like one bad dream. Even my favorite books did not save me from acute melancholy and a newly emerging feeling of worthlessness, which Andrei Petrovich did not remember for a year and a half. To call hospitals, morgues, there was an obsessive buzzing in my temple. So what should I ask? Or about whom? Didn’t a certain Maxim, about thirty years old, excuse me, I don’t know his last name?

Andrei Petrovich got out of the house outside when he was in four walls It became more unbearable.

- Ah, Petrovich! - old man Nefyodov, a neighbor from below, greeted. - Long time no see. Why don’t you go out? Are you ashamed or something? So it seems like you have nothing to do with it.

- In what sense am I ashamed? - Andrei Petrovich was dumbfounded.

- Well, what is this, yours,” Nefyodov ran the edge of his hand across his throat. - Who came to see you. I kept wondering why Petrovich, in his old age, got involved with this public.

- What are you about? - Andrei Petrovich felt cold inside. - With what audience?

- It is known which one. I see these little darlings right away. I think I worked with them for thirty years.

- With whom with them? - Andrei Petrovich begged. -What are you even talking about?

- Don't you really know? - Nefyodov was alarmed. - Look at the news, they are talking about it everywhere.

Andrei Petrovich did not remember how he got to the elevator. He went up to the fourteenth and with shaking hands fumbled for the key in his pocket. On the fifth attempt, I opened it, trotted over to the computer, connected to the network, and scrolled through the news feed. My heart suddenly sank with pain. Maxim looked from the photo, the lines of italics under the photo blurred before his eyes.

“Caught by the owners,” Andrei Petrovich read from the screen with difficulty focusing his vision, “of stealing food, clothing and household appliances. Home robot tutor, DRG-439K series. Control program defect. He stated that he independently came to the conclusion about childhood lack of spirituality, which he decided to fight. Unauthorizedly taught children subjects outside school curriculum. He hid his activities from his owners. Withdrawn from circulation... In fact, disposed of.... The public is concerned about the manifestation... The issuing company is ready to bear... A specially created committee decided...".

Andrei Petrovich stood up. On stiff legs he walked to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard and on the bottom shelf stood an open bottle of cognac that Maxim had brought as payment for his tuition fees. Andrei Petrovich tore off the cork and looked around in search of a glass. I couldn’t find it and tore it out of my throat. He coughed, dropped the bottle, and staggered back towards the wall. His knees gave way and Andrei Petrovich sank heavily to the floor.

Down the drain, came the final thought. Everything is down the drain. All this time he trained the robot.

A soulless, defective piece of hardware. I put everything I have into it. Everything that makes life worth living. Everything he lived for.

Andrei Petrovich, overcoming the pain that grabbed his heart, stood up. He dragged himself to the window and closed the transom tightly. Now a gas stove. Open the burners and wait half an hour. That's all.

The doorbell rang and caught him halfway to the stove. Andrei Petrovich, gritting his teeth, moved to open it. Two children stood on the threshold. A boy of about ten years old. And the girl is a year or two younger.

- Do you give literature lessons? - the girl asked, looking from under her bangs falling into her eyes.

- What? - Andrei Petrovich was taken aback. - Who are you?

- “I’m Pavlik,” the boy took a step forward. - This is Anya, my sister. We are from Max.

- From... From whom?!

- From Max,” the boy repeated stubbornly. - He told me to convey it. Before he... what's his name...

- Chalk, chalk all over the earth to all limits! - the girl suddenly shouted loudly.

Andrei Petrovich grabbed his heart, swallowing convulsively, stuffed it, pushed it back into his chest.

- Are you kidding? - he said quietly, barely audible.

- The candle was burning on the table, the candle was burning,” the boy said firmly. - He told me to convey this, Max. Will you teach us?

Andrei Petrovich, clinging to the door frame, stepped back.

- “Oh my God,” he said. - Come in. Come in, children.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Leonid Kaminsky

Composition

Lena sat at the table and did her homework. It was getting dark, but from the snow that lay in drifts in the yard, it was still light in the room.
In front of Lena lay an open notebook, in which only two phrases were written:
How I help my mother.
Composition.
There was no further work. Somewhere at the neighbors' house a tape recorder was playing. Alla Pugacheva could be heard persistently repeating: “I really want summer not to end!..”.
“But it’s true,” Lena thought dreamily, “it would be good if summer didn’t end!.. Sunbathe yourself, swim, and no essays for you!”
She read the headline again: How I Help Mom. “How can I help? And when to help here, if they ask so much for the house!
The light came on in the room: my mother entered.
“Sit, sit, I won’t bother you, I’ll just tidy up the room a little.” - She began to wipe bookshelves with a rag.
Lena began to write:
“I help my mother with the housework. I clean the apartment, wipe the dust off the furniture with a rag.”
-Why did you throw your clothes all over the room? - Mom asked. The question was, of course, rhetorical, because my mother did not expect an answer. She began putting things in the closet.
“I’m putting things in their places,” Lena wrote.
“By the way, your apron needs to be washed,” mom continued talking to herself.
“Washing clothes,” Lena wrote, then thought and added: “And ironing.”
“Mom, a button on my dress came off,” Lena reminded and wrote: “I sew buttons on if necessary.”
Mom sewed on a button, then went out to the kitchen and returned with a bucket and mop.
Pushing the chairs aside, she began to wipe the floor.
“Well, raise your legs,” said mom, deftly wielding a rag.
- Mom, you're bothering me! – Lena grumbled and, without lowering her feet, wrote: “Washing the floors.”
There was something burning coming from the kitchen.
- Oh, I have potatoes on the stove! – Mom shouted and rushed to the kitchen.
“I’m peeling potatoes and cooking dinner,” Lena wrote.
- Lena, have dinner! – Mom called from the kitchen.
- Now! – Lena leaned back in her chair and stretched.
A bell rang in the hallway.
- Lena, this is for you! - Mom shouted.
Olya, Lena’s classmate, entered the room, blushing from the frost.
- I do not for a long time. Mom sent for bread, and I decided to go to you on the way.
Lena took a pen and wrote: “I’m going to the store for bread and other products.”
- Are you writing an essay? – Olya asked. - Let me see.
Olya looked at the notebook and burst into tears:
- Wow! Yes, this is not true! You made it all up!
– Who said you can’t compose? – Lena was offended. - That’s why it’s called so-chi-ne-nie!

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Green Alexander Fourteen feet

I

- So, she turned you both down? - the owner of the steppe hotel asked goodbye. - What did you say?

Rod silently raised his hat and walked away; Kist did the same. The miners were annoyed with themselves for having chatted last night under the power of wine fumes. Now the owner was trying to make fun of them; at least this last question of his hardly hid his grin.

When the hotel disappeared around the bend, Rod said, smiling awkwardly:

- It was you who wanted vodka. If it weren’t for the vodka, Kat’s cheeks wouldn’t have burned with shame for our conversation, even though the girl was two thousand miles away from us. What does this shark care...

- But what special did the innkeeper learn? - Kist objected gloomily. Well... you loved... I loved... loved one. She doesn’t care... In general, this conversation was about women.

“You don’t understand,” Rod said. “We did something wrong to her: we said her name at... behind the counter.” Well, enough of that.

Despite the fact that the girl was firmly in everyone’s heart, they remained comrades. It is not known what would have happened in the case of preference. Heartbreak even brought them closer; Both of them, mentally, looked at Kat through the telescope, and no one is as close to each other as astronomers. Therefore, their relationship did not break down.

As Keast said, “Cat didn’t care.” But not really. However, she remained silent.

II

"He who loves goes to the end." When both Rod and Kist came to say goodbye, she thought that the strongest and most persistent in his feelings should return and repeat the explanation again. So, perhaps, eighteen-year-old Solomon in a skirt reasoned a little cruelly. Meanwhile, the girl liked both of them. She did not understand how anyone could go further than four miles from her without wanting to return in twenty-four hours. However, the serious appearance of the miners, their tightly packed sacks and those words that are spoken only during real separation, made her a little angry. It was difficult for her mentally, and she took revenge for it.

“Go ahead,” said Kat. - The light is great. Not all of you will be crouching at the same window.

Saying this, she thought at first that soon, very soon, a cheerful, lively Kist would appear. Then a month passed, and the impressiveness of this period turned her thoughts to Rod, with whom she always felt easier. Rod was big-headed, very strong and did not talk much, but he looked at her so good-naturedly that she once said to him: “chick-chick”...

III

The direct path to the Solar Quarries lay through a mixture of rocks - a spur of a chain crossing the forest. There were paths here, the meaning and connection of which the travelers learned at the hotel. They walked almost the entire day, adhering to the right direction, but by evening they began to gradually lose their way. The biggest mistake occurred at the Flat Stone - a piece of rock that was once thrown off by an earthquake. Because of fatigue, their memory of the turns failed them, and they went up when they had to go a mile and a half to the left, and then begin to climb.

At sunset, having emerged from the dense wilds, the miners saw that their path was blocked by a crack. The width of the abyss was significant, but, in general, it seemed accessible to a horse's gallop in suitable places.

Seeing that they were lost, Kist split up with Rod: one went to the right, the other to the left; Kist climbed out to impassable cliffs and returned; Half an hour later Rod also returned - his path led to the division of the crack into beds of streams falling into the abyss.

The travelers came together and stopped in the place where they first saw the crack.

IV

The opposite edge of the abyss stood in front of them so close, so accessible to a short bridge, that Kist stamped his feet in annoyance and scratched the back of his head. The edge separated by the crack was steeply sloping and covered with rubble, however, of all the places they passed in search of a detour, this place was the least wide. Throwing the string with the stone tied to it, Rod measured the annoying distance: it was almost fourteen feet. He looked around: dry, brush-like bushes were crawling along the evening plateau; the sun was setting.

They could have returned, having lost a day or two, but far ahead, below, shone the thin loop of the Ascenda, from the curve of which to the right lay the gold-bearing spur of the Solar Mountains. To overcome the crack meant shortening the journey by no less than five days. Meanwhile, the usual path with a return to their old trail and a journey along the bend of the river constituted a large Roman “S”, which they now had to cross in a straight line.

“There may be a tree,” said Rod, “but this tree does not exist.” There is nothing to throw over and nothing to grab onto with a rope on the other side. All that's left is the jump.

Kist looked around, then nodded. Indeed, the run-up was convenient: he walked slightly slopingly towards the crack.

“You have to think that a black canvas is stretched in front of you,” said Rod, “that’s all.” Imagine that there is no abyss.

“Of course,” Kist said absently. - It’s a little cold... Like swimming.

Rod took the bag off his shoulders and threw it over; Kist did the same. Now they had no choice but to follow their decision.

“So...” Rod began, but Kist, more nervous, less able to bear the anticipation, held out his hand dismissively.

“First me, and then you,” he said. - This is complete nonsense. Nonsense! Look.

Acting in the heat of the moment to prevent an attack of excusable cowardice, he walked away, took a run and, with a successful kick, flew to his bag, landing flat on his chest. At the zenith of this desperate jump, Rod made an internal effort, as if helping the jumper with his whole being.

Kist stood up. He was a little pale.

“Done,” said Kist. - I'm waiting for you with the first mail.

Rod slowly walked up to the dais, absentmindedly rubbed his hands and, bowing his head, rushed to the cliff. His heavy body seemed to rush with the strength of a bird. When he took a run and then gave in, breaking away into the air, Kist, unexpectedly for himself, imagined him falling into the bottomless depths. It was a vile thought - one of those over which a person has no control. It is possible that it was transmitted to the jumper. Rod, leaving the ground, carelessly glanced at Kist - and this knocked him down.

He fell chest-first onto the edge, immediately raising his hand and clinging to Kist's arm. The entire emptiness of the bottom groaned in him, but Kist held on tightly, managing to grab the falling one at the last hair of time. A little more - Rod's hand would have disappeared into the void. Kist lay down, sliding on the crumbling small stones along the dusty curve. His hand stretched out and died from the weight of Rod’s body, but, scratching the ground with his feet and free hand, he held Rod’s squeezed hand with the fury of a victim, with heavy inspiration of risk.

Rod saw clearly and understood that Kist was crawling down.

- Let go! - Rod said so terribly and coldly that Kist desperately shouted for help, without knowing to whom. - You will fall, I tell you! Rod continued. - Let me go and don’t forget that it was she who looked at you especially.

Thus he revealed his bitter, secret conviction. Kist did not answer. He silently redeemed his thought - the thought of Rod jumping down. Then Rod took a folding knife from his pocket with his free hand, opened it with his teeth and plunged it into Kist's hand.

The hand unclenched...

Kist looked down; then, barely stopping himself from falling, he crawled away and tied his hand with a handkerchief. For some time he sat quietly, holding his heart, in which there was thunder; finally, he lay down and began to quietly shake his whole body, pressing his hand to his face.

in winter next year A decently dressed man entered the courtyard of the Carrol farm and did not have time to look back when, slamming several doors inside the house, a young girl with an independent appearance, but with an elongated and tense face, quickly ran out to him, scaring away the chickens.

-Where is Rod? - she asked hastily, as soon as she offered her hand. - Or are you alone, Kist?!

“If you made a choice, you were not mistaken,” thought the newcomer.

“Rod...” Kat repeated. - After all, you were always together...

Kist coughed, looked to the side and told everything.

The magician's revenge. Stephen Leacock

- “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” said the magician, “when you are convinced that there is nothing in this handkerchief, I will take out a jar of goldfish from it.” One, two! Ready.

Everyone in the hall repeated in amazement:

- Simply amazing! How does he do this?

But the Clever gentleman, sitting in the front row, told his neighbors in a loud whisper:

- She... was... on his... sleeve.

And then everyone looked joyfully at the Clever Mr. and said:

- Well, of course. How come we didn’t guess it right away?

And a whisper echoed throughout the hall:

- He had it up his sleeve.

- My next trick, said the magician, is the famous Indian rings. Please note that the rings, as you can see for yourself, are not connected to each other. Look - now they will unite. Boom! Boom! Boom! Ready!

There was an enthusiastic roar of amazement, but the Clever Mr. whispered again:

- Apparently he had other rings up his sleeve.

And everyone whispered again:

- He had other rings up his sleeve.

The magician's eyebrows knitted together angrily.

- Now,” he continued, “I’ll show you the most interesting number.” I will take any number of eggs out of the hat. Would any gentleman be willing to lend me his hat? So! Thank you. Ready!

He pulled seventeen eggs out of the hat, and for thirty-five seconds the audience could not recover from admiration, but Smart leaned over to his neighbors in the first row and whispered:

- He's got chicken up his sleeve.

And everyone whispered to each other:

- He's got a dozen chickens up his sleeve.

The egg trick was a fiasco.

This went on all evening. From the whisper of the Clever Mr. it was clear that, in addition to the rings, chicken and fish, hidden in the magician’s sleeve were several decks of cards, a loaf of bread, a bed for a doll, a living guinea pig, fifty cent coin and rocking chair.

Soon the magician's reputation dropped below zero. Towards the end of the performance he made one last desperate attempt.

- Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. - In conclusion, I will show you a wonderful Japanese trick, recently invented by the natives of Tipperary. Would you like, sir,” he continued, turning to the Clever gentleman, “would you like to give me your gold watch?”

The watch was immediately handed over to him.

- Do you allow me to put them in this mortar and crush them into small pieces? - he asked with a hint of cruelty in his voice.

The smart one nodded his head affirmatively and smiled.

The magician threw the watch into a huge mortar and grabbed a hammer from the table. There was a strange cracking sound.

- “He hid them in his sleeve,” whispered Smart.

- Now, sir,” continued the magician, “let me take your handkerchief and poke holes in it.” Thank you. You see, ladies and gentlemen, there is no deception here, the holes are visible to the naked eye.

Smarty's face shone with delight. This time everything seemed truly mysterious to him, and he was completely fascinated.

- Now, sir, be so kind as to hand me your top hat and let me dance on it. Thank you.

The magician put the cylinder on the floor, performed some steps on it, and after a few seconds the cylinder became flat, like a pancake.

- Now, sir, please take off your celluloid collar and let me burn it on a candle. Thank you, sir. Would you also allow your glasses to be broken with a hammer? Thank you.

This time Smarty's face took on an expression of complete confusion.

- Well well! - he whispered. “Now I really don’t understand anything.”

There was a roar in the hall. Finally, the magician straightened up to his full height and, casting a devastating glance at the Clever Mr., said:

- Ladies and gentlemen! You had the opportunity to watch how, with the permission of this gentleman, I broke his watch, burned his collar, crushed his glasses and danced the foxtrot on his hat. If he allows me to paint his coat with green paint or tie a knot in his suspenders, I will be happy to continue entertaining you... If not, the show is over.

The victorious sounds of the orchestra rang out, the curtain fell, and the audience dispersed, convinced that there were still tricks to which the magician’s sleeve had nothing to do.

M. Zoshchenko “Nakhodka”

One day Lelya and I took a box of chocolates and put a frog and a spider in it.

Then we wrapped this box in clean paper, tied it with a chic blue ribbon and placed this package on the panel facing our garden. It was as if someone was walking and lost their purchase.

Having placed this package near the cabinet, Lelya and I hid in the bushes of our garden and, choking with laughter, began to wait for what would happen.

And here comes a passerby.

When he sees our package, he, of course, stops, rejoices and even rubs his hands with pleasure. Of course: he found a box of chocolates - this doesn’t happen very often in this world.

With bated breath, Lelya and I watch what will happen next.

The passerby bent down, took the package, quickly untied it and, seeing the beautiful box, became even more happy.

And now the lid is open. And our frog, bored with sitting in the dark, jumps out of the box right onto the hand of a passerby.

He gasps in surprise and throws the box away from him.

Then Lelya and I began to laugh so much that we fell on the grass.

And we laughed so loudly that a passerby turned in our direction and, seeing us behind the fence, immediately understood everything.

In an instant he rushed to the fence, jumped over it in one fell swoop and rushed towards us to teach us a lesson.

Lelya and I set a streak.

We ran screaming across the garden towards the house.

But I tripped over a garden bed and sprawled out on the grass.

And then a passerby tore my ear quite hard.

I screamed loudly. But the passer-by, giving me two more slaps, calmly left the garden.

Our parents came running to the scream and noise.

Holding my reddened ear and sobbing, I went up to my parents and complained to them about what had happened.

My mother wanted to call the janitor so that she and the janitor could catch up with the passerby and arrest him.

And Lelya was about to rush after the janitor. But dad stopped her. And he said to her and mother:

- Don't call the janitor. And there is no need to arrest a passerby. Of course, it’s not the case that he tore Minka’s ears, but if I were a passer-by, I would probably have done the same.

Hearing these words, mom got angry with dad and said to him:

- You are a terrible egoist!

Lelya and I also got angry with dad and didn’t tell him anything. I just rubbed my ear and started crying. And Lelka also whimpered. And then my mother, taking me in her arms, said to my father:

- Instead of standing up for a passerby and making children cry, you would better explain to them what is wrong with what they did. Personally, I don’t see this and regard everything as innocent children’s fun.

And dad couldn’t find what to answer. He just said:

- The children will grow up big and someday they will find out for themselves why this is bad.

And so the years passed. Five years have passed. Then ten years passed. And finally twelve years have passed.

Twelve years passed, and from a little boy I turned into a young student of about eighteen.

Of course, I forgot to even think about this incident. More interesting thoughts came into my head then.

But one day this is what happened.

In the spring, after finishing the exams, I went to the Caucasus. At that time, many students took some kind of job for the summer and went somewhere. And I also took a position for myself - a train controller.

I was a poor student and had no money. And then they gave free ticket to the Caucasus and in addition paid a salary. And so I took this job. And I went.

I first come to the city of Rostov in order to go to the department and get money, documents and ticket pliers there.

And our train was late. And instead of morning he came at five o’clock in the evening.

I deposited my suitcase. And I took the tram to the office.

I come there. The doorman tells me:

- Unfortunately, we're late, young man. The office is already closed.

- “How come,” I say, “it’s closed.” I need to get money and identification today.

Doorman says:

- Everyone has already left. Come the day after tomorrow.

- How so, - I say, - the day after tomorrow? Then I’d better come by tomorrow.

Doorman says:

- Tomorrow is a holiday, the office is closed. And the day after tomorrow come and get everything you need.

I went outside. And I stand. I do not know what to do.

There are two days ahead. There is no money in my pocket - only three kopecks left. The city is foreign - no one knows me here. And where I should stay is unknown. And what to eat is unclear.

I ran to the station to take some shirt or towel from my suitcase to sell at the market. But at the station they told me:

- Before you take your suitcase, pay for storage, and then take it and do with it what you want.

Apart from three kopecks, I had nothing, and I could not pay for storage. And he went out into the street even more upset.

No, I wouldn’t be so confused now. And then I was terribly confused. I’m walking, wandering down the street, I don’t know where, and I’m grieving.

And so I’m walking down the street and suddenly I see on the panel: what is this? Small red plush wallet. And, apparently, not empty, but tightly packed with money.

For one moment I stopped. Thoughts, each more joyful than the other, flashed through my head. I mentally saw myself in a bakery drinking a glass of coffee. And then in the hotel on the bed, with a bar of chocolate in his hands.

I took a step towards my wallet. And he held out his hand for him. But at that moment the wallet (or it seemed to me) moved a little away from my hand.

I reached out my hand again and was about to grab the wallet. But he moved away from me again, and quite far away.

Without realizing anything, I again rushed to my wallet.

And suddenly, in the garden, behind the fence, children's laughter was heard. And the wallet, tied by a thread, quickly disappeared from the panel.

I approached the fence. Some guys were literally rolling on the ground laughing.

I wanted to rush after them. And he already grabbed the fence with his hand in order to jump over it. But then in an instant I remembered a long-forgotten scene from my childhood life.

And then I blushed terribly. Moved away from the fence. And slowly walking, he wandered on.

Guys! Everything happens in life. These two days have passed.

In the evening, when it got dark, I went outside the city and there, in a field, on the grass, I fell asleep.

In the morning I got up when the sun rose. I bought a pound of bread for three kopecks, ate it and washed it down with some water. And all day, until evening, he wandered around the city uselessly.

And in the evening he came back to the field and spent the night there again. Only this time it’s bad because it started to rain and I got wet like a dog.

Early the next morning I was already standing at the entrance and waiting for the office to open.

And now it is open. I, dirty, disheveled and wet, entered the office.

The officials looked at me incredulously. And at first they didn’t want to give me money and documents. But then they gave me away.

And soon I, happy and radiant, went to the Caucasus.

Green lamp. Alexander Green

I

In London in 1920, in winter, on the corner of Piccadilly and One Lane, two well-dressed middle-aged people stopped. They had just left an expensive restaurant. There they had dinner, drank wine and joked with artists from the Drurilensky Theater.

Now their attention was drawn to a motionless, poorly dressed man of about twenty-five, around whom a crowd began to gather.

- Stilton cheese! - the fat gentleman said disgustedly to his tall friend, seeing that he had bent down and was peering at the man lying down. - Honestly, you shouldn’t deal so much with this carrion. He's drunk or dead.

- “I’m hungry... and I’m alive,” muttered the unfortunate man, rising to look at Stilton, who was thinking about something. - It was a faint.

Reimer! - said Stilton. - Here's a chance to make a joke. I came up with an interesting idea. I'm tired of ordinary entertainment, and there's only one way to joke well: making toys out of people.

These words were spoken quietly, so that the man lying and now leaning against the fence did not hear them.

Reimer, who did not care, shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, said goodbye to Stilton and went to while away the night at his club, and Stilton, with the approval of the crowd and with the help of a policeman, put the homeless man into a cab.

The crew headed to one of Gaystreet's taverns. The poor guy's name was John Eve. He came to London from Ireland to seek service or work. Yves was an orphan, raised in the family of a forester. Apart from elementary school, he received no education. When Yves was 15 years old, his teacher died, the adult children of the forester left - some to America, some to South Wales, some to Europe, and Yves worked for some time for a farmer. Then he had to experience the work of a coal miner, a sailor, a servant in a tavern, and at the age of 22 he fell ill with pneumonia and, upon leaving the hospital, decided to try his luck in London. But competition and unemployment soon showed him that finding work was not so easy. He spent the night in parks, on wharves, became hungry, grew thin, and was, as we have seen, raised by Stilton, the owner of trading warehouses in the City.

Stilton, at the age of 40, experienced everything that a single person who does not know the worries about lodging and food can experience for money. He owned a fortune of 20 million pounds. What he came up with to do with Yves was complete nonsense, but Stilton was very proud of his invention, since he had the weakness of considering himself a man of great imagination and cunning imagination.

When Yves drank wine, ate well and told Stilton his story, Stilton said:

- I want to make you an offer that will immediately make your eyes sparkle. Listen: I’m giving you ten pounds on the condition that tomorrow you rent a room on one of the central streets, on the second floor, with a window onto the street. Every evening, exactly from five to twelve at night, on the windowsill of one window, always the same, there should be a lit lamp, covered with a green lampshade. While the lamp burns for the prescribed period, you will not leave the house from five to twelve, you will not receive anyone and you will not speak to anyone. In a word, the work is not difficult, and if you agree to do so, I will send you ten pounds every month. I won't tell you my name.

- If you’re not joking,” answered Yves, terribly amazed at the proposal, “I agree to forget even given name. But tell me, please, how long will this prosperity of mine last?

- This is unknown. Maybe a year, maybe a lifetime.

- Better. But - I dare to ask - why did you need this green illumination?

- Secret! - Stilton replied. - Great mystery! The lamp will serve as a signal for people and things about which you will never know anything.

- Understand. That is, I don’t understand anything. Fine; drive the coin and know that tomorrow at the address I provided, John Eve will illuminate the window with a lamp!

Thus a strange deal took place, after which the tramp and the millionaire parted, quite satisfied with each other.

Saying goodbye, Stilton said:

- Write post restante like this: “3-33-6.” Also keep in mind that who knows when, maybe in a month, maybe in a year, in a word, completely unexpectedly, suddenly you will be visited by people who will make you a wealthy person. Why and how this is - I have no right to explain. But it will happen...

- Damn it! - Yves muttered, looking after the cab that was taking Stilton away, and thoughtfully twirling the ten-pound ticket. - Either this man has gone crazy, or I am a special lucky guy. Promise such a heap of grace just for the fact that I burn half a liter of kerosene a day.

The evening of the next day, one window of the second floor of the gloomy house No. 52 on River Street shone with a soft green light. The lamp was moved close to the frame.

Two passersby looked for a while at the green window from the sidewalk opposite the house; then Stilton said:

- So, dear Reimer, when you are bored, come here and smile. There, outside the window, sits a fool. A fool, bought cheaply, in installments, for a long time. He will get drunk from boredom or go crazy... But he will wait, not knowing what. Yes, here he is!

Indeed, a dark figure, leaning his forehead against the glass, looked into the semi-darkness of the street, as if asking: “Who is there?” What should I expect? Who's going to come?"

- However, you are also a fool, my dear,” said Reimer, taking his friend by the arm and dragging him towards the car. - What's funny about this joke?

- A toy... a toy made from a living person,” said Stilton, “the sweetest food!”

II

In 1928, a hospital for the poor, located on one of the outskirts of London, was filled with wild screams: an old man who had just been brought in, a dirty, poorly dressed man with an emaciated face, was screaming in terrible pain. He broke his leg when he tripped on the back stairs of a dark den.

The victim was taken to the surgical department. The case turned out to be serious, since a complex bone fracture caused rupture of blood vessels.

Based on the inflammatory process of the tissues that had already begun, the surgeon who examined the poor man concluded that surgery was necessary. It was immediately carried out, after which the weakened old man was laid on a bed, and he soon fell asleep, and when he woke up, he saw that the same surgeon who had deprived him of his right leg was sitting in front of him.

- So this is how we had to meet! - said the doctor, serious, A tall man with a sad look. - Do you recognize me, Mr. Stilton? - I am John Eve, whom you assigned to be on duty every day at the burning green lamp. I recognized you at first sight.

- Thousand devils! - Stilton muttered, peering. - What happened? Is it possible?

- Yes. Tell us what changed your lifestyle so dramatically?

- I went broke... several big losses... panic on the stock exchange... It's been three years since I became a beggar. And you? You?

- “I lit a lamp for several years,” Yves smiled, “and at first out of boredom, and then with enthusiasm I began to read everything that came to hand. One day I opened an old anatomy that was lying on the shelf of the room where I lived, and I was amazed. A fascinating country of secrets of the human body opened up before me. Like a drunk, I sat all night reading this book, and in the morning I went to the library and asked: “What do you need to study to become a doctor?” The answer was mocking: “Study mathematics, geometry, botany, zoology, morphology, biology, pharmacology, Latin, etc.” But I stubbornly interrogated, and I wrote everything down for myself as a memory.

By that time, I had already been burning a green lamp for two years, and one day, returning in the evening (I did not consider it necessary, as at first, to sit hopelessly at home for 7 hours), I saw a man in a top hat who was looking at my green window, either with annoyance or with contempt. “Yves is a classic fool! - muttered that man, not noticing me. “He is waiting for the wonderful things that were promised... yes, at least he has hope, but I... I’m almost ruined!” It was you. You added: “ Silly joke. Shouldn't have thrown the money away."

I bought enough books to study and study and study, no matter what. I almost hit you on the street then, but I remembered that thanks to your mocking generosity I could become educated person…

- So what is next? - Stilton asked quietly.

- Further? Fine. If the desire is strong, then the fulfillment will not slow down. A student lived in the same apartment as me, who took part in me and helped me, a year and a half later, pass the exams for admission to medical college. As you can see, I turned out to be a capable person...

There was silence.

- “I haven’t come to your window for a long time,” said Yves Stilton, shocked by the story, “for a long time... a very long time.” But now it seems to me that it is still burning there green lamp... a lamp illuminating the darkness of the night. Excuse me.

Yves took out his watch.

- Ten o'clock. It’s time for you to sleep,” he said. - You'll probably be able to leave the hospital in three weeks. Then call me, maybe I’ll give you a job in our outpatient clinic: writing down the names of incoming patients. And when going down the dark stairs, light... at least a match.

July 11, 1930

Scenario of a traditional prose competition

"Living Classic"

Goal: To show reader interest in the works of various authors

Development of interest in literature as a subject studied;

Development creative potential students, identification of gifted children;

Development and development of skills between students of different ages.

In the literature classroom, sitting at a desk, two boys argue loudly, proving to each other which work is more interesting. The situation is heating up. At this time, the literature teacher enters the class.

Teacher:- Good afternoon, boys, I accidentally overheard your conversation, can I help you with something?

Boys: - Of course, Tatyana Nikolaevna, judge us, do foreign writers or Russians write more interestingly?

Teacher: - Well, well, I’ll try to help you. Every person must have favorite piece and more than one. Today I will introduce you to the guys who already have favorite books; they are participating in the “Living Classics” competition for young prose readers. Let's listen to how the guys read excerpts from their favorite books. Maybe your opinion will change.

(Address to the public and jury)

Teacher: - Good afternoon, dear children and respected teachers. We are pleased to welcome you to our literary living room. So we begin our speech, during which you and I will have to resolve the dispute between my students.

Ved: Today 5 young readers from the 6th grade of the Cheryomushkin school will compete. The winner of the competition will be the one who shows his skill, knowledge of the text, and feels the hero of the work.

Teacher: Our participants will be evaluated by a distinguished jury consisting of:

1. Marina Aleksandrovna Malikova, teacher of Russian language and literature – chairman of the jury.

Jury members:

2. Elena Yuganovna Kivistik, teacher of history and social studies.

3. Daria Chernova, 10th grade student

Ved: Performances are judged based on the following parameters:

Selecting the text of the work;
competent speech, knowledge of the text;
artistry of performance;

Teacher: Opens our competitive program the work of the great Russian writer Mikhail Aleksandrovich Sholokhov “The Foal” is a story about a beautiful, defenseless animal that is trying to survive in difficult times, war time.

Ved.: Mikhail Sholokhov reads “The Foal” Kuliev Danil , 6th grade student. Mikhail Sholokhov "Foal"

The foal neighed less and less, and the short, cutting cry became muffled. AND

This cry was coldly and terribly similar to the cry of a child. Nechepurepko, abandoning the mare, easily swam to the left bank. Trembling, Trofim grabbed the rifle, fired, aiming below the head that had been sucked in by the whirlwind, tore his boots off his feet and, with a dull grunt, stretching out his arms, plopped into the water.

On the right bank, an officer in a canvas shirt barked:

Stop shooting!..

Five minutes later, Trofim was near the foal, with his left hand he grabbed it under his cold belly, choking, hiccupping convulsively, and moved to the left bank... Not a single shot was fired from the right bank.

The sky, the forest, the sand - everything is bright green, ghostly... The last monstrous

effort - and Trofim’s feet scrape the ground. He dragged the slimy body of the foal onto the sand, sobbing, vomiting green water, groping in the sand with his hands...

The voices of the squadrons that had swum across the forest buzzed, and somewhere behind the spit gun shots rattled. The red mare stood next to Trofim, shaking herself and licking the foal. A rainbow stream fell from her drooping tail, sticking into the sand...

Trofim swayed to his feet, walked two steps along the sand and, jumping,

fell on his side. It was as if a hot prick penetrated my chest; falling, I heard a shot.

A single shot at a spypa - from the right bank. On the right bank there is an officer in

wearing a torn canvas shirt, he indifferently moved the bolt of his carbine, throwing out a smoking cartridge case, and on the sand, two steps from the foal, Trofim was writhing, and his hard, blue lips, which had not kissed children for five years, smiled and foamed with blood.

Teacher: Hans Christian Andersen was born in Denmark, into the family of a poor shoemaker. From early childhood we are fascinated by his charming fairy tales.

Ved.: Hans Christian Andersen "Grandmother", read Medvedeva Ira , 6th grade student.

Grandma is so old, her face is all wrinkled, her hair is white, but her eyes are like your stars - so bright, beautiful and affectionate! And what wonderful stories she knows! And the dress she’s wearing is made of thick silk material with large flowers - it’s rustling! Grandma knows a lot, a lot; After all, she has been living in the world for a long time, much longer than mom and dad - really! Grandmother has a psalter - a thick book bound with silver clasps - and she reads it often. Between the sheets of the book lies a flattened, dried rose. She is not at all as beautiful as those roses that stand in grandma’s glass of water, but grandma still smiles most tenderly at this particular rose and looks at it with tears in her eyes. Why does grandma look at the dried rose like that? You know?

Every time the grandmother’s tears fall on a flower, its colors are revived again, it again becomes a lush rose, the whole room is filled with fragrance, the walls melt like fog, and the grandmother is in a green, sun-drenched forest! The grandmother herself is no longer a decrepit old woman, but a young, charming girl with golden curls and rosy round cheeks that rival the roses themselves. Her eyes... Yes, you can recognize her by her sweet, gentle eyes! A handsome, courageous young man sits next to her. He gives the girl a rose and she smiles at him... Well, grandma never smiles like that! Oh no, here he is smiling! He left. Other memories flash by, many images flash by; young man no more, the rose lies in old book, and the grandmother herself... sits again on her chair, just as old, and looks at the dried rose.

Teacher: Yuri Koval is a Russian writer. Professional artist, who published more than 30 books during his lifetime. His works have been translated into European languages.

Ved: An excerpt from the story “Potato Meaning” reads Novoselov Igor.

Yes, whatever you say, father, I love potatoes. Because potatoes have a lot of meaning.

What's the special meaning there? Potatoes and potatoes.
- Uh... don't talk, father, don't talk. Once you brew half a bucket, life seems to become more fun. That's the meaning... potato.
We sat with Uncle Zui on the river bank by the fire and ate baked potatoes. They just went to the river to watch the fish melt, and they built a fire, dug up some potatoes, and baked them. And Uncle Zuya ended up with salt in his pocket.
- What about without salt? Salt, father, I always carry with me. For example, you come to visit, and the hostess has unsalted soup. Here it would be awkward to say: your soup is unsalted. And here I’ll slowly take the salt out of my pocket and... salt it.
- What else do you carry in your pockets? And it’s true - they stick out for you all the time.
- What else am I wearing? I carry everything that fits in my pockets. Look - shag... salt in a bundle... a string, if you need to tie something up, a good string. Well, a knife, of course! Pocket flashlight! It’s not without reason that it’s said – pocket-sized. You have a flashlight, so put it in your pocket. And these are candies, if I meet any of the guys.
- And what's that? Bread, or what?
- Cracker, father. I’ve been wearing it for a long time, I want to give it to one of the horses, but I forget everything. Let's look now in another pocket. Come on now, show me what's in your pockets? Interesting.
- Yes, I don’t seem to have anything.
- How can that be? Nothing. A knife, I suppose you have a knife?
- I forgot my knife, I left it at home.
- How so? Are you going to the river but left your knife at home? .
“Well, I didn’t know that we were going to the river, but the salt ended up in my pocket.” And without salt, potatoes lose their meaning. Although, perhaps, potatoes make a lot of sense even without salt.
I raked a new crooked potato out of the ashes. He broke her black baked sides. The potatoes turned out to be white under the coal skin and pink. But the center was not baked, it crunched when I took a bite. It was a September, completely ripe potato. It’s not too big, but it’s about the size of a fist.
“Give me some salt,” I said to Uncle Zuyu. - The meaning needs to be salted.
Uncle Zui stuck his fingers into the chintz knot and sprinkled salt on the potato.
“The point is,” he said, “you can add some salt.” And it adds salt to the meaning.
Far away, on the other side of the river, figures were moving in the field - a village across the river was digging potatoes. Here and there, closer to the shore, potato smoke rose above the alder forest.
And from our shore voices were heard in the field, smoke rose. The whole world

I was digging potatoes that day.

Teacher : Lyubov Voronkova - her books that have become classics of children's literature speak about the main thing: love for the Motherland, respect for work, human kindness and responsiveness.

Ved: An excerpt from her story “Girl from the City” reads Dolgosheeva Marina.

Valentine came up with an idea: here on a round leaf of a water lily sits a tiny girl - Thumbelina. But it’s not Thumbelina, it’s Valentine herself sitting on a piece of paper and talking to the fish...
Or - this is a hut. Valentine comes to the door. Who lives in this hut? She opens the low door, enters... and there a beautiful fairy sits and spins golden yarn. The fairy stands up to meet Valentine: “Hello, girl! And I’ve been waiting for you for a long time!”
But this game ended immediately as soon as one of the guys came home. Then she silently put away her pictures.
One day before evening, Valentinka couldn’t stand it and went to the plates.
- Oh, it has risen! - she exclaimed. - It has risen! Leaves!.. Romanok, look!
Romanok approached the plates:
- It’s true!
But it seemed to Valentinka that Romanok was little surprised and little happy. Where is Taiska? She's gone. One Pear sits in the upper room.
- Pear, come here and look!
But Grusha was knitting a stocking and just at that time she was counting the stitches. She waved it off angrily:
- Just think, there is something to see there! What a curiosity!
Valentinka was surprised: how is it that no one is happy? I need to tell my grandfather, because he sowed this!
And, forgetting her usual fear, she ran to her grandfather.
Grandfather cut a ditch in the yard so that spring water didn't spill all over the yard.
- Grandpa, let's go! Look what you have in your plates: leaves and grass!
Grandfather raised his shaggy eyebrows, looked at her, and Valentine saw his eyes for the first time. They were light, blue and cheerful. And the grandfather turned out to be not at all angry, and not at all scary!
- Why are you happy? - he asked.
“I don’t know,” Valentinka answered. – So simple, very interesting!
Grandfather put the crowbar aside:
- Well, let's go have a look.
Grandfather counted the seedlings. The peas were good. The oats also sprouted well. But the wheat turned out to be rare: the seeds are not good, you need to get fresh ones.
And it was as if they gave Valentine a gift. And the grandfather became not scary. And the green on the windows grew thicker and brighter every day.
How joyful it is when there is still snow outside, but the window is sunny and green! It’s as if a piece of spring has bloomed here!

Teacher: Lyubov Voronkova reached for the pen to express her love for the land and working people in poetry and prose.
As an adult, she returned to Moscow and became a journalist. She traveled a lot around the country and wrote about life in the countryside: this topic was close to her.

Ved: “Girl from the city” will continue to read to us Vera Nepomniachtchi

Everything surprised Valentinka, everything lured her: the lemon butterfly that flew to the lungwort, and the red cones that slightly sprouted at the ends of the spruce paws, and the forest stream in the ravine, and the birds flying from peak to peak...

Grandfather chose a tree for the shaft and began to chop it. Romanok and Taiska called back loudly; they were already heading back. Valentine remembered the mushrooms. So, she will never find one? Valentinka wanted to run towards Taiska. Not far from the edge of the ravine, she saw something blue. She came closer. Among the light greenery, bright flowers bloomed profusely, blue as the spring sky and as pure as it. They seemed to glow and shine in the darkness of the forest. Valentine stood over them, full of admiration.
- Snowdrops!
Real, alive! And they can be torn. After all, no one planted or sowed them. You can pick as much as you want, even a whole armful, a whole sheaf, even collect every single one and take it home!
But... Valentine will tear off all the blue, and the clearing will become empty, crumpled and dark. No, let them bloom! They are much more beautiful here in the forest. She will take just a little, a small bouquet from here. It will be completely unnoticeable!
When they returned from the forest, the mother was already at home. She had just washed her face, the towel was still hanging on her hand.
- Mommy! – Taiska screamed from afar. - Mommy, look at the morels we picked!
- Mom, let's have lunch! – echoed Romanok.
And Valentine came up and handed her a handful of fresh blue flowers, still shiny, still smelling of the forest:
- I brought this to you... mom!

Teacher: Our competition performance has come to an end. Well, how did you guys like it?

Boys: Of course, Tatyana Nikolaevna. We now understand that it’s not interesting to read books just like that. You need to broaden your horizons and read different authors.

Ved: We want the high jury to appreciate our efforts, and we ask them to sum up the results.

Teacher: In the meantime, the jury is summing up the results... We invite you to play a literary quiz.

Questions from the works:
1. The bird that Thumbelina saved? (Martin)
2. The little dancer from the fairy tale “Three Fat Men”? (Suok)
3. Who wrote the poem “Uncle Styopa”? (Mikhalkov)
4. On what street did the absent-minded man live? (Baseina)
5. Gena's crocodile friend? (Cheburashka)
6. What did Munchausen fly to the moon on? (On a cannonball)
7. Who speaks all languages? (Echo)
8. Who is the author of the fairy tale “Ryaba Hen”? (People)
9. Which of the heroes of a children's fairy tale considered himself the best ghost expert in the world? (Carlson)
10. Hero of Russian folk puppet shows? (Parsley)
11. Russian folk tale about a hostel? (Teremok)
12. Nickname of the calf from the cartoon “Vacation in Prostokvashino”? (Gavryusha)
13. What would you ask from Pinocchio? (Golden Key)
14. Who is the author of the lines “A golden cloud spent the night on the chest of a giant cliff”? (M.Yu. Lermontov)

15. What was the name of the main character of the story “Scarlet Sails” (Assol)

16. How many labors did Hercules perform (12)

Ved: To sum up the results and present diplomas to the winners school competition young readers of the prose “Living Classics” are given the floor to the chairman of the competition jury, Marina Aleksandrovna. (graduations)

Teacher: Our competition is over, but our favorite writers and their works will never end! We say to you: - Thank you, until new meetings and achievable victories!

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. - It’s the same in military service.
“There are no porters in military service,” the fair Bidenko edifyingly noted.
“However, wait a little longer to 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 promised to give him a haircut, give him uniform, 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, expressing highest degree 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 the reverse side there was: LYUSE 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. 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 the wind was probably blowing through, at her torn stockings, at her thin neck, plaintively white from under the 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 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 tremulously 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 a game sunbeams the 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, walking the entire room with light steps, 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...
- Khatiya-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
149
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, extend your hand, give other good people the 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 a 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 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 tin can to the kitten’s tail! 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 others different offers The devil brought 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 the 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 the 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. From bad man it becomes stronger from 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”)

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"

The chronicler retells the content of a philosophical poem that 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 the Tower of Babel appears, and some athletes finally complete it singing 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 a long dramatic essay, which is read aloud to him by the graphomaniac writer Murashkina:

“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 this great date simply, as they say, as a human being.

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. She, imagine, was born in 1763, so 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 probably about sixty-odd years old, so, frankly speaking, I don’t even know how this was what they had there and how they managed it... Maybe she even nursed him... But what is shrouded in darkness for us was probably not difficult for them, and they knew very well who to babysit and who should download 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 grabbed the largest cucumber from his wallet 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 Leontievich 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? 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!”

V. Rozov “Wild Duck” from the series “Touching War”)

The food was bad, I was always hungry. Sometimes food was given once a day, and then in the evening. Oh, how I wanted to eat! And so on one of these days, when dusk was already approaching, and there was not yet a crumb in our mouths, we, about eight soldiers, sat on the high grassy bank of a quiet river and almost whined. Suddenly we see him without his gymnast. Holding something in his hands. Another of our comrades is running towards us. He ran up. Radiant face. The package is his tunic, and something is wrapped in it.

Look! – Boris exclaims triumphantly. He unfolds the tunic, and in it... is a live wild duck.

I see: sitting, hiding behind a bush. I took off my shirt and - hop! Have food! Let's fry it.

The duck was weak and young. Turning her head from side to side, she looked at us with amazed beady eyes. She simply could not understand what kind of strange, cute creatures surrounded her and looked at her with such admiration. She did not struggle, did not quack, did not strain her neck to slip out of the hands that held her. No, she looked around gracefully and curiously. Beautiful duck! And we are rough, uncleanly shaven, hungry. Everyone admired the beauty. And a miracle happened, like in a good fairy tale. Somehow he simply said:

Let's go!

Several logical remarks were thrown, like: “What’s the point, there are eight of us, and she’s so small,” “More messing around!”, “Borya, bring her back.” And, no longer covering it with anything, Boris carefully carried the duck back. Returning, he said:

I let her into the water. She dove. I didn’t see where she surfaced. I waited and waited to look, but I didn’t see it. It's getting dark.

When life gets me down, when you start cursing everyone and everything, you lose faith in people and you want to scream, as I once heard the cry of one very famous person: “I don’t want to be with people, I want with dogs!” - in these moments of disbelief and despair, I remember the wild duck and think: no, no, you can believe in people. This will all pass, everything will be fine.

They may tell me; “Well, yes, it was you, intellectuals, artists, everything can be expected about you.” No, during the war everything got mixed up and turned into one whole - single and invisible. At least, the one where I served. There were two thieves in our group who had just been released from prison. One proudly told how he managed to steal a crane. Apparently he was talented. But he also said: “Let go!”

______________________________________________________________________________________

Parable about life - Life values

Once, one sage, standing in front of his students, did the following. He took a large glass vessel and filled it to the brim with large stones. Having done this, he asked the disciples if the vessel was full. Everyone confirmed that it was full.

Then the sage took a box of small pebbles, poured it into a vessel and gently shook it several times. The pebbles rolled into the gaps between the large stones and filled them. After this, he again asked the disciples if the vessel was now full. They again confirmed the fact - it is full.

And finally, the sage took a box of sand from the table and poured it into the vessel. Sand, of course, filled the last gaps in the vessel.

Now,” the sage addressed the students, “I would like you to be able to recognize your life in this vessel!”

Large stones represent important things in life: your family, your loved one, your health, your children - those things that, even without everything else, can still fill your life. Small pebbles represent less important things, such as your job, your apartment, your house or your car. Sand symbolizes the little things in life, the hustle and bustle of everyday life. If you fill your vessel with sand first, there will be no room left for larger stones.

It’s the same in life - if you spend all your energy on small things, then there will be nothing left for big things.

Therefore, pay attention first of all to important things - find time for your children and loved ones, take care of your health. You will still have enough time for work, for home, for celebrations and everything else. Watch your big stones - only they have a price, everything else is just sand.

A. Green. Scarlet Sails

She sat with her legs tucked up and her arms around her knees. Attentively leaning towards the sea, she looked at the horizon with large eyes in which there was nothing adult left - the eyes of a child. Everything she had been waiting for so long and passionately was happening there - at the end of the world. She saw an underwater hill in the land of distant abysses; climbing plants flowed upward from its surface; Among their round leaves, pierced at the edge by a stem, fanciful flowers shone. The upper leaves glittered on the surface of the ocean; those who knew nothing, as Assol knew, saw only awe and brilliance.

A ship rose from the thicket; he surfaced and stopped in the very middle of dawn. From this distance he was visible as clear as clouds. Scattering joy, he burned like wine, rose, blood, lips, scarlet velvet and crimson fire. The ship went straight to Assol. The wings of foam fluttered under the powerful pressure of its keel; Already, having stood up, the girl pressed her hands to her chest, when a wonderful play of light turned into a swell; the sun rose, and the bright fullness of the morning tore the covers off everything that was still basking, stretching on the sleepy earth.

The girl sighed and looked around. The music fell silent, but Assol was still in the power of its sonorous choir. This impression gradually weakened, then became a memory and, finally, just fatigue. She lay down on the grass, yawned and, blissfully closing her eyes, fell asleep - truly, soundly, like a young nut, sleep, without worries and dreams.

She was awakened by a fly wandering over her bare foot. Restlessly turning her leg, Assol woke up; sitting, she pinned up her disheveled hair, so Gray's ring reminded her of herself, but considering it nothing more than a stalk stuck between her fingers, she straightened them; Since the obstacle did not disappear, she impatiently raised her hand to her eyes and straightened up, instantly jumping up with the force of a spraying fountain.

Gray's radiant ring shone on her finger, as if on someone else's - she could not recognize it as hers at that moment, she did not feel her finger. - “Whose thing is this? Whose joke? - she quickly cried. - Am I dreaming? Maybe I found it and forgot?” Grasping the right hand with her left hand, on which there was a ring, she looked around in amazement, torturing the sea and green thickets with her gaze; but no one moved, no one hid in the bushes, and in the blue, far-illuminated sea there was no sign, and a blush covered Assol, and the voices of the heart said a prophetic “yes.” There were no explanations for what had happened, but without words or thoughts she found them in her strange feeling, and the ring already became close to her. Trembling, she pulled it off her finger; holding it in a handful like water, she examined it - with all her soul, with all her heart, with all the jubilation and clear superstition of youth, then, hiding it behind her bodice, Assol buried her face in her palms, from under which a smile burst uncontrollably, and, lowering her head, slowly I went the opposite way.

So, by chance, as people who can read and write say, Gray and Assol found each other on the morning of a summer day full of inevitability.

"A note". Tatyana Petrosyan

The note looked most harmless.

According to all gentlemanly laws, it should have revealed an inky face and a friendly explanation: “Sidorov is a goat.”

So Sidorov, without suspecting anything bad, instantly unfolded the message... and was dumbfounded.

Inside, in large, beautiful handwriting, it was written: “Sidorov, I love you!”

Sidorov felt mockery in the roundness of the handwriting. Who wrote this to him?

(As usual they grinned. But this time they didn’t.)

But Sidorov immediately noticed that Vorobyova was looking at him without blinking. It doesn’t just look like that, but with meaning!

There was no doubt: she wrote the note. But then it turns out that Vorobyova loves him?!

And then Sidorov’s thought reached a dead end and fluttered helplessly, like a fly in a glass. WHAT DOES LOVES MEAN??? What consequences will this entail and what should Sidorov do now?..

“Let’s think logically,” Sidorov reasoned logically. “What, for example, do I love? Pears! I love it, which means I always want to eat it...”

At that moment, Vorobyova turned to him again and licked her bloodthirsty lips. Sidorov went numb. What caught his eye were her long uncut... well, yes, real claws! For some reason I remembered how in the buffet Vorobyov greedily gnawed at a bony chicken leg...

“You need to pull yourself together,” Sidorov pulled himself together. (My hands turned out to be dirty. But Sidorov ignored the little things.) “I love not only pears, but also my parents. However, there is no question of eating them. Mom bakes sweet pies. Dad often carries me around his neck. And I love them for that..."

Here Vorobyova turned around again, and Sidorov thought with sadness that he would now have to bake sweet pies for her all day long and carry her to school around his neck in order to justify such a sudden and crazy love. He took a closer look and discovered that Vorobyova was not thin and would probably not be easy to wear.

“All is not lost yet,” Sidorov did not give up. “I also love our dog Bobik. Especially when I train him or take him out for a walk...” Then Sidorov felt stuffy at the thought that Vorobyov could make him jump for every pie, and then he will take you for a walk, holding the leash tightly and not allowing you to deviate either to the right or to the left...

“...I love the cat Murka, especially when you blow right into her ear...” Sidorov thought in despair, “no, that’s not it... I like to catch flies and put them in a glass... but this is too much... I love toys that you can break and see what's inside..."

The last thought made Sidorov feel unwell. There was only one salvation. He hastily tore a piece of paper out of the notebook, pursed his lips resolutely and in firm handwriting wrote the menacing words: “Vorobyova, I love you too.” Let her be scared.

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The candle was burning. Mike Gelprin

The bell rang when Andrei Petrovich had already lost all hope.

Hello, I'm following an ad. Do you give literature lessons?

Andrei Petrovich peered at the videophone screen. A man in his late thirties. Strictly dressed - suit, tie. He smiles, but his eyes are serious. Andrei Petrovich’s heart sank; he posted the ad online only out of habit. There were six calls in ten years. Three got the wrong number, two more turned out to be insurance agents working the old fashioned way, and one confused literature with a ligature.

“I give lessons,” Andrei Petrovich said, stuttering with excitement. - N-at home. Are you interested in literature?

“Interested,” the interlocutor nodded. - My name is Max. Let me know what the conditions are.

“For nothing!” - Andrei Petrovich almost burst out.

“Pay is hourly,” he forced himself to say. - By agreement. When would you like to start?

I, actually... - the interlocutor hesitated.

Let’s do it tomorrow,” Maxim said decisively. - Will ten in the morning suit you? I take the kids to school by nine and then I'm free until two.

“It will work,” Andrei Petrovich was delighted. - Write down the address.

Tell me, I'll remember.

That night Andrei Petrovich did not sleep, walked around the tiny room, almost a cell, not knowing what to do with his hands shaking from anxiety. For twelve years now he had been living on a beggar's allowance. From the very day he was fired.

“You are too narrow a specialist,” said the director of the lyceum for children with humanitarian inclinations, hiding his eyes. - We value you as an experienced teacher, but unfortunately this is your subject. Tell me, do you want to retrain? The lyceum could partially pay the cost of training. Virtual ethics, the basics of virtual law, the history of robotics - you could very well teach this. Even cinema is still quite popular. Of course, he doesn’t have much time left, but for your lifetime... What do you think?

Andrei Petrovich refused, which he later regretted. It was not possible to find a new job, literature remained in a few educational institutions, the last libraries were closed, philologists, one after another, retrained in all sorts of different ways. For a couple of years he visited the thresholds of gymnasiums, lyceums and special schools. Then he stopped. I spent six months taking retraining courses. When his wife left, he left them too.

The savings quickly ran out, and Andrei Petrovich had to tighten his belt. Then sell the aircar, old but reliable. An antique set left over from my mother, with things behind it. And then... Andrei Petrovich felt sick every time he remembered this - then it was the turn of the books. Ancient, thick, paper ones, also from my mother. Collectors gave good money for rarities, so Count Tolstoy fed him for a whole month. Dostoevsky - two weeks. Bunin - one and a half.

As a result, Andrei Petrovich was left with fifty books - his favorite ones, re-read a dozen times, those that he could not part with. Remarque, Hemingway, Marquez, Bulgakov, Brodsky, Pasternak... The books stood on a bookcase, occupying four shelves, Andrei Petrovich wiped dust from the spines every day.

“If this guy, Maxim,” Andrei Petrovich thought randomly, nervously pacing from wall to wall, “if he... Then, perhaps, it will be possible to buy Balmont back. Or Murakami. Or Amadou."

It’s nothing, Andrei Petrovich suddenly realized. It doesn't matter whether you can buy it back. He can convey, this is it, this is the only important thing. Hand over! To convey to others what he knows, what he has.

Maxim rang the doorbell at exactly ten o'clock, every minute.

Come in,” Andrei Petrovich began to fuss. - Take a seat. Here, actually... Where would you like to start?

Maxim hesitated and carefully sat down on the edge of the chair.

Whatever you think is necessary. You see, I'm a layman. Full. They didn't teach me anything.

Yes, yes, of course,” Andrei Petrovich nodded. - Like everyone else. Literature has not been taught in secondary schools for almost a hundred years. And now they no longer teach in special schools.

Nowhere? - Maxim asked quietly.

I'm afraid not anywhere anymore. You see, at the end of the twentieth century a crisis began. There was no time to read. First for children, then the children grew up, and their children no longer had time to read. Even more time than parents. Other pleasures have appeared - mostly virtual. Games. All sorts of tests, quests... - Andrei Petrovich waved his hand. - Well, and of course, technology. Technical disciplines began to supplant the humanities. Cybernetics, quantum mechanics and electrodynamics, high energy physics. And literature, history, geography faded into the background. Especially literature. Are you following, Maxim?

Yes, please continue.

In the twenty-first century, books were no longer printed; paper was replaced by electronics. But even in the electronic version, the demand for literature fell rapidly, several times in each new generation compared to the previous one. As a result, the number of writers decreased, then there were none at all - people stopped writing. Philologists lasted a hundred years longer - due to what was written in the previous twenty centuries.

Andrei Petrovich fell silent and wiped his suddenly sweaty forehead with his hand.

It’s not easy for me to talk about this,” he finally said. - I realize that the process is natural. Literature died because it did not get along with progress. But here are the children, you understand... Children! Literature was what shaped minds. Especially poetry. That which determined a person’s inner world, his spirituality. Children grow up soulless, that’s what’s scary, that’s what’s terrible, Maxim!

I came to this conclusion myself, Andrei Petrovich. And that is why I turned to you.

Do you have children?

Yes,” Maxim hesitated. - Two. Pavlik and Anechka are the same age. Andrey Petrovich, I just need the basics. I will find literature on the Internet and read it. I just need to know what. And what to focus on. You learn me?

Yes,” Andrei Petrovich said firmly. - I’ll teach you.

He stood up, crossed his arms over his chest, and concentrated.

Pasternak,” he said solemnly. - Chalk, chalk all over the earth, to all limits. The candle was burning on the table, the candle was burning...

Will you come tomorrow, Maxim? - Andrei Petrovich asked, trying to calm the trembling in his voice.

Definitely. Only now... You know, I work as a manager for a wealthy married couple. I manage the household, business, and balance the bills. My salary is low. But I,” Maxim looked around the room, “can bring food.” Some things, perhaps household appliances. On account of payment. Will it suit you?

Andrei Petrovich involuntarily blushed. He would be happy with it for nothing.

Of course, Maxim,” he said. - Thank you. I'm waiting for you tomorrow.

“Literature is not only what is written about,” said Andrei Petrovich, walking around the room. - This is also how it is written. Language, Maxim, is the very tool that great writers and poets used. Listen here.

Maxim listened intently. It seemed that he was trying to remember, to learn the teacher’s speech by heart.

Pushkin,” said Andrei Petrovich and began to recite.

"Tavrida", "Anchar", "Eugene Onegin".

Lermontov "Mtsyri".

Baratynsky, Yesenin, Mayakovsky, Blok, Balmont, Akhmatova, Gumilyov, Mandelstam, Vysotsky...

Maxim listened.

Aren't you tired? - asked Andrei Petrovich.

No, no, what are you talking about? Please continue.

The day gave way to a new one. Andrei Petrovich perked up, awakened to life, in which meaning suddenly appeared. Poetry was replaced by prose, which took much more time, but Maxim turned out to be a grateful student. He caught it on the fly. Andrei Petrovich never ceased to be amazed at how Maxim, who at first was deaf to the word, not perceiving, not feeling the harmony embedded in the language, comprehended it every day and knew it better, deeper than the previous one.

Balzac, Hugo, Maupassant, Dostoevsky, Turgenev, Bunin, Kuprin.

Bulgakov, Hemingway, Babel, Remarque, Marquez, Nabokov.

Eighteenth century, nineteenth, twentieth.

Classics, fiction, fantasy, detective.

Stevenson, Twain, Conan Doyle, Sheckley, Strugatsky, Weiner, Japrisot.

One day, on Wednesday, Maxim did not come. Andrei Petrovich spent the whole morning waiting, convincing himself that he could get sick. I couldn’t, whispered an inner voice, persistent and absurd. Scrupulous, pedantic Maxim could not. He has never been a minute late in a year and a half. And then he didn’t even call. By evening, Andrei Petrovich could no longer find a place for himself, and at night he never slept a wink. By ten in the morning he was completely exhausted, and when it became clear that Maxim would not come again, he wandered to the videophone.

The number has been disconnected from service,” said a mechanical voice.

The next few days passed like one bad dream. Even my favorite books did not save me from acute melancholy and a newly emerging feeling of worthlessness, which Andrei Petrovich did not remember for a year and a half. To call hospitals, morgues, there was an obsessive buzzing in my temple. So what should I ask? Or about whom? Didn’t a certain Maxim, about thirty years old, excuse me, I don’t know his last name?

Andrei Petrovich got out of the house when it became unbearable to be within four walls anymore.

Ah, Petrovich! - old man Nefyodov, a neighbor from below, greeted. - Long time no see. Why don’t you go out? Are you ashamed or something? So it seems like you have nothing to do with it.

In what sense am I ashamed? - Andrei Petrovich was dumbfounded.

Well, what is this, yours,” Nefyodov ran the edge of his hand across his throat. - Who came to see you. I kept wondering why Petrovich, in his old age, got involved with this public.

What are you about? - Andrei Petrovich felt cold inside. - With what audience?

It is known which one. I see these little darlings right away. I think I worked with them for thirty years.

With whom with them? - Andrei Petrovich begged. -What are you even talking about?

Don't you really know? - Nefyodov was alarmed. - Look at the news, they are talking about it everywhere.

Andrei Petrovich did not remember how he got to the elevator. He went up to the fourteenth and with shaking hands fumbled for the key in his pocket. On the fifth attempt, I opened it, trotted over to the computer, connected to the network, and scrolled through the news feed. My heart suddenly sank with pain. Maxim looked from the photo, the lines of italics under the photo blurred before his eyes.

“Caught by the owners,” Andrei Petrovich read from the screen with difficulty focusing his vision, “of stealing food, clothing and household appliances. Home robot tutor, DRG-439K series. Control program defect. He stated that he independently came to the conclusion about childhood lack of spirituality, which he decided to fight. Unauthorizedly taught children subjects outside the school curriculum. He hid his activities from his owners. Withdrawn from circulation... In fact, disposed of.... The public is concerned about the manifestation... The issuing company is ready to bear... A specially created committee decided...".

Andrei Petrovich stood up. On stiff legs he walked to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard and on the bottom shelf stood an open bottle of cognac that Maxim had brought as payment for his tuition fees. Andrei Petrovich tore off the cork and looked around in search of a glass. I couldn’t find it and tore it out of my throat. He coughed, dropped the bottle, and staggered back towards the wall. His knees gave way and Andrei Petrovich sank heavily to the floor.

Down the drain, came the final thought. Everything is down the drain. All this time he trained the robot.

A soulless, defective piece of hardware. I put everything I have into it. Everything that makes life worth living. Everything he lived for.

Andrei Petrovich, overcoming the pain that grabbed his heart, stood up. He dragged himself to the window and closed the transom tightly. Now a gas stove. Open the burners and wait half an hour. That's all.

The doorbell rang and caught him halfway to the stove. Andrei Petrovich, gritting his teeth, moved to open it. Two children stood on the threshold. A boy of about ten years old. And the girl is a year or two younger.

Do you give literature lessons? - the girl asked, looking from under her bangs falling into her eyes.

What? - Andrei Petrovich was taken aback. - Who are you?

“I’m Pavlik,” the boy took a step forward. - This is Anya, my sister. We are from Max.

From... From whom?!

From Max,” the boy repeated stubbornly. - He told me to convey it. Before he... what's his name...

Chalk, chalk all over the earth to all limits! - the girl suddenly shouted loudly.

Andrei Petrovich grabbed his heart, swallowing convulsively, stuffed it, pushed it back into his chest.

Are you kidding? - he said quietly, barely audible.

The candle was burning on the table, the candle was burning,” the boy said firmly. - He told me to convey this, Max. Will you teach us?

Andrei Petrovich, clinging to the door frame, stepped back.

“Oh my God,” he said. - Come in. Come in, children.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Leonid Kaminsky

Composition

Lena sat at the table and did her homework. It was getting dark, but from the snow that lay in drifts in the yard, it was still light in the room.
In front of Lena lay an open notebook, in which only two phrases were written:
How I help my mother.
Composition.
There was no further work. Somewhere at the neighbors' house a tape recorder was playing. Alla Pugacheva could be heard persistently repeating: “I really want summer not to end!..”.
“But it’s true,” Lena thought dreamily, “it would be good if summer didn’t end!.. Sunbathe yourself, swim, and no essays for you!”
She read the headline again: How I Help Mom. “How can I help? And when to help here, if they ask so much for the house!
The light came on in the room: my mother entered.
“Sit, sit, I won’t bother you, I’ll just tidy up the room a little.” “She began wiping the bookshelves with a rag.
Lena began to write:
“I help my mother with the housework. I clean the apartment, wipe the dust off the furniture with a rag.”
-Why did you throw your clothes all over the room? - Mom asked. The question was, of course, rhetorical, because my mother did not expect an answer. She began putting things in the closet.
“I’m putting things in their places,” Lena wrote.
“By the way, your apron needs to be washed,” mom continued talking to herself.
“Washing clothes,” Lena wrote, then thought and added: “And ironing.”
“Mom, a button on my dress came off,” Lena reminded and wrote: “I sew buttons on if necessary.”
Mom sewed on a button, then went out to the kitchen and returned with a bucket and mop.
Pushing the chairs aside, she began to wipe the floor.
“Well, raise your legs,” said mom, deftly wielding a rag.
- Mom, you're bothering me! – Lena grumbled and, without lowering her feet, wrote: “Washing the floors.”
There was something burning coming from the kitchen.
- Oh, I have potatoes on the stove! – Mom shouted and rushed to the kitchen.
“I’m peeling potatoes and cooking dinner,” Lena wrote.
- Lena, have dinner! – Mom called from the kitchen.
- Now! – Lena leaned back in her chair and stretched.
A bell rang in the hallway.
- Lena, this is for you! - Mom shouted.
Olya, Lena’s classmate, entered the room, blushing from the frost.
- I do not for a long time. Mom sent for bread, and I decided to go to you on the way.
Lena took a pen and wrote: “I’m going to the store for bread and other products.”
- Are you writing an essay? – Olya asked. - Let me see.
Olya looked at the notebook and burst into tears:
- Wow! Yes, this is not true! You made it all up!
– Who said you can’t compose? – Lena was offended. - That’s why it’s called so-chi-ne-nie!

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Texts for learning by heart for the competition “Living Classics-2017”