T averchenko biography. Writer Averchenko Arkady Timofeevich: biography, features of creativity and interesting facts

BASIC DATES OF LIFE AND CREATIVITY 1856, August 27 - In the village of Naguevichi, Drohobych district, Ivan Yakovlevich Franko was born into the family of a rural blacksmith. 1864-1867 - He studies (from the second grade) in a normal four-year school of the Basilian Order in the city of Drohobych. 1865, in the spring - Died

A. T. Averchenko's creativity

Traditions of Russian satire in prose by Arkady Averchenko

The purpose of the lesson: to present the work of A. T. Averchenko (1881-1925) from the point of view of continuing the traditions of Russian literature.

Methodological techniques: reviewing, discussion of essays; teacher's story; text analysis, student report.

During the classes

I... Reading and discussion of 2-3 compositions on the works of Bunin and Kuprin

II. Teacher's word

The idea of ​​a literary situation can never be complete without its humorous and satirical pages. At the beginning of the century, the aged and bored "Strekoza", in which the young Chekhov was once published, in 1908 was transformed by a group of young employees of this magazine into a new magazine - "Satyricon". Over time (since 1913) it modernized its name, becoming the "New Satyricon", but continued to unite remarkable artistic forces. Artists Re-Mi (N. Remizov), L. Bakst, I. Bilibin, M. Dobuzhinsky, A. Benois, N. Altman collaborated in this magazine, talented and witty writers - Sasha Cherny, S. Gorodetsky, Teffi (Lokhvitskaya) , A. Averchenko. A. Kuprin, L. Andreev, A. Tolstoy, A. Green were published in "Satyricon". The highlight of each issue was the works of Arkady Averchenko. Under funny pseudonyms (Medusa Gorgona, Falstaff, Foma Opiskin), he appeared with editorials and topical feuilletons, wrote about the theater, about musical evenings, about art exhibitions, and only signed stories with his last name.

Averchenko is a master of humorous storytelling. The best of them, rather, belong to the satirical genre.

III. Conversation on the stories of Averchenko

Issues for discussion:

- What traditions of Russian literature does Averchenko continue?

- What associations arise when reading his stories?

1. The story "Victor Polikarpovich".

The beginning of the story "Viktor Polikarpovich" is a reminiscence of Gogol's "Inspector General": "An audit came to one city ... The chief auditor was a stern, straightforward, fair person with a loud, imperious voice and decisive actions that awe everyone around."

(Reference: reminiscence- designation of features in a work of art that evoke the memory of another work by using characteristic images, speech patterns, rhythmic and syntactic moves. Reminiscence resembles the creative manner, motives and themes of an author and is designed for the associative perception of the reader). The plot of the story is reminiscent of the plot of Gogol's play: “the inhabitants of the city complained about the policeman Dymba, who illegally and incorrectly collected from them three hundred rubles of“ port tax for sea improvement ”. This collection was, of course, an ordinary bribe. Gogol's town is located in such a wilderness, from which "if you ride for three years, you won't reach any state." For Averchenko: "The nearest sea is six hundred miles across two provinces." A modern auditor is a real one, he gradually "brings to clean water" officials - higher and higher in rank - on whose order this "port dues" was collected. We already see his adherence to principles and incorruptibility, his determination to find the truth and punish the culprit. Finally it turns out that the official from St. Petersburg, who "developed" the project of the sea tax, is Viktor Polikarpovich himself. The zeal of the inspector immediately fades away, and the "switchman" is punished - one policeman Dymba, and even then "for smoking while on duty."

2. The Robinson's story.

The story "Robinsons" depicts the former spy Akatsiev, on the heels of the intellectual Narymsky and calculating which rules, instructions and laws he violated. The situation was borrowed by Averchenko from Saltykov-Shchedrin: the heroes find themselves on a desert island. The conditionality of the position emphasizes its absurdity. Akatsiev saves the drowning Narymsky only because he counted about one hundred and ten thousand violations, for which “upon returning to Russia” Narymsky will have to pay fines “or sit for about one and a half years”.

3. The story "The Poet".

The style of many of Averchenko's stories resembles Chekhov's style - laconic, witty, well-aimed. Like Chekhov, Averchenko makes fun of stupidity, vulgarity, mediocrity. Averchenko is Chekhov's inventive in terms of plots, sometimes he builds them almost "out of nothing." For example, in the story "The Poet", cheap cliches are made fun of, which are passed off as creativity. An annoying and impudent visitor pursues the editor, offering his verses. It becomes a kind of obsession. The graphomaniac slips his "creation" ("I wish I had a black curl for her / Every morning to scratch ...") into a book, into his coat pocket, and sends it in a letter. The editor discovers the "poems" in his shoes, in the cigar drawer, in the pillow, and even at dinner - inside a cold chicken. Unable to resist, he writes a letter to the publisher asking for release from editorial duties, and on the back of the sheet he habitually finds all the same lines.

4. The story “Mermaid.

Another story has a similar theme - "Mermaid". The story is also about the poet. The author makes fun of romanticism divorced from life, parodies modernist delights. Poet Pelikanov, dreamed of meeting a real mermaid, expresses himself in cliches: "silvered moonlit river", "silent molyba", "sad eyes ... like stars" Artist Krantz comes up with a story on the move, somewhat reminiscent of both style and style of Kuprin “Olesya”: “Once in the summer I was hunting ... Actually, what kind of hunting? So, I wandered with a gun. I love loneliness. And so, wandering in this way, one warm summer evening I came across an abandoned fishing house on the banks of the river ... "The sublime vocabulary of the romantic principle (" beautiful silence, desolation and loneliness " "Schiller, Pushkin and Dostoevsky" - the hero reads them) contrasts with the subdued, harsh words of the beautiful "mermaid" she got from the fishermen.

Her "sad eyes" and "coral lips" seduce the hero for a short time. At first he is frightened off by the smell of fish (“I would never kiss a perch or crucian carp”), then the manners: “she ate the minnows whole, with their heads and entrails,” she combed her hair with a piece of “fish ridge with bones, in the form of teeth of a ridge, and on some fish meat has not been eaten with these teeth ”. Finally, the hero, with relief, pushes his "beautiful captive" back into the water. This story instantly cures the poet Pelikanov's romantic rubbish: “Perhaps I'll go home. It’s a little damp these days. ”

5. Results of the discussion.

He continued the traditions of Russian satire, Russian literature - Gogol, Saltykov-Shchedrin, Chekhov, Kuprin, - Averchenko is relevant not only for his time, but also for ours: the objects of satire did not disappear, they only slightly transformed.

III... We listen to the report (or essay) of a previously prepared student on political satire Averchenko ("A dozen knives in the back of the revolution").

IV... Questions about the work of A. T. Averchenko (questions can be used as individual tasks on the cards)

- What is the name of the satirical magazine "Strekoza" since 1913?

- Under what pseudonyms did Arkady Averchenko write?

- Where do you see the development of Gogol traditions in the story of A. T. Averchenko "Victor Polikarpovich"?

- What Chekhovian traditions are continued by A. T. Averchenko?

- What is the subject of AT Averchenko's satire? Give examples.

- What satirical techniques does A. T. Averchenko use in his stories?

- What are the political convictions of A. T. Averchenko? How were they reflected in his work?

- Where do you see the relevance of A. T. Averchenko's work?

The book includes the best humorous stories of the largest emigrant writers of the early XX century. They are related by faith in life and love for Russia. For senior school age.

A series: School Library (Children's Literature)

* * *

company liters.

Arkady Averchenko

Dedicated to A. Ya.Sadovskaya

The Royal Garden was open at this time of the day, and the young writer Ave entered it without hindrance. After wandering a little along the sandy paths, he lazily sank down on a bench, on which an elderly gentleman with a friendly face was already sitting.

The elderly friendly gentleman turned to Ave and after some hesitation asked:

- Who are you?

- I AM? Ave. Writer.

“A good profession,” the stranger smiled approvingly. - Interesting and honorable.

- Who are you? Asked the simple-minded Ave.

- Me? Yes the king.

- This country?

- Of course. And then what ...

In turn, Ave said no less sympathetically:

- Also a good profession. Interesting and honorable.

“Oh, don’t tell me,” the king sighed. - Honorable, she is honorable, but there is nothing interesting in her. I have to tell you, young man, the reign is not as honey as many think.

Ave threw up his hands and cried out in amazement:

- It's even amazing! I have not met a single person who was satisfied with their lot.

- Are you satisfied? - the king squinted ironically.

- Not really. Sometimes a critic scolds you so much that you want to cry.

- You see! For you, there are no more than a dozen or two critics, and I have millions of critics.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t be afraid of any criticism,” Ave objected thoughtfully and, shaking his head, added with the posture of a well-worn experienced king. “It's all about making good laws.

The king waved his hand:

- Nothing will come of it! It's no use anyway.

- Have you tried it?

- I tried it.

- I would be in your place ...

- Eh, in my place! Cried the old king nervously. “I have known many kings who were passable writers, but I don’t know a single writer who was even a third-rate, last-class, king. If I were in my place ... I would put you in prison for a week, I would see what would come of you ...

- Where ... would you put it? The detailed Ave asked cautiously.

- To its place!

- A! In its place ... Is it possible?

- From what! At least in order to do this, so that we, kings, are less envious ... so that they criticize us, kings, less and more severely!

Ave said modestly:

- Well, well ... I think I'll try. I just have to warn you: this happens to me to do this for the first time, and if I'm not used to seem a little ... um ... funny - do not blame me.

“Nothing,” the king smiled good-naturedly. “I don’t think you’ve done a lot of stupid things in a week… So, do you want to?”

- I'll try. By the way, I have one small but very nice law in my head. Today it could be made public.

- With God! - the king nodded his head. - Let's go to the palace. And for me, by the way, it will be a week of rest. What is this law? Not a secret?

- Today, walking down the street, I saw a blind old man ... He walked, feeling with his hands and a stick at home, and every minute he risked falling under the wheels of carriages. And no one cared about him ... I would like to issue a law according to which the city police should take part in blind passers-by. A policeman, noticing a walking blind man, is obliged to take him by the hand and carefully escort him home, guarding him from carriages, pits and potholes. Do you like my law?

“You are a kind guy,” the king smiled tiredly. - God help you. I'll go to sleep.

- Poor blind men ...

For three days the modest writer Ave. We must give him justice - he did not use his power and the advantage of his position. Any other person in his place would have put critics and other writers in jail, and the population would have been obliged to buy only their own books - and at least one book per day per person, instead of morning rolls ...

Ave resisted the temptation to pass such a law. He made his debut, as he had promised the king, "by the law on seeing off blind people by policemen and on protecting the latter from the destructive action of external forces, such as carriages, horses, pits, and so on."

One day (it was on the fourth day in the morning) Ave stood in his royal office by the window and absentmindedly looked out into the street.

Suddenly his attention was attracted by a strange sight: two policemen were dragging a passer-by by the collar, and a third kicked him from behind.

With youthful agility, Ave ran out of the office, flew down the stairs, and a minute later found himself on the street.

- Where are you taking him? What are you hitting for? What did this person do? How many people did he kill?

“He didn’t do anything,” the policeman replied.

- Why are you driving him and where are you driving him?

- Why, he, your grace, is blind. We are dragging him to the police station according to the law.

- According to law? Is there really such a law?

- And how! Three days ago, it was promulgated and entered into force.

Ave, shocked, grabbed his head and yelped:

- My law ?!

Behind, some respectable passer-by muttered a curse and said:

- Well, laws are being issued today! What are they just thinking about? What do they want?

- Yes, - another voice supported, - a clever little tip: "To grab any blind man seen on the street by the collar and drag him to the police station, rewarding him with kicks and mallets along the way." Very clever! Extremely kind !! Amazing care !!

As a whirlwind flew Ave into his royal office and shouted:

- Minister here! Find him and invite him to the office right now !! I have to investigate the case myself!

Upon investigation, the mysterious case with the law "On the protection of the blind from external forces" was clarified.

This was the case.

On the first day of his reign, Ave called the minister and told him:

- It is necessary to issue a law "On the caring attitude of policemen to the blind passers-by, on seeing them home and on protecting the latter from the destructive action of external forces, such as carriages, horses, pits, etc."

The minister bowed and left. Now he summoned the governor of the city and said to him:

- Declare the law: do not allow the blind to walk the streets without escorts, and if there are none, then replace them with policemen, whose duties should be the delivery to the destination.

Leaving the minister, the head of the city invited the chief of police to his place and ordered:

- There are blind people around the city, they say, they walk without escorts. Do not allow this! Let your policemen take the lonely blind men by the hand and lead them where they need to go.

- Yes, sir.

The chief of police summoned the chiefs of the units on the same day and told them:

- That's what, gentlemen. We were informed of a new law, according to which any blind man who is seen walking along the street without a guide is taken by the police and taken to where he should be. Got it?

- That's right, Mr. Chief!

The unit chiefs dispersed to their places and, calling the police sergeants, said:

- Gentlemen! Explain to the policemen the new law: "Any blind man who staggers about uselessly through the streets, interfering with carriage and foot traffic, should be grabbed and dragged where he should be."

- What do you mean "where to go"? - the sergeants asked each other later.

- Probably to the station. On the spot ... Where else ...

- Probably so.

- Guys! - said the sergeants, bypassing the policemen. - If you see blind men wandering the streets, grab these canals by the collar and drag them to the station !!

- And if they don't want to go to the station?

- How do they not want to? A couple of good cuffs, a crack, a strong kick from behind - I suppose they will run!

Having clarified the case "about protecting the blind from outside influences", Ave sat down at his luxurious royal table and began to cry.

A hand gently laid on his head.

- Well? Didn't I say, when I first learned about the law of the "protection of the blind," - "poor blind people!" See, in this whole story, the poor blind have lost, and I have won.

- What have you won? Ave asked, looking for his hat.

- But how? One less critic of mine. Goodbye honey. If you still decide to carry out some kind of reform - come on in.

"Wait!" - thought Ave and, jumping over ten steps of the magnificent royal staircase, ran away.

Fatal win

What makes me angry is that some grumble reader, after reading the following, will make a repulsive grimace on his face and say in a disgusting, peremptory tone:

- There cannot be such an event in life!

And I tell you that there may be such a case in life!

The reader is, of course, able to ask:

- And how will you prove it?

How can I prove it? How can I prove that such a case is possible? Oh my goodness! It's very simple: such a case is possible because it actually happened.

Hopefully no other proof is needed?

Looking straight and honestly into the eyes of the reader, I categorically affirm: such an incident actually took place in August in one of the small southern towns! Well?

And what is so unusual about it? They are settling down. Is a live cow being played as the main bait in these lotteries? Is played out. Can anyone who bought a ticket for a quarter win this cow? Maybe!

So that is all. The cow is the key to the piece of music. It is clear that the whole play should be played out in this vein, or neither I nor the reader understand anything about music.

In the city garden, stretching over a wide river, on the occasion of the patron saint, “a large folk festival with two orchestras of music, agility competitions (running in sacks, running with an egg, etc.), and a lottery will be offered to the attention of the responsive public -allegri with many grandiose prizes, including a live cow, a gramophone and a cupronickel samovar. "

The party was a resounding success, and the lottery was in full swing.

The clerk of the office of the starch factory Yenya Plintusov and the dream of his half-starved wretched life Nastya Semerykh came to the garden in the midst of fun. Several city fools have already run past them, their legs tangled in flour sacks tied above the waist, which, in general, should have signified a passion for the noble sport industry - "running in sacks". Already a party of other city fools swept past them, blindfolded, holding a spoon with a raw egg on outstretched hand (another branch of sports: "running with an egg"); brilliant fireworks have already been burned; already half of the lottery tickets have been sold out ...

And suddenly Nastya pressed the elbow of her companion to her elbow and said:

- Why, Yenya, should we try the lottery ... Suddenly we'll win something!

Knight Yenya did not contradict.

- Nastya! - he said. - Your desire is a form of law for me!

And rushed to the lottery wheel.

With the air of Rothschild, he threw the penultimate fifty-kopeck piece, returned and, holding out two tickets rolled into a tube, offered:

- Take your pick. One of them is mine, the other is yours.

Nastya, after a long thought, chose one, turned it around, muttered disappointedly: "Empty!" - and threw him to the ground, and Yenya Plintusov, on the contrary, uttered a joyful cry: "I won!"

And then he whispered, looking at Nastya with loving eyes:

- If a mirror or perfume - I give them to you.

After that, he turned to the kiosk and asked:

- Young lady! Number fourteen - what is it?

- Fourteen? Excuse me ... It's a cow! You won the cow.

And everyone began to congratulate the happy Yenya, and Yenya felt here that there really are moments in the life of every person that are not forgotten, which then shine for a long, long time with a bright, beautiful beacon, brightening up the dark, dull human path.

And - such is the terrible effect of wealth and fame - even Nastya faded in the eyes of Yenya, and it occurred to him that another girl - not like Nastya - could decorate his magnificent life.

“Tell me,” Yenya asked when the storm of enthusiasm and general envy subsided. - Can I pick up my cow now?

- Please. Maybe you want to sell it? We would have taken it back for twenty-five rubles.

Yenya laughed furiously.

- So-so! You yourself write that “a cow worth over one hundred and fifty rubles,” but you yourself offer twenty-five? ... No, sir, you know ... Let me have my cow, and no more!

In one hand he took a rope stretching from the horns of a cow, with the other hand he grabbed Nastya by the elbow and, beaming and trembling with delight, said:

- Come on, Nastenka, home, we have nothing else to do here ...

The company of the brooding cow shocked Nastya a little, and she timidly noticed:

"Are you really going to be so ... dragging around with her?"

- And why? An animal like an animal; and there is no one to leave her here with!

Yenya Plintusov, even to a weak degree, did not have a sense of humor. Therefore, for a single minute he did not feel all the absurdity of the group emerging from the gates of the city garden: Yenya, Nastya, a cow.

On the contrary, he drew broad, tempting prospects of wealth, and the image of Nastya grew dim and dim ...

Nastya, frowning her brows, looked inquiringly at Yenya, and her lower lip trembled ...

- Listen, Yenya ... So you won't take me home?

- I will. Why not accompany you?

- A ... a cow ??

- What is the cow stopping us with?

- And you imagine that I will go through the whole city with such a funeral procession? Yes, my friends will laugh at me, the boys on our street will not give a pass !!

- Well, well ... - after some hesitation, Yenya said, - let's get on a cab. I still have thirty kopecks left.

- A ... a cow?

- And we will tie the cow behind.

Nastya flushed.

- I do not know at all: for whom do you take me? You would also invite me to sit astride your cow!

- Do you think this is very witty? - Enya asked haughtily. - In general, it surprises me: your father has four cows, and you are even afraid of one, like the devil.

- And you could not leave her in the garden until tomorrow, or what? Would they have stolen her, or what? What a treasure, just think ...

- Whatever, - Yenya shrugged his shoulders, secretly extremely wounded. - If you don't like my cow ...

- So you don't see me off?

- Where am I going to take a cow? You can't hide it in your pocket! ..

- Ah well? And it is not necessary. And I'll get there alone. Don't you dare come to us tomorrow.

- Please, - offended Yenya bowed his head. - And the day after tomorrow I will not come to you, and generally I can not go, if so ...

- Fortunately, we have found a suitable company!

And, having struck Yenya with this murderous sarcasm, the poor girl walked down the street, her head lowered and feeling that her heart was broken forever.

Yenya looked after the retreating Nastya for a few moments.

Then I woke up ...

- Hey, you, cow ... Well, let's go, brother.

While Yenya and the cow walked along the dark street adjacent to the garden, everything was bearable, but as soon as they reached the illuminated, crowded Noble, Yenya felt a certain awkwardness. Passers-by looked at him with some amazement, and one boy was so delighted that he screamed wildly and announced to the whole street:

- The cow's son is leading his mother to sleep!

“Here I’m going to kick you in the face, so you’ll know,” Yenya said sternly.

- Come on, give it! You will get such change, that who will take you away from me?

It was sheer bravado, but the boy did not risk anything, for Yenya could not let go of the ropes, and the cow moved with extreme slowness.

On half of Dvoryanskaya Street, Yenya could no longer bear the dumbfounded look of passers-by. He came up with the following: he threw the rope and, having kicked the cow, gave it a forward motion. The cow walked on its own, and Yenya, with a scattered mine, walked to the side, assuming the form of an ordinary passer-by who had nothing to do with the cow ...

When the forward movement of the cow weakened and she froze peacefully at someone's windows, Yenya again secretly kicked her, and the cow obediently wandered on ...

Here is Yenin street. Here is the little house in which Yenya rented a room from the carpenter ... And suddenly, like lightning in the darkness, the thought illuminated Yenya's head: "Where am I going to give the cow now?"

There was no shed for her. Tying in the yard - they can steal, especially since the gate is not locked.

“This is what I’ll do,” Yenya decided after a long and tense reflection. - I will slowly bring her into my room, and tomorrow we will arrange all this. Maybe she can stand in the room for one night ...

The happy owner of the cow quietly opened the door to the passage and carefully pulled the melancholic animal behind him:

- Hey, you! Come here, or something ... Yes, hush! Damn it! The owners are asleep, and she knocks with her hooves like a horse.

Maybe the whole world would find this act of Yeni amazing, absurd and unlike anything else. The whole world, except for Yenya himself and, perhaps, the cow, because Yenya felt that there was no other way out, and the cow was completely indifferent to the change in her fate and to her new place of residence.

Introduced into the room, she stopped apathetically at Yenya's bed and immediately began to chew the corner of the pillow.

- Ksh! Look, damn you - she's gnawing on a pillow! What are you ... there, maybe you want? or drink?

Yenya poured water into a basin and slipped it under the very face of the cow. Then, stealthily, he went out into the yard, broke off several branches from the trees and, returning, carefully put them in a basin ...

- No misters! How are you ... Vaska! Eat! Tubo!

The cow thrust its muzzle into a basin, licked a branch with its tongue, and suddenly, raising its head, moaned rather thickly and loudly.

- Fuck you, damned! - gasped confused Yenya. - Be quiet, so that you ... That's anathema! ..

The door creaked softly behind Yeni. A naked man, wrapped in a blanket, looked into the room, and, seeing everything that was happening in the room, stepped back with a quiet cry of horror.

- Is that you, Ivan Nazarych? - asked Yenya in a whisper. - Come in, do not be afraid ... I have a cow.

- Yenya, are you crazy, or what? Where did you get it from?

- Won the lottery. Eat, Vaska, eat! .. Tubo!

- But how can you keep a cow in a room? - The tenant remarked with displeasure, sitting down on the bed. - The owners will find out - they will be kicked out of the apartment.

- So it's until tomorrow only. We'll spend the night, and then we'll do something with her.

"M-mm-mu-y!" - roared the cow, as if agreeing with the owner.

- Oh, no, I will not calm down on you, damn it !! Shit! Give me a blanket, Ivan Nazarych, I'll wrap her head. Wait! Well, you! What am I going to do with her - the blanket is chewing! Ooh, damn it!

Yenya threw back the blanket and grabbed the cow between the eyes with all his strength with his fist.

"M-mmu-oo-oo! .."

- By God, - said the tenant, - the owner will come and drive you away with the cow.

- So what should I do ?! - Yenya moaned, falling into some despair. - Well, advise.

- But what is there to advise ... What if she screams all night. You know what? Slice it.

- So ... how to kill it?

- It's very simple. And tomorrow the meat can be sold to the butchers.

It could be said with certainty that the guest's thinking ability was at best on par with the host's thinking ability.

Yenya looked blankly at the tenant and said after some hesitation:

- And what is my calculation?

- Well, of course! There are twenty poods of meat in it ... Sell five rubles a pood - and then a hundred rubles. Yes, the skin, yes, yes, behold ... But for a living you will still not be given more.

- Seriously? And what am I going to cut her with? There is a table knife, and that one is dull. There are still scissors - nothing more.

- Well, if you stick a pair of scissors in her eye to get to the brain ...

- What if she ... starts to defend herself ... She raises a cry ...

- Let's put it right. Maybe poison her if ...

- Well, you will also say ... She should have rolled in the sleeping powder so that she fell asleep, but where will you get it from now? ...

"Moo-oo-oo-oo! .." the cow roared, looking at the ceiling with stupid round eyes.

There was a scuffle behind the wall. Someone growled, cursed, spat out of sleep. Then the shuffling of bare feet was heard, the door to Yenya's room swung open, and a sleepy, disheveled owner appeared in front of the confused Yenya.

He looked at the cow, at Yenya, gritted his teeth and, without going into any questions, dropped a strong and short:

- Let me explain to you, Alexey Fomich ...

- Get out! So that your spirit is not there right now. I'll show you how to turn a mess!

- That is what I told you, - said the tenant in such a tone as if everything was arranged as it should; wrapped himself in his blanket and went to bed.

It was a dull, dark summer night when Yenya found himself on the street with a cow, a suitcase, and a blanket with a pillow, loaded onto the cow (the first tactile benefit that Yenya could get from this unfortunate win).

- Well, you damned! - said Yenya in a sleepy voice. - Go or something! Don't stand here ...

We walked quietly ...

Little houses on the outskirts ended, a desert steppe stretched out, bounded on one side by some kind of wicker fence.

- Warmth, in essence, - Yenya muttered, feeling that he was collapsing from fatigue. “I’ll sleep here by the fence, and tie the cow to my arm.”

And Yenya fell asleep - this is an amazing playground of an intricate fate.

- Hey sir! - someone's voice rang out above him.

It was a bright, sunny morning.

Yenya opened his eyes and stretched.

- Master! - said the little man, wiggling his toe of his boot. - How is it possible to tie your hand to a tree. What is this for?

With a start, Yenya jumped to his feet, stung, and uttered a painful cry: the other end of the rope tied to his hand was tightly attached to a short, gnarled tree.

A superstitious person would have assumed that during the night the cow turned into a tree by a miraculous power, but Yenya was just a stupidly practical young man.

Sobbed and yelled:

- Stole !!

- Wait, - said the district bailiff. - What are you all telling me - they stole and stole, a cow and a cow ... And what kind of cow?

- How is it? Ordinary.

- But what suit?

- Such, you know ... brown. But there are, of course, white spots.

- The muzzle seems to be white. Or not! White on the side ... On the back too ... The tail is like that too ... pale. Actually, you know what cows usually are.

- No with! - said the bailiff decisively, pushing the paper aside. “I cannot search for such confused omens. There are not many cows in the world!

And poor Yenya wandered off to his starch factory ... His whole body ached from an uncomfortable overnight stay, and ahead of him was a reprimand from the accountant, since it was already the first hour of the day ...

And Yenya pondered over the futility of everything earthly: yesterday Yenya had everything: a cow, a dwelling and a beloved girl, but today everything is lost: both the cow, and the dwelling, and the beloved girl.

Strange jokes life jokes on us, and we are all its blind, obedient slaves.

Robber

From the side street, near the garden gate, a pink, young face looked at me through our fence - black eyes did not blink, and the antennae moved amusingly.

I asked:

- What do you want?

He grinned.

- Actually, nothing.

“This is our garden,” I hinted delicately.

“You’re the boy here, then?”

- Yes. And what is it?

- Well, how is your health? How are you doing?

There was nothing a stranger could flatter me more than with these questions. I immediately felt like an adult with whom they were having serious conversations.

“Thank you,” I said gravely, digging the sand of the garden path with my foot. - Something breaks in the lower back. To rain, or something! ..

It came out great. Just like my aunt's.

- Hello, brother! Now tell me this: you seem to have a sister?

- How do you know that?

- Well, of course ... Every decent boy should have a sister.

“But Motka Naronovich doesn't have it,” I objected.

- So Motka is really a decent boy? The stranger deftly retorted. - You're much better.

I didn’t remain in debt:

- You have a beautiful hat.

- Aha! It took a bite!

- What are you saying?

- I say: can you imagine a person who would jump from this tall wall into the garden?

- Well, that, brother, is impossible.

“So know, O young man, that I undertake to do this. Check this out!

If the stranger had not transferred the matter to the realm of pure sport, for which I have always felt a kind of morbid passion, I might have protested against such an unceremonious invasion of our garden.

But sport is a sacred cause.

- Gop! - And the young man, jumping to the top of the wall, like a bird, sprang up to me from a five-yard height.

It was so out of my reach that I did not even envy.

- Well, hello, boy. What is your sister doing? Her name seems to be Liza?

- How do you know?

“I can see it in your eyes.

It amazed me. I closed my eyes tightly and said:

- And now?

The experiment was a success, because the stranger, turning fruitlessly, confessed:

- Now I don’t see. Since your eyes are closed, you yourself, brother, do you understand ... What are you playing here, in the garden?

- In the garden? Into the house.

- Well? That's clever! Show me your house.

I trustingly led the nimble young man to my construction of nanny shawls, a reed stick and several boards, but suddenly some kind of inner impulse stopped me ...

“Oh my God,” I thought. - What if it's some kind of thief who planned to rob my house, take away everything that was accumulated with such difficulty and hardship: a live turtle in a box, an umbrella handle in the form of a dog's head, a jar of jam, a reed stick and a paper folding Lantern?"

- Why do you need this? I asked gloomily. - I'd rather go and ask my mother if I can show you.

He quickly, with some fear, grabbed my hand.

- Well, don't, don't! Don't leave me ... Better not to show your house, just don't go to your mother.

- Why?

- I will be bored without you.

- So you came to me?

- Of course! What a weirdo! And you still doubted ... Is Sister Lisa at home now?

- Houses. And what?

- Nothing, nothing. What is this wall? Your house?

- Yes ... That window is my father's office.

- I don’t want to. What are we going to do there?

- I'll tell you something ...

- Can you solve riddles?

- As much as you like! Such riddles that you will gasp.

- Difficult?

- Yes, such that even Liza will not guess. Doesn't she have anyone now?

- Nobody. But guess the riddle, - I suggested, leading him by the hand into a secluded corner of the garden. - "There are two beers in one barrel - yellow and white." What it is?

- Hm! - said the young man thoughtfully. - That's a thing! Will it be an egg?

On my face, he clearly saw the displeasure of disappointment: I was not used to my riddles being solved so easily.

“Well, nothing,” the stranger reassured me. - Tell me another riddle, maybe I won't guess.

- Well, guess: "Seventy clothes and all without fasteners."

He wrinkled his brow and sank into thought.

- No, sir, not a fur coat! ..

- Dog?

- Why a dog? - I was surprised at his stupidity. - Where is the dog's seventy clothes?

- Well, if she, - said the young man, embarrassed, - in seventy skins will be sewn up.

- For what? - I interrogated mercilessly, smiling.

- Well, you, brother, did not guess!

After that, he spoke the most complete nonsense, which gave me deep pleasure.

- Bike? Sea? Umbrella? Rain?

- Oh you! I said condescendingly. - It's a head of cabbage.

- But in fact! The young man shouted enthusiastically. - It is wonderful! And as I did not guess earlier. And I think: the sea? No, not the sea ... An umbrella? No, it doesn't look like it. Here is Liza's clever brother! By the way, she's in her room now, isn't she?

- In my room.

- One. Well, what are you ... A riddle?

- Aha! A riddle? Hm ... What, brother, is your riddle? Is this: "Two rings, two ends, and a carnation in the middle."

I looked with regret at my interlocutor: the riddle was the most vulgar, elementary, well-worn and hackneyed.

But my inner delicacy told me not to guess it right away.

- What is it? ... - I said thoughtfully. - Hanger?

“What a hanger, if there are carnations in the middle,” he said listlessly, thinking of something else.

- Well, they nailed her to the wall to hold on.

- And the two ends? Where are they?

- Crutches? - I asked slyly and suddenly shouted with unbearable pride: - Scissors! ..

- Damn it! I guessed it! What a dodger you are! Would Sister Lisa guess this riddle?

- I think I would have guessed. She is very smart.

- And beautiful, add. By the way, does she have any acquaintances?

- There is. Elsa Liebknecht, Milochka Odintsova, Nadia ...

- No, but there are men?

- There is. One here comes to us.

- Why does he go?

In thought, I lowered my head, and my gaze fell on the stranger's dandy patent leather boots.

I was delighted.

- How much are?

- Fifteen rubles. Why does he walk, huh? What does he want?

- He seems to want to marry Lisa. It's time for him, he's old. Are these bows being tied or have they already been bought?

- Tied up. Well, does Lisa want to marry him?

- Bend your leg ... Why don't they creak? So they are not new, - I said critically. - The coachman Matvey had new ones, I suppose they creaked. You would have smeared them with something.

- Okay, I'll grease it. Tell me, boy, does Liza want to marry him?

I shrugged my shoulders.

- But how! Of course I do.

He took his head and leaned back on the bench.

- What are you doing?

- My head hurts.

Disease was the only topic on which I could speak solidly.

- Nothing ... Not to live with your head, but with kind people.

He obviously liked this nanny's saying.

- Perhaps you are right, thoughtful young man. So you're saying that Lisa wants to marry him?

I was surprised:

- How else? How can you not want here! Have you never seen a wedding?

- Why, if I were a woman, I would get married every day: there are white flowers on my chest, bows, music is playing, everyone is shouting "hurray", there is such a box on the table of caviar, and no one is shouting at you if you have eaten a lot. I, brother, have been to these weddings.

“So you think,” the stranger said thoughtfully, “that is why she wants to marry him?

- And why not! .. They go to church in a carriage, but every coachman has a scarf tied on his hand. Think about it! I can't wait for this wedding to begin.

“I knew boys,” the stranger said casually, “so dexterous that they could jump all the way to the house on one leg ...

He touched the weakest of my strings.

- I can do that too!

- Well, what are you saying! This is unheard of! Are you really doing it?

- By God! Want?

- And up the stairs?

- And up the stairs.

- And to Lisa's room?

- It's already easy there. Twenty steps.

- It would be interesting for me to look at it ... But what if you cheat me? ... How will I check? Is that what ... I'll give you a piece of paper, and you and the boards with it to Lisa's room. Give her a piece of paper, and let her scribble on it with a pencil whether you jumped well!

- Great! - I shouted enthusiastically. - You will see - a board. Give me a piece of paper!

He wrote a few words on a piece of notebook paper and handed it to me.

- Well, with God. Only if you meet someone else, do not show the pieces of paper - all the same, then I will not believe it.

- Learn more! I said contemptuously. - Look!

On the way to my sister's room, between two giant leaps on one leg, a treacherous thought crept into my head: what if he deliberately invented this argument in order to send me away and take this opportunity to rob my house? But I immediately drove the thought away. I was small, trusting and did not think that people were so mean. They seem serious, kind, but where they smell like a reed cane, a nanny's handkerchief or a cigar box, these people turn into shameless robbers.

Lisa read the note, looked at me carefully and said:

- Tell this gentleman that I will not write anything, but I myself will go out to him.

- And you say that I jumped on one leg? And, mind you, all the time on the left.

- I'll tell you. Well, run, silly, back.

When I returned, the stranger did not argue much about the lack of written evidence.

“Well, let's wait,” he said. - By the way what is your name?

- Ilyusha. And you?

- My surname, you are my brother, Pronin.

- You ... Pronin? Beggar?

In my head there was a very strong idea of ​​the outward appearance of a beggar: a crutch at hand, a galoshes tied with rags on one leg, and a dirty bag with a shapeless piece of dry bread over my shoulders.

- Beggar? - Pronin was amazed. - What beggar?

- Mom recently told Lisa that Pronin is a beggar.

- She said that? - Pronin grinned. - She's probably about someone else.

- Of course! - I calmed down, stroking his patent boot with my hand. - Do you have any brother, beggar?

- Brother? In general, there is a brother.

- That's what my mother said: a lot, she says, of their brother, beggars, walks here. Do you have many of their brothers? ...

He did not have time to answer this question ... The bushes began to stir, and between the leaves appeared the pale face of his sister.

Pronin nodded his head to her and said:

- I knew one boy - what kind of a climb, it’s even amazing! He could, for example, in such darkness as now, look for fives in the lilac, but how! Pieces of ten. Now, perhaps, there are no such boys ...

- Yes, I can find you at least now as much as you like. Even twenty!

- Twenty?! - exclaimed this simpleton, wide-eyed. - Well, this, my dear, is something incredible.

- Do you want me to find it?

- No! I can't even believe it. Twenty fives ... Well, ”he shook his head doubtfully,“ go look. We'll see. And my sister and I will wait for you ...

Not even an hour had passed since I brilliantly carried out my enterprise. Twenty fives were clenched in my sweaty, dirty fist. Finding Pronin in the darkness, who was ardently discussing something with his sister, I, sparkling with my eyes, said:

- Well! Not twenty? Now, count it!

I was a fool for looking for exactly twenty. I could have easily fooled him, because he didn't even bother to count my fives.

“You’re a smart guy,” he said in amazement. - Downright fire. Such a boy is even able to find and drag a garden ladder to the wall.

- Great importance! I remarked contemptuously. - Only I don’t want to go.

- Well, don't. That boy, however, was the one who patted you. A persistent boy. He dragged the ladder, not holding it with his hands, but simply hooking the crossbar over his shoulders.

“I can do it too,” I said quickly. - Want?

- No, it's incredible! To the wall itself? ...

- Just think - difficulty!

Decisively, in the ladder case, I set a record: that Proninsky boy only dragged it with his chest, while I, still in the form of a bonus, jumped on one leg and hummed like a steamer.

The Proninsky boy was ashamed.

“Well, okay,” Pronin said. - You are an amazing boy. However, old people told me that threes are harder to find in lilacs than fives ...

Oh, fool! He did not even suspect that the threes come across in lilacs much more often than the fives! I prudently hid this circumstance from him and said with pretended indifference:

- Of course, more difficult. And only I can get twenty triplets. Eh, what can I say! I'll get thirty pieces!

- No, this boy will drive me to the grave in surprise. Will you do it in spite of the darkness ?! Oh, miracle!

- Want? You will see!

I dived into the bushes, made my way to the place where the lilac grew, and plunged into the noble sport.

Twenty-six triplets were in my hand, despite the fact that only a quarter of an hour had passed. It occurred to me that Pronin was easy to cheat: to show twenty-six, and to assure him that it was thirty. All the same, this simpleton will not count.

Simpleton ... Good simpleton! I never saw a greater villain. First, when I returned, he disappeared with his sister. And secondly, when I came to my house, I immediately saw through all its tricks: riddles, fives, threes, the kidnapping of my sister and other jokes - all this was set up in order to distract my attention and rob my house ... Indeed, not I had time to jump to the stairs, when I immediately saw that there was no one near it, and my house, which was three steps away, was completely robbed: a nanny's big scarf, a reed stick and a cigar box - everything disappeared. Only the turtle, plucked out of the box, sadly and lonely crawled near the broken jar of jam ...

This man robbed me even more than I thought while looking at the remains of the house. Three days later, the missing sister appeared with Pronin and, crying, confessed to her father and mother:

“Forgive me, but I’m already married.

- For whom?

- For Grigory Petrovich Pronin.

It was doubly despicable: they deceived me, laughed at me like a boy, yes, besides, they snatched music, a carriage, shawls on the sleeves of the coachmen and caviar from under their very noses, which they could have at the wedding, as long as they could. - no one pays attention anyway.

When this very burning insult healed, I once asked Pronin:

- Confess, why did you come: to steal my things from me?

“Honestly, not for that,” he laughed.

- Why did you take a handkerchief, a stick, a box and broke a jar of jam?

- I wrapped Lisa with a handkerchief, because she came out in the same dress, she put her various small things in the box, I took a stick just in case someone noticed me in the alley, and accidentally broke a jar of jam ...

“Well, okay,” I said, making a gesture of absolution with my hand. - Well, tell me at least some riddle.

- A riddle? Please, brother: "Two rings, two ends, and in the middle ..."

- I spoke already! Tell a new one ...

Obviously, this man went through his entire life path with only this one riddle left.

He had nothing else ... How people live - I don't understand.

- Do you really know nothing more? ...

And suddenly - no! This man was definitely not stupid - he looked around the living room and burst into a magnificent new, obviously, just invented riddle:

- “The cow is standing, mooing is healthy. If you grab it in the teeth, you won't get around to howling. "

It was the most wonderful specimen of the riddle, which completely reconciled me with my cunning brother-in-law.

It turned out: a piano.

Scary boy

As I turn my gaze to the quiet, pink valleys of my childhood, I still experience a repressed horror of the Scary Boy.

A wide field spreads out a touching childhood: a serene bathing with a dozen other boys in Crystal Bay, strolling along Historical Boulevard with a heap of stolen lilacs under his arm, stormy joy over some sad event that made it possible to skip a school day, a big change in the garden under acacias, snaking golden-green spots on the disheveled book "Native Word" by Ushinsky, children's notebooks that delighted the eye with their snowy whiteness at the time of purchase and inspired the next day to all good-minded people with their dirty spotted appearance, notebooks in which thirty, forty times repeated with a persistence worthy of a better fate: "The thread is thin, but the Oka is wide" - or a simple preaching of altruism was promoted: "Do not eat, Masha, porridge, leave porridge for Misha," snapshots in the fields of Smirnov's geography, a special, sweet-hearted smell of an unventilated class - smell of dust and sour ink, feeling of dry chalk on fingers after diligent x lessons at the black board, returning home under the gentle spring sun, along half-dried, resilient paths trodden among thick mud, past the small peaceful houses of Crafts Street and, finally, among this meek valley of children's life, like some formidable oak, a strong one rises, a fist like an iron bolt crowning the Scary Boy's thin, sinewy, like a bundle of wire.

His Christian name was Ivan Aptekarev, his street nickname shortened him to Vanka Aptekarenka, and in my fearful, meek heart I christened him: Scary Boy.

Indeed, there was something terrible in this boy: he lived in completely unexplored places - in the mountainous part of the Gypsy Slobodka; there were rumors that he had parents, but he obviously kept them in a black body, disregarding them, intimidating them; spoke in a hoarse voice, every minute spitting thin, like a thread, saliva through a tooth knocked out by Lame Vozzonok (legendary personality!); He dressed so smartly that none of us even thought of copying his toilet: on his feet were red, dusty shoes with extremely blunt socks, his head was crowned with a cap, crumpled, broken in an inappropriate place and with a visor that cracked in the middle in the most disgusting way ...

The space between the cap and the shoes was filled with a completely faded uniform blouse, which was covered by a wide leather belt, which descended two inches lower than it was supposed to be by nature, and on the legs were trousers that were so swollen on the knees and tattered at the bottom that the Scary Boy could to panic the population.

The Scary Boy's psychology was simple, but completely incomprehensible to us ordinary boys. When one of us was going to fight, he tried on for a long time, calculated the odds, weighed and, even after weighing everything, hesitated for a long time, like Kutuzov before Borodino. And the Scary Boy entered any fight simply, without sighs and preparations: when he saw a person he did not like, or two, or three, he quacked, dropped his belt and, swinging his right hand so far that she almost slapped him on the back, rushed into battle.

The famous swing of the right hand made the first adversary fly to the ground, throwing up a cloud of dust; a blow with his head in the stomach brought down the second; the third received subtle but terrible blows with both feet. If there were more than three opponents, then the fourth and fifth flew from the right hand thrown back with lightning speed again, from a methodical blow of the head to the stomach - and so on.

If fifteen, twenty people attacked him, then the Scary Boy, who was thrown to the ground, stoically endured the rain of blows on the muscular flexible body, trying only to turn his head so that he could notice who was beating in what place and with what force, in order to finish in the future. scores with their torturers.

That was what this man was - the Pharmacist.

Well, wasn't I right in calling him the Scary Boy in my heart?

When I walked from school in anticipation of a refreshing swim on the "Crystal", or wandered with a friend along Istorichesky Boulevard in search of mulberries, or simply ran to somewhere unknown on unknown matters - all the time a raid of secret, unconscious horror pressed my heart: now somewhere Apothecary wanders in search of his victims ... Suddenly he will catch me and beat me completely - "let the yushka go", in his picturesque expression.

The Scary Boy always had reasons for reprisal ...

Once meeting my friend Sasha Hannibotser in front of me, the Pharmacist stopped him with a cold gesture and asked through clenched teeth:

- What are you asking on our street?

Poor Hannibotser turned pale and whispered in a hopeless tone:

“I… didn’t ask.

- And who took away six soldier's buttons from Snurtsyn?

“I didn’t take them away. He lost them.

- And who gave him in the face?

- So he didn't want to give.

“You can't beat the boys on our street,” the Pharmacist remarked, and, as usual, with lightning speed went on to confirm the stated position: with a whistle, he threw his hand behind his back, hit Hannibotzer in the ear, jabbed his other hand “under a sigh,” which made Hannibotzer split in two and lost all breath, kicked the stunned, bruised Hannibotzer to the ground with a kick of his foot and, admiring the work of his hands, said in cool blood:

- And you ... - It referred to me, frozen at the sight of the Scary Boy, like a bird in front of the mouth of a snake. - What about you? Maybe you want to get it too?

“No,” I muttered, looking from the weeping Hannibotzer to the Pharmacist. - For what ... I am nothing.

A tanned, sinewy fist, not the first freshness, swung like a pendulum near my very eye.

- I have been reaching you for a long time ... You will fall under my merry hand. I’ll show you how to steal unripe watermelons from the head!

"The damned boy knows everything," I thought. And he asked, emboldened:

- And what are they to you ... After all, they are not yours.

- What a fool. You steal all immature, and what will remain for me? If I see you again near the bashtan, it would be better for you not to be born.

He disappeared, and after that I walked down the street for several days with the feeling of an unarmed hunter, wandering along the tiger path and expecting that the reeds were about to move and a huge striped body would flicker softly and heavily in the air.

It's scary to live in the world for a small person.

The worst thing was when the Pharmacist came to swim on the stones in the Crystal Bay.

He always walked alone, despite the fact that all the boys around him hated him and wished him harm.

When he appeared on the stones, jumping from cliff to cliff like a wiry wolf cub, everyone involuntarily became silent and assumed the most innocent look, so as not to arouse his stern attention with some careless gesture or word.

And in three or four methodical movements he would throw off his blouse, hooking his cap on the go, then his pants, pulling off his boots at the same time, and already flaunted in front of us, clearly outlining the swarthy, graceful body of an athlete against the background of the southern sky. He patted himself on the chest, and if he was in a good mood, then, looking at an adult man who had somehow entered our children's company, he spoke in a commanding tone:

- Brothers! Well, let's show him "cancer".

At that moment, all our hatred for him disappeared - so well damned Pharmacist knew how to make "cancer".

The crowded, dark, algae-covered rocks formed a small space of water, deep as a well ... And all the kids, huddled at the highest rock, suddenly began to look down with interest, groaning and splashing their hands in a theatrical fashion:

- Cancer! Cancer!

- Look, cancer! God knows how huge! Well, the thing is!

- Here's a bastard! .. Look, look - there will be one and a half arshins.

The peasant - some baker at a bakery or a loader in the harbor - of course, became interested in such a miracle of the seabed and inadvertently approached the edge of the cliff, looking into the mysterious depths of the "well".

And the Pharmacist, who was standing on another, opposite rock, suddenly separated from it, took off two arshins upward, curled up in the air into a dense lump, hiding his head in his knees, wrapping his arms tightly around his legs, and, as if hanging in the air for half a second, fell into the very center "Well".

A whole fountain - something like a tornado - soared upward, and all the rocks from top to bottom were filled with boiling streams of water.

The whole thing was that we boys were naked, and the man was dressed and after the "cancer" began to resemble a drowned man pulled out of the water.

How the Pharmacist did not crash in this narrow rocky well, how he managed to dive into some underwater gate and swim out onto the wide expanse of the bay - we were completely perplexed. It was only noticed that after the "cancer" the Pharmacist became kinder to us, did not beat us and did not tie "crackers" on wet shirts, which we then had to gnaw with our teeth, trembling naked from the fresh sea breeze.

At the age of fifteen, we all began to "suffer."

This is a completely peculiar expression that almost defies explanation. It took root among all the boys of our city, passing from childhood to youth, and the most frequent phrase when two "fryers" met (also a southern argo) was:

- Shake, Seryozhka. Who are you suffering for?

- For Mania Ogneva. And you?

“And I’m not for anyone else.

- Lie more. What are you, drugu are afraid to say, what cha?

- Yes mine Katya Kapitanaki is very attractive.

- God punish mine.

“Well, then you’re looking after her.”

Caught up in heart weakness, "the sufferer for Katya Kapitanaki" is embarrassed and, in order to conceal the charming half-childish embarrassment, bends over a three-story curse.

After that, both friends go to drink bouza for the health of their chosen ones.

It was the time when the Scary Boy turned into the Scary Youth. His cap was still full of unnatural kinks, the belt descended almost to the hips (inexplicable chic), and his blouse was knocked out from under the belt like a camel's hump at the back (the same chic); the youth smelled of tobacco rather pungently.

The terrible Youth Pharmacist, waddling, came up to me on a quiet evening street and asked in his quiet voice full of formidable grandeur:

- What are you doing here, on our street?

“I’m taking a walk…” I replied, respectfully shaking the hand extended to me in the form of special benevolence.

- Chivo are you walking?

- So-so.

He paused, eyeing me suspiciously.

- And who are you doing for?

- Yes, for no one.

- Punish me Gosp ...

- Lie more! Well? You won’t wander around (also a word) on our street. Who are you looking for?

And then my heart sank sweetly when I betrayed my sweet secret:

- For Kira Kostyukova. She'll be out now after supper.

- Well, you can.

He paused. On this warm, gentle evening, filled with the sad smell of acacia, mystery burst open in his courageous heart.

After a pause, he asked:

- Do you know who I'm looking for?

“No, Pharmacist,” I said gently.

- To whom is the Pharmacist, and to you an uncle, - he grumbled half-jokingly, half-angrily. - I, my brother, am now looking for Liza Evangopulo. And before I worked (to say "I" instead of "a" was also a kind of chic) ​​for Maruska Korolkevich. Great, huh? Well, brother, your happiness. If you thought anything about Liza Evangopulo, then ...

Again his already grown and even stronger sinewy fist swayed at my nose.

- Have you seen? And so nothing, go for a walk. Well ... it is pleasant for everyone to do things.

A wise phrase applied to the feeling of the heart.

On November 12, 1914, I was invited to the infirmary to read some of my stories to the wounded, who were mortally bored in a peaceful infirmary setting.

I had just entered a large ward lined with beds when a voice was heard from behind me from the bed:

- Hello, fryer. Why are you thinking about pasta?

A tone dear to my child's ear sounded in the words of this pale wounded man overgrown with a beard. I looked at him in bewilderment and asked:

- You are for me?

- So, do not recognize old friends? Wait, if you get caught on our street - you will find out what Vanka Aptekarenok is.

- Aptekarev ?!

The Terrible Boy lay in front of me, smiling weakly and affectionately at me.

The childish fear of him for a second grew in me and made me and him (later, when I confessed this to him) to laugh.

- Dear Pharmacist? An officer?

- Yes. - And in turn: - A writer?

- Not injured?

- That's it. Do you remember how I blew up Sasha Hannibotser in front of you?

- Still would. And why did you “get to me” then?

- And for the watermelons from the bashtan. You stole them, and it was not good.

- Why?

- Because I myself wanted to steal.

- Right. And you had a terrible hand, something like an iron hammer. I can imagine how she is now ...

“Yes, brother,” he chuckled. “And you can't imagine.

- Yes, look ... - And showed from under the blanket a short stump.

- Where is that you?

- They took the battery. There were about fifty of them. And us, this ... Less.

I remembered how he, with his head bowed and his hand thrown back, blindly rushed at five, and said nothing. Poor Scary Boy!

When I was leaving, he, bending my head to his, kissed me and whispered in my ear:

- Who are you looking for now?

And such pity for the sweet childhood that passed away, for Ushinsky's book "Native Word", for the "big change" in the garden under the acacias, for the stolen bunches of lilacs — such pity flooded our souls that we almost cried.

Business man's day

For all five years of Ninochka's life today, perhaps the hardest blow fell on her: someone called Kolka wrote a common verse pamphlet on her.

The day usually began: when Ninochka got up, the nanny, dressing her and giving her tea, grumpily said:

- Now go to the porch - look what the weather is like today! Yes, sit there a little longer, about half an hour - watch out so that it doesn't rain. And then come and tell me. I wonder how it is there ...

The nanny lied in the most cold-blooded way. She was not interested in any weather, but she just wanted to get rid of Ninochka for half an hour so that she could drink tea with bread crumbs at large.

But Ninochka is too trusting, too noble to suspect a dirty trick in this case. She meekly tugged at her apron on her stomach, said: "Well, I'll go take a look," and went out onto the porch, bathed in the warm golden sun.

Not far from the porch, on a piano box, sat three little boys. These were completely new boys, whom Ninochka had never seen.

Noticing her, sitting nicely on the steps of the porch in order to fulfill the nanny's order - "watch out, it wouldn't rain" - one of the three boys, whispering with a friend, climbed down from the box and approached Ninochka with the most malicious look, under the guise of outward innocence and sociability.

“Hello, girl,” he greeted her.

- Hello, - Ninochka answered timidly.

- You live here?

- I live here. Dad, aunt, sister Lisa, Fraulein, nanny, cook and me.

- Wow! Nothing to say, ”the boy grimaced. - What is your name?

- Me? Ninochka.

And suddenly, drawing out all this information, the damned boy with frantic speed spun on one leg and shouted to the whole yard:

Ninka-Ninenok,

Gray pig

I rolled down the hill

Choked on the mud ...

Turning pale with horror and resentment, with wide open eyes and mouth, Ninochka looked at the villain who had so denigrated her, and he again, winking at his comrades and holding hands with them, spun in a frantic round dance, shouting in a piercing voice:

Ninka-Ninenok,

Gray pig

I rolled down the hill

Choked on the mud ...

A terrible weight fell on Nino's heart. Oh God, God! For what? To whom did she stand in the way, that she was so humiliated, so disgraced?

The sun darkened in his eyes, and the whole world was painted in the darkest tones. Is she a gray pig? She choked on the mud? Where? When? My heart ached, as if burned with a red-hot iron, and I did not want to live.

Tears flowed through the fingers she used to cover her face. What killed Ninochka the most was the complexity of the pamphlet published by the boy. It is so painfully said that "Ninenok" rhymes beautifully with "piglet", and "rolled down" and "choked", like two equally sounded slaps in the face, burned on Ninochka's face with indelible shame.

She got up, turned to the offenders and, sobbing bitterly, quietly wandered into the rooms.

- Come on, Kolka, - said one of his associates to the writer of the pamphlet, - otherwise this crybaby will complain again - and will fly into us.

Entering the hall and sitting on the chest, Ninochka, her face wet with tears, became thoughtful. So, her offender's name is Kolka ... Oh, if she could come up with similar verses with which she could defame this Kolka, with what pleasure she would have thrown them in his face! , and her heart seethed with resentment and a thirst for revenge.

And suddenly the god of poetry, Apollo, touched her forehead with his finger. Really? ... Yes, of course! Without a doubt, she will also have poems on Kolka. And not at all worse than the previous ones.

Oh, the first joy and torments of creativity!

Ninochka several times rehearsed under her breath those flying fiery lines that she would throw in Kolka's face, and her gentle face lit up with unearthly joy. Now Kolka will learn how to touch her.

She slid off the chest and, cheerful, with a cheerful look again went out onto the porch.

A warm company of boys almost at the very porch started an extremely uncomplicated game that delighted all three. Precisely - each in turn, putting his thumb to the index finger, so that it turned out something like a ring, spat into this semblance of a ring, keeping a quarter of an arshin from his lips. If the spit flew inside the ring without touching his fingers, the happy player smiled happily.

If someone got saliva on their fingers, then this awkward young man was rewarded with deafening laughter and ridicule. However, he did not particularly grieve from such a failure, but, wiping his wet fingers on the hem of his blouse, with new passion he plunged into an exciting game.

Ninochka admired a little what was happening, then beckoned her abuser with a finger and, bending down to him from the porch, asked with the most innocent look:

- And what is your name?

- And what? - The cautious Kolka asked suspiciously, sensing some kind of catch in all this.

- Yes, nothing, nothing ... Just tell me: what is your name?

She had such an innocent, naive face that Kolka fell for this bait.

“Well, Kolka,” he croaked.

- A-a-a ... Kolka ...

And quickly, quickly blurted out the beaming Ninochka:

Kolka-Kolka,

Gray pig

I rolled down the hill,

Choked ... mud ...

Immediately she rushed through the open door she had prudently left, and after her came:

- You fool of a dog!

A little reassured, she wandered into her nursery. The nanny, spreading some kind of cloth rubbish on the table, was cutting a sleeve out of it.

- Nanny, it's not raining.

- Well, good.

- What are you doing?

- Do not disturb me.

- Can I watch?

- No, no, please. You better go and see what Lisa is doing.

- And what's next? - the executive Ninochka asks meekly.

- Then tell me.

- Good…

At Ninochka's entrance, fourteen-year-old Liza hastily hides a book in a pink wrapper under the table, but, seeing who has come, takes out the book again and says with displeasure:

- What do you need?

- The nanny told me to see what you were doing.

- I teach lessons. Can't you see?

- Can I sit next to you? ... I'm quiet.

Liza's eyes are burning, and her red cheeks are still warm after the book in a pink wrapper. She has no time for her sister.

- You can't, you can't. You will bother me.

- And the nanny says that I will interfere with her too.

- Well, that's what ... Go and see where Tuzik is. What about him?

- Yes, he is probably in the dining room near the table.

- Well. So you go see if he is there, stroke him and give him some bread.

Not a single minute does it occur to Ninochka that they want to get rid of her. It's just that she is given a responsible assignment - that's all.

- And when he is in the dining room, so come to you and say? - asks Ninochka seriously.

- No. Then go to your dad and tell him that you fed Tuzik. Actually, sit there with him, do you understand?

- Good…

Ninochka hurries to the dining room with the air of a homely hostess-bustle. He strokes Tuzik, gives him bread and then anxiously rushes to his father (the second half of the assignment is to inform his father about Tuzik).

Dad is not in the office.

Dad is not in the living room.

Finally ... Papa is sitting in Fraulein's room, leaning close to this last one, holding her hand in his hand.

When Ninochka appears, he leans back in embarrassment and says with a little exaggerated joy and amazement:

- Oh! Whom do I see! Our dear daughter! Well, how do you feel, the light of my eyes?

- Dad, I have already fed Tuzik with bread.

- Yeah ... And well, brother, I did; that's why they, these animals, have no food ... Well, now go yourself, my gray-winged dove.

- Where, dad?

- Well ... go where you go ... Go ... um! Go to Lisa and find out what she is doing there.

- Yes, I was only at her place. She teaches lessons.

- That's how ... Nice, nice.

He looks eloquently at Fraulein, gently strokes her hand and mumbles vaguely:

- Well ... this time ... go to this one ... go to the nanny and look ... what the aforementioned nanny is doing there ...

- She sews something there.

- Yeah ... Wait! How many pieces of bread did you give Tuzik?

- Two pieces.

- Eka is generous! Can such a big dog be fed with two pieces? You to him, my angel, still vkati ... A piece that way four. Look, by the way, if he's chewing on the leg of the table.

- And if it gnaws, come and tell you, right? - looking at his father with bright, gentle eyes, asks Ninochka.

- No, brother, you don't tell me that, but this one, like her ... Tell Liza. This is already for her department. Yes, if this very Liza has some kind of funny book with pictures, then you have her, then tovo ... take a good look, and then tell what you saw. Understood?

- Understood. I'll take a look and tell you.

- Yes it is, brother, not today. You can tell tomorrow too. Not dripping above us. Isn't that right?

- Good. Tomorrow.

- Well, travel.

Ninochka travels. First, into the dining room, where he conscientiously shoves three pieces of bread into Tuzika's bared mouth, then into Lisa's room.

- Lisa! Ace does not gnaw the leg of the table.

- With which I congratulate you, - Liza drops absently, glaring at the book. - Well, go yourself.

- Where to go?

- Go to your dad. Ask what is he doing?

- Yes, I was already. He told you to show me a picture book. He needs to tell him tomorrow.

- Oh, God! What a girl she is! Well, on you! Just sit still. Otherwise I’ll kick it out.

Submissive Ninochka sits down on a footstool, unfolds the illustrated geometry given by her sister on her knees, and for a long time examines the truncations of pyramids, cones and triangles.

“I looked,” she says half an hour later, sighing with relief. - Now what?

- Now? God! Here's another restless child. Well, go to the kitchen, ask Arisha: what do we have for lunch today? Have you ever seen how potatoes are peeled?

- Well, go and see. Then you will tell me.

- Well ... I'll go.

Arisha has guests: a neighbor's maid and a bellboy "Little Red Riding Hood".

- Arisha, are you going to peel potatoes soon? I have to watch.

- Where is there soon! And I won't be in an hour.

- Well, I'll sit and wait.

- I found a place for myself, there is nothing to say! .. You better go to the nanny, tell her to give you something.

- And what?

- Well, there she knows what.

- What would she give now?

- Yes, yes, now. Go yourself, go!

All day Ninochka's fast legs carry her from one place to another. A lot of hassle, errands to the throat. And all the most important, urgent ones.

Poor "restless" Ninochka!

And only in the evening, accidentally wandering into the rooms of Aunt Vera, Ninochka finds a real friendly welcome.

- Ah, Ninochka! - Aunt Vera greeted her violently. - You are what I need. Listen, Ninochka ... Are you listening to me?

- Yes, aunt. I'm listening.

- That's what, dear ... Alexander Semyonovich will come to me now, do you know him?

- Such, with a mustache?

- That's it. And you, Ninochka ... (aunt breathes strangely and heavily, holding onto her heart with one hand) you, Ninochka ... sit with me while he is here and don't go anywhere. Do you hear? If he says it's time for you to sleep, you say you don't want to. Do you hear?

- Good. So you won't send me anywhere?

- What you! Where am I sending you? On the contrary, sit here and no more. Understood?

- Lady! Can I take Ninochka? She should have gone to bed for a long time.

- No, no, she will sit with me yet. Really, Alexander Semyonitch?

- Yes, let him go to sleep, what is there? Says the young man, frowning.

- No, no, I won't let her in. I love her so much ...

And Aunt Vera convulsively hugs the little girl's body with her big warm hands, like a drowning man who, in the last dying struggle, is ready to grab even a tiny straw ...

And when Alexander Semyonovich, maintaining a sullen expression on his face, leaves, the aunt somehow sinks down, withers and says in a completely different, not the same tone:

“Now go to bed, baby. There is nothing to sit around here. Harmful ...

Pulling off her stockings, tired but contented, Ninochka thinks to herself in connection with the prayer that she just raised to Heaven, at the insistence of her nanny, for her deceased mother: “What if I die too? Who will do everything then? "

Christmas Day at the Kindyakovs

Eleven o'clock. The morning is frosty, but the room is warm. The stove hums merrily and makes noise, occasionally crackling and throwing a sheaf of sparks onto an iron sheet nailed to the floor for this occasion. A nervous glow of fire runs comfortably across the blue wallpaper.

All four children of the Kindyakovs are in a festive, concentrated solemn mood. It was as if all four were starched, and they sit quietly, afraid to move, cramped in new dresses and suits, cleanly washed and combed.

Eight-year-old Yegorka has sat down on a bench by the open stove door and has been looking at the fire for half an hour without blinking.

A quiet emotion descended on his soul: the room is warm, new shoes creak so that it is better than any music, and for dinner there is a pie with meat, a pig and jelly.

It's good to live. If only Volodka did not hit and, in general, did not hurt him. This Volodka is just some kind of gloomy spot on Yegorka's carefree existence.

But Volodka, a twelve-year-old student of the city school, has no time for his meek, melancholic brother. Volodya also feels the holiday with all his soul, and his soul is light.

He has long been sitting by the window, the glass of which frost has decorated with intricate patterns, and reads.

The book is in an old, shabby, well-worn binding, and it is called: "Children of Captain Grant." Turning the pages, deep in reading, Volodya no-no, and even looks with a cramped heart: is there much left to the end? So a bitter drunkard regretfully examines the remnants of life-giving moisture in a decanter.

Having swallowed one chapter, Volodya will definitely take a short break: he will touch the new lacquered belt with which a fresh student's blouse is belted, admire the fresh break in his trousers and for the hundredth time decides that there is no more beautiful and graceful person on the globe than him.

And in the corner, behind the stove, where the mother's dress hangs, the youngest Kindyakovs are perched ... There are two of them: Milochka (Lyudmila) and Karasik (Kostya). They, like cockroaches, look out of their corner and are all whispering about something.

Both from yesterday have already decided to emancipate and heal with their own house. Exactly - they covered the pasta box with a handkerchief and placed tiny plates on this table, on which are neatly laid out: two pieces of sausage, a piece of cheese, one sardine and a few caramels. Even two bottles of cologne adorned this solemn table: in one - "church" wine, in the other - a flower - everything is like in the first houses.

Both sit at their table, legs crossed, and do not take their enthusiastic eyes off this work of comfort and luxury.

And only one terrible thought gnaws at their hearts: what if Volodka pays attention to the table they have set up? There is nothing sacred for this voracious savage: he will immediately fly in, in one movement he will knock sausage, cheese, sardines into his mouth and fly away like a hurricane, leaving darkness and destruction behind him.

“He’s reading,” Karasik whispers.

- Go, kiss his hand ... Maybe then he won't touch him. Will you go?

- Go yourself, - hisses Karasik. - You're a girl. Karasik cannot pronounce the letter "k". This is a closed door for him. He even pronounces his name like this:

- Tarasit.

Darling gets up with a sigh and goes with the air of a busy hostess to her formidable brother. One of his hands rests on the edge of the window sill. Darling reaches out to her, to this terrible hand, hardened from fiddling with snowballs, covered with scars and scratches from fierce battles ... Kisses with fresh pink lips.

And timidly looks at the awful man.

This atoning sacrifice softens Volodya's heart. He looks up from the book:

- What are you, beauty? Are you having fun?

- Funny.

- That's it. Have you seen such belts?

The sister is indifferent to the spectacular look of her brother, but in order to smudge him, she praises:

- Oh, what a belt! Straight lovely! ..

- That's it. And you smell what it smells like.

- Oh, how it smells !!! Directly - with the skin.

- That's it.

Darling goes to her corner and again plunges into silent contemplation of the table. Sighs ... Turns to Karasik:

- Kissed.

- Doesn't fight?

- No. And there the window is so frozen.

- And Yegort will not touch the table? Go and kiss him Ruta.

- Well, here's another! Kiss everyone. What was missing!

- And if he spits on the table?

- Let it be, and we wipe it off.

- And if you spit on the tolbasa?

- And we'll wipe it off. Don't be afraid, I'll eat it myself. I'm not disgusted.

The mother's head is pushed through the door.

- Volodenka! A guest has come to you, comrade.

God, what a magical change in tone! On weekdays, the conversation is like this: “What are you, lousy rubbish, pecked with chickens, or what? Where did you get into the ink? When my father comes, I will tell him - he will prescribe an ichitsa for you. Son, and worse than barefoot! "

Kolya Cheburakhin came.

Both comrades feel a little uncomfortable in this atmosphere of festive decency and solemnity.

It is strange to see Volodya how Cheburakhin shuffled his foot, greeting his mother, and how he introduced himself to the beholder - Yegorka:

- Let me introduce myself - Cheburakhin. Very nice.

How unusual all this is! Volodya was used to seeing Cheburakhin in a different setting, and Cheburakhin's manners were usually different.

Cheburakhin usually caught a schoolboy who was gaping in the street, roughly pushed him in the back and sternly asked:

- What are you asking yourself?

- And what? - a timid "pencil" whispered in dying anguish. - I'm nothing.

- So much for you and nothing! Do you want to grab it in the face?

- I didn’t touch you, I don’t even know you.

- Say: where do I study? - Cheburakhin asked gloomily and majestically, pointing to the faded, half-torn coat of arms on his cap.

- In the city.

- Aha! In the city! So why don't you, unfortunate scum, take off your hat in front of me? Need to learn?

The gymnasium cap deftly knocked down by Cheburakhin flies into the mud. The insulted, humiliated schoolboy weeps bitterly, and Cheburakhin, satisfied, “like a tiger (his own comparison), sneaks on”.

And now this terrible boy, even more terrible than Volodya, politely greets the petty, and when Volodin's mother asks his name and what his parents are doing, bright hot paint pours over the soft, dark-skinned Cheburakhinsky cheeks.

An adult woman talks to him as an equal, she invites to sit down! Truly this Christmas does wonders for people!

The boys sit by the window and, bewildered by the unusual situation, smiling, glance at each other.

- Well, it's good that you came. How are you doing?

- Wow, thanks. What are you reading?

- "The Children of Captain Grant". Interesting!

- Ladies. Will they tear you?

- No, what are you! (Pause.) Yesterday I gave one boy in the face.

- By golly. Punish me God gave me. You see, I’m walking along Slobodka, I don’t think anything to myself, but he’s going to move a brick in my leg! I couldn't stand it here. Ke-ek ahnu!

- After Christmas, you have to go to Slobodka to beat the boys. Right?

- We will definitely go. I bought rubber for the slingshot. (Pause.) Have you ever eaten buffalo meat?

Volodya has a deathly desire to say: "ate." But it’s impossible ... The whole life of Volodya passed before Cheburakhin's eyes, and such an event as the consumption of buffalo meat in food could not have passed unnoticed in their small town.

- No, I didn't. Probably delicious. (Pause.) Would you like to be a pirate?

- I wanted to. I'm not ashamed. Anyway, a lost person ...

- Yes, and I'm not ashamed. Well, the pirate is the same person as the others. Just robbing.

- Clear! But adventure. (Pause.) And I gave one boy a mouthful, too. What is it, in fact, is it? I told my aunt that I smoke. (Pause.) And Australian savages are not attractive to me, you know! African blacks are better.

- Bushmen. They become attached to whites.

And in the corner, the bushman Yegorka has really become attached to the whites:

- Give me the candy, Milka, otherwise I'll spit on the table.

- Come on, let's go! I'll tell my mom.

- Give me the candy, or I'll spit.

- Well, spit. I'm not giving it.

Yegorka fulfills his threat and indifferently walks back to the stove. Darling wipes the spit off the sausage with an apron and puts it back neatly on the plate. Forbearance and meekness are in her eyes.

God, there are so many hostile elements in the house ... So you have to live - with the help of affection, bribery and humiliation.

“This Yegorka makes me laugh,” she whispers to Karasik, feeling some embarrassment.

- He's a fool. Tat as if these are his tonfets.

And for dinner, guests come: an employee in the shipping company Chilibeyev with his wife and uncle Akim Semyonich. All sit, quietly tossing monosyllabic words, until they sat down at the table.

The table is noisy.

- Well, godfather, and pie! - shouts Chilibeyev. - Pie for all pies.

- Where is there! I thought it wouldn't work at all. There are such lousy ovens in this city that even there are peaks on the pipe.

- And the pig! - Akim shouts enthusiastically, whom everyone despises a little for his poverty and enthusiasm. - Well this is not a pig, but the devil knows what it is.

- And think: such a pig that there is nothing to watch - two rubles !! They went mad there, in the bazaar! A chicken is a ruble, but there is no attack for turkeys! And it is not known what it will be next.

At the end of dinner, an incident occurred: Chilibeyev's wife knocked over a glass of red wine and poured Volodya's new blouse, who was sitting beside him.

Kindyakov's father began to reassure the guest, but Kindyakov's mother did not say anything. But it was clear from her face that if it had not been in her house and it had not been a holiday, she would have exploded with anger and resentment for spoiled good, like a powder mine.

As a well-mannered woman, as a hostess who understands what a good form is, Kindyakova-mother preferred to attack Volodya:

- Why are you sitting here at hand! And what are these lousy children, they are ready to beat their mother in the grave. I think I ate - and go. Seated like a mayor! You will soon grow up to the sky, and you will still be a fool. Only a master poke his nose into books!

And immediately the whole solemn holiday faded in Volodya's eyes, all the contemplative and enthusiastic mood ... The blouse was adorned with an ominous dark spot, the soul was offended, trampled into the mud in the presence of strangers, and most importantly - Comrade Cheburakhin, who also immediately lost all his shine and charm of singularity.

I wanted to get up, leave, run away somewhere.

We got up, left, ran away. Both. To Slobodka.

And the strange thing: if there were no dark spot on the blouse, everything would have ended with a peaceful walk along the quiet Christmas streets.

But now, as Volodya decided, there was nothing to lose.

Indeed, we immediately met three second-graders.

- What are you asking yourself? - Volodya asked one of them menacingly.

- Give him, give him, Volodka! - Cheburakhin whispered from the side.

“I’m not asking myself,” the schoolboy objected reasonably. - And now you will get the macaroni.

- I AM? Who will take you away from me, unfortunate ones?

- The unfortunate woman forced herself!

- Eh! - shouted Volodya (anyway, the blouse is not new anymore!), With a dashing movement he threw off his coat and swung it ...

And from the corner of the alley four schoolboys were already running to help their ...

- Well, they are lousy bastards, seven people for two! - Volodya said hoarsely, barely moving his swollen, as if someone else's, lip and looking at his friend with a numb eye with satisfaction. - No, you, brother, try two by two ... Right?

- Clear.

And the remnants of the festive mood immediately disappeared - it was replaced by ordinary, everyday affairs and worries.

Under the table

Easter story

Children, in general, are taller and cleaner than us. A tiny story with an even smaller Dimka clearly, I hope, will confirm this.

It is not known how difficult it was to carry this boy under the Easter table, but the fact remains: while the adults stupidly and carelessly sat down at the table abundantly lined with Easter food and drinks, Dimka, skillfully maneuvering between the whole forest of columnar legs, huge for his height, took yes dived under the table, along with a camel, a half of a wooden egg and the smudged edge of a butter woman ...

He laid out his supplies, adjusted the side of a sullen, uncommunicative camel and immersed himself in observations ...

Good under the table. Chilly. Pleasant moisture emanates from the freshly washed floor, which has not yet been scuffed by feet.

Aunt's legs are immediately noticeable: they are in huge soft carpet shoes - from rheumatism, or something. Dimka scratched the carpet flower on his shoe with a tiny fingernail ... His foot moved, Dimka jerked his finger away in fear.

I lazily gnawed at the edge of a butter woman who had warmed up from the hand, gave the camel something to eat, and suddenly his attention was riveted by the very strange evolutions of a patent man's shoe with a white suede top.

The leg, shod in this elegant piece, at first stood calmly, then suddenly trembled and crawled forward, from time to time cautiously raising its sock, like a snake that raises its head and looks around, looking for where the prey is ...

Dimka looked to the left and immediately saw that the purpose of these serpentine evolutions were two small legs, very beautifully shod in shoes of a dark sky color with silver.

The crossed legs stretched out calmly and, suspecting nothing, peacefully tapped their heels. The rim of the dark skirt lifted to reveal a delightful full lift leg in a navy blue stocking, and at the very round knee was immodestly the tip of a curvy garter - black and gold.

But all these wonderful things - from the point of view of another, understanding person - did not interest the ingenuous Dimka at all.

On the contrary, his gaze was completely fixed on the mysterious and eerie zigzags of the suede-topped shoe.

This animal, creaking and wriggling, finally crawled to the tip of the blue leg, pecked its nose and scared aside, with obvious fear: will they not be given it in the neck for this?

Feeling the touch, the blue leg fluttered nervously, angrily and moved a little back.

The cheeky boot moved its impudent nose and again resolutely crawled forward.

Dimka did not at all consider himself a censor of morals, but he simply, irrespectively, liked the blue shoe, so beautifully embroidered with silver; admiring the shoe, he could not allow it to get stained or ripped off by sewing.

Therefore, Dimka set in motion such a strategy: he slipped, instead of a little blue leg, the muzzle of his camel and energetically pushed an enterprising boot with it.

You should have seen the unbridled joy of this unprincipled dandy! He fidgeted, barked around the resigned camel, like a kite over carrion. He called for the help of his colleague, who was quietly dozing under the chair, and they both began to squeeze and squeeze the imperturbable animal so that if a plump blue leg were in its place, it would have been unpleasant for her.

Fearing for the integrity of his loyal friend, Dimka pulled him out of his tenacious embrace and put him away, and since the camel's neck was still crumpled, he had to spit on the toe of an enterprising boot in retaliation.

This depraved dandy still poured a little and crawled away at last, taking his breath away.

On the left side, someone slipped a hand under the tablecloth and secretly threw a glass on the floor.

Dimka lay down on his stomach, crawled to the puddle and tried: sweetish, but strong enough. Gave a camel a try. Explained in his ear:

- Already got drunk there, upstairs. They are pouring down - do you understand?

Indeed, at the top, everything was already coming to an end. The chairs moved, and it brightened a little under the table. First, the awkward carpet legs of the aunt floated away, then the blue legs trembled and stood on the heels. Behind the blue legs, patent-leather shoes twitched, as if connected by an invisible rope, and there were knocking and cluttering American, yellow - all sorts of shoes.

Dimka finished the completely soggy pastry, drank more from the puddle and began to rock the camel, listening to the conversations.

- Yes, somehow ... this ... It's embarrassing.

- What is awkward there - cleverly.

- By God, somehow it’s not good ...

- What is there - not that. It's a festive business.

- I said - it was not necessary to mix Madeira with beer ...

- Empty. Sleep and nothing. I'll send you a pillow now with Glasha.

The sound of numerous feet died away. Then there was the clatter of fast heels and a conversation:

- Here's a pillow, the lady sent.

- Well, give it here.

- So here she is. I put.

- No, you come here. To the sofa.

- Why go to the sofa?

- I want Christ ... her ... meddle!

- Have already been Christians. So you have Christ, that you cannot stand.

Indescribable surprise was heard in the convinced voice of the guest:

- I AM? Can't stand? So that your father does not stand in the next world like ... Well, look ... three! ..

- Let me go, what are you doing ?! They will come in!

Judging by Glasha's tone, she was unhappy with what was happening. It occurred to Dimka that the best thing is to scare a very enterprising guest.

He grabbed the camel and threw it on the floor.

- See ?! - Glasha screamed and dashed off like a whirlwind.

Laying down, the guest grumbled:

- Oh, and a fool! All women, in my opinion, are fools. Such rubbish was thrown everywhere ... She powders her nose and thinks that she is the Queen of Naples ... By God, really! .. Take a good whip and powder it like that ... Wagtails!

Dima became scared: it was getting dark, and then someone muttered something incomprehensible under his breath ... Better to leave.

Before he had time to think about this, the guest, staggering, walked up to the table and said, as if consulting himself:

- Why put a bottle of cognac into your pocket? And the box of sardines is whole. I think this fool will not notice.

Something touched his leg. He dropped the sardines, jumped fearfully to the sofa and, falling on it, saw with horror that something was creeping from under the table. Having discerned, he calmed down:

- Huh! Boy. Where are you from, boy?

- From under the table.

- Why didn't you see there?

- So, I was. I rested.

And then, remembering the rules of the hostel and holiday traditions, Dima politely remarked:

- Christ is Risen.

- What more! I should have slept better.

Noticing that his greeting had no success, Dima, to soften, put into motion a neutral phrase he had heard in the morning:

- I do not Christ with men.

- Oh, how you upset them with this! Now they will go and drown themselves.

The conversation was clearly not working out.

- Where were you at Matins? - Dima asked sadly.

- What do you care?

The best thing for Dima would be to go to the nursery, but ... between the dining room and the nursery there were two unlit rooms, where all kinds of evil spirits could grab the hand. I had to stay near this heavy man and inevitably keep up a conversation with him:

- And we have good Easter today.

“And put them on your nose.

- I'm not afraid to go through the rooms, only it's dark.

- And I, too, took one boy and cut off his head.

- Was he bad? - Chilling with horror, asked Dimka.

- The same rubbish as you, - hissed the guest, longingly looking at the bottle chosen on the table.

- Yes ... he was just like you ... Such a pretty, straight dusya, such, really, a little goat ...

- Such a booger that I would have it with her heel - a grunt! .. Such rubbish into a cake. Go away! Go! Or out of you and out of you!

Dima swallowed his tears and again meekly asked, looking around at the dark door:

- And you have a pretty Easter?

- Sneeze me for Easter, - I eat boys like you. Give me your paw, I'll bite it off ...

- And where is my mother's son hurt?

- Mama!! - Dimka squealed and buried himself in a rustling skirt.

- And we got to talking with your son. Adorable boy! So smart.

- Did he bother you to sleep? Allow me, I'll just clear everything from the table, and there you sleep as long as you want.

- But why clean up? ...

- And in the evening we'll cover it again.

The guest sank down sadly on the sofa and sighed, whispering to himself:

- Damn you, anathema boy! He took the bottle out from under his very nose.

Three acorns

There is nothing more disinterested than childhood friendship ... If you trace its beginning, its origins, then in most cases you will stumble upon the most external, ridiculously empty reason for its emergence: either your parents were "familiar at home" and dragged you, little ones, to visit each other, or a tender friendship between two tiny little people arose simply because they lived on the same street or both studied in the same school, sat on the same bench - and the very first piece of sausage and bread, divided fraternally in half and eaten, sowed the seeds of the most tender friendship in young hearts.

The foundation of our friendship - Motka, Shasha and I - were all three circumstances: we lived on the same street, our parents were “familiar at home” (or, as they say in the south, “familiar at home”); and all three tasted the bitter roots of learning in Marya Antonovna's elementary school, sitting side by side on a long bench, like acorns on one oak branch.

Philosophers and children have one noble trait: they do not attach importance to any differences between people - neither social, nor mental, nor external. My father had a haberdashery shop (aristocracy), Shashin's father worked in the port (plebs, discord), and Motkina's mother simply existed on interest from a penny capital (rentier, bourgeoisie). Mentally, Shasha stood much higher than Motka and me, and physically Motka was revered among us - freckled and skinny - a handsome man. We did not attach any importance to anything of this ... Brotherly they stole unripe watermelons on the bastans, devoured them brotherly and then rolled along the ground from unbearable stomach pain.

The three of us swam, the three of us beat the boys from the next street, and all three of us were beaten too - consubstantially and inseparably.

If pies were baked in one of our three families, all three ate, because each of us considered it a sacred duty, with danger to our own front and rear, to steal hot pies for the whole company.

Shashin's father, a red-bearded drunkard, had a nasty manner of hitting his offspring, wherever he overtook him; since we were always looming around him, this straightforward democrat beat us on completely equal grounds.

It never crossed our minds to grumble about this, and we took our heart out only when Shashin's father wandered off to dinner, passing under the railway bridge, and the three of us stood on the bridge and, hanging our heads down, weighed mournfully:

Red-red -

A dangerous man ...

I was lying in the sun ...

He kept his beard up ...

- Bastards! - Shashin's father threatened with his fist from below.

“Come here, come,” Motka said menacingly. - How many of you do you need for one hand?

And if the red-haired giant climbed along the left side of the embankment, we, like sparrows, jumped up and rushed to the right side - and vice versa. What can I say - it was a win-win business.

So we lived happily and serenely, grew and developed until the age of sixteen.

And at the age of sixteen, holding hands together, we approached the edge of the funnel called life, we looked cautiously there, as the chips fell into the whirlpool, and the whirlpool swirled us.

Shasha entered the "Electric Zeal" printing house as a typesetter, his mother sent Motya to Kharkov to some kind of bread office, and I remained unattached, although my father dreamed of "assigning me to mental studies" - what kind of thing is this, I still Do not know. Frankly, this smelled strongly of a scribe in the bourgeois council, but, fortunately, there was no vacancy in the aforementioned gloomy and boring institution ...

We met with Shasha every day, and where Motka was and what happened to him - there were only vague rumors about this, the essence of which boiled down to the fact that he had "successfully decided on the class" and that he had become such a dandy that did not approach.

Motka gradually became the object of our comradely pride and dreams devoid of envy to rise in time to him, Motka.

And suddenly it turned out that Motka was to arrive at the beginning of April from Kharkov "on vacation with pay." Mot'ka's mother strenuously pressed on the latter, and the poor woman saw in this preservation the most magnificent laurel in the victorious wreath of the world conqueror Motka.

On that day, they did not have time to close Electric Zeal, when Shasha burst in to me and, sparkling with his eyes, glowing with delight like a candle, announced that they had already seen Motka driving from the station and that he had a real top hat on his head! ..

- Such, they say, a dandy, - Shasha finished proudly, - such a dandy that let me go.

This vague characteristic of smartness kindled me so that I threw the bench at the clerk, grabbed my cap - and we rushed to the house of our brilliant friend.

His mother greeted us somewhat importantly, even with an admixture of arrogance, but we in a hurry did not notice this and, breathing heavily, demanded Motya as the first duty ... The answer was the most aristocratic:

- Motya does not accept.

- How does it not accept? - we were surprised. - What does he not accept?

- Can't accept you. He is very tired now. He will tell you when he can receive.

Any chic, any respectability must have boundaries. This has already crossed even the widest boundaries that we drew for ourselves.

- Maybe he is unwell? ... - delicate Shasha tried to soften the blow.

“He’s healthy… He’s the only one, he says, his nerves are out of order… Before the holidays they had a lot of work in their office… After all, he is now an assistant to the senior clerk. Very on a good foot.

The leg, perhaps, was really good, but, I must confess, it completely crushed us: "nerves, it does not accept" ...

We returned, of course, in silence. I didn’t want to talk about a gorgeous friend, until it was clarified. And we felt so downtrodden, so humiliated, pathetic, provincial that we wanted to cry and die, or, in extreme cases, to find a hundred thousand on the street, which would give us a gorgeous opportunity to wear a top hat and “not accept” - just like in novels.

- Where are you going? - asked Shasha.

- To the shop. We need to lock it soon. (God, what prose!)

- And I'll go home ... I'll have some tea, play the mandolin and go to sleep.

Prose is no less! Hehe.

The next morning - it was a sunny Sunday - Mot'kina's mother brought me a note: “Be with Sha-shey in the city garden by 12 o'clock. We need to explain a little and reconsider our relationship. Dear Matvey Smelkov. "

I put on a new jacket, a white shirt embroidered with crosses, went to fetch Shasha - and we wandered with cramped hearts to this friendly date, which we so longed for and which we were so instinctively afraid of in panic.

The first ones came, of course. They sat for a long time with their heads bowed, hands in their pockets. It didn’t even occur to me to be offended that our great friend was making us wait so long.

Oh! He was, indeed, magnificent ... Something sparkling was approaching us, clanking with numerous key chains and creaking with the varnish of yellow boots with mother-of-pearl buttons.

A stranger from the unknown world of counts, golden youth, carriages and palaces - he was dressed in a brown jacket, a white vest, some kind of lilac trousers, and his head was crowned with a top hat sparkling in the sun, which, if it was small, was balanced by a huge tie with the same huge diamond ...

A horse-headed stick burdened the right aristocratic hand. The left hand was wrapped in a skinned bull-colored glove. Another glove protruded from the outer pocket of the jacket as if it threatened us with its sluggish index finger: "Here I am! .. Treat only without due respect to my wearer."

When Motya approached us with the untied gait of a jaded dandy, the good-natured Shasha jumped up and, unable to contain his impulse, stretched out his hands to the radiant friend:

- Motka! Here, brother, great! ..

- Hello, hello, gentlemen, - Motka nodded his head gravely and, shaking our hands, sat down on the bench ...

We both stood there.

- I am very glad to see you ... Are your parents healthy? Well, thank God, it's nice, I'm very happy.

“Listen, Motka…” I began with timid delight in my eyes.

“First of all, dear friends,” Motka said impressively and weightily, “we are already adults, and therefore I consider“ Motka ”a certain“ kel expression ”... Hehe ... Isn't that so? I’m already Matvey Semyonitch — that’s how they call me at the service, and the accountant himself is shaking hands with the handle. Life is solid, the turnover of the enterprise is two million. There is a branch even in Kokand ... In general, I would like to radically revise our relations.

“Please, please,” Shasha muttered. He stood, bent over, as if his back had been broken by an invisible log that had fallen down ...

Before putting my head on the block, I cowardly tried to push this moment aside.

- Now they started wearing top hats again? - I asked with the air of a man whom scientific studies occasionally distract from the vagaries of a changeable fashion.

“Yes, they do,” Matvey Semyonitch replied condescendingly. - Twelve rubles.

- Nice charms. Present?

- That's not all. Part of the house. Everything on the ring does not fit. Clock on stones, anchor, keyless winding. In general, life in a big city is a busy thing. Collars "Monopole" are enough only for three days, manicure, picnics are different.

I felt that Matvey Semyonitch was also uncomfortable ...

But at last he made up his mind. He shook his head so that the cylinder jumped to the top of his head, and began:

- That's what, gentlemen ... You and I are no longer small, and in general, childhood is one thing, but when young people, it’s completely different. Another, for example, reached some high society there, reached the intelligentsia, while others are from the lower classes, and if, say, you saw in one carriage of Count Kochubei next to our Mironikha, who, remember, sold poppy seeds at the corner, so you would be the first to laugh madly. Of course, I am not Kochubey, but I have a well-known position, well, of course, you also have a well-known position, but not this, but that we were little together, it’s you never know ... You yourself understand that we are already a friend a friend is not a couple ... and ... here, of course, there is nothing to be offended - one has achieved, the other has not achieved ... Hm! .. But, however, if you want, we will occasionally meet near the railway booth, when I go for a walk - all the same there are public no, and we will be like our own. But, of course, without much familiarity - I don't like that. I, of course, enter into your position - you love me, you may even be offended, and believe me ... I, for my part ... if I can be of any use ... Hm! Mentally glad.

At this point Matvey Semyonitch glanced at his new gold watch and hurried:

- O-la-la! How I chatted ... The family of the landowner Guzikov is waiting for me for a picnic, and if I am late, it will be nonsense. I wish you good health! I wish you good health! Hello parents! ..

And he left, sparkling and even slightly bending under the burden of respectability, tired of the daily whirlwind of social life.

On this day, Shasha and I, abandoned, everyday, lying on the young grass of the railway embankment, drank vodka for the first time and cried for the last time.

We still drink vodka, but we no longer cry. These were the last tears of childhood. Now there is a drought.

And why were we crying? What was buried? Motka was a pompous fool, a pitiful third-rate scribe in an office, dressed like a parrot in a jacket from someone else's shoulder; in a tiny top hat, in lilac trousers, hung with copper key chains - he now seems to me ridiculous and insignificant, like a worm without a heart and a brain - why then did we kill ourselves so badly, having lost Motka?

But - remember - how we were the same - like three acorns on an oak branch - when we sat on the same bench at Marya Antonovna's ...

Alas! The acorns are the same, but when young oak trees grow out of them, they make a chair for a scientist from one oak tree, the other goes to the frame for a portrait of a beloved girl, and from the third oak tree they will make such a gallows that it’s expensive ...

Fragrant carnation

I walk along a dirty, slushy street covered with various rubbish and rubbish; I walk angry, furious, like a chain dog. The crazy Petersburg wind rips off the hat, you have to hold it with your hand. The hand is numb and cold from the wind; I'm getting angrier! Clouds of small rotten drops of rain fall behind the collar, for the devil take them!

Feet are drowning in puddles formed in the potholes of the decrepit sidewalk, and the shoes are thin, the dirt seeps into the boot ... well, sir! Now you have a runny nose.

Passers-by flash past - beasts! They strive to touch me with the shoulder, I - them.

I catch glances that clearly say:

- Eh, to put you in the back of your head in the mud!

Every man you meet is Malyuta Skuratov, every woman who flashed by is Marianna Skublinskaya.

And they probably consider me the son of President Carnot's killer. I can see it clearly.

All the meager colors mixed on the beggarly poor Petrograd palette into one dirty spot, even the bright tones of the signage faded, merged with the wet rusty walls of the damp gloomy houses.

And the sidewalk! Oh my god! The foot slides among the wet dirty papers, cigarette butts, apple cores and crushed cigarette boxes.

And suddenly ... my heart skips a beat!

As if on purpose: in the middle of the dirty, fetid sidewalk, three carnations dropped by someone, three pristine flowers: dark red, snow-white and yellow, sparkled with a bright three-color spot. Curly, lush heads are not at all stained with dirt, all three flowers happily fell with the upper part of the stems on a wide cigarette box thrown by a smoker passing by.

Oh, bless the one who dropped these flowers - he made me happy.

The wind is no longer so harsh, the rain is warmer, the mud ... well, the mud will dry up someday; and a timid hope is born in my heart: after all, I will still see the blue hot sky, hear the chirping of birds, and the gentle May breeze will carry to me the sweet aroma of steppe herbs.

Three curly carnations!

I must confess that of all the flowers I love most of all the carnation; and of all men, children are the dearest to my heart.

Maybe that's why my thoughts moved from a carnation to children, and for one minute I identified these three curly heads: dark red, snow-white and yellow - with three different heads. Maybe everything can be.

I am sitting at my desk now, and what am I doing? Big grown up sentimental fool! I put three carnations found on the street in a crystal glass, I look at them and smile thoughtfully, absentmindedly.

Now I just caught myself doing this.

I remember three girls I know ... Reader, lean closer to me, I'll tell you in your ear about these little girls ... You can't loudly, it's a shame. After all, you and I are already big, and it is inappropriate to speak loudly to you and me about trifles.

And in a whisper, in the ear - you can.

I knew one tiny girl, Lenka.

Once, when we, big hard-headed people, were sitting at the dinner table, my mother hurt the girl with something.

The girl said nothing, but lowered her head, lowered her eyelashes and, staggering with grief, left the table.

- Let's see, - I whispered to my mother, - what will she do?

Miserable Lenka, it turns out, decided to take a huge step: she decided to leave her parental home.

I went to my little room and, puffing, set to work packing: I spread my dark flannel on the bed, put two shirts, trousers, a piece of chocolate, a painted binding torn from a book, and a copper ring with a bottle emerald in it.

She neatly tied all this into a knot, sighed heavily and left the house with her head bowed in sorrow.

She had already safely reached the gate and even stepped out of the gate, but here the most terrible, most insurmountable obstacle awaited her: ten paces from the gate lay a large dark dog.

The girl had enough presence of mind and pride not to scream. She only leaned her shoulder on the bench that stood at the gate, and began to look indifferently in a completely different direction, as if she didn’t care about any dog ​​in the world, and she went out of the gate just to breathe fresh air.

For a long time she stood there, tiny, with great resentment in her heart, not knowing what to do ...

I stuck my head out from behind the fence and asked sympathetically:

- What are you standing here, Helen?

- So so, I'm standing.

- You, perhaps, are afraid of the dog; don't be afraid, she doesn't bite. Go where you wanted.

“I’m not going yet,” the girl whispered, lowering her head. - I'll stand still.

- Well, do you think to stand here for a long time?

- I'll wait a little longer.

- Why wait, then?

“I’ll grow up a little, then I won’t be afraid of the dog, then I’ll go ...

Mother also looked out from behind the fence.

- Where are you going, Elena Nikolaevna?

Lenka jerked her shoulder and turned away.

“You’re not far away,” her mother quipped.

Lenka raised her huge eyes, filled with a whole lake of unspilled tears, and said seriously:

“Don’t think that I have forgiven you. I'll wait a little longer, and then I'll go.

- What are you going to wait for?

- When I will be fourteen years old.

As far as I remember, at that moment she was only 6 years old. She could not stand eight years of waiting at the gate. It was enough for less - just 8 minutes.

But my God! Do we know what she went through during those 8 minutes ?!

Another girl was distinguished by the fact that above all she put the authority of her elders.

Whatever the elders did, everything was sacred in her eyes.

Once her brother, a very absent-minded young man, sitting in an armchair, plunged into reading some interesting book so that he forgot everything in the world. He smoked one cigarette after another, threw the cigarette butts anywhere and, frantically cutting the book with the palm of his hand, was completely at the mercy of the author's witchcraft.

My five-year-old friend wandered around and around her brother for a long time, looking probingly at him, and she was going to ask about something, and still did not dare.

Finally gathered my courage. She began timidly, putting her head out of the folds of the plush tablecloth, where she hid, due to natural delicacy:

- Danila, and Danila? ...

“Leave me alone, don't bother me,” Danila muttered absently, devouring the book with his eyes.

And again the agonizing silence ... And again the delicate child timidly whirled around his brother's chair.

- Why are you turning around here? Leave.

The girl sighed meekly, walked sideways to her brother and began again:

- Danila, and Danila?

- Well, what do you want! Well, speak !!

- Danila, and Danila ... Is that so necessary for the chair to burn?

Sweet child! How much respect for the authority of adults should be in the head of this baby so that, seeing a burning tow in a chair set on fire by an absent-minded brother, she still doubts: what if the brother needs it from some higher considerations? ...

A tender nanny told me about the third girl:

- What a tricky child it is, and it is impossible to imagine ... I put her with her brother to sleep, and before that I put her to prayer: "Pray, they say, children!" And what do you think? The little brother is praying, but she, Lyubochka, is standing and waiting for something. "And you," I say, "why aren't you praying, what are you waiting for?" “But what about,” he says, “will I pray when Borya is already praying? After all, God is listening to him now ... I can't go in too, when God is now busy with Boreas! "

Sweet fragrant carnation!

It would be my will, I would only recognize children as people.

As a person has stepped over childhood, so a stone around his neck and into the water.

Therefore, an adult is almost entirely a scoundrel ...

- Why, son, - my father asked me, putting his hands in his pockets and swaying on his long legs. - Would you like to earn a ruble?

It was such a wonderful offer that it took my breath away.

- Ruble? Right? For what?

- Go to church tonight, dedicate cake.

I immediately collapsed, went limp and frowned.

- You will also say: holy Easter cake! How can I? I am small.

- But you yourself, you bad one, will not sanctify him! The priest will consecrate. And you just take it down and stand beside him!

“I can't,” I said after thinking.

- News! Why can not you?

- The boys will beat me.

“Just think, what an orphan from Kazan was found,” his father grimaced contemptuously. - "The boys will beat him." I suppose you beat them yourself, wherever you come across.

Although my father was a big intelligent man, he did not understand anything in this matter ...

The whole point is that there were two categories of boys: some are smaller and weaker than me, and I beat these. Others are bigger and healthier than me - these trimmed my face on both sides at every meeting.

As in any struggle for existence, the strong devoured the weak. Sometimes I put up with some strong boys, but other strong boys took out this friendship on me, because they were at enmity with each other.

Often my friends gave me a terrible warning.

- Yesterday I met Styopka Pangalov, he asked me to tell you that he would hit you in the face.

- For what? - I was horrified. - I didn’t touch him, didn’t I?

- Did you walk yesterday on Primorsky Boulevard with Kosy Zakharka?

- Well, I was walking! So what then?

- And Kosoy Zakharka beat Pangalov twice that week.

- For what?

- Because Pangalov said that he takes him on one hand.

In the end, I was the only one suffering from all this chain of intricacies and struggle of pride.

I walked with Kosoy Zakharka - Pangalov beat me, concluded a truce with Pangalov and went for a walk with him - I was beaten by Kosoy Zakharka.

From this we can conclude that my friendship was quoted very highly in the boys' market - if there were fights because of me. It was only strange that they beat me mainly.

However, if I could not cope with Pangalov and Zakharka, then the smaller boys should have experienced the full weight of my bad mood.

And when some Sema Fishman made his way down our street, carelessly whistling a song popular in our city: "There is a path in the suburb, Drummer's wife ..."

- Do you want in the face?

The negative answer never bothered me. Sema got his portion and ran away in tears, and I walked briskly along my Craft Street, looking for a new victim, until some Pharmacist from the Gypsy settlement caught me and beat me - for whatever reason: or because I was walking with Kosy Zakharka, or for not walking with him (depending on the personal relationship between the Pharmacist and Kosy Zakharka).

I reacted so sourly to my father's proposal precisely because the evening of Holy Saturday pulls a lot of boys from all the streets and lanes to the fences of the churches of our city. And although I will find many boys there who will hit me in the face, but other boys wander in the darkness of the night, who, in turn, are not averse to soldering a badge (local argo!) To me.

And by that time, my relations with almost everyone had deteriorated: with Kira Aleksomati, with Grigulevich, with Pavka Makopulo and with Rafka Kefeli.

- So are you going or not? - asked the father. - I know, of course, that you would like to wander around the city instead of standing near the cake, but for that - a ruble! Think it over.

This is exactly what I did: I was thinking.

Where should I go? To the Vladimir Cathedral? Pavka will be there with his company ... For the sake of the holiday they will beat them up, as they have never beaten before ... In Petropavlovskaya? There will be Vanya Sazonchik, whom I gave in the face on the Craft Ditch only the third day before. The Sea Church is too fashionable there. What remains is the Greek Church ... I thought to go there, but without any Easter cake and eggs. Firstly, there are our own people - Stepka Pangalov with the company: you can rush around the entire fence, go to the bazaar on an expedition for barrels, boxes and ladders, which right there, in the fence, were solemnly burned by Greek patriots ... Secondly, in the Greek Church there will be Andrienko, who should get his portion for telling his mother that I was stealing tomatoes from the cart ... The prospects in the Greek Church are wonderful, and a bundle of cake, half a dozen eggs and rings of Little Russian sausage should have tied me hand and foot ...

One could instruct one of the acquaintances to stand near the cake, but what kind of fool would agree on such a wonderful night?

- Well, have you decided? - asked the father.

"And I'll blow the old man," I thought.

- Let's give your ruble and your unhappy Easter.

For the last epithet I got it on the lips, but in the cheerful bustle of putting Easter cake and eggs in a napkin, it went completely unnoticed.

And it didn't hurt.

So, a little offensive.

I went down the creaky wooden porch with a bundle in my hand into the courtyard, for a second dived under this porch into a hole formed from two planks dragged away by someone, climbed back empty-handed and, like an arrow, rushed along the dark, warm streets, completely flooded with joyful ringing.

In the enclosure of the Greek Church, I was greeted with a roar of delight. I greeted the whole company and immediately learned that my enemy Andrienko had already arrived.

We argued a bit about what to do first: first "fill" Andrienka, and then go to steal boxes - or vice versa?

They decided: to steal boxes, then beat Andrienka, and then go back to steal boxes.

And so they did.

Andrienko, nailed by me, swore an oath of eternal hatred towards me, and the fire, devouring our prey, raised red smoky tongues almost to the very sky ... The fun flared up, and a wild roar of approval met Christ Popandopulo, who came from somewhere with a whole wooden staircase on his head.

“I’m thinking this to myself,” he shouted cheerfully, “now it’s worth a hundred at home, and he doesn’t have a ladder to get to the upper storey.”

- Did you really take the house ladder away?

- I'm one hundred like this: brownie not brownie - the fox would burn!

Everyone laughed merrily, and that adult simpleton, who, as it turned out later, returning to his home on the Fourth Longitudinal, could not get to the second floor, where his wife and children were eagerly awaiting him, laughed the happiest of all.

It was all very fun, but when I returned home empty-handed after the ceremony, my heart ached: the whole city would break the fast with holy cakes and eggs, and only our family, like a bastard, would eat simple, unholy bread.

True, I reasoned, maybe I don’t believe in God, but suddenly, all the same, God exists and He will remember me all my abominations: he beat Andrienka on such a holy night, he didn’t consecrate cake, and he didn’t quite shout at the bazaar. decent Tatar songs, for which there was literally no forgiveness.

My heart ached, my soul ached, and with every step towards home this pain increased.

And when I approached the hole under the porch and a gray dog ​​jumped out of this hole, chewing something on the go, I completely lost heart and almost cried.

He took out his bundle, torn apart by the dog, examined: the eggs were intact, but a piece of sausage was eaten and the cake was eaten from one side almost to the very middle.

“Christ is risen,” I said, ingratiatingly crawling with a kiss to my father’s bristly mustache.

- Truly! .. What have you got with the cake?

- Yes, I'm on the way ... I felt like eating - pinched off. And sausages ... too.

- This is after the dedication, I hope? - asked the father sternly.

“Y-yes… much… after.

The whole family sat around the table and started eating cake, while I sat aside and thought with horror: “They're eating! Unholy! The whole family is gone. "

And then he lifted up to Heaven a hastily composed prayer: “Our Father! Forgive them all, they do not know what they are doing, but punish them better than me, just not especially so hard ... Amen! "

I slept badly - nightmares were choking - and in the morning, when I came to, I washed myself, took the criminally earned ruble and went under the swing.

The thought of the swing encouraged me a little - I’ll see the festive Pangalov, Motka Kolesnikov there ... We’ll ride on the cross-over, drink buza and eat Tatar pasties for two kopecks each.

The ruble seemed like wealth, and, crossing the Bolshaya Morskaya, I even looked at the two sailors with some contempt: they walked, staggering, and sang at the top of their lungs a romance popular in the Sevastopol maritime spheres:

Oh, don't cry, Marusya,

You will be mine

I will finish the sailor -

I will marry you.

And they ended melancholy:

How are you not ashamed, how are you not sorry,

What changed mine for such rubbish!

The howling of the barrel organ, the shrill squeak of the clarinet, the beats of a huge drum shaking all the insides - all this immediately pleasantly deafened me. On one side someone was dancing, on the other - a dirty clown in a red wig shouted: "Monsieur, madam - go, I'll kick you in the face!" And in the middle, an old Tatar made a game out of a sloping board, like a Chinese billiards, and his thick voice from time to time cut through the whole cacophony of sounds:

- And the second and the birot, - than made all sportsmen's hearts ignite more strongly.

A gypsy with a large jug of red lemonade, in which thinly sliced ​​lemons splashed deliciously, came up to me:

- Panich, the lemonade is cold! Two kopecks, one glass ...

It was already hot.

“Come on, give it,” I said, licking my dry lips. - Take a ruble, give me change.

He took the ruble, looked at me affably and suddenly, looking around and yelling at the whole square: “Abdrakhman! Finally I found you, a scoundrel! " - rushed somewhere to the side and got mixed up in the crowd.

I waited five minutes, ten. There was no gypsy with my ruble ... Obviously, the joy of meeting the mysterious Abdrakhman completely banished material obligations to the buyer in his gypsy heart.

I sighed and, bowing my head, wandered home.

And someone woke up in his heart and said loudly: "This is because you thought to cheat God, you fed your family with an unholy cake!"

And someone else woke up in my head and consoled: “If God punished you, then he spared the family. There are no two punishments for one fault ”.

- Well, it's over! - I sighed with relief, grinning. - I got paid with my sides.

I was small and stupid.

Blowing boy

Christmas story

The following story contains all the elements that make up an ordinary sentimental Christmas story: there is a little boy, there is his mother and there is a Christmas tree, but only the story turns out to be a completely different kind ... Sentimentality, as they say, did not spend the night in it.

This is a serious story, a little gloomy and partly cruel - like the Christmas frost in the North, how cruel life itself.

The first conversation about the tree between Volodka and his mother arose three days before Christmas, and did not arise intentionally, but rather by chance, by a stupid sound coincidence.

Spreading a piece of bread with butter over evening tea, Mom took a bite and winced.

- Butter, - she grumbled, - quite spicy ...

- Will I have a tree? Volodka inquired, sipping tea from a spoon with a noise.

- What else did you think up! You will not have a Christmas tree. Not to fat - I would live. I go without gloves myself.

- Dexterously, - said Volodka. - Other children have as many trees as they want, but I - as if I were not a human being.

- Try to arrange it yourself - then you will see.

- Well, I'll arrange it. Great importance. It will be even cleaner than yours. Where is my cap?

- Again on the street ?! And what kind of child is this! Soon you will become a completely street boy! .. If your father were alive, he would be for you ...

But Volodka never found out what his father would have done to him: his mother was just getting to the second half of the phrase, and he was already descending the stairs with giant leaps, changing the way of movement at some turns: riding on the railing on horseback.

On the street Volodka immediately took on an important, serious look, as befits the owner of a many-thousand-strong treasure.

The fact is that in Volodka's pocket there was a huge diamond that he found on the street yesterday - a large sparkling stone, the size of a hazelnut.

Volodka pinned very high hopes on this diamond: not only the tree, but perhaps the mother can be provided.

"It would be interesting to know how many carats are in it?" - thought Volodka, solidly pulling a huge cap over the very nose and slipping between the legs of passers-by.

In general, it must be said that Volodya's head is the most whimsical warehouse of scraps of various information, knowledge, observations, phrases and sayings.

In some respects, he is dirtyly ignorant: for example, from somewhere he picked up the information that diamonds are weighed in carats, and at the same time he does not know at all which province their city is, how much it will be if you multiply 32 by 18, and why it is impossible to use an electric light bulb light a cigarette.

His practical wisdom was entirely contained in three sayings, inserted by him everywhere, in accordance with the circumstances: "To a poor man to marry - the night is short", "I was not - I have to see" and "I shouldn't be too fat - I would live."

The last proverb was, of course, borrowed from the mother, and the first two - from the devil knows who.

Entering the jewelry store, Volodka put his hand in his pocket and asked:

- Are you buying diamonds?

- Well, we are buying, but what?

- Hang on, how many carats is in this thing?

- Yes, this is a simple glass, - the jeweler said with a grin.

“You all say that,” Volodya objected solidly.

- Well, talk here some more. Get out! The multi-carat diamond flew disrespectfully to the floor.

- Eh, - Volodya bent down grunting for the discredited stone. - For a poor man to marry - the night is short. Bastards! As if they could not have lost a real diamond. Hi! Cleverly, there is nothing to say. Well ... I don't have time for fat - maybe I would live. I'm going to get hired to the theater.

This idea, I must admit, has long been cherished by Volodka. He had heard from someone that sometimes in theaters, boys are required to play, but how to get started on this thing - he did not know at all.

However, it was not in Volodka's character to think: when he reached the theater, he stumbled on the threshold for one second, then boldly stepped forward and, for his own animation and cheerfulness, whispered under his breath:

- Well, I was not - I have to see you.

He went up to the man who was tearing off the tickets, and, lifting his head, asked in a businesslike manner:

- Do you need boys here to play?

- Go, go. Don't hang out here.

After waiting until the ticket collector turned away, Volodka squeezed his way between the entering audience and immediately found himself in front of the cherished door, behind which music was thundering.

“Your ticket, young man,” the usher stopped him.

“Listen,” said Volodka, “there’s one gentleman with a black beard sitting in your theater. A misfortune happened at his home - his wife died. I was sent for him. Call him!

- Well, I'll start looking for your black beard there - go yourself and look!

Volodka, putting his hands in his pockets, triumphantly entered the theater and immediately, having looked out for a free box, sat down in it, fixing his critical gaze on the stage.

From behind someone patted on the shoulder.

Volodka looked around: an officer with a lady.

“This box is busy,” Volodka remarked coldly.

- By me. Can't you see?

The lady laughed, the officer was about to go to the kapeldiner, but the lady stopped him:

- Let him sit with us, okay? He's so small and so important. Do you want to sit with us?

“Sit down already,” Volodka allowed. - What's that you have? Program? Come on ...

So the three sat until the end of the first episode.

- Is it over yet? - Volodka was sadly surprised when the curtain fell. - For a poor man to marry - the night is short. Don't you need this program anymore?

- Need not. You can take it as a souvenir of such a pleasant meeting.

Volodka inquired busily:

- How much did you pay?

- Five rubles.

“Selling for the second batch,” thought Volodka, and picking up another abandoned program on the way from a neighboring box, he cheerfully set off with this product to the main exit.

When he returned home hungry but contented, instead of a fake diamond, he had two real five-ruble notes in his pocket.

The next morning, Volodka, holding his working capital in his fist, wandered the streets for a long time, looking closely at the business life of the city and wondering what would be the best investment for his money.

And when he stood at the huge mirrored window of the cafe - it dawned on him.

“I wasn’t - I have to see you,” he urged himself on, impudently entering the cafe.

- What do you want, boy? The saleswoman asked.

- Tell me, please, the lady with gray fur and with a gold handbag did not come here?

- No, it was not.

- Yeah. Well, that means she hasn't come yet. I will wait for her.

And he sat down at the table.

The main thing, he thought, is to get in here. Try to drive it out later: I will raise such a roar! .. "

He hid in a dark corner and began to wait, poking his black eyes in all directions.

Two tables away from him, the old man finished reading the newspaper, folded it and began to drink coffee.

- Mister, - Volodka whispered, going up to him. - How much did you pay for the newspaper?

- Five rubles.

- Sell for two. They read it anyway.

- Why do you need it?

- Selling. I will earn.

- Oh ... Yes, you, brother, a hustler. Well, on. Here's your change. Would you like a slice of butter bread?

“I'm not a beggar,” Volodka objected with dignity. - Only here I will earn on a Christmas tree - and a Sabbath. Not to fat - I would live.

Half an hour later Volodka had five newspaper pages, a little crumpled, but quite decent in appearance.

The lady with gray fur and a gold purse never came. There is some reason to think that it existed only in Volodka's inflamed imagination.

Having read with great difficulty the completely incomprehensible headline: "The new position of Lloyd George," Volodka, like a madman, rushed down the street, brandishing his newspapers and yelling at the top of his lungs:

- INTERESTING NEWS! "Lloyd George's New Position" - the price is five rubles. "New position" for five rubles !!

And before lunch, after a series of newspaper operations, he could be seen walking with a small box of chocolates and a concentrated expression on his face, barely visible from under a huge cap.

An idle gentleman sat on a bench, lazily smoking a cigarette.

- Mister, - Volodka approached him. - Can I ask you something? ...

- Ask, boy. Go ahead!

- If half a pound of sweets - twenty-seven pieces - cost fifty-five rubles, so how much does a piece cost?

- Exactly, brother, it's hard to say, but about two rubles a piece. And what?

- So, it is profitable to sell at five rubles?

Cleverly! Maybe buy it?

“I’ll buy a pair so you can eat them yourself.”

“No, don’t, I’m not a beggar. I only trade ...

Buy it! Maybe give it to a boy you know.

- Ehma, persuaded! Well, come on with a kerenk, or something.

Volod's mother came home from her seamstress job late in the evening ...

On the table, at which Volodka slept sweetly with his head on his hands, there was a tiny Christmas tree decorated with a couple of apples, one candle and three or four cartons - and it all looked the same.

End of introductory snippet.

* * *

The given introductory fragment of the book Humorous stories (A.T. Averchenko, 2010) provided by our book partner -

Arkady Timofeevich Averchenko (1881 - 1925) - Russian writer, satirist, theater critic.

Born in Sevastopol in the family of a merchant. He was educated at home, because due to poor eyesight and poor health, he could not study at the gymnasium. I read a lot and indiscriminately.

At the age of fifteen he went to work as a junior scribe in a transport office. A year later, he left Sevastopol and began working as a clerk at the Bryansk coal mine, where he served for three years. In 1900 he moved to Kharkov.

In 1903, Averchenko's first story, “How I had to insure my life,” was published in the Kharkov newspaper “Yuzhny Krai”, in which one can already feel his literary style. In 1906 he became the editor of the satirical magazine "Shtyk", almost completely represented by his materials. After the closure of this magazine, the head of the next one - "Sword" - also soon closed.

In 1907 he moved to St. Petersburg and collaborated in the satirical magazine "Strekoza", later transformed into "Satyricon". Then he becomes the permanent editor of this popular publication.

In 1910, three books by Averchenko were published, which made him famous throughout reading Russia: "Merry Oysters", "Stories (humorous)", book 1, "Bunnies on the wall", book II. "... their author is destined to become a Russian Twain ..." - V. Polonsky remarked shrewdly.

Published in 1912, the books "Circles on the Water" and "Stories for Convalescents" approved the title of "King of Laughter" for the author.

Averchenko greeted the February revolution with enthusiasm, but he did not accept the October revolution. In the fall of 1918 he left for the south, collaborated in the newspapers Priazovsky Krai and Yug, performed reading his stories, and was in charge of the literary section at the Artist's House. At the same time he wrote the plays "The Medicine for Stupidity" and "The Game with Death", and in April 1920 he organized his own theater "The Nest of Migratory Birds". Six months later he emigrates through Constantinople abroad; from June 1922 he lived in Prague, briefly leaving for Germany, Poland, Romania, the Baltic states. Published his book "A Dozen Knives in the Back of the Revolution", a collection of stories: "Children", "Funny in the Terrible", a humorous novel "A Patron's Joke" and others.

In 1924 he undergoes an operation to remove an eye, after which he cannot recover for a long time; heart disease soon progresses sharply.

Died in the Prague City Hospital on January 22 (March 3 NS) 1925. He was buried in Prague at the Olshansky Cemetery.

Books (8)

Anthology of Satire and Humor of Russia of the XX century

Some ancient thinkers believed that a person can be defined as "an animal that knows how to laugh."

And I think they were right to some extent, because not only the ability to walk on two legs and work activities distinguished people from the animal world, helped to survive and go through all the imaginable and inconceivable trials of thousands of years of history, but also the ability to laugh. That is why those who knew how to make laugh were popular in all ages and among all peoples.

Kings could afford to keep jesters at court, and common people gathered in the squares to watch the performances of itinerant comedians or buffoons. Interestingly, over time, the title of the king of laughter appeared. They were awarded to those who achieved the greatest success in this art. Since the end of the first decade of our century in Russia, nowhere officially approved the title of the king of laughter belonged to Arkady Averchenko.

Volume 1. Cheerful oysters

The collected works of the Russian humorist writer Arkady Timofeevich Averchenko opens with a volume that includes the collection of his works "Merry Oysters" (1910) and the first two books of his three-volume "Stories (humorous)" (1910-1911).

The writer's bright talent, his literary skills are fully embodied in the witty stories included in this volume.

Volume 2. Circles on the water

The second volume of A. Averchenko's works includes: the third book of the collection "Stories (humorous)" (1911), "New history" (from "General history, processed by" Satyricon ") (1910)," Expedition to Western Europe of satiriconists "( 1911) and one of the best collections of short stories by the writer Circles on the Water (1912).

Volume 3. Black on white

The third volume of A. Averchenko's works includes the collections "Stories for Convalescents" (1912), "Black and White" (1913), "On the Good People, in Essentially" (1914), as well as stories from the "Cheap Humorous Library" of Satyricon "" And "New Satyricon" (1910-1914).

Volume 4. Weeds

The fourth volume of A. Averchenko's works includes collections of works first published in 1914-1917: "Weeds" (1914), "Notes of the Theater Rat", "Wolf Pits", "Shaluns and Rotozei" (1915), pills "(1916)," About small - for big "(1916)," Blue with gold "(1917).

Arkady Timofeevich Averchenko (1881 - 1925) - Russian writer, playwright, satirist, editor.

Family, childhood, youth

Arkady Timofeevich Averchenko was born on March 27 (old style - 15), 1881. in Sevastopol, then - provinces, backwoods. Father, Timofey Petrovich Averchenko, an impoverished merchant of the second guild. Mother, Susanna Pavlovna, daughter of a retired soldier.

The family was not rich, the boy, due to poor eyesight, did not study in elementary school. However, this was later made up for by the writer's erudition and natural intelligence.

Already at the age of 15, Averchenko began working as a junior scribe in the transport company of Sevastopol. He did not work here for long (1896-1897), and then put the impressions received at the basis of the story "On the steamer whistles."

In 1897. Averchenko gets a job as a clerk at the Bryansk mine in the Donbas. Here he stayed for 4 years, and the experience gained also formed the basis for the stories "Lightning", "Evening", etc.

The beginning of the literary path

The beginning of the 1900s was marked in the biography of Arkady Averchenko by a workers' move to Kharkov. Here in 1903. in the newspaper "Yuzhny Krai" his first story "How I had to insure my life" was published. The satirist said that he made his debut with the short story "The Righteous One" in 1904.

After 2-3 years, the writer suffers an eye injury. Moreover, as a result of the damage, a complication arises - the defeat of the second eye, which in the future will become one of the reasons for the death of the satirist.

1906-1907 became for Averchenko the time of editorial in the Sword magazine, where he leads almost all sections under more than 40 pseudonyms. However, being engaged in creativity, A. Averchenko completely abandons the affairs of service in the board of mines, for which he was soon removed from office.

In 1908. Arkady Timofeevich leaves for St. Petersburg, where he works for the Strekoza magazine, which is living out its days. In the same year, the youth of the magazine unites to create their own edition. It was named "Satyricon", and Averchenko was elected to the post of editor.

Years of work in "Satyrikon", and then "New Satyricon" - this is the period of creative formation of Averchenko, fruitful cooperation with such writers as Sasha Cherny, Teffi, Remizov, Osip Dymov. The works of the satirist are actively printed and staged. In addition to creative satisfaction, Averchenko receives a good income. Even the political prosecution of certain of his creations does not bother the satirist.

In 1910, the collections “Stories (humorous). Book One ”,“ Bunnies on the Wall. Stories (humorous). Book two ”,“ Merry oysters ”. Thanks to them, Averchenko gains fame, standing out among other humorists of the era.

In 1911-1912. the satyricians travel around Europe, the impressions obtained are used in writing the "Expedition of the satyricians to Western Europe" (1912).

Contemporary critics compare the literary traditions of Arkady Averchenko with the creative method of Mark Twain, A.P. Chekhov, noting his ability to depict narrow-minded inhabitants, stupidity, vulgarity of existence.

Mature years, revolution, emigration

A new round of the writer's biography falls on 1918, when the Bolsheviks, who had seized power, closed the magazine. Averchenko, like his fellow satirists, did not accept Soviet power and decided to return to his native Sevastopol, which still belonged to whites. This path turned out to be full of dangers and troubles, but Averchenko still managed to get to the Crimea. Here since July 1919. he works in the newspaper "Yug", and in November 1920, after the capture of Crimea by the Reds, he leaves Russia, emigrating to Rome.

In June 1922 A. Averchenko moved to Prague, where he remained to live until the end of his days. Torn away from his homeland, he feels longing, misses his native language. This mood is imbued with his stories, including "The Tragedy of a Russian Writer."

In Prague, the emigrant works for Prager Presse, a well-known newspaper, and also collects poetry evenings. In the Czech Republic, Averchenko is popular, his stories are published in translation. In 1921. published a collection of "A dozen knives in the back of the revolution", one of the most odious anti-Soviet works.

From now on, humorous stories are almost absent in the work of the satirist, his works are devoted to the fate of Russia - before and after the revolution. He sees the post-revolutionary period as a deception of the working man, deprived of books, art, the opportunity to develop.

The last years of his life were overshadowed by an operation to remove the left (injured) eye. The right one quickly began to go blind. In addition, the writer complained of shortness of breath and chest pains. Probably, the leading Epicurean lifestyle, Averchenko, developed diabetes mellitus. The satirist's life ended at the age of 44 on March 12, 1925. The death of the writer came as a result of heart failure. Arkady Averchenko was buried at the Olshansky cemetery (Prague).