Funny short stories. Stories about love: Galya

Instructions

Remember that one of the main criteria for success, which helps in coming up with jokes and writing funny stories, is whether a person has a sense of humor. Psychologists have long proven that an excellent sense of humor and erudition, as well as mental abilities, are directly proportional. In other words, the smarter a person is, the funnier his jokes can be. But this does not mean that all professors and candidates of science are natural comedians. It is very important that the jokes you come up with make the audience laugh, and not just their immediate author.

To write a funny story, make up or remember funny story from life and, most importantly, be able to present it “tasty”. Humor writers use a whole range of tools for this purpose. expressive means, helping to achieve the desired effect. In the first place among these means is hyperbole - exaggeration of a situation, character trait or property. If hyperbole is used skillfully in a story, it creates a simply stunning comic effect.

Also use, if appropriate and possible, the technique of litotes, which is the reverse of hyperbole, that is, it is a deliberate understatement of some properties, traits, etc.

Add to the list of means that can be used when writing a humorous story: a literal interpretation, catchphrases and other words with a figurative meaning, an unexpected comparison, listing as homogeneous incompatible objects, the use in a specific context of words with a figurative and direct meaning, etc.

To maintain the reader's intrigue until the end of the story, use a technique such as an unexpected denouement. Do not forget also about the use of various absurdities in the behavior of your heroes. Give their characters or appearance comical features, place them in unusual situations, call unusual names and give them “speaking” surnames.

Helpful advice

In fact, there are many different techniques and ways of writing funny stories, it all depends only on the imagination of the author. And, of course, from his extraordinary sense of humor.

Sources:

• come up with a funny story

Review- an artistic and journalistic genre of literature in which it provides a critical and analytical analysis of another work. The purpose of writing it may be to familiarize future readers with the plot and idea of ​​the work or to develop analytical thinking in the author.

Instructions

Tell the story by dividing story into conventional parts (exposition, plot, development, climax, ending). Indicate what means are used for injection.

Analyze the motives of behavior of the main and side characters. Indicate what mistakes you think they made.

Summarize. Express main idea work that was taken out of the work. Go through the historical times of the author and modern times, answer the question: is something similar possible in our time? How will it be different and how will it be similar?

Video on the topic

You are fond of literature and would like not only to read other people's works, but also to create your own. The closest thing to you is science fiction: you can place a hero in a fictional world, send him into space and create such a tangle of adventures that no reader will be able to tear himself away from your book. However, the form of the story also has its limitations.

Instructions

The first principle is fundamental, it also applies to fantasy in general, not just stories: do not try to outwit the existing one and leave your tormented imagination to the viewer’s judgment. You still can’t escape the world in which you revolve every day, and the same laws will apply in yours. In the end, which describes some kind of fictional world or space travel, is intended to point people to some problems in their real lives, must correlate with everyday life, with our world, in which there are no starships, no six-legged people, no stupid giants . Only then will it be art, only then will your story remain in people’s minds.

Immediately think through the plot and number of characters. A story is not a novel, which can have any number of characters, several plot lines and a time span of several decades. Develop one or two if possible storylines, pay more attention to the main character and his immediate environment. Be prepared for the fact that you will most likely be able to uncover not a complex of problems of an entire era, but several particular points, which, however, may not lose importance because of this. Remember: brevity is the sister of talent, and you can say more in one short story than in a thousand-page story.

Don't overload the reader with the details of your fantasy reality. Don't get him caught up in the twists and turns of the plot. Don't crush flat jokes. Do not imitate someone under any circumstances: in science fiction this is immediately noticeable and is not encouraged by anyone. Science fiction is a popular direction. Here you can give free rein to your imagination and do without actual knowledge of the real world. Yes and alternative reality much more inspiring to people than this one. That's why there are a lot of works coming out. Finding your “string” in this sea is very difficult. There is no need to imitate, say, Tolkien, and write about hobbits for the hundredth time. Better come up with something of your own.

Think about the syllable. Science fiction is also a thing, albeit a massive one at the moment. You need to work not only on the details of the costumes described, but also on your text. No matter how your fictional world, your individual planet, is developed, do not forget to take care of rhetorical figures, beauty and harmony in the construction of sentences, colorfulness and accuracy of epithets, valuable phraseological units and humor. Without all this, your brainchild, no matter how much soul you put into it, will not last long on Olympus of science fiction.

Video on the topic

The short story genre is a short-form work of fiction characterized by fast-paced action and a limited number of characters. Working on such a work is much more difficult than on a larger essay, since in a short story not only every detail of the plot is important, but also the form of the narrative.

Writing short humorous stories is an enjoyable activity that will help you realize your desire to engage in writing activity and hone your sense of humor. Humor helps relieve tension in difficult situations and unite people with laughter, which is very useful if the plot is complex or tragic. No matter why you need to write a humorous story (for a literature class or just because you have a great idea), this activity will allow you to use your sense of humor and find a way to express yourself.

Steps

Planning stage

Decide where the action will take place. Some people prefer to think through the plot first, but in humorous prose a lot depends on the situations. Before you start working on the plot, it will be useful for you to think about where the action will take place and what might lead to funny situations.

• Try to choose an off-the-beaten-path location. If you are not original in your choice of passage, the reader will quickly lose interest because he will feel like he has heard it before.
• Humorous stories should have as few changes of scene as possible. Aim to have only one seat, two at most.

1. Think over the plot. Plot is the most important element of any story. Plot is what happens in the story characters and how they interact.

   • A good story must have a beginning, middle and end. Within this structure there must be a source of tension, a climax (maximum point of tension) and a resolution that leads to the end.
   • Think about what might be a source of tension in your story and tailor it to the location and time you choose.
   • Think about how this source of tension might play out in your story. Perhaps the setting can heighten tension or create romance.

2. Think about the heroes. Any story must have interesting and realistic characters. In humorous stories, the reader expects to see characters who either have funny traits or find themselves in funny situations.

   Use of humor

   1. Try to see the funny in everything. When thinking over a future humorous story, collect as much funny stuff as possible from all areas of life. It could be something personal or related to politics or culture. When you come across something interesting, write it down in relation to your story (plot) and situation (that is, the topic you are working with - for example, it could be friendship) and note why you think it is funny.

      • Write down any ideas you come up with. Record everything funny that you see and hear, as well as all your thoughts regarding the plots and characters.
      • Don't be afraid to borrow stories from your personal experience or from the lives of friends.
      • A humorous story doesn't have to be entirely autobiographical, but if it contains elements of something you've experienced yourself, it will make your work special.
      • Follow events in the world. You might not write a story related to breaking news or celebrity gossip, but it might give you an idea for a story based on real events that have cultural significance.

   2. Have your own strong beliefs. IN humorous genre Honesty on the part of the author is important, and this means that you, as a writer of short humorous stories, must be honest with yourself. Before you begin, think about what you believe so you can base your observations and the text as a whole on it.

      • You can hardly tell a political joke without deciding which side you're on. In the same way, you shouldn’t remain neutral in your writing.
      • Don't be afraid that your humor will alienate people who disagree with you - just know what you think is right, as this will help you find humor in certain situations.

   3. Look for sources of inspiration. If you want to write a short humorous story, it can be helpful to look for something that will inspire you. Inspiration can have different shapes, but the most effective way is to read and watch as much comedy material as possible.

      • Read humorous prose. It can be found on the Internet, in the library, or purchased in a bookstore.
      • Watch humorous films and TV series. This isn't exactly the format you need, but it may also give you some useful ideas.
      • While reading or watching, try to analyze the humor.
      • Think about why you find something funny. Analyze how the writer or screenwriter came up with the plot and characters, and look for ways to adapt those techniques to your work.

   4. Know what the joke is. You can include jokes in your text, and to do it correctly, you need to know how comedians do it. Using jokes is optional, but if you plan to do so, it's best to learn the basic principles. The joke should be simple and the reader shouldn't have to think twice to understand it. Ideally, a joke should cause laughter the moment the reader finishes reading it.

      Don't use humor all the time. It may seem strange that not everything in a humorous story should be funny, but too much humor can ruin even a good story. You shouldn't force jokes on your readers - the story should be funny, but not oversaturated with humor.

      • Remember that a humorous story must have a realistic plot, characters and dialogue. A story cannot consist only of a sequence of jokes.
      • You can find humor in the place and time of action, in characters, in situations, or in combinations of these elements. If you try to put too much humor into one text, even a humorous one, you end up with a parody, not a story.

   Working on the text

   1. Describe the setting and characters as early as possible. In any story, you first need to explain to the reader who the story is about, where the action takes place, and give a hint of what will happen next. This also applies to humorous stories, they just still have something funny in them. Readers should not be kept in the dark for too long, otherwise they will abandon the story before finishing it.

      • The beginning of the story should describe the setting and at least one character.
      • Tell where the action takes place, but only mention the most important things. Try to extract as much useful and funny information from the scene as possible.
      • Think about how and where humor will appear. Try to at least hint at this in the beginning.
      • Remember that at least something must appear in the beginning - a source of tension, a source of humor, or something that will become important later.

   2. In the middle, events and circumstances should become more complex and funny. It's in the middle that the story usually gets muddled. Short humorous stories contain a lot of good humor or at least the conditions are created for the manifestation of humor towards the end.

   3. Write a short ending. In a short story there is little room for long reasoning and conclusions. The story should end quickly and briefly, and by the end the humor should already appear (especially if in the middle of the story you created the conditions for funny situations to arise).

      • The conflict should develop quite quickly. Humor may lie in how the conflict is resolved, but it may also simply accompany it.
      • The ending should be short. Remember that due to the format of the story, you will have to discard all unimportant details.
      • Try to keep the ending in just one paragraph. There should be humor in the last sentence so that the reader can breathe a sigh of relief.

   4. Write realistic dialogues. You already have characters that look like real people, and now you need them to communicate with each other in a way that the reader will believe you. If the reader is immersed in the story and does not think that it was all made up, the story can be considered well written.

      • Think about how people talk to each other. Read the dialogues out loud and ask yourself if people really say that.
      • Good dialogue should develop the plot. Cut out the unnecessary and don't state the obvious.
      • Dialogue should reveal the characters' personalities, including how they interact and treat other people.
      • Do not overload your explanations with unnecessary details. For example, instead of the following phrase: “What should we do?” he asked, nervously looking at the ground and avoiding her gaze, it is better to say this: “What should we do?” he asked, without taking his eyes off the ground ".

   5. Say everything you want to say in few words. This is one of the most difficult tasks in writing short stories. It may seem like what to write a long book more difficult, but a short story must accomplish the same tasks, only with a limitation in length. Everything should come together by the end, but beyond that, the story should also be filled with humor.

      • You may have big ideas, but it is important to remember that when writing a short humorous story, you are limited in the amount of text.
      • Don't leave an idea unfinished. In a story, the main idea must be fully developed.
      • To reduce the volume, you can get rid of unimportant elements and words.
      • If you have said everything you wanted to say (either explicitly or through descriptions), you can consider that the idea has been fully realized.
      • For example, you need a lot of space to describe the complexity of human relationships. A short story can highlight a specific aspect of friendship (for example, forgiveness of offensive words or actions).

   6. Focus on what's most important. You may find it difficult to write your story if you haven't read similar stories other authors. You can condense a long story or expand a short one, but the most important thing to remember is key elements any story.

      • Some writers find it easier to write long text and then shorten it. This approach guarantees completeness of thought.
      • Other writers prefer to start with a small passage and work from there. This will make it easier to write a short text, and this way you will save yourself from the torment associated with deleting some parts of the text.
      • There is no right or wrong way to write a story, so choose what suits you best.
      • Whatever method you choose, be sure to keep the narrative complete, develop characters, and use humor wisely.

   Editing

   1. Before you start editing, put your work aside. The worst thing you can do is to start proofreading a text immediately after finishing working on it. You need to take a break from the story so that you can look at it with a fresh mind. This will allow you to take your mind off the small details.

      • At least one to two weeks should pass between the completion of the text and the start of editing. Ideally, it is better to leave the text for a month.
      • Ask a close friend or relative to read your story. Ask him to give honest criticism. Say that it is very important for you to know what you did poorly and why.
      • Reading the text with a fresh mind will help you see errors that you may have missed. When you're engrossed in writing, you may feel like you've written something because it's still in your head, when in fact you might have left it out.
      • A break from text is also necessary because later it will be easier for you to throw away unnecessary things. You might really love one scene, but weeks later you might decide it wasn't as important as you thought it was.

   2. Remind yourself what your goal is. What is the purpose of your story? Have you tried to pay attention to the real situation in society? Want to analyze a certain aspect of human nature? Laugh at personal experience? Whatever your intentions, you should remind yourself of what you want to convey to the reader before you begin editing.

      • By remembering why you started writing this text, it will be easier for you to understand what you wanted to achieve. Thanks to this, you will understand whether you succeeded in achieving your goal.
      • Consider whether the tone of the story matches your intentions as well as all the events in the story.

   3. Explain anything that seems unclear. This is one of the reasons why the text needs to be put aside for a while. Once you've finished writing a story, you probably won't be able to notice things that will confuse the reader. If some time passes after this, it will be easier for you to find your mistakes.

      • Misunderstandings can be caused by the content of the story (or the lack of things in the plot) or poor transitions between scenes. Transitions should be smooth: from scene to scene, from chapter to chapter.
      • A successful transition ends the previous episode and leads the reader to the next.
      • Here is an example of a good transition between scenes: “He followed her with his gaze until she disappeared into the darkness. In the morning he began to look in that direction again, although he knew that by that moment she would have already covered half the road home.”
      • Ask a friend to read your story and tell you what parts seem unclear or confusing.

   4. Check the text for errors. Proofreading is not the same as editing. When editing, you rewrite some parts of the text and throw out what is poorly written. During proofreading, grammatical, spelling and punctuation errors are corrected.

      • Look for spelling errors, syntax errors, grammatical errors, poor sentences and parts of sentences, errors in punctuation, and weak explanations of lines.
      • Use a spell checker or ask a friend who is good at proofreading for mistakes to check your story.
      • Try reading the story out loud. Sometimes mistakes are easier to catch by ear.
   • Do not give up! If you can't think of anything, take a break and start over.
   • Don't forget that newly written stories are never flawless. The writer's task is to change texts and bring them to perfection.
   • Let a close friend read your work. You must trust this person and value his opinion. Ask him to point you to those fragments that were successful for you, And those that require improvement.

It was in 1995, the Russian gang of thieves... did not forget this year, since they remained alive... Freedom was all around in the country, who it freed from work, who it made worse for the next world, they lived richly then - only the gang of thieves.

Yes! Whoever was in power then easily saved billions for themselves.

And the Cossacks on the Don tried as hard as they could - here they resisted! To feed their families and supply the capital with meat.

My working days... then took place in the procurement office. It was summer...

So we handed over the pigs, picked up travel sausages, fresh, with the smell of garlic from pure meat, three kilograms each, not like they sell sausage now, it contains 10% meat, and the rest is unknown. At that time, for such a sausage, which contained only 10% meat, they would have given at least five years of general imprisonment and been sent to not so remote places without delay.

Due to the fact that we had worked without incident or any incidents, we stopped at the shop.

We took a liter bottle of Streletskaya from this store...

In a green city there lived a green man. He lived in a green house with a green door and green windows. He had a green wife and two green children. At night he slept in his green bed and dreamed green, green dreams.

One day the green man got up green in the morning, put on a green shirt, green trousers and green shoes. He put a green hat on his head and left the house. Green Man I got into my green car and drove along the green road. On one side of the road there was a green sea, and on the other side...

The phone call distracted me from not-so-important matters at work. Teacher kindergarten? Something happened there, they ended up being taken hostage, in short, there was an emergency. I rushed to the garden in a long 7 minutes, without even changing clothes, in a medical gown, but only had time for the “hat analysis”.

The children had already been taken out, and my neighbor was getting ready to take them home. For some reason, there is anxiety and hidden panic in the air. Exclamations and whispers: “Now SHE won’t let anyone in...”, “He died, died, and grandma, the door from the inside... clicked shut...

Story: Friend's Wife

The guy broke up with his girlfriend, he’s lonely, so he turns to his friend’s wife with a request to find him a girlfriend. She:
- Will you love her?
- Will.
- Carry it in your arms?
- Will.
- Should I give gifts?
- Will.
- Listen, maybe I’ll suit you?

Safety Engineer

As our safety engineer says, nothing pleases the eye like a second eye!

Visual acuity test

Ophthalmologist:
- Read this line!
Patient:
- I can not.
- Yes, you have...

The first time I fell in love was in 4th grade. Then the male and female schools were merged, and girls came to our 4th grade. Our school used to be a boys' school, and girls came to us. The first days of school were extraordinary: there was silence in the class, because both boys and girls did not yet know each other. However, a week later the situation changed dramatically. After everyone got to know each other, there was constant noise during lessons, and it was difficult for teachers to conduct lessons.

Her name was Galya Kapustina. She wasn't pretty, most likely...

Wax runs in a thin strip along a long curved candle. She smells like vanilla. I don't like vanilla. An angel sits on the windowsill and looks into the sky. He wants to go home, but I hold him. I keep it with my thoughts and attempts to be with the man I love. I make you fly everywhere and keep you from doing crazy things. He is tired and sighs blue pollen. I want to apologize, but this is his job... I ask the angel to find my beloved, but he refuses. And what's wrong with him, really?

The angel is crying. I didn't know this could happen...

At about 11 o'clock, for some - afternoon, for others - morning, a bell rang in my apartment. I went to open it.

Two lovely women stood on the landing. They held brochures in their hands. The one who was taller and bolder turned to me with a smile:

Hello! We came to you at the behest of the Lord God.

An unpleasant musty smell wafted from the entrance, and therefore I tried to speed up the time of communication with the envoys with a counter question:

And why did he send you to me?
-We brought you from...

Notebooks in the rain

During recess, Marik says to me:

Let's run away from class. Look how nice it is outside!

What if Aunt Dasha is late with the briefcases?

You need to throw your briefcases out the window.

We looked out the window: it was dry near the wall, but a little further away there was a huge puddle. Don't throw your briefcases into a puddle! We took the belts off the trousers, tied them together and carefully lowered the briefcases onto them. At this time the bell rang. The teacher entered. I had to sit down. The lesson has begun. The rain poured outside the window. Marik writes me a note: “Our notebooks are missing.”

I answer him: “Our notebooks are missing.”

He writes to me: “What are we going to do?”

I answer him: “What are we going to do?”

Suddenly they call me to the board.

“I can’t,” I say, “I have to go to the board.”

“How, I think, can I walk without a belt?”

Go, go, I’ll help you,” says the teacher.

You don't need to help me.

Are you sick by any chance?

“I’m sick,” I say.

How's your homework?

Good with homework.

The teacher comes up to me.

Well, show me your notebook.

What's going on with you?

You'll have to give it a two.

He opens the magazine and gives me a bad mark, and I think about my notebook, which is now getting wet in the rain.

The teacher gave me a bad grade and calmly said:

You're feeling strange today...

How I sat under my desk

As soon as the teacher turned to the board, I immediately went under the desk. When the teacher notices that I have disappeared, he will probably be terribly surprised.

I wonder what he'll think? He’ll start asking everyone where I’ve gone - it’ll be a laugh! Half the lesson has already passed, and I’m still sitting. “When,” I think, “will he see that I’m not in class?” And it’s hard to sit under the desk. My back even hurt. Try to sit like that! I coughed - no attention. I can't sit anymore. Moreover, Seryozha keeps poking me in the back with his foot. I couldn't stand it. Didn't make it to the end of the lesson. I get out and say:

Sorry, Pyotr Petrovich...

The teacher asks:

What's the matter? Do you want to go to the board?

No, excuse me, I was sitting under my desk...

Well, how comfortable is it to sit there, under the desk? You sat very quietly today. This is how it would always be in class.

When Goga started going to first grade, he knew only two letters: O - circle and T - hammer. That's all. I didn't know any other letters. And I couldn’t read.

Grandmother tried to teach him, but he immediately came up with a trick:

Now, now, grandma, I’ll wash the dishes for you.

And he immediately ran to the kitchen to wash the dishes. And the old grandmother forgot about studying and even bought him gifts for helping him with the housework. And Gogin’s parents were on a long business trip and relied on their grandmother. And of course, they didn’t know that their son still hadn’t learned to read. But Goga often washed the floor and dishes, went to buy bread, and his grandmother praised him in every possible way in letters to his parents. And I read it aloud to him. And Goga, sitting comfortably on the sofa, listened with eyes closed. “Why should I learn to read,” he reasoned, “if my grandmother reads aloud to me.” He didn't even try.

And in class he dodged as best he could.

The teacher tells him:

Read it here.

He pretended to read, and he himself told from memory what his grandmother read to him. The teacher stopped him. To the laughter of the class, he said:

If you want, I’d better close the window so it doesn’t blow.

I'm so dizzy that I'm probably going to fall...

He pretended so skillfully that one day his teacher sent him to the doctor. The doctor asked:

How is your health?

It’s bad,” Goga said.

What hurts?

Well, then go to class.

Because nothing hurts you.

How do you know?

How do you know that? - the doctor laughed. And he slightly pushed Goga towards the exit. Goga never pretended to be sick again, but continued to prevaricate.

And the efforts of my classmates came to nothing. First, Masha, an excellent student, was assigned to him.

Let’s study seriously,” Masha told him.

When? - asked Goga.

Yeah right now.

“I’ll come now,” Goga said.

And he left and did not return.

Then Grisha, an excellent student, was assigned to him. They stayed in the classroom. But as soon as Grisha opened the primer, Goga reached under the desk.

Where are you going? - asked Grisha.

“Come here,” Goga called.

And here no one will interfere with us.

Yah you! - Grisha, of course, was offended and left immediately.

No one else was assigned to him.

As time went. He was dodging.

Gogin's parents arrived and found that their son could not read a single line. The father grabbed his head, and the mother grabbed the book she had brought for her child.

Now every evening,” she said, “I will read this wonderful book aloud to my son.

Grandmother said:

Yes, yes, I also read interesting books aloud to Gogochka every evening.

But the father said:

It was really in vain that you did this. Our Gogochka has become so lazy that he cannot read a single line. I ask everyone to leave for the meeting.

And dad, along with grandmother and mom, left for a meeting. And Goga was at first worried about the meeting, and then calmed down when his mother began to read to him from a new book. And he even shook his legs with pleasure and almost spat on the carpet.

But he didn't know what kind of meeting it was! What was decided there!

So, mom read him a page and a half after the meeting. And he, swinging his legs, naively imagined that this would continue to happen. But when mom stopped really interesting place, he became worried again.

And when she handed him the book, he became even more worried.

He immediately suggested:

Let me wash the dishes for you, mommy.

And he ran to wash the dishes.

He ran to his father.

His father sternly told him never to make such requests to him again.

He thrust the book to his grandmother, but she yawned and dropped it from her hands. He picked up the book from the floor and gave it to his grandmother again. But she dropped it from her hands again. No, she had never fallen asleep so quickly in her chair before! “Is she really asleep,” thought Goga, “or was she instructed to pretend at the meeting? “Goga tugged at her, shook her, but grandma didn’t even think about waking up.

In despair, he sat down on the floor and began to look at the pictures. But from the pictures it was difficult to understand what was happening there next.

He brought the book to class. But his classmates refused to read to him. Not only that: Masha immediately left, and Grisha defiantly reached under the desk.

Goga pestered the high school student, but he flicked him on the nose and laughed.

That's what a home meeting is all about!

This is what the public means!

He soon read the entire book and many other books, but out of habit he never forgot to go buy bread, wash the floor or wash the dishes.

That's what's interesting!

Who cares what's surprising?

Tanka is not surprised by anything. She always says: “That’s not surprising!” - even if it happens surprisingly. Yesterday, in front of everyone, I jumped over such a puddle... No one could jump over, but I jumped over! Everyone was surprised except Tanya.

“Just think! So what? It’s not surprising!”

I kept trying to surprise her. But he couldn't surprise me. No matter how hard I tried.

I hit a little sparrow with a slingshot.

I learned to walk on my hands and whistle with one finger in my mouth.

She saw it all. But I wasn't surprised.

I tried my best. What didn’t I do! Climbed trees, walked without a hat in winter...

She still wasn't surprised.

And one day I just went out into the yard with a book. I sat down on the bench. And he began to read.

I didn't even see Tanka. And she says:

Marvelous! I wouldn't have thought that! He reads!

Prize

We made original costumes - no one else will have them! I will be a horse, and Vovka will be a knight. The only bad thing is that he has to ride me, and not me on him. And all because I'm a little younger. True, we agreed with him: he will not ride me all the time. He’ll ride me a little, and then he’ll get off and lead me like horses are led by the bridle. And so we went to the carnival. We came to the club in ordinary suits, and then changed clothes and went into the hall. That is, we moved in. I crawled on all fours. And Vovka was sitting on my back. True, Vovka helped me - he walked on the floor with his feet. But it was still not easy for me.

And I haven't seen anything yet. I was wearing a horse mask. I couldn’t see anything at all, although the mask had holes for the eyes. But they were somewhere on the forehead. I was crawling in the dark.

I bumped into someone's feet. I ran into a column twice. Sometimes I shook my head, then the mask slipped off and I saw the light. But for a moment. And then it's dark again. I couldn't shake my head all the time!

At least for a moment I saw the light. But Vovka saw nothing at all. And he kept asking me what was ahead. And he asked me to crawl more carefully. I crawled carefully anyway. I didn’t see anything myself. How could I know what was ahead! Someone stepped on my hand. I stopped immediately. And he refused to crawl any further. I told Vovka:

Enough. Get off.

Vovka probably enjoyed the ride and didn’t want to get off. He said it was too early. But still he got down, took me by the bridle, and I crawled on. Now it was easier for me to crawl, although I still couldn’t see anything.

I suggested taking off the masks and looking at the carnival, and then putting the masks back on. But Vovka said:

Then they will recognize us.

It must be fun here,” I said. “But we don’t see anything...

But Vovka walked in silence. He firmly decided to endure until the end. Get first prize.

My knees started to hurt. I said:

I'll sit on the floor now.

Can horses sit? - said Vovka. “You’re crazy!” You're a horse!

“I’m not a horse,” I said. “You’re a horse yourself.”

“No, you’re a horse,” Vovka answered. “Otherwise we won’t get a bonus.”

Well, so be it,” I said. “I’m tired of it.”

“Be patient,” said Vovka.

I crawled to the wall, leaned against it and sat on the floor.

You are sitting? - asked Vovka.

“I’m sitting,” I said.

“Okay,” Vovka agreed. “You can still sit on the floor.” Just don't sit on the chair. Do you understand? A horse - and suddenly on a chair!..

Music was blaring all around and people were laughing.

I asked:

Will it end soon?

Be patient,” said Vovka, “probably soon...

Vovka couldn’t stand it either. I sat down on the sofa. I sat down next to him. Then Vovka fell asleep on the sofa. And I fell asleep too.

Then they woke us up and gave us a bonus.

In the closet

Before class, I climbed into the closet. I wanted to meow from the closet. They'll think it's a cat, but it's me.

I was sitting in the closet, waiting for the lesson to start, and didn’t notice how I fell asleep.

I wake up - the class is quiet. I look through the crack - there is no one. I pushed the door, but it was closed. So, I slept through the entire lesson. Everyone went home, and they locked me in the closet.

It's stuffy in the closet and dark as night. I got scared, I started screaming:

Uh-uh! I'm in the closet! Help!

I listened - silence all around.

ABOUT! Comrades! I'm sitting in the closet!

I hear someone's steps. Someone is coming.

Who's bawling here?

I immediately recognized Aunt Nyusha, the cleaning lady.

I was delighted and shouted:

Aunt Nyusha, I'm here!

Where are you, dear?

I'm in the closet! In the closet!

How did you, my dear, get there?

I'm in the closet, grandma!

So I hear that you are in the closet. So what do you want?

I was locked in a closet. Oh, grandma!

Aunt Nyusha left. Silence again. She probably went to get the key.

Pal Palych knocked on the cabinet with his finger.

There’s no one there,” said Pal Palych.

Why not? “Yes,” said Aunt Nyusha.

Well, where is he? - said Pal Palych and knocked on the closet again.

I was afraid that everyone would leave and I would remain in the closet, and I shouted with all my might:

I'm here!

Who are you? - asked Pal Palych.

I... Tsypkin...

Why did you go there, Tsypkin?

I was locked... I didn't get in...

Hm... He's locked up! But he didn’t get in! Have you seen it? What wizards there are in our school! They don't get into the closet when they are locked in the closet. Miracles don’t happen, do you hear, Tsypkin?

How long have you been sitting there? - asked Pal Palych.

Don't know...

Find the key,” said Pal Palych. - Fast.

Aunt Nyusha went to get the key, but Pal Palych stayed behind. He sat down on a chair nearby and began to wait. I saw his face through the crack. He was very angry. He lit a cigarette and said:

Well! This is what prank leads to. Tell me honestly: why are you in the closet?

I really wanted to disappear from the closet. They open the closet, and I’m not there. It was as if I had never been there. They will ask me: “Were you in the closet?” I will say: “I wasn’t.” They will say to me: “Who was there?” I will say: “I don’t know.”

But this only happens in fairy tales! Surely tomorrow they will call mom... Your son, they will say, climbed into the closet, slept there during all classes, and all that... as if it’s comfortable for me to sleep here! My legs ache, my back hurts. One torment! What was my answer?

I was silent.

Are you alive there? - asked Pal Palych.

Well, sit tight, they'll open soon...

I am sitting...

So... - said Pal Palych. - So will you answer me why you climbed into this closet?

Who? Tsypkin? In the closet? Why?

I wanted to disappear again.

The director asked:

Tsypkin, is that you?

I sighed heavily. I simply couldn't answer anymore.

Aunt Nyusha said:

The class leader took the key away.

“Break down the door,” said the director.

I felt the door being broken down, the closet shook, and I hit my forehead painfully. I was afraid that the cabinet would fall, and I cried. I pressed my hands against the walls of the closet, and when the door gave way and opened, I continued to stand in the same way.

Well, come out,” said the director. - And explain to us what that means.

I didn't move. I was scared.

Why is he standing? - asked the director.

I was pulled out of the closet.

I was silent the whole time.

I didn't know what to say.

I just wanted to meow. But how would I put it...

Carousel in my head

By the end school year I asked my father to buy me a two-wheeler, a battery-powered submachine gun, a battery-powered airplane, a flying helicopter and a table hockey game.

I really want to have these things! - I told my father. “They are constantly spinning in my head like a carousel, and this makes my head so dizzy that it is difficult to stay on my feet.”

“Hold on,” said the father, “don’t fall and write all these things on a piece of paper for me so that I don’t forget.”

But why write, they are already firmly in my head.

Write,” said the father, “it doesn’t cost you anything.”

“In general, it’s worth nothing,” I said, “just extra hassle.” And I wrote in large letters on the entire sheet:

VILISAPET

PISTAL GUN

VIRTALET

Then I thought about it and decided to write “ice cream”, went to the window, looked at the sign opposite and added:

ICE CREAM

The father read it and said:

I'll buy you some ice cream for now, and we'll wait for the rest.

I thought he had no time now, and I asked:

Until what time?

Until better times.

Until what?

Until the next end of the school year.

Yes, because the letters in your head are spinning like a carousel, this makes you dizzy, and the words are not on their feet.

It's as if words have legs!

And they’ve bought me ice cream a hundred times already.

Betball

Today you shouldn’t go outside - today is the game... - Dad said mysteriously, looking out the window.

Which? - I asked from behind my dad’s back.

“Wetball,” he answered even more mysteriously and sat me down on the windowsill.

A-ah-ah... - I drawled.

Apparently, dad guessed that I didn’t understand anything and began to explain.

Wetball is like football, only it is played by trees, and instead of a ball, they are kicked by the wind. We say hurricane or storm, and they say wetball. Look how the birch trees rustled - it’s the poplars that are giving in to them... Wow! How they swayed - it’s clear that they missed a goal, they couldn’t hold back the wind with branches... Well, another pass! Dangerous moment...

Dad spoke just like a real commentator, and I, spellbound, looked at the street and thought that wetball would probably give 100 points ahead to any football, basketball and even handball! Although I didn’t fully understand the meaning of the latter either...

Breakfast

Actually, I love breakfast. Especially if mom cooks sausage instead of porridge or makes sandwiches with cheese. But sometimes you want something unusual. For example, today's or yesterday's. I once asked my mother for an afternoon snack, but she looked at me in surprise and offered me an afternoon snack.

No, I say, I would like today’s one. Well, or yesterday, at worst...

Yesterday there was soup for lunch... - Mom was confused. - Should I warm it up?

In general, I didn’t understand anything.

And I myself don’t really understand what these today’s and yesterday’s ones look like and what they taste like. Maybe yesterday's soup really tastes like yesterday's soup. But what then does the taste of today’s wine taste like? Probably something today. Breakfast, for example. On the other hand, why are breakfasts called that? Well, that is, according to the rules, then breakfast should be called segodnik, because they prepared it for me today and I will eat it today. Now, if I leave it for tomorrow, then it’s a completely different matter. Although no. After all, tomorrow he will already be yesterday.

So do you want porridge or soup? - she asked carefully.

How the boy Yasha ate poorly

Yasha was good to everyone, but he ate poorly. All the time with concerts. Either mom sings to him, then dad shows him tricks. And he gets along well:

- Don't want.

Mom says:

- Yasha, eat your porridge.

- Don't want.

Dad says:

- Yasha, drink juice!

- Don't want.

Mom and Dad are tired of trying to persuade him every time. And then my mother read in one scientific pedagogical book that children do not need to be persuaded to eat. You need to put a plate of porridge in front of them and wait until they get hungry and eat everything.

They set and placed plates in front of Yasha, but he didn’t eat or eat anything. He doesn’t eat cutlets, soup, or porridge. He became thin and dead, like a straw.

-Yasha, eat porridge!

- Don't want.

- Yasha, eat your soup!

- Don't want.

Previously, his pants were difficult to fasten, but now he was hanging out completely freely in them. It was possible to put another Yasha in these pants.

And then one day it blew strong wind. And Yasha was playing in the area. He was very light, and the wind blew him around the area. I rolled to the wire mesh fence. And there Yasha got stuck.

So he sat, pressed against the fence by the wind, for an hour.

Mom calls:

- Yasha, where are you? Go home and suffer with the soup.

But he doesn't come. You can't even hear him. He not only became dead, but his voice also became dead. You can't hear anything about him squeaking there.

And he squeaks:

- Mom, take me away from the fence!

Mom began to worry - where did Yasha go? Where to look for it? Yasha is neither seen nor heard.

Dad said this:

“I think our Yasha was blown away somewhere by the wind.” Come on, mom, we'll take the pot of soup out onto the porch. The wind will blow and bring the smell of soup to Yasha. He will come crawling to this delicious smell.

And so they did. They took the pot of soup out onto the porch. The wind carried the smell to Yasha.

Yasha smelled the delicious soup and immediately crawled towards the smell. Because I was cold and lost a lot of strength.

He crawled, crawled, crawled for half an hour. But I achieved my goal. He came to his mother’s kitchen and immediately ate a whole pot of soup! How can he eat three cutlets at once? How can he drink three glasses of compote?

Mom was amazed. She didn't even know whether to be happy or sad. She says:

“Yasha, if you eat like this every day, I won’t have enough food.”

Yasha reassured her:

- No, mom, I won’t eat that much every day. This is me correcting past mistakes. I will, like all children, eat well. I'll be a completely different boy.

He wanted to say “I will,” but he came up with “bubu.” Do you know why? Because his mouth was stuffed with an apple. He couldn't stop.

Since then, Yasha has been eating well.

Secrets

Do you know how to make secrets?

If you don't know how, I'll teach you.

Take a clean piece of glass and dig a hole in the ground. Place a candy wrapper in the hole, and on the candy wrapper - everything that is beautiful.

You can put a stone, a fragment of a plate, a bead, a bird feather, a ball (can be glass, can be metal).

You can use an acorn or an acorn cap.

You can use a multi-colored shred.

You can have a flower, a leaf, or even just grass.

Maybe real candy.

You can have elderberry, dry beetle.

You can even use an eraser if it’s pretty.

Yes, you can also add a button if it’s shiny.

Here you go. Did you put it in?

Now cover it all with glass and cover it with earth. And then slowly clear away the soil with your finger and look into the hole... You know how beautiful it will be! I made a secret, remembered the place and left.

The next day my “secret” was gone. Someone dug it up. Some kind of hooligan.

I made a “secret” in another place. And they dug it up again!

Then I decided to track down who was involved in this matter... And of course, this person turned out to be Pavlik Ivanov, who else?!

Then I made a “secret” again and put a note in it:

“Pavlik Ivanov, you are a fool and a hooligan.”

An hour later the note was gone. Pavlik did not look me in the eye.

Well, did you read it? - I asked Pavlik.

“I haven’t read anything,” Pavlik said. - You yourself are a fool.

Composition

One day we were told to write an essay in class on the topic “I help my mother.”

I took a pen and began to write:

"I always help my mom. I sweep the floor and wash the dishes. Sometimes I wash handkerchiefs.”

I didn't know what to write anymore. I looked at Lyuska. She scribbled in her notebook.

Then I remembered that I washed my stockings once, and wrote:

“I also wash stockings and socks.”

I didn’t really know what to write anymore. But you can’t submit such a short essay!

Then I wrote:

“I also wash T-shirts, shirts and underpants.”

I looked around. Everyone wrote and wrote. I wonder what they write about? You might think that they help their mother from morning to night!

And the lesson did not end. And I had to continue.

“I also wash dresses, mine and my mother’s, napkins and bedspreads.”

And the lesson did not end and did not end. And I wrote:

“I also like to wash curtains and tablecloths.”

And then the bell finally rang!

They gave me a high five. The teacher read my essay out loud. She said that she liked my essay the most. And that she will read it at the parent meeting.

I really asked my mother not to go to the parent meeting. I said that my throat hurts. But mom told dad to give me hot milk with honey and went to school.

The next morning at breakfast the following conversation took place.

Mom: Do you know, Syoma, it turns out that our daughter writes essays wonderfully!

Dad: It doesn't surprise me. She was always good at composing.

Mom: No, really! I’m not kidding, Vera Evstigneevna praises her. She was very pleased that our daughter loves to wash curtains and tablecloths.

Dad: What?!

Mom: Really, Syoma, this is wonderful? - Addressing me: - Why have you never admitted this to me before?

“I was shy,” I said. - I thought you wouldn’t let me.

Well, what are you talking about! - Mom said. - Don't be shy, please! Wash our curtains today. It's good that I don't have to drag them to the laundry!

I rolled my eyes. The curtains were huge. Ten times I could wrap myself in them! But it was too late to retreat.

I washed the curtains piece by piece. While I was soaping one piece, the other was completely blurry. I'm just exhausted with these pieces! Then I rinsed the bathroom curtains bit by bit. When I finished squeezing one piece, water from neighboring pieces was poured into it again.

Then I climbed onto a stool and began hanging the curtains on the rope.

Well, that was the worst! While I was pulling one piece of curtain onto the rope, another fell to the floor. And in the end, the whole curtain fell to the floor, and I fell onto it from the stool.

I became completely wet - just squeeze it out.

The curtain had to be dragged into the bathroom again. But the kitchen floor sparkled like new.

Water poured out of the curtains all day.

I put all the pots and pans we had under the curtains. Then she put the kettle, three bottles and all the cups and saucers on the floor. But water still flooded the kitchen.

Oddly enough, my mother was pleased.

You did a great job washing the curtains! - Mom said, walking around the kitchen in galoshes. - I didn’t know you were so capable! Tomorrow you will wash the tablecloth...

What is my head thinking?

If you think that I study well, you are mistaken. I study no matter. For some reason, everyone thinks that I am capable, but lazy. I don't know if I'm capable or not. But only I know for sure that I am not lazy. I spend three hours working on problems.

For example, now I’m sitting and trying with all my might to solve a problem. But she doesn’t dare. I tell my mom:

Mom, I can’t do the problem.

Don’t be lazy, says mom. - Think carefully, and everything will work out. Just think carefully!

She leaves on business. And I take my head with both hands and tell her:

Think, head. Think carefully... “Two pedestrians went from point A to point B...” Head, why don’t you think? Well, head, well, think, please! Well what is it worth to you!

A cloud floats outside the window. It is as light as feathers. There it stopped. No, it floats on.

Head, what are you thinking about?! Aren `t you ashamed!!! “Two pedestrians went from point A to point B...” Lyuska probably left too. She's already walking. If she had approached me first, I would, of course, forgive her. But will she really fit, such a mischief?!

“...From point A to point B...” No, she won’t do. On the contrary, when I go out into the yard, she will take Lena’s arm and whisper to her. Then she will say: “Len, come to me, I have something.” They will leave, and then sit on the windowsill and laugh and nibble on seeds.

“...Two pedestrians left point A to point B...” And what will I do?.. And then I’ll call Kolya, Petka and Pavlik to play lapta. What will she do? Yeah, she'll play the Three Fat Men record. Yes, so loud that Kolya, Petka and Pavlik will hear and run to ask her to let them listen. They've listened to it a hundred times, but it's not enough for them! And then Lyuska will close the window, and they will all listen to the record there.

“...From point A to point... to point...” And then I’ll take it and fire something right at her window. Glass - ding! - and will fly apart. Let him know.

So. I'm already tired of thinking. Think, don’t think, the task will not work. Just an awfully difficult task! I'll take a walk a little and start thinking again.

I closed the book and looked out the window. Lyuska was walking alone in the yard. She jumped into hopscotch. I went out into the yard and sat down on a bench. Lyuska didn’t even look at me.

Earring! Vitka! - Lyuska immediately screamed. - Let's go play lapta!

The Karmanov brothers looked out the window.

“We have a throat,” both brothers said hoarsely. - They won't let us in.

Lena! - Lyuska screamed. - Linen! Come out!

Instead of Lena, her grandmother looked out and shook her finger at Lyuska.

Pavlik! - Lyuska screamed.

No one appeared at the window.

Whoops! - Lyuska pressed herself.

Girl, why are you yelling?! - Someone's head poked out of the window. - A sick person is not allowed to rest! There is no peace for you! - And his head stuck back into the window.

Lyuska looked at me furtively and blushed like a lobster. She tugged at her pigtail. Then she took the thread off her sleeve. Then she looked at the tree and said:

Lucy, let's play hopscotch.

Come on, I said.

We jumped into hopscotch and I went home to solve my problem.

As soon as I sat down at the table, my mother came:

Well, how's the problem?

Does not work.

But you’ve been sitting over it for two hours already! This is just terrible! They give the children some puzzles!.. Well, show me your problem! Maybe I can do it? After all, I graduated from college. So. “Two pedestrians went from point A to point B...” Wait, wait, this problem is somehow familiar to me! Listen, you and your dad decided it last time! I remember perfectly!

How? - I was surprised. - Really? Oh, really, this is the forty-fifth problem, and we were given the forty-sixth.

At this point my mother became terribly angry.

It's outrageous! - Mom said. - This is unheard of! This mess! Where is your head?! What is she thinking about?!

About my friend and a little about me

Our yard was large. There were a lot of different children walking in our yard - both boys and girls. But most of all I loved Lyuska. She was my friend. She and I lived in neighboring apartments, and at school we sat at the same desk.

My friend Lyuska had straight yellow hair. And she had eyes!.. You probably won’t believe what kind of eyes she had. One eye is green, like grass. And the other one is completely yellow, with brown spots!

And my eyes were kind of gray. Well, just gray, that's all. Completely uninteresting eyes! And my hair was stupid - curly and short. And huge freckles on my nose. And in general, everything with Lyuska was better than with me. Only I was taller.

I was terribly proud of it. I really liked it when people called us “Big Lyuska” and “Little Lyuska” in the yard.

And suddenly Lyuska grew up. And it became unclear which of us is big and which is small.

And then she grew another half head.

Well, that was too much! I was offended by her, and we stopped walking together in the yard. At school I didn’t look in her direction, and she didn’t look in mine, and everyone was very surprised and said: “Between the Lyuskas.” black cat ran through,” and pestered us about why we had quarreled.

After school, I no longer went out into the yard. There was nothing for me to do there.

I wandered around the house and found no place for myself. To make things less boring, I secretly watched from behind the curtain as Lyuska played rounders with Pavlik, Petka and the Karmanov brothers.

At lunch and dinner I now asked for more. I choked and ate everything... Every day I pressed the back of my head against the wall and marked my height on it with a red pencil. But strange thing! It turned out that not only was I not growing, but, on the contrary, I had even decreased by almost two millimeters!

And then summer came, and I went to a pioneer camp.

In the camp, I kept remembering Lyuska and missing her.

And I wrote her a letter.

“Hello, Lucy!

How are you? I'm doing well. We have a lot of fun at camp. The Vorya river flows next to us. The water there is blue-blue! And there are shells on the shore. I found a very beautiful shell for you. It is round and with stripes. You'll probably find it useful. Lucy, if you want, let's be friends again. Let them now call you big and me small. I still agree. Please write me the answer.

Pioneer greetings!

Lyusya Sinitsyna"

I waited a whole week for an answer. I kept thinking: what if she doesn’t write to me! What if she never wants to be friends with me again!.. And when a letter finally arrived from Lyuska, I was so happy that my hands even shook a little.

The letter said this:

“Hello, Lucy!

Thank you, I'm doing well. Yesterday my mother bought me wonderful slippers with white piping. I also have a new big ball, you'll really get pumped! Come quickly, otherwise Pavlik and Petka are such fools, it’s no fun to be with them! Be careful not to lose the shell.

With pioneer salute!

Lyusya Kositsyna"

That day I carried Lyuska’s blue envelope with me until the evening. I told everyone what a wonderful friend I have in Moscow, Lyuska.

And when I returned from the camp, Lyuska and my parents met me at the station. She and I rushed to hug... And then it turned out that I had outgrown Lyuska by a whole head.

At the restaurant

Tricks! This is witchcraft! - I heard a phrase at the next table.

It was said by a gloomy man with a black, wet mustache and a glassy, ​​perplexed gaze.

A black wet mustache, hair that had slipped almost over his eyebrows, and a glassy gaze unshakably proved that the owner of the listed treasures was a fool.

He was a fool in the literal and clear sense of the word.

One of his interlocutors poured himself a beer, rubbed his hands and said:

Nothing more than dexterity and dexterity of hands.

This is witchcraft! - the black one stubbornly stood his ground, sucking his mustache.

The man who stood for dexterity of hands looked satirically at the third of the company and exclaimed:

Fine! Do you want me to prove that there is no witchcraft here?

Black smiled gloomily.

Are you, what’s his name...pre-sti-di-zhi-da-tor?

Probably if I say so! Well, would you like me to offer a bet of a hundred rubles that I can cut off all your buttons in five minutes and sew them on?

The black one tugged at his vest button for some reason and said:

In five minutes? Cut and sew? It's incomprehensible!

Quite understandable! Well, a hundred rubles?

No, that's a lot! I only have five.

But I don’t care... You can have less - do you want three bottles of beer?

Black winked venomously.

You'll lose, won't you?

Who am I? We'll see!..

He extended his hand and shook the thin fingers of the black man, and the third of the company spread his hands.

Well, look at your watch and make sure it’s not more than five minutes!

We were all intrigued, and even the sleepy footman, who was sent for a plate and a sharp knife, lost his dazed look.

One two Three! I'm starting!

The man who declared himself a magician took a knife, placed a plate, and cut off all the vest buttons into it.

Is it on the jacket too?

Why!.. On the back, on the sleeves, near the pockets.

Buttons clattered into the plate.

I have it on my trousers too! - the black one said, writhing with laughter. - And on the shoes!

OK OK! Well, I want to heal some of your buttons?.. Don’t worry, everything will be cut off!

Since the upper dress had lost its restraining element, it became possible to switch to the lower one.

When the last buttons on his trousers fell off, the black one gloatingly put his feet on the table.

The shoes have eight buttons. Let's see how you manage to sew them back?

The magician, no longer answering, feverishly worked with his knife.

He soon wiped his wet forehead and, placing a plate on the table on which, like unknown berries, lay multi-colored buttons and cufflinks, he grumbled:

Done, that's it!

The footman clasped his hands in admiration:

82 pieces. Clever!

Now go get me a needle and thread! - the magician commanded. - Alive, well!

Their drinking companion waved them in the air for hours and suddenly slammed the lid.

Late! Eat! Five minutes have passed. You lose!

The one to whom this applied threw the knife in annoyance.

Damn me! Lost!.. Well, there’s nothing to do!.. Man! Bring these gentlemen three bottles of beer at my expense and, by the way, tell me how much I should charge?

The black man turned pale.

Where are you going?

The magician yawned.

On the side... I want to sleep like a dog. You'll get tired in a day...

How about sewing buttons?

What? Why would I sew them on if I lost... I didn’t have time, my fault. The loss is set... All the best, gentlemen!

The black man stretched out his hands pleadingly for the departing man, and with this movement all his clothes fell off, like the shells of a hatched chicken. He shyly pulled his trousers back and blinked his eyes in horror:

God! What will happen now?

I don’t know what happened to him.

I left with the third of the company, who probably left the man without buttons.

Not knowing each other, we stood opposite each other on the street corner and laughed without words for a long time.

The controller of the tea and powder department, Fyodor Ivanovich Aquinsky, went to the bathhouse, located two miles from the doghouse he hired, which only the heated imagination of the owner could consider a “dacha”...

Entering the bathhouse, Aquinas quickly undressed and, shuddering from the soft morning chill, carefully descended along the rickety, rickety ladder to the water. The bright sun, just washed by the predawn dew, cast faint warm reflections on the quiet water, like a mirror.

Some midge, not quite awake, flew headlong over the water itself and, barely touching it with its wing, caused slow, lazy circles that quietly spread across the surface.

Aquinas tested the temperature of the water with his bare foot and pulled away as if he had been burned. He bathed every day and every day for half an hour he gathered his courage, not daring to throw himself into the cold transparent moisture...

And he had just held his breath and stretched out his arms to jump absurdly, like a frog, when splashes of water and someone’s fuss were heard in the direction of the women’s bathing area.

Aquinas stopped and looked to the left.

From behind a gray partition greened below by the water, first a woman’s hand appeared, then a head, and finally a plump, tall blonde in a blue bathing suit emerged. Her beautiful white face turned pink from the cold, and when she waved her hand strongly, like a man, a high lush breasts, slightly covered with blue material.

Aquinas, looking at her, for some reason sighed, patted his moth-eaten beard with his bare hand and said to himself:

This is our customs officer's wife taking a bath. Wow, what a suit! I read that abroad, in some Riviera, both women and men swim together... What a thing!

When, after bathing, he pulled his pantaloons onto his skinny legs, he thought:

“Okay... let's say they bathe together... but what about undressing? So, no matter how you look at it, you need two rooms. They’ll make it up too!”

Arriving at the customs office, after the usual fuss in the warehouse, he sat down on a tea box and, asking his colleague Nitkin for a cigarette, took a puff of nasty cheap smoke with pleasure...

I was swimming today, Nitkin, in the morning and I saw our member Tarasikha swim out of the women’s bath... Well, I think she’ll see me and tell her husband... Laughter! It was very close. But abroad, in the Riviera, they say that men and women swim together... Gee!.. I wish I could go!

When, half an hour after this conversation, Nitkin was drinking vodka in the archive with the clerks, he, putting a piece of ham on a slice of bread, said, without addressing anyone:

That's the thing! Aquinas today swam in the river with the wife of our member Tarasova... He says that in some Riviera everyone swims together - both men and women. He says I’ll go to the Riviera. You’ll go, of course... You need money for this, my dear!

From what! - the warehouse Nibelung intervened. - His aunt, they say, is rich; maybe I can get it from my aunt...

The secretary's steps were heard, and the entire lunch company, like mice, ran away in different directions.

And at lunch, the forwarder Portupeev, pouring borscht into a plate, said to his wife, a small, dry woman with prickly eyes and blue, sinewy hands:

That's what things are like, Petrovna, at our customs! Aquinas, so that he was empty, got ready to go to hell in the middle of nowhere to the Riviera and lured Tarasov’s wife with him... He takes money from his aunt! And Tarasikha swam with him today and told him that this is how it is done abroad... Hehe!

Ah, shameless people! - Petrovna looked down chastely. - Well, we should go farther away, otherwise, they are starting debauchery here! But where should he go with her... She’s a healthy woman, and he’s like, ugh!

The next day, when the maid of the Tarasovs, who lived not far from the Portupeevs, came to Petrovna to ask as a neighbor for irons for her mistress’s skirts, Mrs. Portupeeva’s soul could not stand it:

So, did the Riviera need ironed skirts?

Oh, what are you doing! Such words! - the maid grinned, rolling her eyes, interpreting Petrovna’s phrase in a completely unknown way.

Well, yes! I suppose you don’t know...

She paused mournfully.

Ehma, our woman’s stupidity... And what did she find in him?

The maid, who still did not understand what was going on, widened her eyes...

Yes, your Marya Grigorievna is good, there’s nothing to say! Sniffed with the warehouse rat Aquinas! Good lover! Yes, sir. They agreed to run off to some stupid Riviera for a swim, and he promised to get money from his aunt... He’ll get it, of course! He'll steal money from his aunt, that's all!

The maid clasped her hands:

Is this true, Anisya Petrovna?

I will lie to you. The whole city is buzzing about it.

Oh, terrible!

The maid headlong, forgetting about the irons, rushed home and on the threshold of the kitchen ran into the member of the customs himself, who, without a frock coat or vest, was carrying water in a glass for the canary.

What's wrong with you, Miliktrisa Kirbitevna? - Tarasov sang, narrowing his eyes and taking the maid by the plump elbow. - You fly as if you are escaping from the ghosts of your ruined fans...

Leave it! - snapped the maid, who did not stand on ceremony during these random t?te-a-t?te. Here: private dates (French).- You won’t always let me pass!.. It would be better if they looked after the lady more tightly than with their hands...

The plump, imperturbable face of the customs officer immediately acquired a completely different expression.

Mr. Tarasov belonged to that well-known type of husband who will not let a single pretty woman pass without pinching her, while at the same time yawning in the company of his wife until his jaws dislocate and trying at every opportunity to replace home inevitable screw or chemin de fer'om. By railroad (French).

But, sensing some hint of his wife’s adultery, these meek, harmless people turn into Othello with those characteristics and deviations from this type that are imposed by dusty offices and public places.

Tarasov dropped the glass of water and again grabbed the maid by the elbow, but in a different way.

What? What are you saying, you vile one? Repeat that?!!

Frightened by this unexpected transformation of a member of the customs, the maid blinked her eyes tearfully and looked down:

Master, Pavel Efimovich, here’s a cross for you, I have nothing to do with it! My business side! And as the whole city is already saying, so that nothing happens to me after... They will say - you helped! And I’m like before the Lord!..

Tarasov drank water from a jug standing on the table, and, lowering his head, said:

Tell us: with whom, how and when?..

The maid sensed the soil beneath her.

Yes, all with the same... rotten one! Fyodor Ivanovich, that last year he brought you crayfish as a gift... Here are the crayfish for you! And how cleverly they do it... Everything has already been agreed upon: he will steal money from his aunt’s chest of drawers - the aunt is rich - and they will go swimming together somewhere in the Riviera... What a shame, what a shame! We must think that they will move tomorrow with the evening train, my dears!..

* * *

Sitting at a rickety table a few steps from his doghouse, the inspector of the tea and loose leaf department, Aquinas, wrote something, tilting his head to the side and lovingly tracing out each word.

The tree under which the table stood ironically waved its dusty branches, and spots of light slid across the table, the paper and Aquinas’s gray head... His beard, as if glued on, moved in the wind, and general form seemed exhausted and lethargic.

It looked like someone had carelessly forgotten to pour mothballs into an unnecessary thing - Aquinas - and put it in a chest for the summer... The moths ate Aquinas.

He wrote:

“Dear auntie! I dare to inform you that I am in complete bewilderment... Why? I'm asking you. However, I’ll tell you how it happened... Yesterday, the inspector Sychevoy said, approaching my table, that a member of the customs, Mr. Tarasov, was asking for me, the same one to whom last year, out of zeal, I brought a hundred crayfish. I went without thinking anything, and, imagine, he told me so many strange and terrible things that I didn’t understand anything... First he says: “You,” he says, “Aquinas, it seems, are going to the Riviera?” - “No way.” , - I answer... And he screams: “So that’s how it is!!! Don't lie! “You,” he says, “have trampled on the most sacred laws of nature and marriage!” You are shaking the foundations!! You burst into a normal hearth and created a whirlpool in which - I warn you - you will choke!“ These are terrible learned people they say vaguely... Then about you, auntie... “You,” he says, “decided to rob your aunt... your old aunt, and this is shameful!” immoral!!“ How could he know that for the second month now I have not sent you the usual ten rubles for maintenance? As I already explained to you, this happened because I paid for the dacha in advance for the whole summer. Tomorrow I will try to send you two months in advance. But still, I don’t understand. It's a shame! Now I’m fired from service... And for what? Some foundations, a whirlpool... About family life What he said is completely incomprehensible! As you know, auntie, I’m not married...”

Trip to the theater

With a deft, graceful movement, Kolya Kinzhalov lifted Lizochka Milovidova onto the tram platform, and then, after her, he jumped up just as gracefully.

Kolya Kinzhalov felt particularly overwhelmed that evening. He was wearing a new tuxedo and patent leather boots, bought for an extremely fortunate occasion, and was now going with Lizochka to the theater, which promised him many impressions, wonderful and excitingly interesting.

Pardon me, pardon me,” he politely but firmly said to the audience standing in the aisle, “let the lady go forward!”

A witty joke was already brewing in his mind, which he would say when receiving a ticket from the conductor. This was supposed to make Lizochka laugh, and, amused, she would cling even more tightly to his shoulder and look at him, the strong and smart Kolya Kinzhalov, with an even softer gaze...

Gentlemen, sorry! Let the lady walk forward and, for God's sake, don't push.

The carriage suddenly stopped.

Making a frightened face, Kolya Kinzhalov staggered, spread his arms, jumped and sat on the lap of some dozing man in a fur jacket, stepping painfully on his foot.

The gentleman perked up, pushed Kolya off him and said sternly:

And so that the devils take you! Bear!!

Kolya Kinzhalov’s heart swayed and sank somewhere far, far away...

He immediately, with terrifying clarity, felt that now, after this insult, something so terrible, so inevitable and so irreparable was about to happen, after which their trip, the theater, the new tuxedo, bought at an extremely successful price, would be erased and disappeared. occasion, patent leather boots and even Lizochka Milovidova herself - his first fragrant love.

He left Lizochka’s hand, turned his face, blazing with heat, towards the gentleman in the fur jacket and in a thin, broken voice, feeling Lizochka behind him, cried out:

That is... Who is this bear?!

You are a bear, the devils would tear you to pieces! With your paw you completely flattened my leg into a cake!

“Now we have to strike,” Kolya Kinzhalov thought feverishly quickly through his head. - Fist or palm? It’s better with your palm, because it’s considered a slap in the face... It’s more noble and insulting...”

Kolya took it out right hand from his pocket and said in a trembling voice:

If you dare to be offended, then I... dare to fight!! I'll show you now.

Immediately Kolya regretted that he did not hit his opponent right away: in such cases they usually don’t talk.

You will learn from me how to be offended!!

The gentleman jumped up and advanced towards Kolya, and Kolya immediately saw that the gentleman was a whole head taller than him...

For such insults they beat... - Kolya burst out in a painful whisper.

Really? - the one who jumped up ironically drawled, unbuttoning his fur jacket. - Really? What if I now rip out your red ears and shove you under the bench like a mangy little bunny! A?!

Some of the audience, who were eagerly awaiting the start of the fight, laughed.

The workman in the tattered cap enthusiastically slapped his stomach and squealed:

Fight, brothers!

A true artist - he was interested not in the result of the work, but in its process...

The words, unforgettable for a lifetime, rang in Kolya Kinzhalov’s ears like two ringing slaps:

Red ears... mangy little bunny...

Falling into the abyss, Kolya, without knowing why, grabbed the gentleman by the hand and muttered pitifully:

No... I won’t leave this like this...

But he hunched over strangely and tiredly, yawned in Kolya’s face with offensive indifference and casually addressed the conductor:

Stables soon?

Stop now.

The gentleman shook off Colin's hand and, whistling, headed towards the exit.

Clinging to his fur jacket, Kolya followed the departing one and shouted in a crying voice, losing the remnants of his chivalry along the way:

No, you won’t leave like that... You insulted me...

Hey!! - he turned around threateningly. - What do you need?!

You swore, you insulted me, okay...

With one hand Kolya held the gentleman by the sleeve, and with the other he clumsily fumbled for his wallet in his tuxedo with stiff fingers.

Yeah... There you go! If you are a decent person!

Kolya took out the card and handed it to the gentleman in the fur jacket. The feeling of something unbearably shameful and nasty began to disappear, giving way to the consciousness that Kolya was now thinking and acting like decisive person and a gentleman with strong rules.

What kind of comedy is this?

This is not a comedy... this is my card with which I challenge you to a duel!

Na due-el?!

The gentleman, without reading, patted the card over the fingers of his left hand, crumpled the card, threw the card on the floor, and said loudly and separately:

And he went out onto the platform, then deftly jumped off the step, even before the carriage stopped.

Kolya moved after him and, leaning over the railing, shouted:

What, are you scared, you scoundrel?! That's it! Otherwise I would have broken your crooked little legs! Coward, coward, scoundrel!!

Strange: Kolya Kinzhalov seemed to do everything he was supposed to do decent person, but he returned to Lizochka with a strange and unpleasant feeling of a carved man...

And she greeted him strangely: she pulled her hand away and said nervously:

Sit down!.. There's a free seat over there.

We drove in silence.

Kolya chewed his lips, swallowed copious amounts of saliva and began casually:

He's lucky that he escaped!.. Otherwise...

Then he smiled casually:

I also had a similar case in Yalta, only with a sadder outcome for that person... I also got on the tram in the same way and, imagine...

Kolya spoke loudly on purpose so that outsiders could hear him.

I get on the tram and, imagine...

Lisa’s neighbor, a retired military man, smiled and said, turning more to Lisa:

It’s just a pity that there is no tram in Yalta!

The delighted craftsman burst out laughing. Others smiled too.

Kolya bowed his head and began to button the already buttoned coat button.

That is, not a tram... but this very... what’s his name...

Airship? - someone suggested from the corner. Lizochka laughed loudly. Kolya smiled forcefully and joked:

Well... you can also say: balloon! Yes... I’m getting into the stagecoach, and he’s going to push me! “Apologize!” - “I don’t want to.” - “Apologize!” - “I don’t want to.” - “Yeah... don’t you want to?” I grabbed him and through the locked window - fuck! - and threw it away. They then charged me twelve rubles for broken glass! Hehehehe...

Everyone was silent in embarrassment.

The fat merchant, Kolya’s neighbor, coughed and, leaning over, spat. The spit made a semicircle, landed on Kolya’s patent leather shoe and froze on it.

Lizochka saw this and noticed that Kolya saw it too. Kolya, in turn, felt that Lizochka knew the shameful state of his shoe, but instead of demanding an apology from the merchant, he slowly moved his foot under the bench and said gloomily, angrily:

And then there was such a funny incident with me...

Okay, let’s go,” Lizochka jumped up nervously. - We should go here.

* * *

Kolya Kinzhalov and Lizochka, huddled under the light rain, silently walked towards the theater.

Kolya hated the theater, and the shoe, and Liza, and himself - mainly himself.

Someone was catching up with them from behind.

The wet workman suddenly jumped out of the darkness near the electric lantern and, walking sideways to Kolya, indignantly and contemptuously pointed his finger at his cheek.

Oh you! Chicken... Right there... Why didn't you whistle in his ear? Intellectuals!

The offended artisan sighed and disappeared into the darkness.

And Kolya leaned his shoulder against the electric pole and, no longer embarrassed by Lizochka’s presence, cried silently.

Mr. Editor,” the visitor told me, looking down at his shoes in embarrassment, “I’m very ashamed that I’m bothering you.” When I think that I am taking away a minute of your precious time, my thoughts plunge into the abyss of gloomy despair... For God's sake, forgive me!

“Nothing, nothing,” I said affectionately, “don’t apologize.”

He sadly hung his head on his chest.

No, really... I know I worried you. For me, who is not used to being annoying, this is doubly difficult.

Don't be shy! I am very happy. Unfortunately, your poems didn’t fit.

Opening his mouth, he looked at me in amazement.

These poems didn't fit??!

Yes Yes. These are the same ones.

These poems??!! Beginning:

I wish she had a black curl

Scratch every morning

And so that Apollo does not get angry,

Kiss her hair...

These poems, you say, won’t work?!

Unfortunately, I must say that it is these verses that will not work, and not any others. Precisely those starting with words:

I wish she had a black lock...

Why, Mr. Editor? After all, they are good.

Agree. Personally, I had a lot of fun with them, but... they are not suitable for the magazine.

Yes, you should read them again!

But why? After all, I read.

One more time!

To please the visitor, I read it one more time and expressed admiration with one half of my face and regret with the other that the poems would not be suitable after all.

Hm... Then allow them... I'll read them! “I would like a black curl for her...”

I patiently listened to these verses again, but then said firmly and dryly:

Poems don't fit.

Marvelous. You know what: I’ll leave you the manuscript, and you can read it later. Maybe it will do.

No, why leave it?!

Right, I'll leave it. Would you like to consult someone, eh?

No need. Keep them with you.

I'm desperate that I'm taking up a second of your time, but...

Goodbye!

He left, and I took up the book I was reading before. Having unfolded it, I saw a piece of paper placed between the pages. Read:

I wish she had a black curl

Scratch every morning

And so that Apollo doesn’t get angry...

Oh, damn it! I forgot my nonsense... He will wander around again! Nikolai! Catch up with the man who was with me and give him this paper.

Nikolai rushed after the poet and successfully completed my instructions.

At five o'clock I went home for dinner.

While paying the cab driver, he put his hand in his coat pocket and felt some piece of paper there, it is not known how it got into the pocket.

He took it out, unfolded it and read:

I wish she had a black curl

Scratch every morning

And so that Apollo does not get angry,

Kiss her hair...

Wondering how this thing got into my pocket, I shrugged, threw it on the sidewalk and went to lunch.

When the maid brought in the soup, she hesitated and came up to me and said:

The chichas cook found a piece of paper with something written on it on the kitchen floor. Maybe it's necessary.

I took the piece of paper and read:

- “I wish she had a black lo...” I don’t understand anything! You say in the kitchen, on the floor? The devil knows... Some kind of nightmare!

I tore the strange poems to shreds and sat down to dinner in a foul mood.

Why are you so thoughtful? - asked the wife.

I wish I had a black lo for her... Damn you!! It's okay, honey. I'm tired.

During dessert, the doorbell rang in the hall and called me... The doorman stood in the doorway and mysteriously beckoned to me with his finger.

What's happened?

Shh... Letter to you! It was ordered to say that from one young lady... That they really hope for you and that you will satisfy their expectations!..

The doorman winked at me in a friendly manner and chuckled into his fist.

Perplexed, I took the letter and examined it. It smelled of perfume, was sealed with pink sealing wax, and when I opened it with a shrug, there was a piece of paper on which was written:

“I would like a black curl for her...”

Everything from the first to the last line.

In a rage, I tore the letter into shreds and threw it on the floor. My wife came forward from behind me and, in ominous silence, picked up several scraps of the letter.

Who is this from?

Give it up! This is so... stupid. One very annoying person.

Yes? And what is it written here?.. Hm... “Kiss”... “every morning”... “black... curl...” Scoundrel!

Pieces of the letter flew into my face. It wasn't particularly painful, but it was annoying.

Since dinner was ruined, I got dressed and, sad, went to wander the streets. On the corner, I noticed a boy near me, spinning around at my feet, trying to put something white, folded into a ball, into his coat pocket. I gave him a blow and, gnashing my teeth, ran away.

My heart was sad. After jostling around the noisy streets, I returned home and, on the threshold of the front doors, ran into a nanny who was returning from the cinema with four-year-old Volodya.

Daddy! - Volodya shouted joyfully. - My uncle held me in his arms! A stranger... gave me a chocolate... gave me a piece of paper... Give it to dad, he says. Daddy, I ate some chocolate and brought you a piece of paper.

“I’ll whip you,” I shouted angrily, tearing out of his hands a piece of paper with the familiar words: “I wish she had a black lock of hair”... “You’ll know from me!”

My wife greeted me with disdain and contempt, but still considered it necessary to tell me:

There was one gentleman here without you. He apologized very much for the trouble that he brought the manuscript home. He left it for you to read. He gave me a lot of compliments - this is a real person who knows how to appreciate what others do not value, exchanging this “that” for corrupt creatures - and asked me to put in a good word for his poems. In my opinion, well, poetry is like poetry... Ah! When he read about curls, he looked at me like that...

I shrugged and went into the office. On the table lay the author’s familiar desire to kiss someone’s hair. I also discovered this desire in the box of cigars that stood on the shelf. Then this desire was discovered inside a cold chicken, which was condemned to serve us as dinner from lunch. How this desire got there, the cook could not really explain.

The desire to scratch someone's hair was noticed by me even when I threw back the blanket in order to go to bed. I adjusted the pillow. The same wish fell out of her.

* * *

In the morning, after a sleepless night, I got up and, taking the boots that the cook had cleaned, tried to pull them on my feet, but I couldn’t, since each one contained an idiotic desire to kiss someone’s hair.

I went into the office and, sitting down at the table, wrote a letter to the publisher asking to be relieved of my editorial duties.

I had to rewrite the letter because, while folding it, I noticed familiar handwriting on the back:

“I would like a black curl for her...”

Scary man

In one transport office (cargo transportation and insurance), tradesman Matvey Petrovich Khimikov served as an assistant accountant.

It was a man outside vertically challenged, with crooked legs, pale, dirty-colored eyes and large red hands. The reddish vegetation resembled sparse moss, sparingly covering some northern rock, and his chest was so sunken that only the ribs prevented it from touching his back, pushing Khimikov’s sides with such tenacity that characterizes the ribs of all skinny people.

It was outside. And inside Khimikov had the heart of a noble killer, an aristocrat of spirit and a seducer of beautiful women. Some lost soul of a knight of former times, who earned his livelihood with a sword, and his good spirits with the love of women, came across Khimikov and settled in him, preventing the unfortunate assistant accountant from living the way thousands of other assistant accountants live.

Khimikov dreamed of strange adventures, wild horse racing in the moonlight, shooting from muskets, robbing passing stagecoaches, gloomy taverns filled with suspicious characters with hats pulled down over their eyes, and some beauties whom Khimikov invariably spared, touched by their youth and tears. At the same time, they shouted to Khimikov from another table:

One place for household items. Write a receipt, two pounds three pounds.

Khimikov wrote a receipt, but when the office hours were over, he threw a long cloak over his shoulders, pulled a wide-brimmed hat over his eyes and, looking around, walked down the street, looking like a strange, stupid-looking robber.

Under his cloak he always kept a dagger just in case, and if he had been attacked on the way, the assistant accountant would have laughed an eerie, ominous laugh and would have plunged the dagger into the scoundrel’s chest to the very hilt.

But either the scoundrels had no time for him, or the crowded streets along which he proudly walked, causing everyone’s surprise, did not contain the type of scoundrels who pounce on travelers among the darkness of the people.

Khimikov arrived home safely, and with disgust ate a two-course lunch with eternal jelly for dessert. There was an eternal, stubborn struggle between him and his hostess over dinner.

“I don’t want your soup with a bowl,” he said offendedly. “Can’t you someday give me a simple scrambled egg, a piece of spit-roasted meat and a good sip of wine?”

He had long dreamed of spit-roasted meat and scrambled eggs, but the clueless housewife did not understand his ideals, making excuses for the lack of nutritional value of such a menu.

He wanted to do this.

Eat the meat with your hat pulled down over your eyes, wash it down with a good sip of wine, wrap yourself in a cloak and lie down on the carpet by the bed to get some sleep before your evening adventures.

But, since there was no spit-roasted meat and so on, a spectacular rest in a raincoat on the floor did not make sense, and the assistant accountant went on evening adventures without this.

The evening adventures consisted of Khimikov taking his eternal dagger, wrapping himself in a cloak and walking, looking around, to the Black Swan tavern.

He chose this tavern because he really liked its name “Black Swan”, because the scum of the city’s population gathered there and that the low, smoky rooms of the inn were conducive to various kinds dreams of adventure.

Khimikov made his way to the far corner, sat down, draping himself in his cloak, and tried to sparkle his eyes from under his hat pulled down over them.

And he always looked around mysteriously, although no one was watching him and few were interested in this small figure in a theatrical black cloak and hat, with dull eyes peeping out from under it, which could not sparkle, despite the heroic efforts of their owner.

Having sat down, the assistant accountant clapped his hands and shouted in a broken voice:

Hey boy, call the innkeeper to see me! What does he have there?

“They are not there, sir,” the servant usually said. - They rarely come. What do you want? I can submit.

Give me some beer, just not in a bottle, but pour it into some kind of jug. Yes, order the cook there to fry a good scrambled egg. Ha ha! - he laughed roughly, slapping his pocket. - Old Matvey wants to go for a walk today: he did a good deal today.

The servant looked at him in amazement and then, returning to his former apathetic appearance, went to order scrambled eggs.

Khimikov’s “deal” was that he sold the wooden oil he had on commission to one of the merchant clients, but from the outside it seemed that the three rubles Khimikov earned were sprinkled with the blood of a robbed night traveler.

When they brought scrambled eggs and beer, he took the jug, looked it up to the light and, with the air of a chronic drunkard, said:

Good beer! There is something for Matvey to wet his throat with.

And at this time, he, small, thin, forgot about the office, “home places” and receipts, sitting under his huge hat and destroying a good scrambled egg, in full confidence that everyone was looking at him with some fear and superstitious reverence.

Around him, the city mob was noisy and swearing, he thought: “It would be nice to recruit a gang of about forty people and bring terror to the entire neighborhood. Who, they will fearfully ask, is in charge? You do not know? Old Matvey. This is a scary man! Then steal some princess..."

He fumbled under his cloak for a dagger that was located between the folds and, having found it, convulsively squeezed the hilt.

Having finished his scrambled eggs and beer, he paid, casually tossed a tip to the servant, and, draping himself in a cloak, left.

“It would be nice,” he thought, “if there was a horse tied at the door of the inn. I would jump up and gallop away."

And the assistant accountant felt such a surge of courage that he could commit robbery, murder, theft, but certainly from a rich person (“I would still give this money to those in need”).

If he came across a beggar along the way, Khimikov took a silver coin from his pocket (despite the poverty of his budget, he would never take out a copper coin) and, throwing it with a lordly gesture, said:

Here... take it for yourself.

At the same time, he threw the coin on the ground, which caused great trouble for the beggar and caused a tedious search, but Khimikov understood charity only with the help of this spectacular gesture, never giving a coin into the hand of a beggar.

The assistant accountant had only one friend - the landlady's son Motka, in whose eyes horror and admiration for the assistant accountant froze once and for all.

He was nine years old. Every evening he looked forward to the moment when Khimikov, returning from the tavern, would knock on his mother’s door and shout:

Motya! Do you want to come to me?

Freezing with fear and curiosity, Motka timidly entered Khimikov’s room and sat down in the corner.

Khimikov walked thoughtfully from corner to corner, without taking off his cloak, and finally stopped in front of Motka.

Well, namesake... It was a hot day today.

Was? - asked Motka, trembling all over.

Khimikov laughed ominously, shook his head and, taking a dagger out of his pocket, pretended to wipe the blood off it.

Yes, brother... One of the merchants was pinched a little. There was not much gold, but silk fabrics and brocades were a miracle.

What did you do with the merchant? - pale Motka asked quietly.

Merchant? Ha ha! If he had not resisted, I would probably have let him go. But this scoundrel killed the best of my fellows - Laurendo, and I, ha ha, got even with him!

Did you shout? - Motka asked in a dying whisper, feeling the hair quietly moving on his head.

Didn't tut. No, what is this... This is fun compared to the case of the old woman Montmorency.

What... old woman? - Motka asked, clinging to the stove.

There was, brother, such an old woman... My fellows got wind that she had money. Okay, sir... We poisoned her dog, one of my gang got this witch's old servant drunk and opened the doors for us... But somehow the police sniffers got wind of it. Ha ha! That was some fun! I killed four... Well, I got it! For two weeks my fellows looked after me in the ravine.

Motka looked at the assistant accountant with eyes full of love and fearful admiration, and whispered with dry lips:

How many people... did you actually kill?

Khimikov thought:

Man... Twenty - twenty-five. I don't remember, really. And what?

I feel sorry for you that you will be boiling in a cauldron in the next world...

Khimikov winked and beat his thin thighs with his fists.

It’s okay, brother, but here, in this world, I’ll have enough fun... and then I can repent before death. I will give all my fortune to the monasteries and go barefoot to Jerusalem...

Khimikov wrapped himself in a cloak and walked gloomily from corner to corner.

Show me your dagger again,” Motka asked.

Here he is, old friend, - Khimikov perked up, taking out a dagger from under his cloak. - I often quench his thirst. Ha ha! He loves fresh meat... Ha ha!

And he, ominously twirling the dagger, looked around, throwing the end of his cloak over his shoulder and pointing with a thin finger at the rust that appeared on the blade from dampness and sweaty hands.

Then Khimikov said:

Well, Motya, I’m tired after all these troubles. I'll go to bed.

And, wrapped in a cloak, he lay down, small, pale, on the carpet by the bed.

Why do you prefer gender? - Motka asked respectfully.

Uh, brother! You have to get used to it... It's still good. After nights in swamps or on tree branches, this is a royal bed.

And he, without waiting for Motka to leave, fell asleep in a heavy sleep.

Motka sat next to him for a long time, looking with love and fear into the face sparingly covered with red hair.

And it seemed doubly terrible to him that all of Khimikov was so small, pathetic and insignificant. And that under this insignificance lies a dangerous killer, adventurer and dice gambler.

Having looked at the face of the sleeping accountant's assistant, Motka carefully covered him with a blanket over his cloak, turned off the lamp and, on tiptoe, trying not to disturb the killer's heavy sleep, went to his room.

The assistant accountant of the Chemists, a noble adventurer, knight and adventurer, with all his soul attached to the things that have passed into eternity - smoky taverns, attacks on stagecoaches and masterful blows of a dagger - fell in love.

His ideal - a pale, slender countess sitting on a couch in an old manor house - was embodied in a girl without specific occupations - Polina Kozlova, if sometimes pale, it was not from noble origin, but from the sleepless nights she spent not entirely in accordance with code of ordinary virtue.

One day, when the wildly picturesque Khimikov was striding with long, decisive steps along the street, wrapped in his eternal cloak and covered with a monstrous hat, he heard a conversation ahead of him:

It’s even very tactless to pester unknown girls.

Madam, Marusya... I am sure that such a charming creature can only be called Marusya... Marusya! Do not add any chord to the dissonance of our fleeting meeting. Let me guide you. Where do you live?

Look what you want. I will never tell you, even if you walked me all the way to the house on Moskovskaya Street, number seven... Oh, what did I say! It seems I let it slip... No, forget, forget what I told you!

Khimikov considered eavesdropping the most ignoble thing, but when this conversation reached him, his courageous heart was filled with compassion for the persecuted and furious indignation against the vile persecutor.

Your Majesty! - he thundered, approaching the Don Juan and looking up at him. - Leave this defenseless girl, or you will have to deal with me!

The defenseless girl looked with some displeasure at the courageous Khimikov, and her gentleman angrily pulled out his hand and shouted:

Who the hell are you?

Scoundrel! I am the one whom Providence found necessary to send at a critical moment for this creature. Defend yourself!

Khimikov's opponent, a huge, fat blond man, clenched his fist, but the sight of little Khimikov, writhing madly at his feet with a dagger in his hand, forced him to retreat.

“The devil k-knows what it is,” he muttered, bouncing away from the pale, thin hand, which was furiously drawing intricate circles and figure eights around him with a dagger. “Devil knows... I absolutely don’t understand...” the blond mumbled dumbfounded and began to quickly walk away from Khimikov, who remained near the girl.

“Madam,” said Khimikov, taking off his strange black hat and lowering it to the ground. “I apologize if your ear was offended by a few harsh words that necessity forced me to utter.” Ha ha! - Khimikov laughed ominously. - The guy is obviously afraid of the smell of blood and cleverly avoided a little bloodletting... Ha ha ha!

Who are you? - asked the amazed Polina Kozlova, examining Khimikov.

Khimikov was embarrassed to say that his last name was Khimikov and that he served as an assistant accountant in a transport office. He lowered his head, threw the end of his cloak over his shoulder and, as if shaking something off himself, said:

Someday... when it is possible, a man with a black beard will appear to you, show you this dagger and tell you who I am... For now... madam, do not forget that this city is terrible. It is fraught with dangers completely unknown to you, and you need to have my bestial cunning and dexterity to avoid them. But you... How do your elderly parents risk letting you go on this terrible night... Would you find it convenient to deign to give me gracious permission to offer to accompany you to your home.

Well, you can,” Polina Kozlova grinned.

Khimikov took the girl by the arm and, looking fiercely at the oncoming passers-by, carefully led her down the street. After a hundred steps, he already learned that his companion had no parents and that her last name was Polina Kozlova.

So young and, alas, defenseless,” Khimikov whispered, touched by her story. - Grief over the loss of your venerable parents is mixed in my soul with the sweet hope of being useful to you in some way and taking upon my chest the blows of evil intrigue and the machinations of the enemy aimed at you...

“Take me for a ride in the car,” the girl said, narrowing her eyes at Khimikov.

According to his convictions, Khimikov hated cars, preferring the good old stagecoaches to them. But the desire of a woman was law for him.

Madam, your hand...

They drove for a long time, and then the girl got hungry and said that she wanted to go to a restaurant.

Khimikov didn’t say a word against her, but he decided to himself that if he didn’t have enough money in the restaurant, he would go out into the hallway and stab himself with a dagger there. It’s better to let a fatal secret hang over him than a prosaic refusal of dinner. In the restaurant office, the girl straightened her disheveled hair, walked up to Khimikov and, sitting on his thin, unsteady knees, kissed the assistant accountant on the cheek.

Khimikov’s heart fluttered and sank.

Court... Polina. Wow... you... fell in love with me! Oh, let this unexpectedly flared passion be the guarantee of my desire to devote my life to you from now on.

Give me a cigarette,” Polina asked, smoothing his thin red hair.

Graceful minx! Frolic orphan! - Khimikov exclaimed in ecstasy and pressed the girl to his chest.

After dinner, Khimikov escorted Polina home, at the entrance to her house he took off his hat, bowed low and respectfully and, kissing her hand, left, wrapped in his long cloak.

The confused girl looked after him in surprise, smiled and said:

Today I sleep alone.

It was the rarest and funny case in her life.

Khimikov lived a strange life.

The transport office, the Black Swan tavern, a good jug of beer - all of this was swallowed up by the young poetic feeling that burned in his skinny chest.

He often met with Polina and, knightly polite, slavishly fulfilled all the whims of the girl, who was very fond of cars and theatrical performances. The sinister adventurer's debts grew with dizzying speed, and a series of prosaic troubles befell his poor head. People in the office began to look askance at his carelessness in writing receipts and his constant requests for salary in advance. The landlady stopped receiving rent for the apartment and hardly fed Khimikov, who was withered from passion and deprivation.

And Khimikov, hungry, deprived of even a “good scrambled egg” at the Black Swan tavern, was looking forward to the evening when he could throw on a cloak and, taking a dagger and a mask (the mask appeared very recently as an attribute of a love affair), go on a date .

Polina Kozlova was a bad girl.

Khimikov was cheated on - he did not notice it. They laughed at Khimikov - he considered this an original expression of love, Khimikov was ruined - he was too poetic to pay attention to this...

And the crash came.

Like any adventurer, Khimikov valued his weapon most of all, and Khimikov treasured the dagger like the apple of his eye. But one day Polina said:

Bring some sweets tomorrow.

And the ruined Khimikov the next day, without hesitation, wrapped the dagger in paper and took it to the antique dealer.

What is this? - asked the surprised merchant.

Dagger. This is my old friend, who has served me more than one service,” Khimikov said sadly, wrapping his cloak around him.

“This is a simple knife for cutting books, not a dagger,” the merchant smiled. - What makes you think that he is a dagger? You can buy these for seven hryvnia anywhere. Even newer ones, not rusty.

The amazed Khimikov took his dagger and wandered home. The thought flashed through his head that today he might not go to Polina, but tomorrow he would say that a strange adventure had happened to him: some unknown people They kidnapped him, took him away in a carriage and kept him for a day in a mysterious dungeon.

And the next day, since the issue of candy was not resolved, Khimikov decided to rob someone on the street.

He decided this without any hesitation or doubt. He considered robbing a rich man not a shameful thing at all, firmly standing in the point of view of the knights of past centuries, who were not particularly picky about complex issues morality.

He immediately decided that if he robbed a large amount, give the excess to the poor.

Wrapped in a cloak, with a dagger in his hand, Khimikov that same evening went to the streets of the city, vigilantly looking around.

Everything was as it should be. The wind tore the hem of his cloak, the moon was hiding behind the clouds, and there were few passers-by. Khimikov hid in some cavity in the wall and began to wait.

Loud footsteps along the deserted street announced to the accountant's assistant that the prey was approaching. A gentleman appeared in the distance, dressed in an expensive coat and a shiny top hat. Khimikov convulsively clenched his dagger, slipped out of the ambush and appeared - small, in a huge hat, like a monstrous mushroom - in front of a passerby.

Ha ha ha! - he laughed with a terrible laugh. - Is there any money?

Poor fellow! - the gentleman said compassionately, pausing. - On such a cold night, begging for alms... It's terrible. You're wearing two kopecks, go warm up!

Khimikov clutched the two-kopeck note thrust into his hand and, feverishly chattering his teeth, began to run down the street. His head was spinning, and the robbery that ended so strangely filled his heart with resentment. Like a black, strange bird, he rushed down the street, and the wind, like wings, flapped the hem of his cloak and blew through the amazing assistant accountant.

Khimikov lay on his wretched bed, looking with a fixed gaze at the ceiling.

The inconsolable owner's son Motka sat next to him and, with tears on his dirty face, stroked Khimikov's pale hand.

Yes... brother... Motya,” Khimikov winked at him, “I’ve sinned a lot in my life, and now I’m paying back.”

“Mom said that maybe you won’t die,” Motka tried to make the terrible accountant happy.

No, brother... It's been lived, robbed, enough blood has been released. Motya, I had no friends except you. Do you want me to give you what is dearest to me - my dagger?

For a minute, Motka’s eyes sparkled with joy.

Thank you, Matvey Petrovich! I, too, when I grow up, will kill with it.

Ha ha ha! - Khimikov laughed ominously. - Here he is, my heir and successor of my work! Motya, wait until three people in raincoats come to you, with rifles in their hands, then start acting. Let the blood of the strong flow in defense of the weak.

He broke off the conversation and fell silent.

For some time now, Khimikov had been puzzling over the resolution of one question: what last dying words to say to him: there were many beautiful phrases, but Khimikov did not like all of them.

And he thought painfully.

The doctor and Motka’s mother bent over Khimikov.

Who is he? - the doctor asked in a whisper, looking in surprise at the huge hat and cloak hanging in the corner.

Doctor,” Khimikov said with difficulty, opening his eyes, “you will not be able to penetrate the secret of my birth.” Ha ha ha!

He grabbed his chest and croaked:

The souls of those I have ruined crowd before my eyes in a long line... But I will give an answer for them only before the throne of the Most High... Sleep, Red Matthew!

People of four dimensions

They're amazingly funny! - she said, smiling dreamily and absent-mindedly.

Not knowing whether a woman praises or blames in such cases, I answered, trying to be vague:

Absolutely right. - This can often be stated without the risk of making a mistake.

Sometimes they make me laugh.

“That’s nice of them,” I noted cautiously, trying to understand her.

You know, he is a real Othello.

Since until now we were talking about the old doctor, their family physician, I, surprised by this strange property of him, objected:

You would never have thought this!

She sighed.

Yes. And it’s terrible to realize that you are in the complete power of such a person. Sometimes I regret marrying him. I'm sure his head is still hurt.

Oh, you're talking about your husband! But he...

She looked at me in surprise.

It's not the husband's head that's hurt. He broke it himself.

Fell, or what?

Not really. He broke it for this young man.

Because last time We had a conversation about young people about three weeks ago, then “this young man,” if she did not call the doctor that way, was obviously a completely unknown person to me.

I looked at her helplessly and said:

Until you explain the reasons for the misfortune with the “young man,” the fate of this stranger will be foreign to my heart.

Oh, I forgot that you don’t know this case! About three weeks ago, we were walking with him from among the guests, you know, through the park. And he sat on the bench until we came across a strip of electric light. So pale and black-haired. These men can be surprisingly reckless at times. I was wearing a big black hat then, which suited me so well, and I was very flushed from walking. This madman looked at me carefully and suddenly, getting up from the bench, came up to us. You understand - I'm with my husband. This is madness. So young. And my husband, as I already told you, is a real Othello. She comes up and takes her husband by the sleeve. “Let me have a smoke,” he says. Alexander pulls his hand away, bends down to the ground faster than lightning and hits him on the head with some kind of brick - fuck! And the young man, like this very... sheaf, falls. Horror!

Was he really jealous of him for no reason?!

She shrugged.

I'm telling you, they are amazingly funny!

After saying goodbye to her, I left the house and ran into my husband on the street corner.

Bah! What an unexpected meeting! Why don't you even show your eyes?

“And I won’t show myself,” I joked. - They say you break your heads with bricks like roasted nuts.

He laughed.

Did your wife tell you? It’s good that a brick came to my hand. And then, think about it, I had fifteen hundred thousand dollars on me, my wife was wearing diamond earrings...

I flinched away from him.

But... what does earrings have to do with it?

After all, he could eat them with meat. The square is empty and the wilderness is desperate.

Do you think it's a robber?

No, attaché of the French embassy! A man approaches in a remote place, asks for a light and grabs my hand - it seems clear.

He fell silent offended.

So you... bricked it?

On the head. He didn’t even squeak... We understand these matters too.

You won't be able to keep up! - a voice came from behind me.

I looked back and saw my friend, whom I had not seen for three weeks.

Looking at him, I clasped my hands and couldn’t help but scream.

God! What happened to you?!

I just left the hospital today, I’m still weak.

But... for God's sake! What were you sick with?

He smiled faintly and asked in turn:

Tell me, haven’t you heard: in the last three weeks there have been no escapes from the insane asylum in our city?

Don't know. And what?

Well... were there any cases of an escaped madman attacking peaceful passers-by?

You shouldn’t be interested in such nonsense!.. Tell us better about yourself.

What! I was three weeks between life and death. Still have a scar.

I grabbed his hand and exclaimed with unexpected interest:

Are you talking about a scar? Three weeks ago? Weren't you sitting in the park then?

Well, yes. You probably read it in the newspaper? This is the most ridiculous incident of my life... I was sitting one warm, quiet evening in the park. Laziness, languor. I want to light a cigarette, damn it! There are no matches... Well, I think it will pass kind soul, - I’ll ask. Just ten minutes later a gentleman and a lady pass by. I didn’t look at her - a mug, it seems. But he smoked. I come up and touch him on the sleeve in the most polite way: “Let me light a cigarette.” And what do you think! This possessed man bends down to the ground, picks up something - and I, with a broken head, without memory, fly to the ground. Just think that this unfortunate defenseless woman walked with him, probably not even knowing what kind of bird it was.

I looked into his eyes and asked sternly:

Do you...really think you were dealing with a madman?

I am sure about that.

An hour and a half later, I was feverishly rummaging through old issues of the local newspaper and finally found what I needed. It was a small note in the chronicle of incidents: “Under the fumes of alcohol. Yesterday morning, watchmen cleaning the square noticed an unknown young man, who, according to his passport, turned out to be a nobleman, who, being very intoxicated, fell on the path of the square so unsuccessfully that he broke his head on a nearby brick. The grief of the unfortunate parents of this lost young man is beyond description..."

I am now standing on the cathedral bell tower, looking at the groups moving along the street gray people, reminiscent of ants that converge, diverge, collide and again, without any purpose or plan, crawl away in all directions...

And I laugh, I laugh.

The story of one painting

From exhibition meetings

Until now, during random meetings with modernists, I looked at them with some fear: it seemed to me that such a modernist artist, in the middle of a conversation, would either unexpectedly bite me on the shoulder or ask for a loan.

But this strange feeling disappeared after the first close acquaintance with such an artist.

He turned out to be a man of an extremely peaceful character and a gentleman, although with an admixture of shameless lies.

I was then at one of the art exhibitions, the season of which is now in full swing, and spent the second half hour contemplating the strange picture hanging in front of me. This picture did not arouse a cheerful mood in me... There was a yellow stripe running across the entire canvas, on one side of which there were small black squiggles. The same squiggles, but in purple color, pleasantly diversified the tone at the bottom of the picture. The sun hung to the side, which would have been a very good astronomical luminary if it had not been one-sided and, moreover, blue.

The first assumption that flashed through me when looking at this picture was that this was a sea view. But the black squiggles at the top destroyed this assumption in the most merciless way.

“Eh! - I said to myself. “The crafty artist simply depicted the inside of a Norman hut...”

But the one-sided sun with its entire appearance and position denied this simple version.

I tried to look at the picture with my fist: the impression was concentrated, and the amazing picture became even more incomprehensible...

I resorted to a trick - I closed my eyes tightly and then, shaking my head, immediately opened them wide...

The one-sided sun still bubbled with its convex side and the squiggles hung with weary persistence - each in its place.

An unfamiliar young gentleman with a greenish face and such a wide tie had been hovering around me for about ten minutes now that I had to politely avoid him all the time. The young gentleman looked into my face, twitched his shoulder and generally expressed great pleasure at everything around him.

Damn it! - I grumbled, finally losing patience. - I would like to know the author of this picture... I would tell him...

The young master nodded his head happily.

Is it true? Do you like the picture?! I'm very glad that you can't tear yourself away from it. Others were cursing, and you... Let me shake your hand.

Who are you? - I asked abruptly.

Yes... Tell me,” I turned to him sternly. - What it is?

This? My God... "Beethoven's Fourteenth Violin Sonata, opus eighteen." The simplest sonata.

I carefully examined the picture again.

Eighteenth, you say? - I asked gloomily.

Yes, sir, the eighteenth.

Are you confused? Is this not Beethoven's Fifth Sonata, opus twenty-four?

He turned pale.

N-no... As far as I remember, this is the Fourteenth Sonata.

I looked at his green face in disbelief.

Explain to me... What changes would you make if you had to redo this opus two times higher?.. Or even pull the Sixth Sonata... Eh? Why should you and I, young man, be ashamed? How do you think?

He became worried.

This is not possible... You introduce a mathematical principle into the mood... This is a product of my personal experience! Approach this as you would the Fourteenth Sonata.

I smiled sadly.

Unfortunately, it is difficult for me to fulfill your proposal... Oh, very difficult! I won't see the fourteenth sonata.

Why?!!

Because there are only ten of them. Unfortunately, there are only ten Beethoven violin sonatas. The old man was a lazy fellow.

Why are you pestering me?! This means that this piece was played not on the violin, but on the cello!.. That's all! On high notes... I was worried.

It’s as if the old man set out to plot intrigues against you... There are only six cello sonatas he has concocted.

My interlocutor, dejected, stood with his head down and chipped away pieces of plaster from the statue.

“Don’t spoil the statues,” I asked.

He sighed.

He had such a look that I took pity on the lost impressionist.

You know... Let this stay between us. But on condition that you give me your word to improve and start leading a new, honest life. You will not exhibit such paintings, and I will remain silent about your experience. OK?

He wrinkled his green face into a grimace, but promised.

* * *

A week later I saw a new painting of his at another exhibition: “Tchaikovsky’s Seventh Fugue, op. 9, ed. SOUTH. Zimmerman."

He didn't keep his promise. Me too.

As soon as I remember my father, I imagine him climbing the stairs, with a lively, concerned face and sweeping movements, accompanied by several stalwart porters, burdened with a heavy burden.

This strange idea is born in the brain, probably because most often I had to see my father climbing the stairs, accompanied by groaning and swearing porters.

My father was an amazing man. Everything about him was somehow original, not like others... He knew several languages, but they were strange languages ​​that no one else needed: Romanian, Turkish, Bulgarian, Tatar. He knew neither French nor German. He had a voice, but when he sang, nothing could be heard - it was so thick, low voice. Some amazing rumble and rumble was heard, so low that it seemed to be coming out from under his feet. My father loved carpentry work - but it was also somehow useless - he only made wooden steamers. He tinkered with each steamboat for about a year, completed it with all the details, and when he finished, he said, satisfied:

Such a thing can be sold for no less than fifteen rubles!

And the material cost thirty! - the mother picked up.

Keep quiet, Varya,” said the father. - You do not understand anything…

Of course,” the mother objected, smiling bitterly. - You understand a lot...

My father's main occupation was trade. But here he outdid himself in the strangeness and uselessness - from a commercial point of view, of the operations that took place in the store.

For my father, there was no better pleasure than lending goods to someone. A buyer who owed money to his father was made his best friend... His father called him into the shop, gave him tea, played checkers with him and was offended at his mother to the depths of his soul if she, having learned about this, said:

It would be better if he gave the money than to play checkers.

“You don’t understand anything, Varya,” my father delicately objected. - He is very good man. Two daughters study at the gymnasium. I was in the war myself. You should listen to how he talks about military procedures.

What does that matter to us! You never know who was in the war - so why should everyone lend?

“You don’t understand anything, Varya,” my father said sadly and went into the barn to make a steamboat.

He had with me a good relationship, but we had different characters. I couldn’t understand his hobbies, I was skeptical about steamships, and when he gave me one, thinking to delight me with it, I coolly, with a bored look, touched some wooden thing on the bow of the tiny ship and walked away.

“You don’t understand anything, Vaska,” the father said, embarrassed.

I loved books, and he bought me half a dozen of some trumpeter pigeons. Why I should have admired the fact that their tails are not flat, but like a pipe, I still consider unclear. I had to get up early in the morning, give these pigeons food and water, which did not excite me at all. Three or four days later, I carried out a hellish plan - I opened the door of the pigeon box, thinking that the pigeons would fly away immediately. But the damned birds twirled their tails and sat peacefully in their place. However, the open door brought its benefits: that same night the cat strangled all the trumpeters, bringing me relief and my father grief and quiet tears.

Just as everything about my father was original, his passion for buying rare things was also original and unusual. The requirements that he made for this type of operation were the following: that the thing should surprise everyone around with its appearance, that it should be monumental, and that everyone would think that the thing was bought for five hundred rubles when only thirty were paid for it.

* * *

One day, on the stairs of the house where we lived, we heard the stomping of numerous feet, screams and grunting. We ran out to the landing of the stairs and saw my father leading several porters, burdened with a large, strange-looking thing.

What it is? - the mother asked with concern.

The father's radiant face shone with the pride and hidden joy of a man who had planned a very nice surprise.

You’ll see,” he said, trembling with impatience. - Now let's install it.

When “it” was placed and the porters, blessed by the father, left, “it” turned out to be a colossal washbasin with a marble board that had burst in half and red cracked wood.

Well? - the father triumphantly addressed those around him. - How much would you value this thing?

What is it for? - asked the mother.

You don't understand anything, Varya. Alyosha, tell me, how much do you think this washbasin costs?

Alyosha - a flatterer, a hyperbolist and a false, sycophantic soul - clasped his ink-smeared hands and exclaimed unnaturally:

How lovely! What is the price? Four hundred twenty-five rubles!

Ha ha ha! - the father laughed triumphantly. - And you, Varya, how much can you tell me?

The mother shook her head skeptically.

Well... you can still give fifteen rubles for it.

You understand a lot! You can imagine - all this marble, mahogany and everything - costs only twenty-five rubles for the occasion. Now we'll try it! Marya! Water.

A bucket of water was poured into the monumental washstand... The pedal pressed with the foot did not cause a single drop of liquid to come out of the tap, but when we looked down, our feet were surrounded by a whole lake of water.

It's flowing! - said the father. - We need to call a locksmith. Marya! Run away.

The mechanic tinkered with the sink for half an hour, took six rubles for it and, on leaving, stole a hat from the front room.

The washbasin has taken up residence with us.

When father was not at home, everyone enjoyed washing themselves from the small wall washstand, but if this happened in front of father, he shouted, cursed, forced everyone to wash from his purchase and said:

You don't understand anything!

Everyone had reason to avoid the large washbasin. He had a malicious, disgusting disposition and fickle sympathies. Sometimes he showed a doglike affection for his sister Lisa and began to wash himself off in a normal, ordinary way. Or he was friends with Alyosha, was attentive to him - submissive, like a child, he poured a transparent stream onto Alyosha’s black hands and did not allow himself obscene antics.

He did the same with all the others. As soon as you pressed the pedal, a horizontal stream of water would whistle out of the tap and hit the unwary person in the stomach or chest; then the stream instantly dropped and, hiding, waited for the next pedal press. The man bent down and put his hands up, hoping to catch the damned stream in the very place where it hit.

But the stream did not sleep...

Seeing the bowed shoulders, it flew up like a fountain, fell down, doused the head and back of the head of a trusting person, instantly disappeared and, aiming at the legs, watered them so generously that the person, defeated by the washbasin, jumped to the side with a curse and ran away.

Sometimes the washbasin turned the stream, like a snake’s head, turned it, grimaced, and then it was necessary to run around this monumental rubbish in order to catch the evasive stream with your hands. Then we came up with the idea of ​​making a formal raid on it: we stood around, extended a dozen hands, and the driven stream, no matter how it dodged, ended up with someone...

* * *

One day, a familiar stomping and groaning sound was heard on the stairs... It was the father, leading an army of porters, leading a new purchase.

It was a strange procession.

In front, three people were dragging a huge quadrangle with a hole in the middle, behind them two were carrying a strange chiseled rod, and behind them two more people were bringing up the rear with some kind of huge globe and a frosted glass hemisphere, the size of the roof of a small shed.

What is this? - the mother asked with secret fear.

“Lamp,” the father answered cheerfully.

I thought it was a stand for posters.

Isn’t it true,” the father picked up, “it’s an enormous thing.” I bargained for half an hour until they gave in to me.

The lamp was installed next to the washbasin. She was as tall as the ceiling and looked the strangest, extremely uncomfortable - heavy, ugly, looking like some kind of monstrous African plant.

Well, what do you think, Alyosha... How much is she worth?

Three thousand! - Alyosha said confidently.

Ha ha! What do you say, Varya?

The mother, sitting in a corner, cried silently. All the delight immediately disappeared from the father, and he, discouraged, approached his mother, bent down and tenderly kissed her on the head.

Eh, Varya! You do not understand anything! Vaska! How much do you think a lamp like this should cost?

“Seven thousand,” I said, walking around the lamp. - At least I would give that much for her, if only she would be removed from here.

You understand a lot! - the father was confused.

The lamp turned out to be from the same family as the washbasin. Kerosene (fourteen pounds); what was poured into it flowed, poisoned the air, and when the mechanic fixed it (the same one who stole the hat), the lamp drew in a huge black wick and never wanted to let it out. Pulled out with some tongs, the wick caught fire, but it started to smoke so much that the neighbors came to save us from the fire, offering free services to remove things and put out the fire.

And the huge, immense lamp burned with a small, microscopic light, the kind that glows in the icon lamp, quietly crackled and sarcastically clicked its tiny red tongue.

Her father stood in front of her in silent delight.

* * *

One day the same noise, roar and screams were heard on the stairs.

What else? - the mother jumped out.

“A watch,” the father said, laughing happily.

This was the most amazing, the most unheard of thing my father bought.

Two hands rushed rapidly across the huge dial, regardless of time or the efforts of people who would try to keep them from doing so. Below, a colossal pendulum was swinging menacingly, making a swing of four arshins, and in front the entire mechanism was breathing hoarsely and heavily, like a hunted rhinoceros or a man half-smothered by a pillow...

Who made them? What kind of drunken, abnormal, alcohol-inflamed brain came up with the idea of ​​​​building this ugly, clumsy apparatus, with all the parts, painfully, as if in delirium, exaggerated, with a move without logic and with a drunken disgusting breath inside, the breath of their creator, who, perhaps, has already died somewhere under the fence, tormented by delirium tremens, eaten away by rheumatism and gout.

The clock stood next to the washbasin and lamp, winked at each other and immediately understood how to behave in this house.

The pendulum swiftly rushed from wall to wall and kept trying to knock us off our feet as we rushed headlong past it... The mechanism grumbled, coughed and groaned like a dying man, and the hands frolicked on the dial, scattering, converging and spinning in a dashing Bacchic dance...

My father decided to subject us to the time shown by this clock, but he soon became convinced that we would have to have dinner at night, sleep at noon, and that within a week we would be expelled from the schools for showing up for lessons at eleven o’clock in the evening.

The watch came in handy for us as a sports device, something we had never seen before... We took our three-year-old sister Olya, sat her on a colossal pendulum, and she, frantically clinging to the rod, rushed, trembling, frightened, from side to side, exciting the merriment of the surrounding youth.

Mother called this room “The Cursed Room.”

All day long the suffocating smell of kerosene could be heard from there, rivulets of water flowed from the washbasin onto the floor, and at night we were awakened and frightened by the terrible groans that the clock emitted, sometimes interspersing these groans with hoarse, ominous laughter and neighing.

One day, when we returned from school and crowded into our favorite room to have fun at about o’clock, we retreated, amazed, frightened: the room was empty, and only three painted quadrangles on the floor showed the places where my father’s purchases stood.

What did you do with them? - we asked the mother.

Sold it.

Did they give you a lot? - asked the hitherto silent father.

Three rubles. Only they didn’t give it, but I... So that they could be taken away. Nobody wanted to get involved with them for nothing...

The father lowered his head, and his suppressed whisper echoed echoingly through the empty room:

You understand a lot!

Now he is dead, my father.

Field work

(from the collection “Gilded Pills”)

This is finally the devil knows what it is!! There are no limits to this!!!

And the editor grabbed it with my own hand in your own hair.

What's happened? - I asked. - Anything on the Ministry of Public Education again?

Not really…

So, the Ministry of Finance?

No, no, no!

Understand. Of course, the Ministry of Internal Affairs?

Excuse me... Long-distance telephone, what does this refer to?

Department of Posts and Telegraphs.

Well... So that they have no bottom and no tires!! Imagine: again, not a sound from Moscow. Because something happened there - the newspaper should be published without a Moscow telephone. Oh, prrr!.. Listen: if you were a real journalist, you would investigate the reasons for such disgrace and bring it to the attention of society!!

What do you think... I’m not investigating? And I'm investigating.

That's nice. They say they steal telephone wire there.

Who is stealing?

The men there.

I’ll go today. I'll show you what a real journalist I am!

It was an early cold morning when I got off at a small intermediate station between the two capitals and quietly walked towards the nearest village.

I caught up with some lonely guy.

Hello, uncle!

Hello, nephew. Where will you be from?

From Piterburhu itself,” I answered in the most beautiful Russian. - Well, how are your people here... Are they living well?

Let's say it's nothing. Let's feed. The harvest, let's say, is nothing. The first harvest.

Prices like bread?

Yes the prices are reasonable. French rolls, as before, cost a nickel, and saits cost three.

That's not what I mean, uncle. I ask how the harvest was sold?

The harvest? Yes, one and a half rubles a pound.

Are you talking about rye?

Cheaper with rye. But there is no rye on it. Thank God it's galvanized.

What's galvanized?

Yes, it's a wire. There is no rye on it.

Oh my goodness! Do you sow bread?

No way. We don't play around.

I peered into the distance. Several men with braids over their shoulders wandered towards us.

What are they?

They are going to mow.

All ideas about agriculture were shaken in my brain and turned upside down.

Mow?! In January?

What should they do? Once hung, that means it’s ready.

Meanwhile, the villagers approached us singing. They apparently sang an old local song:

Oh, wire -

D-metallitskaya,

Eh, nurse

You are a man!..

I'll cut you off

Down from the pillar

I'll sell it in the city -

Daring guy!..

Seeing me, everyone took off their hats.

God help you! - I wished warmly.

Thank you for the kind words.

Are you going to work?

That's how it is, master.

Neshto Orthodox person maybe without a job. Not such quitters, thank God.

Are you going to mow?

But what? At Eryomin’s site, the wire went up just yesterday.

How do you do this?

Eh, master, don’t you know some rural work? First, they dig holes, then they put up pillars. Of course, we are waiting and watching closely. And when, then, the wire rises on the poles and matures, then we mow it down. The girls go into riots, the guys load them onto carts, we take them to the city. It's a simple matter. Agricultural.

“You would rather sow bread than do such “things”,” I hesitantly advised.

Eva! Something can be compared. Here you have grace: no grass, no drought; seeds - no, my God.

“I’m grinding,” interrupted the stern, earnest old man. - Also, sir, if you compare it with the grain industry, then our business is not honey either. First of all, they spend the whole winter lying on the stove, chewing carrot pies. And we work like the damned all year round. And even now things have gotten so bad that wire prices have begun to fall. Therefore, all the baptized people began to do this.

“And even worse,” the clumsy little man picked up. - Sometimes they don’t hang up the wire for three or five deniers. Is it possible?

“That’s true: it’s a disgrace,” supported the third man. - We also need to eat and drink. Sometimes you go outside the outskirts to the line and see what the hell the harvest is like here: only the pillars stick out. While they are still there they are going to hang the wire...

What is your administration looking at? - I asked. - What are the village authorities watching?!

Ana is watching.

Wow! Of course... You can hide from them. Now the oppression has become so bad that you might as well lie down and die. The severity has become great.

From whom?

Yes from the authorities.

Which ones?

Yes, the fishing certificate requires that it be chosen at the council. For cutting, as they say, telephone wire.

Moreover, there are rumors that the management will rent out plots for cutting. Didn't you hear, sir? How is it in St. Petersburg in this regard?

Don't know.

The gray-haired old man bent down to my ear and croaked:

What, you can’t hear there - they won’t give us subsidies? It's painfully tough.

And what? Poor food?

Undercut. The people multiply, but the line is still the same.

They’re sitting in the Duma there too,” the black-bearded man remarked with a venomous grimace, “but what they’re doing is unknown. If only they could draw one more line. Still, it would be more free.

What do they care? They are just filling their belly, but will they remember anything about the peasant hump?

Well, let's go, guys. There's no need to scratch your tongue. It's still dark before we need to get out. Otherwise we won’t even turn into riots.

And the villagers briskly walked towards the pillars, on which wire threads loomed like a thin, barely noticeable web.

The choir thundered, beating time:

Uh-oh, wire

D-metallitskaya.

Eh, nurse

You are a man!..

The sun peeked out from behind a gray cloud and illuminated the working, black-earth, homespun Rus'.