Arkady Timofeevich Averchenko biography. Averchenko A

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

The book includes the best humorous stories of the largest emigrant writers of the early 20th century. They are united by faith in life and love for Russia. For high school age.

A series: School library (Children's literature)

* * *

by liters company.

Arkady Averchenko

Dedicated to A. Ya. Sadovskaya

The royal garden was open at this time of day, and the young writer Ave entered there without hindrance. After wandering a little along the sandy paths, he lazily sat 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? Ave. Writer.

“It’s a good profession,” the stranger smiled approvingly. - Interesting and honorable.

- And who are you? – asked the simple-minded Ave.

- Me? Yes king.

- This country?

- Certainly. And what kind...

In turn, Ave said no less favorably:

– It’s also a good profession. Interesting and honorable.

“Oh, don’t talk,” the king sighed. “She’s honorable, but there’s nothing interesting about her.” I must tell you, young man, kingdom is not as honey as many people think.

Ave clasped his hands and cried out in amazement:

– This is even surprising! I have not met a single person who was satisfied with his fate.

-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, but 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. “The whole point is to make good laws.”

The king waved his hand:

- Nothing will work! Still no use.

-Have you tried it?

- I tried it.

- If I were you...

- Eh, in my place! – the old king cried nervously. - I have known many kings who were tolerable writers, but I do not know a single writer who was even a third-rate, last-class king. If it were me... I would put you in jail for a week and see what would come of you...

– Where... would you put it? – carefully asked the thorough Ave.

- To your place!

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

- From what! At least for this purpose, this needs to be done so that we, the kings, are less envied... so that we, the kings, are criticized less and more intelligently!

Ave modestly said:

- Well, well... I guess I'll try. I just have to warn you: this is the first time I’ve done this, and if out of habit I seem a little... um... funny to you, don’t judge me.

“Nothing,” the king smiled good-naturedly. - I don’t think you’ve done too many stupid things this week... So, what do you want?

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

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

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

- Poor blind people...

For three days now the humble writer Ave has reigned. 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 thrown critics and other writers into prison, and would have forced the population to buy only their own books - and at least one book a day for each soul, instead of morning rolls...

Ave resisted the temptation to make such a law. He made his debut, as he promised the king, with the “Law on escorting the blind by policemen and protecting the latter from the destructive effects of external forces, such as carriages, horses, pits, etc.”

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

Suddenly his attention was attracted by a strange sight: two policemen were dragging a passerby by the collar, and a third was kicking 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? Why are you beating? What did this man do? How many people did he kill?

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

– Why are you sending him and where are you driving him?

- But he, your honor, is blind. According to the law, we drag him to the station and drag him.

- In law? Is there really such a law?

- But of course! It was promulgated three days ago and came into force.

Ave, shocked, grabbed his head and squealed:

- My law?!

From behind, a respectable passerby muttered a curse and said:

- Well, laws are being published now! What are they thinking about? What do they want?

“Yes,” supported another voice, “a clever ending: “Every blind person seen on the street is grabbed by the collar and dragged to the police station, rewarded with kicks and beatings along the way.” Very clever! Extremely kindhearted!! Amazing thoughtfulness!!

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

- The minister is here! Find him and invite him to your office now!! I have to investigate the case myself!

Following the investigation, the mysterious case with the law “On the Protection of the Blind from External Forces” was clarified.

It was like this.

On the first day of his kingdom, Ave called the minister and said to him:

- It is necessary to pass a law “On the caring attitude of policemen towards blind people passing by, on accompanying them home and on protecting these latter from the destructive effects of external forces, such as carriages, horses, pits, etc.”

The minister bowed and left. Immediately he summoned the chief of the city and told him:

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

Having left the minister, the city chief invited the chief of police to his place and ordered:

“There are blind people walking around the city, they say, unaccompanied.” Don't allow this! Let your policemen take lonely blind people by the hand and lead them where they need to go.

- I’m listening, sir.

The chief of police convened the chiefs of units that same day and told them:

- That's it, gentlemen. We were informed of a new law, according to which any blind person seen wandering down the street without an escort would be picked up by the police and taken to the appropriate place. Got it?

- That's right, Mr. Chief!

The unit commanders went to their places and, calling the police sergeants, said:

- Gentlemen! Explain the new law to the policemen: “Any blind person who wanders uselessly through the streets, interfering with carriage and foot traffic, should be seized and dragged where appropriate.”

– What do you mean “where to go”? – the sergeants then asked each other.

- Probably to the station. To hatch... Where else...

- Probably so.

- Guys! - the sergeants said, walking around the policemen. – If you see blind people wandering the streets, grab these bastards by the collar and drag them to the police station!!

– What if they don’t want to go to the station?

- How can they not want to? A couple of good slaps on the head, a slap on the wrist, a strong kick from behind – I bet they’ll run away!

Having clarified the matter “about protecting the blind from external influences,” Ave sat down at his luxurious royal table and began to cry.

Someone's hand laid tenderly on his head.

- Well? Didn’t I say, when I first learned about the law of “protection of the blind,” “poor blind people!”? You see, in this whole story, the poor blind people lost, and I won.

- What did you win? – asked Ave, looking for his hat.

- How so? One less critic for me. Goodbye, darling. If you still want to carry out any reform, come in.

“Wait!” - thought Ave and, jumping over ten steps of the luxurious royal staircase, ran away.

Fatal win

What angers me most is that some grumpy reader, having read the following, will make a repulsive grimace on his face and say in a disgusting, peremptory tone:

– There can’t be such a thing in life!

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

The reader, of course, is able to ask:

- How will you prove this?

How can I prove it? How can I prove that such a case is possible? Oh my God! Yes, it’s very simple: such a case is possible because it actually happened.

I hope no other proof is required?

Looking directly and honestly into the eyes of the reader, I categorically affirm: such an incident actually happened in the month of August in one of the small southern towns! Well, sir?

And what’s so unusual here?… Do lotteries take place at public festivities in city gardens? Getting settled. Is a live cow played as the main bait in these lotteries? Played out. Can anyone who buys a ticket for a quarter win this cow? Maybe!

OK it's all over Now. The cow is the key to the piece of music. It is clear that the whole play must be played out in this vein, or else neither I nor the reader understand anything about music.

In the city garden, stretching over a wide river, on the occasion of the patronal feast, “a large folk festival was organized with two orchestras of music, agility competitions (sack race, egg race, 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 silver samovar.”

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

The scribe of the starch factory office, Enya Plintusov, and the dream of his half-starved, miserable life, Nastya Semerykh, came to the garden in the midst of the fun. Several city fools had already run past them, getting their feet tangled in flour sacks tied above their waists, which, in general, was supposed to signify a passion for the branch of the noble sport of “sack running.” A party of other city fools had already rushed past them, blindfolded, holding a spoon with a raw egg at arm's length (another branch of the sport: "egg running"); The brilliant fireworks had already been burned; Half of the lottery tickets have already been sold out...

And suddenly Nastya pressed her companion’s elbow to her elbow and said:

- Well, Enya, shouldn’t we try the lottery... Maybe we’ll win something!

Knight Enya did not argue.

- Nastya! - he said. – Your desire is a formal law for me!

And he rushed to the lottery wheel.

With the air of Rothschild, he threw away the penultimate fifty ruble, returned and, holding out two tickets rolled into a tube, suggested:

- Choose. One of them is mine, the other is yours.

Nastya, after a long thought, chose one, unfolded it, and muttered in disappointment: “Empty!” - and threw him to the ground, and Enya Plintusov, on the contrary, let out a joyful cry: “I won!”

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

– If it’s a mirror or perfume, I’ll give it 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 a cow.

And everyone began to congratulate happy Enya, and Enya 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 as a bright, beautiful beacon, brightening up the dark, dull human path.

And - such is the terrible effect of wealth and fame - even Nastya dimmed in Yeni’s eyes, and it occurred to him that another girl - no match for Nastya - could decorate his magnificent life.

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

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

Yenya laughed madly.

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

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

- Let’s go home, Nastenka, we have nothing else to do here...

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

“Are you really going to hang around with her like that?”

- Why? An animal is like an animal; and there’s no one to leave it with here!

Enya Plintusov did not even have a slight sense of humor. Therefore, not for one minute did he feel all the absurdity of the group emerging from the gates of the city garden: Enya, Nastya, the cow.

On the contrary, broad, tempting prospects of wealth appeared to him, and Nastya’s image grew dim and dim...

Nastya, frowning her eyebrows, looked inquisitively at Yenya, and her lower lip trembled...

- Listen, Enya... So you won’t take me home?

- I’ll see you off. Why not accompany you?

- A... cow??

- Why is the cow bothering us?

“And do 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 won’t let me pass!!

“Well, okay...” said Enya after some thought, “let’s take a cab.” I still have thirty kopecks left.

- A... cow?

“We’ll tie the cow behind.”

Nastya flushed.

“I don’t know at all: who do you take me for?” You would also offer me to sit astride your cow!

– Do you think this is very witty? – Yenya asked arrogantly. - Actually, it surprises me: your father has four cows, and you’re even afraid of one like hell.

“You couldn’t leave it in the garden until tomorrow, or what?” Would they steal it, or what? What a treasure, just think...

“Whatever,” Yenya shrugged, secretly extremely wounded. - If you don’t like my cow...

- So you won’t accompany me?

-Where am I going to put the 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,” said the offended Yenya. - And the day after tomorrow I won’t come to you, and I don’t have to go at all, if that’s the case...

- Thankfully, we found a suitable society!

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

Enya looked after the retreating Nastya for several 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 tolerable, but as soon as they entered the illuminated, crowded Dvoryanskaya Street, Yenya felt some awkwardness. Passers-by looked at him with some amazement, and one boy was so delighted that he squealed wildly and proclaimed to the whole street:

“The cow’s son is taking his mother to bed!”

“I’ll hit you in the face, so you’ll know,” Yenya said sternly.

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

It was pure bravado, but the boy did not risk anything, because Yenya could not let go of the rope from his hands, and the cow moved with extreme slowness.

Halfway down Dvoryanskaya Street, Yenya could no longer stand the dumbfounded look of passers-by. He came up with the following idea: he threw the rope and, giving a kick to the cow, thereby gave it a forward movement. The cow walked on its own, and Enya, with an absent-minded expression, walked to the side, taking on the appearance of an ordinary passerby who had nothing in common with the cow...

When the forward movement of the cow weakened and she froze peacefully at someone’s window, Enya again secretly gave her a kick, and the cow obediently wandered on...

Here is Enin Street. Here is the house in which Yenya rented a room from a carpenter... And suddenly, like lightning in the darkness, Yenya’s head was illuminated by the thought: “Where am I going to put the cow now?”

There was no barn for her. If you tie it in the yard, it could be stolen, especially since the gate is not locked.

“Here’s what I’ll do,” Enya decided after a long and intense thought. “I’ll slowly bring her into my room, and tomorrow we’ll arrange it all.” Maybe she can stand in the room for one night...

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

- Hey, you! Come here, or something... Quiet! Damn it! The owners are sleeping, and she is clattering her hooves like a horse.

Maybe the whole world would find Yeni’s act amazing, absurd and unlike anything else. The whole world, except 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.

Brought into the room, she apathetically stopped at Yenin’s bed and immediately began chewing the corner of the pillow.

- Ksh! Look, you damned one - he's chewing on the pillow! What... do you want to eat? or drink?

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

- No misters! How do you like... Vaska! Eat! Tubo!

The cow stuck her muzzle into the basin, licked the branch with her tongue and suddenly, raising her head, mooed quite thickly and loudly.

- Tsk, you damned one! – the confused Yenya gasped. - Shut up, so that you... This is anathema!..

Behind Yeni, the door creaked quietly. An undressed 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 it you, Ivan Nazarych? – Yenya asked in a whisper. - Come in, don’t be afraid... I have a cow.

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

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

- How can you keep a cow in a room? – the tenant remarked displeasedly, sitting down on the bed. “If the owners find out, they’ll kick you out of the apartment.”

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

“Mmm-moo!” - the cow roared, as if agreeing with the owner.

- Oh, I can’t calm down on you, damned!! Tsits! Give me a blanket, Ivan Nazarych, I’ll wrap her head up. Wait! Well, you! What am I going to do with her? She’s chewing the blanket! Ooh, damn!

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

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

“By God,” said the tenant, “the owner will appear now and drive you away along with the cow.”

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

- Well, what is there to advise... What if she screams all night long. You know what? Kill her.

- That is... how to kill it?

- Yes, very simple. And tomorrow the meat can be sold to butchers.

It could be said with certainty that the guest's mental abilities were, at best, on par with those of the host.

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

- What kind of payment do I need?

- Well, of course! There are twenty pounds of meat in it... If you sell a pound for five rubles, that’s a hundred rubles. Yes, skin, yes this, yes that... But they will still give you no more for your living.

- Seriously? What will I use to stab her? There is a table knife, and it is dull. There are still scissors - nothing more.

- Well, if you stick scissors into her eye so that it reaches her brain...

- What if she... begins to defend herself... Raises a cry...

- Let's assume this is true. Maybe poison her if...

- Well, you will say the same... I should give her some sleeping powder to help her fall asleep, but where will you get it now?...

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

A commotion was heard behind the wall. Someone was growling, cursing, spitting from sleep. Then the shuffling of bare feet was heard, the door to Yenya’s room swung open, and a sleepy, disheveled owner appeared before 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 gone now. I'll show you how to start a mess!

“What I told you,” said the tenant in such a tone as if everything had worked out as it should; I wrapped myself in my blanket and went to bed.

It was a dead, 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 tangible benefit brought to Yenya by this unfortunate win).

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

We wandered quietly...

The small outlying houses ended, and a deserted steppe stretched out, bounded on one side by some kind of wicker fence.

“It’s warm, basically,” Yenya muttered, feeling like he was falling from fatigue. “I’ll sleep here by the fence and tie the cow to my hand.”

And Enya fell asleep - this is an amazing play of intricate fate.

- Hey, sir! – someone’s voice was heard above him.

It was a bright, sunny morning.

Enya opened his eyes and stretched.

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

Startling, as if stung, Enya jumped to his feet and let out 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 overnight the cow had miraculously turned into a tree, but Yenya was just a stupidly practical young man.

He sobbed and screamed:

- Stolen!!

“Wait,” said the local police officer. - What are you all telling me - they stole and stole, a cow and a cow... And what kind of cow?

- Like which one? Ordinary.

- What color?

- So, you know... brown. But there are, of course, white places.

- The muzzle seems to be white. Or not! It’s white on the side... On the back too... The tail is also... pale. In general, you know what cows usually are like.

- No with! – the bailiff said decisively, pushing the paper away. “I can’t search with such confused signs.” There aren't enough cows in the world!

And poor Enya wandered off to his starch factory... His whole body ached from the 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 thought about the futility of everything earthly: yesterday Yenya had everything: a cow, a home and a beloved girl, but today everything is lost: a cow, a home, and a beloved girl.

Life plays strange jokes on us, and we are all its blind, obedient slaves.

Robber

From the alley, near the garden gate, a pink, young face looked at me through our fence - black eyes did not blink, and the mustache moved funny.

I asked:

-What do you want?

He grinned.

– Actually, nothing.

“This is our garden,” I hinted delicately.

- So you are a local boy?

- Yes. And what is it?

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

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

“Thank you,” I said gravely, digging my foot into the sand of the garden path. - Something breaks my lower back. For the rain, perhaps!..

It turned out great. Just like your aunt's.

- Great, brother! Now tell me this: it seems you should have a sister?

- How do you know that?

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

“But Motka Naronovich doesn’t,” I objected.

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

I did not remain in debt:

-You have a beautiful hat.

- Yeah! Got it!

- What are you saying?

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

- Well, this, brother, is impossible.

- So know, oh young man, that I undertake to do this. Check this out!

If the stranger had not brought the question into 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 matter.

- Hop! - And the young man, jumping onto the top of the wall like a bird, flew towards me from a height of five arshins.

It was so out of reach for me that I wasn't even jealous.

- Well, hello, boy. What is your sister doing? I think her name is Lisa?

- How do you know?

- I can see it in your eyes.

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

- And now?

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

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

- In the garden? To the house.

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

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

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

- And why do you need it? – I asked gloomily. “I’d better go and ask my mom if I can show you.”

He quickly, with some fear, grabbed my hand.

- Well, no, no, no! Don’t leave me... It’s 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?

- Certainly! What a weirdo! And you still doubted... Is sister Lisa at home now?

- At home. And what?

- Nothing, nothing. What kind of wall is this? Your home?

– Yes... That window is my dad’s office.

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

- I'll tell you something...

-Can you do riddles?

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

- Difficult?

- Yes, such that even Lisa can’t guess. Does she have anyone now?

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

- Hm! – the young man said thoughtfully. - That's the thing! Isn't it going to 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, it’s okay,” the stranger reassured me. “Give me another riddle, maybe I won’t be able to guess it.”

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

He wrinkled his brow and fell into thought.

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

- Dog?

- Why a dog? – I was surprised at his stupidity. - Where does the dog have seventy clothes?

“Well, if,” the young man said embarrassedly, “they sew her up into seventy skins.”

- For what? – I interrogated, smiling ruthlessly.

- Well, brother, you didn’t guess right!

After that he spouted complete nonsense, which gave me deep pleasure.

- Bike? Sea? Umbrella? Rain?

- Oh you! – I said condescendingly. - This is a head of cabbage.

- But indeed! – the young man shouted enthusiastically. - This is amazing! And how come I didn’t realize it before? And I’m thinking: the sea? No, not the sea... An umbrella? No, it doesn't look like it. What a clever brother Lisa has! By the way, she's in her room now, right?

- In my room.

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

- Yeah! A riddle? Hm... What kind of riddle do you need, brother? Is it this one: “Two rings, two ends, and a stud in the middle.”

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

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

“What is this?...” I said thoughtfully. - Hanger?

“What kind of hanger is it if there are nails in the middle,” he objected listlessly, thinking about something else.

- Well, they nailed her to the wall so that she could hold on.

- What about two ends? Where are they?

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

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

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

– And beautiful, you might add. By the way, does she have any friends?

- Eat. Elsa Liebknecht, Milochka Odintsova, Nadya...

- No, are there any men?

- Eat. One is visiting us here.

- Why does he walk?

Lost in thought, I lowered my head and my gaze fell on the stranger’s smart patent leather boots.

I was amazed.

- How much are?

- Fifteen rubles. Why is he walking, huh? What does he need?

- He seems to want to marry Lisa. It's time for him, he's old. Do these bows need to be tied or are they already purchased?

- They're getting tied up. Well, does Lisa want to marry him?

– Bend your leg... Why don’t they creak? So they’re not new,” I said critically. “The coachman Matvey had new ones, they must have creaked. You could lubricate them with something.

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

I shrugged my shoulders.

- Why not! Of course I would like to.

He grabbed his head and leaned back on the bench.

- What are you doing?

- My head hurts.

Illness was the only topic on which I could speak respectably.

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

He obviously liked this nanny's saying.

“Perhaps you’re right, thoughtful young man.” So you're saying that Lisa wants to marry him?

I was surprised:

- How else? How can you not want to! Haven't you ever 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 shouts “Hurray”, there is a box like this on the caviar table, and no one yells at you if you’ve eaten a lot. I, brother, have been to these weddings.

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

- Why not!.. They go to church in a carriage, and each coachman has a scarf tied on his hand. Think about it! I can't wait for this wedding to start.

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

He touched my weakest chord.

- I can do that too!

- Well, what are you saying! This is unheard of! Will you really get 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 this... But what if you deceive me?... How can I check? Is it just this... I'll give you a piece of paper, and you can take it to Lisa's room. Give her the piece of paper, and let her write on it with a pencil to see if you rode well!

- Great! – I shouted enthusiastically. - You'll see - I'll finish it. Give me a piece of paper!

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

- Well, with God. Just if you meet someone else, don’t show them the papers - I won’t believe you anyway.

- Learn more! – I said contemptuously. - Look!

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

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

“Tell this gentleman that I won’t write anything, but I’ll go out to him myself.”

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

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

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

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

- Ilyusha. And you?

– My last name, my brother, Pronin.

– Are you... Pronin? Beggar?

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

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

– Mom recently told Lisa that Pronin is a beggar.

– Did she say that? – Pronin grinned. “She’s probably talking about someone else.”

- Certainly! – I calmed down, stroking his patent leather shoe with my hand. - Do you have any brother, a beggar?

- Brother? Actually, there is a brother.

“That’s what mom said: there are a lot of their brother, beggars, walking around here,” she says. Do you have a lot of their brother?...

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

Pronin nodded his head at her and said:

– I knew one boy – what kind of climb it was, it’s even amazing! He could, for example, in such darkness as now, look for fives in the lilacs, but how! Ten pieces each. Now, perhaps, there are no such boys...

- Yes, I can find you as much as you want right now. Even twenty!

- Twenty?! – this simpleton exclaimed, his eyes wide open. - 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 and look for it.” We'll see. And my sister and I will wait for you...

Less than an hour had passed before I had completed my undertaking brilliantly. Twenty fives were clutched in my sweaty, dirty fist. Having found Pronin in the darkness, heatedly discussing something with his sister, I, with sparkling eyes, said:

- Well! Not twenty? Come on, count it!

I was a fool for looking for exactly twenty. I could have easily cheated him because he didn't even bother counting my A's.

“What a trickster you are,” he said in amazement. - Just fire. Such a boy can even find and drag a garden ladder to the wall.

- Great importance! – I remarked contemptuously. “I just don’t want to go.”

- Well, no need. That boy, however, bullied you. A perky boy. He carried the ladder without holding it with his hands, but simply hooking it on his shoulders with the rung.

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

- No, this is incredible! To the very wall?...

– Just think – it’s difficult!

Decisively, in the case with the ladder, I set a record: that Proninsky boy only dragged it with his chest, and at the same time, as a bonus, I jumped on one leg and hummed like a steamship.

The Proninsky boy was put to shame.

“Well, okay,” said Pronin. – You are an amazing boy. However, old people told me that it is more difficult to find threes in lilacs than fives...

Oh, fool! He didn’t even suspect that threes come across lilacs much more often than fives! I wisely hid this circumstance from him and said with feigned indifference:

- Of course, it’s more difficult. But only I can get twenty threes. Eh, what can I say! I'll get thirty pieces!

- No, this boy will drive me to the grave from surprise. Will you do this, despite the darkness?! Oh, miracle!

- Want? You will see!

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

Twenty-six threes were in my hand, despite the fact that only a quarter of an hour had passed. It occurred to me that it’s easy to trick Pronin: show him twenty-six, and assure him that it’s thirty. This simpleton won't count anyway.

Simpleton... Good simpleton! I have never seen a greater scoundrel. Firstly, when I returned, he disappeared along with his sister. And secondly, when I arrived at my house, I immediately figured out all his tricks: riddles, fives, threes, kidnapping my sister and other jokes - all this was set up in order to divert my attention and rob my house... Indeed, not I managed to run up 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: my nanny’s large scarf, a reed stick and a cigar box - everything had disappeared. Only the turtle, torn out of the box, crawled sadly and forlornly near the broken jar of jam...

This man robbed me even more than I thought at the time when I was 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 vile: they deceived me, laughed at me as if I were a boy, and, in addition, snatched from under my very nose the music, the carriage, the scarves on the sleeves of the coachmen and caviar, which could have been eaten at the wedding as much as you wanted, – no one pays attention anyway.

When this burning resentment had healed, I once asked Pronin:

- Confess why you came: to steal my things from me?

“By God, that’s not why,” he laughed.

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

“I wrapped Lisa in a scarf 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 I 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? If you please, brother: “Two rings, two ends, and in the middle...”

- I already told you! Tell me a new one...

Obviously, this man went through his entire life with only this one riddle in reserve.

He had nothing else... I don’t understand how people live like this.

– Don’t you really know anything else?...

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

- “The cow is standing and mooing. If you grab her in the teeth, you won’t end up with a howl.”

It was a most wonderful copy of the riddle, completely reconciling me with my cunning brother-in-law.

It turned out: a piano.

Scary boy

Turning my gaze to the quiet pink valleys of my childhood, I still feel a suppressed horror of the Scary Boy.

A touching childhood stretches across a wide field: a serene swim with a dozen other boys in Crystal Bay, wandering along the Historical Boulevard with a whole heap of stolen lilacs under his arm, wild joy over some sad event that made it possible to miss a day of school, a big change in the garden under acacias, snaking golden-green spots across the disheveled book "Native Word" by Ushinsky, children's notebooks, pleasing the eye with their snowy whiteness at the time of purchase and inspiring disgust the next day in all right-thinking people with their dirty spotted appearance, notebooks in which thirty, forty times repeated with a tenacity worthy of a better fate: “The thread is thin, but the Eye is wide” - or a simple sermon of altruism was promoted: “Don’t eat porridge, Masha, leave the porridge for Misha”, re-photographs in the margins of Smirnov’s geography, a special, sweet to the heart smell of an unventilated classroom - the smell of dust and sour ink, the feeling of dry chalk on your fingers after hard work at the blackboard, returning home under the gentle spring sun, along half-dried, elastic paths trampled among thick mud, past the small peaceful houses of Crafts Street and, finally, among this meek In the valley of a child's life, like some formidable oak tree, rises a strong fist, resembling an iron bolt, crowning the thin, sinewy hand of the Scary Boy, 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 about this boy: he lived in completely unexplored places - in the mountainous part of 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, constantly spitting thread-thin saliva through a tooth knocked out by Lame Vozzhonok (a legendary personality!); he dressed so smartly that none of us could even think of copying his dress: on his feet were red, dusty shoes with extremely blunt toes, his head was crowned with a cap, crumpled, broken in the wrong place and with a visor cracked in the middle in the most disgusting way .

The space between the cap and shoes was filled with a completely faded uniform blouse, which was covered by a wide leather belt that went down two inches lower than it should have been by nature, and on his feet there were trousers, so swollen at the knees and frayed at the bottom that the Scary Boy could create panic among the population.

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

The famous right arm swing sent the first opponent flying to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust; a head blow to the stomach knocked down the second; the third received subtle but terrible blows with both legs. If there were more than three opponents, then the fourth and fifth ones flew from the right hand again thrown back at lightning speed, from a methodical head strike to the stomach - and so on.

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

This is what kind of person he was - Aptekarenok.

Well, wasn't I right when I called him Scary Boy in my heart?

When I was walking from school in anticipation of a refreshing swim at the Khrustalka, or wandering with a friend along the Historical Boulevard in search of mulberries, or simply running to an unknown place on unknown business - all the time a touch of secret, unconscious horror pressed my heart: now somewhere Aptekarenok is wandering around in search of his victims... Suddenly he catches me and beats me completely - “let me go,” in his picturesque expression.

The Scary Boy always had reasons for reprisals...

Having once met my friend Sashka Gannibotser in front of me, Aptekarenok stopped him with a cold gesture and asked through gritted teeth:

– Why were you wondering on our street?

Poor Hannibotzer turned pale and whispered in a hopeless tone:

– I... didn’t wonder.

– Who took six soldiers’ buttons from Snurtsyn?

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

-Who punched him in the face?

- Well, he didn’t want to give it away.

“You can’t beat the boys on our street,” Aptekarenok noted and, as usual, with lightning speed he moved on to confirm the stated position: with a whistle, he threw his hand behind his back, hit Gannibotser in the ear, with the other hand he poked “under a sigh,” causing Gannibotser to break in two and lost all breath, kicked the stunned, bruised Hannibotzer to the ground with a kick and, admiring the work of his hands, said coolly:

- And you... - This applied to me, who froze at the sight of the Scary Boy, like a bird before the mouth of a snake. - What about you? Maybe you want to get it too?

“No,” I stammered, turning my gaze from the crying Hannibotzer to Aptekarenok. - Why... I’m okay.

A tanned, sinewy, not very fresh fist swayed like a pendulum right next to my eye.

– I’ve been getting to you for a long time... You will fall under my cheerful hand. I'll show you how to steal unripe watermelons from the chestnut tree!

“The damned boy knows everything,” I thought. And he asked, growing bolder:

- What do you need them for... After all, they are not yours.

- What a fool. You steal all the unripe ones, but which ones will be left for me? If I see you near the chestnut again, it would be better if you were never born.

He disappeared, and after that I walked down the street for several days with the feeling of an unarmed hunter wandering along a tiger path and waiting for the reeds to stir and a huge striped body to flash softly and heavily in the air.

It is scary for a little person to live in the world.

The worst thing was when Aptekarenok came to swim on the rocks in 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 rocks, jumping from rock to rock like a wiry, lean wolf cub, everyone involuntarily became quiet 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 took off his blouse, catching his cap as he went, then his pants, pulling off his boots at the same time, and was already showing off in front of us, clearly outlined with the dark, 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 the adult man who had somehow found his way into our children’s company, he said in a tone of command:

- Brothers! Well, let's show him the “cancer”.

At that moment, all our hatred for him disappeared - the damned Aptekarenok was so good at making “cancer.”

The crowded, dark, algae-covered rocks formed a small expanse of water, deep as a well... And all the children, huddled near the highest rock, suddenly began to look down with interest, groaning and theatrically throwing up their hands:

- Cancer! Cancer!

- Look, cancer! God knows how huge it is! Well, what a thing!

- That’s how rachische!.. Look, look - it’s an arshin and a half.

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

And Aptekarenok, standing on another, opposite rock, suddenly separated from it, flew up two arshins, curled up in the air into a dense ball, 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 "wells".

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” he began to resemble a drowned man pulled out of the water.

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

When we were fifteen years old, we all began to “suffer.”

This is a completely unique expression that almost defies explanation. It took root among all the boys of our city, passing from childhood to adolescence, and the most common phrase when meeting two “fryer” (also southern slang) was:

- Be stubborn, Seryozhka. Who are you suffering for?

- For Manya Ognevaya. And you?

- And I’m not after anyone yet.

- Lie more. What, are you afraid to tell someone else, or what?

– Yes, Katya Kapitanaki is very attractive to me.

- Punish me, Lord.

“Well, that means you’re behind her.”

Convicted of heart weakness, the “sufferer for Katya Kapitanaki” becomes embarrassed and, to hide his charming half-childish embarrassment, utters a three-story curse.

After this, both friends go to drink buza for the health of their chosen ones.

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

The terrible Young Pharmacist, waddled, came up to me on a quiet evening street and asked in his quiet voice, full of menacing majesty:

- What are you doing here, on our street?

“I’m walking…” I answered, respectfully shaking the hand extended to me as a special favor.

- Why are you walking?

- So-so.

He paused, looking at me suspiciously.

- Who are you chasing after?

- Yes, not for anyone.

- Punish me, Lord...

- Lie more! Well? You won’t be foolishly (also a word) wandering around our street. Who are you running after?

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

– For Kira Kostyukova. She'll be out now after dinner.

- Well, it's possible.

He paused. On this warm, gentle evening, filled with the sad smell of acacia trees, the secret was bursting with his courageous heart.

After a pause, he asked:

- Do you know who I'm after?

“No, Aptekarenok,” I said affectionately.

“Aptekarenok for whom, and uncle for you,” he grumbled half-jokingly, half-angrily. “I, my brother, am now looking after Lisa Evangopulo.” And before I cooked (pronouncing “ya” instead of “a” was also a kind of chic) ​​for Maruska Korolkevich. Great, huh? Well, brother, your happiness. If you thought anything about Lisa Evangopoulo, then...

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

-Have you seen it? It’s okay, go for a walk. Well... everyone enjoys cooking.

A wise phrase when applied to a feeling of the heart.

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

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

- Hello, Friar. Why are you wondering about pasta?

A tone familiar to my childhood ear sounded in the words of this pale, bearded wounded man. I looked at him in bewilderment and asked:

– Are you giving this to me?

– So, don’t recognize old friends? Wait, if you come across our street, you’ll find out what Vanka Aptekarenok is.

- Aptekarev?!

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

A child's fear of him grew in me for a second and made both me and him (later, when I confessed this to him) laugh.

- Dear Pharmacist? An officer?

- Yes. - And in turn: - Writer?

-Are you not injured?

- That's it. Do you remember how I pissed off Sashka Gannibotser in front of you?

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

- And for watermelons from the chestnut. You stole them, and it was wrong.

- Why?

- Because I myself wanted to steal.

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

“Yes, brother,” he grinned. – And you can’t imagine.

“Well, look…” And he showed a short stump from under the blanket.

- Where are you like that?

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

I remembered how he, with his head down and his hand thrown back, blindly rushed at the five, and remained silent. Poor Scary Boy!

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

- Who are you following now?

And such pity for the past sweet childhood, for the book “Native Word” by Ushinsky, 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.

Businessman's Day

In all five years of Ninochka’s life, today she suffered perhaps the heaviest blow: someone called Kolka composed a poisonous poetic pamphlet about her.

The day began as usual: when Ninochka got up, the nanny, having dressed her and given her tea, said grumpily:

“Now go out onto the porch and look at what the weather is like today!” Yes, sit there longer, about half an hour, and be careful 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 wasn’t interested in any weather, but she just wanted to get away from Ninochka for half an hour so that she could drink tea and some sweet crackers in freedom.

But Ninochka is too trusting, too noble to suspect a trick in this case. She meekly pulled her apron down over her stomach, said: “Well, I’ll go have a look,” and went out onto the porch, bathed in the warm golden sun.

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

Noticing her, sweetly sitting down on the steps of the porch to carry out the nanny's order - “to watch out for rain” - one of the three boys, after 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.

– Do you live here?

- This is where I live. Dad, aunt, sister Lisa, fraulein, nanny, cook and me.

- Wow! “There’s nothing to say,” the boy grimaced. - What is your name?

- Me? Ninotchka.

And suddenly, having pulled out all this information, the damned boy spun around on one leg with furious speed and shouted to the whole yard:

Ninka-Ninenok,

Gray pig,

Slid down the hill

I choked on mud...

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

Ninka-Ninenok,

Gray pig,

Slid down the hill

I choked on mud...

A terrible weight fell on Ninochka’s heart. Oh God, God! For what? Who did she stand in the way of, that she was so humiliated, so disgraced?

The sun darkened in the eyes, and the whole world was painted in the darkest colors. Is she a gray pig? Did she choke on dirt? Where? When? My heart ached as if burned by a hot iron, and I didn’t want to live.

Through the fingers with which she covered her face, abundant tears flowed. What killed Ninochka most of all was the coherence of the pamphlet published by the boy. It is so painfully said that “Ninenok” rhymes perfectly with “piglet”, and “rolled down” and “choked”, like two identical slaps in the face, burned with indelible shame on Ninochka’s face.

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

“Let’s go, Kolka,” one of his minions said to the pamphlet writer, “otherwise this crybaby will take pity on us and will hurt us.”

Entering the hallway and sitting down on the chest, Ninochka, her face wet from tears, became thoughtful. So, her insulter’s name is Kolka... Oh, if only she could come up with similar poems with which she could discredit this Kolka, with what pleasure she would throw them in his face!.. She sat like that for more than an hour in the dark corner of the hall, on the chest , and her heart was seething 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 about Kolka. And no worse than before.

Oh, the first joy and agony of creativity!

Ninotchka rehearsed under her breath several times those flying fiery lines that she would throw in Kolka’s face, and her meek face lit up with unearthly joy. Now Kolka will know how to touch her.

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

A warm group of boys, almost right on the porch, started an extremely simple game that delighted all three. That's right - each one in turn, putting his thumb to his index finger, so that it turned out to be something like a ring, spat into this semblance of a ring, holding it a quarter of an arshin away from his lips. If the spit flew inside the ring without touching the fingers, the happy player smiled joyfully.

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

Ninochka admired what was happening for a while, then beckoned her offender with her finger and, bending down from the porch towards him, 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.

- Nothing, nothing... Just tell me: what’s your name?

She had such a simple-minded, naive face that Kolka fell for this bait.

“Well, Kolka,” he wheezed.

- A-ah-ah... Kolka...

And quickly, quickly, the radiant Ninochka blurted out:

Kolka-Knee,

Gray pig,

Rolled down the hill

Choked... on dirt...

She immediately rushed through the door, which she had prudently left open, and was followed by the following:

- Fool!

A little calmed down, she wandered to her nursery. The nanny, having laid out some kind of cloth rubbish on the table, was cutting out a sleeve from it.

- Nanny, it’s not raining.

- Well, good.

- What are you doing?

- Do not disturb me.

-Can I watch?

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

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

- And then tell me.

- Fine…

When Ninochka enters, fourteen-year-old Liza hastily hides a book in a pink wrapper under the table, but, seeing who has come, she takes out the book again and says displeasedly:

- What do you need?

“Nanny told me to see what you’re doing.”

- I teach lessons. Can't you see?

– Can I sit next to you?... I’m quiet.

Lisa’s eyes are burning, and her red cheeks have not yet cooled down from the pink-wrapped book. She has no time for her sister.

- It’s impossible, it’s impossible. You will disturb me.

- And the nanny says that I will also disturb her.

- Well, so that’s it... Go and see where Tuzik is. What about him?

- Yes, he’s probably lying in the dining room near the table.

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

Not for a single minute does it occur to Ninochka that they want to get rid of her. She is simply given a responsible assignment - that’s all.

- And when he’s in the dining room, should he come to you and tell you? – Ninochka asks seriously.

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

- Fine…

With the air of a busy housewife, Ninochka hurries to the dining room. He pets Tuzik, gives him some bread and then anxiously rushes to his father (the second half of the order is to report Tuzik to his father).

Dad is not in the office.

Dad is not in the living room.

Finally... Dad is sitting in the fraulein's room, leaning close to this latter, holding her hand in his hand.

When Ninotchka appears, he leans back in embarrassment and says with slightly exaggerated joy and amazement:

- Ahh! Who do I see! Our dear daughter! Well, how are you feeling, light of my eyes?

– Dad, I’ve already fed Tuzik bread.

- Yeah... And well, brother, I did it; That’s why they, these animals, are without food... Well, now go away, my blue-winged dove.

-Where to, dad?

- Well... you go this way... You go... hm! Go to Lisa and find out what she is doing there.

- Yes, I was just with her. She teaches lessons.

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

He looks eloquently at the fraulein, slowly strokes her hand and mumbles vaguely:

- Well... in this case... you go to this very... you go to the nanny and see... what the above-mentioned nanny is doing there...

“She’s sewing something there.”

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

- Two pieces.

- Eka has become generous! How can such a big dog be satisfied with two pieces? You, my angel, roll him some more... About four pieces. By the way, look to see if he's chewing on the table leg.

– And if it’s gnawing, I should come and tell you, right? – Ninochka asks, looking at her father with bright, gentle eyes.

- No, brother, don’t tell me that, but tell this, what’s her name... Lisa. This is already in her department. Yes, if this same Lisa has some kind of funny book with pictures, then you, that means it’s there... take a good look, and then tell me what you saw. Understood?

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

- Yes, brother, not today. We can tell you tomorrow. It's not raining on us. Isn't that right?

- Fine. Tomorrow.

- Well, travel.

Ninochka is traveling. First to the dining room, where Tuzika conscientiously stuffs three pieces of bread into Tuzika’s bared mouth, then to Lisa’s room.

- Lisa! Tuzik does not chew the table leg.

“For which I congratulate you,” Lisa says absentmindedly, glaring at the book. - Well, go ahead.

- Where to go?

- Go to dad. Ask him what he's doing?

- Yes, I already was. He said that you should show me a book with pictures. I need to tell him tomorrow.

- Oh, Lord! What kind of girl is this! Well, on you! Just sit quietly. Otherwise I'll kick you out.

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

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

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

- Well, go take a look. Then you can tell me.

- Well... I'll go.

Arisha has guests: the neighbor’s maid and the “Little Red Riding Hood” messenger.

- Arisha, will you peel the potatoes soon? I need to watch.

- Where is it soon? And I won't be in an hour.

- Well, I'll sit and wait.

“I’ve found a place for myself, there’s nothing to say!.. Better go to the nanny, tell her to give you something.”

- And what?

- Well, she knows what there is.

- Would you like me to give it to you now?

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

All day long, Ninochka’s quick legs carry her from one place to another. There is a lot of hassle, so many errands to fill. And all the most important, urgent ones.

Poor “restless” Ninochka!

And only in the evening, having accidentally wandered into Aunt Vera’s rooms, Ninochka finds a real friendly welcome.

- A-ah, Ninochka! - Aunt Vera greets her stormily. - It’s you that I need. Listen, Ninochka... Are you listening to me?

- Yes, aunt. I'm listening.

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

- The one with the mustache?

- That's it. And you, Ninochka... (aunt breathes strangely and heavily, holding 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 that it’s time for you to sleep, you say that you don’t want to. Do you hear?

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

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

- Lady! Can I take Ninochka? It's high time for her to sleep.

- No, no, she will still sit with me. Really, Alexander Semenych?

- Yes, let him go to bed, what’s wrong? - says this young man, frowning.

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

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

And when Alexander Semyonovich, maintaining a gloomy expression on his face, leaves, his aunt somehow sank, withered and said in a completely different, not the same tone:

“Now go to bed, baby.” There's no point in sitting around here. Harmful...

Pulling her stockings off her leg, tired but content, Ninochka thinks to herself in connection with the prayer that she just raised to Heaven, at the insistence of her nanny, for her late 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 and makes noise cheerfully, occasionally crackling and throwing a whole sheaf of sparks onto an iron sheet nailed to the floor for this occasion. The nervous glow of the fire runs comfortably across the blue wallpaper.

All four Kindyakov children are in a festive, concentrated and solemn mood. All four of them seem starched by the holiday, and they sit quietly, afraid to move, cramped in new dresses and suits, washed and combed clean.

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

A quiet tenderness came over his soul: the room was warm, his new shoes creaked so loudly that it was better than any music, and for dinner there was a meat pie, suckling pig and jelly.

It's good to live. If only Volodka didn’t hit him and, in general, didn’t hurt him. This Volodka is just some kind of dark stain on Yegorka’s carefree existence.

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

For a long time now he has been sitting at the window, the glass of which has been decorated with intricate patterns by the frost, and reading.

The book is in an old, battered, battered binding, and it is called: “The Children of Captain Grant.” Flipping through the pages, deep in reading, Volodya no, no, and looks with a constricted heart: how much is left until the end? So a bitter drunkard with regret examines the remnants of life-giving moisture in the decanter.

After devouring one chapter, Volodya will definitely take a short break: he will touch the new patent leather belt that girds his fresh student blouse, admire the fresh wrinkle in his trousers and decide for the hundredth time that there is no more beautiful and graceful person on the globe than him.

And in the corner, behind the stove, where mom’s dress hangs, the youngest Kindyakovs perched themselves... There are two of them: Milochka (Lyudmila) and Karasik (Kostya). They, like cockroaches, peek out from their corner and keep whispering about something.

Since yesterday, both have already decided to emancipate themselves and live in their own home. That's right - they covered the pasta box with a handkerchief and placed tiny plates on this table, on which were neatly laid out: two pieces of sausage, a piece of cheese, one sardine and several caramels. Even two bottles of cologne decorated this festive table: in one there was “church” wine, in the other there was a flower - everything was 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? For this gluttonous savage, nothing is sacred: he will immediately swoop in, in one movement he will knock sausage, cheese, and sardine 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,” Karasik hisses. - 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 housewife to her formidable brother. One of his hands rests on the edge of the windowsill. Darling reaches out to her, to this terrible hand, roughened from fussing with snowballs, covered with scars and scratches from fierce battles... She kisses her with fresh pink lips.

And timidly looks at the terrible man.

This propitiatory sacrifice softens Volodin’s heart. He looks up from his book:

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

- Funny.

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

The sister is indifferent to her brother’s spectacular appearance, but in order to butter him up, she praises:

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

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

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

- That's it.

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

- Kissed me.

– Doesn’t he fight?

- No. And there the window is so frozen.

– But Egorta won’t touch the table? Go and give him a kiss.

- Well, here we go again! Kiss everyone. What was missing!

– What if he spits on the table?

- Let us wipe it off.

- What if he spits on the sausage?

- And we will wipe it off. Don't be afraid, I'll eat it myself. I don't mind.

The mother's head pokes through the door.

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

God, what a magical change in tone! On weekdays, the conversation goes like this: “What are you, lousy rubbish, pecked with chickens, or what? Where did you get into the ink? When my father comes, I’ll tell him - he’ll prescribe Izhitsa for you. Son, it’s worse than a tramp!”

Kolya Cheburakhin arrived.

Both comrades feel a little awkward in this atmosphere of festive decorum and solemnity.

It was strange for Volodya to see how Cheburakhin shuffled his foot, greeting his mother, and how he introduced himself to the contemplator, Yegorka:

- Let me introduce myself - Cheburakhin. Very nice.

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

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

– Why are you wondering?

- And what? – the timid “pencil” whispered in dying anguish. - I'm nothing.

- So much for you! Do you want to grab me in the face?

“I didn’t touch you, I don’t even know you.”

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

- In the city.

- Yeah! In the city! So why don’t you, you unfortunate scum, take off your hat to me? Do you need to study?

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

And now this terrible boy, even more terrible than Volodya, politely greets the little ones, and when Volodya’s mother asks his last name and what his parents do, a bright hot color floods the tender, dark, like a peach, Cheburakhin cheeks.

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

The boys sit by the window and, confused by the unusual situation, smile and look at each other.

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

- Wow, thank you. What are you reading?

- "The Children of Captain Grant". Interesting!

- I'll give it. Won't they tear yours?

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

- By God. God punish me, yes. You see, I’m walking along Slobodka, not thinking anything, and he’ll hit me in the foot with a brick! I really couldn’t stand it here. I'll gasp!

– After Christmas we need to go to Slobodka to beat the boys. Right?

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

Volodya is dying to say: “ate.” But it’s absolutely impossible... Volodya’s whole life passed before Cheburakhin’s eyes, and such an event as the consumption of buffalo meat could not have gone unnoticed in their small town.

- No, I didn’t eat. And it's probably delicious. (Pause.) Would you like to be a pirate?

- I wanted to. I'm not ashamed. Still a missing person...

- Yes, and I’m not ashamed. Well, a pirate is a person like others. Just robbed.

- It's clear! But adventure. (Pause.) And I also gave one boy a punch in the teeth. What exactly is this? He told my aunt that I smoke. (Pause.) And I don’t like Australian savages, you know! African blacks are better.

- Bushmen. They become attached to whites.

And in the corner the bushman Yegorka had already really become attached to the whites:

“Give me some candy, Milka, otherwise I’ll spit on the table.”

- Let's go, let's go! I'll tell mom.

- Give me some candy, otherwise I’ll spit.

- Well, never mind. I'm not giving it.

Egorka fulfills her threat and indifferently walks away to the stove. Darling wipes the spit off the sausage with her apron and carefully places it on the plate again. In her eyes there is long-suffering and meekness.

God, there are so many hostile elements in the house... This is how 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. It’s like these are his tonfettes.

And for dinner guests come: Chilibeev, an employee at the shipping company, with his wife and uncle Akim Semenych. Everyone sits, quietly exchanging monosyllables, until they sit down at the table.

It's noisy at the table.

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

- Where is it? I thought it wouldn't work out at all. The stoves in this city are so lousy that you can barely bake them on a pipe.

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

- And just think: such a pig that there’s nothing to see here - two rubles! They went crazy there at the market! A chicken is a ruble, but turkeys are worthless! And what it will be like next is not directly known.

At the end of dinner, an incident occurred: Chilibeev’s wife knocked over a glass of red wine and spilled it on the new blouse of Volodya, who was sitting nearby.

Kindyakov the father began to calm the guest down, but Kindyakov the mother said nothing. 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 the spoiled good, like a powder mine.

Like a well-mannered woman, like a housewife who understands what good manners are, Kindyakova’s mother chose to attack Volodya:

- Why are you sitting here at hand! And what kind of lousy children are these, they are ready to beat their mother into the grave. Looks like you've eaten and go. He settled down like a mayor! You'll soon grow up to the sky, but you'll still be a fool. The master only sticks his nose into books!

And immediately the whole solemn holiday, all the contemplative and enthusiastic mood dimmed in Volodya’s eyes... The blouse was adorned with an ominous dark spot, the soul was insulted, trampled into the dirt in the presence of strangers, and most importantly - comrade Cheburakhin, who also immediately lost all his shine and charm of unusualness.

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

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

And a strange thing: if it weren’t for the 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.

– Why are you wondering? – Volodya asked one of them menacingly.

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

“I’m not wondering,” the schoolboy reasonably objected. - Now you’ll get some pasta.

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

- The unfortunate force itself!

- Eh! - Volodya shouted (the blouse is no longer new anyway!), with a dashing movement he threw his coat off his shoulders and swung it...

And four high school students were already running from the corner of the alley to help their friends...

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

- It's 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 tinier Dimka, I hope, will clearly confirm this.

It is unknown what kind of trouble brought this boy under the Easter table, but the fact remains: while the adults were stupidly and carelessly seated at a table richly laden with Easter dishes and drinks, Dimka, skillfully maneuvering between a whole forest of huge columnar legs for his height, took the yes dived under the table, along with a camel, half a wooden egg and the greasy edge of a butter woman...

He laid out his supplies, placed a sullen, uncommunicative camel at his side and plunged into observation...

Under the table is good. Chilly. A pleasant moisture emanates from the freshly washed floor, which has not yet been shuffled by feet.

Auntie’s feet are immediately noticeable: they are wearing huge soft carpet shoes - from rheumatism, or something. Dimka scratched the carpet flower on his shoe with the nail of his tiny finger... His foot moved, Dimka pulled his finger away in fear.

He lazily gnawed on the edge of the butter woman's hand-warmed one, gave the camel a snack, and suddenly his attention was drawn to the very strange evolution of a man's patent leather shoe with a white suede upper.

The leg, shod in this elegant thing, at first stood calmly, then suddenly trembled and crawled forward, occasionally raising its toe warily, like a snake that raises its head and looks around, looking for which side of the prey...

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

The crossed legs calmly stretched out and, suspecting nothing, peacefully tapped their heels. The hem of the dark skirt rose, revealing a delightful full leg in a dark blue stocking, and at the very round knee the tip of a fluffy garter - black and gold - was immodestly visible.

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

On the contrary, his gaze was entirely riveted on the mysterious and creepy zigzags of shoes with a suede top.

This animal, creaking and squirming, finally crawled to the tip of the blue leg, pecked its nose and fearfully moved away to the side with obvious fear: would they give him a slap on the neck for this?

The blue leg, feeling the touch, trembled nervously, angrily and moved back a little.

The cheeky boot pointed its nose impudently and again crawled forward decisively.

Dimka by no means considered himself a censor of morals, but he simply, regardless, liked the blue shoe, so beautifully embroidered in silver; admiring the shoe, he could not allow it to get dirty or the sewing to be torn off.

Therefore, Dimka used the following strategy: instead of a little blue leg, he slipped the muzzle of his camel and vigorously pushed the enterprising shoe with it.

You should have seen the unbridled joy of this unprincipled dandy! He fidgeted and hovered around the resigned camel, like a kite hovering over carrion. He called for help from his colleague, who was calmly dozing under a chair, and they both began to press and squeeze the imperturbable animal so much that if in his place a plump blue leg would have been in trouble.

Fearing for the integrity of his faithful friend, Dimka pulled him out of his tenacious embrace and put him away, and since the camel’s neck was still dented, he had to, in retribution, spit on the toe of the enterprising shoe.

This depraved dandy barked a little more and finally crawled away, slurping unsaltedly.

On the left side, someone put his hand under the tablecloth and secretly splashed a glass onto the floor.

Dimka lay down on his stomach, crawled to the puddle and tasted it: it was a little sweet, but also strong enough. I gave it to the camel to try. Explained in his ear:

“They were already drunk there, upstairs.” They're pouring it down - do you understand?

Indeed, at the top everything was already coming to an end. The chairs moved, and it became a little lighter under the table. First, the aunt’s clumsy carpet feet floated away, then her blue feet trembled and stood on heels. Behind the blue legs, patent leather shoes twitched, as if connected by an invisible rope, and then the American shoes, the yellow ones, all sorts of things, began to clatter and clatter.

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

- Yes, somehow... this... Awkward.

- What’s awkward there - cleverly.

- By God, it’s somehow not right...

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

“I told you there was no need to mix Madeira with beer...

- Empty. Get some sleep and nothing. I’ll send you a pillow now with Glasha.

The clatter of numerous feet died down. Then I heard the clicking of fast heels and a conversation:

“Here’s a pillow for you, the lady sent it.”

- 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... to meddle!

- We’ve already taken Christ. You were so christened that you couldn’t stand.

Indescribable surprise was heard in the guest’s convinced voice:

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

- Let me in, what are you doing?! They'll come in!

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

He grabbed the camel and slammed it onto the floor.

– See?! – Glasha squealed and rushed off like a whirlwind.

As he lay down, the guest grumbled:

- Oh, what a fool! All women, in my opinion, are fools. Such rubbish has been spread everywhere... She powders her nose and thinks that she is the Queen of Naples... By God, really!.. If only she could take a good whip and powder it like that... Wagtails!

Dimka felt scared: it was already getting dark, and then someone was muttering something incomprehensible under his breath... It was better to leave.

Before he had time to think this, the guest, staggering, approached the table and said, as if consulting with himself:

- Would you like to put a bottle of cognac in your pocket? And a whole box of sardines. I think this is a fool and won't notice.

Something touched his leg. He dropped the sardines, jumped back in fear to the sofa and, collapsing on it, saw with horror that something was crawling from under the table. Having looked at it, he calmed down:

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

- From under the table.

-What didn’t you see there?

- Yes, I was sitting. I was resting.

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

- Christ is Risen.

- What more! I wish I could go to sleep better.

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

– I don’t kiss Christ with men.

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

The conversation was clearly not going well.

-Where were you at matins? – Dima asked sadly.

- What do you care?

The best thing for Dima would have been to go to the nursery, but... between the dining room and the nursery there were two unlit rooms where any evil spirits could grab you by the hand. I had to stay near this heavy man and involuntarily carry on a conversation with him:

– And we have a good Easter today.

- And put them on your nose.

“I’m not afraid to go through the rooms, but it’s dark there.”

“And I also took one boy and cut off his head.”

- Was he bad? – Dimka asked, cold with horror.

“The same rubbish as you,” hissed the guest, looking with lust at the bottle he had chosen on the table.

- Yes... he was just like you... So cute, like a darling, really such a little brat...

- Such a booger that I would kick it with my heel - crap!.. Such rubbish. Go away! Go! Or you'll be out of your mind!

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

-Are your Easters looking good?

- I should sneeze on Easter - I eat boys like you. Give me your paw, I’ll bite it off...

- Where did mother’s son go?

- Mother!! – Dimka squealed and buried himself in the rustling skirt.

- And here we are talking with your son. Charming boy! So glib.

– Didn’t he bother you to sleep? Let me just clear everything from the table, and then you can sleep as long as you want.

- Why clean it up?...

“And by evening we’ll cover it again.”

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

- Damn you, anathema boy! He stole the bottle from right under his nose.

Three acorns

There is nothing more selfless than childhood friendship... If you trace its beginning, its origins, then in most cases you will come across 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 people arose simply because they lived on the same street or both studied at the same school, sat on the same bench - and the very first piece of sausage and bread, brotherly divided in half and eaten, sowed the seeds of the most tender friendship in young hearts.

The foundation of our friendship - Motka, Shasha and I - was served by 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 teaching at 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), Shasha’s father worked at the port (plebs, commoners), and Motka’s mother simply existed on interest from penniless capital (rentier, bourgeoisie). Mentally, Shasha stood much higher than Motka and me, and physically Motka was considered handsome among us - freckled and skinny. We didn’t attach any importance to any of this... We fraternally stole unripe watermelons from the chestnut trees, fraternally devoured them and then fraternally rolled on the ground from unbearable stomach pain.

The three of us swam, the three of us beat up 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 of us ate, because each of us considered it a sacred duty, at the risk of our own front and rear, to steal hot pies for the whole company.

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

It never even occurred to us to grumble about this, and we relieved our souls only when Shasha’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, mournfully said:

Red-red -

Dangerous man...

I was lying in the sun...

He kept his beard up...

- Bastards! – Shasha’s father shook his fist from below.

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

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

We lived so happily and serenely, growing and developing until we were sixteen years old.

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

Shasha became a typesetter at the “Electric Zeal” printing house, Motya’s mother sent her to Kharkov to work in some grain office, and I remained unemployed, although my father dreamed of “assigning me to mental studies” - what kind of thing is this, I still Don't know. Frankly, this smelled strongly of a scribe in a bourgeois council, but, fortunately, there was no vacancy in the said gloomy and boring institution...

We met with Shasha every day, but 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 classes” and that he had become such a dandy that you couldn’t approach him.

Motka gradually became the object of our comradely pride and envy-free dreams of rising over time to him, Motka.

And suddenly information came out that Motka should arrive in early April from Kharkov “on leave with pay.” Motka’s mother strongly pressed for the latter, and in this preservation the poor woman saw the most magnificent laurel in the victorious wreath of the world conqueror Motka.

That day, before we had time to close “Electric Zeal,” Shasha burst into my room and, his eyes sparkling, glowing with delight like a candle, said that they had already seen Motka coming from the station and that he had a real top hat on his head!..

“They say he’s such a dandy,” Shasha finished proudly, “such a dandy that he’ll let me escape.”

This vague description of smartness fired me up so much 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 in our haste we did not notice this and, breathing heavily, the first thing we did was demand Motya... The answer was the most aristocratic:

– Motya doesn’t accept.

- How can he not accept it? – we were surprised. – What doesn’t he accept?

- He can’t receive you. He is very tired now. He will let you know when he can accept.

All poshness, all respectability must have boundaries. This has already crossed even the broadest boundaries that we have drawn for ourselves.

“Maybe he’s unwell?...” the delicate Shasha tried to soften the blow.

- He’s healthy, he’s healthy... Only, he says, his nerves are not in order... They had a lot of work in the office before the holidays... After all, he is now an assistant to the senior clerk. Very on good foot.

The leg may have been truly good, but, to be honest, it completely crushed us: “nerves, it doesn’t accept”...

We returned, of course, in silence. I didn’t want to talk about my gorgeous friend until it was clarified. And we felt so downtrodden, so humiliatingly 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 chic opportunity to wear a top hat and “not accept” - just like in novels.

- Where are you going? – asked Shasha.

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

- And I’m going home... I’ll drink tea, play the mandolin and go to bed.

Prose is no less! Hehe.

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

I put on a new jacket, a white shirt embroidered with crosses, went to pick up Shasha - and with cramped hearts we wandered off to this friendly meeting that we so longed for and which we were so instinctively, panic-strickenly afraid of.

Of course, they were the first to arrive. They sat for a long time with their heads down, their hands in their pockets. It didn’t even occur to me to be offended that our magnificent friend was making us wait so long.

Oh! He was truly magnificent... Something sparkling was approaching us, rattling numerous key chains and creaking with the polish of yellow shoes with mother-of-pearl buttons.

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

A stick with a horse's head encumbered the aristocratic right hand. The left hand was covered with a glove the color of a flayed ox. Another glove protruded from the outer pocket of the jacket as if threatening us with its limp index finger: “Here I am!.. Just treat my wearer without due respect.”

When Motya approached us with the unwinding gait of a sated dandy, good-natured Shasha jumped up and, unable to restrain his impulse, extended his hands to his illustrious friend:

- Motka! That's great, brother!..

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

We both stood.

– I’m 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”... He-he... Isn’t it true? Now I’m Matvey Semenych - that’s what they call me at work, and the accountant himself greets me by the hand. Life is solid, the company's turnover is two million. There is even a branch in Kokand... In general, I would like to fundamentally reconsider our relationship.

“Please, please,” Shasha muttered. He stood bent over, as if his back had been broken by a falling invisible log...

Before putting my head on the block, I faint-heartedly tried to push back this moment.

- Now they started wearing top hats again? – I asked with the air of a man whose scientific studies occasionally distract him from the whims of changing fashion.

“Yes, they do,” Matvey Semenych answered condescendingly. - Twelve rubles.

- Nice keychains. Present?

- That's not all. Part of the house. They don't all fit on the ring. Clock on stones, anchor, keyless winding. In general, life in a big city is a hectic thing. Monopol collars only last for three days, manicures, picnics are different.

I felt that Matvey Semenych was also uneasy...

But finally he made up his mind. He shook his head so that the top hat jumped onto the top of his head and began:

- That's what, gentlemen... You and I are no longer little, and in general, childhood is one thing, but when you are young people, it is completely different. Another, for example, reached some kind of high society, the intelligentsia, while others are from the lower classes, and if you, say, saw Count Kochubey in the same carriage next to our Mironikha, who, remember, was selling poppy seeds on the corner, so you would be the first to laugh out loud. I, of course, am not Kochubey, but I have a certain position, well, of course, you also have a certain position, but not like that, and since we were little together, you never know... You yourself understand that we are already friends a friend is not a match... and... here, of course, there is nothing to be offended - one has achieved, the other has not achieved... Hm! no, and we will be like our own. But, of course, without any particular familiarity - I don’t like that. I, of course, fall into your position - you love me, you may even be offended, and believe me... For my part... if I can be of any help... Hm! I'm so glad.

At this point, Matvey Semenych looked at his new gold watch and hurried:

- Oh-la-la! How I chatted... The family of 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 bent under the burden of respectability, tired of the everyday 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 don’t cry anymore. 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 pathetic third-rate scribe in an office, dressed like a parrot in a jacket from someone else's shoulder; in a tiny top hat on top of his head, in lilac trousers, hung with copper key chains - he now seems to me ridiculous and insignificant, like a worm without a heart and brain - why were we so upset when we lost Motka?

But - remember - how we were alike, - like three acorns on an oak branch, - when we sat on the same bench with Marya Antonovna...

Alas! The acorns are the same, but when young oak trees grow from them, one oak tree is used to make a lectern for a scientist, another is used as a frame for a portrait of a beloved girl, and from the third oak tree they will make such a gallows that you can’t afford it...

fragrant cloves

I’m walking along a dirty, slushy street covered with all sorts of rubbish and rubbish, I’m walking angry, mad, like a chained dog. The crazy St. Petersburg wind blows my hat off and I have to hold it with my hand. The hand becomes numb and cold from the wind; I'm getting even angrier! Clouds of small rotten raindrops fall into your collar, damn them!

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

Passers-by flash by - animals! They try to touch me with their shoulders, and I try to touch them.

I catch glances from under my brows that clearly say:

- Oh, I wish I could slam the back of your head into the mud!

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

And they probably consider me the son of the murderer of President Carnot. I see clearly.

All the meager colors mixed on the wretchedly poor Petrograd palette into one dirty spot, even the bright colors of the signs went out and merged with the wet rusty walls of the damp, gloomy houses.

And the sidewalk! My God! The foot slides among wet, dirty pieces of paper, 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, stinking sidewalk, three carnations dropped by someone, three pristine flowers: dark red, snow-white and yellow, sparkled with a bright three-color spot. The curly, lush heads were not at all stained by dirt; all three flowers happily fell with the top of their stems onto a wide cigarette box thrown by a passing smoker.

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

The wind is not so cruel anymore, the rain is warmer, the mud... well, the mud will dry out someday; and a timid hope is born in my heart: after all, I will still see the hot blue sky, hear birds chirping, and the gentle May breeze will bring to me the sweet aroma of steppe herbs.

Three curly carnations!

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

Maybe that’s why my thoughts moved from carnations to children, and for one minute I identified these three curly heads: dark red, snow-white and yellow – with three other heads. Maybe, everything is possible.

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

I just caught myself doing this now.

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 speak loudly, it’s embarrassing. After all, you and I are already big, and it’s not the right thing to talk loudly to you and me about trifles.

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

I knew one tiny girl, Lenka.

One day, when we, big, stiff-necked people, were sitting at the dinner table, my mother hurt the girl in some way.

The girl remained silent, but lowered her head, lowered her eyelashes and, staggering from grief, left the table.

“Let’s see,” I whispered to my mother, “what will she do?”

Poor Lenka, it turns out, decided to take a huge step: she decided to leave her parents’ house.

She went to her room and, snoring, began to get ready: she spread out her dark flannelette scarf on the bed, put in it two shirts, pantaloons, a piece of chocolate, a painted binding torn from some book, and a copper ring with a bottle emerald.

She carefully tied it all up in a bundle, sighed heavily and left the house with her head hung sadly.

She had already safely reached the gate and even went outside the gate, but then the most terrible, most insurmountable obstacle awaited her: ten steps from the gate lay a large dark dog.

The girl had enough presence of mind and self-esteem not to scream. She just 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 a single dog in the world, and she just went out the gate to get some fresh air.

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

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

– Why are you standing here, Lenochka?

- So-so, I’m standing.

– You may be afraid of dogs; don't be afraid, she doesn't bite. Go wherever you want.

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

“Well, do you think you’ll be standing here for a long time?”

- I'll wait a little longer.

- Well, what are you waiting for?

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

The mother also peeked out from behind the fence.

– Where are you going, Elena Nikolaevna?

Lenka shrugged her shoulder and turned away.

“You haven’t gone far,” the mother said sarcastically.

Lenka raised her huge eyes, filled with a whole lake of unshed 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 waiting for?

– When I’m fourteen years old.

As far as I remember, at that moment she was only six years old. She couldn’t stand eight years of waiting at the gate. It was enough for less - only 8 minutes.

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

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

Whatever the elders did was sacred in her eyes.

One day her brother, a very absent-minded young man, sitting in a chair, became so absorbed in reading some interesting book that he forgot everything in the world. He smoked one cigarette after another, threw cigarette butts anywhere and, feverishly cutting the book with the palm of his hand, was completely under the spell of the author’s witchcraft.

My five-year-old friend wandered around and around her brother for a long time, looking at him searchingly, and kept wanting to ask something, but still couldn’t bring herself to do it.

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

- Danila, and Danila?...

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

And again a painful silence... And again the delicate child timidly circled around his brother’s chair.

– Why are you hanging around here? Leave.

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

- Danila, what about Danila?

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

- Danila, and Danila... Is this how it is necessary for the chair to burn?

Touching child! How much respect for the authority of adults must this little one have in her head so that, seeing the burning tow in the chair set on fire by her absent-minded brother, she still doubts: what if her brother needs this for some higher reasons?...

A touching nanny told me about the third girl:

“What a tricky child this is, it’s impossible to imagine... I put her and her brother to bed, and before that I asked him to pray: “Pray, children!” So what do you think? Little brother is praying, and she, Lyubochka, is standing and waiting for something. “And you,” I say, “why aren’t you praying, what are you waiting for?” “But how,” he says, “will I pray when Borya is already praying? After all, God is listening to him now... I can’t interfere either, when God is busy with Borey now!”

Sweet fragrant carnation!

If it were my choice, I would only recognize children as people.

Just as a person has passed the age of childhood, a stone falls on his neck and into the water.

That’s why an adult is almost entirely a scoundrel...

“What, 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 and dedicate the Easter cake.

I immediately sank, went limp and frowned.

- You will also say: Holy Easter cake! Can I? I am small.

- But it’s not you, the bad one, who will consecrate it! The priest will consecrate. Just take it down and stand next to him!

“I can’t,” I said after thinking.

- News! Why can not you?

- The boys will beat me.

“Just think, what kind of Kazan orphan was found,” the father grimaced contemptuously. - “The boys will beat him.” You probably fool them yourself wherever you come across them.

Although my father was a great smart man, he didn’t understand anything about this matter...

The whole point is that there were two classes of boys: some were smaller and weaker than me, and I beat them. Others are bigger and healthier than me - these cut my face to pieces 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 this friendship out on me because they were at enmity with each other.

Often my friends conveyed to me a stern warning.

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

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

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

- Well, I was walking! So what?

“And Kosoy Zakharka beat Pangalov twice that week.

- For what?

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

In the end, I was the only one who suffered from this whole string of intricacies and struggles of pride.

I was walking with Kosyi Zakharka - Pangalov beat me, concluded a truce with Pangalov and went for a walk with him - Kosyi Zakharka beat me.

From this we can conclude that my friendship was valued very highly on the boy market - if fights happened because of me. The only strange thing was that they mostly beat me.

However, if I could not cope with Pangalov and Zakharka, then the smaller boys had to feel the full brunt of my bad mood.

And when some Syoma Fishman was making his way along our street, carefreely whistling a song popular in our city: “In the settlement there is a witch, the Drummer’s wife...”, I, as if out of the ground, grew up and, turning half-turn to Syoma, cockily suggested:

- Do you want it in the face?

A negative answer has never bothered me. Syoma received his portion and ran away in tears, and I cheerfully walked along my Crafts Street, looking for a new victim, until some Aptekarenok from the Gypsy Settlement caught me and beat me - for any reason: or because I was walking with Kosoy Zakharka, or because I didn’t go out with him (depending on the personal relationship between Aptekarenok and Kosyi Zakharka).

I reacted so sourly to my father’s proposal precisely because the evening of Holy Saturday attracts a lot of boys from all the streets and alleys to the fences of the churches of our city. And although I will find many boys there who will punch me in the face, there are other boys wandering in the darkness of the night, who, in turn, are not averse to soldering a blamba (local argot!) to me.

And by this 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 whole city instead of standing near the Easter cake, but for that - a ruble! Think about it.

That’s exactly what I did: I thought.

Where should I go? To the Vladimir Cathedral? Pavka and his company will be there... For the sake of the holiday, they will beat you like they have never beaten you before... In Petropavlovskaya? Vanya Sazonchik will be there, whom I punched in the face just yesterday at the Craft Ditch. To the Marine Church - it’s too fashionable there. All that remains is the Greek Church... I was thinking of going there, but without any Easter cake or eggs. Firstly, there are people there - Styopka Pangalov and company: you can rush around the entire fence, go to the market on an expedition to get 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 receive his portion for telling his mother that I stole tomatoes from a cart... The prospects in the Greek Church are wonderful, and a bundle of Easter cake, half a dozen eggs and a ring of Little Russian sausage was supposed to tie me hand and foot...

It would be possible to instruct someone you know to stand near the Easter cake, but what kind of fool would agree on such a wonderful night?

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

“I’ll fool the old man,” I thought.

- Give me a ruble and your unfortunate Easter.

For the last epithet I received a punch in the mouth, but in the cheerful bustle of putting Easter cake and eggs into a napkin it went completely unnoticed.

And it didn't hurt.

Yes, it's a little disappointing.

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

In the fence 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 little about what to do first: first “pour” Andrienka, and then go steal the boxes - or vice versa?

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

And so they did.

Andrienko, who had been beaten 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 greeted Christa Popandopoulo, who appeared from somewhere with an entire wooden ladder on his head.

“I think so to myself,” he shouted cheerfully, “now there is one hundred houses, but he doesn’t have a ladder to get to the upper floor.”

- Did you really take away the house stairs?

- I’m like this: a brownie is not a brownie - the fox would burn!

Everyone laughed merrily, and the most merrily laugher was that adult simpleton who, as it turned out later, having returned to his home on Fourth Longitudinal, could not get into the second floor, where his wife and children were impatiently waiting for him.

All this was very fun, but when, after the end of the ceremony, I returned home empty-handed, my heart ached: the whole city would break their fast with holy cakes and eggs, and only our family, like infidels, would eat simple, unholy bread.

True, I reasoned, maybe I don’t believe in God, but suddenly God still exists and He will remember all my abominations: I beat Andrienka on such a holy night, I didn’t bless the Easter cake, and I also yelled at the top of my lungs at the market, not quite 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 as it walked, I completely lost heart and almost cried.

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

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

- Truly!.. What's wrong with your Easter cake?

- Yes, I’m on the way... I wanted to eat - I pinched it off. And sausages... too.

– This is already after the consecration, I hope? – the father asked sternly.

- Y-yes... much... later.

The whole family sat down around the table and began to eat the Easter cake, and I sat on the side and thought in horror: “They are eating! Unsacred! The whole family is missing."

And he immediately lifted up a hastily composed prayer to Heaven: “Our Father! Forgive them all, they don’t know what they’re doing, but punish them better than me, just not too hard... Amen!”

I slept poorly - nightmares were choking me - and in the morning, having come to my senses, I washed myself, took the criminally earned ruble and went under the swing.

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

The ruble seemed like wealth, and while crossing Bolshaya Morskaya, I 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'll finish the sailor -

I'll marry you.

And they ended melancholy:

Aren't you ashamed, aren't you sorry,

Why did mine change to such rubbish!

The howling of the barrel organs, the piercing squeak of the clarinet, the shocking beats of a huge drum - all of this immediately pleasantly deafened me. On one side someone was dancing, on the other a dirty clown in a red wig shouted: “Monsieur, madame - go, I’ll hit you in the face!” And in the middle, an old Tatar made a game out of a sloping board, like Chinese billiards, and his thick voice occasionally cut through the whole cacophony of sounds:

“And the second one is birot,” which made all the athlete’s hearts burn more strongly.

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

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

It was already hot.

“Well, let me,” I said, licking my dry lips. - Take the ruble and give me the change.

He took the ruble, looked at me friendly and suddenly, looking around and yelling throughout the entire square: “Abdrakhman! Finally, I found you, you 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 from his gypsy heart.

I sighed and, hanging my head, walked home.

And someone woke up in my heart and said loudly: “It’s because you thought of deceiving God that you fed your family with an unholy Easter cake!”

And someone else woke up in my head and consoled me: “If God punished you, it means he spared your family. There are no two punishments for one crime.”

- Well, it’s over! – I sighed with relief, grinning. - Got even with his sides.

I was small and stupid.

Cool boy

Christmas story

The following story has 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 the story turns out to be of a completely different kind... Sentimentality, as they say, did not spend the night in it.

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

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

While buttering a piece of bread over evening tea, my mother took a bite and winced.

“The butter,” she grumbled, “is very thin...

– Will I have a Christmas tree? - Volodka inquired, noisily sipping tea from a spoon.

- I came up with something else! You won't have a Christmas tree. I don’t care about fat – I wish I could live. I go without gloves myself.

“Dexterously,” said Volodka. “Other children have as many Christmas trees as they want, but for me it’s as if I’m not a person.”

– Try to arrange it yourself - then you’ll see.

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

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

But Volodka never knew what his father would have done to him: his mother had only just reached the second half of the sentence, and he was already descending the stairs in giant leaps, changing his method of movement at some turns: riding down on the railing astride.

On the street, Volodka immediately assumed an important, serious look, as befits the owner of a multi-thousand-dollar treasure.

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

Volodka had very high hopes for this diamond: not only a Christmas tree, but perhaps even his mother could be provided for.

“I would be interested to know how many carats it contains?” - Volodka thought, pulling his huge cap firmly over his nose and sneaking between the legs of passers-by.

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

In some respects he is filthy ignorant: for example, he picked up information from somewhere that diamonds are weighed by carats, and at the same time he has absolutely no idea what province their city is in, how much it will be if you multiply 32 by 18, and why you can’t use an electric light bulb light cigarettes.

His practical wisdom was entirely contained in three sayings, which he inserted everywhere, according to the circumstances: “For the poor, getting married is a short night,” “If I wasn’t there, I need to see each other,” and “I don’t care about fat, I wish I were alive.”

The last saying was, of course, borrowed from my mother, and the first two - God knows who.

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

– Are you buying diamonds?

- Well, let’s buy it, but what?

– Wait, how many carats are in this thing?

“Yes, this is simple glass,” the jeweler said, grinning.

“You all say that,” Volodya objected gravely.

- Well, talk here some more. Get lost! The multi-carat diamond fell to the floor rather disrespectfully.

“Eh,” Volodya bent over the debunked stone, groaning. - For a poor man to marry, the night is short. Bastards! As if they couldn't lose a real diamond. Hee! Clever, nothing to say. Well... I don't care about fat - I wish I was alive. I'll go and get hired at the theater.

This idea, I must admit, had been cherished by Volodka for a long time. He had heard from someone that sometimes boys were needed to play in theaters, but he had absolutely no idea how to get started with this thing.

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

- Well, I wasn’t, I need to see you.

He approached the man tearing off the tickets and, raising his head, asked in a businesslike manner:

- Do you need boys here to play?

- Let's go, let's go. Don't hang around here.

After waiting until the usher turned away, Volodka squeezed between the entering audience and immediately found himself in front of the treasured door, behind which music was thundering.

“Your ticket, young man,” the usher stopped him.

“Listen,” said Volodka, “there’s a 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 and look for it yourself!

Volodka, with his hands in his pockets, triumphantly entered the theater and immediately, looking for an empty box, sat down in it, fixing his critical gaze on the stage.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind.

Volodka looked around: an officer with a lady.

“This box is occupied,” Volodka noted coldly.

- By me. Don't you see Razi?

The lady laughed, the officer started to go to the usher, but the lady stopped him:

- Let him sit with us, okay? He is so small and so important. Do you want to sit with us?

“Sit now,” Volodka allowed. - What do you have? Program? Come on...

The three sat like that until the end of the first episode.

- Is it already over? – Volodka was sadly surprised when the curtain fell. - For a poor man to marry, the night is short. Do you no longer need this program?

- Need not. You can take it as a souvenir of such a pleasant meeting.

Volodka inquired busily:

- How much did they pay?

- Five rubles.

“I’ll sell it for the second series,” thought Volodka, and, picking up another abandoned program on the way from a neighboring box, he cheerfully went with this product to the main exit.

When he returned home, hungry but happy, in his pocket instead of a fake diamond there were two real five-ruble notes.

The next morning, Volodka, clutching his working capital in his fist, wandered the streets for a long time, looking closely at the business life of the city and wondering with his eye what would be the best place to invest his money.

And when he stood at the huge mirrored window of the cafe, it dawned on him.

“I wasn’t there, I need to see you,” he spurred himself on, impudently entering the cafe.

- What do you want, boy? – asked the saleswoman.

- Tell me, please, didn’t a lady with gray fur and a gold handbag come here?

- No, it was not.

- Yeah. Well, that means she hasn't arrived yet. I'll wait for her.

And he sat down at the table.

“The main thing,” he thought, “is to get in here. Try to kick me out later: I’ll make such a roar!..”

He hid in a dark corner and began to wait, darting his black little eyes in all directions.

Two tables away, the old man finished reading the newspaper, folded it and started drinking coffee.

“Mister,” Volodka whispered, approaching him. - How much did you pay for the newspaper?

- Five rubles.

- Sell it for two. We read it anyway.

- Why do you need it?

- I’ll sell it. I'll make money.

- Oh... Yes, you, brother, are a hard worker. Well, here we go. Here's three rubles of change for you. Would you like a piece of rich bread?

“I’m not a beggar,” Volodka objected with dignity. “Only I’ll earn money for the Christmas tree and then the Sabbath.” I don’t care about fat – I wish I could live.

Half an hour later Volodka had five sheets of newspaper, a little crumpled, but quite decent in appearance.

The lady with gray fur and a golden purse never came. There is some reason to think that she existed only in Volodka’s heated imagination.

Having read, with great difficulty, a headline that was completely incomprehensible to him: “Lloyd George’s New Position,” Volodka, like a madman, rushed down the street, waving his newspapers and screaming at the top of his lungs:

-International news! "Lloyd George's New Position" - price 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 his 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, then how much does one cost?

- Exactly, brother, it’s hard to say, but about two rubles a piece. And what?

- So, it’s profitable to sell for five rubles?

Clever! Maybe buy it?

“I’ll buy a couple so that you can eat them yourself.”

- No, no, I’m not a beggar. I only trade...

Yes, buy it! Maybe you can give it to a boy you know.

- Ehma, I convinced you! Well, let's go to the kerenka, or something.

Volodka’s mother came home from her seamstress work late in the evening...

On the table, behind which Volodka was sleeping sweetly, with his head in his hands, stood a tiny Christmas tree, decorated with a couple of apples, one candle and three or four cardboard boxes - and all of this had a miserable appearance.

End of introductory fragment.

* * *

The given introductory fragment of the book Humorous stories (A. T. Averchenko, 2010) provided by our book partner -

Russian writer, journalist, publisher.
Born on March 15 (27), 1881 in Sevastopol.
The father is an unsuccessful small trader; due to his complete ruin, Averchenko had to finish his studies “at home, with the help of his older sisters” (from his autobiography). In 1896, at the age of fifteen, he became a clerk at a Donetsk mine; three years later he moved to Kharkov to work in the same joint-stock company.

The first story, The ability to live, was published in the Kharkov magazine "Dandelion" in 1902. The writer’s serious claim was the story The Righteous Man, published in St. Petersburg in the “Magazine for Everyone” in 1904. During the period of revolutionary events of 1905-1907, Averchenko discovered journalistic talent and enterprise, widely publishing essays, feuilletons and humoresques in short-lived periodicals and releasing several issues of his own satirical magazines “Bayonet” and “Sword”, quickly banned by censorship.

His publishing experience came in handy in 1908 in St. Petersburg, when he proposed to the editors of the withered humorous magazine "Dragonfly" (where Chekhov's first story was published back in 1880) to reorganize the publication. Having become the editorial secretary, Averchenko carried out his plan: on April 1, 1908, “Dragonfly” was replaced by the new weekly “Satyricon”. As noted in the article by Averchenko and “Satyricon” (1925) A.I. Kuprin, the magazine "immediately found itself: its channel, its tone, its brand. Readers - a sensitive middle - discovered it unusually quickly." It was precisely the focus on the middle-class reader, awakened by the revolution and keenly interested in politics and literature, that ensured Satyricon's enormous success. In addition to inveterate humorists such as Pyotr Potemkin, Sasha Cherny, Osip Dymov, Arkady Bukhov, Averchenko managed to attract L. Andreev, S.Ya. to collaborate in the magazine. Marshak, A.I. Kuprina, A.N. Tolstoy, S. Gorodetsky and many other poets and prose writers. Averchenko himself was a permanent collaborator of Satyricon and the inspirer of all magazine endeavors; The formation of a writer of the first magnitude was the satirical career of N.A. Lokhvitskaya (Teffi). In addition to the magazine, the “Satyricon Library” was published: in 1908-1913, about a hundred book titles were published with a total circulation of over two million, including the first collection of stories by Averchenko, Cheerful Oysters (1910), which went through twenty-four editions in seven years.

In 1913, the editorial board of "Satyricon" split, and "New Satyricon" (1913-1918) became the "Averchenko" magazine. A rare issue of the previous and new editions was without a story or humoresque by Averchenko; He was also published in other “thin” magazines of mass circulation, such as “Magazine for Everyone” and “Blue Magazine”. The stories were selected, further edited and published in collections: Stories (humorous). Book 1 (1910) - things published earlier, even before Satyricon, were “dumped” here; Stories (humorous). Book 2. Bunnies on the Wall (1911), Circles on the Water (1912), Stories for Convalescents (1913), About Essentially Good People (1914), Weeds (1914 - under the pseudonym Foma Opiskin), Miracles in a Sieve (1915), Gilded Pills (1916), Blue and Gold (1917). A complex type of story by Averchenko has been developed, the necessary and characteristic property of which is exaggeration, depiction of an anecdotal situation, bringing it to the point of complete absurdity, which serves as a kind of catharsis, partly rhetorical. His exaggerated anecdotes do not have even a shadow of credibility; the more successfully they are used to mystify and remove reality, necessary for the “intelligent” public (the word “intelligent” was introduced into wide use with the considerable assistance of “Satyricon”), which during the “Silver Age” tried to at least slightly weaken the stranglehold of populist ideology: sometimes Even home-grown social democracy was used to counteract it, and traces of it are clear in the Satyricons.

The Satyriconists, led by Averchenko, extremely valued their acquired reputation as an “independent magazine that trades in laughter,” and tried not to indulge base tastes, avoiding obscenity, stupid buffoonery and direct political engagement (in all these senses, Teffi was an exemplary author). The political position of the magazine was an emphasized and somewhat mocking disloyalty: a very advantageous position in the then conditions of the almost complete absence of censorship, which prohibited only direct calls for the overthrow of the government, but allowed as much as possible to ridicule any of its manifestations, including censorship itself.

Averchenko, of course, welcomed the February Revolution of 1917 with his “New Satyricon”; however, the unbridled “democratic” pandemonium that followed made him increasingly wary, and the October Bolshevik coup was perceived by Averchenko, along with the overwhelming majority of the Russian intelligentsia, as a monstrous misunderstanding. At the same time, his cheerful absurdity acquired a new pathos; it began to correspond to the madness of the newly established reality and look like “black humor.” Subsequently, a similar “grotesqueness” is found in M.A. Bulgakov, M. Zoshchenko, V. Kataev, I. Ilf, which testifies not to their apprenticeship with Averchenko, but to the uniform transformation of humor in the new era.

The era treated humor harshly: in August 1918, the “New Satyricon” was banned, and Averchenko fled to the White Guard South, where he published in the newspapers “Priazovsky Krai”, “South of Russia” and other anti-Bolshevik pamphlets and feuilletons, and in October 1920 he left to Istanbul with one of the last Wrangel transports. At the same time, new types of stories by Avrchenko were developed, which later compiled the books A Dozen Knives in the Back of the Revolution (1921) and Funny in the Terrible (1923): an anti-Soviet political joke and stylized as essays, but at the same time exaggerated in Avrchenko’s usual manner, sketches and impressions of the life of the revolutionary capital and civil war. The experience of emigrant life, which absurdly and pitifully copies the life and customs of lost Russia, is reflected in the book Notes of the Innocent. I'm in Europe (1923), where, with the help of inverse hyperbole (litotes), grotesque images of the Lilliputian world, not devoid of surreal life-likeness, appear. In the works of the last years of Averchenko's life, the children's theme manifests itself with renewed vigor - from the collection About the Little Ones - for the Big Ones (1916) to the books of stories Children (1922) and Rest on the Nettle (1924). Having tried to write a story (Pokhodtsev and two others, 1917) and a “humorous novel” (Mecenata’s Joke, 1925), Averchenko creates quasi-memoir cycles of semi-anecdotal episodes connected by more or less caricatured figures of the main characters, i.e., again, collections of stories and humoresques with a touch of personal memories.

In Istanbul, Averchenko, as always, combined creative activities with organizational ones: having created the pop theater "Nest of Migratory Birds", he made several tours around Europe. In 1922 he settled in Prague, where he managed to write and publish several books of stories and the play Playing with Death, which had the character of a comedy show.

Averchenko Arkady Timofeevich is the author of satirical stories. His works became widely known in Russia several years before the revolutionary events. And then he emigrated. The topics that he touched on in his books were relevant at the beginning of the century. What is interesting today about the works created by Arkady Timofeevich Averchenko?

short biography

The hero of this article outlined the main events of his life in one of his early stories. Arkady Timofeevich Averchenko is a writer whose works are distinguished by their light style and sharp but gentle satire. He knew how to talk about the sad side of life with irony. Proof of this is the story “Autobiography”.

Averchenko Arkady Timofeevich was born in Sevastopol. Since childhood he had poor eyesight. Due to this illness, he received his education at home. The father was a merchant and, according to the writer’s memoirs, devoted little time to his son, because he was concerned about how to go broke faster. The unlucky entrepreneur achieved his aspirations.

Averchenko Jr., meanwhile, became a victim of the pedagogical exercises of the eldest daughters of a bankrupt merchant. Which, however, benefited the future writer. At a time when his father lost his last hope for improving his family's well-being, his son was a moderately literate young man. Therefore, at the age of fifteen, he entered service in a transport office.

The beginning of a creative journey

Averchenko Arkady Timofeevich began writing stories during his years of service in stone mines. Here he also worked in a small office. The remote settlement in which Averchenko spent several years is depicted in his works. Local residents of the mining town drank like cobblers. The Donetsk steppe landscape was depressing. When the management of the mines was transferred to Kharkov, Averchenko was so inspired that he wrote a small literary work. Over the next two years, the young writer created and published only three stories.

Editorial activities

Inspired by literary creativity, Arkady Timofeevich Averchenko in 1905 got a job in a Kharkov satirical magazine. At the publishing house, he edited, proofread and drew cartoons. And he became so carried away by this activity that he was fined by the Governor General for five hundred rubles.

Despite his popularity among the residents of Kharkov, Averchenko had to leave this glorious city. He did not want to pay the fine, and did not have the opportunity. There was no point in further arguing with the governor.

"Satyricon"

In St. Petersburg, Averchenko’s career took off. The articles and notes that he published in Satyricon were extremely popular. Averchenko took an active part in the founding of this literary magazine.

Satyriconists enjoyed recognition and freedom of creativity. But only until there was almost no censorship in the country. In 1917 everything changed. Averchenko Arkady Timofeevich was forced to leave for Sevastopol, and then emigrate completely.

The author of satirical works remains one of the most mysterious figures in Russian literature today. There are disputes regarding the date of his birth and the illness that caused his death so early. And most importantly, there is no reliable information about the writer’s personal life. The blind spots appeared because he always gave interviews in a rather humorous manner. In addition, he has been on the list of banned authors for too long.

Arkady Averchenko actually did not know the exact date of his birth. And most importantly, nothing is known about the personal life of the satiriconist. However, there is information about his relationship with the then famous actress Alexandra Sadovskaya. This romance was long-lasting, but they still broke up.

He told his readers why the writer never got married in the story “Razor in Jelly.” Sadovskaya was an energetic and active lady. He is a phlegmatic and not particularly decisive person. They separated in 1915. It is noteworthy that the actress had three children, and one of them was born in 1915 - precisely when, according to Averchenko’s stories, his relationship with Alexandra Sadovskaya reached its climax. Moreover, the actress’s son was a participant in breaking the Blockade, and after the war he became a writer.

Alexandra Sadovskaya did not tell anyone about her relationship with the editor of the Satyricon magazine. But echoes of these relationships are present in Averchenko’s works. In the stories “The People Around,” “A Woman’s Tail,” and “An Ordinary Woman,” the hero takes a long time and painfully to decide whether to settle accounts with his bachelor lifestyle. And in the writer’s latest novel, “The Patron’s Joke,” a woman is depicted who, in appearance, resembles Sadovskaya: plump, dark-haired, stately.

Whether Sadovskaya’s son is the son of the famous satirist is not known for certain. This is just a guess from his biographers. However, there is information that, even while in exile, Averchenko did not cease to be interested in the fate of his former lover. And this despite the fact that Alexandra Sadovskaya was far from the only woman in the life of the satirist.

“It’s easy to understand a woman, but difficult to explain her”

This phrase is present in one of Averchenko’s works. He always had an interest in the opposite sex, but was somewhat cynical about it. In his work, the St. Petersburg bachelor affirmed the idea of ​​male freedom. In order to attract fans, he carefully monitored his appearance. This feature sometimes caused criticism from colleagues. However, one of the writer’s fans once admitted that a person with such intelligence and a sense of humor can look like anything. Appearance is not important for a witty and charming man.

Memoirs of contemporaries

“Stories for Convalescents” by Arkady Timofeevich Averchenko was published in 1910 in an incredible circulation. And therefore, the writer earned a decent living. His colleagues, native St. Petersburg residents, noted his ability to win over his interlocutor. Averchenko, having a reputation as an avid bachelor, always impressed with his impeccable appearance, despite his slightly provincial style of dress.

In order to maintain good physical condition, according to the recollections of his friends and colleagues, he lifted weights every day, while singing a part from the famous opera. By the way, the main satiriconist had no voice or hearing.

The disease, which once deprived the writer of the opportunity to receive a full education, reminded of itself in a foreign land. Arkady Timofeevich Averchenko passed away in 1925 in Prague. His health was undermined by events that foreshadowed his forced departure from Russia. The Bolsheviks deprived him of everything: friends, homeland, job, bank account.

Averchenko and the new government

The writer called the Bolshevik policy a vile betrayal of everything that happened in Russia. He did not fail to express his views in one of the essays. The new government and his creativity turned out to be incompatible. Averchenko Arkady Timofeevich wrote easily, was caustic in his assessments and amazingly observant. In his stories, he ridiculed human stupidity, greed, hypocrisy and rudeness. But the new government did not need criticism of human vices. In Bolshevik Russia, only the author of romantic-utopian works glorifying the proletarian revolution could survive.

Recent years have been fruitful for the writer. But creativity did not bring peace of mind and harmony into his life. In Prague he experienced a shortage of Russian literature. I read mostly local newspapers. Perhaps homesickness had a negative impact on the writer’s state of mind.

Averchenko died at the forty-fifth year of his life. In the eighties, the works of the anti-Soviet author Arkady Averchenko were published for the first time. Compatriots remembered the writer only half a century after his death.

And the leading author of the most popular humorous magazine in Russia, Satyricon. Since 1910, collections of funny Averchenkov stories have been published one after another, some of them, in less than a decade, manage to go through up to twenty editions. The theater opens its doors wide to his sketches and humorous plays. The liberal press listens to his speeches; the right-wing press is afraid of his sharp feuilletons written on the topic of the day. Such rapid recognition cannot be explained only by Averchenko’s literary talent. No, in Russian reality itself, 1907-1917. there were all the prerequisites for his witty, often good-natured, and sometimes “well-fed” laughter to evoke an enthusiastic reception among the broad reading public of that time.

First Russian Revolution

The first Russian revolution saw a hitherto unprecedented demand for accusatory and satirical literature. It was in 1905-1907. Dozens of magazines and weekly leaflets appear, including the Kharkov “Hammer” and “Sword”, where the leading (and sometimes the only) author is Averchenko. Both short-lived magazines were for him the only practical school of “writing.” In 1907, Averchenko, full of vague plans and hopes, sets off to “conquer” St. Petersburg.

Magazine "Satyricon"

In the capital, he had to start collaborating in minor publications, including in the inferior magazine of M. G. Kornfeld, which was losing subscribers, “Dragonfly,” which, it seems, was no longer read anywhere except in pubs.

In 1908, a group of young employees of Dragonfly decided to publish a fundamentally new magazine of humor and satire, which would unite remarkable artistic forces. The artists Re-Mi (N. Remizov), A. Radakov, A. Junger, L. Bakst, I. Bilibin, M. Dobuzhinsky, A. Benoit, D. Mitrokhin, Nathan Altman. The masters of humorous storytelling - Teffi and O. Dymov - appeared on the pages of the magazine; poets - Sasha Cherny, S. Gorodetsky, later - O. Mandelstam and young V. Mayakovsky. Among the leading writers of that time, A. Kuprin, L. Andreev, and A. Tolstoy, A. Green, who were gaining fame, were published in Satyricon. But the highlight of each issue were the works of Averchenko, who organized a cheerful carnival of masks on the pages of Satyricon. Under the pseudonym Medusa Gorgon, Falsta, Thomas Opiskin, he published editorials and topical feuilletons. The wolf (the same Averchenko) gave a humorous “trifle.” Ave (aka) wrote about theaters, opening days, musical evenings and wittily hosted the “Mailbox”. And he only signed stories with his last name.

Master of humorous storytelling

A short story bursting with humor is the genre where Averchenko reached the heights of true verbal art. Of course, he was not a deep political satirist or a “protector of the people.” His numerous magazine feuilletons are, as a rule, one-day feuilletons. But among the stories, satirical works also sparkle with rare sparks: “The History of Ivanov’s Case”, “Viktor Polikarpovich”, “Robinsons”, etc., where the fear of the average person, bribery of officials and the epidemic of espionage and political investigation are evilly ridiculed.

The life of the city is the main “hero” of Averchenko. And not just any city, but a giant city. In St. Petersburg-Petrograd, the very rhythm, the running of existence, is accelerated a hundredfold: “It seems as if the day before yesterday I met a familiar gentleman on Nevsky. And during this time, he either already managed to travel around Europe and married a widow from Irkutsk, or he shot himself for six months, or he has been in prison for the tenth month” (“Black and White”). Here, every little thing, every novelty of everyday life becomes for Averchenko a source of inexhaustible creativity and humor. With the ease of a magician, the young writer extracts witty plots; he seems ready to create stories “out of nothing” and with his rich invention reminds the employee of “Dragonfly” and “Alarm Clock” Antosha Chekhonte.

Laughing at the vulgarity, Averchenko acted in alliance with other “satiriconists” - with Sasha Cherny, Radakov, Re-Mi, Teffi. According to the staff, their “Satyricon” “tirelessly tried to purify and develop the taste of the average Russian reader, accustomed to semi-literate drinking sheets.” Here the merit of “Satyricon” and Averchenko is truly great. On the pages of the magazine, mediocrity and its cheap cliches are scathingly ridiculed (the stories “The Incurables”, “The Poet”), and a show trial of stupidity is held.

Averchenko and the “new” art

Averchenko does not act as a champion of talented, but vital, realistic art. He enthusiastically responds to the Moscow Art Theater tour in St. Petersburg: “The Art Theater was the only place where I hid my laughter in my pocket and sat in my place, shocked, compressed by that powerful stream of indestructible talent that poured into my poor, humorous soul and swirled it, like a sliver." But he ridicules, based on common sense, romanticism divorced from life (“The Mermaid”), and his laughter reaches ringing strength and causticity when he turns to “archi-fashionable,” decadent trends in contemporary literature or painting. And here again we have to return to the general line of the Satyricon. Artists, poets, and storytellers constantly target the ugly, anti-aesthetic, and sick in art as targets for satire. It is not surprising that the themes of other caricatures and parodies repeat or anticipate the plot of Averchenkov’s stories. They saw and cheerfully exposed the “innovators” who boasted of their “incomprehensibility” as ordinary charlatans. Averchenko's democracy and clarity of taste were close to the mass reader.

Political satire

With the beginning of the great crisis that engulfed old Russia - defeat on the German front, impending devastation and the specter of famine - the cheerful, sparkling laughter of Arkady Averchenko fell silent. He perceived as a personal drama the ever-deteriorating life in Petrograd, the rising cost of life (“A tangled and dark story.” “Turkey with chestnuts,” “Life”), “When there is no life with its familiar comfort, with its traditions, life is boring, life is cold.” - these words end the autobiographical story of 1917, “Life.” Averchenko, who welcomed the fall of the Romanov dynasty (feuilleton “My Conversation with Nikolai Romanov”), opposes the Bolsheviks (“The Diplomat from Smolny”, etc.). However, the new government does not want to put up with the legal opposition: by the summer of 1918, all non-Bolshevik newspapers and magazines, including the New Satyricon, were closed. Averchenko himself was threatened with arrest and delivery to the Petrograd Cheka, to the famous building on Gorokhovaya. He flees from Petrograd to Moscow, and from there, along with Teffi, Kyiv leaves. An “odyssey” of wanderings begins with a stop in Wrangel’s Crimea. In the political feuilleton “Friendly Letter to Lenin,” Averchenko summarizes his wanderings, starting with the memorable year 1918:

“You then ordered Uritsky to close my journal forever and take me to Gorokhovaya.

Forgive me, my dear, that two days before this supposed delivery to Gorokhovaya I left Petrograd without even saying goodbye to you, I got busy...

I’m not angry with you, although you chased me all over the country like a gray hare: from Kyiv to Kharkov, from Kharkov to Rostov, then Ekaterinodar. Novorossiysk, Sevastopol, Melitopol, Sevastopol again. I am writing this letter to you from Constantinople, where I arrived on personal business.”

In pamphlets and stories written in Crimea, Averchenko appeals to the white army with a call to bring closer the “hour of liquidation and reckoning” with the Bolsheviks.

In Sevastopol, Averchenko, together with Anatoly Kamensky, organizes the cabaret theater “House of the Artist”, where his plays and sketches “Kapitosha”, “Game with Death” are staged and where he himself performs as an actor and reader. Averchenko was one of the last to leave Sevastopol, in the stream of refugees. He stayed in Constantinople for a year and a half, performing in the small theater he created, “Nest of Migratory Birds.” Averchenko's last refuge is Prague.

"A dozen knives in the back of the revolution"

In 1921, a five-franc book of Averchenko’s stories, “A Dozen Knives in the Back of the Revolution,” was published in Paris. The title accurately reflected the meaning and content of the twelve stories, to which the author prefaced: “Perhaps, having read the title of this book, some compassionate reader, without understanding the matter, will immediately cackle like a chicken:
- Ahah! What a heartless, stiff-necked young man is this Arkady Averchenko!! He took it and stuck a knife in the back of the revolution, and not just one, but twelve!

The act, needless to say, is cruel, but let’s look into it lovingly and thoughtfully.

First of all, let’s ask ourselves, putting our hand on our heart:
- Do we have a revolution now?..

Is the rot, stupidity, rubbish, soot and darkness that is happening now really a revolution?

Never before had Averchenko’s writing temperament acquired such fierce strength and expressiveness. Stories "The Focus of Great Cinema". “Poem about a Hungry Man”, “Grass Trampled by a Boot”, “Ferris Wheel”, “Characters from the Life of the Worker Pantelei Grymzin”, “New Russian Fairy Tale”, “Kings at Home”, etc. - short, with rapid , a spring-like plot and the brightness of the accusatory characteristics. Where have the petty topics, good-natured humor, and well-fed laughter gone! The book ended with the question: “Why are they doing this to Russia?..” (“Fragments of a Shattered Piece”).

The book caused a rebuke in the Soviet press. Having analyzed a number of Averchenkov’s stories. N. Meshcheryakov, for example, concluded: “This is what abomination, what “gallows humor” the cheerful jokester Arkady Averchenko has now reached.” At the same time, another article appeared on the pages of Pravda, which thoroughly proved that there was something useful in Averchenko’s satire for the Soviet reader. This article, as you know, was written by V.I. Lenin. Characterizing the stories of “the White Guard Arkady Averchenko, embittered almost to the point of insanity,” Lenin noted: “It is interesting to observe how hatred that reached a boil gave rise to both remarkably strong and remarkably weak points in this highly talented book.”

"Laughter through tears"

Yes, in “A Dozen Knives...” “another Averchenko” appeared before us. Now, behind the crest of great upheavals, in new works that were written in wanderings - in Constantinople or in Prague - that “laughter through tears” that was so characteristic of Russian literature from Gogol to Chekhov began to sound, bitter satire pushed aside good-natured humor (sb . "Funny in the scary"). The departure abroad itself is painted in mournful tones, as the writer described with a bitter smile in the preface to the book “Notes of a Simple-minded” (1923):

No matter how many shortcomings Arkady Timofeevich has,” Korney Chukovsky wrote to the author of these lines on November 4, 1964, when after a long break a collection of humorous stories by Averchenko was finally published, “he is a thousand heads taller than all the current laughers.”

• Questions

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