Artwork from Aksakov's nest. Vera Sergeevna Aksakova as a prototype of Liza Kalitina, the heroine of the novel by I.S.
Stories of Russian writers
Animals have been living alongside humans since ancient times.
Once upon a time, in a cold and hunger, they came to a warm, tasty-smelling human dwelling and stayed with a person.
Since ancient times, man has also observed the life of animals in forests, in rivers, in lakes, in the air, and everywhere at different times of the year, and finds in this life much in common with his own. Animals build dwellings, raise their young and take care of them, and work all their lives almost like people.
Indians, for example, consider animals to be their little brothers. And we all know that little ones should not be offended. And if you show a little care and attention to the animals, then a person has loyal, disinterested friends, and a person’s life becomes richer.
In this book you will read the stories of Russian writers about how people made friends with animals.
M. Bykova
WHERE'S Hedgehog?
Sasha and Masha were presented with a pretty hedgehog. He lived with them all summer, became very accustomed to them, resorted to their call, took pieces of beef and bread from their hands and walked not only around the house, but also in the garden. The children loved the hedgehog very much, they were not afraid of his needles and diligently fed him milk and a bun.
Autumn has come. The children were not allowed to walk so much in the garden, but they consoled themselves with the fact that they had a playmate.
How upset the poor fellows were when their hedgehog suddenly disappeared. The children ran all over the house, calling the hedgehog, looking for him, but all in vain.
- Where did our hedgehog hide? - the children repeated and addressed this question to all the households.
- Promise that you will not touch the hedgehog, - the gardener told them, - and I will show you where he is.
We promise, we promise! the children shouted.
The gardener led them into the garden and showed them a pile of earth between honeysuckle bushes that grew near the house:
- I myself saw how a hedgehog dug a hole for himself here, dragged herbs into it and climbed into this hole. Now he is fast asleep here and will wake up only in the spring. Don't wake him up or touch him, otherwise he will fall ill.
The children obeyed the gardener and waited patiently for spring.
How happy they were when one day, on a warm April day, their friend the hedgehog returned to them again! He only lost a lot of weight during his long sleep. But during the winter a lot of mice got divorced in the house, and, it’s true, he will soon eat them off.
S. Aksakov
NEST
Noticing the nest of some bird, most often the dawn or redstart, we each time went to see how the mother sits on the eggs.
Sometimes, by negligence, we frightened her away from the nest, and then, carefully parting the thorny branches of the barberry or gooseberry, we looked at how small, small, motley eggs lay in the nest.
It sometimes happened that the mother, bored with our curiosity, abandoned the nest: then we, seeing that for several days the bird was not in the nest and that it did not cry out and did not spin around us, as it always happened, we took out the testicles or the whole nest and carried it away to ourselves into the room, believing that we are the legal owners of the home left by the mother.
When the bird was safely hatching its testicles, despite our interference, and we suddenly found instead of them naked cubs, constantly opening huge mouths with a mournful quiet squeak, we saw how the mother flew in and fed them flies and worms ... My God, what we had joy!
We did not stop watching how the little birds grew, feathered and finally left their nest.
S. Aksakov
GROUNDGART
Once, sitting at the window, I heard some plaintive screeching in the garden.
Mother also heard him, and when I began to ask them to send to see who was crying, that “it’s true, someone is hurting,” mother sent the girl, and in a few minutes she brought in her handfuls a tiny, still blind puppy, who, trembling and resting unsteadily on his crooked paws, poking his head in all directions, squealing plaintively, or bored, as my nanny put it.
I felt so sorry for him that I took this puppy and wrapped him in my dress.
The mother ordered to bring warm milk on a saucer, and after many attempts, pushing the blind kitten into the milk with her stigma, she taught him to lap.
Since then, the puppy has not parted with me for hours. Feeding him several times a day has become my favorite pastime.
They named him Surka.
He later became a little cur and lived with us for seventeen years, of course, no longer in the room, but in the yard, always retaining an unusual attachment to me and to my mother.
K. Korovin
MY DOGS
My fox Toby has puppies. Seeing me, they, staggering, crawled towards me, twirling their tails affably with joy. Mother, seeing this, in anxiety dragged them from me by the scruff of the neck back to the corner where she had given birth to them. But the foxes did not let up, they climbed towards me. After some time, my mother simply brought them all one by one to my bed in the morning - she decided that in general they should all be together and sleep. Father came too, Toby...
What cute dog creatures. The little heart of a puppy, like a pea, is full of love for a person and tact. Toby the father does not pay attention to the Children - they are brought up by their mother. But, apparently, he is glad that he has a family. When the puppies grew up, the mother bit and teased them all in turn terribly. They attacked their mother in anger. Apparently she was pleased.
“So she makes dogs out of them,” my friend explained to me, “so that they can protect themselves in life ...
S. Aksakov
WILD AND DOMESTIC DUCKS
Next door to me, in a village called Korostelevo, a peasant woman laid twelve mallard eggs under a hen.
The ducklings hatched, were brought up in a flock of Russian ducks and got used to eating food with them ...
In autumn, more feed was needed and, in order not to be wasted, the peasant woman sold eight ducklings, and left two young drakes and two ducks for the tribe; but after a few weeks they flew away and disappeared.
The next spring, the fugitives returned to the same pond and began to live as before and eat food with yard ducks.
In autumn, one pair flew away again, the other stayed for the winter. And the next spring, the duck laid eggs and brought out ten ducklings, of which I myself bought four.
The peasant woman again left a couple, and their offspring were completely mixed up and no longer differed in any way from Russian ducks.
So, only in the third generation, the breed of wild ducks completely lost the memory of their free life.
The young ducks I bought, which belonged to the second generation, still differed from the yard ducks both in their appearance and in their customs: they were livelier, more agile, somehow smarter and more shy than domestic ducks, often hid and even tried several times to leave.
M. Bykova
KATIN GIFT
Where are you going, Katya? - Dad asked his nine-year-old girl. - As soon as you finish studying, you will disappear somewhere. Yesterday you were forcibly shouted at for dinner.
“Daddy, let me tell you about this not earlier than on Volodya’s birthday,” the black-eyed Katya answered.
The father smiled. “What did she come up with for a gift to Volodya?” he thought.
Volodya woke up early on his birthday. He knew that toys were always given to him on this day, and he was looking forward to it. In the dining room, dad gave him a toy gun and reins, and mom gave him a picture book.
When the boy had seen enough of his gifts, Katya told him:
- I also have a present for you, Volodya. Come with me, I'll show it to you.
Katya took a small basket with her and led her brother along the road to the pond. Dad also followed them. On the bank of the pond, the children sat under the shade of a large willow. Volodya looked at his sister with curiosity. She took a bell out of the basket and began to ring.
What's this? Several fish appeared on the surface of the pond. More and more. They all swam to the place where Katya was.
She took a slice of bread out of the basket and began throwing crumbs at the fish. It was fun to watch how the fish grabbed them, pushed each other, quarreled and took pieces from one another! They either did not notice Katya, or were not afraid at all.
“You see what a magic bell you have,” the girl said, “how the fish listen to its ringing. I give it to you. Whenever you want to see the fish, you should come here and call.
Volodya jumped for joy and hugged his sister.
- And if I call not at the pond, but at the river, will the fish swim too? - he asked.
- No, my friend, those are not scientists, but I learned these. For a whole month I went every day to the pond, threw bread crumbs and called at that time. Finally, the fish got used to sailing to the ringing of the bell.
"So that's where you've been disappearing to, Katya," said the father. - Nice you figured it out. Let's go, Volodya, tell your mother about this, she, probably, will also want to see smart fish.
L. Tolstoy
HOW THE BEAR WAS CAUGHT
There are many bears in the Nizhny Novgorod province. The men catch little bear cubs, feed them and teach them to dance. Then they take bears to show. One leads him, and the other dresses up as a goat, dances and beats the drum.
One man brought a bear to the fair.
His nephew walked with him with a goat and a drum. There were many people at the fair, and everyone looked at the bear and gave money to the peasant.
In the evening, a peasant led his bear to a tavern and made him dance. The peasant was given more money and wine. He drank the wine and gave it to his friend to drink. And he gave the bear a whole glass of wine to drink.
When night came, the peasant with his nephew and the bear went to spend the night in the field, because everyone was afraid to let the bear into their yard. A peasant with his nephew and a bear went outside the village and lay down to sleep under a tree. The man tied the bear to his belt with a chain and lay down. He was a little drunk and soon fell asleep. His nephew also fell asleep. And they slept so soundly that they never woke up until morning.
In the morning the peasant woke up and saw that the bear was not near him. He woke his nephew and ran with him to look for the bear. The grass was tall. And the bear's footprint was visible on the grass. He went through the field into the woods.
The men ran after him. The forest was dense, so it was difficult to go through it.
The nephew said:
Uncle, we won't find the bear. And we will find, we will not catch him. Let's go back.
But the man did not agree. He said:
- The bear fed us, and if we do not find it, we will go around the world. I will not go back, but with the last of my strength I will look for him.
They went on and in the evening they came to a clearing. It began to get dark. The men were tired and sat down to rest. Suddenly they heard something rattling a chain close to them. The man jumped up and said quietly:
- It's him. You have to sneak up and catch him.
He went to the side where the chain rattled, and saw a bear. The bear pulled the chain with its paws and wanted to throw off the binding. When he saw the peasant, he roared terribly and bared his teeth.
The nephew was frightened and wanted to run; but the peasant grabbed him by the arm and went with him to the bear.
The bear growled even louder and ran into the forest. The man saw that he would not catch him. Then he ordered his nephew to put on a goat, and dance, and beat the drum, and he himself began to shout at the bear in such a voice as he shouted when he showed him.
The bear suddenly stopped in the bushes, listened to the voice of the owner, got up on its hind legs and began to spin.
The man came closer to him and kept shouting. And the nephew kept dancing and beating the drum.
When the peasant had already come close to the bear, he suddenly rushed to him and grabbed him by the chain.
Then the bear growled and rushed to run, but the peasant did not let him go and again began to lead him and show him.
K. Korovin
RAM, HARE AND Hedgehog
I want to tell you about how in my village, in my wooden house, near a large forest, in the wilderness, a domestic ram, a hare and a hedgehog lived with me. And so soon they got used to me that they did not leave me.
One evening, sitting by the forest in the evening, I saw a small animal walking towards me on the grass - a hedgehog. Came right up to me. When I wanted to take him, he curled up into a ball, bristled, snorted terribly and hissed. I covered it with a handkerchief.
- There is nothing to be angry about, - I told him. - Let's go to live with me.
But he was angry for a long time. I tell him: “Hedgehog, hedgehog”, and he hisses and pricks. My dog Phoebus looked at him with contempt. I left him milk in a saucer, and he drank it without me.
So he settled down to live with me in the firewood, by the stove, and I fed him bread and milk. Gradually, he got used to tapping his hand on the floor.
The hare that was brought to me from the forest and sold was small. Hungry, he immediately began to eat cabbage and carrots. He beat the dog Phoebus mercilessly in the muzzle with his paws so deftly and often that Phoebus left offended. Soon the hare grew and grew fat. He ate all day and was terribly timid. Constantly moving his long ears, he kept listening and suddenly rushed to run headlong, hitting his head against the wall. And again - as if nothing had happened, he soon calmed down. In the house, he was still not afraid of me, or the dog, or the cat, or the big ram, who lived with me and for some reason never wanted to go into the herd. The hare knew that all these would not touch him, he understood that these, so to speak, had agreed to live together.
I went not far from home, to the river, the forest and painted nature from nature with paints. I remember Phoebus carrying a large folding umbrella in his mouth. The hare jumped around, and the ram followed me to the side.
The hare did not leave me, he must have been afraid that they would catch and eat him. When I painted from life, Phoebus slept on the grass nearby, or searched along the river, or scared the sandpiper, and the hare sat next to me and kept moving his ears and listening. But he was tired of me sitting and writing. He suddenly began to knock on me with his paws and quite painfully. At the same time, he somehow looked especially, as if he were saying:
- Enough nonsense to deal with. Let's go for a walk.
The word "walk" was known to Phoebus, the hare and the ram. They liked to walk with me.
And the hedgehog appeared at night, and it was heard how he walked on the floor in all the rooms, how he went to the terrace, into the garden, disappeared. But as soon as I knocked with my hand, the hedgehog soon returned. The ram was terribly afraid of the hedgehog, raised its head with large curled horns, began to stamp its front legs, as if frightening it, and then rushed to run in all directions.
The hare could never jump on a chair, a couch, a bed. And when I went to bed, the hare would sit down beside me, standing up on its hind legs, but it could never jump towards me. And I had to take him by his long ears. I put him on the bed. He was very fond of sleeping with me, pressed tightly against me at the legs, stretched out and slept. But his ears went in all directions, and in his sleep he listened to everything.
K. Korovin
SQUIRREL
Once at the market, a nondescript peasant, coming out of a tavern, came up to me, looked with gray eyes and said:
- Sir, listen, do you want me to give you a living toy? You'll see how busy it is. Just don't give it cheap.
And from his bosom he took out a pretty yellow squirrel. She looked at me with large, sharp, round eyes.
He gave it to me in hand. She sat quietly.
- Manual, brother, squirrel ... That's how affectionate. Thank you say. Igrunya... She won't leave you. You will feed nuts. And let her, so she feeds herself, she will come to you. Such a smart beast, think about it, but a forest, wild one. I found it around here. The little one left the nest. Know that the kite took the mother. I love to work with them, well, they get used to it. Only expensive, less red will not give.
I took out ten rubles:
- Good. Thank you. Good squirrel. What a big one!
The peasant took out a handkerchief, tied the money in a knot at one end. He gave me a squirrel.
"Barin," he said unexpectedly. - And you know, she understands that I sold her to you. You will not offend her, you will save her from the cat. This squirrel gives a lot of joy. You will not understand, but it seems like there is love in it. I trusted the person. So don't be afraid and thank you. Take it, put it in your pocket, say: "Die" - and carry it home. And for the little red ... thanks ... Money, of course. As soon as I saw you, it was hinted to me that you would buy it.
I put the squirrel in my pocket.
"Die," said the peasant, and laughed.
And the squirrel actually curled up, as if dead.
I went to the shop and bought nuts.
In the tavern, a squirrel sat in front of me and with amazing beauty, holding a nut in its paws, turned it with its teeth, took out grain. Then, running quickly over me, she sat on her shoulder and gnawed at a nut. I took it, put it in the side pocket, said: "Die", and the squirrel hid.
In my village house, where there was a hunting dog Phoebus, I showed a squirrel. Phoebus sniffed a little, did not pay attention, and I released it on the table. She, jumping quickly, perched on the curtain of the window. The window was open, the squirrel disappeared outside the window. I ran out onto the terrace, went to the window - there was no squirrel ... It disappeared. I looked everywhere, at the trees, suddenly a squirrel sat on my shoulder from behind. I went back to the house with her.
I tidied up everything on my large table, because I was afraid that she would not get full of colors, would not fall into the palette with her paws. Did the peasant tell the truth, that she understood that she had been sold to me, that I was her master?
When I went to bed, the squirrel did not leave me. I made a nest for her: I took a basket, put pine branches and hay, but she did not want to be in the basket. She slept with me. When I wanted to quietly cover her with a small pillow, she looked at me with all her eyes, and it was impossible to do this. She bounced off to the side with lightning speed. It turned out to be a game. I saw that she liked it: she deliberately sat on my chest and pretended not to look. It was impossible to cover her with a pillow. I saw how it makes her happy. I put it on my hand, I wanted to slap it with my other hand: it’s impossible, it was already on my head. Played out. But when I told her: “Well, enough to play, sleep, die,” the squirrel fell asleep on my shoulder.
I was afraid to crush her in a dream, but it turned out that I was worried in vain, since she slept well with me.
And in the morning she ran out the window into a huge forest until the evening. “What a strange thing,” I wondered, “why is she coming back?” How strange and how it surprised me and surprises me now. She became attached to a person by some unknown laws of love.
But in early August, the squirrel did not return from the forest. I suffered a lot and thought that she had been shot. Hunter Gerasim, my friend, said:
- Whom to shoot?.. It is yellow, no one needs it... I beat them in the winter. Don't buy yellow.
That day I was sitting on the terrace where tea was served with my friends. Suddenly my squirrel appeared. Friends were surprised. She ran across the table, dipped her paw into the jam, tasted it, then jumped off the terrace again, ran to the arbor, jumped onto a pine tree. Then we saw that there, stretching out its neck and looking with a round eye, timidly slumped, another squirrel was sitting. My squirrel was near her, they were sitting together. Then another squirrel quickly disappeared, jumping from tree to tree. My squirrel went down, jumped over the dog Phoebus, sat on my shoulder.
The rains came, the weather became bad. The birch leaves turned yellow, and the aspens fell. The forests were bare. The squirrel rarely left the house. To cover I left the village for Moscow.
I took her in a cage that I bought in Moscow. She didn't like the cage, so I carried it part of the way in my pocket. And all winter in Moscow she lived with me.
When I returned late from work, from the theater, she knew the knock of the gate, how I open it, and with incredible joy she met me in the corridor, running around me in circles. She was waiting for me to bring her pine nuts or some kind of present.
It is strange that only the doctor, whom she saw in my village, she allowed to stroke her; did not go to others. She did not pester, did not ask, did not bother, but she liked that they admired her. How strange, what measure and tact this little animal was.
It was a long winter. I went out with her for a walk in the yard, where there was a garden. She climbed trees, but, probably, having got used to the warmth of the house, she did not walk for long and climbed into my pocket.
In early spring I left for the countryside.
On the first day, the squirrel left and did not return for a week. Then she showed up again and brought with her another squirrel, from which she constantly returned home and left again. She came back less and less and disappeared altogether.
Again autumn and a blizzard of the first snow. Sad at heart. Grey sky. Black barns smoke in the distance. Aunt Afrosinya cuts cabbage. Salt milk mushrooms in the kitchen.
I took a gun and went along the forest path to the river. Flocks of small birds, siskins, showered the branches of bare birches. Fly away from our harsh country.
Suddenly a squirrel jumped on me and merrily ran around. She is already gray. I was so happy. She jumped and ran up the pine tree. I looked up and saw six squirrels jumping from branch to branch. I whistled, at the call she again returned to me.
- Farewell, Musya. Your children must be...
Phoebus looked at the squirrel intently. It was already gray, but he guessed that it was our squirrel.
I didn't take her out again.
" on the topic " "
Lesson 34
SUMMARY ON THE TOPIC "ABOUT OUR SMALL BROTHERS"
- to acquaint students with the story of S. Aksakov "The Nest";
- to summarize knowledge on the topic "About our smaller brothers";
- to improve the skill of reading in whole words, the skill of expressive reading;
- develop speech skills, memory, attention, thinking, creativity;
- to continue the formation of the ability to analyze works;
- educate respect for nature and animals.
Equipment: puzzles; cards with riddles and excerpts from works; images of animals; encyclopedia about animals.
During the classes
I. Organizational moment.
II. Checking homework.
1. Exhibition of drawings about animals.
2. Retelling of N. Sladkov's story "The Fox and the Hedgehog".
III. Setting the goal of the lesson.
- With the works of which section did we get acquainted in the last reading lessons?
- Why are animals called our smaller brothers?
- Today in the lesson we will summarize the knowledge of works about animals and read a new story, the name of which is hidden in the rebus.
Answer: nest.
IV. Learning new material.
1. Speech minute.
- Read the phrase:
Cuckoo
cuckoo
Bought
Hood.
Allotment
cuckoo
Hood.
How funny he is in the hood!
2. Practicing reading skills.
In a miracle you open the windows -
Happy knocks on the path
The merry flower blooms by the river,
And the nightingales sing loudly,
And somewhere along the long roads
Nosomoth with a begerogh are wandering ...
We will soon enter into miracles with them -
Haste hurries under the very window,
Calls us to look, look:
What's behind the window?
Chu!.. Childhood!
- Explain the meaning of the underlined words.
3. Reading the story of S. Aksakov "The Nest".
The teacher reads aloud the story of S. Aksakov "The Nest".
4. Analysis of the work.
- What is this piece about?
What did the guys do when they saw the nest of birds?
How did the guys watch the bird?
What happened when the bird left the nest?
- When did the guys feel joy?
- How do you feel about the actions of the guys?
- Why can't you touch and destroy bird nests?
- Can the prank of children be considered just a hindrance?
- Read the encrypted words:
Tsashini (titmouse)
tailgokari (redstart)
rovobey (sparrow)
kazor (dawn)
lubgo (pigeon)
tryaguzsoka (wagtail)
- Name those birds that we read about in the story of S. Aksakov. Why are birds called our friends?
Reference material for the teacher.
If a person's temperature has risen to 38 degrees, he is put to bed. The person cannot work.
And the nightingale with a temperature of 41-42 degrees gives concerts, the thrush, whistling, plasters the nest.
We digest dinner for hours, but in a bird's hot body this happens in a few minutes. And again the bird wants to eat.
Hence the gluttony of birds. The food that a tit eats in a day is more than its own weight.
If you had the appetite of a pied flycatcher chick, you would have breakfast thirty times a day, lunch fifty times, and even dinner twenty times!
Serving you breakfasts, lunches and dinners, grandmother would have knocked down, would have fainted.
Nothing surprising! That's how it is with birds. Old starlings from fatigue sometimes faint near the nest.
But for us, people, the bird's appetite only pleases: there will be less harmful larvae, caterpillars, flies and mosquitoes.
That is why we want the birds to settle closer to us.
Let the gardener tit pick apples in the garden, let the gardener starling clean up the beds, let the nurse flycatcher catch all the flies in the yard!
5. Reading works from the section “Colorful Pages” on p. 76–77 of the textbook.
- Read quickly in whole words a poem by V. Berestov.
- Who is this poem about?
What are the chickens doing?
- Read what song they sing.
- Read expressively the poem by E. Blaginina, observing the punctuation marks.
- Who is this poem about?
Why is it scary for a mouse to live in a mink?
- Read the quatrain about the beetle.
- Where was the beetle's house?
What happened to his house?
With what intonation should this poem be read?
Read the poem about the mouse expressively.
- What does the mouse ask for?
- Give the mouse a warning: "Hush, do not make noise!"
Read a poem about a funny bird expressively in whole words.
Why can't a bird in the forest learn to sing like a rooster?
- What do you know about the cuckoo?
Reference material for the teacher.
A cuckoo, like a woodpecker, if anyone has not seen it, then they must have heard it. Probably, everyone knows that she lays her eggs in other people's nests and that cuckoo chicks throw their owners' chicks out of the nest. But, probably, few people have heard about the cuckoo's appetite. Thanks to her appetite, she completely atones for the harm that she does by destroying the chicks of small birds. The cuckoo is an insectivorous bird, and also a big glutton. And most importantly, she eats caterpillars that other birds do not eat. Indeed, among the caterpillars there are hairy, and even poisonous. And the cuckoo eats them all. There are times when just a few cuckoos save large areas of the forest from very dangerous pests.
Physical education minute
SANDPIPER
Young sandpiper got in
per deck -
Bultykh into the water.
Resurfaced. Wet. Got out. Dried up.
Get on the deck
And back into the water.
Quite a sandpiper
Head down.
I remembered the young sandpiper,
What is behind him
Wings.
And flew.
Children pronounce the text, then squat down, clasping their knees with their hands and lowering their heads low; repeat squats several times. Then they stand up, stretch their arms to the sides and shake them. They jump in place, waving their arms.
V. Generalization of students' knowledge.
1. Crossword "Animals".
- Consider the illustration:
– Solve the crossword and read the key word.
Keyword: animals.
- Explain the words of N. Sladkov "We are responsible not only for ourselves, but also for our smaller brothers."
What animals depicted in the crossword puzzle have we read about?
What are the names of these works?
- Who is their author?
2. Quiz "Learn a work about animals."
Students read the excerpts from the works written on the cards and guess the name of the work and its author.
“We used to be caviar, qua-qua!
And now we are all heroes, at least two! .. "
(V. Berestov "The Frogs".)
“... I came up with a name for the puppy,
I saw him in my dream…”
(I. Tokmakova “Buy a dog.”)
"…Everybody left
And one
In the house
Locked him up…”
(S. Mikhalkov "Trezor".)
“... The animals approached the box, began to inspect it, sniff and lick it ...”
(D. Harms "The Brave Hedgehog".)
"You after a rough kick
Try to call the puppy!”
(S. Mikhalkov "Important advice".)
“- You are all good and handsome, Hedgehog, but thorns do not suit you! ..”
(N. Sladkov "The Fox and the Hedgehog".)
“... – And what is a shame? We didn't do anything! The boys were surprised...
(V. Oseeva “The dog barked furiously.”)
3. Work in pairs.
- Choose the works that you like the most.
– Read them expressively in whole words to each other.
4. Riddles about animals.
- Guess the riddles and remember in which works we read about these animals.
Here are the needles and pins
Creep out from under the bench
They look at me
They want milk.
(Hedgehog.)
Who is on the tree, on the bitch
The score is: “Ku-ku! Ku-ku!?
(Cuckoo.)
Cheren, but not a raven,
Horned, but not a bull,
Six legs - no hooves
Flying - howling
He sits down and digs the ground.
(Bug.)
Stroking - caressing
Teasing - biting.
(Dog.)
Hidden under the floor
Afraid of cats.
(Mouse.)
mustachioed muzzle,
striped coat,
Washes often
And I don't know about water.
(Cat.)
Appeared in a yellow coat:
- Farewell, two shells!
(Chick.)
The rope lies
Hissing cheat.
Taking it is dangerous -
Will bite.
It's clear?
(Snake.)
5. Games of Grandfather Bookvoed.
The game "What kind of cancer?"
- At the typesetter, all the letters were mixed up, and one - a - was even lost.
Rearrange the letters in the correct order and you will read the name of the famous fairy tale and the name of its author. Don't forget the lost a.
VI. Summary of the lesson.
What section did we reread in class today?
- Who is called our smaller brothers?
- Why?
- What rules of behavior should you follow in nature? How should animals be treated?
Prepared students read the poem.
SAVE THE EARTH!
Take care of the lark at the blue zenith,
Butterfly on a dodder stalk,
Sunshine on the path
On the stones of a playing crab,
Over the desert the shadow of the baobab,
The hawk hovering over the field
A clear moon over the river calm.
A swallow flickering in life.
Take care of the Earth, take care!
Cherish the miracle of songs
Cities and villages
The darkness of the depths and the will of the heavens.
Revelation of earth and sky
The sweetness of life, milk and bread.
Take care of young seedlings
At the green festival of nature,
Starry sky, ocean and land.
And a believing soul in immortality, -
All fates connecting threads,
Take care of the Earth, take care!
M. Dudin
I have a cherished thought that has occupied me day and night for a long time, but God does not send me reason and inspiration for its fulfillment. I wish to write such a book for children, which was not in the literature ...
S. T. Aksakov
This small temple at the intersection of Novy Arbat and Povarskaya looks like a village old woman who got lost in Moscow. How many times have I run or passed by this temple on a trolley bus, not realizing how remarkable it is for Russian culture.
Here, in the church of St. Simeon the Stylite, on June 2, 1816, the twenty-five-year-old son of an Orenburg landowner, collegiate secretary Sergei Aksakov, and the twenty-three-year-old daughter of a retired Suvorov major general Olga Zaplatina were married. “This marriage was corrected: Archpriest Stefan. Deacon Stefan Fedorov. Deacon Nikolai Terentiev. Sexton Alexei Ivanov…”
Thus began the history of the family, which in the nineteenth century became the personification of
Russian family in general.
Moscow was only then rebuilding after the war of 1812: “The traces of the gigantic fire,” Sergey Timofeevich later recalled, “had not yet been smoothed out; huge charred stone houses, somehow covered with old iron; windows covered with wooden boards with frames and glass painted on them; wastelands with charred foundations and stoves, overgrown with dense grass.
Everywhere there was a cheerful smell of fresh shavings, resin and tow. The church was re-consecrated and whitewashed. When the young Aksakovs came out onto the porch, it seemed that all of Moscow rejoiced at them.
On the eve of the wedding, the groom wrote to the bride: “Like a heavenly harmony, the delightful sounds of your voice open and now in my ears:“ I love you! I'm happy!" Ah, these words will be for me a consolation in sorrow, healing in illnesses and support in misfortunes, if Providence pleases to send them down on me ... "
And now, two centuries later, I am standing in this ancient temple. I remember that tomorrow is Universal Parental Saturday. I write in the memorial note the names of my departed relatives and friends, and then all the Aksakovs. Sergei, Olga, their children - Konstantin, Vera, Grigory, Olga, Ivan, Mikhail, Maria, Sophia, Nadezhda and Lyubov.
Why are they all so dear to me that I already remember them all by name? Why do I feel the Aksakovs are not “historical and literary characters”, but close people?
Probably, it all started with the book by Sergei Timofeevich Aksakov "Childhood of Bagrov-grandson."
For some reason I don't remember this book when I was a kid. But I remember well how my wife and I took turns reading "Childhood ..." to our daughters when they were still preschoolers. In the evening we left only the table lamp and went with the flow of Aksakov's prose. Since then, S. T. Aksakov has become one of our family favorite writers.
Recently I asked our outstanding philologist Sergei Georgievich Bocharov about what he would recommend to re-read from the Russian classics. He immediately replied: "Well, first of all - Sergei Timofeevich Aksakov."
This year there is a special reason to re-read Aksakov: "The Childhood Years of Bagrov the Grandson" was first published as a separate edition 150 years ago, in 1858. An appendix to this autobiographical story, the fairy tale "The Scarlet Flower" was also published for the first time.
And today (December 26) marks the 160th anniversary of the birth of the writer's beloved granddaughter, Olga Grigorievna Aksakova. It is to her that both "Childhood ..." and "The Scarlet Flower" are dedicated.
The fairy tale "The Scarlet Flower", which appeared in print only as an appendix to the main text, was much more fortunate than "Children's Years ...". The fairy tale of the housekeeper Pelageya has always been illustrated by the best artists, it is wonderfully published. “Children's years ...” are reluctantly released, “for senior school age,” or even as for adults - almost without illustrations, in small print. And few people remember that this book, which became a textbook at the end of the 19th century, was written for small children!
Obviously, there has been some general alienation from the text. Readership has “blurred” our eyes to such an extent that in the story about Bagrov the grandson we manage not to recognize works of children's literature and thereby fall into the nets cleverly placed a century and a half ago by the kindest author of Notes on Fishing.
Considering the idea of an autobiographical book in the mid-1840s, Sergei Timofeevich first of all took up the "bait" for the little reader. “The secret is,” he wrote in his workbook, “that the book should be written not forged by childhood, but as if for adults, and so that not only would there be no moralizing (children do not like all this), but that there should be no a hint of a moral impression and that the performance was artistic in the highest degree ... "
In 1848, Aksakov's first granddaughter was born, and the book immediately received the working title "Grandfather's Stories". In a letter to a friend, Sergei Timofeevich admitted: “I am writing the history of my childhood from the age of 3 to the 9th year, I am writing it for children's reading” (italics mine. - D.Sh.).
When Olya was five years old, the grandfather solemnly announced to his granddaughter that he wanted to dedicate the future book to her; he even composed a simple poem on the occasion.
By Olya's tenth birthday, the book came out with a laconic dedication on the title page: "To my granddaughter Olga Grigorievna Aksakova." Sergei Timofeevich here again dodged the temptation to "fake it for childhood" and did not decorate the book with a verbal vignette. Not to “precious granddaughter Olenka”, but to “Olga Grigorievna”! He believed that such an appeal to the child is already the education of dignity in him. Education is direct and clear, without squats, hints and moralizing.
“Childhood…” claims, first of all, not for artistry, but for non-fiction, where the sequence of events is checked against the calendar. For children, the authenticity of both the mundane and the miraculous is extremely important. I remember how, as a child, I myself endlessly interrupted reading adults with the question that was fundamental to me at that time: “Was it really or was it fake?” In truth, the value of the book in my eyes increased dramatically.
Covering the last decade of the 18th century, Aksakov's epic strictly followed the perception of children and therefore did not directly reflect the political events of that time (and in its turbulence it may well be compared with our nineties).
The change of seasons for Serezha Bagrov is much more important than the change of emperors on the throne. For a boy, only the moral order of life is essential, only what happens in God's world. Sometimes adults, busy with the current moment, do not understand Seryozha at all; even uncle Efrem Evseev, who loves him immensely, is perplexed: “What is it to you, falcon, for wanting to know: why, but why, and for what? Even the old people do not know this, and you are still a child. God wants it that way, that's all."
November 1796. In these first days of the reign of Paul I, the Bagrovs learn about the illness of their grandfather Stepan Mikhailovich, and they are not up to Paul. While in Gatchina the friends of the new emperor are rude to Catherine’s old men, and Pavel issues bizarre decrees and deals with the press (he ordered to seize and destroy all the newspapers of 1762 that have been preserved in the country, where Peter III’s forced abdication manifesto was published), Alexei Stepanovich Bagrov runs around Ufa, he is looking for a warm wagon and a wagon from his acquaintances in order to quickly leave with his wife and son to visit his dying father.
Quarterly people go from house to house with the question: “Do you have old newspapers? If you still have it, then it is ordered to take it away ... ”-“ What newspapers, have mercy! .. ”
Frosts are cracking like five-year-old Seryozha has never seen before. “How can we go in winter? I thought. “After all, my sister and I are small, because we will freeze?” All such thoughts strongly besieged my head, and I, alarmed and upset to the depths of my soul, sat in silence. Aksakov's memory does not fail here either. The winter of 1796 was incredibly harsh. The merchant Ivan Tolchenov kept a diary that year and “in the discussion of the weather” wrote: “From December 1st to 11th, there were great frosts, and then it snowed continuously for 3 days in a row. From the 16th, big frosts came again ... "
The Bagrovs left Ufa for the village just in the first days of December. Their sledge train makes its way as a goose across a snow-covered plain. “In both doors [of the wagon] there was a small quadrangular window with glass sealed tightly. Somehow I crawled up to the window and looked through it with pleasure; the night was monthly, bright but - alas! - soon the glass became foggy, painted with snow patterns and finally covered with a thick layer of impenetrable hoarfrost.
Sergei Timofeevich captures the little reader not by the development of events (the dynamism of the plot for children aged 5 to 10 does not yet have the value that it has for teenagers), but by the sophisticated detail and liveliness of the descriptions. This is essentially a macro shot of every phenomenon or object encountered on the way.
For adults and adolescents, such thoroughness in descriptions is tiring, and for some it is completely unbearable. Kids, on the contrary, in all ages they can endlessly examine the patterns of the rug, spend hours looking at the same landscape outside the window and even just cracks on the ceiling. All this for them is full of life only visible to them.
Remembering this special childhood impressionability, Aksakov slowly and solemnly unfolds in front of the child that picture of life, which only the listener of the book, and not the reader, is able to survey. "... The greatness of the beauties of God's world imperceptibly fell on the child's soul and lived without my knowledge in my imagination..."
The happy apotheosis of the story is the chapter "The First Spring in the Village", where the boiling of spring life is felt simply physically. The words rustle and flutter like the wings of a thousand migratory birds.
“The snow quickly began to melt, and water appeared everywhere. Yevseich carried me around the house in his arms, because everywhere there was water and mud. The river overflowed its banks, raised the urema on both sides and, having captured half of our garden, merged with the lake of Rook Grove. All the banks were strewn with every kind of game; many ducks swam on the water between the tops of the flooded bushes, and meanwhile large and small flocks of various migratory birds were constantly rushing by. Not knowing what kind of bird it was flying or walking, what its dignity was, which of them squeaked or whistled, I was amazed, distraught by such a spectacle. Father and Evseich were themselves in great agitation. They pointed to each other at the bird, called it by name, often guessing by its voice. “Pintail, pintail, how much! Yevseich spoke hurriedly. - Eki flocks! And kryakovs! Fathers, apparently-invisibly!” “Do you hear,” my father picked up, “after all, these are steppes, curlews are flooded! It just hurts so high. But the sivks are playing over the winters, like a cloud! .. How many spindles! And Turukhtanov, “I listened, looked, and then I didn’t understand anything that was happening around me: only my heart sank, then it pounded like a hammer”
All these countless details happily grasped by the boy and committed to paper by the old man develop what is now called fine motor skills. But if modern psychologists only care about the motor skills of the hands, Aksakov's prose develops the fine motor skills of the imagination, without which the child will be deprived of all that wonderful that lurks nearby.
What do parents and teachers most often hear from children these days? "Boo-o-o-o-o…"
The current crisis of the epic and, in general, a serious understanding of life is associated with the disappearance of not only a thoughtful reader, but also a thoughtful listener. Someone to listen. Even on that rare evening, when the family is together, reading aloud is impossible, since one "left" into the computer, the second "hid" on the TV, the third fenced off from the whole world with a player. Everything seems to be close, but at the same time everyone is on their own. Like in the office.
Psychologists, priests, sociologists, and pediatricians are now beginning to sound the alarm about this, but long before that, domestic literature, a tried and tested echo sounder of social life, gave a distress signal. Deprived of its former influence, crushed by electronic media, Russian literature gave a signal of silence, a signal of silence. Do you remember how in the early 90s almost all significant and profound writers fell silent? So after all, it did not happen by common conspiracy, and not only due to the economic circumstances of those years.
At that critical moment, perhaps for the first time in the entire history of our literature, it was not the reader who listened to the writers, but literature tried to listen to the reader. Not to demand, but to the heart. This critical moment could be a milestone for comprehending what is happening, a starting point for dialogue in new, much more intricate and complex than before, conditions. But it is clear that the understanding did not happen. The dialogue, which broke off in mid-sentence, has not yet been resumed. The mournful silence did not seriously puzzle anyone. It was replaced by information noise about pseudo-literary novelties and numerous awards. Russian literature has lost that atmosphere of sympathetic echo in which it alone could exist in its classical version.
Back in the 1930s, Mikhail Bakhtin deduced something like a universal formula for the subtle interdependence of literature historically established in Russia and a small but benevolent circle of readers: “every lyric is alive only by trust in possible choral support”, it exists “only in a warm atmosphere …” Bakhtin’s formula can also be read from the end: the warm atmosphere of the family as a spiritual choir is largely created precisely by the lyrics in the broadest sense of the word.
Aksakov's books could appear only with the choral support of a large friendly family. Sergei Timofeevich was almost completely blind by the age of sixty and did not write his works, but told, dictated to relatives. Most often, the father was recorded by the eldest daughter Vera.
In the summer, the most attentive listener was Olya's granddaughter. It is no coincidence that Sergei Timofeevich dedicated his "Childhood years ..." to her. Adults can listen to an old man out of respect, out of politeness. The child listens only when he is terribly interested.
“I told my mother everything I saw, with my usual excitement and enthusiasm.”
“When my father returned, we talked to our fill”
“I constantly told my sister, as an experienced person, about various miracles that I saw; she listened with curiosity, fixing her beautiful eyes full of intense attention on me, in which at the same time it was clearly expressed: “Brother, I don’t understand anything.” And what's so tricky: the narrator has just entered the fifth year, and the listener? - the third.
Despite the severity of the form and the author's categorical refusal to simply entertain the child with amusing stories, Aksakov's prose turned out to be a lullaby. She calms and pacifies the overexcited child who has run over during the day. But only if the book sounds. “Childhood…” is the perfect book to read aloud, to listen to together under a green lampshade. And here the child can be captivated not so much by the plot as by the music of the native word, the kindness and degree of intonation that is so rare today. Someone will tell me: from this music, the child will get bored and fall asleep. So thank God! To fall asleep on a kind word, with a smile and serenely - are such moments lost for the soul?
“Already a long shadow from the house squinted to the south and lay its edges on the pantry and the stable ...”
“Twilight embraced our carriage. The reddish stripe brightened a little where the sun had set ... "
“The grass faded, darkened and lay down to the ground; the bare, steep slopes of the mountains became even steeper and nakeder; marmot is somehow higher and redder, because the leaves of chiliznik and beanweed withered "
How amazing that this was written by a blind man. Aleksey Stepanovich Khomyakov recalled: “For Sergei Timofeevich it was unbearable to use the wrong word or adjective, unusual for the subject he was talking about and not expressing it. He felt the inaccuracy of the expression as some kind of insult, as some kind of lie, and calmed down only when he found the real word.
Having lost his sight, Sergei Timofeevich gained some kind of particularly complete and integral vision of the world. He unwittingly proved that seeing with the heart is not only a romantic image of a deep spiritual life, but this is the true vision of the world. There are no barriers to the heart, and the gaze of Aksakov the artist does not rest on things, but covers the whole picture: from the rug in the nursery to the very horizon, from earth to sky, from early morning to late evening, from the first days of childhood to old age. This stereoscopic vision gives such freshness of descriptions that on other pages it seems that you have in your hands the first book in your life and you have not read anything else yet.
And how incredibly vividly Aksakov conveyed what A. S. Khomyakov called the warmth of a common nest! This image of the nest now and then appears on Aksakov's pages. “A little dawned when we were awakened; even dressing was dark. My God, how my sister and I did not want to get up! From a warm nest, go to the damp and cold autumn air, at the very dawn, when you sleep especially sweetly.
In 1917, one of our most perspicacious thinkers, Prince Yevgeny Trubetskoy, wrote about the salutary view of life through the nursery window: “What is this longing for the nursery that I feel? Is this a manifestation of mental weakness? No. This is a different, extremely complex feeling. This is not an escape from the present, but a search for a foothold for the present. And then Evgeny Nikolaevich recalled his childhood: “What kind of spiritual atmosphere was it?<...>we breathed grace there, as if every breath of air was full of grace there. I was filled with a feeling of some deep trust in the nest.”
Plunging into the "Childhood years ...", observing all the events through the eyes of little Seryozha Bagrov, one cannot help but feel that there is nothing more precious for a child than the warmth of a family nest. This warmth is literally recreated in the word; At the same time, Aksakov never squeezes in picturesque sentimentality, but draws what is happening as if with just a pencil stub, accidentally lying around in his pocket.
Here is a young Bagrov family on the road, spending the night in a field under the open sky, Seryozha for three or four years. "Mother soon went to bed<...>but I didn’t feel like sleeping, and I stayed to sit with my father and talk<...>. But in the midst of our conversations, we both somehow thought and sat for a long time without saying a single word. The sky sparkled with stars, the river murmured in the ravine, the fire blazed and brightly illuminated our people. "Isn't it time for you to sleep, Seryozha?" - said my father after a long silence; kissed me, crossed me and carefully, so as not to wake my mother, put me in a carriage.
And here is the father with his son in the spring grove: “How pleased the father was when he saw the lungwort for the first time! He taught me to lightly pull out purple flowers and suck on their white, sweet roots! And how he was even more delighted when he heard from a distance, also for the first time, the bluethroat singing. “Well, Seryozha,” he said to me, “now all the birds will begin to sing: the bluethroat is the first to sing.
But when the bushes are dressed, our nightingales will sing, and it will be even more fun in Bagrovo! ..””
One of the first readers of Aksakov spoke about his impressions of the book in the following way: “A joyful heart, which has been stale for a long time in cold solitude, emerges as if from some kind of darkness into the free light, into God’s world ...”.
"The Childhood of Bagrov the Grandson" captured something that has not yet been in Russian literature: the way of everyday life. Everyday life, often so painful and monotonous for adults, opened up to the reader from the children's side - like God's day. As a space for good thinking and good deeds, for every minute discoveries. "Let every breath praise the Lord."
In one of Ivan Sergeevich Aksakov's letters to his fiancee, who feared the "vulgarity" of family everyday life, there are these words: "How can everyday everyday life trivialize a person when there is prayer, when there is an opportunity to read the Gospel?"
In the life of the Bagrovs, there is very little idyllicity and patriarchy in their current sense. But the course of the book itself is so powerfully striving towards God, towards the ideal of the Christian pious life, that, being carried away by the story, it is impossible not to surrender one's soul to this flow. It is impossible not to fall in love with the Bagrovs and repeat after the author (at the end of the Family Chronicle): “Farewell!<...>You are not great heroes, not loud personalities; in silence and obscurity you passed your earthly career and left it long, long ago; but you were people, and your outer and inner life is full of poetry, just as curious and instructive for us, as we and our life, in turn, will be curious and instructive for posterity. By the mighty power of writing and printing, your posterity has now become acquainted with you. It welcomed you with sympathy and recognized you as brothers."
How free it was for these people to breathe, how securely the Russian land held them, how fervently, like a child, they prayed to God! They must have seen little in the world, knew little of the wisdom of the book, but loved a lot. They looked into each other's eyes and spared no time to listen to a loved one and speak out for themselves.
And why is it sometimes so difficult for us to find for children those tender spring words that were so simply, by chance, dropped by the illiterate uncle Yevseich and sunk into the soul of little Seryozha Bagrov for life? "My falcon..."
Obviously, the vision of good and good in everything before negative and bad - this was in the blood of the Aksakovs. Ivan Aksakov (being forty years old, a man who has experienced and seen a lot) writes to the bride: “You will say: again I idealize. Yes, I idealize, because without idealization no personal relationship with people is possible. That is, this means that in every person there is his ideal - his own inner true physiognomy, his type, his best, regarding which the person himself may be wrong.
Is it not because the Aksakovs became the personification of the Russian family for the whole of Russia that they treated people and their country in this way?
V. V. Rozanov wrote in 1915 that one has only to pronounce the name of the Aksakovs? - and “there is no literate person in Russia who would not respond:“ I know, - Aksakovs, - how ... They loved Russia, the kings, the Russian faith " ".
Vasily Vasilyevich interpreted this popular opinion ideologically, somewhat ironically emphasizing the Slavophilism of the Aksakovs. They are already a “common place” for him, one of those Russian myths, attachment to which an intelligent person should not take seriously. But the key word in Aksakov's assessment was the word loved. “I know, - Aksakovs, - how ... They loved ...”
In a situation where many zealously mastered the science of hatred, the Aksakovs loved. They loved each other and their home. Loved life. They loved their people. They also loved those who, perhaps, did not deserve their love. They loved like Konstantin - blindly, ardently, childishly. And like Ivan - demanding, without illusions. Light and sacrificial, like Vera: “One moment of love, and everything inaccessible, everything terrible and incompatible, everything becomes close and accessible, everything is clear, bright and blissful ...”
And people, especially among the merchants or the military, for the most part responded kindly to Aksakov. This is generally that rare case when not one person, but the whole family was surrounded by good fame and universal respect.
There was something mysterious in this, since for contemporaries there was nothing heroic in the life of the Aksakovs. Having many children in itself was not revered as a feat. The memoirs of Sergei Timofeevich and the philosophical articles of Konstantin, as well as the newspapers edited by Ivan Aksakov, were known only to a small circle of the educated public.
In the summer of 1865 (six years after the death of his father), Ivan Aksakov, traveling along the Volga on a steamboat, met General Pavel Khristoforovich Grabbe, who had just been appointed Ataman of the Don Cossacks. They spent several days on deck talking. Saying goodbye, the general said to Aksakov: “Now I understand Aksakov’s reputation ...”
On the same day, Ivan Sergeevich shares his impressions in a letter to the bride: “By the way, about this reputation. How strange and inexplicable she is. It was formed from my father's reputation as the author of the Family Chronicle, my brother's reputation, and partly mine. Many people hardly know how to distinguish between these three faces and mix them together. That the author of the “Family Chronicle” is famous is very understandable, but why my brother and I used it in Russia even before my father, this seems to me a mystery ... Neither the “Russian conversation”, nor even the “Day” have ever been popular as popular the name that I bear... This reputation confuses me, because I myself feel inside that it is not fully deserved... On the other hand, this meaning of the name you wear serves as a kind of protective device; it obliges and in any case serves as a good memento…”
The Aksakovs remained in full view of all of Moscow for almost three decades. They lived really friendly, but not at all idyllic. The usual difference in characters, temperaments, mental aspirations and outlook on life in a large family. Sometimes, the girls dragged the boys by the hair, and the boys fought among themselves every now and then. Quiet games of horses and dolls in Abramtsevo did not fascinate anyone.
Once, twelve-year-old Kostya created a squad from his younger brothers on the model of ancient Russians, ordered himself to be called Prince Vyachka, and even established the holiday of this Vyachka on November 30th. Since then, the boys have been running around the house and surroundings with warlike cries, rattling iron armor and shields, wearing cardboard helmets, with wooden swords and spears.
With such and such a number of children - and not the slightest attempt by the older Aksakovs to send one of the boys to a boarding school, a lyceum, and girls to an institute for noble maidens. Perhaps because Sergei Timofeevich himself in his childhood passed a short test of this kind of "exile", when his parents left him with his sister in Bagrovo for a whole month. The bitter memory of those days remained with him for the rest of his life. The chapter “Staying in Bagrovo without a father and mother”? - perhaps the saddest in the book of Sergei Timofeevich: “they greeted us, said a few words, and sometimes hardly spoke, then sent us to our room”
In the wealthy class, even then they were sometimes burdened by children. It was far from televisions, but their Courchevels were already beckoning, and also balls, theaters, salons ... In many noble families, it was believed that children should not be paid attention at all. There are nannies, tutors - and enough.
It is not surprising that war was soon declared on the parents. Twenty-year-old Mikhail Bakunin writes to his sister Varya: “There are no parents for me, I don’t need their love anymore.<...>. I don't recognize any rights for them"
Natalya Zakharyina in a letter to her fiancé A. Herzen: “Did I have a mother? - No ... Did I have a father? .. Did I have a brother, sister or someone close to me? .. "
Alexander threw firewood into this fire: “No one wanted to take care of you, you were left to yourself ...”
Apollo Maykov wrote to F. M. Dostoevsky: “Do you believe that, if you take at least the circle of my acquaintances, in a rare family, the father and mother are not unhappy people in the world from their sons and especially from daughters, because they go straight into debauchery, into cold debauchery by conviction!
Some of Aksakov's acquaintances seem inevitable that the young Aksakovs are about to rebel against their "old men." But there is no riot. Moreover, grown-up children are not shy about attachment to their parents. They are not afraid of ridicule from "advanced" peers and in any case admit that they feel happy only under the roof of their parents' house. As a modern researcher Elena Annenkova writes, "the will of the children [Aksakovs] did not break - the need for rebellion did not arise."
Sergei Timofeevich and Olga Semyonovna never isolated children from communication with peers, but did everything to exclude the very possibility of bad influence. When Konstantin entered Moscow University, M. Pogodin offered him a place in a boarding school at the university, to which he immediately received a polite but decisive refusal from Aksakov Sr.: “It is strange that my eldest son (this is important for brothers) at that time, when he should become my friend, he will not live under the same roof with me! We will certainly, albeit unconsciously, be sad about him.<...>. Funny but true. You already have a lot of boys, there will be even more, all sorts of people can get caught (you can’t figure out their vices at first sight)<...>. What if my son takes bad impressions or habits from one of his comrades? How can I justify myself to myself?
Konstantin, before his death, told the sisters Vera and Lyuba: “We are united, united by family love, but the love of children for their parents is above all<...>I would like to convey my thoughts on marriage - how in marriage children give it its full meaning - fate snatched the pen from the hands.
Thanks to a common love for the epistolary genre, the intensity of communication in the Aksakov family did not weaken at all with the departure of one or more children. Every day, up to a dozen letters were sent to the station with a coachman, and the same number of responses were brought to Abramtsevo by evening.
Each letter of the Aksakovs is striking in that, like in a nesting doll, it contains letters to all family members. Here is twenty-year-old Ivan writing home (from Astrakhan to Moscow, April 16, 1844): “Your lines, dear otesinka, have awakened many internal reproaches in me.” And then: “Yes, yes, why are you laughing, dear mother, know that I almost dream of a seal and the income from it to the treasury.” A few lines later: " I ask Olinka to tell me a real opinion about the dignity of the pattern and the goodness of matter"
And here are the lines of another Vanya's letter, where he manages to speak to everyone at the same time (June 17, 1844): “What are my sisters' poems? Sophie and Marikhen, I know, are writers, but I did not at all imagine Lyuba to be a poet. No, this is evidently in the family, in the blood. What do you think, and Vera Sergeevna, and Olinka, and Nadia, and everyone has a versification ability, who knows? Try it, definitely try it. “Well, well, start, Gritsko, like this, like this! Well, well, Vera, well, well, Olya!
Sophie is Sonya, who at that time was ten years old. Marikhen - Masha, she was then thirteen years old. Gritsko is Grisha, he is already twenty-three. Vera is twenty-five, Olya is twenty-two, Nadya is eight, and Lyuba is only seven years old.
The restless and active Vanya left his parents' house early and quickly overtook his elder brother Kostya in his life experience. After graduating from the School of Law, Ivan traveled almost all of Russia with commissions and audits. Something happens to him all the time. He either asks the tsar to let him go on a round-the-world trip, then gets arrested on a denunciation, then joins the militia, then leads the population of the whole city of Romanov-Borisoglebsk to the Orthodox faith.
Konstantin is a homebody, he lived all his life next to his parents and forever remained a philosopher-dreamer, prone to abstract reasoning and theatrical effects.
In almost every letter home, Ivan either instructs his brother (who is six years older than him!), then ridicules, then reproaches, then directly shames him.
“Let him [Kostya] study Russia not only in Moscow. But alas! Konstantin will remain deaf to my appeals. Kostya is like a spider, he has woven an intricately woven web around him.
“How annoying and sad I am that Konstantin is moping and does nothing!<...>Oh, really, where is the will of a person? .. "
“After all, that’s right, Konstantin! First of all, he inquires about whether someone is Russian and Orthodox. Eats mushrooms in fasting, no fish! - delight and tears of tenderness! “For me, before I can figure out whether someone is French or Russian, Orthodox or Catholic, the first question is: what kind of person is he in general and does a good, Christian heart beat in him ... "
“I cannot, like Konstantin, console myself with such phrases<...>“that the Russian people are seeking the kingdom of God!..” etc. Indifference to the common good, laziness, apathy and preference for one’s own interests are recognized as seeking the kingdom of God!..”
“Didn’t Kostya shave off his beard and didn’t take off his coat? .. I will never put on a coat ... Great ideas of fulfillment do not reach through the ridiculous ...”
At the same time, Ivan always rushed to the defense of his older brother when one of the outsiders made jokes about him. Ivan loudly declared to the secular public: “It’s great that he wears a Russian dress, despite all the jokes and ridicule, we should all have to do this, but we’re too trashy ...”
The Aksakov sisters recalled that during his fatal illness on the island of Zante, Konstantin often called Ivan, and the last thing Ivan wrote in his life was memories of his older brother, which remained unfinished.
The Aksakovs, both in Moscow and in Abramtsevo, have always lived in an open house, and therefore they inevitably had to either hold back the onslaught of the curious, then endure the slander of gossip and the extortion of rogues, or sometimes host random and malicious people.
Vera Aksakova sadly wrote in her diary (December 1854): “For the most part, people, the most ardent admirers of our family, either idealize it to the point of unnaturalness and even to the ridiculous, or bring the severity of our moral view to such an extreme and to ugliness, or exalt it to the point of to such a degree is our general education, scholarship even. In a word, they make something strained out of our simple life (which is composed by itself). Is it really so difficult to understand the simplicity of our life!<...>we live this way because we live this way, because otherwise we cannot live, we have nothing pre-conceived, no plan calculated in advance, we do not show ourselves in front of ourselves in our life, which is full of true, real suffering, deprivation of all kinds and many mental invisible sorrows. Every kind person will find sincere sympathy in us, and the participation of kind people is dear to us; but we do not need that empty participation, which is more like curiosity, and this talk about us from nothing to do is especially unpleasant. We don't need this fame"
And if you remember that for many years the Aksakovs' house was under the close supervision of the secret police, it is completely surprising how they managed to maintain family and spiritual peace. Today, for some reason, many are sure that the Slavophiles preached leavened patriotism and official autocracy. The reality was such that from the mid-1940s until the end of the 1970s, Slavophiles were suspected of an anti-government conspiracy. Their books and magazines were banned, all trips of Samarin, Kireevsky, Khomyakov and the Aksakov brothers were held under secret police supervision. In 1878, the activities of the Slavic Charitable Society, created by Ivan Aksakov to help the Bulgarian and Serbian militia, were banned.
Sergei Timofeevich, unlike his children, prudently eschewed politics, but in critical moments, turning points, he always supported his children and did not hide his convictions. It is enough to re-read the chapter about Mikhail Kurolesov in the Family Chronicle. The story about the adventures of this eighteenth-century criminal landowner, whose favorite saying was “Swindle, steal, and bury the ends,” chills the blood even today. So those nouveaux riches, whose entertainments and quirks are flooded today on the TV screen, are not such “new Russians” at all. These are disgusting old types who have been dozing for a long time under the shadow of Brezhnev's power.
The most terrible thing that the blind Sergei Timofeevich saw in the Kurolesovs was not their bloody crimes, but the spiritual decay they sow. “Mikhaila Maksimovich, having reached the highest degree of debauchery and ferocity, zealously set about building a stone church ...”
The aristocracy, accustomed in the Nikolaev era to hypocrisy and cynicism, to ostentatious piety and unrestrained arbitrariness, they felt in Aksakov enemies more terrible than any rebels. Most of all, the then elite was irritated not by the philosophical and political views of the Aksakov brothers, but by the complete agreement of their worldview, their beliefs with the home and family way of life. The Aksakovs were a moral reproach, and they could not forgive them for this.
After the death of her eldest son, Olga Semenovna wrote bitterly: “Now Kostomarov, a professor in St. Petersburg, made a speech from the department about the merits and significance of Konstantin in history and literature, and there were fifteen hundred listeners, and everyone applauded; and how many (before that. - D. Sh.) there were evil attacks! My God! Is it really necessary to die in order to do justice to a person, but during life he was not consoled by anything, by any manifestation! My soul grieves for that! .. "
The attitude of the then elite towards the Aksakov family can be easily guessed from the letter of Alexandra Osipovna Smirnova-Rosset, a well-known imperial maid of honor. In 1847, she mockingly wrote to N.V. Gogol about the Aksakovs (about the family that sheltered the great writer in the most difficult years for him!): “I am very glad that I am not found among the Aksakovs, who live according to the law of love unknown to me, like the whole Slavic world.
According to the “unknown law of love”, the Aksakovs admired Alexandra Osipovna, her original mind, and could not understand only one thing: why does she hate them so much? ..
... Sergei Timofeevich Aksakov immediately after the publication of "Children's Years of Bagrov the Grandson" began to write a story about his younger sister Natasha, but did not have time to finish it. He died in April 1859. His last words were: “Light the candles!”
Olga Semyonovna outlived her husband and five of her ten children. “My soul is sometimes overwhelmed with grief,” she wrote in a letter on January 8, 1865, “I strongly feel the loss of my extraordinary, in the full sense of my moral children; I take comfort in the fact that it is better for them, but I think that they would be useful on earth, and I, in fact, should thank God for myself that I am surrounded by such care from my daughters and son Ivan; and Grisha, my son, came from Ufa and could only live with us for a week. And my poor Ivan beats like that. My heart hurts looking at his exorbitant labors. Pray for Russia - it's scary where they will take her. Farewell, write to us, remember and love ... "
Let's return to the current Novy Arbat, to the temple of Simeon the Stylite, where Sergei Timofeevich and Olga Semyonovna Aksakov were married on a summer morning in 1816. This temple, erected in 1679, found itself in the center of a huge construction site in the middle of the 20th century. During the construction of Novy Arbat, everything in the district was demolished, crushed, turned into crumbling bricks. They also destroyed old estates, and merchant's mansions, and tenement houses of the beginning of the century.
A few meters from the temple, which was closed back in the 1930s, a foundation pit was dug for the construction of a skyscraper. It seemed that the dilapidated structure, in which it was already difficult to recognize the church building, was about to be pushed into the pit by a bulldozer. But for unknown reasons, the equipment traveled around the ruins of the temple. The authorities, who came to the construction site, could not understand what was the matter. Orders flew from department to department - demolish immediately! And Simeon the Stylite stood like a mysterious bastion (how can one not recall the feat of this ancient ascetic, who, fleeing the hustle and bustle, built himself a pillar and lived on it for eighty years).
In the summer of 1964, an excavator was brought to the church, but they did not have time to start work - the architect-restorer st1:personname w:st="on" Leonid/st1:personname Ivanovich Antropov, a friend and ally of the legendary defender of old Moscow Pyotr Dmitrievich Baranovsky, climbed into his bucket. While st1:personname w:st="on"Leonid/st1:personnameIvanovich was holding the line, sitting in the bucket of an excavator, Baranovsky obtained the order of the Ministry of Culture on placing the monument under state protection by means of his own methods. Little of! It was decided to urgently restore the temple. temple.
Olga Dmitrievna Savitskaya, a researcher of ancient Russian architecture, was appointed the head of the restoration work. Here is her story about those days, recorded by Alexander Rozanov, the author of the book “Temples do not die ...”: “The construction of Novy Arbat was already in full swing. And we, the restorers, were given very strict deadlines. The situation was complicated by the fact that the orders of the "leading comrades" went on endlessly: to demolish the church. But these decisions change every day. I have a bunch of documents, acts, each of which cancels the previous one. Scientific work had to be carried out in the process of restoration work. Fortunately, excellent masons Konstantin Fadeev worked with me (he restored the Solovetsky Monastery) and Vladimir Storozhenko, carpenter Alexei (unfortunately, I forgot his last name). They were all very capable people. Smarties are extraordinary. At first glance, they are completely illiterate people, but it turns out they are born mathematicians. I'm breaking my head over some template for a long time, and they will attach a lace, a rail and do it more accurately than I designed.la.
Aleksey was a goofball, but he was madly in love with flowers. Every day he brought me huge, absolutely luxurious bouquets of flowers. Once I told him: “Listen, Alexei, what's the matter? Why flowers every day?” He hesitated....
When almost the entire scope of work was completed (obviously, it was the spring of 1966? -
D. Sh.), again the decision came to demolish the temple. Then the workers surrounded the whole temple with plywood and stayed there for the night. I sat at home, grieved, worried: again, all the work was in vain. And in one night they restored the heads that rose above the temple in the morning. The authorities have arrived and see? - a temple with domes! To demolish an already finished, only restored temple is somehow indecent. (After a day or two, crosses were also erected, but on the orders of M.A. Suslov they were removed. These crosses lay in the basement until 1990.))
The workers were so tired during the night that they immediately fell down to sleep. And my Alexei did not wake up ... He died. After that, I thought a lot: “What was it?”
In 1968, the restored temple was given to the Society for the Protection of Nature.
Not the worst option for those times. Canaries, siskins and goldfinches sang in the temple.
In 1991, the temple was returned to believers. The next year, on Trinity parental Saturday, a small consecration of the temple took place.
The candles are lit..
P.S. Since 1998, the Nauka Publishing House has been publishing a wonderful and in many ways unique series, Traditions of the Russian Family. The creators of the series chose the words of Konstantin Sergeevich Aksakov as an epigraph to it, which can serve as a key to discovering the Russian of the 19th century from a completely new, little-studied side: “Together and in accordance with the beginning of the Christian faith, the beginning of the family is given out, the basis of all good earth.” The editorial board of the series included such well-known researchers of Russian culture as B. F. Egorov, V. A. Kotelnikov, N. N. Skatov, B. L. Bessonov, S. V. Valchuk, V. M. Kamnev, E. S. Lebedeva and Yu V. Stennik. Books are distinguished not only by their scientific conscientiousness, but also by the delicacy, rare for our time, in handling epistolary, memoirs and other sources.
The position of the creators of the series was remarkably expressed by Doctor of Philology Natalya Vladimirovna Volodina in her book about the Maykovs: “Interpreting someone else's fate is a special responsibility. The defenselessness of people who have gone into oblivion obliges us to be extremely delicate and careful when explaining facts and deciphering subtexts, makes us feel that invisible border that cannot be crossed.
Alas, in ten years only five books were published: The Aksakovs, The Mukhanovs, The Botkins, The Tyutchevs, The Maikovs. Books in the series, which, according to its design, are addressed to the widest readership, are published in circulation from a thousand to two thousand copies. It's almost impossible to find them in bookstores.
In Russia there is a "Year of the Family" ......
Once, sitting at the window, I heard some plaintive screeching in the garden.
Mother also heard him, and when I began to ask to be sent to see who was crying, that “it’s true, someone is hurting,” mother sent the girl, and in a few minutes she brought in her handfuls a tiny, still blind puppy, who, trembling and resting unsteadily on his crooked paws, poking his head in all directions, squealing plaintively, or bored, as my nanny put it.
I felt so sorry for him that I took this puppy and wrapped him in my dress.
The mother ordered warm milk to be brought on a saucer, and after many attempts, pushing the blind kitten into the milk with her stigma, taught him to lap.
Since then, the puppy has not parted with me for hours. Feeding him several times a day has become my favorite pastime.
They named him Surka.
He later became a little cur and lived with us for seventeen years, of course, no longer in the room, but in the yard, always retaining an unusual attachment to me and to my mother.
Noticing the nest of some bird, most often the dawn or redstart, we each time went to see how the mother sits on the eggs.
Sometimes, by negligence, we frightened her away from the nest, and then, carefully parting the thorny branches of the barberry or gooseberry, we looked at how small, small, motley eggs lay in the nest.
It sometimes happened that the mother, bored with our curiosity, abandoned the nest; then we, seeing that for several days the bird was not in the nest and that it did not scream and spin around us, as it always happened, took out the testicles or the whole nest and took them to our room, believing that we were the legal owners of the dwelling left by the mother .
When the bird safely, despite our interference, hatched its testicles and we suddenly found instead of them naked cubs, with a mournful quiet squeak, constantly opening huge mouths, we saw how the mother flew in and fed them flies and worms ... My God, what we had joy!
We never stopped watching how the little birds grew, feathered, and finally left their nest.
The Rooks Have Arrived
The days have increased considerably. The sun's rays became brighter, straighter, and it warms strongly at noon. The white veil of snow darkened in stripes, and the roads turned black. Water appeared on the streets ...
The migratory bird begins to show itself little by little. The rooks, the destroyers of tall old trees, the beauty of gardens and parks, were the first to fly in and occupy their ordinary summer apartments, the best birch and aspen groves. Caring owners have already begun to straighten their old nests with new materials, breaking the upper shoots of tree branches with strong whitish noses. Their loud, tiresome cry is heard far away, when in the evening, after the day's work, they sit down with the whole cathedral, always in pairs, and as if they begin to deliberate about the future life.
Sergei Timofeevich Aksakov came from an old but poor noble family. His father Timofei Stepanovich Aksakov was a provincial official. Mother - Maria Nikolaevna Aksakova, nee Zubova, was a very educated woman for her time. Sergei Timofeevich Aksakov came from an old but poor noble family. His father Timofei Stepanovich Aksakov was a provincial official. Mother - Maria Nikolaevna Aksakova, nee Zubova, was a very educated woman for her time.
Aksakov's childhood passed in Ufa and Aksakov's childhood passed in Ufa and in the Novo-Aksakovo estate, among the steppe nature. in the Novo-Aksakovo estate, among the steppe nature. Pelageya played an important role in the upbringing of the future writer, who played the role of housekeeper and storyteller in the house. Pelageya played an important role in the upbringing of the future writer, who played the role of housekeeper and storyteller in the house.
At the age of 8, in 1801, Aksakov was assigned to the Kazan gymnasium. In 1804, thirteen-year-old Sergei Aksakov was among the 40 most capable gymnasium students. At the age of 8, in 1801, Aksakov was assigned to the Kazan gymnasium. In 1804, thirteen-year-old Sergei Aksakov became a student among the 40 most capable gymnasium students. Kazan University. During his studies, he began to show literary interests and abilities. becomes a student. Kazan University. During his studies, he began to show literary interests and abilities.
In 1821 his literary activity began. But there was no time for creativity, I had to earn a living. Aksakov was forced to serve as an inspector of the Land Surveying School. In 1821, his literary activity began. But there was no time for creativity, I had to earn a living. Aksakov was forced to serve as an inspector at the Land Surveying School, and later became its director. and later became its director.
After the death of his father, Sergei Timofeevich Aksakov received an inheritance and retired. He bought the Abramtsevo estate near Moscow and turned it into a kind of house - a museum of Russian culture. It was often visited by writers, artists and actors. After the death of his father, Sergei Timofeevich Aksakov received an inheritance and retired. He bought the Abramtsevo estate near Moscow and turned it into a kind of house - a museum of Russian culture. It was often visited by writers, artists and actors.
In Abramtsevo Aksakov wrote books about nature. Memories of childhood formed the basis of the autobiographical story "Family Chronicle" and the book "Childhood of Bagrov - the grandson." In Abramtsevo Aksakov wrote books about nature. Memories of childhood formed the basis of the autobiographical story "Family Chronicle" and the book "Childhood of Bagrov - the grandson."
Let's remember the story! 1. Name the main character of the fairy tale. 1. Name the main character of the fairy tale. 2. Why did the merchant love the younger daughter more? 2. Why did the merchant love the younger daughter more? 3. What gifts did the merchant ask his daughter to bring? 3. What gifts did the merchant ask his daughter to bring? 4. What miracles happened to the merchant in the palace? 4. What miracles happened to the merchant in the palace? 5. How did the merchant meet the monster? 5. How did the merchant meet the monster? 6. What happened in the merchant's house after his return? 6. What happened in the merchant's house after his return?
7. How did the merchant's daughter live in the forest monster's palace? 7. How did the merchant's daughter live in the forest monster's palace? 8. Why did the monster refuse to show itself to the girl's eyes? 8. Why did the monster refuse to show itself to the girl's eyes? 9. How did the merchant's daughter meet her father and sisters? Why did the sisters want to detain her? 9. How did the merchant's daughter meet her father and sisters? Why did the sisters want to detain her? 10. What happened to the monster because the merchant's daughter was late? 10. What happened to the monster because the merchant's daughter was late? 11. Why did the merchant's daughter of the beast of the forest love the miracle of the sea? 11. Why did the merchant's daughter of the beast of the forest love the miracle of the sea? 12. What does this tale teach? 12. What does this tale teach?
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