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And the next night the boatmen stopped and cooked porridge. This time, from the very beginning, a vague melancholy was felt in everything. It was stuffy; Everyone drank a lot and could not quench their thirst. The moon rose very purple and gloomy, as if sick; the stars also frowned, the darkness was thicker, the distance was cloudier. Nature seemed to have a presentiment of something and was languishing.

There was no longer any excitement or conversation around the fire from yesterday. Everyone was bored and spoke sluggishly and reluctantly. Panteley just sighed, complained about his legs and kept talking about brazen death.

Dymov was lying on his stomach, silent and chewing a straw; his expression was disgusting, as if the straw smelled bad, angry and tired... Vasya complained that his jaw was aching and prophesied bad weather; Emelyan did not wave his hands, but sat motionless and gloomily looked at the fire. Yegorushka was also languishing. Riding at a walk tired him, and the heat of the day gave him a headache.

When the porridge was cooked, Dymov, out of boredom, began to find fault with his comrades.

The big guy has settled down and is the first one to climb with a spoon! - he said, looking with anger at Emelyan. - Greed! So he strives to be the first to sit down at the cauldron. He was a singer, that’s what he thinks - master! There are many of you singers asking for alms on the big road!

Why are you here? - asked Emelyan, looking at him also with anger.

And the fact is that don’t be the first to poke your nose into the boiler. Don't understand too much about yourself!

“A fool, that’s all,” Emelyan wheezed.

Knowing from experience how such conversations most often end, Panteley and Vasya intervened and began to convince Dymov not to swear in vain.

The singer... - the mischievous man did not stop, grinning contemptuously. - Anyone can sing like that. Sit on the porch of the church and sing: “Give alms for Christ’s sake!” Eh, you!

Emelyan remained silent. His silence had an irritating effect on Dymov. He looked at the former singer with even greater hatred and said:

I just don’t want to get involved, otherwise I would show you how to understand yourself!

Why are you pestering me, Mazeppa? - Yemelyan flushed. -Am I touching you?

What did you call me? - Dymov asked, straightening up, and his eyes became bloodshot. - How? Am I Mazeppa? Yes? So here it is for you! Go look!

Dymov snatched the spoon from Emelyan’s hands and threw it far to the side. Kiryukha, Vasya and Styopka jumped up and ran to look for her, and Emelyan looked pleadingly and questioningly at Pantelei. His face suddenly became small, wrinkled, blinked, and the former singer began to cry like a child.

Yegorushka, who had long hated Dymov, felt how the air suddenly became unbearably stuffy, how the fire from the fire was hotly burning his face; he wanted to quickly run to the convoy in the darkness, but the evil, bored eyes of the mischievous man pulled him towards him. Eagerly wanting to say something highest degree offensive, he stepped towards Dymov and said, breathless:

You are the worst! I can't stand you!

After that, he would have to run to the convoy, but he could not budge and continued:

In the next world you will burn in hell! I'll complain to Ivan Ivanovich! You don't dare offend Emelyan!

Also, please tell me! - Dymov grinned. - Every little pig, the milk hasn’t dried on his lips yet, he’s trying to get into his fingers. What if it's behind the ear?

Yegorushka felt that he could no longer breathe; he - this had never happened to him before - suddenly shook his whole body, stamped his feet and screamed shrilly:

Beat him! Beat him!

Tears flowed from his eyes; he felt ashamed, and he, staggering, ran to the convoy. He did not see what impression his scream made. Lying on the bale and crying, he twitched his arms and legs and whispered:

Mother! Mother!

And these people, and the shadows around the fire, and the dark bales, and the distant lightning that flashed in the distance every minute - everything now seemed unsociable and terrible to him. He was horrified and asked himself in despair how it was and why he ended up in unknown land, in the company of scary men? Where is uncle now, oh. Christopher and Deniska? Why don't they travel for so long? Have they forgotten about him? The thought that he was forgotten and left to the mercy of fate made him feel cold and so terrified that several times he tried to jump off the bale and headlong, without looking back, run back along the road, but the memory of the dark, gloomy crosses that would certainly meet him on path, and the lightning flashing in the distance stopped him... And only when he whispered: “Mom! Mom!” - he seemed to feel better...

It must have been scary for the guides too. After Yegorushka ran away from the fire, at first they were silent for a long time, then in an undertone and muffled they started talking about something, that it was coming and that they needed to quickly get ready and leave it... They soon had dinner, put out the fire and silently began to harness up. From their bustle and abrupt phrases it was noticeable that they foresaw some kind of misfortune.

Before setting off, Dymov approached Panteley and asked quietly:

What's his name?

Egory... - answered Panteley.

Dymov stood with one foot on the wheel, grabbed the rope with which the bale was tied, and stood up. Yegorushka saw his face and curly head. The face was pale, tired and serious, but no longer expressed anger.

Era! - he said quietly. - Here, hit!

Yegorushka looked at him in surprise; at this time lightning flashed.

Nothing, hit! - Dymov repeated.

And, without waiting for Yegorushka to beat him or talk to him, he jumped down and said:

I'm bored!

Then, shifting from foot to foot, moving his shoulder blades, he lazily trudged along the convoy and repeated in a voice that was either crying or annoyed:

I'm bored! God! “Don’t be offended, Emelya,” he said, passing by Emelyan. - Our life is lost, fierce!

Lightning flashed to the right, and, as if reflected in a mirror, it immediately flashed in the distance.

Egory, take it! - Panteley shouted, handing something large and dark from below.

What is this? - asked Yegorushka.

Matting! It will rain, so you'll be covered.

Yegorushka stood up and looked around him. The distance noticeably turned black and, more often than every minute, blinked with a pale light, as if for centuries. Its blackness, as if from heaviness, leaned to the right.

Grandfather, will there be a thunderstorm? - asked Yegorushka.

Oh, my legs are sore and cold! - Panteley said in a singsong voice, not hearing him and stamping his feet.

To the left, as if someone had struck a match across the sky, a pale phosphorescent strip flashed and went out. I heard someone walking on an iron roof somewhere very far away. They probably walked barefoot on the roof, because the iron grumbled dully.

And he's the cover one! - Kiryukha shouted.

Lightning flashed between the distance and the right horizon, and so brightly that it illuminated part of the steppe and the place where the clear sky bordered on blackness. A terrible cloud was approaching slowly, solid mass; large, black rags hung on its edge; Exactly the same rags, crushing each other, piled up on the right and left horizons. This ragged, disheveled appearance of the cloud gave it a kind of drunken, mischievous expression. Thunder rumbled clearly and not dully. Yegorushka crossed himself and quickly began to put on his coat.

I'm bored! - Dymov’s cry came from the front carts, and from his voice one could judge that he was beginning to get angry again. - It's boring!

Suddenly the wind blew with such force that it almost snatched Yegorushka’s bundle and matting; Starting up, the mat rushed in all directions and smacked the bale and Yegorushka’s face. The wind rushed with a whistle across the steppe, swirled randomly and raised such a noise with the grass that because of it neither thunder nor the creaking of wheels could be heard. It blew from a black cloud, carrying with it clouds of dust and the smell of rain and wet earth. The moonlight dimmed and seemed to become dirtier, the stars frowned even more, and one could see clouds of dust and their shadows hurrying somewhere along the edge of the road. Now, in all likelihood, the whirlwinds, whirling and carrying dust, dry grass and feathers from the ground, rose to the very sky; there were probably tumbleweeds flying near the blackest cloud, and how scared they must have been! But through the dust that covered the eyes, nothing was visible except the brilliance of lightning.

Yegorushka, thinking that it would rain right away, knelt down and covered himself with matting.

Pantelle-ey! - someone shouted in front. - A... a... wa!

Don't hear! - Panteley answered loudly and in a sing-song voice.

A...a...va! Arya...ah!

Thunder rumbled angrily, rolled across the sky from right to left, then back and froze near the front carts.

Holy, holy, holy, Lord Hosts,” whispered Yegorushka, crossing himself, “fill heaven and earth with your glory...

The blackness in the sky opened its mouth and breathed white fire; immediately thunder roared again; As soon as he fell silent, lightning flashed so widely that Yegorushka, through the cracks of the matting, suddenly saw the whole high road all the way to the distance, all the guides and even Kiryukhin’s vest. The black rags on the left were already rising upward, and one of them, rough, clumsy, like a paw with fingers, was reaching for the moon. Yegorushka decided to close his eyes tightly, not pay attention and wait for it to be over.

For some reason the rain did not start for a long time. Yegorushka, hoping that the cloud might be passing by, looked out of the matting. It was terribly dark. Yegorushka saw neither Pantelei, nor the bale, nor himself; He glanced sideways at where the moon had been recently, but there was the same darkness there as on the cart. And the lightning in the darkness seemed whiter and more dazzling, so that it hurt my eyes.

Panteley! - Yegorushka called.

There was no answer. But finally the wind comes in last time he pulled the mat and ran away somewhere. A smooth, calm noise was heard. A large cold drop fell on Yegorushka’s knee, another crawled down his arm. He noticed that his knees were not covered, and wanted to straighten the matting, but at that moment something fell and clattered along the road, then on the shafts, on the bale. It was rain. He and the matting, as if they understood each other, began talking about something quickly, cheerfully and disgustingly, like two magpies.

Yegorushka was on his knees, or rather, sitting on his boots. When the rain began to patter on the matting, he leaned forward with his body to shield his knees, which suddenly became wet; I managed to cover my knees, but in less than a minute a sharp, unpleasant dampness was felt from behind, below my back and on my calves. He resumed his previous position, put his knees out into the rain and began to think about what to do, how to straighten the invisible matting in the darkness. But his hands were already wet, water was flowing into his sleeves and down his collar, and his shoulder blades were chilly. And he decided not to do anything, but to sit motionless and wait for it all to end.

Holy, holy, holy... - he whispered.

Suddenly, right above his head, with a terrible, deafening crash, the sky broke; he bent down and held his breath, waiting for the debris to fall on the back of his head and back. His eyes accidentally opened, and he saw how on his fingers, wet sleeves and streams running from the matting, on the bale and below on the ground, a blindingly caustic light flashed and blinked five times. rang out new blow, just as strong and terrible. The sky no longer thundered or rumbled, but made dry, crackling sounds, similar to the crackling of dry wood.

"Fuck! bang! bang! bang!" - the thunder rumbled clearly, rolled across the sky, stumbled and somewhere near the front carts or far behind fell with an angry, abrupt - “Trra!..”.

Previously, lightning was only scary; with the same thunder, they seemed ominous. Their magical light penetrated through closed eyelids and spread cold throughout the body. What can I do to avoid seeing them? Yegorushka decided to turn around and face backwards. Carefully, as if afraid that he was being watched, he got down on all fours and, sliding his palms along the wet bale, turned back.

"Fuck! bang! bang!" - rushed over his head, fell under the cart and exploded - “rrrr!”

His eyes accidentally opened again, and Yegorushka saw a new danger: three huge giants with long peaks were walking behind the cart. Lightning flashed on the tips of their peaks and very clearly illuminated their figures. They were people of enormous size, with covered faces, bowed heads and heavy gait. They seemed sad and despondent, deep in thought. Perhaps they followed the convoy not to cause harm, but still there was something terrible in their proximity.

Yegorushka quickly turned forward and, trembling all over, shouted:

Panteley! Grandfather!

"Fuck! bang! bang!" - the sky answered him.

He opened his eyes to see if the guides were there. Lightning flashed in two places and illuminated the road to the very distance, the entire convoy and all the carriers. Streams flowed along the road and bubbles jumped. Panteley walked near the cart, his tall hat and shoulders were covered with a small matting; the figure expressed neither fear nor anxiety, as if he had been deaf from thunder and blind from lightning.

Grandfather, giants! - Yegorushka shouted to him, crying.

But grandfather didn’t hear. Next came Emelyan. This one was covered with large matting from head to toe and was now shaped like a triangle. Vasya, not covered with anything, walked as woodenly as always, raising his legs high and not bending his knees. With the flash of lightning, it seemed that the convoy did not move and the carriers froze, that Vasya’s raised leg went numb...

Yegorushka also called his grandfather. Having not received an answer, he sat down motionless and did not wait for it to be over. He was sure that thunder would kill him that very minute, that his eyes would accidentally open and he would see terrible giants. And he no longer crossed himself, did not call his grandfather, did not think about his mother, and only became numb from the cold and the certainty that the storm would never end.

Egorgy, are you sleeping, or what? - Panteley shouted downstairs. - Get down! I'm deaf, you fool!

What a thunderstorm! - said some unfamiliar bass and grunted as if he had drunk a good glass of vodka.

Yegorushka opened his eyes. Below, near the cart, stood Panteley, Triangle-Emelyan and the giants. The latter were now much shorter in stature, and when Yegorushka looked at them, they turned out to be ordinary peasants, holding iron forks rather than lances on their shoulders. In the gap between Panteley and the triangle, the window of a low hut shone. This means that the convoy was in the village. Yegorushka threw off his matting, took the bundle and hurried off the cart. Now that people were talking nearby and the window was shining, he was no longer afraid, although thunder still crackled and lightning streaked the entire sky.

The dream is good, nothing... - Panteley muttered. - Thank God... My legs were a little soft from the rain, but that was all right... Are you crying, Yegorgy? Well, go to the hut... Nothing...

Holy, holy, holy... - Emelyan wheezed. - It certainly hit somewhere... Are you from here? - he asked the giants.

No, from Glinov... We are from Glinov. We work for Mr. Plater.

Are you threshing, or what?

Miscellaneous. While we are still harvesting wheat. And the mologna, the mologna! There hasn't been a storm like this for a long time...

Yegorushka entered the hut. He was met by a skinny, hunchbacked old woman with sharp chin. She held a tallow candle in her hands, squinted and sighed protractedly.

What a thunderstorm God sent! - she said. - And our people spend the night in the steppe, they will suffer, dear ones! Undress, father, undress...

Shivering from the cold and shrugging with disgust, Yegorushka pulled off his wet coat, then spread his arms and legs wide and did not move for a long time. Every slightest movement caused him unpleasant feeling phlegm and cold. The sleeves and back of the shirt were wet, the trousers were stuck to the legs, the head was dripping...

Well, boy, should you stand upright? - said the old woman. - Go sit down!

Spreading his legs wide, Yegorushka walked up to the table and sat down on a bench near someone’s head. The head moved, blew a stream of air through its nose, chewed and calmed down. From the head along the bench stretched a mound covered with a sheepskin coat. It was some woman sleeping.

The old woman, sighing, went out and soon returned with a watermelon and melon.

Eat, father! There’s nothing more to treat... - she said, yawning, then rummaged in the table and pulled out a long, sharp knife, very similar to the knives with which robbers cut merchants at inns. - Eat, father!

Yegorushka, trembling as if in a fever, ate a slice of melon with black bread, then a slice of watermelon, and this made him even colder.

Our people spend the night in the steppe... - the old woman sighed while he ate. - The Passion of the Lord... I wish I could light a candle in front of the image, but I don’t know where Stepanida went. Eat, father, eat...

The old woman yawned and threw back right hand, scratched her left shoulder.

It must be about two hours now,” she said. - It’s time to get up soon. Our guys spend the night in the steppe... Probably everyone got wet...

Grandma,” said Yegorushka, “I want to sleep.”

Lie down, father, lie down... - the old woman sighed, yawning. - Lord Jesus Christ! I’m sleeping, and I hear as if someone is knocking. I woke up and looked, and it was God who sent the thunderstorm... I wanted to light a candle, but I couldn’t find it.

Talking to herself, she pulled some rags from the bench, probably her bed, took two sheepskin coats from a nail near the stove and began laying them out for Yegorushka.

The thunderstorm is not going away,” she muttered. - It’s like, it’s hard to tell what didn’t burn. Our people spend the night in the steppe... Lie down, father, sleep... Christ be with you, grandson... I won’t pick the melon, maybe when you get up you can eat it.

The sighs and yawns of the old woman, the measured breathing of the sleeping woman, the twilight of the hut and the sound of rain outside the window were favorable to the Sioux. Yegorushka was ashamed to undress in front of the old woman. He only took off his boots, lay down and covered himself with a sheepskin coat.

Is the boy lying down? - Pantelei’s whisper was heard a minute later.

Lay down! - the old woman answered in a whisper. - Passions, the passions of the Lord! It thunders and thunders, and you can’t hear the end...

Now it will pass... - Panteley hissed, sitting down. - It became quieter... The guys went to the huts, but two remained with the horses... Guys... It’s impossible... They’ll take the horses away... So I’ll sit for a while and go to my shift... It’s impossible, they’ll take them away...

Panteley and the old woman sat side by side at Yegorushka’s feet and spoke in a hissing whisper, interrupting their speech with sighs and yawns. But Yegorushka could not warm up. He was wearing a warm, heavy sheepskin coat, but his whole body was shaking, his arms and legs were cramping, his insides were trembling... He undressed under the sheepskin coat, but that didn’t help either. The chills became stronger and stronger.

Panteley left for his shift and then returned again, but Yegorushka was still awake and trembling all over. Something was pressing on his head and chest, oppressing him, and he didn’t know what it was: the whispering of old people or the heavy smell of sheepskin? Eating watermelon and melon left an unpleasant, metallic taste in my mouth. In addition, fleas also bit.

Grandfather, I'm cold! - he said and did not recognize his voice.

Sleep, grandson, sleep... - the old woman sighed.

Titus walked up to the bed on thin legs and waved his arms, then grew to the ceiling and turned into a mill. Father Christopher, not as he was sitting in the chaise, but in full vestments and with sprinkler in his hand, walked around the mill, sprinkled it with holy water, and it stopped waving. Yegorushka, knowing that this was nonsense, opened his eyes.

Grandfather! - he called. - Give me some water!

No one responded. Yegorushka felt unbearably stuffy and uncomfortable lying down. He got up, got dressed and left the hut. It's already morning. The sky was cloudy, but it was no longer raining. Trembling and wrapping himself in a wet coat, Yegorushka walked through the dirty yard and listened to the silence; A small shed with a reed door, half open, caught his eye. He looked into this barn, entered it and sat down in a dark corner on the dung.

His heavy head was confused with thoughts, his mouth was dry and disgusting from the metallic taste. He looked at his hat, straightened the peacock feather on it and remembered how he went with his mother to buy this hat. He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a lump of brown, sticky putty. How did this putty get into his pocket? He thought, sniffed: it smells like honey. Yep, this is Jewish gingerbread! How wet he is, poor thing!

Yegorushka looked at his coat. And his coat was gray, with large bone buttons, sewn in the manner of a frock coat. Like a new and expensive thing, it hung at home not in the hallway, but in the bedroom, next to my mother’s dresses; It was allowed to be worn only on holidays. Looking at him, Yegorushka felt pity for him, remembered that he and the coat were both abandoned to the mercy of fate, that they would never return home, and began to sob so much that he almost fell off the dung.

A large white dog, drenched in the rain, with tufts of fur on its muzzle that looked like curlers, entered the barn and stared curiously at Yegorushka. She apparently was thinking: should she bark or not? Having decided that there was no need to bark, she carefully approached Yegorushka, ate the putty and left.

These are Varlamov's! - someone shouted on the street.

Having cried, Yegorushka left the barn and, avoiding the puddle, trudged out into the street. Just in front of the gate there were carts on the road. Wet guides with dirty feet, lethargic and sleepy, like autumn flies, wandered around or sat on the shafts. Yegorushka looked at them and thought: “How boring and inconvenient it is to be a man!” He walked up to Panteley and sat down next to him on the shaft.

Grandfather, I'm cold! - he said, trembling and putting his hands into his sleeves.

It’s okay, we’ll get there soon,” Panteley yawned. - It’s okay, you’ll warm up.

The convoy set off early because it was not hot. Yegorushka lay on the bale and shivered from the cold, although the sun soon appeared in the sky and dried his clothes, the bale and the ground. He had barely closed his eyes when he saw Titus and the mill again. Feeling nausea and heaviness throughout his body, he strained his strength to drive these images away from himself, but as soon as they disappeared, the mischievous Dymov with red eyes and raised fists rushed at Yegorushka with a roar, or he could be heard yearning: “It’s boring to me!" Varlamov rode by on a Cossack stallion, happy Konstantin passed by with his smile and his horse. And how hard, obnoxious and annoying all these people were!

Once - it was already before evening - he raised his head to ask for a drink. The convoy stood on a large bridge stretching across a wide river. Below there was dark smoke over the river, and through it a steamer was visible, towing a barge. Ahead across the river was a huge mountain dotted with houses and churches; at the foot of the mountain a locomotive was running near the freight cars...

Before, Yegorushka had never seen steamboats, locomotives, or wide rivers. Looking at them now, he was not afraid, not surprised; His face did not even express anything resembling curiosity. He just felt faint and hurried to lie down with his chest on the edge of the bale. He vomited. Panteley, who saw this, grunted and shook his head.

Our boy is sick! - he said. - He must have a cold in his stomach... the boy... On the wrong side... This is bad!

The convoy stopped not far from the pier in a large trading compound. Getting off the cart, Yegorushka heard someone’s very familiar voice. Someone helped him get down and said:

And we arrived last night... We've been waiting for you all day today. Yesterday we wanted to catch up with you, but there was no hand, we took a different road. Eka, how you wrinkled your coat! You'll get it from your uncle!

Yegorushka peered into the marble face of the speaker and remembered that it was Deniska.

“Uncle and Father Christopher are now in the room,” Deniska continued, “drinking tea.” Let's go to!

And he led Yegorushka to a large two-story building, dark and gloomy, similar to N’s charitable institution. Having passed the entryway, a dark staircase and a long, narrow corridor, Yegorushka and Deniska entered a small room in which Ivan Ivanovich and Fr. were actually sitting at the tea table. Christopher. Seeing the boy, both old men showed surprise and joy on their faces.

A-ah, Egor Nikola-aich! - sang o. Christopher. - Mr. Lomonosov!

Ah, gentlemen of the nobility! - said Kuzmichov. - Welcome.

Yegorushka took off his coat, kissed his uncle’s hand and Fr. Christopher and sat down at the table.

Well, how did you get there, puer bone? (dear boy (lat.)) - Fr. fell asleep. Christopher asked questions, pouring him tea and, as usual, smiling radiantly. - Are you tired of it? And God forbid you ride on a wagon train or oxen! You drive and drive, God forgive me, you look ahead, and the steppe is still as long and folded as it was: there is no end in sight! Not a ride, but pure reproach. Why don't you drink tea? Drink! And we are here without you, while you were dragging along with the convoy, everything was done to pieces. God bless! They sold the wool to Cherepakhin in a way that God forbids anyone... They made good use of it.

At the first glance at his family, Yegorushka felt an irresistible need to complain. He didn't listen to Fr. Christopher and figured out where to start and what, in fact, to complain about. But the voice of Fr. Christopher, who seemed unpleasant and harsh, prevented him from concentrating and confused his thoughts. Without sitting for even five minutes, he got up from the table, went to the sofa and lay down.

Here you go! - Fr. was surprised. Christopher. - What about tea? Thinking of something to complain about, Yegorushka pressed his forehead against the wall of the sofa and suddenly began to sob.

Here you go! - repeated Fr. Christopher gets up and goes to the sofa. - Georgiy, what’s wrong with you? Why are you crying?

I... I'm sick! - said Yegorushka.

Is ill? - Fr. was embarrassed. Christopher. - This is really not good, brother... Is it possible to get sick on the road? Ay, ay, what are you like, brother?

He put his hand to Yegorushka’s head, touched her cheek and said:

Yes, your head is hot... You must have caught a cold or ate something... You call on God.

Give him some quinine...” Ivan Ivanovich said embarrassedly.

No, he should have something hot to eat... Georgiy, would you like some soup? A?

I don’t... I don’t want to... - answered Yegorushka.

Are you shivering or what?

Before it was chilly, but now... now it’s hot. My whole body hurts...

Ivan Ivanovich walked up to the sofa, touched Yegorushka’s head, grunted in embarrassment and returned to the table.

That’s it, you undress and go to bed,” said Fr. Christopher, you need to get some sleep.

He helped Yegorushka undress, gave him a pillow and covered him with a blanket, and Ivan Ivanovich’s coat on top of the blanket, then walked away on tiptoe and sat down at the table. Yegorushka closed his eyes, and it immediately began to seem to him that he was not in the room, but on high road near the fire; Emelyan waved his hand, and Dymov, with red eyes, lay on his stomach and looked mockingly at Yegorushka.

Beat him! Beat him! - Yegorushka shouted.

Trouble! - Ivan Ivanovich sighed.

It will be necessary to lubricate it with oil and vinegar. God willing, he will recover by tomorrow.

To get rid of his heavy dreams, Yegorushka opened his eyes and began to look at the fire. Father Christopher and Ivan Ivanovich had already drunk tea and were talking about something in a whisper. The first one smiled happily and, apparently, could not forget that he had taken good benefit on wool; What made him happy was not so much the benefit itself as the thought that, upon arriving home, he would collect all his big family, will wink slyly and burst out laughing; First he will deceive everyone and say that he sold the wool for less than its price, then he will give his son-in-law Mikhail a thick wallet and say: “Here, take it! This is how things should be done!” Kuzmichov did not seem happy. His face still expressed businesslike dryness and concern.

“Oh, if only I knew that Cherepakhin would give such a price,” he said in a low voice, “then I wouldn’t sell those three hundred pounds to Makarov at home!” Such a shame! But who knew that the price was raised here?

The man in the white shirt put away the samovar and lit a lamp in the corner in front of the icon. Father Christopher whispered something in his ear; he made a mysterious face, like a conspirator - I understand, they say - went out and, returning a little later, put the vessel under the sofa. Ivan Ivanovich lay down on the floor, yawned several times, said a lazy prayer and lay down.

And tomorrow I’m thinking about going to the cathedral... - said Fr. Christopher. - I know the sergeant there. I should see the Eminence after mass, yes, they say I’m sick.

He yawned and put out the lamp. Now only the lamp was shining.

They say he doesn’t accept it,” continued Fr. Christopher, unmasking. - So I’ll leave without seeing you.

He took off his caftan, and Yegorushka saw Robinson Crusoe in front of him. Robinson stirred something in a saucer, walked up to Yegorushka and whispered:

Lomonosov, are you sleeping? Get up! I'll lubricate you with oil and vinegar. It’s good, just call on God.

Yegorushka quickly got up and sat down. Father Christopher took off his shirt and, shrugging, breathing intermittently, as if he himself was ticklish, began rubbing Yegorushka’s chest.

In the name of father and son and the holy spirit... - he whispered. - Lie down with your back up!.. Like this. Tomorrow you will be healthy, just don’t sin in the future... Like a hot fire! Were you on the road during a thunderstorm?

On the road.

I wish I didn't get sick! In the name of father and son and the holy spirit... I wish I didn’t get sick!

Having lubricated Yegorushka, Fr. Christopher put a shirt on him, covered him, crossed him and walked away. Then Yegorushka saw him praying to God. The old man probably knew a lot of prayers by heart, because he stood in front of the icon for a long time and whispered. Having prayed, he crossed the windows, the door, Yegorushka, Ivan Ivanovich, lay down without a pillow on the sofa and covered himself with his caftan. In the corridor the clock struck ten. Yegorushka remembered how much time remained until the morning, in anguish he pressed his forehead to the back of the sofa and no longer tried to get rid of the foggy, depressing dreams. But morning came much earlier than he thought.

It seemed to him that he had not been lying there for long, with his forehead pressed against the back of the sofa, but when he opened his eyes, from both windows of the room slanting lines were already stretching towards the floor. Sun rays. Father Christopher and Ivan Ivanovich were not there. The room was tidy, light, cozy and smelled of... Christopher, who always gave off the smell of cypress and dry cornflowers (at home he made sprinkles and decorations for icon cases from cornflowers, which is why he smelled of them through and through). Yegorushka looked at the pillow, at the slanting rays, at his boots, which were now cleaned and stood side by side near the sofa, and laughed. It seemed strange to him that he was not on a bale, that everything around him was dry and there was no lightning and thunder on the ceiling.

He jumped off the sofa and began to get dressed. He was feeling excellent; All that was left from yesterday’s illness was a slight weakness in the legs and neck. So the oil and vinegar helped. He remembered the steamship, the locomotive and the wide river, which he had vaguely seen yesterday, and now he was in a hurry to get dressed in order to run to the pier and look at them. When he had washed himself and put on his red shirt, the lock on the door suddenly clicked and Fr. appeared on the threshold. Christopher in his top hat, with his staff and in a brown silk cassock over a canvas caftan. Smiling and beaming (old people who have just returned from church always emit a glow), he put a prosphora and some kind of package on the table, prayed and said:

God has sent mercy! How's your health?

“It’s good now,” Yegorushka answered, kissing his hand.

Thank God... And I’m from mass... I went to see a friend of the keymaster. He invited me to drink tea with him, but I didn’t go. I don’t like visiting guests early in the morning. God be with them!

He took off his cassock, stroked his chest and slowly unwrapped the package. Yegorushka saw a tin of grainy caviar, a piece of balyk and French bread.

“So, I walked past a live fish shop and bought it,” said Fr. Christopher. “On weekdays there’s nothing to luxuriate in, but I thought, being sick at home, it seemed to be forgivable.” And the caviar is good, sturgeon...

A man in a white shirt brought a samovar and a tray of dishes.

“Eat,” said Fr. Christopher, spreading caviar on a slice of bread and serving it to Yegorushka. - Now eat and walk, and when the time comes, you will study. Look, study with attention and diligence so that you can make sense of it. What you need to learn by heart, learn it by heart, and where you need to tell the inner meaning in your own words, without touching on the outer, there in your own words. And try so hard to learn all the sciences. Some people know mathematics very well, but have never heard of Peter Mogila, while others know about Peter Mogila, but cannot explain about the moon. No, you study this way to understand everything! Learn Latin, French, German... geography, of course, history, theology, philosophy, mathematics... And when you learn everything, slowly, and with prayer, and with diligence, then enter the service . When you know everything, it will be easy for you on every path. Just study and gain grace, and God will show you who you should be. Whether a doctor, a judge, an engineer...

Father Christopher spread a little caviar on a small piece of bread, put it in his mouth and said:

The Apostle Paul says: Do not apply yourself to strange and different teachings. Of course, if you call up sorcery, witchcraft, or spirits from the other world, like Saul, or teach such sciences that they benefit neither yourself nor people, then it is better not to study. We must perceive only what God has blessed. Be careful... The holy apostles spoke all languages ​​- and you learn languages; Basil the Great taught mathematics and philosophy - and you teach, Saint Nestor wrote history - and you teach and write history. Compare yourself with the saints...

Father Christopher took a sip from the saucer, wiped his mustache and shook his head.

Fine! - he said. - I was trained in the old way, I have forgotten a lot, and even then I live differently from others. And you can't even compare. For example, somewhere in a large society, whether at dinner or in a meeting, you say something in Latin, or from history, or philosophy, and people are pleased, and I myself am pleased... Or, too, when he comes district court and must be sworn in; all the other priests are shy, but I’m with the judges, prosecutors and lawyers, I’m a friend: I’ll talk learnedly, drink tea with them, laugh, ask them what I don’t know... And they’re pleased. So, brother... Learning is light, but ignorance is darkness. Learn! It is, of course, difficult: in these days, studying is expensive... Your mother is a widow, she lives on her pension, but, well...

Father Christopher looked at the door in fear and continued in a whisper:

Ivan Ivanovich will help. He won't leave you. He doesn’t have children of his own, and he will help you. Don't worry.

He made a serious face and whispered even more quietly:

Just look, Georgy, God save you, don’t forget your mother and Ivan Ivanovich. The commandment tells you to honor your mother, and Ivan Ivanovich is your benefactor and instead of your father. If you become a scientist and, God forbid, begin to feel burdened and disdainful of people because they are stupider than you, then woe, woe to you!

Father Christopher raised his hand and repeated in a thin voice:

Woe! Woe!

Father Christopher began to talk and, as they say, got a taste for it; he would not have finished until lunch, but the door opened and Ivan Ivanovich entered. The uncle hastily greeted, sat down at the table and began to quickly sip his tea.

Well, I dealt with all the issues,” he said. “I would like to go home today, but I still have problems with Yegor.” We need to accommodate him. My sister said that her friend Nastasya Petrovna lives here somewhere, so maybe she’ll take him to her apartment.

He rummaged in his wallet, pulled out a crumpled letter and read:

- "Malaya Nizhnyaya Street, Nastasya Petrovna Toskunova, in own home"We'll have to go look for her now. Trouble!

Soon after tea, Ivan Ivanovich and Yegorushka were already leaving the courtyard.

Trouble! - Uncle muttered. - You’ve become attached to me like a burdock, and you’re absolutely bound to God! You have learning and nobility, but I have only torment with you...

When they passed through the yard, the carts and carriers were no longer there; they had all left for the pier early in the morning. IN far corner a familiar chaise was darkening in the yard; the bays stood near her and ate oats.

"Goodbye, britzka!" - thought Yegorushka.

First we had to climb the mountain along the boulevard for a long time, then walk through a large market square; Then Ivan Ivanovich asked the policeman where Malaya Nizhnyaya Street was.

Eva! - The policeman grinned. - She’s far away, towards the pasture!

On the way we came across cabs, but my uncle allowed himself such weakness as driving cabs only in exceptional cases and big holidays. He and Yegorushka walked for a long time along the cobbled streets, then walked along streets where there were only sidewalks and no pavements, and in the end they ended up on streets where there were neither pavements nor sidewalks. When their feet and tongue brought them to Malaya Nizhnyaya Street, they were both red and, having taken off their hats, were wiping away the sweat.

Tell me, please,” Ivan Ivanovich turned to an old man sitting on a bench at the gate, “where is Nastasya Petrovna Toskunova’s house?”

There’s no Toskunova here,” the old man answered after thinking. - Maybe Tymoshenko?

No, Toskunova...

Sorry, Toskunova is not here...

Don't look! - the old man shouted to him from behind. - I say no, that means no!

Listen, auntie,” Ivan Ivanovich turned to the old woman who was selling sunflowers and pears in a stall on the corner, “where is Nastasya Petrovna Toskunova’s house?”

The old woman looked at him in surprise and laughed.

Is it possible that Nastasya Petrovna now lives in her own house? - she asked. - Lord, it’s been eight years since she gave away her daughter and refused her house to her son-in-law! My son-in-law lives there now.

And her eyes said: “How come you fools don’t know such a trifle?”

Where does she live now? - asked Ivan Ivanovich.

God! - the old woman was surprised, throwing up her hands. - She’s been living in the apartment for a long time! It’s been eight years since she refused her house to her son-in-law. What do you!

She probably expected that Ivan Ivanovich would also be surprised and exclaim: “It can’t be!!” - but he asked very calmly:

Where is her apartment?

The merchant rolled up her sleeves and, pointing with her bare hand, began shouting in a shrill, thin voice:

Keep going straight, straight, straight... Just as you pass the little red house, there will be a lane on your left hand. So you go into this alley and look at the third gate on the right...

Ivan Ivanovich and Yegorushka reached the red house, turned left into the alley and headed towards the third gate on the right. On both sides of this gray, very old gate stretched a gray fence with wide slits; right part the fence tilted strongly forward and threatened to fall, the left one leaned sideways back into the yard, but the gate stood straight and seemed to be still choosing where it was more convenient for them to fall, forward or backward. Ivan Ivanovich opened the gate and, together with Yegorushka, saw large yard, overgrown with weeds and thistles. A hundred paces from the gate stood a small house with a red roof and green shutters. Some plump woman, with her sleeves rolled up and her apron raised, stood in the middle of the yard, poured something on the ground and shouted in the same piercingly thin voice as the merchant:

Chick!., chick! chick!

Behind her sat a red dog with pointed ears. Seeing the guests, she ran to the gate and barked in a tenor (all red dogs bark in a tenor).

Who do you want? - the woman shouted, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand.

Hello! - Ivan Ivanovich also shouted to her, swatting away the red dog with a stick. - Tell me, please, does Nastasya Petrovna Toskunova live here?

Here! What do you need?

Ivan Ivanovich and Yegorushka approached her. She looked at them suspiciously and repeated:

What do you need it for?

Yes, maybe you yourself are Nastasya Petrovna?

Very nice... You see, your old friend, Olga Ivanovna Knyazeva, bowed to you. This is her son. And maybe I remember her brother, Ivan Ivanovich... You are our N-skaya... You were born with us and got married...

There was silence. Fat woman she stared senselessly at Ivan Ivanovich, as if not believing or understanding, then she flushed all over and clasped her hands; Oats fell from her apron and tears flowed from her eyes.

Olga Ivanovna! - she squealed, breathing heavily with excitement. - My dear darling! Ah, fathers, why am I standing there like a fool? You are my pretty angel...

She hugged Yegorushka, wet his face with her tears and began to cry.

God! - she said, wringing her hands. - Olechka’s son! What a joy! Quite a mother! Pure mother! Why are you standing in the yard? Welcome to the rooms!

Crying, gasping and speaking as she walked, she hurried to the house; the guests trailed behind her.

My place is not tidy! - she said, leading the guests into a small stuffy hall, all filled with images and flower pots. - Oh, mother of God! Vasilisa, at least open the shutters! My little angel! My beauty is indescribable! I didn’t even know that Olechka had such a son!

When she calmed down and got used to the guests, Ivan Ivanovich invited her to talk in private. Yegorushka went into another room; there was a sewing machine, a cage with a starling hung on the window, and there were just as many images and colors as there were in the hall. A girl stood motionless near the car, tanned, with plump cheeks like Titus’s, and in a clean chintz dress. She looked at Yegorushka without blinking and, apparently, felt very awkward. Yegorushka looked at her, paused and asked:

What is your name?

The girl moved her lips, made a crying face and quietly answered:

It meant: Katka.

“He will live with you,” Ivan Ivanovich whispered in the hall, “if you are so kind, and we will pay you ten rubles a month.” He's not a spoiled boy, he's quiet...

I don’t know how to tell you, Ivan Ivanovich! - Nastasya Petrovna sighed tearfully. - Ten rubles is good money, but it’s scary to take someone else’s child! What if he gets sick or something...

When Yegorushka was called into the hall again, Ivan Ivanovich was already standing with his hat in his hands and saying goodbye.

Well? So, let it stay with you now,” he said. - Goodbye! Stay, Egor! - he said, turning to his nephew. - Don’t play around here, listen to Nastasya Petrovna... Goodbye! I'll come again tomorrow.

And he left. Nastasya Petrovna hugged Yegorushka once again, called him an angel and, tearful, began to prepare for the table. Three minutes later, Yegorushka was already sitting next to her, answering her endless questions and eating fatty, hot cabbage soup.

And in the evening he sat again at the same table and, resting his head on his hand, listened to Nastasya Petrovna. She, now laughing, now crying, told him about his mother’s youth, about her marriage, about her children... A cricket was screaming in the stove, and the burner in the lamp was barely audible. The hostess spoke in a low voice and every now and then dropped the thimble out of excitement, and Katya, her granddaughter, climbed under the table behind it and each time sat under the table for a long time, probably looking at Yegorushka’s legs. And Yegorushka listened, dozed and looked at the old woman’s face, her wart with hairs, streaks from tears... And he was sad, very sad! They put him to sleep on a chest and warned him that if he wanted to eat at night, he should go out into the corridor and take a chicken covered with a plate from the window.

The next morning Ivan Ivanovich and Fr. came to say goodbye. Christopher. Nastasya Petrovna was delighted and was about to put on the samovar, but Ivan Ivanovich, who was in a hurry, waved his hand and said:

We have no time for teas and sugars! We'll leave now.

Before saying goodbye, everyone sat down and was silent for a minute. Nastasya Petrovna took a deep breath and teary eyes I looked at the image.

Well,” Ivan Ivanovich began, getting up, “that means you’re staying...

The businesslike dryness suddenly disappeared from his face, he blushed a little, smiled sadly and said:

Look, study... Don’t forget your mother and listen to Nastasya Petrovna... If you, Egor, study well, then I will not leave you.

He took his wallet out of his pocket, turned his back to Yegorushka, rummaged through the small coins for a long time and, finding a ten-kopeck piece, gave it to Yegorushka. Father Christopher sighed and slowly blessed Yegorushka.

In the name of father and son and the holy spirit... Study, he said. - Work hard, brother... If I die, remember. Here, take a ten-kopeck piece from me...

Yegorushka kissed his hand and began to cry. Something in his soul whispered to him that he would never see this old man again.

“I, Nastasya Petrovna, have already submitted a petition to the gymnasium,” said Ivan Ivanovich in a voice as if there was a dead man in the hall. - On August 7th you will take him to the exam... Well, goodbye! Stay with God. Goodbye, Egor!

You should at least eat some tea! - Nastasya Petrovna moaned.

Through the tears that clouded his head, Yegorushka did not see his uncle and father come out. Christopher. He rushed to the window, but they were no longer in the yard, and the red dog that had just barked ran back from the gate with an expression of duty fulfilled. Yegorushka, without knowing why, rushed from his seat and flew out of the room. When he ran out of the gate, Ivan Ivanovich and Fr. Christopher, waving the first with a stick with a hook, the second with a staff, turned the corner. Yegorushka felt that with these people everything he had experienced up to that point had disappeared forever, like smoke; he sank exhausted onto a bench and with bitter tears greeted the new, unknown life that was now beginning for him...

What will this life be like?

The distance noticeably turned black and, more often than every minute, blinked with a pale light, as if for centuries.
Its blackness, as if from gravity, leaned to the right with all its black clouds.
On the left, it’s as if someone struck a match across the sky -
a pale phosphorescent strip flashed and went out. It became quieter for a moment.
Then I heard someone walking on an iron roof somewhere very far away.
Lightning flashed between the distance and the right horizon, so brightly, with such force and speed,
that illuminated part of the steppe and the place where the clear sky bordered on blackness.
The terrible cloud was approaching slowly, in a continuous mass;
on its edge hung large, black rags, as if in a torn, huge, black umbrella;
Exactly the same rags, crushing each other, piled up on the right and left horizons.
This ragged, disheveled appearance of the cloud gave it a kind of drunken, mischievous expression,
as if there was a pogrom in it.
Thunder rumbled clearly and not dully.
Suddenly the wind blew and rushed across the steppe, spinning randomly - he was at home (!) -
and made such a noise with the grass that thunder could not be heard from behind it.
It blew from a black cloud, carrying with it clouds of dust
and the smell of rain, and the smell of wet earth.
The moonlight dimmed, seemed to become dirtier, the stars frowned even more
and one could see clouds of dust hurrying somewhere back along the edge of the road, and behind them their shadows appeared.
Now the whirlwinds, whirling and carrying dust, dry grass and feathers from the ground, rose to the very sky;
probably tumbleweeds were flying near the blackest cloud - very quickly and far away -
and how scared they must have been - very, very high!
But apart from the flash of lightning, nothing was visible through the dust.
Thunder rumbled angrily, rolled across the sky from right to left, then back and then suddenly froze.
The blackness in the sky opened its mouth and breathed white fire; Immediately thunder roared again.
Black rags on the left were already rising upward and one of them was in the air -
rough, clumsy, resembling a paw with fingers, - reached out to the Moon.
For some reason the rain did not start for a long time. It was terribly dark and it scared me involuntarily.
And the lightning in the darkness seemed whiter and more dazzling - so much so that it hurt my eyes.
But finally, the wind blew for the last time and ran away somewhere. A noise was heard - smooth, calm.
A large cold drop fell to the ground. Something fell and clattered along the road.
It was rain, but not a continuous stream, not hurricane, restless!
Suddenly the sky broke overhead with a terrible, deafening crash;
a dazzlingly caustic light flashed on the ground and blinked five times, like it had never been before!
There was a new blow, just as strong and terrible. The sky no longer thundered, no longer rumbled,
and it made dry, crackling sounds, similar to the crackling of dry wood, and with them the scarecrow:
“Fuck! tah, tah! tah!” - thunder clearly struck, rolled across the sky,
stumbled and somewhere or far behind fell with an angry, abrupt - “Trra!..” - and returned again to the sky!
With such thunder, the lightning flashes seemed ominous and were so.
Lightning flashed in two places and illuminated the road to the very distance!
And along the road streams flowed and bubbles jumped.
-------
A.P. Chekhov. Steppe. (Excerpt.)
The distance noticeably turned black and, more often than every minute, blinked with a pale light, as if for centuries. Its blackness, as if from heaviness, leaned to the right. To the left, as if someone had struck a match across the sky, a pale phosphorescent strip flashed and went out immediately. I heard someone walking on an iron roof somewhere very far away.
Between the distance and the right horizon, lightning flashed so brightly that it illuminated part of the steppe and the place where the clear sky bordered on blackness.
The terrible cloud was approaching slowly, in a continuous mass; large black rags hung on its edge; Exactly the same rags, crushing each other, piled up on the right and left horizons. This ragged, disheveled appearance of the cloud gave it a kind of drunken, mischievous expression. Thunder rumbled clearly and not dully.
Suddenly the wind rushed and rushed across the steppe, swirled randomly and raised such a noise with the grass that thunder could not be heard from behind it. It blew from a black cloud, carrying with it clouds of dust and the smell of rain and wet earth. The moonlight became foggy, seemed to become dirtier, the stars frowned even more, and one could see clouds of dust and their shadows hurrying somewhere along the edge of the road. Now the whirlwinds, whirling and carrying dust, dry grass and feathers from the ground, rose to the very sky; There were probably tumbleweeds flying near the black cloud itself, and how scared they must have been! But through the dust that covered the eyes, nothing was visible except the brilliance of lightning. Thunder rumbled angrily, rolled across the sky from right to left, then back and froze. The blackness in the sky opened its mouth and breathed white fire; Immediately thunder roared again. Black rags on the left were already rising upward and one of them, rough, clumsy, looking like a paw with fingers, was reaching towards the Moon.
For some reason the rain did not start for a long time. It was terribly dark. And the lightning in the darkness seemed whiter and more dazzling, so much so that it hurt my eyes. But finally, the wind blew for the last time and ran away somewhere. A smooth, calm noise was heard. A large cold drop fell to the ground. Something fell and clattered along the road. It was rain.
Suddenly, right above his head, with a terrible, deafening crash, the sky broke; A blindingly caustic light flashed and blinked five times on the ground. There was a new blow, just as strong and terrible. The sky no longer thundered or rumbled, but made dry, crackling sounds, similar to the crackling of dry wood.
“Fuck! tah, tah! tah!” - thunder rumbled clearly, rolled across the sky, stumbled and... fell far behind with an angry, abrupt - “Trra!..”
... with the same thunder they seemed ominous. Lightning flashed in two places and illuminated the road to the very distance...
Streams flowed along the road and bubbles jumped.

(Excerpts)

A story for children about summer.

Lightning flashed to the right and, as if reflected in a mirror, it immediately flashed in the distance. The distance had noticeably turned black and was blinking with a pale light, like eyelids, more often than every minute. Its blackness, as if from heaviness, bent to the right.

To the left, as if someone had struck a match across the sky, a pale, phosphorescent strip flashed and went out. I heard someone walking on an iron roof somewhere very far away. They probably walked barefoot on the roof, because the iron grumbled dully.

Lightning flashed between the distance and the right horizon, and so brightly that it illuminated part of the steppe and the place where the clear sky bordered on blackness. The terrible cloud was approaching slowly, in a continuous mass; large black rags hung on its edge; Exactly the same rags, crushing each other, piled up on the right and left horizons. This ragged, disheveled appearance of the cloud gave it a kind of drunken, mischievous expression. Thunder rumbled clearly and not dully.

The wind rushed with a whistle across the steppe, swirled randomly and raised such a noise with the grass that because of it neither thunder nor the creaking of wheels could be heard. It blew from a black cloud, carrying with it clouds of dust and the smell of rain and wet earth. The moonlight dimmed and seemed to become dirtier, the stars frowned even more, and one could see clouds of dust and their shadows hurrying somewhere along the edge of the road. Now, in all likelihood, the whirlwinds, whirling and carrying dust, dry grass and feathers from the ground, rose to the very sky; there were probably tumbleweeds flying near the blackest cloud, and how scared they must have been! But through the dust that covered my eyes, nothing was visible except the sparkle of lightning...

Thunder rumbled angrily, rolled across the sky from right to left, then back and froze...

The blackness in the sky opened its mouth and breathed white fire; immediately thunder roared again; As soon as he fell silent, lightning flashed...

For some reason the rain did not start for a long time. It was terribly dark. And the lightning in the darkness seemed whiter and more dazzling, so that it hurt my eyes.

But finally, the wind blew for the last time... and ran away somewhere. An even, calm noise was heard, but at that time something fell and clattered along the road. It was rain...

On July evenings and nights, quails and corncrakes no longer call, nightingales no longer sing in the forest ravines, there is no smell of flowers, but the steppe is still beautiful and full of life. As soon as the sun sets and the earth is enveloped in darkness, the day's melancholy is forgotten, everything is forgiven, and the steppe sighs easily with its wide chest. As if because the grass is not visible in the darkness of its old age, a cheerful, young chatter arises in it, which does not happen during the day; crackling, whistling, scratching, steppe basses, tenors and trebles1 - everything mixes into a continuous, monotonous hum, under which it is good to remember and be sad. The monotonous chatter lulls you to sleep, like Lullaby; you drive and feel that you are falling asleep, but from somewhere comes the abrupt, alarming cry of an unsleeping bird, or an indefinite sound is heard, similar to someone’s voice, like a surprised “ah-ah!”, and drowsiness lowers your eyelids. And sometimes you drive past a ravine where there are bushes, and you hear a bird, which the steppe inhabitants call a spittle, shouting to someone: “I’m sleeping! I'm sleeping! I’m sleeping!”, and the other one laughs or bursts into hysterical crying - this is an owl. For whom they scream and who listens to them on this plain, God knows them, but in their scream there is a lot of sadness and complaint... It smells of hay, dried grass and belated flowers, but the smell is thick, sweetly cloying and delicate.

Everything is visible through the darkness, but it is difficult to make out the color and outlines of objects. Everything appears to be something other than what it is. You are driving and suddenly you see a silhouette standing in front of the road that looks like a monk; he does not move, waits and holds something in his arms... Is this a robber? The figure is approaching, growing, now it has caught up with the chaise, and you see that this is not a person, but a lonely bush or big Stone. Such motionless figures, waiting for someone, stand on the hills, hide behind mounds, look out from the weeds, and they all look like people and inspire suspicion.

And when the moon rises, the night becomes pale and languid. The darkness was gone. The air is clear, fresh and warm, you can see clearly everywhere and you can even distinguish individual stems of weeds along the road. Skulls and stones are visible in the distance. Suspicious figures, similar to monks, appear blacker against the light background of the night and look more gloomy. More and more often, amid the monotonous chatter, disturbing the still air, someone’s surprised “ah-ah!” is heard. and the cry of a sleepless or delirious bird is heard. Wide shadows move across the plain, like clouds across the sky, and in the incomprehensible distance, if you peer into it for a long time, foggy, bizarre images rise and pile on top of each other... A little creepy. And you look at the pale green sky strewn with stars, on which there is not a cloud or a spot, and you will understand why the warm air is motionless, why nature is on guard and afraid to move: it is terribly and sorry for losing at least one moment of life. The immense depth and boundlessness of the sky can only be judged at sea and in the steppe at night when the moon is shining. It is scary, beautiful and affectionate, it looks languidly and beckons to itself, and its caress makes you dizzy.

You drive for an hour or two... You come across a silent old mound or a stone woman on the way, erected by God knows who and when, a night bird flies silently over the earth, and little by little steppe legends come to mind, stories of people you meet, tales of a steppe nanny and all what he himself was able to see and comprehend with his soul. And then in the chatter of insects, in suspicious figures and mounds, in the deep sky, in the moonlight, in the flight of a night bird, in everything that you see and hear, the triumph of beauty, youth, the prime of life and a passionate thirst for life begin to appear; the soul gives a response to the beautiful, harsh homeland, and you want to fly over the steppe with the night bird. And in the triumph of beauty, in the excess of happiness, you feel tension and melancholy, as if the steppe realizes that it is lonely, that its wealth and inspiration are perishing as a gift to the world, unsung by anyone and unnecessary to anyone, and through the joyful hum you hear its sad, hopeless call : singer! singer!

Meanwhile, before the eyes of those traveling, a wide, endless plain, intercepted by a chain of hills, spread out. Crowding together and peering out from behind each other, these hills merge into a hill that stretches to the right of the road to the very horizon and disappears into the purple distance; you drive and drive and you can’t figure out where it begins and where it ends... The sun had already peeked out from behind the city and quietly, without any fuss, began its work. First, far ahead, where the sky meets the earth, near the mounds and windmill, which from afar looks like little man waving his arms, a wide bright yellow stripe crawled along the ground; a minute later, the same stripe appeared a little closer, crawled to the right and enveloped the hills; and suddenly the entire wide steppe threw off the morning penumbra, smiled and sparkled with dew.

Compressed rye, weeds, milkweed, wild hemp - everything, browned from the heat, red and half-dead, now washed with dew and caressed by the sun, came to life to bloom again. Old men rushed over the road shouting cheerfully, gophers called to each other in the grass, and somewhere far to the left lapwings cried. Grasshoppers, crickets, violinists and mole crickets began to sing their creaky, monotonous music in the grass...

But a little time passed, the dew evaporated, the air froze, and the deceived steppe took on its dull July appearance. The grass drooped, life froze. Tanned hills, brown-green, purple in the distance, with their calm, shadow-like tones, a plain with a foggy distance and the sky overturned above them, which is in the steppe, where the shadow of forests and high mountains, seems terribly deep and transparent, now seemed endless, numb with melancholy...

The air became more and more frozen from the heat and silence, the submissive nature became numb in silence... No wind, no cheerful, fresh sound, no clouds.

But finally, when the sun began to descend to the west, the steppe, the hills and the air did not relieve the oppression and, having exhausted their patience, exhausted, they tried to throw off the yoke. An ash-gray curly cloud suddenly appeared from behind the hills. It looked at the steppe - I’m ready, they say - and frowned. Suddenly something broke in the stagnant air, the wind blew violently and whirled across the steppe with a noise and a whistle. Immediately, the grass and last year's weeds began to murmur, dust spiraled on the road, ran across the steppe and, carrying straw, dragonflies and feathers with it, rose to the sky in a black spinning column and fogged the sun. Tumbleweeds ran along and across the steppe, stumbling and jumping...

Suddenly the wind blew...

The blackness in the sky opened its mouth and breathed white fire; Thunder immediately roared... A new blow was heard, just as strong and terrible. The sky no longer thundered or rumbled, but made dry, crackling sounds, similar to the crackling of dry wood...

Streams flowed along the road and bubbles jumped...

DEVELOPMENT OF A RUSSIAN LANGUAGE LESSON

"ART STYLE" (VI CLASS)

municipal budgetary educational institution

"Aktanyshskaya average comprehensive school No. 1"

Lesson Objectives:

Educational:

1) repeat the material about speech situation and speech styles;

2) introduce students to the visual and expressive means of artistic style of speech.

Developmental:

1) consolidate the ability to determine the components of a speech situation;

2) consolidate the ability to determine the style of the text;

3) consolidate the ability to title a text;

4) develop the ability to limit the artistic style of speech from the colloquial one.

Educational:

1) fostering a culture of mental work based on such mental operations as analysis, synthesis, comparison, generalization;

2) the formation of observation skills in the process of text analysis.

Equipment: interactive whiteboard, handouts.

During the classes.

I. Speech warm-up.

On each desk is an excerpt from the work “Notes of a Hunter” (Appendix 1):

The dawn flares up; now golden stripes are stretching across the sky, steam is swirling in the ravines; The larks are singing, the pre-dawn wind has blown and the crimson sun is quietly rising. The light will just flow in like a torrent; your heart will flutter like a bird. Fresh, fun, loving!

(On interactive whiteboard questions and tasks for the text are projected)

Read the passage expressively, try to convey the author’s delight before the dawn. (The student reads the text expressively.)

Which words of the passage, in your opinion, express the attitude towards such a natural phenomenon as the morning dawn? (In the expressions “the heart flutters like a bird”, “fresh, fun, love!”)

Read the passage again to yourself. Title it with words from the text. (“Dawn lights up”).

II. Mastering speech science material about the features of the artistic style of speech.

Now let’s read another text (Appendix). This is an excerpt from the story "Steppe".

Lightning flashed between the distance and the right horizon, and so brightly that it illuminated part of the steppe and the place where the clear sky bordered on blackness. The terrible cloud was approaching slowly, in a continuous mass; Large black rags hung on its edge. This ragged, disheveled appearance of the cloud gave it a kind of drunken, mischievous expression. Thunder rumbled clearly and quietly...

Suddenly the wind rushed and whistled across the steppe... The moonlight dimmed, seemed to become dirtier, the stars frowned even more...

The blackness in the sky opened its mouth and breathed white fire; immediately the thunder roared again...

Suddenly the sky broke over Yegorushka’s head with a terrible, deafening crash; he bent down and held his breath, waiting for debris to fall on the back of his head and back...

“Fuck! tah, tah! tah!” Thunder clearly rumbled, rolled across the sky, stumbled, and somewhere near the front carts or far behind fell with an angry, abrupt “Trra!”

Let's do it stylistic analysis text on questions and assignments given on the interactive board.

1. Is the text addressed to one person, a familiar person, or is it written for all people whom the author may not know? ( The text is written for everyone)

4. What does this text remind you of: an excerpt from a fiction book or a fragment of a biology textbook? (This text reminds us of an excerpt from fiction book, because there are a lot of figurative and expressive means that we encounter when studying works of art in literature lessons)

5. Determine the speech situation of the text (the setting of the speech is official, the addressee of the speech: 1 - a lot, the task of the speech is impact.)

6. Remember what style of speech is used to depict a verbal picture, figurative and emotional ( art).

What style does this text belong to?

Student output. Before us is a text of the artistic style of speech, since it is the artistic style of speech that serves to depict a verbal picture, figurative and emotional.

- The purpose of our lesson– study character traits artistic style, its visual and expressive means. In the last lesson, the features of the conversational style were discussed, and filling out the table diagram began. Let us recall the speech situation of the artistic style, which was determined during the analysis of the text, and write down the components of the speech situation of the artistic style of speech in a table diagram on the interactive board. (Students also fill out the table in their “Preparing for the State Examination” reference books)

Table-scheme

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official business

journalistic

art

(this diagram should be obtained after filling in the empty columns)

Now we will try to find visual and expressive means characteristic of the artistic style. Let us continue the analysis of an excerpt from the story “Steppe”:

What pictures (images) does this passage create? (Description of a cloud, image of thunder...)

Read the description of the cloud. What colorful definitions (epithets) does the author find to describe the cloud? (“A terrible” cloud, “with large black rags on the edge,” the cloud has a “tattered, disheveled appearance” and a drunken, mischievous expression.)

Find words and expressions that help present the cloud as evil, Living being (“terrible” cloud, “ragged appearance”, “drunk expression”).

- What is the name of such an expressive means of language?

Let's turn to the image of thunder. What words convey the rumble of thunder, literally imitating thunder? What sounds are repeated very often when describing thunder?

Tell me what feelings the hero of Chekhov’s work experiences during a thunderstorm, and with him, so do we, the readers.

Now, based on the work done, tell us about the features of the artistic style.

Student findings. A characteristic feature of the artistic style of speech is the presence of figurative words and expressions that create a vivid, figurative verbal picture.

Right, characteristic feature The artistic style of speech is figurativeness. Imagery is the creation, using words, of a bright, colorful picture of an object or phenomenon. The main feature of the artistic style of speech is the presence of figurative words and expressions in the text. An image is a vivid verbal picture. Let's complete the table diagram. Let's add a feature of the artistic style of speech to the table.

Language features of style

III. Formation of the ability to apply the studied material.

Let's do the exercise. We will do this exercise in groups. Here are two texts on the same topic. These texts refer to different styles speech. Read these texts and determine which speech styles they belong to. Each group proves its point of view. Title both texts.

Text No. 1

Dandelion is a herbaceous plant of the Asteraceae family, with yellow inflorescences and pubescent seeds that are easily carried by the wind.

(Dictionary of a young biologist)

Text No. 2

You won't find him anywhere! In meadows and clearings, in roadside ditches and vacant lots, along sidewalks and on railroad tracks between sleepers. That is what it is, the ubiquitous flower - the dandelion. In spring, the lawn, where there are many dandelions, is so bright that it is even a little painful to look at its yellowness. And a month will pass, and it’s already covered with snow. Where we grew up yellow flowers, now the white balls are swaying. Then the wind blew, and a light cloud immediately rose. These are dandelion seeds that have flown.

(Yu. Dmitriev)

Student performances

- Doing exercise 178 according to the textbook. Read excerpts from poems and “paint” a picture with words. Retell it in prose, starting like this: “In my picture I would depict...”

- Complete the lesson with a writing exercise. Take the card with the text “Lily” (Appendix). This is a scientific style text. Read it. Try writing your own short story about lilies (3 – 5 sentences) based on this text. The text must be in an artistic style of speech.

Lily.

Lily is a genus of perennial bulbous plants. The stems are covered with leaves; leaves linear, ovate, sessile, alternate. The flowers are white, yellow, red, orange, 13-15 cm in diameter, tubular, bell-shaped, often fragrant.

(Dictionary of a young biologist)

If artists paint with paints, you must “paint” with words. I would like to offer a picture to help contemporary artist Antonio - Gianigliatti "Lilies". (The picture is displayed on the screen) Antonio Gianigliatti was born in 1970 in Italy. WITH early childhood showed a love for architecture and artistic arts. Graduated from the Friedrich II University of Naples. IN currently is a member of the teaching staff of the Academy of Arts "DOMUS ACADEMY".

IV. Summarizing.

- Using the table, notes in notebooks, give full description artistic style of speech.

Antonio – Gianigliatti "Lilies"

(The artistic style of speech is used in fiction. What is said in the text can be visualized. This style affects the reader's feelings).

V. Homework. Exercise 180. Title the text. Find artistic media language. Copy the text, inserting missing letters and punctuation marks. Explain spelling and punctuation marks.

VI. Grading.