Alexander Voronsky - Bursa. Voronsky A.K.

Current page: 4 (total book has 21 pages)

... Usually Ivan peacefully basked in the sun near the barn, but sometimes he got drunk and then became warlike.

- Step arsh! he commanded himself, standing at attention, but not moving. - Step arsh! - he repeats even more loudly and menacingly, trampling and waving his arms. - Ah, two. Ah, two! .. Stop! .. Hey, red-haired sivoldai! .. - From his own shout, Ivan shuddered, froze and "ate the bosses with his eyes." - How are you standing, your vile mug! .. Pick up, club, belly ... Crap! .. Ivan waved and gave a full-weighted, but imaginary slap to the imaginary serviceman. - Crap! .. Crap! .. I will teach you, scoundrel! ..

Polkan was the first to respond to the "representation". Clattering with his chain, he lazily crawled out of the kennel, sat down in the sun, squinted his eyes at Ivan and tilted his muzzle in his direction, raising his ear. He watched Ivan condescendingly and even a little mockingly. However, when Ivan noticed him, Polkan pretended that he absolutely did not care about the hero of the Crimean campaign and that he, Polkan, got out of the kennel to stretch himself, look at people and show himself. Polkan, a great diplomat, did not like complications and knew that in his drunkenness Ivan was quick to punish.

Behind Polkan I also appeared from the garden with a gun, with a saber, girded and lashed with belts.

- Stop, Uncle Ivan! – I shouted to the Nikolaev veteran. - Now I will help you, we will show them! ..

Ivan looked at me with cloudy, red-lidded eyes. Under his command, equipped with purely Russian expressions, I did “in front”, “heels together, socks apart”, took the gun “at the ready”. The thickest nettles grew near the barn; she was to be put to fire and sword ...

- Ah, two! Ah, two!.. Peselniki, forward!.. Soldiers, bravo-children, where are your wives? Our wives have their guns loaded, that's where our wives are!...

Ivan wheezed, continued to stagnate, meanwhile I was steadily approaching the nettles, bulging my eyes, throwing my head back, with a gun at the ready. Heroically I crashed into the bushes, worked with a bayonet, the bayonet was covered with green blood; With a strong saber, I cut off the heads of nettles in one fell swoop, ruthlessly trampled on the corpses. Ivan led the battle; to his command I attached war cries, from which the enemy's green hair should have stood on end.

Polkan, who until now had been observing the battle good-naturedly, could not stand it, stretched out, at first lazily barked, then diverged more and more, and now he was already flooded with all his might and was torn from the chain. Cunning, he pretended to be frenzied, and at a time when the nettles burned unbearably on my legs, he preferred to rush from side to side. From nettle "paws" I was ready to shamefully step back, even tears were welling up, but Ivan kept pushing himself behind - "Crush them! Ruby! Plea!" - And I continued to mercilessly shed nettle blood.

Sometimes the aforementioned Pitersky, also drunk, joined the “case”: didn’t he and Ivan get drunk together? Pitersky waved his trousers with an enormous purse, his hair stuck out wildly; thin, long, he added incredible abuse to our hubbub, and even the seasoned Ivan dropped from his tone and looked askance doubtfully at his combative and excessively zealous comrade. Polkan at that time was losing his balance of spirit and was already seriously trying to grab hold of Pitersky, to grab his bare foot with scabs, to which the old man paid no attention, which confused Polkan. It was difficult to understand whom Pitersky's frantic scolding had in mind; I referred it to the nettle, but now, it seems to me, he brought it down on all of us, and on the village, and on his whole miserable and absurdly spent life.

Ivan's hoarse command, my militant cries, Polkan's barking, Pitersky's heart-rending swearing merged into one utter jumble. At the neighboring huts, peasants appeared, hostesses looked out of the windows. Village children gathered around us, taking all possible part in the "war". The din, the turmoil, the confusion grew. Uncle Yermolai hurried from another order with a bucket, believing that at our end the hut was busy. Someone's calf, tail up, rushed across the pasture. Chickens clucked away in all directions. And Alexei was already hurrying towards us, shaking his head, waving his arms, mooing long and condemningly. Sweaty and frenzied, he grabbed my armpits and dragged me home; I resisted, yelled and, in a rage, kept brandishing a gun or a saber, looking back at Ivan, at Polkan, at Pitersky and at a horde of guys. The crowd at that moment was advancing on the pond, where a duck brood swam in the dirty rusty water. Away from sin. The brood wisely made their way to the opposite bank, the ducklings dusted themselves off and quacked disapproval of the reprehensible human behavior. I was torn from the strong hands of Alexei with a hoarse cry, either because I wanted to fight more, or because the nettles burned my legs and arms, or for mutual reasons. The uproar at the pond stopped when Nikolai Ivanovich appeared on the porch. Polkan was the first to hand over, he began to wag his tail slavishly and treacherously: they say, don’t mix me with these unlucky mischief-makers! Following Polkan, the guys jumped around, showing black heels. Ivan muttered something unintelligible and retired under a canopy. The most stubborn of all was Pitersky; he continued to “clean” the pond, and the ducklings, and his uncle, and Polkan, until his old woman came for him and lured him with promises to give vodka, moreover, she showed a bottle of water from under her apron or from under her skirt.

Ivan did not closely converge with anyone, did not make friends; intractable, obstinate, he had no attachments; he respected, perhaps, not out of fear, but out of conscience, only his grandfather. Seeing him, Ivan got up, with difficulty straightened his waist and back, earnestly bowed to his grandfather, followed him with a gaze and did not sit down until he was hiding. Ivan never got up in front of the others.

Ivan died suddenly. In the morning they found him under the barn shed, already cold and covered with dew. Long before his death, he was completely dry, and his corpse resembled relics: the temples collapsed, his cheeks were deeply sunken, his cheekbones protruded sharply, his collarbones protruded; his eyes went under his forehead, his bent knees stuck out like sticks. In the corners of the blue-black lips swarming green flies and wood lice crawled across the face ... What a lonely, bitter and untold life can be!

... Behind the gardens - a hemp plant. Ripe rye. On the hillock, the mill keeps waving and waving its wings tirelessly, it would fly in, but the earth holds firmly. There is a hint of dill, cucumber blossom, and sometimes the wind brings a hot, bitter smell of wormwood. The sky is about to open up, surrounded by mirages.

I decided to make humanity happy. raw eggs wash excellently. From under the hens I stole three eggs "for experiments." In a tin - yolks, salt, blue, cherry glue is added to them, the glue will harden, the liquid will turn into solid, and excellent soap is ready. Shall I add ink for coloring?.. So, I will become a famous soap maker, get rich, I will travel ... Maybe add sugar as well? For what? We'll see there. Better yet, lime. However, quicklime, if poured with water, sizzles and burns. Wouldn't lime produce something explosive instead of soap, say gunpowder? Well, that's not bad for a young chemist! It's even wonderful to invent gunpowder. Some people sweat all their lives over stench, but they don’t invent gunpowder ... We must be careful: what if the tin explodes! I put a piece of lime in the mixture and I even close my eyes from fear. Thank the creator, nothing happened!..

A woman descends from the mill from the hillock; closer and closer it flickers in the thick and tall rye. No one should guess about my secret chemistry classes. I diligently hide the tin under the bump. Soap and gunpowder failed today - there is no trace of discouragement: they will certainly succeed tomorrow. In a woman, I recognize the wanderer Natalya. Her head is tied with a gray calico scarf, the ends of the scarf stick out with horns above her forehead, and a wicker knapsack is behind her back. Natalya walks quickly, easily, leaning on the staff. She is in her forties, but it is difficult to determine her age by her face: she is tanned, weather-beaten almost black. She is wearing a homespun plaid skirt, a white woolen zipun, her feet in dusty bast shoes, tightly and neatly wrapped with onuchs and twine. I call Natalya.

“Hello, dear, hello, master,” Natalya replies affably, wiping her lips tightly in small wrinkles. Will you welcome a guest into your house? Is everyone alive and well?

- Thanks. All are alive and well. I'll take a visit.

I speak solidly, as if indeed I am the owner. I waddle next to Natalya, like a peasant.

Natalya from a neighboring village, about ten years ago she immediately lost her husband and three children: in her absence they died of intoxication. Since then, she has sold the hut, left the household and wanders.

Natalya speaks softly, melodiously, ingenuously. Her words are pure, as if washed, as close, understandable as the sky, the field, the bread, the village huts. And all Natalia is simple, warm, calm and majestic. Natalya is not surprised by anything: she has seen everything, experienced everything, she tells about modern affairs and incidents, even dark and terrible ones, as if they are separated from our life for millennia. Natalya does not flatter anyone; it is very good in her that she does not go to monasteries and holy places, does not look for miraculous icons. She is worldly and talks about worldly things. There is no excess, no fussiness. The burden of the wanderer Natalya bears easily and she buries her grief from people. She has an amazing memory. She remembers when and how children fell ill in such and such a family, where during the Great Lent Kharlamov or Sidorov went to work, whether they lived well, whether they lived well, and what kind of renovation they brought to the housewives.

Seeing the wanderer, Alexey mumbles joyfully, rushes to put the samovar on. From the knapsack Natalya slowly takes out a popular print book "Guak or irresistible fidelity." She gives her sister a wooden doll, and her mother a towel embroidered with roosters. Over tea, carefully biting off sugar with strong and juicy teeth, supporting the saucer on spread fingers, Natalya narrates:

- ... I went near Kazan to one Tatar, and he also asked for peddlers for the night. An old Tatar, over sixty years old; the neck is all in folds and the scar is blue from the lip to the very chest; eyes tear up. He treats the pedlars, and they ask - "Where is your mistress?" The Tatar laughs - "My hostess is young, she is afraid of guests." - In the corner on the bench - an accordion. - "Who, master, plays the accordion?" “And my wife plays.” The peddlers came: show me and show the hostess, let her play the accordion, we'll give you a mirror and a comb. One of the peddlers is in years, and the other is quite young, about twenty years old, no more. The Tartar leads his wife out of the other half, she resists, lowers her head, does not look at us, all crimson, blushing. In appearance - just a girl; with small rowans around the eyes, so pleasant and clean. She sat on the windowsill, buried herself and covered her face with her palm, unaccustomed. They begged - she took the accordion, began to play, and so it’s okay with her game comes out; enough for the heart. Sadly, and everyone seems to be crying in harmony. She played well. The young peddler does not take his eyes off the Tatar, and only with a high eyebrow, no, no, yes, and he will lead; and I listen and think: he plays about his life with the old unenviable. It turns me, a wanderer, from my soul, as soon as I look at the old man’s scar, at the Adam’s apple and at the wrinkles, but for her, the young one, there’s no pleasantness with him at all: you won’t be happy with such a joy. She played, covered her face again with her palm and ran away. And the guy just sighed after her with his whole chest and ran his hand across his forehead ... The next day I said to the Tatar - “Your wife is not a couple for you, Akhmet, not a couple. What are you, old, the girl didn’t spare the green one: this dozen went to you, but she hasn’t even seen the light yet. - “The first wife,” the old man answers, “died with me, someone needs to look after the guys. And this one served as a nanny. Well, that's how it happened. Well-fed, shod, dressed, but before she went begging, she is a round orphan ... ”He paused, frowned:“ You are with me, Natalya, don’t knock her down. We have our law, you have your law; go quickly, where you came from ... "Here they are, our affairs are women's! ..

- And what did you see in the Caucasus?

- I was, my dear, I was there. The mountains are something marvelous, marvelous, miraculous. You stand on a mountain, and heavenly clouds float like a river below; the spirit from the height captures. Snow on the mountains lie in white scythes, pure, pure. They hurt their eyes. There are many oak forests, the rivers are fast.

She left those places, at first she was happy; a year has passed - she yearns for the mountains: they are pulled to her; remember them, and exactly what kind of gift would mother give. They even began to dream in dreams, the right word ... But they live there not in our way, they live hard. We, too, do not have any ease, and there it is even worse. Sometimes you look - a man with a jug of water from steep to steep for an entire hour barely moves his feet. Hay is mowed at a terrible height and lowered down on ropes; that's not the point. The people are toiling. That is why the desperate must eat among them. Oh, not everyone there welcomes us, another will throw up a glance - worse than a frying pan, just about a handkerchief will be engaged ...

I listen to Natalia with bewilderment. I know from books Caucasian captives, about "Mtsyri", about Tamara's castle, about our Russian heroes, about the deceit of the highlanders. I never thought that these mountaineers plow, mow, reap, graze sheep, cows. Highlanders are always on horseback, in shaggy cloaks, hung with weapons; they attack each other, aul to aul, and even more often lie in wait for "ours". "Ours" don't let them down either. From the stories of Natalya, it seems different: all these Ossetians, Chechens, Kabardians, Ingush are doing the same thing that our men are doing, they also live unenviably and even poorer than ours. Why are we fighting with the highlanders, what do we need from them? And who to believe: Natalia or your favorite books? Are they made up in books? And it’s true, they don’t say anything about how the Kabardians carry water on themselves, how they mow and harvest hay, how they graze herds, and they, the highlanders, should do this, they shouldn’t disappear from hunger. Yes, and Natalia does not lie, she is not like that. Here she props her cheek with her hand, her eyes are kind, tired, truthful, truthful, and her dry wrinkles around her mouth ... Books, therefore, deceive. But their deceit is expensive. It is difficult to part with the world they create... If the books are wrong about the Circassians, then the other things, too, may be wrong. The Passion of Christ may be invented, and Prophetic Oleg, and Vladimir the Red Sun, and the Crusades, and none of this happened, and if there was, it happened in a completely different way. For the first time, something dark, an all-consuming abyss opens before me, something silent, blind, faceless and indifferent to all living things. Thousands of years fall there in landslides, centuries, kingdoms, peoples fall in small fragments, people disappear in rubbish, - an indistinct roar is heard, dark piles devoid of an image are barely noticeable - and they are no longer there either, they have forever fallen out of memory - from whose memory? - and even the inscriptions have already been erased on the gloomy marble of the slabs ... Time is still passing, deadlines are being fulfilled - here the slabs themselves are absorbed by eternity.

Natalya lives with us for ten days, comes to sleep, and even then not every day. She sews, washes, and helps in the gardens with the peasants she knows, with her relatives. In the evenings, Natalya willingly and talks about many things, but in one thing she is stingy with words: when they ask her why she became a wanderer.

“I’m running from grief and looking for new grief…” She smiles and turns the conversation to something else.

Her grief is great, but bright, it does not fall on life as a gloomy shadow, it does not croak like a black crow, it does not feather like a bug-eyed owl, her grief flies like a light bird, a crane wedge in high and blue skies, throwing an indistinct and sad cooing on the autumn earth.

... I already studied at the bursa, I was known as "inveterate" and "desperate". I got frantic, went around bullying my peers, spoke in a special bursat language, vile, akin to thieves; he didn’t wash for weeks, combed his skin until it bled from “chicks”, took revenge from around the corner on guards and teachers, discovering remarkable ingenuity in these matters. During one of the breaks, the students informed me that “some woman” was waiting for me in the dressing room. Baba turned out to be Natalia. Natalya walked from afar, from Kholmogory, she remembered me, and although she had to give a detour of about eighty versts, how could she not visit an orphan, not look at his city life; my son probably grew up, grew wiser to the joy and consolation of his mother. I inattentively listened to Natalya: I was ashamed of her bast shoes, onuch, knapsacks, of her whole village appearance, I was afraid to drop myself in the eyes of the students and kept looking askance at my peers darting past. Finally, he could not stand it and said rudely to Natalya:

- Let's get out of here.

Without waiting for consent, I took her to the backyards so that no one could see us there. Natalya untied her knapsack and slipped me rustic cakes.

“I didn’t have anything else in store for you, my friend. And you don’t bury, you baked it yourself, I have them in butter on cow’s.

At first, I sullenly refused, but Natalya imposed donuts. Soon Natalya noticed that I was shy of her and not at all pleased with her. She also noticed the torn, ink-stained, casenet jacket on me, the dirty and pale neck, the red boots, and my harried, scowling look. Natalie's eyes filled with tears.

- What is it you, son, do not utter a good word? So, in vain I came to you.

I looked dumbfounded at the sore on my arm and muttered something listlessly. Natalya leaned over me, shook her head and, looking into my eyes, whispered:

- Yes, you, dear, as if not in yourself! You were not like that at home. Oh, they did bad things to you! Famously, apparently, they let you in! Here it is, the teaching that comes out.

“Nothing,” I muttered insensibly, pulling away from Natalya.

Natalya was still grieving. After she left, I ran into an empty lavatory and threw the donuts into the pit with feces, and at another break I beat the baby for no reason at all.

All this I would gladly forget now.

I never met Natalia again ...

... Nikolai Valunov was nicknamed Khork, probably because he was restless and fidgety, thin and small in stature. Otherwise, Valunov did not look like a ferret. Ferret was distinguished by carelessness, laughter. He loved to laugh at people and at himself as well, at his poverty, at his unlucky life. In a fight, his front teeth were knocked out, besides, the Ferret was squinting, his rough, sharp, almost beardless face was wrinkled, but the Ferret assured that he had no end to the girls and women; he screwed up his eyes at the same time, his eyes gleamed merrily and mischievously.

His wife Avdotya now and then slandered Khorka all over the street, that in the hut, even with a rolling ball, there was not even a piece of black bread for two youngsters. The ferret laughed it off, or went to the market, where he jostled among the visiting peasants, at the shops, at the carts, at the stalls. As if in mockery of his miserable life, he planted flowers in front of the hut; the flowers bloomed magnificently, meanwhile the top of the hut remained open - in winter there was not enough straw - and two dark windows with muddy green glass fell in different directions.

Ferret judged condescendingly about his fellow villagers and did not approve of their life: Ferret was considered "freaky", "unlucky". The ferret answered with jokes in the sense that you won’t work out for the masters even before the second coming. He claimed: happiness, it is one-eyed, and happiness has an eye on the very top of its head. Happiness walks around the world, looking for his missing child. He will see a person: is not my own child? - raises everything higher and higher to the very top of the head, makes out: no, not mine, - he will throw in his heart. One remains alive, and the other suffers death from this.

Ferret was by no means lazy or lazy. He got a job as a church watchman, guarded the melons in the summer, went to the shepherds, worked for merchants on a heap of rye and oats. But he did not learn to keep quiet where he should, did not lose his independence, and therefore did not firmly settle anywhere. He was escorted out with abuse for wit, cheated, fined, deceived; Ferret and in these cases only laughed. He willingly told fairy tales, there were fables and, telling them, he invented them before his eyes. Sometimes he suddenly fell silent and asked himself aloud:

“What the hell am I talking about?”

I suggested:

- He comes at night to the forest for a treasure, but he forgot the cursed words ...

“Here, here,” the Ferret picks up easily, “he’s forgotten the real word, he won’t remember it in any way ... they hit him on the head with a butt ... it’s knocked off ... And here he goes, you know, through the forest, making his way, the word keeps spinning, and in hands are not given ... I forgot ... He goes ... as if not in himself, and he wants to find that treasure, he really wants to die, well, only there is no attack on the treasure ... He goes etta ... what can you do ... There's nothing you can do ... swears ... it's the same neither from a place, nor there, nor here ... this is just a misfortune ...

The ferret is an inventor, a poet. He spent his time hunting fishing, set snares, lured quails. He also knew many village songs and sang them sincerely. The Weasel also often made fun of me.

“Well, you don’t have enough grief,” he said, sitting on a stump and looking intently into the distance at the road, although no one could be seen on it, “you’ve got some kind of domino over there ... chambers ... with an iron roof ... and it shines all in the sun...

"Dominoes" could hardly be mistaken for "chambers", but the roof, indeed, is iron ...

- And you have a garden, but we don’t have a garden.

“Just think, a vegetable garden,” replies the Ferret, squinting, “there are nettles in that garden, burdock, and wild horseradish ... You have a cow.”

You also have a cow.

“My cow will certainly stretch out her legs by Christmas, but your cow’s sides are all torn open from food.

- You have a Bug, he guards you at night. And we don't have a bug; thieves can get to us.

“It was you, brother, who deftly faked me. Thieves can't get to my chests. Bug, he, brother, will not let anyone down. One word - animal. My bug can even pass for a horse, but he has more intelligence than a general with crosses; I saw: he serves on his hind legs, straight - a full general. And there is no cost for it; finds food for himself. It doesn’t sit on someone else’s neck ... I save my chests, and you have to think hard about yours; the hour is not even - they will still be stubborn, there are many hunters.

A slippery smile twists the face of the Weasel, slanting eyes run somewhere to the side, over me. The ferret fills his pipe with tyutyun, inhales deeply, with his whole chest, watches the blue smoke.

... Alexei, Ivan, Natalya, Khorok I involuntarily compared with my relatives, with the circle of the rural clergy. Relatives lived leisurely, neither rich nor poor, taking the places of priests, deacons, psalm-readers, teachers of parochial schools.

Most of all, both adults and children loved Uncle Senya, a psalm reader from a neighboring village, a merry fellow, a joker, and the inventor of a perpetual motion machine.

It happened that my uncle assured himself and his family that he had invented a perpetual motion machine. Despite his persuasion, he telegrammed the governor, the bishop, the minister of the interior, and the holy synod that humanity had been made happy by him, the Ozerk psalmist. My uncle was so sure of his invention that he left the place and with his belongings, with the guys he moved to Nikolai Ivanovich, settled in his bathhouse, where he began to produce "final experiments". The parishioners saw him off with bells ringing, asking him not to forget them, low-powered peasants, his uncle shed a tear, rashly donated his only cow to the world. The final experiments failed. Telegrams, fortunately, had no negative consequences. Uncle Sena had to return to Ozerki "under the canopy of the jets", they managed to drink the cow to the whole world. However, my uncle did not lose faith in the perpetual motion machine and in himself and continued to buy scrap iron throughout the district ... There is nothing of a tenacious human dream. No power can stop her!

... In the evenings, usually, at Nikolai Ivanovich's, less often at ours, my mother's sisters gathered - there were four of them in one village. Friends also came to sit. More than others, Aunt Avdotya, a widow with wry shoulders, restless in her tongue, was engaged in courts and gossip. To the buzzing of the spinning wheel and the rapid flickering of knitting needles, Avdotya, almost without taking a breath, said:

- I come, sisters, go to Makarikha for the third day, she is trying on a new dress in front of the mirror. And what do I see, my girls? Under forty she will have a crochet, and she sewed a white striped dress for herself: it is full of colors in the eyes, and full of colors. And what else did she think of: with figs, just a noblewoman; but she doesn’t understand, the lusty merchant’s wife, that for how many years these same fijmas have gone out of fashion. Flounces on the sides, neckline behind, hung with lace, a parrot and nothing more. And the plume of a arshin will be two. And she also wears a bustle, but what kind of bustle does she need: she, God forgive me, you yourself saw, half of the fillet must be cut off and sold at the market at the right time ... Scream ...

I try to forget myself behind Svetlana Zhukovsky, but my aunt’s voice continues to pester, and I can’t help hearing that she is already “cleaning” the elder sister’s husband, the head of the station, Vasily Nikitich:

- ... I came from Voronezh, brought balyks, stellate sturgeon, oranges, and the children were dressed in whatever. Nadyushka's shoes have completely fallen apart, and Alexei only knows with a gun and with dogs to roam without his father's eye. Dogs bred full yard, some wolfhounds; looking at them is a passion. I came yesterday to them, so these same wolfhounds are on me, on me! Mothers, fathers! Nearly ate! Thank you, the cook Lizaveta came out with the slops, fought off ... Lizaveta, too, I tell you, is good! In the slop, I looked with one eye, bread crusts, cabbage, potatoes - and it pours and pours right into the pit. “What are you doing? I ask her seriously. – Is it possible to pour such good into a pit? Pigs would have been brought in, and by Christmas they would have sat with their baked hams; and we, the guests, would have been treated to the glory of God! .. ”And Lizaveta only bares her teeth in response! It took my heart. “Don’t show me your teeth! Look, walked up the face! - "Pigs," he says, "it's not my business to breed, it's the master's business! .." - "Ah, the master's? And you don’t have the owners themselves to think up a good deed! .. ” Look what a servant has gone now! Up to the master's good and grief is not enough for them, they would get drunk themselves and fall on the bed ... That's why everything becomes more expensive. On Monday I wanted to buy testicles at the market, but I don’t have access to them, eight tens of kopecks each, just robbery in broad daylight and nothing more. I grappled with Stepanida Kopylikha. “You are not afraid of God,” I reproach her, “you are not ashamed of people! Where is it heard to sell eggs for eight kopecks? “Everyone is dear to everyone, mother,” she’s my words, “I also have four squeaks, and she also carried the fifth.” - I see, she really ... that's it ... And where so many children are born - it’s completely incomprehensible. You go out into the street, there is nowhere to put your feet from the guys; know only their bare guznams sparkle ... Without any supervision ... right in the middle of the road. How long is it to sin: another goes from the bazaar, gets drunk in a tavern, buries himself in hay, only his legs stick out, shoot him at least just above the ear with cannons, you won’t wake him up. And what is the demand from the horse; the horse is a dumb creature; she knows herself walking, waving her head and tail; to fight off flies, horseflies ... They also took a new fashion: to cut the tails of horses. And they don’t understand that a horse without a tail will not fit in any way ...

Sleep sticks together my eyelids, and it seems to me - I am a horse, and my aunt's words curl around in countless swarms of horseflies, and there is nowhere to go from them. I forcefully open my eyes. Everything is incomprehensible: it is incomprehensible why Avdotya interferes in everything, pokes her head everywhere, for which reason both adults and I need to hear about the merchant Makarikha, about her panties and bustles, about slops, about Stepanida, about wolfhounds. Boring! The world seems to be a huge pantry, where all sorts of rubbish is piled in disorder. No one needs my generous robbers, Ruslans, Yermaks, passer-by Kaliki, Martha the villagers. From the intricacies of the aunt, they grow dim, they seem “not real”, and where it is, “real”, is unknown ... And Avdotya's gossip is still not forgotten. I listen to the conversation, participate in the conversation, ask, answer, and how often I have to be amazed at the nonsense, jumble, stupidity, verbal garbage, nonsense with which we throw each other! The aunt does not count: what can you take from her, although these leisurely women have not died out to this day, although they sometimes meet even where it would seem that they should have been forgotten a long time ago - moreover, you find them in in such circles that one has to goggle one's eyes with surprise ... Let us, however, grant the nimble aunt deserved rest, but even if we take an average, enlightened modern culture of a person, then even here you often shrug your shoulders: to such a measure are flat, wretched, sulfur and vulgar his conversations, judgments and opinions! How much idle talk, gossip, trifles! You listen and ask yourself: did Homer, Socrates, Aristotle, Plato, Dante, Shakespeare, Newton, Kant, Darwin exist or not, and what kind of upheavals did they produce in human consciousness? Worst of all, these great men are mean man of culture unusually skillfully and consistently fools them and makes them no less flat and boring than he himself.

Undoubtedly, the revolution washed away a lot, but how much more, but how much is left!.. And again and again one has to ask when will this be translated?..

... I also noticed that adults say one thing to their friends and relatives in the face and the other when they are not. The teacher Vozdvizhensky or Dr. Karpov comes to visit. They are heartily treated, they are praised: Vozdvizhensky has a school for the whole district, and in Dr. Karpov, sick souls do not cherish. With the departure of the guests, it turns out: Vozdvizhensky - the teacher may be by nature and not bad, but he “hurts” hard and then hits the guys with a ruler on the heads, not analyzing either the right or the guilty, while Dr. Karpov is greedy for bribes, plays “recklessly” in cards, and from them you often cannot tear him away to the sick; besides, his wife is a pure witch, proud and does nothing but purse her lips and imagine what she is. At the same time I was taught to speak alone true truth. People demand truth. And again I saw around me "unreal". I looked closely at my relatives and compared them with Alexei, Natalya, Ivan, and the neighbors. The conversations and judgments of these people were also not distinguished by either complexity or novelty, but their opinions were inextricably linked with work and life in the countryside. Everything was simple, clear, necessary. Nikolai Ivanovich's worker, Spiridon, talked about the weather, about the need to harrow or plow tomorrow, lazily quarreled with the cook over dinner, served belatedly. Natalya talked about the fire in Terpigorevka, about the death of cattle in Mordovia - men and women howl howling there; Alexei explained with gestures that the next day he would go into the bushes to break brooms for the winter. The correct Perepelkin regretted that his tugs had been stolen from him, and for the twentieth time he repeated how he left them on the threshing floor and did not have time to turn away, but there was no trace of the tugs anymore: the goblin, or something, dragged them away! - All this corresponded to life, it came from it, returned to it, and even gossip here was firmly connected with working life. And I vaguely felt the truth of this life and the untruth of our life.

[email protected] in category , the question is open on 09/22/2017 at 20:40

... Natalya from a neighboring village, about ten years ago she immediately lost her husband and three children: in her absence, they died of intoxication.
Since then, she has sold the hut, left the household and wanders.
Natalya speaks softly, melodiously, ingenuously. Her words are pure, as if washed, as close, pleasant as the sky, the field, the bread, the village huts. And all Natalia is simple, warm, calm and majestic. Natalya is not surprised by anything: she has seen everything, experienced everything, she tells about modern affairs and incidents, even dark and terrible ones, as if they are separated from our life for millennia. Natalya does not flatter anyone; it is very good in her that she does not go to monasteries and holy places, does not look for miraculous icons. She is worldly and talks about worldly things. There is no excess, no fussiness.
The burden of the wanderer Natalya bears easily, and she buries her grief from people. She has an amazing memory. She remembers when and in what way they fell ill in such and such a family. She talks about everything willingly, but in one thing she is stingy with words: when they ask her why she became a wanderer.
... I already studied in the bursa, was known as "inveterate" and "desperate", took revenge from around the corner on guards and teachers, discovering remarkable ingenuity in these cases. During one of the breaks, the students informed me that “some woman” was waiting for me in the dressing room. Baba turned out to be Natalia. Natalya walked from afar, from Kholmogory, she remembered me, and although she had to give a hook about eighty miles, but how not to visit an orphan, not to look at his city life, her son probably grew up, grew wiser to the joy and comfort of his mother. I inattentively listened to Natalya: I was ashamed of her bast shoes, onuche, knapsack, of her whole village appearance, I was afraid to drop myself in the eyes of the bursaks and kept looking askance at peers snooping past. Finally, he could not stand it and said rudely to Natalya:
-Let's get out of here.
Without waiting for consent, I took her to the backyard so that no one would see us there. Natalya untied her knapsack and slipped me some rustic cakes.
- Nothing more in store for you, my friend. And you don’t bury, you baked it yourself, in butter, in cow’s oil, I have them.
At first, I sullenly refused, but Natalya imposed donuts. Soon Natalya noticed that I was shy of her and was not at all pleased with her. She also noticed the torn, ink-stained, casenet jacket on me, the dirty and pale neck, the red boots, and my harried, scowling look. Natalie's eyes filled with tears.
-What is it you, son, do not utter a good word? So, in vain I came to you.
I looked dumbfounded at the sore on my arm and muttered something listlessly. Natalya leaned over me, shook her head and, looking into my eyes, whispered:
- Yes, you, dear, as if not in yourself! You were not like that at home. Oh, they did bad things to you! Famously, apparently, they let you in! Here it is, the teaching that comes out.
“Nothing,” I muttered insensibly, pulling away from Natalya.

The writer A.K. Voronsky raises the problem of providing assistance and support.

The author tells about the life of a woman who was left without relatives and became a wanderer. The fate of such people is not easy, but Natalya did not tell anyone about her grief. One day she came to an orphan who was studying in a bursa. She came after eighty kilometers and brought him food. She drew attention to the torn jacket, the pale neck and the boy's unkind look.

Like a mother who worried about him, Natalya tried to warm the soul of the child with kind, affectionate words.

A.K. Voronsky wanted to say that even when a great grief happens and a person is left alone, he does not withdraw into himself, does not become embittered, but tries to support other people.

The same caring person with good heart Andrey Sokolov, the hero of the story by M.A. Sholokhov, is shown to be able to support a lonely person like him. Coming from the war, having lost his wife and daughters who died during the bombing, his son who died at the very end of the war, Sokolov found the strength not to harden his soul and became the father of the orphan Vanyushka.

In I. Grekova's story "Fracture", the narrator-doctor Kira Petrovna introduces the reader to her colleague Chagin. Fate did not spoil him: during the war he lost his family, became a cripple. Doctor Chagin helped his colleague cope with despair, meet the test with dignity. He helped Kira Petrovna, who became a cripple, to realize that she strong man and should remain as it was before. With a playful comparison with ficus, Chagin gave her strength, hinted that she, like this plant that does not want to give up, also strong personality worthy of respect.

So, the desire of a person to help another is the highest human quality. Well, if a person has not lost his best qualities, despite life's difficulties, and seeks to cheer up and support another, inspire hope and faith in the best. This is how it manifests true love to people. Such human behavior is, of course, admirable.

Effective preparation for the exam (all subjects) -

In the text proposed for analysis, the well-known Soviet writer and literary critic Alexander Konstantinovich Voronsky raises the problem of a person's moral stamina.

Reflecting on this issue, the author tells about the life of a village woman Natalya, who began to wander after the death of her husband and children. The writer tries to create the image of the heroine as accurately as possible, reflecting her attitude to own life: "Natalya carries the burden of the wanderer easily, and she buries her grief from people." At the same time, the literary critic clearly shows the reader how carefully the wanderer treats other people: “Natalya was walking from afar, from Kholmogory, she remembered me, and although she had to give a hook about eighty miles, how could she not visit the orphan.”

A. K. Voronsky is convinced that a person who is strong in spirit cannot be made more callous by any blows of fate.

It is impossible not to agree with the opinion of the writer. If a person has at least some moral values, he will not become indifferent to other people's troubles, even having experienced many misfortunes.

Quite a few literary works devoted to the problem of moral stability. Main character works by M. A. Sholokhov “The Fate of Man” Andrei Sokolov, despite the difficulties he had to face, managed to retain the ability to empathize with someone else's grief. Having survived the war and the death of his entire family, Andrei remained a truly highly moral person: he took in an unfortunate orphan who suffered from the blows of fate. This example proves that a morally strong person under no circumstances will lose the ability to sympathize with other people.

A similar incident also happened in the life of my friend Sergey. Many troubles fell to his lot. He survived the death of his parents, he was unfairly expelled from the university, with early years he had to earn money by hard work. But in spite of everything, he continues, as before, to help others. He is ready to give the last thing he has if he understands that the other person is in an even more serious situation than himself. All this once again confirms that no trials of fate can break a highly moral person.

Thus, it is safe to say that a truly resilient person will never become indifferent towards others.

... Natalya from a neighboring village, about ten years ago she immediately lost her husband and three children: in her absence, they died of intoxication. Since then, she has sold the hut, left the household and wanders.

Natalya speaks softly, melodiously, ingenuously.

The writing

Our whole life is a series of ups and downs, black and white stripes, and our entire future existence depends on how we treat our problems. How to treat life's difficulties? These are the questions that A.K. Voronsky in the text given to me.

The writer introduces us to the story of a woman in whose life, at first glance, everything did not work out so well that most of us, probably, would have given up long ago. However, Natalia at one point lost her husband and three children, after which she embarked on a lonely journey. Was she disappointed, broken and depressed? On the contrary, the author focuses our attention on the fact that simplicity and melodiousness were preserved in his head, purity in words, simplicity, warmth, calmness and majesty in all its appearance. We understand that despite the serious difficulties in life, Natalia retained the harmony of her soul and continued to live, referring to the black stripes of her life as a bygone past. She speaks willingly on any topic, but she prefers not to talk about the origins of her wanderings - probably, a whole life is not enough to quench the pain of loss.

A.K. Voronsky is convinced that no misfortune deserves to be devoted to him a whole life, and even part of it. It is better not to think about problems at all, and if you remember, then only as a bygone past. No difficulties should change the appearance of a person: they must be fought, and if the struggle is meaningless, cross them out of your life.

I, like the author, am convinced that any, even the most unsolvable problems are not worthy of sorrow, and even more so of human life. No matter what happens, no matter how circumstances arise, it is worth continuing to live, love, dream, strive, maybe discover new page and change everything, continuing to enjoy every moment, because, in fact, this is all we have.

As an example of this thesis, I would like to cite the story of A.I. Solzhenitsyn " Matrenin yard". In it, the author tells us about the story of a woman whose life, at first glance, is a continuous series of tragic circumstances. The war separated Matryona from her fiancé, and the heroine was forced to marry his brother, who also soon irrevocably left for the war. One by one, the woman's children die, and Matryona is left alone, having only a shaky estate with cockroaches and mice and a "crooked goat." It would seem that a woman doomed to eternal loneliness, broken under the weight of circumstances, should despair and stop making any attempts to her own happiness. But that doesn't happen. Matryona, in spite of all the difficulties, takes her niece Kira to bring up, and the girl becomes the happiness and meaning of the heroine's life. For the entire work, Matrena did not utter a single swear word, she did not complain and did not hang her problems on others. On the contrary, the woman helps the entire district, while not demanding any reciprocal help in return.

In the same way, the hero of the story, M.A., treats his problems. Sholokhov "The Fate of Man". At the very beginning of the war, Andrei Sokolov loses his entire family, and later, having met his only son, he learns that he, too, has died. The hero experiences all the hardships of war, but even in captivity does not lose human face. Through hunger and torture, he carries mercy and kindness in his heart, and, having met a homeless person, as lonely as himself, little boy, Andrey Sokolov gives him his love and support. The circumstances of life changed the appearance and look of the hero, but did not break his spirit, because this fighter knew how to relate to life's difficulties and, in spite of everything, kept faith in his soul in a happy future.

It is always worth remembering that our existence is conditioned by our perception of life. And, no matter how circumstances develop, no matter what burden falls on our shoulders, we should always remember that it is never too late to start all over again. You can change course, style and way of thinking - but you should never worry about something, and, moreover, blame yourself for the circumstances.