Based on Granin's text. Childhood was the happiest time of my life (Unified State Examination in Russian)

Mychildhood

Plan

1. It all starts from childhood.

2. Childhood is the most wonderful and happiest time:

a) my memories of childhood;

b) my school years are wonderful.

3. “My childhood, wait, don’t rush, wait.”

Love childhood... Who among you has not sometimes regretted this age, when there is always laughter on the lips, and there is always peace in the soul? J.-J. Rousseau

Childhood is the most wonderful and carefree time. We only understand this when we become older. Childhood is the basis of our life. Little ones, we react to the world differently than adults: we do not adapt, we are not hypocrites, we openly express our opinions. “Through the mouth of a child the truth speaks,” - this is what people say. Growing up, we begin to evaluate the world around us and people differently. We become more pragmatic, not so naive, sometimes we become indifferent and selfish. But what is ingrained in us from childhood remains with us forever. “A person begins in childhood. It is in childhood that the sowing of good occurs,” noted S. Mikhalkov. And only years later it will be clear whether the seeds of good germinated or the weeds of evil destroyed them. The task of each of us is to make sure that the seeds of good that were planted by our parents, loved ones, relatives, and teachers germinate.

My earliest childhood memories are connected with my mother, the person dearest to me. I remember how we walked in the park, ate ice cream and candy. Smiles, fairy tales, good mood, lots of toys, sweets - that's what childhood means to me. I remember how our whole family waited for the New Year and birthdays. From childhood, a person is accompanied by holidays, which with their beauty and solemnity make life brighter, bring variety and joy into it. Of course, I associate childhood with gifts. I still cherish some of them, because they are dear to me as a memory of unforgettable fun and happy days. Sometimes, when I am in a sad mood, I, as often happened,

As a child, I begin to lay out my favorite toys and talk to them. This may seem strange to some, but memories of something good and cheerful always lift your spirits.

I remember how we kids went dressed up and happy to first grade. We considered ourselves already big because we became schoolchildren. All our relatives saw us off and wished us a good journey. I remember the first lesson and the teacher’s words: “Hello, children!” And from lesson to lesson, from class to class, in school everyday life, we discovered and internalized the highest values ​​of life. Now, seeing little first-graders, we remember our first days at school and compare ourselves with them. We, too, were just as nimble, restless, sometimes confused, sometimes overly curious. We wanted to play and relax more than prepare for lessons. And even now we, high school students, love to have fun and play pranks. With what childish delight we await the first snow, the long-awaited winter, when we can play in the snow and go sledding. Snow makes both children and adults happy. On such days, Pushkin’s words come to mind: “Frost and sun: a wonderful day!” We, like children, believe in miracles, we believe that Santa Claus will come to us. We want to receive a lot of gifts not only for the New Year. Although with age we begin to understand that miracles can be done with our own hands. And gifts are pleasant not only to receive, but also to give. A gift serves as an expression of our kindest feelings. And we experience great joy if a person enjoys our gift.

Childhood flew by quickly. As L. Oshanin noted,

Sooner or later all the snowdrifts melt and the rivers break the old ice. Sooner or later people grow up - so it’s come, it’s our turn.

Each of us has different memories of our childhood years, but what unites us is our carefree, happy, joyful childhood. We are on the threshold of adulthood. What will our future be like? I just want to repeat the words from the famous song: “My childhood, wait, don’t rush, wait. Give me a simple answer to what’s ahead.” What awaits us in the difficult adult world? Will we be able to remain human? Who will we be and what will we be like? It is difficult to give clear answers to these questions. The main thing is to prepare yourself for a useful, interesting life and always remain human.

(according to D.A. Granin)

essay-reasoning

What role does childhood play in a person’s life? The famous Russian writer Daniil Aleksandrovich Granin tried to answer this question.
According to the author, childhood cannot be called a preparation for adult life; on the contrary, Granin assures us that childhood is an independent, or rather the main, stage of a person’s life. The writer also emphasizes that children perceive the world around them differently: as a child, you are absolutely free both externally and internally. Everything seems magical and inspired by the works of Fenimore Cooper and Jack London, and life itself is a feeling of delight from the realization that you simply exist.
The author’s position is extremely clearly expressed in the last sentences of the text, where it is said that for him the childhood years remain the most important and only become prettier with time. Although in childhood he was unhappy and even cried, but all this was completely forgotten,

I share the opinion of D.A. Granina. As children, we are taken care of; we do not need to solve our problems. All grievances are easily forgotten. At this time, we are sincere towards ourselves and others, carefree and live in the present. The child is not bothered by thoughts about death, about the future, about the meaning of existence. There are no responsibilities or sense of duty yet. Everything seems fabulous, interesting and unusual to children. They simply enjoy life, the values ​​of which may differ in many ways from the values ​​of the adult world. But this does not detract from the importance of childhood values; on the contrary, they are often the most important in life, which, unfortunately, most of us forget about in adulthood.
This can be confirmed by the main character of the story.

So, the boy, without hesitation, exchanges his new toy dump truck for a firefly in a matchbox. And when his mother asked how he decided to exchange such a valuable thing as a dump truck for such a worm, he answered with bewilderment:
This is what a happy childhood looks like. But does it happen to everyone? What does a person become later if he did not feel happy and carefree when he was a child?

We get acquainted with the world of childhood of orphans. Throughout the course of the work, the author argues that children deprived of parental love and affection will forever have a wound in their souls. Some people have gotten used to it (although it often reminds them of itself), just as you inevitably get used to any injury, but for some people the resentment remains, poisoning their lives forever. This pain is because it is impossible to replace the warmth of your home, the care of your mother and father, because it is the kindness and tenderness of your loved ones that support you in adulthood, helping even when it seems that you no longer have the strength to go on.
In conclusion, I would like to say that the problem raised by D. Granin is really important. Childhood is a separate stage of life, in which everything a person will live in the future, what he will become, is laid down, therefore the memories of him must certainly be the purest and brightest. And, probably, the main task in the life of every adult is to make sure that their children remember their childhood years as the happiest.

Essay on the Unified State Exam according to the text:“Happy, happy, irrevocable time of childhood! How not to love, not to cherish the memories of her? These memories refresh, elevate my soul...”(according to L.N. Tolstoy).

Attention! The same text was in early Unified State Examination In Russian 2017.

Full text

Perhaps our most vivid impressions came from childhood. What role does this period play in a person’s life? This is precisely the question asked by the author of the text offered to me for analysis.

To answer this question, L.N. Tolstoy describes the childhood years of Nikolenka Irtenyev. The writer very colorfully and convincingly depicts the protagonist's happy memories of childhood. It would seem that there is nothing unusual in them, but how touchingly the author writes about this cannot leave us indifferent. According to Tolstoy, the most important role in a child’s life is played by his parents. For Nikolenka, the most precious person is her mother, because she gives her son “all her tenderness and love.” The writer draws attention to the fact that children's dreams "are filled with pure love and hopes for bright happiness." By this he shows that the life of a child is carefree and innocent.

Throughout the course of the story, the author wants to convey to us the following idea: childhood plays the most important role in a person’s life, since it is in childhood that character is formed, the process of personality formation occurs, and concepts of good and evil are laid down.
I share the author's opinion. Indeed, childhood is an important stage, because it is childhood impressions and memories that often underlie the actions of an adult.

To confirm my thought, I want to recall the work of I.A. Goncharov "Oblomov. The main character Ilya Ilyich Oblomov brought back from childhood bright, tender memories of his mother. Also, the basis of the friendship between Oblomov and Stolz, so different and dissimilar, was laid in childhood. Despite the main flaw in his character, manifested in laziness, everything - after all, all the best: kindness, responsiveness - was laid down in childhood.

Childhood also played a very important role in my life. My parents paid special attention to instilling a sense of beauty: they took me to museums and theaters. Grandfather often told various stories and facts related to art, and taught me to draw. And now, standing on the threshold of adulthood, I know that my future profession will be connected with my love for painting and sculpture, which my family raised in me as a child.

Thanks to L.N. Tolstoy came to me to realize what a huge influence childhood impressions have on our qualities, goals, and dreams. And I hope that the problem that our great writer raised in his work will be reflected in the destinies of other people. Indeed, in the future, when many of us will raise our children, the thought of how every word can affect the inner world of our son or daughter will prevent us from making irreparable mistakes.

(380 words)

"My childhood"
Chapter first

I’ll tell you about two women who played a significant role in my life, and maybe more significant than I think. I am convinced that such human natures exert their influence on everyone with whom they come into contact in life.

At the age of ten I found myself in the most unfortunate situation; one day I lost my parents: an accident took my family away from me forever. Before the death of my parents, the idea of ​​something like this could only arouse in me a suspicion of temporary punishment (like being put in a corner). It seemed to me then that my mom and dad would live forever.

I was brought to my aunt, my father’s sister: Maria Mitrofanovna Mashkova; Before that, I had never seen this relative, like my cousin Varvara; My father apparently did not get along with his older sister.

They led me into bright, spacious, clean rooms, and I saw a frightening picture: Mashkova Sr. was sitting in her Voltaire chair and smoking cigarettes, releasing clouds of blue smoke. Against the background of general whiteness and purity, the aunt seemed like a Baba Yaga who for some reason was allowed into these heavenly premises. There were a lot of pretty, pleasant things all around: lace napkins, cute pillows with incredible handmade patterns, delicate snow-white curtains and lots of live violets on the windowsills. Mashkova was the complete opposite of all these bright, touching objects. Her chair resembled a throne for the poor and wretched. Like the aunt, the throne was replete with the same worn holes and gave off an unpleasant sour smell from old age and disrepair. Mashkova’s skinny body was tightly wrapped in a holey robe (apparently of the same age as the chair); from her hands alone one could guess that she was terribly skinny and bony. The skin of the hands, neck, face, all had a transparent earthy yellowish tint. But what struck me most was her physiognomy. The skin-covered skull resembled death; how often she is depicted with a scythe before the appearance of the last hour. Mashkova’s large brown eyes looked angry and unpleasant; this look did not promise anything good. For a brief moment, I was reassured by her smile: her face seemed more pleasant to me, but seeing the blackened, smoke-stained teeth and hearing the playful, affectionate greeting, I wanted to cry.

“Ah... mini-Antoine!” the aunt was strangely happy with a lopsided smile, raising a shaking cigarette to her lips, “he’s the spitting image of Antosha in childhood... hello baby... now be a man, I’m your aunt, and this is your sister Varvara - your life has turned around one hundred and fifty degrees... brace yourself... baby.

My head began to spin and my legs began to give way. When that very moment came to my throat when you are about to begin to wince from tears, not paying attention to the audience, I heard a voice to the side from the sunlit window:

- Mom, stop it! Andryusha...” a figure in a white dress approached me. – You are my brother, and I am your sister, Varya. Don’t be afraid of mom (a tanned dark palm extended towards me), you can’t imagine how good and kind she is. Come on... hello.

I was in a fog of light that made it difficult to see the creature addressing me. I extended my hand and felt the warm, dry palm of my new sister.

- Lord, how timid you are and what unhappy eyes you have, you need to be more courageous... after all, you are already an adult... however...

Varya kissed me and quickly ran her hand across my cheek. My legs began to give way again and I felt like my face was on fire.

- Varvara, this young man already adores you, look at him. Take him to the dining room and feed him,” Mashkova wheezed and coughed from the remaining smoke in her lungs.

The old woman was right, I admired Varya and could not take my eyes off her. I was struck by the strange, attractive beauty of my sister and the sudden trust that arose in her.

I was fed and shown to my new room. When Varya left and I was left alone, I felt unbearably sorry for myself; I began to sulk, sniffle, and wipe away tears. But then the door opened, Varya ran in and hugged me for the first time. I sobbed freely and to my heart’s content and hid in her long neck. She stroked me, then I began to sigh convulsively, twitch, and finally fell asleep.

I will try to describe my Varya. A primary school teacher from whom my sister once studied once said: “if there are aliens, then Varvara Mashkova was one of them.” It’s true, Varya was not of this world, and as her aunt liked to say: Varya was “paradoxical” by nature. This is perhaps an appropriate description. Outwardly, in detail, she was more ugly than beautiful. Every feature or part of her body had some oddities and inconsistencies. The nose was correct, Roman in shape, but too large and large. Her mouth was captivated by the upper swollen sponge, but the teeth had strange shapes with some unnatural fangs, and the color of the teeth was more yellow than white. The neck was graceful, but too long: thanks to this, one of her many nicknames at school was “goose.” Her lively shoulders seemed as mobile as her light eyebrows, but her female breasts were almost not noticeable. The waist is very emphasized, and the hips are strong and elastic, but the legs are noticeably curved inward, which is why Varya waddles slightly when she walks, like a tumbler. But what is surprising is that despite her shortcoming, her gait was as light as that of a cat. The strange thing was that with all this bouquet, Varya seemed beautiful. The most attractive and amazing thing were her eyes. They, too, in form and “general” definition, were rather ugly. But those eyes of hers looked at you in such a way that it was as if nature itself was touching you or something so magical and inhuman. I remember how I imagined many mystical good creatures with Varya’s eyes. There was so much life in those eyes that you definitely wanted to live, move, rejoice, even jump with delight. Those eyes of hers simultaneously expressed deep tragedy, even pain; or something that we will never understand in life, but it definitely exists, and is always nearby, like a shadow. Her left eye was slightly squinted inward, but this flaw, like all her shortcomings, gave her some kind of inexplicable charm. But most of all I loved her ears. When I hugged her (and I hugged her often), I would certainly kiss her ear, staring at her with my eyes, as if I was seeing this ear for the first time every time. Her ears were small, elongated, predatory in shape, neatly laid to the skull, as if slightly tucked in. It seemed to me that these ears were part of some kind of maternal healthy strength, protection, and maybe a grasp and strength exceeding any masculine principle. I think it is in vain that those who are interested in such objects miss the ears of women as a detail, as a certain sign or sign; let's say: an important characteristic symbol of the essence of the female body. It’s not for nothing that women’s ears are often hidden from us behind a thick strand of long hair. Varya’s whole body was elastic, slender, and her skin seemed to have an all-season Black Sea tan. Varya’s hair was always strong, healthy, and smelled wonderful; but her short hair was almost like that of a boy. But at the same time, this head could never be confused or compared with a boy’s. And her body smelled to me of something so inexplicable and familiar, and most importantly, naturally necessary for my breathing.

She loved the colors very much: white, blue and purple. She always wore snow-white dresses and purple jewelry. She was especially beautiful when she inserted a living flower into the side of her hair; then I looked at her and I wanted to breathe deeper and for some reason I wanted to eat right away; Varya was delicious for me, or something. In moments of my delight, looking at me, she said: “Do you want to hug me?” Without waiting for an answer, she extended her neck to me, and I happily hugged her like my favorite toy or my most desired creature. “Oh, oh, Andryusha, you’ll strangle me!” – she usually stroked me on the back and said affectionately: “how I love you too...”

I was so very happy that she was there.

About her character and the comparison of the teacher with an alien creature: you see, and here her entire inner world was contradictory and very, very peculiar - like a genius. She was like everyone else - or rather, she could be everyone, and at the same time, Varya was emphatically alone. Her soul was open and sincere, love was given to her easily and freely, but she was rarely loved as her heart and all her unique rich nature demanded. The main thing is that I still can’t imagine which of the men could really love her; something was closed in her to this love. Varya had an aunt in her life, there was me, and she was simply doomed to loneliness; Moreover, our relationship was such that for an ordinary person this would be the greatest opportunity to feel dependent on their loved ones, but Varya, detached and naturally, always had an invisible insurmountable distance. The sister was incredibly feminine, many who appreciated her emphasized this strong quality in her. Any object that was in her hands or captured by her attention then seemed inextricably linked with Varya, as if the objects were saturated with her special perfume.

Here I must say something about the school. Since elementary school, she was teased with various offensive nicknames. It was said that the children were even afraid of Varya. When Varya was about to burst into tears, she suddenly and unexpectedly laughed or even growled, as if teasing her enemies. No one saw her in tears. There was a case when, during attacks of universal ridiculing attention towards her, my sister came to school with her face painted. There was general laughter in the class, and Varya bowed almost to the ground to her mocking spectators, at eight years old (!). One day, as my adoptive mother told me, boys waylaid Varya and tried to beat her and even undress her; rather, the children were infuriated by Varvara’s impenetrability and her incomprehensible kind of protection, endurance, patience, or detachment from the majority. One boy, apparently amazed by the scene, later said that during the bullying Varya pretended to be dead and put on an artificial smile. And at some terrible moment, continuing to smile unnaturally and still remaining motionless, tears flowed from her eyes. Even the most notorious little cynics abandoned her and left her lying alone in the corner. One boy openly spat in her face and said loudly: “damn doll!” This boy cried all the way home and already told his family about this cruel incident. Mashkova Sr. told me that the girls didn’t even talk to her and avoided her, looking at Varya from the first grades as something dangerous and hostile to themselves.

Varya drew and loved to sing (she had wonderful hearing and a high, ringing voice), but she sang alone, at home. I saw her children's art, these drawings are very strange and only white, blue, or purple colors predominate in them. She always depicted the sun in the center of each individual drawing, lightly tinting it with orange and the same purple pencil. She always depicted herself clearly, in blue or purple, and people seemed to be separated, in groups, as if they were ghosts, not a single clear line or hand press; as shadows are usually drawn: sluggish, foggy and vague.

And somewhere in the seventh or eighth grade, everything changed dramatically. They instantly began not only to love her, but to be interested in her. And Varya somehow suddenly, with all her deformities, began to turn into something interesting and attractive. It turned out that Varya is a great artist. At some school party, she performed her favorite song. The entire audience was delighted that day, and Varya began to be actively invited to the company and admired her (and many, even girls, admired her). And the strange thing is, not a single boy tried to court her, and she was already attractive to most boys. The aunt said this: “no one knew what was holding them back.”

It's time to start with a description of my second mother, my aunt Maria Mitrofanovna Mashkova. From the first days, it seemed to me like a black, dirty cloud that was about to dissipate and disappear like nasty weather. But the cloud not only did not clear, but also promised to live long in my everyday life (by the way, my aunt lived a long time). At the beginning of our acquaintance, she communicated with me in her repertoire, constantly asking me various questions from her dark throne with a tinge of either irony or an attempt to enlighten me with her observant analytical X-ray. I immediately believed in her sharp, strong mind with all my childhood intuition. The aunt had sick legs and practically did not walk until her death. You know, sometimes even now it seems to me that this illness did not bother my aunt at all. Once upon a time, Mashkova apparently came to terms with her lot, and I would say: a new form of reincarnation. This is approximately how a future dragonfly throws off its shell and flies out into the air from the water element, and the aunt flew in her chair. Her presence was everywhere and always: when I was wandering the streets after school, or when I was sitting at my desk; or when trying to sleep; Mashkova seemed to fly above me and, against my will, crashed into my imagination with her sharp image. And it seems that everyone who knew her felt the flight of this spirit above them; it spread like smoke and penetrated wherever it was needed.

Varya once told me: “our mother Andrei flint.” This was definitely said. Later I found out that my aunt suffered unbearable pain, but I don’t remember that she complained or openly suffered. Apparently, thanks to these torments, Mashkova did not sleep at night. I remember well our nightly meetings, when in the middle of the night I discovered her terrible inflamed gaze illuminated by the moon; she sat quietly in the darkness opposite the window; It seemed to me that my aunt’s black eyes sparkled like those of a demon or a thief who had been accidentally discovered hiding some terrible secret. Mashkova became irritated at any question I asked; brushed aside any sympathy: the aunt seemed to hate with disgust any empathy or pity in relation to her. In extreme cases only, Mashkova accepted help from loved ones.

But let's go back to the first days. Mashkova Sr. beckoned me with a dry, feigned voice: “Give me some cigarettes, baby,” “Darling, bring me that glass over there.” When I went to get a glass, I felt this dark creature studying me. And we gradually became friends. I remember in the evening before going to bed, my aunt deliberately said loudly in a caustic, creeping voice: “Varvara, what a good, great guy Andryusha is!” I was pleased with this remark of hers about me, but remembering my feelings at that time, I remember that I felt a surge of strange uncertainty and treachery in conclusions regarding our entire friendship with her. But as it happens in childhood: you let everything take its course and believe in the best first experiences. In the end, Mashkova endeared me to such an extent that in the evenings I sat next to her, and for some reason I was terribly talkative, boastful and talkative. And it’s strange, I calmly mentioned my mother and father, as if they had not died, but had just gone somewhere. I understood then that my parents were no more, but I chatted and chirped somehow stupidly and frivolously, like market gossip. Mashkova listened attentively and only interrupted me sometimes: “Andrey, give me matches, my dear...” she told me in an unpleasant strange voice, being somewhere far away in her thoughts. Then, for my condition, I was terribly ashamed and offended for myself. But this is ahead...

Finally I went to school. On the third day, the older guys began to bully me and even beat me in short skirmishes. I didn’t really resist, but just endured, hoping “that I know” that I’m smart, and this will pass as an inevitable temporary period, only with time. Once I was treated so unfairly and basely that, although I was afraid of my enemies, in my heart I openly looked down on my classmates, considering them all to be something much lower than myself and stupider.

In the evening, sitting down at Mashkova’s feet, I heatedly began to tell her about the stupidity of my classmates; I remembered several episodes, making them look like complete idiots. My aunt listened to me, I remember her face was very sad. Then she suddenly, as if remembering something, suddenly stretched out her artificial smile (she had a way of abruptly changing her facial expressions into a smiling, deliberately hypocritical position):

“Oh, my friend...” Mashkova squeaked sugarily, spreading her unpleasant smile. – There’s my husband’s belt in the closet, I want to show it to you and maybe give it to you...

Happy, I rushed to the closet. Mashkova hid her smile and watched me with a serious face. An ironed, beautiful officer's uniform and sword belt hung in the closet. I carefully unfastened and removed the belt, and almost with false reverence presented Mashkova’s strap. In general, remembering those days, for some reason an unexpected false disgust surfaced in me. It was as if all the silt or dirt had been deliberately lifted from my bottom. I later remembered myself with great disgust.

Mashkova, meanwhile, accepted the belt, examined it carefully, then turned her gaze to me; again a fake sour smile, and... the first blow to the face! I collapsed more from surprise than from the blow; I couldn’t believe this event. Mashkova, swaying, rose from her chair and began to spank and whip me, enraged. I remember the rage in her eyes, some kind of alien, downright satanic evil; I was gripped by horror and I shook on the floor and could not even crawl away from the hail of her blows. The same one whipped me diligently and said, gritting her teeth: “never complain and don’t be a coward, you brute, don’t complain and don’t be a coward - you’re a scoundrel!”

Finally, the foster mother was exhausted and fell into a chair. In a convulsion, I heard Mashkova light a cigarette and, with great relief, release the first large smoke. I crawled away and ran to my room. In the room I fell not on the bed, but in the corner, I wanted to die immediately. This is where I remembered my people. "Mother! mommy…." – I groaned and extended my hand into the void. Then I lost consciousness.

I woke up with an emergency doctor. Varya was sitting at home and holding a wet towel on my burning head.

“And the young fighter has woken up,” the doctor said jokingly. - And we’ve been waiting for you here. Your sister is literally crying like a child...

Varya’s eyes were red, but she smiled at me. At such moments her face became especially beautiful. I looked at her silently and took her hand in mine and pressed it to my heart. Varya already knew my love for touching positions and smiled even more. She had an open smile and, as they say, to her heart’s content, through her tears. Then she wiped her nose with a handkerchief and said:

- God, how you scared me...

- Varya... I want to die and see my mother...

Varya looked at me and sighed sadly:

“You don’t have to die, I beg you.” I will feel very bad without you.

I reached out and hugged her and kissed her several times.

“I... it... wanted to give you a gift...” she said and sighed sadly.

When I heard the word “gift,” my limbs twitched. Even from Varya in this house I didn’t want any more gifts.

-What are you doing, my dear? - she was frightened, - there was an order left from dad, I want to give it to you - this is the most precious thing that I have... had... with me.

Varya took out the order, so brilliant, beautiful, real. I stared at him and couldn't take my eyes off him. My sister squeezed it into my palm and pressed it tightly with her hand, without releasing it.

“I’m just sure that you will always be with me, just like this order of my father - do you understand me?”

I melted into a smile, feeling my swollen lips heroically stretch. I even now liked my miserable position as a sufferer. I felt very good: a martyr and a sufferer, but definitely for some reason happy in the future.

It is necessary to say a few words about Mashkova Sr., about her childhood, as well as about marriage, or rather, about the reasons for Varya’s birth.

Mashkova Sr., according to legend, was conceived in a prison for political prisoners. Her mother was allegedly French, and her father was a Russified German. The aunt's maiden name was Zilber. Further, my father was born there in prison, and the little Zilbers are already sent from the camp to Siberia in the godforsaken outback. Two children are taken in by rural strangers to be raised by them. The aunt often remembered her grandfather Makar Ivanovich Melekhov, who took care of her and raised her aunt. Melekhov was a forester and an Old Believer. The love for birds, grass, bees, birch trees and so on was hammered into her forever. She often taught me various wisdom and all sorts of miracles of natural science and natural history.

Already an adult, my aunt goes to study at a medical school, and then, after working in a hospital, she meets an elderly veteran officer, Vladimir Vladimirovich Mashkov. The Colonel General suffered with a heavy heart. I just know that he was truly a man of honor. Right in the hospital, Mashkov and Maria Mitrofanovna signed their names, and a month later Mashkov died, and after the allotted time, in sixty-two, my sister was born. All that was left was a uniform, personal belongings, many awards and a photo album. This album contains several photographs of the Patriotic War and Mashkov himself. The photographs show that Vladimir Vladimirovich was truly loved and respected by his comrades and colleagues. He was an honest communist, a man of honor - that's all I know. The rest is more of a fantasy to which my aunt was prone.

So, when I woke up in the morning, as if from the first hangover, I ran to Varya’s room. My sister was not in the room; Varya had gone to work (she taught music). I felt very sad when I ran into her room and realized that Varya had left. Remembering yesterday’s drama, I suddenly became depressed, my back automatically bent, my soul ached with great resentment. I somehow wasn’t offended by the old woman, but in my heart I put a decisive end to her. I vowed to devote my life to Varya, and only to her. I had to leave “our” half and walk past the old woman. I deliberately walked past her, using the appearance of a shabby but courageous unbroken person. Mashkova observed my “transition” in silence. Having waited for Varya, I was rewarded with a trip to the cinema. I again forgot that I was unhappy, and even on the way out of the cinema I lied with delight:

– You know... I’ll tell you a secret: a long time ago, a year before... I had a dream. A ghost entered the room, and I couldn’t see it (well, you know how it happens in a dream), it was white with purple beads... But I felt then, in a dream, that it was an angel and I love him and he loves me. Can you imagine!

- Yes, great... but do you want to be honest? – asked the sister with the same enthusiastic feeling.

- Certainly.

- It seems to me that you came up with something a little - no, no, you didn’t lie, but you honestly made it up - it happens when people can honestly come up with ideas, and this invention makes you feel good. I also fell in love with you at first sight. And by the way, do you know what I liked most about you? Your eyes and your head. And yours... how should I say...? not even your heart... even in your fantasies... even in lies... you will be honest. Something like that…

I didn’t quite understand, but I believed unconditionally. My suspiciousness was also distracted by my head, which I knew was too big (at school I was teased as a “tadpole”). I clarified and asked again; trying to hide the touchy suspicion that rolled in: “What does it mean to like my head?”

– You know Andryusha... when I was a child, my mother loved to repeat to me a fairy tale about the ugly duckling. It seems to you that how good it would be if you were the way you should be. And so you suffer from this and consider it evil and injustice. But in reality...in fact, this misfortune will one day turn into happiness. But other guys, who have had no misfortunes since childhood, subsequently become unhappy, and then resign themselves, and think that this is the best for them, and live “like everyone else.” And it’s so sad to live “like everyone else.” Life is given once...

Varya thought for a minute.

“And just so you can calm down completely,” she spoke playfully and looked into my eyes deliberately and playfully, “you have terribly beautiful blue eyes and I saw how the girls look at you.” Now kiss me and let's go faster - it's late.

After that evening with Varya, the issue with the “head” disappeared by itself. I read the tale of the ugly duckling several times, and concluded that many of my classmates were simply unhappy people living in their own irresistible chicken coop.

We somehow made peace with the old woman literally within a week. She suddenly fell ill, began to cough terribly, stopped sleeping completely, and in the end she was transferred from the chair (in which she spent her nights and days) to the bed. Varenka looked after her, and I ran to pharmacies, shops, hung out laundry; with great happiness and zeal he carried out Varina’s other various assignments. Finally, my aunt got better. One day she called me; for the first time addressing me:

- Andrey, give me one cigarette and matches.

I said nothing and continued scrubbing the kitchen table in the next room.

- Andrey! Give me some cigarettes.

- I'm not giving it. – I finally muttered.

- Why?

- You are not allowed. And Varya categorically forbade me. I will feel sorry for my sister if something happens to you.

- Wow...

I said nothing. Ten minutes passed.

- Okay, come to me, I'll show you something. Go...

I went out to her as a favor to a sick, probably dying man. She had a beautiful new book in her hands.

- This is a gift for you. Jack London, I know you... will like it. This is a very old publication, which was inherited from Varvara’s father. No need for cigarettes - to hell with you... here you go.

I accepted the book from Mashkova’s hands. It was a warm green material with beautiful golden letters. In me, the phrase “Varin’s father” already had a trembling influence on my soul. I thanked him politely (though with a serious, stern face), and went to finish my chores. Thanks to this book and Jack London, I fell in love with reading.

My aunt told me a lot about the author and the conquest of North America. Maria Mitrofanovna read many different books during her life. She gave me Leskov, Chekhov, Tolstoy, and even once I read “Crime and Punishment” by Dostoevsky.

- What do you say? - she asked me when I put Dostoevsky on the shelf in the closet.

“Unhappy man,” I said.

- Who is this Raskolnikov and this girl?

- So you think... that the rich and well-fed are happy and Raskolnikov was right - envying them and being offended by them for his fate?

My aunt arranged all kinds of games for me. All the games had a sort of pedagogical unique direction; she told me:

- Andryusha, let's play a game. I will point to the book, and we will take turns describing the author in two words. Kipling: funny, interesting. What do you think?

- Tolstoy?

I said that Tolstoy is smart, huge. The aunt said: “cunning, Russian.”

We played “cities”, wrote essays on various topics, and organized all sorts of competitions. She also taught me mysticism. One night we called upon the spirits and even my aunt spoke to my father once. My father, as it turned out, was happy with “that” life, but he misses his mother. They are “there” for the time being, separated for the time being, so that they will finally miss each other and then love each other forever. At five in the morning I ran, as always, peremptorily to Varya and told her about the fate of my parents. We were glad.

Chapter two.

Imperceptibly, my life became happy and somehow gradually, literally over the course of a year, I felt that I no longer lived anywhere, but lived only here. Then they took me to the boxing section. The aunt said so; when Varya argued with her that this is not the best sport:

- Let him go and practice boxing. He is too soft and afraid of blood. I myself don’t like fights. What can you do, they love it... He misses it. Work out, and then we’ll see. He must be able to protect girls in words. Look at him, what will happen next?

And Varya, looking at me, somehow agreed, or rather, stopped arguing with us. Naturally, I was burning with desire, although in my heart I was scared and cold at the thought that a serious boxing training awaited me today. Going home for the first time after going through a real boxing training session is like experiencing a feat. Little did I know what boxing would become for me in life. But I didn’t set out to talk about myself in this story.

I remember the summer when Varya and I went to Sochi to a sanatorium. This was the third summer with the Mashkovs. We eat in the carriage, I’m on the top bunk, covering my face with a pillow so that the citizen doesn’t think I’m crazy; because I endlessly want to laugh and squeal with overwhelming joy. Varya, the sea, it was fantastic. I have never seen the sea in my life. Varya is sitting below me and drinking tea with a fellow traveler. The citizen is strange, elderly, even wearing a hat like that of foreigners; I see and hear how this man is fascinated by my sister. But I’m calm and even this person doesn’t annoy me.

– You see, Varvara Vladimirovna, it’s rare to find such refined beauty... and such a heart and mind as yours... I’m speaking not only as an artist and a person (sorry), but also as an adult... a very adult person.

– Lev Isaevich, it’s certainly pleasant, and it’s just flattering to me as a woman (I knew that my sister was smiling and playing at that moment), but there must be at least some basis - after all, you don’t know me at all.. However, God bless you...

The artist groaned, but apparently was satisfied.

- My brother and I are going to the sea... my brother has never seen the sea; Can you imagine how happy he is?

I saw the sea, large snails, crabs, live bamboo and much, much more. Varya was wearing a wide white light hat, in some kind of outfit she had invented, made of light, translucent material like a cobweb; against the backdrop of her naturally dark body it looked fantastic. Some men and admirers were constantly hovering around us; but even the rudest, or even the drunkest, instinctively did not allow the dirt to touch her, and everything wore some kind of light, harmless or cheerful tone.

I remember a typical incident: we were wandering around the outskirts and got lost; we wandered into some dilapidated village with one narrow sand-colored stone street. Ahead of us on our way was a local suspicious company. Like a boxer, I got ready. The guys played backgammon and drank dark wine from a pot-bellied bottle. Seeing us, they began to brazenly and unceremoniously look at my sister and comment with individual obscene cries. We're getting closer.

- Your mother... what a young lady! let me kiss your hand? - said the most drunk and unpleasant man covered in tattoos.

Varya stopped, looked, and said with some strange dignity:

-Kiss only the hand - it won’t hurt. And then show us the way to the sanatorium “N”.

He jumped up and somehow tried to peer into his sister’s face. Varya froze, helping him. His comrades became quiet during the pause. Breathing heavily, the man finally took a deep breath, staggered forward (it turned out he was very drunk), swaying, and fell into the gate opposite. A minute later we heard the crash of something metallic. His friends apparently respected him, and were waiting for a solution to how to act and react. Finally, this drunken leader with large, carelessly cut chrysanthemums tumbled out of the gate; swaying, he gave the flowers to his sister.

“I’ll kiss your hand another time.” Garik... – he turned to one of his comrades. - Spend...

Varya kindly thanked us for the flowers and for the “garik” and we safely got to our place.

One evening, my sister and I were relaxing on the seashore. The waves approached the shore with importance and fell pleasantly on the ear; a light breeze brought in a lot of fresh evening air. It smelled of uncooled stones and sea mud. I looked at Varya; she had closed her eyes and was lying with her elbows back on the back of the chaise lounge. Her eyes were heavily tinted; she reminded me of the queen who was usually depicted in Egyptian manuscripts. Seagulls hovered calmly above us, and rare vacationers walked along the shore with bare white feet. Everything around seemed to be taking a break from the hot events.

“Tell me,” I said, “do you think there is a God and “that” life?

Varya looked at me carefully, holding her hat with her hand.

- There definitely is... You are an adult now and I do not reassure you or console you in your past grief. But he's... far away. You need to get to him - you understand. Remember any goal - how much effort is required to get to the smallest goal. I read or heard somewhere that the truth is always further away - and how much you need to go through... and most importantly, grief and misfortune. They say that our universe exists for more than ten billion years... and God is even older and further than all the stars on earth... I say this about misfortunes, not because they, these misfortunes, are a necessity, but because just as gold is melted in fire, so through misfortunes we learn at least something. If it weren’t for your grief, I wouldn’t have you, and you wouldn’t have me. As a child, I suffered so much, maybe even I was sick, and everything I am now is thanks to all this. Remember Bezukhov, Bolkonsky, Mitya Karamazov... they all melted like gold in their suffering. I don’t wish grief on anyone, but I also consider it a great grief to have a cloudless, monotonous life. When people give themselves over to a bad dream: commitment to things, money, useless monotony, ever-repeating vanity. Even the family turns into something monotonous and repetitive. I want you to understand me that it is stupid pride to be a black sheep or an ugly duckling, but let people admire you as a special person, and not you draw any conclusions about yourself.. This seems to be the meaning of life.

We returned from our vacation and I went to school. And in October, Varya was returning home late and came across a group of hooligans. She was stabbed twice in the stomach and Varya died in the hospital.

The aunt did not shed a single tear in the cemetery. When we were left alone, I sat down opposite Maria Mitrofanovna. My tears flowed in streams again; my aunt ran her eyes over me and desperately stretched out her hands to me. I jumped into her arms and we burst into tears with our terrible mutual grief.

Years have passed. Every year I brought Maria Mitrofanovna to Varina’s grave, and we arranged her bouquets of violets. I do the same thing when next to Varya, they put my second mother, my aunt, in the ground. She died the same way she lived - courageously. The memory of these beloved people will never be erased in my heart.

I was still small in those years, I had not seen war, and then I would not have been able to find the corresponding images. But now I would compare this night with a difficult battle to encircle. To complete destruction. Thunder growled and roared from four sides around our house and forest plantations, like artillery barrage. Here and there, like battery lights, lightning flashes flickered on and off, something exploded loudly and rolled across the roof, like shell explosions. It’s creepy, joyful, really like being in mortal combat. The cry of frightened birds, their anxiously buzzing flocks, fluff and feathers from nests, green leaves crumpled by the wind, shreds of hay, sand and powdered dust from the road - everything rushes in front of the house like a prickly pillar and suddenly falls and crumbles. And from time to time on the horizon something flashes, winks, shines, someone silently exchanges fire signals before a new attack, falls silent in a mysterious silence. Just like Tyutchev:

One lightning fire,

Igniting in succession,

Like demons are deaf and dumb,

They are having a conversation with each other.

And suddenly dry thunder rumbles again, rolling over our heads like a huge empty barrel. The clouds drag low above the ground, hanging like boulders. They move quickly - and not a drop of rain. The hot, stuffy, swirling air, saturated with electricity, did not give birth to anything, did not bring a drop of rain, a trickle of water, or scattered small drops of the much needed, so long-awaited warm moisture evaporating on the fly.

Thunder roars, frightening with its bubbling, and slowly moves away, as if screaming gutturally, and fades away in the distance.

In the east, dawn broke in a thin yellow stripe. “Sparrow Night” was running out, rolling back, coming to naught. Why "passerine"? Even Dahl didn't answer. He uses this word to call the autumnal equinox. And our “sparrow night” - thunder and lightning without rain - swept through the dry, hot summer in July. Only once, many years later, did I find this name in Turgenev - “sparrow night” - in the same sense as ours, but he only called it without giving an explanation why “sparrow night”, as if everything around it they knew it themselves. And I suddenly thought that our distant ancestors, moving further and further away from us through the centuries, were also deaf-mute demons. We, standing somewhere below, on earth, see the brilliance, hear the thunder of their speeches, but we no longer seem to grasp the very meaning of their fiery concerns, their great and comprehensive thoughts - and we misinterpret them.

Sparrow. Why?.. It’s unclear. In terms of strength and feeling, it’s more like an eagle’s.

At this time something happened in our family. We, the younger children, my little brother and I, of course, did not understand anything about what had happened.

I remember the gray fence, the bare garden, the barking of a three-legged dog. “Your Pomeranian, lovely Pomeranian, is no bigger than a thimble.” We are in Voronezh, without my father. The year is tough and hungry. I am already studying at school, but my main school is the road along the street, across the whole city, a garden with Persian lilacs and books. And the eternal complaints: “Your youngest daughter threw stones.” I throw stones at boys! What a horror! And the boys are roaring!

My father already lived somewhere in Asia. For me he almost doesn't exist. Only somewhere, latently, there lives a strange memory of a shirt embroidered with colored silks, of a soft mustache, strongly smelling of tobacco, of some kind of fire - we, children, are lying on huge bundles in our father’s office, clouds of smoke are flying through the open doors, and our mother is giving us water. spoonfuls of sweet, spicy port wine, and unwraps fragrant oranges in golden tissue paper: this means that we are very sick with something.

But now, without a father, we get sick a little differently. Yes, and everything in our house goes differently. No port, no oranges and often no bread. And when a long, white, bony old man with a beard appears - the postman - and brings us money or letters from a distant Asian city, there, in our souls, something slowly melts, warms. At such moments I always remember the steppe and our house - my father's house - furnished in a Spartan way: a dining table, five stools, a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, a bed and a desk for my father. In the corner, near the closet, there is a chest under the carpet, next to it are fishing rods and a double-barreled shotgun. There is a Russian stove in the kitchen. In the entryway there is a warm sheepskin coat on a nail: for traveling around the steppe in winter, waders, a bundle of hare skins, spread out to dry. There is a five-step porch; under the porch is an old dog, his father’s faithful friend and assistant on the hunt.

Anyone who thinks that simple rural life necessarily corresponds to simple, even perhaps simplified, crude feelings does not know life. Here, in my opinion, everything is inversely related. Looking at little things, at countless, flickering people distracts and scatters attention. And a simple, harsh life in the desert, with the sunset in the window, with black bread and milk and with wide freedom to the very horizon, with this convex, faded from the heat and frost, washed by the rains most transparent sky, as if everything in your heart gathers into a single whole , as if in focus, and highlights, zooming in and enlarging. That’s why everything comes out not rougher at all, but simply clearer, brighter, deeper, more powerful:

If you love, so without reason,

If you threaten, it’s not a joke.

In this life there are special joys and special courage: to understand your role in the world around you, and not to demand for yourself anything beyond the simplest pleasures of a working person, and to value bread and water, fire and firewood as the only important, necessary things. Nowadays, not everyone can do this.

They say there is protein incompatibility.

And probably there is also mental incompatibility, or, as mathematicians say, “incongruence” of characters and attitudes to life. Otherwise, where does the hostility towards one person, a complete stranger to you, and the feeling of sympathy, craving for another come from? And where then are those family dramas, invisible to the world, whose participants seem to understand everything with their minds and are even ready to make concessions, but only from these concessions no one gets any easier or better, but gets worse and worse until it reaches the limit.

We, children, participate in these processes as a silent huge force, crushing both the right and the wrong with the same oppression. We will learn to understand everything when adults become obsolete, boil down, calm down, that is, in essence, too late. It's too late.

Between me and my father lay vast miles and difficult, long years of separation, almost entire decades: studying at school, war and studying again, but at the institute, and then work with traveling on business trips. He and I also shared my unshakable conviction that those who leave home are always to blame. But for some reason I look at the world through the eyes of someone who is gone, guilty, and this world is beautiful, huge. And sometimes I really want to run along the path after my father and ask: “What is this? And this? And this?..” And hear the answer, as before, calm, comprehensive. But the father is somewhere in a sultry, distant country, beyond the reach of imagination, in a low mud-painted house with a flat roof, behind a clay yellow duct. How he lives there, what he does, and what he thinks, and what he feels, unfortunately, I don’t know.

Childhood was full of inexplicable and beautiful things.

Then the explainable became more, and the beautiful became less. The old fairy tales with mermaids, goblins and brownies have disappeared from our old house. They were supplanted by multiplication tables, then algebra, geometry; the man in the pictures appeared in cross-section; everything secret became clear; prose replaced poetry.

One thing remains a wonderful mystery - my childhood itself. Now I’m wondering: where did it get lost, when? Why didn’t I appreciate him then and was in too much of a hurry to become an adult? For some reason, it appears to me as a very sweet, funny creature, dear to me, dear, but, however, not understood by me. It was as if I, timid, was embarrassed to approach him, look him straight in the eyes, and failed to make friends properly.

Then, years later, in the same way I will regret myself, already an adult: why didn’t I try to fully understand what my strength, my joy, laughter, fun, health are for? Only I will not regret old age, but, probably, even in old age we, in essence, do not comprehend ourselves and do not know what possibilities are hidden in us, what we are capable of.