A collection of ideal social studies essays. © Clarissa Bonet I was returning home through the empty alleys of the village;...: vol_gov — LiveJournal I was returning home through the empty alleys

our bet is over, and now your comments, it seems to me, are inappropriate... - He took his hat and left. This seemed strange to me - and for good reason!..

Soon everyone went home, talking differently about Vulich’s prudishness and, probably, unanimously calling me an egoist, because I bet against a man who wanted to shoot himself; as if he couldn’t find an opportunity without me!..

I returned home through the empty alleys of the village; the moon, full and red, like the glow of a fire, began to appear from behind the jagged horizon of houses; The stars calmly shone on the dark blue vault, and I felt funny when I remembered that there were once wise people who thought that the heavenly bodies took part in our insignificant disputes over a piece of land or for some fictitious rights!.. And what and? these lamps, lit, in their opinion, only to illuminate their battles and triumphs, burn with the same brilliance, and their passions and hopes have long ago died out along with them, like the flame lit at the edge of the forest by a careless wanderer! But what strength of will was given to them by the confidence that the whole sky with its countless inhabitants was looking at them with participation, albeit mute, but unchanging! .. - And we, their pitiful descendants, wandering the earth without convictions and pride, without pleasure and fear , except for that involuntary fear that squeezes the heart at the thought of the inevitable end, we are no longer capable of great sacrifices, either for the good of humanity, or even for our own happiness, therefore we know its impossibility and indifferently move from doubt to doubt, as our ancestors threw away from one delusion towards another, having, like them, neither hope, nor even that vague, although true, pleasure that the soul encounters in every struggle with people or fate...

And many other similar thoughts passed through my mind; I didn’t hold them back because I don’t like to dwell on some abstract thought. And where does this lead?.. In my first youth I was a dreamer, I loved to caress alternately gloomy and rosy images that my restless and greedy imagination painted for me. But what does this leave me with? only fatigue, as after a night battle with a ghost, and a vague memory filled with regrets. In this vain struggle I exhausted both the heat of my soul and the constancy of will necessary for real life; I entered this life having already experienced it mentally, and I felt bored and disgusted, like someone who reads a bad imitation of a book he has long known.

The incident of this evening made a rather deep impression on me and irritated my nerves; I don’t know for sure whether I now believe in predestination or not, but that evening I firmly believed in it: the proof was striking, and despite the fact that I laughed at our ancestors and their helpful astrology, I unwittingly fell into their rut, but I stopped himself in time on this dangerous path and, having a rule not to reject anything decisively and to trust nothing blindly, threw metaphysics aside and began to look at his feet. This precaution was very useful: I almost fell, bumping into something thick and soft, but apparently lifeless. I lean over - the moon has already shone directly on the road - so what? in front of me lay a pig, cut in half with a saber... I barely had time to examine it when I heard the sound of footsteps: two Cossacks were running from the alley, one came up to me and asked if I had seen a drunken Cossack who was chasing a pig. I announced to them that I had not met the Cossack, and pointed out the unfortunate victim of his furious courage.

What a robber! - said the second Cossack, - as soon as the chikhir got drunk, he went to crumble whatever he found. Let's go get him, Eremeich, we need to tie him up, otherwise...

They left, and I continued on my way with greater caution and finally arrived happily at my apartment.

I lived with an old policeman, whom I loved for his kind disposition, and especially for his pretty daughter Nastya.

She, as usual, was waiting for me at the gate, wrapped in a fur coat; the moon illuminated her lovely lips, blue from the night cold. Recognizing me, she smiled, but I had no time for her. “Goodbye, Nastya,” I said, passing by. She wanted to answer something, but just sighed.

I closed the door of my room behind me, lit the candle and threw myself on the bed; Only this time the dream made itself wait more than usual. The east was already beginning to turn pale when I fell asleep, but apparently it was written in heaven that I would not get enough sleep that night. At four o'clock in the morning two fists knocked on my window. I jumped up: what is it?.. “Get up, get dressed!” - several voices shouted to me. I quickly got dressed and went out. "Do you know what happened?" - the three officers who came after me told me in one voice; they were pale as death.

Vulich was killed.

I was dumbfounded.

Yes, he was killed, they continued, let’s go quickly.

But where?

Dear, you will find out.

We are going. They told me everything that happened, with an admixture of various remarks about the strange predestination that saved him from certain death half an hour before his death. Vulich was walking alone along a dark street: a drunken Cossack ran into him, having chopped up a pig and, perhaps, would have passed by without noticing him, if Vulich, suddenly stopping, said: “Who are you, brother, looking for” - “You! " - the Cossack answered, hitting him with a saber, and cut him from the shoulder almost to the heart... Two Cossacks who met me and were watching the killer arrived in time, raised the wounded man, but he was already on his last legs and said only two words: “He’s right.” !" I alone understood the dark meaning of these words: they referred to me; I unwittingly predicted the poor man’s fate; my instinct did not deceive me: I definitely read on his changed face the mark of his imminent death.

The killer locked himself in an empty hut at the end of the village. We were going there. Many women ran crying in the same direction; From time to time, a late Cossack would jump out into the street, hastily fastening his dagger, and run ahead of us. The turmoil was terrible.

Finally we started writing; we look: there is a crowd around the hut, the doors and shutters of which are locked from the inside. The officers and Cossacks are heatedly interpreting each other: the women are howling, chanting and wailing. Among them, the significant face of an old woman caught my eye, expressing insane despair. She was sitting on a thick log, leaning her elbows on her knees and supporting her head with her hands: she was the mother of the murderer. Her lips moved from time to time: were they whispering a prayer or a curse?

Meanwhile, it was necessary to decide on something and capture the criminal. No one, however, dared to rush in first. I went up to the window and looked through the crack in the shutter: pale, he was lying on the floor, holding a pistol in his right hand; a bloody saber lay next to him. His expressive eyes rolled around terribly; sometimes he shuddered and grabbed his head, as if vaguely remembering yesterday. I did not read much determination in this restless look and told the major that it was in vain that he did not order the Cossacks to break down the door and rush in there, because it was better to do it now than later, when he completely came to his senses.

At this time, the old captain came to the door and called him by name; he responded.

“I’ve sinned, brother Efimych,” said the captain, “there’s nothing to do, submit!”

I will not submit! - answered the Cossack.

Fear God. After all, you are not a cursed Chechen, but an honest Christian; Well, if your sin has entangled you, there is nothing to do: you will not escape your fate!

I will not submit! - the Cossack shouted menacingly, and you could hear the cocked trigger click.

Hey auntie! - the captain said to the old woman, - talk to your son, maybe he will listen to you... After all, this is only to anger God. Look, the gentlemen have been waiting for two hours already.

The old woman looked at him intently and shook her head.

Vasily Petrovich,” the captain said, approaching the major, “he won’t give up - I know that.” And if the door is broken, many of our people will be killed. Would you rather order him to be shot? There is a wide gap in the shutter.

At that moment a strange thought flashed through my head: like Vulich, I decided to tempt fate.

Wait, I told the major, I’ll take him alive.

Ordering the captain to start a conversation with him and placing three Cossacks at the door, ready to knock it out and rush to my aid at this sign, I walked around the hut and approached the fatal window. My heart was beating fast.

Oh you damned one! - shouted the captain. - What are you, laughing at us, or what? Do you think that you and I can’t cope? - He began to knock on the door with all his might, I, putting my eye to the crack, followed the movements of the Cossack, who was not expecting an attack from this side, - and suddenly he tore off the shutter and threw himself head down through the window. The shot rang out right next to my ear, and the bullet tore off my epaulette. But the smoke that filled the room prevented my opponent from finding the checker lying near him. I grabbed his hands; The Cossacks burst in, and less than three minutes later the criminal was already tied up and taken away under escort. The people dispersed. The officers congratulated me - for sure there was something!

After all this, how can one not become a fatalist? But who knows for sure whether he is convinced of something or not?.. and how often do we mistake for a belief a deception of feelings or a blunder of reason!..

I like to doubt everything: this disposition of mind does not interfere with the decisiveness of my character - on the contrary, as for me, I always move forward more boldly when I do not know what awaits me. After all, nothing worse can happen than death - and you can’t escape death!

Returning to the fortress, I told Maxim Maksimych everything that happened to me and what I witnessed, and wanted to know his opinion about predestination. At first he did not understand this word, but I explained it as best I could, and then he said, shaking his head significantly:

Yes, sir! Of course, sir! This is a rather tricky thing!.. However, these Asian triggers often misfire if they are poorly lubricated or if the finger is not pressed firmly enough; I admit, I also don’t like Circassian rifles; They are somehow indecent for our brother: the butt is small, and just in case it burns your nose... But they have checkers - just my respect!

Then he said, after thinking for a while:

Yes, it’s a pity for the poor fellow... The devil dared him to talk to a drunk at night!.. However, apparently, it was written in his family...

I couldn't get anything else out of him: he doesn't like meth at all.
Page 27 of 27

What topic that is significant for understanding the character of the hero does Lermontov raise in this fragment of text?

Soon everyone went home, talking differently about Vulich’s quirks and, probably, unanimously calling me an egoist, because I bet against a man who wanted to shoot himself; as if he couldn’t find an opportunity without me!..

I returned home through the empty alleys of the village; the moon, full and red, like the glow of a fire, began to appear from behind the jagged horizon of houses; the stars calmly shone on the dark blue vault, and I felt funny when I remembered that there were once wise people who thought that the heavenly bodies took part in our insignificant disputes over a piece of land or for some fictitious rights!.. And what? and? these lamps, lit, in their opinion, only to illuminate their battles and triumphs, burn with their former brilliance, and their passions and hopes have long ago died out with them, like a light lit at the edge of the forest by a careless wanderer! But what strength of will was given to them by the confidence that the whole sky with its countless inhabitants was looking at them with participation, albeit mute, but unchanging!.. And we, their pitiful descendants, wandering the earth without convictions and pride, without pleasure and fear, Apart from that involuntary fear that squeezes the heart at the thought of the inevitable end, we are no longer capable of great sacrifices, either for the good of humanity, or even for our own happiness, therefore we know its impossibility and indifferently move from doubt to doubt, as our ancestors rushed from one error to another, having, like them, neither hope, nor even that vague, although true, pleasure that the soul encounters in every struggle with people or fate...

And many other similar thoughts passed through my mind; I didn’t hold them back because I don’t like to dwell on some abstract thought. And what does this lead to?.. In my first youth I was a dreamer, I loved to caress alternately gloomy and rosy images that my restless and greedy imagination painted for me. But what does this leave me with? only fatigue, as after a night battle with a ghost, and a vague memory filled with regrets. In this vain struggle I exhausted both the heat of my soul and the constancy of will necessary for real life; I entered this life having already experienced it mentally, and I felt bored and disgusted, like someone who reads a bad imitation of a book he has long known.

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In this fragment of the text, Lermontov raises the topic of differences in the views of representatives of different generations. Pechorin recalls with ridicule that people once believed that the “celestial bodies” were watching over us and taking part in our lives. However, comparing the past generation with the current one, the hero finds significant advantages in the first: his representative

What assessment does the hero (and with him the author) give to his generation?

Read the text fragment below and complete tasks B1-B7; C1-C2.

I returned home through the empty alleys of the village; the moon, full and red, like the glow of a fire, began to appear from behind the jagged horizon of houses; the stars calmly shone on the dark blue vault, and I felt funny when I remembered that there were once wise people who thought that the heavenly bodies took part in our insignificant disputes over a piece of land or for some fictitious rights!.. And what and? these lamps, lit, in their opinion, only to illuminate their battles and triumphs, burn with the same brilliance, and their passions and hopes have long ago died out along with them, like a light lit at the edge of the forest by a careless wanderer! But what strength of will was given to them by the confidence that the whole sky with its countless inhabitants was looking at them with participation, albeit mute, but unchanging!.. And we, their pitiful descendants, wandering the earth without convictions and pride, without pleasure and fear, Apart from that involuntary fear that squeezes the heart at the thought of the inevitable end, we are no longer capable of great sacrifices, either for the good of humanity, or even for our own happiness, therefore we know its impossibility and indifferently move from doubt to doubt, as our ancestors rushed from one error to another, having, like them, neither hope, nor even that vague, although true, pleasure that the soul encounters in every struggle with people or fate...

And many other similar thoughts passed through my mind; I didn’t hold them back because I don’t like to dwell on some abstract thought. And where does this lead?.. In my first youth I was a dreamer, I loved to caress alternately gloomy and rosy images that my restless and greedy imagination painted for me. But what does this leave me with? only fatigue, as after a night battle with a ghost, and a vague memory filled with regrets. In this vain struggle I exhausted both the heat of my soul and the constancy of will necessary for real life; I entered this life having already experienced it mentally, and I felt bored and disgusted, like someone who reads a bad imitation of a book he has long known.

M. Yu. Lermontov “Hero of Our Time”

Indicate the chapter of the novel “A Hero of Our Time” from which this fragment is taken.

Explanation.

This fragment is taken from a chapter of the novel “A Hero of Our Time,” called “Fatalist.”

Answer: Fatalist.

Answer: Fatalist

What is the name of the character whose thoughts are conveyed by the author in the above episode?

Explanation.

The surname of this hero is Pechorin.

Pechorin Grigory Alexandrovich is the main character of the novel. It is he who Lermontov calls “the hero of our time.”

Answer: Pechorin.

Answer: Pechorin

The fragment is basically a detailed argument with internal logic and semantic completeness. What is it called?

Explanation.

Such reasoning is called a monologue. Let's give a definition.

Monologue is a type of artistic speech. Used in almost all literary works, it is a universal speech form. In epic works, monologue is the basis of the author's narration. Most lyric poems are lyrical monologues. In plays and epic works, monologues are a form of speech by characters.

Answer: monologue.

Answer: monologue|internal monologue

Explanation.

This term is called landscape. Let's give a definition.

Landscape is a depiction of nature in a literary work. Most often, a landscape is necessary in order to indicate the place and setting of the action (forest, field, road, mountains, river, sea, garden, park, village, landowner’s estate, etc.)

Answer: landscape.

Answer: landscape

Explanation.

This technique is called comparison. Let's give a definition.

Comparison is the bringing together of two objects or phenomena with the aim of explaining one of them with the help of the other.

Answer: comparison.

Answer: comparison

What artistic device is used in the speech of the hero reflecting on his first youth: “then gloomy, That rainbow images"?

Explanation.

Antithesis - opposition: sometimes gloomy, sometimes rosy.

Answer: antithesis.

Answer: antithesis

The hero reflects on the “eternal” questions of existence and formulates universal human problems. What genre of novel does “A Hero of Our Time” belong to?

Explanation.

A philosophical novel is a work of art in which philosophical concepts play a certain role in the plot or images.

Answer: philosophical.

Answer: philosophical|philosophical

What works of Russian writers present contradictory, restless heroes and what brings them together with the hero of Lermontov’s novel?

Explanation.

M.Yu. Lermontov in the novel “Hero of Our Time” reflects on the fate of his generation, the generation of the era of “timelessness”, cruel suppression of the individual. During the period of persecution and persecution of any free-thinking, people passively accepted social changes, did not strive for anything, but simply went with the flow, wasting their lives at social balls and spending it on various dubious entertainments. However, at all times, there have always been rebels who opposed this, although they were often doomed to loneliness. This is Lermontov's Pechorin.

Tormented by contradictions, the hero of Griboedov's comedy "Woe from Wit" Chatsky, who, feeling the strength and desire to serve for the good of the Fatherland, remains unclaimed by society, persecuted by insignificant people, incapable of progress.

In the novel “Crime and Punishment” by Dostoevsky, Raskolnikov’s restless soul, aware of all the injustice of the world, leads him to the dubious theory of Napoleonism, which brought him even deeper suffering and contradictions.

In the heroes of Lermontov, Griboedov, Dostoevsky, one cannot help but notice the commonality: they are all smarter and morally superior to their surroundings, this does not allow them to live their lives in peace, but directs them to search, although sometimes these searches end in tears for themselves.

Explanation.

M.Yu. Lermontov in the novel “Hero of Our Time” reflects on the fate of his generation, the generation of the era of “timelessness”, cruel suppression of the individual. During the period of persecution and persecution of any free-thinking, people passively accepted social changes, did not strive for anything, but simply went with the flow, wasting their lives at social balls and spending it on various dubious entertainments. The rebels who opposed this were doomed to loneliness. In their souls they felt fear of authority, disbelief and doubt. The generation of that time lived in an era of rejection of bright ideals. In the given fragment of the novel, a discussion is given about how dreamers with ardent souls turned into skeptics, “wandering the earth without convictions and pride, without pleasure and fear.” Pechorin becomes a representative of this generation on the pages of the novel; by and large, Lermontov himself is a representative of this generation, condemning his peers for inaction and humility.