What education is missing: stories of young teachers. New friends and enemies

Current page: 3 (book has 20 pages in total)

Zina screamed: “Oh! how similar!” Natasha laughed cheerfully and immediately took off her mask.

“We must, Tyoma, try to behave better,” said Aglaida Vasilievna, “you are terribly hunched over... You could be more impressive than all your comrades.”

“After all, Tyoma, if he behaved well, would be very personable...” Zina confirmed. - Well, to tell the truth, he is very handsome: eyes, nose, hair...

Tyoma hunched his shoulders in embarrassment, listened with pleasure and at the same time winced unpleasantly.

“Well, Tyoma, you’re really small, really...” Zina remarked. - But all this with you, as soon as you start to hunch, it seems to disappear somewhere... Your eyes become pleading, as if you are about to ask for a penny...

Zina laughed. Tyoma stood up and walked around the room. He glanced at himself in the mirror, turned away, walked in the other direction, imperceptibly straightened up and, heading back to the mirror, glanced briefly at it.

- And how deftly it is to dance with Rylsky! - Zina exclaimed. -You don’t feel it at all...

“But I kept getting confused with Semyonov,” said Natasha.

“Semyonov definitely needs to start from the door.” He dances wow... it’s comfortable to be with him... he just needs to start... Darcier dances great.

“You have a very sweet manner,” the mother said to Zina.

“Natasha dances well too,” Zina praised, “she just runs a little too fast...

“I don’t know how at all,” Natasha answered, blushing.

“No, you’re very nice, but there’s no need to rush... Somehow you always start before the gentleman... Well, Tyoma, I didn’t want to learn to dance,” Zina finished, turning to her brother, “but what if he, too, danced like Rylsky.”

“And you could dance well,” said Aglaida Vasilievna.

Tyoma imagined himself dancing like Rylsky: he even felt his pince-nez on his nose, recovered and grinned.

“You looked like Rylsky at that moment,” Zina cried out and suggested: “Come on, Tyoma, I’ll teach you a polka now.” Mom, play.

And suddenly, to the music of Aglaida Vasilyevna, the training of the young bear cub began.

- One, two, three, one, two, three! – Zina counted down, lifting the tip of her dress and doing polka steps in front of Tyoma.

Tyoma jumped up and down, embarrassed and conscientious. Natasha, sitting on the sofa, looked at her brother, and her eyes reflected his embarrassment, pity for him, and some kind of thoughtfulness, and Zina only smiled occasionally, resolutely turning her brother by the shoulders, and said:

- Well, you little bear!

- Oh oh oh! Quarter past twelve: sleep, sleep! - said Aglaida Vasilievna, rising from her chair, and, carefully lowering the lid of the piano, extinguished the candles.

Life went on as usual. The group went to class, somehow prepared their lessons, gathered with each other and read intensively, sometimes together, sometimes separately.

Kartashev did not lag behind the others. If for Kornev reading was an innate need due to the desire to comprehend the life around him, then for Kartashev reading was the only way to get out of the difficult situation of an “ignoramus” in which he felt.

Some Yakovlev, the first student, also did not read anything, was “ignorant,” but Yakovlev, firstly, had the ability to hide his ignorance, and secondly, his passive nature did not push him anywhere. He stood at the little window that others had cut for him, and he was not drawn anywhere else. Kartashev’s passionate nature, on the contrary, pushed him so that his actions often became completely involuntary. With such a nature, with the need to act, create or destroy, life is bad for semi-educated people: demi-instruit - double sot, - say the French, and Kartashev received enough blows from the Kornev company so as not to passionately strive, in turn, to get out from the darkness that surrounded him. Of course, while reading, on many issues he was still, perhaps, in a greater fog than before, but he already knew that he was in the fog, he knew the way how to get out of this fog little by little. Some things have already been illuminated. He shook the hand of a common man with pleasure, and the consciousness of equality did not oppress him, as it once did, but brought pleasure and pride. He didn’t want to wear colored ties anymore, take cologne from his mother’s closet to put on perfume, or dream of patent leather shoes. It even gave him a special pleasure now to be sloppy in a suit. He listened with delight when Kornev, already considering him one of his own, clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly manner and spoke for him in reproach from his mother:

- Where are we going with a cloth snout!

Kartashev at this moment would be very glad to have a real cloth snout, so as not to look like some dapper Neruchev, their neighbor on the estate.

After the evening described, the company, no matter how much fun they had, avoided gathering at Aglaida Vasilyevna’s house under various pretexts. This upset Aglaida Vasilievna, and it upset Kartashev, but he went where everyone else was going.

“No, I don’t sympathize with your evenings,” said Aglaida Vasilievna, “you study poorly, you have become a stranger to the family.”

- Why am I a stranger? - asked Kartashev.

- Everyone... Before you were a loving, simple boy, now you are a stranger... looking for flaws in your sisters.

– Where do I look for them?

“You attack your sisters, you laugh at their joys.”

“I don’t laugh at all, but if Zina sees her joy in some dress, then, of course, it’s funny to me.”

- And where does she find joy? She learns her lessons, goes first and has every right to be happy with her new dress.

Kartashev listened, and in his heart he felt sorry for Zina. Indeed: let her rejoice in her dress if it makes her happy. But after the dress came something else, after that something of his own again, and the whole network of conventional decency again embraced and entwined Kartashev until he rebelled.

“Everything is accepted and not accepted with you,” he said hotly to his sister, “as if the world would fall apart from this, and all this is nonsense, nonsense, nonsense... not worth a damn.” Korneva doesn’t think about any of this, but God grant that everyone is like that.

- Ooo! Mother! What he says?! – Zina threw up her hands.

– Why is Korneva so good? – asked Aglaida Vasilievna. – Are you studying well?

- What are you studying? I don't even know how she studies.

“Yes, he’s a bad student,” Zina explained heartily.

“So much the better,” Kartashev shrugged his shoulders dismissively.

– Where is the limit of this better? - asked Aglaida Vasilievna, - be expelled from the gymnasium for inability?

– This is an extreme: you need to study halfway.

“So your Korneva is half-hearted,” Zina interjected, “neither fish nor meat, neither warm nor cold - fi, disgusting!”

- Yes, this has nothing to do with either cold or warm.

“He has a lot, my dear,” said Aglaida Vasilievna. – I imagine the following picture: the teacher calls: “Korneva!” Korneva comes out. “Answer!” - “I don’t know the lesson.” Korneva goes to the place. Her face lights up at the same time. In any case, probably contented and vulgar. No dignity!

Aglaida Vasilyevna speaks expressively, and Kartashev finds it unpleasant and difficult: his mother managed to humiliate Korneva in his eyes.

- She read a lot? - continues the mother.

- She doesn’t read anything.

- And he doesn’t even read...

Aglaida Vasilievna sighed.

“In my opinion,” she says sadly, “your Korneva is an empty girl, who cannot be treated strictly because there is no one to point out her emptiness to her.”

Kartashev understands what his mother is hinting at, and reluctantly accepts the challenge:

- She has a mother.

“Stop talking nonsense, Tyoma,” the mother stops authoritatively. – Her mother is as illiterate as our Tanya. Today I will dress Tanya for you, and she will be the same as Kornev’s mother. She may be a very good woman, but this same Tanya, for all her merits, still has the disadvantages of her environment, and her influence on her daughter cannot be without a trace. You must be able to distinguish a decent, well-mannered family from another. Education is not given in order to end up mixing into mush everything that has been invested in you for generations.

– What generations? Everything from Adam.

- No, you are deliberately deceiving yourself; your concepts of honor are more subtle than Eremey’s. What is understandable to you is not accessible to him.

- Because I am more educated.

- Because you are better educated... Education is one thing, but upbringing is another.

While Kartashev was thinking about these new barriers, Aglaida Vasilievna continued:

- Tyoma, you are on a slippery slope, and if your brains don’t work on their own, then no one will help you. You can come out as a barren flower, you can give people a bountiful harvest... Only you yourself can help yourself, and it’s a sin for you more than anyone else: you have a family that you won’t find anywhere else. If you do not draw strength from it for a rational life, then nowhere and no one will give it to you.

– There is something higher than family: social life.

- Social life, my dear, is a hall, and family is the stones from which this hall is made.

Kartashev listened to his mother’s conversations the way a departing traveler listens to the ringing of his native bell. It rings and awakens the soul, but the traveler goes his own way.

Kartashev himself was now pleased that it was not his company that was gathering. He loved his mother and sisters, recognized all their merits, but his soul yearned to go where the company, cheerful and carefree, authoritative for itself, lived the life it wanted to live. Gymnasium in the morning, classes in the afternoon, and meetings in the evening. Not for drinking, not for carousing, but for reading. Aglaida Vasilyevna reluctantly let her son go.

Kartashev has already won this right once and for all.

“I can’t live feeling inferior to others,” he said to his mother with strength and expressiveness, “and if they force me to live a different life, then I will become a scoundrel: I will ruin my life...

– Please don’t intimidate me, because I’m not the timid type.

But nevertheless, from then on, Kartashev, leaving home, only stated:

- Mom, I’m going to Kornev.

And Aglaida Vasilievna usually just nodded her head with an unpleasant feeling.

GYMNASIUM

It was more fun at the gymnasium than at home, although the oppression and demands of the gymnasium were heavier than the demands of the family. But there life went on in public. In the family, everyone’s interest was only his own, but there the gymnasium connected the interests of everyone. At home, the struggle went on eye to eye, and there was little interest in it: all the innovators, each separately in their family, felt their powerlessness, in the gymnasium one felt the same powerlessness, but here the work went on together, there was full scope for criticism, and no one cared about them those who were sorted out. Here it was possible, without looking back, so as not to hurt the painful feelings of one or another from the company, to try on the theoretical scale that the company was gradually developing for itself.

From the point of view of this scale, the company related to all phenomena of gymnasium life and to all those who represented the administration of the gymnasium.

From this point of view, some deserved attention, others - respect, others - hatred, and others, finally, deserved nothing but disdain. The latter included all those who had nothing else in their heads except their mechanical duties. They were called "amphibians". The kind amphibian is the warden Ivan Ivanovich, the vengeful amphibian is the mathematics teacher; neither good nor evil: the inspector, foreign language teachers, thoughtful and dreamy, wearing colored ties, smoothly combed. They themselves seemed to be aware of their wretchedness, and only during exams their figures were outlined for a moment in more relief, only to then disappear from the horizon again until the next exam. Everyone loved and respected the same director, although they considered him a hothead, capable of making a lot of tactlessness in the heat of the moment. But somehow they didn’t take offense at him at such moments and willingly forgot his harshness. The focus of the company was four: the Latin teacher in the lower grades Khlopov, the Latin teacher in their class Dmitry Petrovich Vozdvizhensky, the literature teacher Mitrofan Semenovich Kozarsky and the history teacher Leonid Nikolaevich Shatrov.

The young Latin teacher Khlopov, who taught in the lower grades, was disliked by everyone in the gymnasium. There was no greater pleasure for high school students than to accidentally push this teacher and throw him a contemptuous “guilty” or give him a corresponding look. And when he ran hastily along the corridor, red-faced, wearing blue glasses, with his gaze directed forward, everyone, standing at the door of their class, tried to look at him as impudently as possible, and even the quietest, first student Yakovlev, flaring his nostrils, said, without hesitation whether they hear him or not:

“He’s red because he’s sucked on the blood of his victims.”

And the little victims, crying and overtaking each other, after each lesson poured out into the corridor after him and in vain begged for mercy.

Fed up with ones and twos, the teacher just rolled his intoxicated eyes and hurried, without saying a single word, to hide in the teacher’s room.

It cannot be said that he was an evil man, but his attention was enjoyed exclusively by the dumbfounded, and as these victims under his care became more and more frightened, Khlopov became more and more tender towards them. And they, in turn, were in awe of him and, in a fit of ecstasy, kissed his hands. Khlopov did not enjoy sympathy among the teachers, and any of the students looked into the crack of the teacher’s room during recreation, always saw him running alone from corner to corner, with a red, excited face, with the look of an offended person.

He spoke quickly and stuttered slightly. Despite his youth, he already had a fairly saggy belly.

The little victims, who knew how to cry in front of him and kiss his hands, called him a “pregnant bitch” behind their eyes, probably amazed by the inadequacy of his belly.

In general, he was a tyrant - convinced and proud, about whom they said that at Katkov’s anniversary, when they were rocking him, he turned so over that Katkov found himself sitting on his back. That’s why they called him in high school: the Katkov donkey.

The literature teacher, Mitrofan Semenovich Kozarsky, was a small, gloomy man with all the signs of evil consumption. On his head he had a whole heap of unkempt, tangled, curly hair, into which he now and then biliously ran his small hand, fingers apart, through. He always wore dark, smoky glasses, and only occasionally, when he took them off to wipe them, did the students see small gray, angry eyes, like those of a chained dog. He growled somehow like a dog. It was difficult to make him smile, but when he smiled, it was even more difficult to recognize it as a smile, as if someone was forcibly stretching his mouth, and he resisted it with all his might. Although the students were afraid of him, and regularly crammed various ancient Slavic beauties, they also tried to flirt with him.

Such flirting rarely went in vain.

One day, as soon as the roll call ended, Kartashev, who considered it his duty to doubt everything, which, however, turned out to be a little violent for him, stood up and addressed the teacher in a decisive, excited voice:

- Mitrofan Semenovich! One circumstance in the lives of Anthony and Theodosius is incomprehensible to me.

- Which one, sir? – the teacher was dryly wary.

- I'm afraid to ask you, it's so incongruous.

- Speak, sir!

Kozarsky nervously rested his chin in his hand and glared at Kartashev.

Kartashev turned pale and, without taking his eyes off him, expressed, albeit confusedly, but in one salvo, his suspicions that there was bias in the appointment of Boyar Fyodor.

As he spoke, the teacher's eyebrows rose higher and higher. It seemed to Kartashev that it was not glasses that were looking at him, but the dark hollows of someone’s eyes, scary and mysterious. He suddenly felt terrified by his own words. He would have been glad not to say them, but everything was said, and Kartashev, falling silent, depressed, confused, continued to look into the terrible glasses with a stupid, frightened gaze. But the teacher was still silent, still watching, and only a poisonous grimace curled his lips more strongly.

A thick blush flooded Kartashev’s cheeks, and painful shame gripped him. Finally, Mitrofan Semyonovich spoke quietly, measuredly, and his words dripped like boiling water onto Kartashev’s head:

– The desire to always be original can bring a person to such disgusting... to such vulgarity...

The class began to spin in Kartashev’s eyes. Half the words flew past, but those that fell into his ears were enough. His legs gave way and he sat down, half unconscious. The teacher coughed nervously, biliously, and grabbed his sunken chest with his small, disheveled hand. When the seizure passed, he walked around the classroom in silence for a long time.

“In due time at the university we will touch upon you in detail about the sad phenomenon in our literature that has caused and is causing such a buffoonish attitude towards life.

The hint was too clear and seemed too offensive for Kornev.

“History tells us,” he could not resist, turning pale and rising with a distorted face, “that much of what seemed buffoonish and not worth attention to contemporaries turned out to be completely different in reality.”

“Well, sir, it won’t turn out that way,” the teacher abruptly turned his dark glasses towards him. – And it won’t turn out to be because this is a story, not an overexposure. Well, in any case, this is not a modern topic. What is asked?

The teacher was immersed in a book, but immediately looked up and spoke again:

- Boyishness has no place in history. Fifty years ago, a poet who lived to understand requires knowledge of the era, and not pulling him out of it and bringing him as a defendant to the bench of modernity.

– But we, contemporaries, learn this poet’s poems “Go Away” from memory...

Mitrofan Semenovich raised his eyebrows high, bared his teeth and silently looked, like a skeleton in blue glasses, at Kornev.

- Yes, sir, teach... you must teach... and if you don’t know, you’ll get one... And this is not a matter of your competence.

“Perhaps,” Dolba intervened, “we are not competent, but we want to be competent.”

- Well, Darcier! - the teacher called.

Dolba met Rylsky's eyes and looked down dismissively.

When the lesson ended, Kartashev stood up embarrassed and stretched out.

- What, brother, did he shave you? – Dolb good-naturedly clapped him on the shoulder.

“I shaved it off,” Kartashev smiled awkwardly, “to hell with him.”

“It’s not worth arguing with him,” Kornev agreed. - What kind of techniques are these? illiterate, boys... And if only his literacy was limited, would they be literate?

“Please don’t put it down,” Rylsky interrupted him cheerfully, “because if you put it down you won’t be able to pick it up.”

History teacher Leonid Nikolaevich Shatrov has long gained popularity among his students.

He entered the gymnasium as a teacher just in the year when the described company entered the third grade.

And with his youth, and gentle techniques, and that spirituality that so attracts young, untouched hearts, Leonid Nikolaevich gradually attracted everyone to him, so that in high school the students treated him with respect and love. One thing upset them was that Leonid Nikolaevich was a Slavophile, although not a “leavened one,” as Kornev explained, but with a confederation of Slavic tribes, with Constantinople at the head. This mitigated somewhat the severity of his guilt, but still the company became a dead end: he couldn’t help but read Pisarev, and if he did, was he really so limited that he didn’t understand him? Be that as it may, even Slavophilism was excused for him, and his lesson was always awaited with special pleasure.

The appearance of his unprepossessing figure, with a large wide forehead, long straight hair, which he kept tucking behind his ear, with intelligent, soft, brown eyes, always somehow particularly excited the students.

And he was “tortured.” Either Pisarev’s book will be accidentally forgotten on the table, or someone will casually talk about a topic from the field of general issues, or even express a coherent idea. The teacher will listen, grin, shrug and say:

- Shrink, most respected!

And then he will notice:

- What guys!

And so he will say mysteriously that the students do not know whether to be happy or sad, that they are still guys.

Leonid Nikolaevich loved his subject very much. Loving, he forced those who came into contact with him to love what he loved.

In that lesson, when, after taking roll call, he modestly rose and, putting a lock of hair behind his ear, said, descending from his dais: “I will talk today,” the class turned into ears and was ready to listen to him for all five lessons in a row. And they not only listened, but also carefully wrote down all his conclusions and generalizations.

Leonid Nikolaevich’s manner of speaking was somehow special, captivating. Either, walking around the class, enthusiastically, he grouped the facts, for greater clarity, as if grabbing them with his hand into the fist of his other hand, then he moved on to conclusions and as if took them out of his clenched fist in return for the facts that he had put there. And the result was always a clear and logical conclusion, strictly justified.

Within the framework of a scientific formulation of the question, broader than the curriculum of the gymnasium course, the students felt both satisfied and flattered. Leonid Nikolaevich took advantage of this and organized voluntary work. He proposed topics, and those who wished to would take them on, guided by the sources he indicated and their own, if they were afraid of one-sided coverage of the issue.

So, in the sixth grade, no one wanted to take one topic - “The Confederation of Slavic Tribes in the Appanage Period” - for a long time. Berendya finally made up his mind, telling himself that if, after meeting the main source indicated by the teacher, Kostomarov, he did not like the way the question was posed, then he was free to come to a different conclusion.

- Justified? – asked Leonid Nikolaevich.

“Of course,” Berendya pressed his fingers to his chest and rose, as usual, on his toes.

One day, Leonid Nikolaevich came to class, contrary to usual, upset and upset.

The new trustee, having examined the gymnasium, was dissatisfied with some of the students’ promiscuity and lack of factual knowledge.

Among the others, Leonid Nikolaevich was called to the trustee, and straight from the explanation, which was obviously unfavorable for him, he came to class.

The students did not immediately notice the teacher’s bad mood.

Having made a roll call, Leonid Ivanovich called Semenov.

The students hoped that today's lesson would be a story.

The disappointment was unpleasant, and everyone listened to Semenov’s answer with boring faces.

Semyonov pulled and tried to get out in the general places.

Leonid Nikolayevich, bowing his head, listened, bored, with a painful face.

- Year? – he asked, noticing that Semyonov avoided specifying the year.

Semyonov said the first thing that came to his tongue, and he lied, of course.

“You’re brave, but you won’t receive the St. George’s Cross,” Leonid Nikolaevich noted half-irritably, half-jokingly.

“He will receive it when Constantinople is captured,” Rylsky inserted.

Leonid Nikolaevich frowned and lowered his eyes.

“It will never get it,” Kartashev responded cheerfully from his seat, “because a federation of Slavic tribes with Constantinople at its head is impracticable nonsense.”

“You, most honorable one, will shrink,” said Leonid Nikolaevich, raising his lit eyes to Kartashev.

Kartashev was embarrassed and fell silent, but Kornev stood up for Kartashev. He spoke sarcastically and caustically:

– A good way to polemicize!

Leonid Nikolaevich turned purple, and the veins filled his temples. There was silence for some time.

- Kornev, stand without a seat.

Since the third grade, Leonid Nikolaevich has not subjected anyone to such a humiliating punishment.

Kornev turned pale and his face became distorted.

Deathly silence reigned in the class.

Everything went silent again. Something terrible was approaching and was about to become an irreparable fact. Everyone was waiting tensely. Leonid Nikolaevich was silent.

“In that case, I ask you to leave the class,” he said without raising his eyes.

It was as if a stone had been lifted from everyone’s shoulders.

“I don’t consider myself guilty,” Kornev said. “Maybe I’m wrong, but it seems to me that I didn’t say anything that you wouldn’t allow me to say at another time.” But if you find me guilty, then I will go...

Kornev began to make his way to the exit.

“Draw a map of Ancient Greece,” Leonid Nikolaevich suddenly told him, pointing to the board as Kornev passed by him.

Instead of punishment, Kornev began to draw what was assigned on the board.

- Kartashev! Reasons and reason for the Crusades.

This was a rewarding topic.

Kartashev, according to Guizot, outlined in detail the reasons and motive for the Crusades.

Leonid Nikolaevich listened, and as Kartashev spoke, the tense, dissatisfied feeling disappeared from his face.

Kartashev had a good command of speech and painted a vivid picture of the hopeless economic situation of Europe as a result of arbitrariness, violence and the unwillingness of willful vassals to take into account the pressing needs of the people... Having cited several examples of relations between the upper and lower classes that had become extremely strained, he moved on to the practical side of the matter: to the cause and further description of events.

Leonid Nikolaevich listened to Kartashev’s lively speech, looked into his excitedly burning eyes from the proud consciousness of the meaningfulness and intelligence of his answer - he listened, and he was overcome by a feeling, perhaps similar to that which a good rider experiences when training a hot young horse and sensing in it a move that in the future would glorify both the horse and him.

“Well, great,” Leonid Nikolaevich noted with feeling, “that’s enough.”

– Rylsky, the economic state of France under Louis the Fourteenth.

Rylsky’s speech did not have those bright colors and tints with which Kartashev’s speech sparkled beautifully. He spoke dryly, concisely, often interrupted his periods with the sound “e”, and generally spoke with some effort. But in the grouping of facts, in the layering of them, some kind of serious efficiency was felt, and the impression of the picture was not as artistic, perhaps, as Kartashev’s, but stronger, bursting with facts and figures.

Leonid Nikolaevich listened, and a feeling of satisfaction and at the same time some kind of melancholy shone in his eyes.

“I’ve finished,” said Kornev.

Leonid Nikolaevich turned, quickly examined the board he had written on and said:

- Thank you... sit down.

A very special kind of relationship existed between the students and the Latin teacher Dmitry Petrovich Vozdvizhensky.

He was a middle-aged, heavily gray-haired, red-nosed man, stooped and hunched, with blue eyes the color of a gentle spring sky, which formed a sharp contrast with his acne-stained face and stubbly, short-cropped hair on his cheeks and beard. This hair stuck out like a dirty grayish stubble, and the large mustache moved like a cockroach. In general, “Mitya” was unprepossessing in appearance, often came to class drunk and had the ability to influence his students in such a way that they immediately turned into first-graders. And Pisarev, and Shelgunov, and Shchapov, and Buckle, and Darwin were immediately forgotten during those hours when there were Latin lessons.

No one cared about Mitya’s political convictions, but a lot of people cared about his big red nose, his small gray eyes, which at times suddenly became very large, and his stooped figure.

From afar, someone who noticed him walking along the corridor flew into the classroom with a joyful cry:

In response, a friendly roar of forty voices was heard. A Babylonian pandemonium arose: everyone, in their own way, as they wanted, hurried to express their joy. They roared like a bear, barked like a dog, crowed like a rooster, and beat a drum. Out of excess of feelings, they jumped up on the benches, stood on their heads, hit each other on the back, and pressed butter.

The teacher’s figure appeared in the doorway, and everything instantly calmed down, and then, to the rhythm of his gait, everyone quietly said in unison:

- They go, they go, they go...

When he ascended the pulpit and suddenly stopped at the table, everyone at once cried out fragmentarily:

- We've arrived!

And when he sat down on a chair, everyone shouted in unison:

- And sat down!

There was an expectant silence. It was necessary to find out the question: was Mitya drunk or not?

The teacher assumed a stern face and began to squint. This was a good sign, and the class whispered joyfully but hesitantly:

- He squints.

Suddenly he opened his eyes wide. There was no doubt.

– Rolled it out!! – a volley was heard from the whole class.

The fun began.

But the teacher was not always drunk, and then upon entering he immediately interrupted the students, saying in a boring and disappointed voice:

- Enough.

“That’s enough,” the class answered him and, just like him, waved his hand.

Then followed relative calm, since the teacher, although shortsighted, knew the voices so well that, no matter how the students changed them, he always unmistakably guessed the culprit.

“Semyonov, I’ll write it down,” he usually answered to some cry of an owl.

If Semyonov did not calm down, then the teacher wrote it down on a piece of paper, and said:

And the class repeated in every way:

“Give me a piece of paper and I’ll write you down.”

And everyone vying with each other hurried to give him what he required, with the difference that if he was sober, then they gave him paper, and if he was drunk, then they brought what they could: books, hats, feathers - in a word, everything, but not paper.

The students heard that the teacher had received the rank of state councilor. During the next lesson, no one called him anything other than “Your Excellency”... Moreover, every time he was about to say something, the duty officer turned to the class and said in a frightened whisper:

– Shh!.. His Excellency wants to talk.

The news that Mitya was the groom caused even greater delight among the students. This news came just before his lesson. Even the imperturbable Yakovlev, the first student, succumbed.

Rylsky bent his knees a little, hunched over, puffed up his face and, putting a finger to his lips, quietly, slowly, like a pouting turkey, began to walk, imitating Mitya and saying in a low bass voice:

“Gentlemen, we must honor Mitya,” Do forehead suggested.

- Need, Need!

- Honor Mitya!

- Honor! - they picked it up from all sides and eagerly began discussing the festival program.

It was decided to elect a deputation that would convey the class’s congratulations to the teacher. They chose Yakovlev, Dolba, Rylsky and Berendya. Kartashev was rejected for the reason that he would not stand it and would ruin the whole thing. Everything was ready when the familiar, stooped figure of the teacher appeared at the end of the corridor.

A long uniform frock coat below the knees, some kind of Cossack trousers with a cone down, a package under the arm, thick hair, stubble on the cheeks, a prickly beard, a protruding mustache and the whole ruffled figure of the teacher gave the impression of a rumpled rooster after a fight. When he entered, everyone stood up decorously, and there was dead silence in the classroom.

Everyone was tempted to bark, because Mitya was more interesting than usual. He walked, aiming straight towards the table, unevenly, quickly, trying to maintain dignity and swiftness in achieving the goal, he walked as if he were struggling with invisible obstacles, struggling, overcoming and moving forward victoriously.

It was obvious that they had time to diligently congratulate the groom at breakfast.

His face was redder than usual: blackheads and a swollen red nose were shining.

“Just drink some water,” Dolba remarked cheerfully, loudly, shrugging his shoulders.

looked into Dobrolyubov, savored Buckle’s introduction, read Shchapov and remembered,
that the primary tribe that inhabited Russia was Kurgan and had a skull
sublicocephalic.
The relationship between Kornev and Kartashev changed: although the disputes did not stop and
bore the same passionate, burning character, but in the relationship
equality has crept in. Kartashev began to invite Kornev’s party to their
pm: Kartashev pulled his company along with him. Even Semyonov reconciled,
I attended the readings and became convinced that nothing happened there that could
result in the expulsion of anyone from the gymnasium.
Berendya also threw himself into reading with ardor and passion and gradually
gained some respect in the circle as a well-read person, with a huge
memory, like a walking encyclopedia of all kinds of knowledge.
Sometimes, if the company had enough patience, they listened to him to the end, and
then, out of the fog of pompous words, some original,
generalized and justified thought.
Kornev then thought, bit his nails and looked inquisitively into his eyes,
while tall Berendya, in a dancer’s pose, rising even higher on his toes and
carefully pressing his hands to his chest, he hurriedly laid out his
considerations.
Only in the eyes of Vervitsky did Berendya retain his former appearance of a fool and
confusion in practical life. However, that’s how he was in the hostel
relationships: was considered incapable by his superiors, had bad grades,
I didn’t get a bad grade in mathematics and only got an “A” in history.
He loved history, and especially Russian history, until his illness. Possessing a huge memory,
he remembered all the years and re-read a lot of historical Russian books.
Barometer of comradeship - Dolba condescendingly ruffled Berendya
on the shoulder and said good-naturedly:
- Buckle is not Buckle, but God forbid, let our body be eaten.
Aglaida Vasilievna finally achieved her goal. One day Kartashev after
After much hesitation (he was still afraid that they wouldn’t want to come to him), he invited
himself Kornev, Rylsky, Dolb and his former friends - Semenov,
Vervitsky and Berendyu.
Former friends had already gathered and were drinking evening tea at a large family gathering.
table when the bell rang and new arrivals burst into the hallway. They
They undressed, looked at each other and loudly exchanged words.
Rylsky, before entering, took out a clean comb, combed his hair with it and
without that, his smooth, soft, golden hair, straightened pince-nez, cheerfully
glanced sideways at Kornev’s remark “good”, saying “snout”, and was the first to enter
living room Seeing the company in the other room, he confidently headed there.
Kornev came in behind him, his face impossibly contorted and with some special
with a thoughtful, concentrated look.
Behind everyone, swaying, with a touch of some kind of disdain and at the same time
time of embarrassment, Dolba walked, rubbing his hands and shivering, as if he was
Cold.
Kartashev went out into the living room to meet the guests and embarrassedly shook their hands.
For several moments he stood in front of his guests, and the guests stood in front of him,
not knowing what to do with myself.
- Tema, lead your guests to the dining room! - the mother helped out.
Bowing to Aglaida Vasilyevna, Rylsky shuffled, bowing
head, and, bowing politely again, shook the hand extended to him. Kornev
merged everything in one bow, squeezed his hand tightly, bowed his head low and
his face became more distorted. Dolba bent over with a flourish and, after shaking, lifting
head, vigorously shook his hair, and it, scattered like a fan, again
lay down in their places.
“Very nice, very glad, gentlemen, to meet you,” said Aglaida
Vasilyevna, looking at the guests friendly and attentively.
Kartashev at this time turned entirely into sight and, in his own way,
impressionability, did not notice how he himself bowed when they introduced themselves
his comrades.
“Before bowing, you better introduce yourself to your sister,” he advised
good-naturedly Rylsky, who was looking at Kartashev’s sister at that time
hesitantly waiting to be introduced.
Zinaida Nikolaevna laughed merrily, Rylsky too - and all at once
took on a kind of relaxed, free character.
Rylsky sat down next to Zinaida Nikolaevna, laughed, joked, and helped him
Semenov. Kornev started a serious conversation with Aglaida Vasilyevna. Dolba
talked with Kartashev, Vervitsky and Berendya listened in silence.
Zinaida Nikolaevna, already a seventeen-year-old young lady, in last grade
the gymnasium, who was expecting her brother’s guests with some disdain, blushed,
started talking, and the mother was pleased to notice in her daughter the ability and
entertain guests, and be able to please without any shocking manners. Everything is in it
it was simple to the point of modesty, but somehow naturally graceful: a turn of the head,
embarrassment, manner of lowering her eyes - everything satisfied the demanding Aglaida
Vasilievna. But Tema left much to be desired: he was embarrassed, scattered,
not knowing what to do with his hands, and hunched unbearably.
Kornev hunched over even worse. But Rylsky behaved impeccably. His
the bows and manners charmed everyone. Dolba produced some kind of painful
the impression of a desire to advance in some way or another. Semenov had
house training is visible. Vervitsky and Berendya were for Aglaida Vasilievna
old familiar bear cubs.
The company moved into the living room. Aglaida Vasilievna, letting everyone through,
mentally determined her son’s place in the society of his comrades.
Zinaida Nikolaevna sat down at the piano, Semenov began to open his
violin. Rylsky stood near the piano, Kornev and Dolba with a sour face
walked along the windows and looked around. Kornev regretted that he had come and
loses the evening in an environment that is uninteresting to him.
Aglaida Vasilievna left and returned, holding Natasha’s hand.
Slender fifteen-year-old Natasha, all flushed, looked with her
with deep, big eyes the way fifteen years old look at something like this
a major event, like the first acquaintance with such a large society. She somehow
and trustingly, and uncertainly, and timidly extended her graceful hand to the guests. Her
her thick hair was braided into one thick braid at the back.
Her appearance was greeted with general pleasure: she immediately produced
impression. Kornev fixed his eyes on her and energetically began working on his nails.
Berendi's radiant eyes became even more radiant.
Zina glanced at her sister and the guests, and pleasure ran through her.
face. She was pleased with her sister's spectacular entrance, and, perhaps, also with the fact that
Semyonov and Rylsky remained with her. She felt this right away
feminine nature. The mother also felt this and, leaving her daughter near Kornev,
set to work on Dolba.
Dolba spoke to her warmly and confidently about the oppression of police officers in
village. Aglaida Vasilievna never imagined that police officers would be
so evil. She herself has an estate... Where is he from? Not far from her estate?
That's how! Very nice. In the summer, she hopes...
“Very nice,” said Dolba, laughing and shuffling his feet.
Only he is a bear, a simple village bear, he is afraid to be
boring, uninteresting guest.
Aglaida Vasilyevna lowered her eyes for a moment, a slight smile
ran across her face, she looked at her son and started talking about how quickly
Time passes and how strange it is for her to see her son so big. He's completely
almost big, it’s a joke to say, in about two years already in
university. Dolba listened, looked at Aglaida Vasilyevna and thought cheerfully:
"A clever woman."
Semyonov settled down, got comfortable, extended his hand, and solid
the sounds of the violin interspersed with the soft melodic playing of Zinaida Nikolaevna.
“Zinaida Nikolaevna plays well,” Rylsky praised.
Zinaida Nikolaevna flushed, and Semenov nodded his head in concentration,
continuing to produce smooth, solid sounds.
- Do you play? - Kornev asked, looking into Natasha’s eyes.
“It’s bad,” Natasha answered timidly, scorching her gaze, as if
asked for an apology from Kornev. Kornev started working on his nails again and felt
feel especially good.
The evening passed quietly and lively. Aglaida Vasilievna with great tact
managed to make sure that no one was bored: it was free, but
at the same time, some invisible, albeit pleasant hand was felt.
With the arrival of the last guest, Darcier, who immediately charmed everyone
with the ease of his graceful manners, a completely unexpected evening
ended with dancing: Darcier, Rylsky and Semenov danced. They even danced
mazurka, and Rylsky performed it in such a way that it caused general delight.
Natasha didn't want to dance at first.
- From what? - Kornev ironically convinced her. - You need this...
In about three years you’ll start leaving, there... well, that’s how it all goes.
“I don’t like dancing,” Natasha answered, “and I will never go out.”
- That’s how... why is this?
- So... I don’t like...
But in the end, Natasha also went to dance.
Her thin, slender figure moved uncertainly around the hall, hurriedly
running ahead, and Kornev looked at her and gnawed more intently than usual
your nails.
“Y-yes...” he drawled absentmindedly when Natasha sat down next to him again.
- What "yes? - she asked.
“Nothing,” Kornev answered reluctantly. After a pause, he said: “I’m all here.”
I wanted to understand what the pleasure is in dancing... Actually, I don’t mind
the movements are even more wild, but... it’s comfortable in the air somewhere, in the summer...
you know, a six-month-old calf finds this mood... you see,
maybe, like, raising my tail... It seems that I am using expressions that are not accepted in
decent society...
- What is not accepted here?
- So much the better in this case... So sometimes I find myself in this situation
mood...
“It happens, it happens,” Dolba intervened, “and then we tie him to
rope and beat.
Dolba showed how they hit and burst into his petty laughter. But,
noticing that Kornev didn’t like something, he became embarrassed, both businesslike and at the same time
asked in a familiar voice:
- Listen, brother, isn’t it time for us to get out?
“It’s still early,” Natasha raised her eyes to Kornev.
“What do you want,” Kornev answered, “you just sit and sit.”
- Well, let's go on a spree...
Kornev no longer regretted the lost evening.
Just when they were about to leave, Berendya suddenly expressed a desire to play
on the violin, and played so that Kornev whispered to Dolba:
- Well, if it were only the moon and summer now, everyone would disappear...
On the way back, everyone was under the spell of the evening.
“But mother, damn it,” shouted Dolba, “older sister:
eyes, eyes. Oh, damn... they all have eyes...
“Ah, smart woman,” said Kornev. - Well, grandma...
“Yes, yes...” Rylsky agreed. - Our kind of heels.
- What a prison!
And Dolba, crouching down, burst into his petty laughter. He was echoed by the cheerful
the young laughter of the rest of the company carried far and wide through the sleepy streets
cities.

They stayed with the Kartashevs for a long time that evening. They continued in the living room
the lamps are burning under the lampshades, softly shading the atmosphere. Zina, Natasha and Tema
sat, full of the feeling of the evening and the guests, who were still felt in
rooms.
Zina praised Rylsky, his manner, his resourcefulness, his wit; Natasha
I liked Kornev and even his manner of biting his nails. Theme liked everything, and he
He eagerly caught every comment about his comrades.
- In Darcier and Rylsky, the influence of a decent family is more visible than others, -
Aglaida Vasilievna spoke.
Kartashev listened, and for the first time from this side his
comrades: until now the standard was different, and between them all there was always
Kornev advanced and reigned.
“Semyonov has some tension,” Aglaida Vasilievna continued.
- Mom, have you noticed how Semyonov walks? - Natasha quickly asked, and,
with her arms slightly apart, her toes turned inward, she walked away, completely engrossed
trying to conscientiously imagine Semenov at that moment.
- And your Kornev bites his nails like that! - And Zina cartoonishly hunched over
three deaths, depicting Kornev.
Natasha watched Zina carefully, with some anxiety, and suddenly,
laughing cheerfully, throwing back her braid, she said:
- No, it doesn't look like...
She stopped resolutely.
- Here...
She bent over a little, fixed her eyes on one point and thoughtfully
raised her small nail to her lips: Kornev, as if alive, appeared between
talking.
Zina screamed: “Oh! how similar!” Natasha laughed cheerfully and immediately
took off her mask.
“We must, Tema, try to behave better,” said Aglaida
Vasilievna, - you are terribly hunched over... You could be more spectacular than all yours
comrades.
- After all, Tema, if he had behaved well, would have been very representative... -
Zina confirmed. - Well, to tell the truth, he is very handsome: eyes, nose,
hair...
The subject hunched his shoulders in embarrassment, listened with pleasure and at the same time
frowned unpleasantly.
“Well, Tema, you’re really small, really...” Zina remarked. - But that's all
when you start to hunch over, it seems to disappear somewhere... Your eyes are becoming
pleading, as if you were about to ask for a pretty penny...
Zina laughed. Tema stood up and walked around the room. He glanced
at himself in the mirror, turned away, walked in the other direction, straightened up imperceptibly
and, heading back to the mirror, he glanced into it.
- And how deftly it is to dance with Rylsky! - Zina exclaimed. - You don’t feel it
at all...
“But I kept getting confused with Semyonov,” said Natasha.
- Semenov definitely needs to start from the door. He's dancing wow...
It’s comfortable with him... he just needs to start... Darcier dances great.
“You have a very sweet manner,” the mother said to Zina.
“Natasha dances well too,” Zina praised, “only a little.”
runs in...
“I can’t do it at all,” Natasha answered, blushing.
- No, you’re very nice, but there’s no need to rush... You somehow always
before you start a gentleman... So, Tema, I didn’t want to learn to dance, -
Zina finished, turning to her brother, “and now I would also dance like
Rylsky.
“And you could dance well,” said Aglaida Vasilievna.
Tema imagined himself dancing like Rylsky: he
I even felt his pince-nez on my nose, recovered and grinned.
“At that moment you looked like Rylsky,” Zina cried out and
suggested: “Come on, Tema, I’ll teach you a polka now.” Mom, play.
And suddenly, to the music of Aglaida Vasilyevna, training began
young bear cub.
- One, two, three, one, two, three! - Zina counted down, raising the tip
dresses and doing polka steps in front of the theme.
The subject jumped up and down awkwardly and conscientiously. Natasha, sitting on the sofa,
looked at her brother, and her eyes reflected both his embarrassment and pity for
him, and some thought, and Zina only smiled occasionally, decisively
turning her brother by the shoulders and saying:
- Well, you little bear!
- Oh oh oh! Quarter past twelve: sleep! sleep! - said Aglaida
Vasilievna, rising from her chair, carefully lowering the lid of the piano, extinguished
candles.

Life went on as usual. The company went to class, somehow prepared their
lessons, gathered with each other and read intensively, sometimes together, sometimes each
apart.
Kartashev did not lag behind the others. If for Kornev reading was innate
the need due to the desire to comprehend the life around us, then for
Kartashev's reading was the only way to get out of that difficult
the position of “ignoramus” in which he felt.
Some Yakovlev, the first student, also didn’t read anything, he was “ignorant”
but Yakovlev, firstly, had the ability to hide his ignorance, and
secondly, his passive nature did not push him anywhere. He was standing next to him
a window that others had cut for him, and he was not drawn anywhere else.
Kartashev’s passionate nature, on the contrary, pushed him so that his actions often
it was completely involuntary. With such a nature, with
the need to act, create or destroy - life is bad
to semi-educated people: demi-instruit - double sot*, the French say, and
Kartashev received enough blows from the Kornev company to
not to strive passionately, in turn, to get out of the darkness that surrounded him.
Of course, even while reading, on many issues he was still, perhaps, more
fog than before, but he already knew that he was in the fog, knew the way, how
he needs to get out of this fog little by little. Some things have already been illuminated. He is with
I shook the hand of a common man with pleasure, and the consciousness of equality did not oppress him,
as it once was, but it brought pleasure and pride. He didn't want to wear anymore
colored ties, take cologne from your mother’s toilet to perfume yourself, dream
about patent leather boots. It even gave him special pleasure now -
sloppiness in a suit. He listened with delight when Kornev, considering him
with his own, he clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly manner and spoke for him in response to his mother’s reproach:
______________
* A half-educated person is doubly a fool (French).

Where are we going with a cloth snout!
Kartashev at this moment would be very glad to have a real cloth
snout, so as not to look like some dapper Neruchev, their
neighbor on the estate.
After the evening described, the company, no matter how much fun they had, avoided
under various pretexts to gather in Aglaida Vasilievna’s house. Aglaida
This upset Vasilievna, and it upset Kartashev, but he went where everyone else was going.
“No, I don’t sympathize with your evenings,” said Aglaida Vasilievna, “
You study poorly, you have become a stranger to the family.
- Why am I a stranger? - asked Kartashev.
- Everyone... Before you were a loving, simple boy, now you are a stranger...
looking for flaws in your sisters.
- Where am I looking for them?
- You attack your sisters, laugh at their joys.
- I’m not laughing at all, but if Zina sees her joy in some
dress, then, of course, it’s funny to me.
- Why should she see joy? She teaches lessons, goes first and complete
has the right to enjoy the new dress.
Kartashev listened, and in his heart he felt sorry for Zina. In fact: let
rejoices in her dress if it makes her happy. But there was something behind the dress
something else, followed by his own again, and the whole network of conventional decency again covered and
entwined Kartashev until he rebelled.
“Everything is accepted or not accepted with you,” he said passionately to his sister, “exactly.”
the world will fall apart because of this, and all this is nonsense, nonsense, nonsense... damn it
not worth it. Korneva doesn’t think about any of this, but God grant that everyone is like that.
- Ooo! Mother! What he says?! - Zina threw up her hands.
- Why is Korneva so good? - asked Aglaida Vasilievna. - Studies
Fine?
- What are you studying? I don't even know how she studies.
“Yes, he’s a bad student,” Zina explained heartily.
“So much the better,” Kartashev shrugged his shoulders dismissively.
- Where is the limit of this better? - asked Aglaida Vasilievna, - be for
inability expelled from the gymnasium?
- This is an extreme: you need to study halfway.
“So your Korneva is half-hearted,” Zina interjected, “not a fish.”
neither meat, neither warm nor cold - fi, disgusting!
- Yes, this has nothing to do with either cold or warm.
“He has a lot, my dear,” said Aglaida Vasilievna. - I myself
I imagine the following picture: the teacher calls “Kornev!” Korneva comes out.
"Answer!" - “I don’t know the lesson.” Korneva goes to the place. Her face is
shines. In any case, probably contented and vulgar. No dignity!
Aglaida Vasilievna speaks expressively, and Kartashev is unpleasant and
hard: his mother managed to humiliate Korneva in his eyes.
- She read a lot? - continues the mother.
- She doesn't read anything.
- And he doesn’t even read...
Aglaida Vasilievna sighed.
“In my opinion,” she says sadly, “your Korneva is an empty girl,
which cannot be treated strictly because there is no one to point it out
her emptiness.
Kartashev understands what his mother is hinting at and reluctantly accepts
call:
- She has a mother.
“Stop talking nonsense, Tema,” the mother stops authoritatively.
- Her mother is as illiterate as our Tanya. Today I will dress Tanya for you, and
she will be the same as Kornev’s mother. She may be very good
woman, but this same Tanya, for all her merits, still has
the shortcomings of her environment, and its influence on her daughter cannot be without a trace.
You must be able to distinguish a decent, well-mannered family from another. Not for that
education is given so that in the end everything that is in you can be mixed into a mush
invested by generations.
- Which generations? Everything from Adam.
- No, you are deliberately deceiving yourself; your concepts of honor are more subtle,
than Eremey's. What is not accessible to him is what is clear to you.
- Because I'm more educated.
- Because you are better educated... Education is one thing, but upbringing is another.
While Kartashev was thinking about these new barriers, Aglaida
Vasilievna continued:
- Tema, you are on a slippery slope, and if your brains don’t work on their own,
then no one will help you. You can come out as a barren flower, you can give people abundant
the harvest... Only you yourself can help yourself, and you more than anyone else,
sin: you have a family like no other you will find. If you're not in it
If you draw strength for a reasonable life, then nowhere and no one will give it to you.
- There is something higher than family: social life.
- Social life, my dear, is the hall, and the family is those stones from
of which this hall is composed.
Kartashev listened to his mother’s conversations such as the retreating
the traveler listens to the ringing of his native bell. It rings and awakens the soul, but the traveler goes
on your own way.
Kartashev himself was now pleased that he was not going to
company. He loved his mother and sisters, recognized all their virtues, but his soul
eager to go where the company was fun and carefree and authoritative for themselves
I lived the life I wanted to live. Gymnasium in the morning, lessons in the afternoon, and in the evening
meetings. Not for drinking, not for carousing, but for reading. Aglaida Vasilievna
Reluctantly, she let her son go.
Kartashev has already won this right once and for all.
“I can’t live feeling inferior to others,” he told his mother forcefully.
and expressiveness - and if I am forced to live a different life, then I will become
scoundrel: I will ruin my life...
- Please don't intimidate me, because I'm not the timid type.
But nevertheless, from then on, Kartashev, leaving home, only stated:
- Mom, I’m going to Kornev.
And Aglaida Vasilievna usually just nodded with an unpleasant feeling
head.

IV

GYMNASIUM

It was more fun at the gymnasium than at home, although the oppression and demands of the gymnasium were
harder than family demands. But there life went on in public. In everyone's family
The interest was only his, and there the gymnasium connected the interests of everyone. Home struggle
went eye to eye, and there was little interest in it: all innovators, each separately in
to their family, they felt powerless, at the gymnasium they felt the same
powerlessness, but here the work went together, there was complete scope for criticism, and no one
the roads were those who were dismantled. Here it was possible without looking back, so as not to offend
sick feeling of one or another from the company, try on that theoretical
the scale that the company gradually developed for itself.
From the point of view of this scale, the company treated all phenomena
gymnasium life and to all those who were the authorities
gymnasium.
From this point of view, some deserved attention, others - respect,
third - hatred and fourth, finally, deserved nothing but
neglect. The latter included all those in the head, except
mechanical duties, there was nothing else. They were called
"amphibians". Good amphibian - warden Ivan Ivanovich, vengeful amphibian
- mathematic teacher; neither good nor evil: inspector, foreign teachers
tongues, thoughtful and dreamy, wearing colored ties, smoothly combed.
They themselves seemed to be aware of their wretchedness, and only during their exams
the figures were outlined for a moment in more relief, only to then disappear again with
horizon until the next exam. Everyone loved and respected the same director,
although they considered him a hothead, capable of doing a lot of tactlessness in the heat of the moment.
But somehow they didn’t take offense at him at such moments and willingly forgot him
sharpness. The company focused on four people: a Latin teacher in
junior grades Khlopov, Latin teacher in their class Dmitry
Petrovich Vozdvizhensky, literature teacher Mitrofan Semenovich Kozarsky and
history teacher Leonid Nikolaevich Shatrov.

The young Latin teacher Khlopov, who taught in the lower
classes, everyone in the gymnasium disliked him. Had no greater pleasure
high school students, how to accidentally push this teacher and throw him
contemptuously “guilty” or give it a corresponding look. And when he
ran hurriedly along the corridor, red-faced, wearing blue glasses, with a fixed expression
looking forward, then everyone, standing at the door of their class, tried to look at
him as impudently as possible, and even the quietest one, the first student Yakovlev,
flaring his nostrils, he spoke without hesitation whether they heard him or not:
- He is red because he has sucked on the blood of his victims.
And the little victims, crying and overtaking each other, after each lesson
They poured out into the corridor after him and begged in vain for mercy.
The teacher, satiated with ones and twos, just moved his
with intoxicated eyes and hurried, without saying a single word, to hide in
teacher's room
It cannot be said that he was an evil man, but his attention
were used exclusively by the dumbfounded, and as these victims under his
They became more and more frightened by their guardianship, Khlopov became more and more tender towards them. And those
in turn, they revered him and, in a fit of ecstasy, kissed his hands.
Khlopov did not enjoy sympathy among the teachers, and some of the students
I looked into the crack of the teacher's lounge during recreation, I always saw him alone

The book of selected works by the famous Russian writer N.G. Garin-Mikhailovsky includes the first two stories of the autobiographical tetralogy “The Childhood of Theme” and “Gymnasium Students,” as well as stories and essays from different years.

Childhood Themes

High school students

Stories and essays

In the evening

Grandmother Stepanida

Wild man

Crossing the Volga near Kazan

Nemaltsev

Valnek-Valnovsky

Father's Confession

Life and death

Two moments

Affairs. Pencil sketches

Clotilde

DARK'S CHILDHOOD

From a family chronicle

I

UNLUCKY DAY

Little eight-year-old Tyoma stood over a broken flower and pondered with horror the hopelessness of his situation.

Just a few minutes ago, when he woke up, he prayed to God, drank tea, and ate two pieces of bread and butter with gusto, in a word - having conscientiously fulfilled all his duties, he went out through the terrace into the garden in the most cheerful, carefree mood spirit. It was so nice in the garden.

He walked along the neatly cleared paths of the garden, inhaling the freshness of the beginning summer morning, and looked around with pleasure.

Suddenly... His heart began to beat strongly with joy and pleasure... Dad’s favorite flower, which he had been fussing over so much, finally blossomed! Just yesterday dad examined it carefully and said that it wouldn’t bloom until a week later. And what a luxurious, what a lovely flower this is! No one, of course, has ever seen anything like this. Dad says that when Herr Gottlieb (the head gardener of the botanical garden) sees it, his mouth will water. But the greatest happiness in all this, of course, is that no one else, namely he, Tyoma, was the first to see that the flower had bloomed. He will run into the dining room and shout at the top of his lungs:

– Terry blossomed!

II

PUNISHMENT

A short investigation reveals, in the father’s opinion, the complete failure of the system of raising his son. Maybe it’s suitable for girls, but the natures of a boy and a girl are different. He knows from experience what a boy is and what he needs. System?! Rubbish, a rag, a scoundrel will come out through this system. The facts are obvious, the sad facts - he started stealing. What else are you waiting for?! Public shame?! So first he will strangle him with his own hands. Under the weight of these arguments, the mother gives in, and power temporarily passes to the father.

The office doors are closed tightly.

The boy looks around sadly, hopelessly. His legs completely refuse to work, he tramples so as not to fall. Thoughts rush through his head in a whirlwind with terrifying speed. He strains with all his might to remember what he wanted to say to his father when he stood in front of the flower. We have to hurry. He swallows saliva to moisten his dry throat and wants to speak in a heartfelt, convincing tone:

- Dear dad, I came up with an idea... I know that I’m to blame... I came up with an idea: cut off my hands!..

Alas! what seemed so good and convincing there, when he stood in front of the broken flower, turns out very unconvincing here. Tyoma feels this and adds a new combination that just occurred to him to enhance the impression:

III

FORGIVENESS

At the same time, the mother goes into the nursery, glances at it quickly, makes sure that Tyoma is not here, goes further, inquisitively peers at the open door of the small room as she goes, notices in it the small figure of Tyoma lying on the sofa with his face buried, walks into the dining room, opens the door to the bedroom and immediately closes it tightly behind him.

Left alone, she also goes to the window, looks and does not see the darkening street. Thoughts rush through her head.

Let Tyoma lie there like this, let him come to his senses, now we must completely leave him to ourselves... If only we could change the linen... Oh, my God, my God, what a terrible mistake, how could she allow this! What vile disgusting! Like a child, a conscious scoundrel! How can one not understand that if he does stupid things and pranks, he does it only because he does not see the bad side of this prank. To show him this bad side, not from your own, of course, point of view as an adult, from his, a child’s point of view, not to convince yourself, but to convince him, to hurt his pride, again his childish pride, his weak side, to be able to achieve this - that’s the task proper upbringing.

How long does it take until all this gets back on track, until she manages to pick up again all these thin, elusive threads that connect her with the boy, the threads with which she draws, so to speak, this living fire into the framework of everyday life, draws in, sparing and frames, sparing the power of fire - a fire that over time will brightly warm the lives of the people who come into contact with it, for which people will one day warmly thank her. He, the husband, of course, looks from the point of view of his soldier’s discipline, he himself was raised that way, and he himself is ready to chop off all the knots and hitches of a young tree, to chop it off, without even realizing that he is cutting down future branches with them...

Little Anya’s nanny pokes her head in, tied in Russian style.

IV

OLD WELL

Night. Tyoma sleeps nervously and excitedly. The sleep is sometimes light, sometimes heavy, nightmarish. He shudders every now and then. He dreams that he is lying on a sandbank of the sea, in the place where they are taken to swim, lying on the seashore and waiting for a large cold wave to roll over him. He sees this transparent green wave as it approaches the shore, sees how its top boils with foam, how it suddenly seems to grow, rises in front of him like a high wall; he waits with bated breath and pleasure for her splashes, for her cold touch, waits for the usual pleasure when she picks him up, quickly rushes to the shore and throws him out along with a mass of fine prickly sand; but instead of cold, that living cold that Tyoma’s body, inflamed from the onset of fever, so craves, the wave showers him with some kind of suffocating heat, falls heavily and suffocates... The wave ebbs again, he feels light and free again, he opens his eyes and sits down on the bed.

The dim half-light of the night lamp faintly illuminates four children's beds and a fifth large one, on which the nanny now sits in just a shirt, with her braid out, sitting and sleepily rocking little Anya.

- Nanny, where is Zhuchka? - asks Tyoma.

“And-and,” the nanny answers, “some Herod threw the bug into the old well.” - And, after a pause, he adds: “At least I should have killed him first, otherwise, alive... All day, they say, she was screaming, heartfelt...

Tyoma vividly imagines an old abandoned well in the corner of the garden, long ago turned into a dump of all sorts of sewage, and imagines its sliding, liquid bottom, which Ioska and I sometimes liked to illuminate by throwing lit paper into it.

V

RENTED YARD

Days and weeks passed in tedious uncertainty. Finally, the child’s healthy body took over.

When Tyoma appeared on the terrace for the first time, thinner, taller, with short-cropped hair, it was already warm autumn outside.

Squinting from the bright sun, he completely surrendered to the cheerful, joyful sensations of a convalescent. Everything caressed, everything cheered, everything attracted me: the sun, the sky, and the garden visible through the lattice fence.

Nothing has changed since his illness! It was as if he had only gone somewhere in the city for two hours.

The same barrel stands in the middle of the yard, still the same gray, dried out, with wide wheels barely holding on, with the same dusty wooden axles, smeared, obviously, even before his illness. The same Eremey is pulling the same still stubborn Bulanka towards her. The same rooster is anxiously explaining something to his chickens under the barrel and is still angry that they do not understand him.

GYMNASIUM STUDENTS

From a family chronicle

I

DEPARTURE OF OLD FRIENDS TO THE MARINE CORPS

One autumn day, when there was already a smell of frost outside, and the sun was playing merrily in the classrooms and it was warm and cozy, the sixth grade students, taking advantage of the absence of an absent literature teacher, as usual, broke into groups and, huddled closely together, had all sorts of conversations.

The most lively of the others and the one that most attracted the students was the group in the center of which sat Kornev, an ugly, blond-haired high school student with swollen eyes, and Rylsky, small, clean, with a self-confident face, with mocking gray eyes, wearing a pince-nez on a wide ribbon , which he kept carelessly placing behind his ear.

Semyonov, with a simple, expressionless face, covered in freckles, in a neatly buttoned and neat uniform, looked intently with his stubborn eyes at these movements of Rylsky and experienced the unpleasant feeling of a man in front of whom something was happening that, although not according to his gut, but what he has to look at and endure, willy-nilly.

This unconscious expression was reflected in Semenov’s entire collected figure, in his stubborn tilt of his head, in his manner of speaking in an authoritative and confident voice.

It was about the upcoming war. Kornev and Rylsky deftly talked about Semenov several times and irritated him even more. The conversation ended. Kornev fell silent and, as usual, biting his nails, cast absent-minded glances to right and left at the comrades around him. He glanced several times at Semenov’s figure and finally said, turning to him:

II

NEW FRIENDS AND ENEMIES

That was the end of the question about the hull. Danilov and Kasitsky left, and Kartashev parted with his friends, with whom he had lived in perfect harmony for three years.

New time, new birds, new birds, new songs. New relationships, strange and confusing, began on some new basis between Kartashev, Kornev and others.

It was no longer a friendship similar to the friendship with Ivanov, based on mutual love. It was not like a rapprochement with Kasitsky and Danilov, where the connection was their common love for the sea.

Getting closer to Kornev was the satisfaction of some other need. Personally, Kartashev not only did not like Kornev, but he felt some kind of hostile, irritated feeling towards him, reaching the point of envy, and yet he was drawn to Kornev. There was no more pleasure for him than to confront him verbally and somehow cut him off. But no matter how easy this matter seemed at first glance, nevertheless it always turned out somehow that it was not he who cut off Kornev, but on the contrary, he received a very unpleasant rebuff from Kornev.

In their company with Danilov and Kasitsky, regarding Kornev, they had long ago resolved the issue that Kornev, although a woman, although he is afraid of the sea, is not stupid and, in essence, a kind fellow.

III

MOTHER AND COMRADES

At home, Kartashev kept silent about Pisarev and the Kornev family. After dinner, he locked himself in his room and, falling onto his bed, began to work on Pisarev.

Previously, he had approached Belinsky several times, but he did not arouse any interest in him. Firstly, it was incomprehensible, and secondly, all the criticism was of such works that he had not heard of, and when he asked his mother, she said that these books were already out of use. Nothing came of this reading. With Pisarev, things went completely differently: at every step one came across ideas already familiar in the speeches of the Kornev company, and Pisarev assimilated much more easily than Belinsky.

When Kartashev came out for tea, he really felt like a different person, as if one dress had been taken off and another had been put on.

When taking on Pisarev, he had already decided to become his follower. But when he began to read, he was convinced, to his pleasure, that even in the recesses of his soul he shared his opinions. Everything was so clear, so simple that all that remained was to remember it better - and that would be the end. Kartashev was not known for his perseverance at all, but Pisarev captured him. He even re-read the passages that particularly struck him twice and repeated them to himself, looking up from the book. He especially enjoyed this perseverance that suddenly appeared in him.

Sometimes he came across something with which he did not agree, and decided to draw Kornev’s attention to it. “Well, why don’t you agree? Pisarev himself says that he does not want blind followers.”

IV

GYMNASIUM

It was more fun at the gymnasium than at home, although the oppression and demands of the gymnasium were heavier than the demands of the family. But there life went on in public. In the family, everyone’s interest was only his own, but there the gymnasium connected the interests of everyone. At home, the struggle went on eye to eye, and there was little interest in it: all the innovators, each separately in their family, felt their powerlessness, in the gymnasium one felt the same powerlessness, but here the work went on together, there was full scope for criticism, and no one cared about them those who were sorted out. Here it was possible, without looking back, so as not to hurt the painful feelings of one or another from the company, to try on the theoretical scale that the company was gradually developing for itself.

From the point of view of this scale, the company related to all phenomena of gymnasium life and to all those who represented the administration of the gymnasium.

From this point of view, some deserved attention, others - respect, others - hatred, and others, finally, deserved nothing but disdain. The latter included all those who had nothing else in their heads except their mechanical duties. They were called "amphibians". The kind amphibian is the warden Ivan Ivanovich, the vengeful amphibian is the mathematics teacher; neither good nor evil: the inspector, foreign language teachers, thoughtful and dreamy, wearing colored ties, smoothly combed. They themselves seemed to be aware of their wretchedness, and only during exams their figures were outlined for a moment in more relief, only to then disappear from the horizon again until the next exam. Everyone loved and respected the same director, although they considered him a hothead, capable of making a lot of tactlessness in the heat of the moment. But somehow they didn’t take offense at him at such moments and willingly forgot his harshness. The focus of the company was four: the Latin teacher in the lower grades Khlopov, the Latin teacher in their class Dmitry Petrovich Vozdvizhensky, the literature teacher Mitrofan Semenovich Kozarsky and the history teacher Leonid Nikolaevich Shatrov.

The young Latin teacher Khlopov, who taught in the lower grades, was disliked by everyone in the gymnasium. There was no greater pleasure for high school students than to accidentally push this teacher and throw him a contemptuous “guilty” or give him a corresponding look. And when he ran hastily along the corridor, red-faced, wearing blue glasses, with his gaze directed forward, everyone, standing at the door of their class, tried to look at him as impudently as possible, and even the quietest, first student Yakovlev, flaring his nostrils, said, without hesitation whether they hear him or not:

“He’s red because he’s sucked on the blood of his victims.”

V

MAGAZINE

When classes had just begun after the holidays, Christmas seemed like such a distant beacon among the monotonous, gray sea of ​​school life.

But here comes Christmas: tomorrow is Christmas Eve and the Christmas tree. The wind drives cold snow through the deserted streets and opens the cold uniform coat of Kartashev, who, alone, not in the usual company, is rushing home from his last lesson. How quickly time flew by. Where are Danilov and Kasitsky now? The sea is probably frozen. Kartashev had not seen him for a long time, since his friends left.

How everything has changed since then. A completely different life, a different environment. And Korneva? Is he really in love? Yes, he’s madly in love, and what he wouldn’t give to be always with her, to have the right to look boldly into her eyes and tell her about his love. No, he will never offend her with his confession, but he knows that he loves, loves and loves her. Or maybe she loves him too?! Sometimes she looks into her eyes so much that you just want to grab and hug... It’s hot for Kartashev in the middle of a snowstorm: his coat is half unbuttoned, and, as if in a dream, he walks along familiar streets. He's been walking on them for a long time. Both summer and winter march on. Some joyful thought in his head will connect with the house on which his gaze falls, and this house will then awaken his memory. And this thought will be forgotten, and the house somehow attracts everything to itself. It was on this corner that he somehow met her, and she nodded at him and smiled as if she was suddenly happy. Why didn't he approach her then? She looked back again from a distance, and his heart froze and ached, and rushed towards her, but he was afraid that she would suddenly realize why he was standing, and he quickly walked away with a concerned face. Well, what if she had guessed that he loved her? Oh, it would, of course, be such insolence that neither she nor anyone would forgive him. If everyone had found out, they would have given up the house, and with what eyes would Kornev look at him? No, don't! And it’s so good: to love in your heart. Kartashev looked around. Yes, here it is Christmas, no lessons for two weeks, there is emptiness in my soul and the joy of the holiday. He always loved Christmas, and his memory connected the Christmas tree, and gifts, and the aroma of oranges, and kutya, and a quiet evening, and a pile of delicacies. And there, in the kitchen, they are caroling. They come from there with their simple delicacies: nuts, horns, wine berries, they are given dresses and things.

It has always been this way, as long as he can remember. In the bright lights of the Christmas tree and the fireplace, right after dinner, he suddenly remembers his favorite kutya again, and he runs happily and returns with a full plate, sits down in front of the fireplace and eats. Natasha, his fan, will shout: “Me too.” Behind her are Seryozha, Manya, Asya, and everyone is here again with plates of kutya. Zina won’t stand it either. Everyone is having fun and laughing, and the mother, dressed up and happy, looks at them affectionately. What will they give him this year? – thought Kartashev, ringing the bell at the entrance.

I paint this picture: the teacher calls “Kornev!” Korneva comes out. "Answer!" - “I don’t know the lesson.” Korneva goes to the place. Her face lights up at the same time. In any case, probably contented and vulgar. No dignity!

Aglaida Vasilyevna speaks expressively, and Kartashev finds it unpleasant and difficult: his mother managed to humiliate Korneva in his eyes.

She read a lot? - continues the mother.

She doesn't read anything.

And he doesn't even read...

Aglaida Vasilievna sighed.

“In my opinion,” she says sadly, “your Korneva is an empty girl, who cannot be treated strictly because there is no one to point out her emptiness to her.”

Kartashev understands what his mother is hinting at, and reluctantly accepts the challenge:

She has a mother.

Stop talking nonsense, Tyoma,” the mother stops authoritatively. - Her mother is as illiterate as our Tanya. Today I will dress Tanya for you, and she will be the same as Kornev’s mother. She may be a very good woman, but this same Tanya, for all her merits, still has the disadvantages of her environment, and her influence on her daughter cannot be without a trace. You must be able to distinguish a decent, well-mannered family from another. Education is not given in order to end up mixing into mush everything that has been invested in you for generations.

What generations? Everything from Adam.

No, you are deliberately deceiving yourself; your concepts of honor are more subtle than Eremey’s. What is not accessible to him is what is clear to you.

Because I'm more educated.

Because you are better educated... Education is one thing, but upbringing is another.

While Kartashev was thinking about these new barriers, Aglaida Vasilievna continued:

Tyoma, you are on a slippery slope, and if your brains don’t work on their own, then no one will help you. You can come out as a barren flower, you can give people a bountiful harvest... Only you yourself can help yourself, and it’s a sin for you more than anyone else: you have a family that you won’t find anywhere else. If you do not draw strength from it for a rational life, then nowhere and no one will give it to you.

There is something above family: social life.

Social life, my dear, is a hall, and family is the stones from which this hall is built.

Kartashev listened to his mother’s conversations the way a departing traveler listens to the ringing of his native bell. It rings and awakens the soul, but the traveler goes his own way.

Kartashev himself was now pleased that it was not his company that was gathering. He loved his mother and sisters, recognized all their merits, but his soul yearned to go where the company, cheerful and carefree, authoritative for itself, lived the life it wanted to live. Gymnasium in the morning, classes in the afternoon, and meetings in the evening. Not for drinking, not for carousing, but for reading. Aglaida Vasilyevna reluctantly let her son go.

Kartashev has already won this right once and for all.

“I can’t live feeling inferior to others,” he told his mother with strength and expressiveness, “and if they force me to live a different life, then I will become a scoundrel: I will ruin my life...

Please don't be intimidating because I'm not the shy type.

But nevertheless, from then on, Kartashev, leaving home, only stated:

Mom, I'm going to Kornev.

And Aglaida Vasilievna usually just nodded her head with an unpleasant feeling.

GYMNASIUM

It was more fun at the gymnasium than at home, although the oppression and demands of the gymnasium were heavier than the demands of the family. But there life went on in public. In the family, everyone’s interest was only his own, but there the gymnasium connected the interests of everyone. At home, the struggle went on eye to eye, and there was little interest in it: all the innovators, each separately in their family, felt their powerlessness, in the gymnasium one felt the same powerlessness, but here the work went on together, there was full scope for criticism, and no one cared about them those who were sorted out. Here it was possible, without looking back, so as not to hurt the painful feelings of one or another from the company, to try on the theoretical scale that the company was gradually developing for itself.

From the point of view of this scale, the company related to all phenomena of gymnasium life and to all those who represented the administration of the gymnasium.

From this point of view, some deserved attention, others - respect, others - hatred, and others, finally, deserved nothing but disdain. The latter included all those who had nothing else in their heads except their mechanical duties. They were called "amphibians". The kind amphibian is the warden Ivan Ivanovich, the vengeful amphibian is the mathematics teacher; neither good nor evil: the inspector, foreign language teachers, thoughtful and dreamy, wearing colored ties, smoothly combed. They themselves seemed to be aware of their wretchedness, and only during exams their figures were outlined for a moment in more relief, only to then disappear from the horizon again until the next exam. Everyone loved and respected the same director, although they considered him a hothead, capable of making a lot of tactlessness in the heat of the moment. But somehow they didn’t take offense at him at such moments and willingly forgot his harshness. The focus of the company was four: the Latin teacher in the lower grades Khlopov, the Latin teacher in their class Dmitry Petrovich Vozdvizhensky, the literature teacher Mitrofan Semenovich Kozarsky and the history teacher Leonid Nikolaevich Shatrov.

The young Latin teacher Khlopov, who taught in the lower grades, was disliked by everyone in the gymnasium. There was no greater pleasure for high school students than to accidentally push this teacher and throw him a contemptuous “guilty” or give him a corresponding look. And when he ran hastily along the corridor, red-faced, wearing blue glasses, with his gaze directed forward, everyone, standing at the door of their class, tried to look at him as impudently as possible, and even the quietest, first student Yakovlev, flaring his nostrils, said, without hesitation whether they hear him or not:

He is red because he has sucked on the blood of his victims.

And the little victims, crying and overtaking each other, after each lesson poured out into the corridor after him and in vain begged for mercy.

Fed up with ones and twos, the teacher just rolled his intoxicated eyes and hurried, without saying a single word, to hide in the teacher’s room.

It cannot be said that he was an evil man, but his attention was enjoyed exclusively by the dumbfounded, and as these victims under his care became more and more frightened, Khlopov became more and more tender towards them. And they, in turn, were in awe of him and, in a fit of ecstasy, kissed his hands. Khlopov did not enjoy sympathy among the teachers, and any of the students looked into the crack of the teacher’s room during recreation, always saw him running alone from corner to corner, with a red, excited face, with the look of an offended person.

He spoke quickly and stuttered slightly. Despite his youth, he already had a fairly saggy belly.

The little victims, who knew how to cry in front of him and kiss his hands, called him a “pregnant bitch” behind their eyes, probably amazed by the inadequacy of his belly.

In general, he was a tyrant - convinced and proud, about whom they said that at Katkov’s anniversary, when he was being rocked, he turned so over that Katkov found himself sitting on his back. That’s why they called him in high school: the Katkov donkey.

The literature teacher, Mitrofan Semenovich Kozarsky, was a small, gloomy man with all the signs of evil consumption. On his head he had a whole heap of unkempt, tangled, curly hair, into which he now and then biliously ran his small hand, fingers apart, through. He always wore dark, smoky glasses, and only occasionally, when he took them off to wipe them, did the students see small gray, angry eyes, like those of a chained dog. He growled somehow like a dog. It was difficult to make him smile, but when he smiled, it was even more difficult to recognize it as a smile, as if someone was forcibly stretching his mouth, and he resisted it with all his might. Although the students were afraid of him, and regularly crammed various ancient Slavic beauties, they also tried to flirt with him.

Such flirting rarely went in vain.

One day, as soon as the roll call ended, Kartashev, who considered it his duty to doubt everything, which, however, turned out to be a little violent for him, stood up and addressed the teacher in a decisive, excited voice:

Mitrofan Semenovich! One circumstance in the lives of Anthony and Theodosius is incomprehensible to me.

Which one? - the teacher was dryly wary.

I'm afraid to ask you, it's so incongruous.

Speak, sir!

Kozarsky nervously rested his chin in his hand and glared at Kartashev.

Kartashev turned pale and, without taking his eyes off him, expressed, albeit confusedly, but in one salvo, his suspicions that there was bias in the appointment of Boyar Fyodor.

As he spoke, the teacher's eyebrows rose higher and higher. It seemed to Kartashev that it was not glasses that were looking at him, but the dark hollows of someone’s eyes, scary and mysterious. He suddenly felt terrified by his own words. He would have been glad not to say them, but everything was said, and Kartashev, falling silent, depressed, confused, continued to look into the terrible glasses with a stupid, frightened gaze. But the teacher was still silent, still watching, and only a poisonous grimace curled his lips more strongly.

A thick blush flooded Kartashev’s cheeks, and painful shame gripped him. Finally, Mitrofan Semyonovich spoke quietly, measuredly, and his words dripped like boiling water onto Kartashev’s head:

The desire to always be original can drive a person to such disgusting... to such vulgarity...

The class began to spin in Kartashev’s eyes. Half the words flew past, but those that fell into his ears were enough. His legs gave way and he sat down, half unconscious. The teacher coughed nervously, biliously, and grabbed his sunken chest with his small, outstretched hand. When the seizure passed, he walked around the classroom in silence for a long time.

In due course, at the university, we will touch upon you in detail about the sad phenomenon in our literature that has caused and is causing such a buffoonish attitude towards life.

The hint was too clear and seemed too offensive for Kornev.

“History tells us,” he couldn’t resist, turning pale and rising with a distorted face, “that much of what seemed clownish and not worth attention to contemporaries turned out to be completely different in reality.

“Well, it won’t turn out that way,” the teacher turned his dark glasses sharply towards him. - And it won’t turn out to be because this is a story, not an overexposure. Well, in any case, this is not a modern topic. What is asked?

The teacher was immersed in a book, but immediately looked up and spoke again:

Boyishness has no place in history. Fifty years ago, a poet who lived to understand requires knowledge of the era, and not pulling him out of it and bringing him as a defendant to the bench of modernity.

But we, contemporaries, learn this poet’s poems “Go Away” from memory...

Mitrofan Semenovich raised his eyebrows high, bared his teeth and silently looked, like a skeleton in blue glasses, at Kornev.

Yes, sir, teach... you must teach... and if you don’t know, you’ll get one... And this is not a matter of your competence.

Maybe,” Dolba intervened, “we are not competent, but we want to be competent.”

Well, Darcier! - the teacher called.

Dolba met Rylsky's eyes and looked down dismissively.

When the lesson ended, Kartashev stood up embarrassed and stretched out.

What, brother, did he shave you off? - Dolb good-naturedly clapped him on the shoulder.

He shaved it off,” Kartashev smiled awkwardly, “to hell with him.”

“It’s not worth arguing with him,” Kornev agreed. - What kind of techniques are these? illiterate, boys... And if only his literacy was limited, would they be literate?

Please don’t put it down,” Rylsky interrupted him cheerfully, “because if you put it down you won’t get it up.”

History teacher Leonid Nikolaevich Shatrov has long gained popularity among his students.

He entered the gymnasium as a teacher just in the year when the described company entered the third grade.

And with his youth, and gentle techniques, and that spirituality that so attracts young, untouched hearts, Leonid Nikolaevich gradually attracted everyone to him, so that in high school the students treated him with respect and love. One thing upset them was that Leonid Nikolaevich was a Slavophile, although not a “leavened one,” as Kornev explained, but with a confederation of Slavic tribes, with Constantinople at the head. This mitigated somewhat the severity of his guilt, but still the company became a dead end: he couldn’t help but read Pisarev, and if he did, was he really so limited that he didn’t understand him? Be that as it may, even Slavophilism was excused for him, and his lesson was always awaited with special pleasure.

The appearance of his unprepossessing figure, with a large wide forehead, long straight hair, which he kept tucking behind his ear, with intelligent, soft, brown eyes, always somehow particularly excited the students.

And he was "tortured". Either Pisarev’s book will be accidentally forgotten on the table, or someone will casually talk about a topic from the field of general issues, or even express a coherent idea. The teacher will listen, grin, shrug and say:

Cut down, most respected one!

And then he will notice:

What guys!

And so he will say mysteriously that the students do not know whether to be happy or sad, that they are still guys.

Leonid Nikolaevich loved his subject very much. Loving, he forced those who came into contact with him to love what he loved.

In that lesson, when, after taking roll call, he modestly rose and, putting a strand of hair behind his ear, said, descending from his dais: “I will tell today,” the class turned into hearing and was ready to listen to him for all five lessons in a row. And they not only listened, but also carefully wrote down all his conclusions and generalizations.

Leonid Nikolaevich’s manner of speaking was somehow special, captivating. Either, walking around the class, enthusiastically, he grouped the facts, for greater clarity, as if grabbing them with his hand into the fist of his other hand, then he moved on to conclusions and as if took them out of his clenched fist in return for the facts that he had put there. And the result was always a clear and logical conclusion, strictly justified.

Within the framework of a scientific formulation of the question, broader than the curriculum of the gymnasium course, the students felt both satisfied and flattered. Leonid Nikolaevich took advantage of this and organized voluntary work. He proposed topics, and those who wished to would take them on, guided by the sources he indicated and their own, if they were afraid of one-sided coverage of the issue.

So, in the sixth grade, no one wanted to take one topic - "The Confederation of Slavic Tribes in the Appanage Period" - for a long time. Berendya finally made up his mind, telling himself that if, after meeting the main source indicated by the teacher, Kostomarov, he did not like the way the question was posed, then he was free to come to a different conclusion.

Reasonable? - asked Leonid Nikolaevich.

Of course,” Berendya pressed his fingers to his chest and rose, as usual, on his toes.

One day, Leonid Nikolaevich came to class, contrary to usual, upset and upset.

The new trustee, having examined the gymnasium, was dissatisfied with some of the students’ promiscuity and lack of factual knowledge.

Among the others, Leonid Nikolaevich was called to the trustee, and straight from the explanation, which was obviously unfavorable for him, he came to class.

The students did not immediately notice the teacher’s bad mood.

Having made a roll call, Leonid Nikolaevich called Semenov.

The students hoped that today's lesson would be a story.

The disappointment was unpleasant, and everyone listened to Semenov’s answer with boring faces.

Semyonov pulled and tried to get out in the general places.

Leonid Nikolayevich, bowing his head, listened, bored, with a painful face.

Year? - he asked, noticing that Semyonov avoided specifying the year.

Semyonov said the first thing that came to his tongue, and he lied, of course.

Bravely, but you won’t receive the St. George Cross,” Leonid Nikolaevich noted half-irritably, half-jokingly.

He will receive it when Constantinople is captured,” Rylsky inserted.

Leonid Nikolaevich frowned and lowered his eyes.

“He will never get it,” Kartashev responded cheerfully from his seat, “because a federation of Slavic tribes with Constantinople at the head is impracticable nonsense.”

“You, most respected, will be reduced,” said Leonid Nikolaevich, raising his burning eyes to Kartashev.

Kartashev was embarrassed and fell silent, but Kornev stood up for Kartashev. He spoke sarcastically and caustically:

A good way to debate!

Leonid Nikolaevich turned purple, and the veins filled his temples. There was silence for some time.

Kornev, stand without a seat.

Since the third grade, Leonid Nikolaevich has not subjected anyone to such a humiliating punishment.

Kornev turned pale and his face became distorted.

Deathly silence reigned in the class.

Everything went silent again. Something terrible was approaching and was about to become an irreparable fact. Everyone was waiting tensely. Leonid Nikolaevich was silent.

“In that case, I ask you to leave the class,” he said without raising his eyes.

It was as if a stone had been lifted from everyone’s shoulders.

“I don’t consider myself guilty,” Kornev spoke. “Maybe I’m wrong, but it seems to me that I didn’t say anything that you wouldn’t allow me to say at another time.” But if you find me guilty, then I will go...

Kornev began to make his way to the exit.

“Draw a map of ancient Greece,” Leonid Nikolaevich suddenly told him, pointing to the board as Kornev passed by him.

Instead of punishment, Kornev began to draw what was assigned on the board.

Kartashev! Reasons and reason for the Crusades.

This was a rewarding topic.

Kartashev, according to Guizot, outlined in detail the reasons and motive for the Crusades.

Leonid Nikolaevich listened, and as Kartashev spoke, the tense, dissatisfied feeling disappeared from his face.

Kartashev had a good command of speech and painted a vivid picture of the hopeless economic situation of Europe as a result of arbitrariness, violence and the unwillingness of willful vassals to take into account the pressing needs of the people... Having given several examples of relations between the upper and lower classes that had become extremely strained, he moved on to the practical side of the matter: to about and further presentation of events.

Leonid Nikolayevich listened to Kartashev’s lively speech, looked into his excitedly burning eyes from the proud consciousness of the meaningfulness and intelligence of his answer - he listened, and he was overcome by a feeling, perhaps similar to that which a good rider experiences when training a hot young horse and sensing in it a move that in the future would glorify both the horse and him.

Well, great,” Leonid Nikolaevich noted with feeling, “that’s enough.”

Rylsky, the economic state of France under Louis the Fourteenth.

Rylsky’s speech did not have those bright colors and tints with which Kartashev’s speech sparkled beautifully. He spoke dryly, concisely, often interrupted his periods with the sound “e”, and generally spoke with some effort. But in the grouping of facts, in the layering of them, some kind of serious efficiency was felt, and the impression of the picture was not as artistic, perhaps, as Kartashev’s, but stronger, bursting with facts and figures.

Leonid Nikolaevich listened, and a feeling of satisfaction and at the same time some kind of melancholy shone in his eyes.

“I’ve finished,” said Kornev.

Leonid Nikolaevich turned, quickly examined the board he had written on and said:

Thank you... please sit down.

A very special kind of relationship existed between the students and the Latin teacher Dmitry Petrovich Vozdvizhensky.

He was a middle-aged, heavily gray-haired, red-nosed man, stooped and hunched, with blue eyes the color of a gentle spring sky, which formed a sharp contrast with his acne-stained face and stubbly, short-cropped hair on his cheeks and beard. This hair stuck out like a dirty grayish stubble, and the large mustache moved like a cockroach. In general, “Mitya” was unprepossessing in appearance, often came to class drunk and had the ability to influence his students in such a way that they immediately turned into first-graders. And Pisarev, and Shelgunov, and Shchapov, and Buckle, and Darwin were immediately forgotten during those hours when there were Latin lessons.

No one cared about Mitya’s political convictions, but a lot of people cared about his big red nose, his small gray eyes, which at times suddenly became very large, and his stooped figure.

From afar, someone who noticed him walking along the corridor flew into the classroom with a joyful cry:

In response, a friendly roar of forty voices was heard. A Babylonian pandemonium arose: everyone, in their own way, as they wanted, hurried to express their joy. They roared like a bear, barked like a dog, crowed like a rooster, and beat a drum. Out of excess of feelings, they jumped up on the benches, stood on their heads, hit each other on the back, and pressed butter.

The teacher’s figure appeared in the doorway, and everything instantly calmed down, and then, to the rhythm of his gait, everyone quietly said in unison:

They go, they go, they go...

When he ascended the pulpit and suddenly stopped at the table, everyone at once cried out fragmentarily:

And when he sat down on a chair, everyone shouted in unison:

There was an expectant silence. It was necessary to find out the question: was Mitya drunk or not?

The teacher assumed a stern face and began to squint. This was a good sign, and the class whispered joyfully but hesitantly:

He squints.

Suddenly he opened his eyes wide. There was no doubt.

Rolled it out!! - a volley was heard from the whole class.

The fun began.

But the teacher was not always drunk, and then upon entering he immediately interrupted the students, saying in a boring and disappointed voice:

Enough.

“That’s enough,” the class answered him and, just like him, waved his hand.

Then followed relative calm, since the teacher, although shortsighted, knew the voices so well that, no matter how the students changed them, he always unmistakably guessed the culprit.

Semenov, I’ll write it down,” he usually answered some owl’s cry.

If Semyonov did not calm down, then the teacher wrote it down on a piece of paper, and said:

And the class repeated in every way:

Give me a piece of paper and I'll sign you up.

And everyone vying with each other hurried to give him what he required, with the difference that if he was sober, then they gave him paper, and if he was drunk, then they brought what they could: books, hats, feathers - in a word, everything, but not paper.

The students heard that the teacher had received the rank of state councilor. During the next lesson, no one called him anything other than “Your Excellency”... Moreover, every time he was about to say something, the duty officer turned to the class and said in a frightened whisper:

Shh!.. His Excellency wants to talk.

The news that Mitya was the groom caused even greater delight among the students. This news came just before his lesson. Even the imperturbable Yakovlev, the first student, succumbed.

Rylsky bent his knees a little, hunched over, puffed up his face and, putting a finger to his lips, quietly, slowly, like a pouting turkey, began to walk, imitating Mitya and saying in a low bass voice:

“Gentlemen, we must honor Mitya,” Dolba suggested.

Need, Need!

Honor Mitya!

Honor! - they picked it up from all sides and eagerly began discussing the festival program.

It was decided to elect a deputation that would convey the class’s congratulations to the teacher. They chose Yakovlev, Dolba, Rylsky and Berendya. Kartashev was rejected for the reason that he would not stand it and would ruin the whole thing. Everything was ready when the familiar, stooped figure of the teacher appeared at the end of the corridor.

A long uniform frock coat below the knees, some kind of Cossack trousers with a cone down, a package under the arm, thick hair, stubble on the cheeks, a prickly beard, a protruding mustache and the whole ruffled figure of the teacher gave the impression of a rumpled rooster after a fight. When he entered, everyone stood up decorously, and there was dead silence in the classroom.

Everyone was tempted to bark, because Mitya was more interesting than usual. He walked, aiming straight towards the table, unevenly, quickly, trying to maintain both dignity and swiftness in achieving the goal, he walked as if he were struggling with invisible obstacles, struggling, overcoming and moving forward victoriously.

It was obvious that they had time to diligently congratulate the groom at breakfast.

His face was redder than usual: blackheads and a swollen red nose were shining.

Just drink some water,” Dolba remarked cheerfully, loudly, shrugging his shoulders.

The teacher blinked hard, thought for a moment, staring out the window, and said:

Sit down.

“We can’t,” the class answered him in a respectful whisper.

Mitya thought again, rolled his eyes, blinked and repeated:

Empty, sit down.

The quiet groan of forty people dying from unbearable convulsions of laughter swept through the classroom.

Four elected representatives rose from the back benches to congratulate the deputy. They all walked, each separately, along the four aisles to the teacher's place, decorously and solemnly.

The teacher squinted as they walked, and the class, frozen, watched.

Yakovlev was better than others. He officiated. Such majestic, indestructible dignity was written on his face, such serious penetration of his role, and at the same time his nostrils flared so insidiously that it was impossible to look at him without laughing.

Dolba came out with something unnatural, strained, a desire to borrow money. Rylsky wanted to be both an actor and a spectator; he did not take his role seriously enough. The lanky Berendya walked too uninspiredly with his usual gait of a man who is constantly being pushed in the neck.

When the deputies came to the front of the benches, they stopped, aligned themselves in one line and all at once, turning sharply to face the class, bowed deeply to their comrades. The class decorously and solemnly responded to their delegates with the same bow.

Mitya, as before, only squinted at all these mysterious actions and carefully observed the deputies bowing and their comrades answering them.

Having bowed to the class, the deputies, two in a row opposite each other, bowed to one another, first straight, and then crosswise.

With a new maneuver, the deputies, four in a row, stood in front of the teacher and bowed low, respectfully to him at the waist. I had to, willy-nilly, step out of the role of observer.

The teacher made some kind of movement, halfway between a bow and a nod of the head, as if saying: “Well, let’s put it... what next?”

Yakovlev, clearing his throat slightly, flaring his nostrils, began:

Dmitry Petrovich! our comrades instructed us to thank you for the honor that you showed to one of our comrades by entering into kinship with him. The class is happy to hear about your marriage and offers you its heartfelt congratulations.

“Oh yes, sincere and heartfelt congratulations,” someone said in a deep voice.

Kwi-kwi! - flashed through the class.

Dmitry Petrovich! - Yakovlev said, respectfully leaning towards the teacher and flaring his nostrils.

The teacher, who had managed to roll out and squint, thought and, waving his hand as usual, said in his usual voice:

What exactly is empty? - Yakovlev asked respectfully.

Everything is empty.

So how? It's about marriage... about the happiness of two people who love each other tenderly...

The class howled.

Gentlemen, I can’t... - said Yakovlev, already choking with laughter. - You are disturbing me...

He covered his mouth and either cried or laughed.

Something completely out of the ordinary began. Like a mad whirlwind, saturated with drunken fumes, burst into the classroom. They jumped up, screamed, and hit each other. The crowd went wild. Kartashev, as if maddened, jumped out of his seat and flew up to the teacher.

The teacher narrowed his eyes at him.

What do you want?

Least of all Kartashev could answer, whatever he wanted. Something was propping up his sides; his throat convulsed, he wanted to throw out something so that he and the others would burst out laughing.

What the gymnasium authorities did not do to establish proper order in Dmitry Petrovich’s lessons: they left without lunch both in retail and with the whole class, gave bad marks for behavior and even temporarily expelled one, but nothing helped.

There was only one way to stop the chaos in Dmitry Petrovich's lessons: to remove it. But Dmitry Petrovich had only two years left until retirement, and there were reasons why everyone wanted to help this man somehow reach the end of his service. When one of Dmitry Petrovich’s comrades happened to listen to students’ enthusiastic stories about pranks in his lessons, instead of cheerful laughter, the teacher said with bitterness:

Eh, gentlemen, if you knew this man... It was a star between us.

Dmitry Petrovich's life began under happy conditions. He was already a master and was about to get married, when suddenly he ended up in the fortress for something. Three years later he left there. His bride was already married to someone else; For a long time he could not get anything to do. His former patrons turned their backs on him. He began to drink and accepted the only job they agreed to give him: that of a Latin teacher.

A weak man, everyone said about him with one voice, but a beautiful soul and wonderful rules.

In the circle of those who liked him, Dmitry Petrovich was a different person, with a huge store of knowledge, witty, kind, with a clear view of the life of a European educated person. But for the students he was only Mitya, old, drunken Mitya, who patiently and cheerfully allowed himself to be mocked as much as anyone wanted.

MAGAZINE

When classes had just begun after the holidays, Christmas seemed like such a distant beacon among the monotonous, gray sea of ​​school life.

But here comes Christmas: tomorrow is Christmas Eve and the Christmas tree. The wind drives cold snow through the deserted streets and opens the cold uniform coat of Kartashev, who, alone, not in the usual company, is rushing home from his last lesson. How quickly time flew by. Where are Danilov and Kasitsky now? The sea is probably frozen. Kartashev had not seen him for a long time, since his friends left.

How everything has changed since then. A completely different life, a different environment. And Korneva? Is he really in love? Yes, he’s madly in love, and what he wouldn’t give to be always with her, to have the right to look boldly into her eyes and tell her about his love. No, he will never offend her with his confession, but he knows that he loves, loves and loves her. Or maybe she loves him too?! Sometimes she looks into her eyes so much that you just want to grab and hug... It’s hot for Kartashev in the middle of a snowstorm: his coat is half unbuttoned, and, as if in a dream, he walks along familiar streets. He's been walking on them for a long time. Both summer and winter march on. Some joyful thought in his head will connect with the house on which his gaze falls, and this house will then awaken his memory. And this thought will be forgotten, and the house somehow attracts everything to itself. It was on this corner that he somehow met her, and she nodded at him and smiled as if she was suddenly happy. Why didn't he approach her then? She looked back again from a distance, and his heart froze and ached, and rushed towards her, but he was afraid that she would suddenly realize why he was standing, and he quickly walked away with a concerned face. Well, what if she had guessed that he loved her? Oh, it would, of course, be such insolence that neither she nor anyone would forgive him. If everyone had found out, they would have given up the house, and with what eyes would Kornev look at him? No, don't! And so good: to love in his heart Kartashev looked around. Yes, here it is Christmas, no lessons for two weeks, there is emptiness in my soul and the joy of the holiday. He always loved Christmas, and his memory connected the Christmas tree, and gifts, and the aroma of oranges, and kutya, and a quiet evening, and a pile of delicacies. And there, in the kitchen, they are caroling. They come from there with their simple delicacies: nuts, horns, wine berries, they are given dresses and things.

It has always been this way, as long as he can remember. In the bright lights of the Christmas tree and the fireplace, right after dinner, he suddenly remembers his favorite kutya again, and he runs happily and returns with a full plate, sits down in front of the fireplace and eats. Natasha, his fan, will shout: “Me too.” Behind her are Seryozha, Manya, Asya, and everyone is here again with plates of kutya. Zina won’t stand it either. Everyone is having fun and laughing, and the mother, dressed up and happy, looks at them affectionately. What will they give him this year? - thought Kartashev, ringing the bell at the entrance.

The next evening he was given a pound of tobacco and a tobacco tin. And although he had been quietly smoking for a long time, now, having received the gift, he still did not dare to smoke in front of his mother for a long time. And when he lit a cigarette, with a serious, concerned face, he immediately sat down to the fairy tales given to Seryozha and began to read them carefully. The mother smiled, looked at him and, getting up, silently walked up to him and kissed his head. He embarrassedly kissed her hand and again hastily buried himself in the book. There was the usual excitement and joy of everyone all around, and he thought: “What is the company doing now?”

INTERVIEW: Alisa Tayozhnaya

PHOTOS: Alena Ermishina

MAKEUP: Irene Shimshilashvili

IN THE RUBRIC “BOOKSHELF” we ask journalists, writers, scientists, curators and other heroines about their literary preferences and publications that occupy an important place in their bookcase. Today, dance historian, researcher of modern choreography and creator of the No fixed points project, Vita Khlopova, shares her stories about her favorite books.

Vita Khlopova

Dance historian

I have more than three hundred foreign books on choreography, and these are only the cream of the crop - I have already sold the rest

I am an only child in the family and, being a bit of an introvert, I amused myself by reading. I was one of those people who always crashed into a pole on the street because I was walking with my head in a book. A frequent memory from childhood: I wake up at three in the morning in my dad’s arms, and my mom makes my bed - I always fell asleep reading a book.

At the age of nine, my life changed dramatically. I entered the Moscow Ballet School. Classes were held from nine in the morning to six in the evening on Frunzenskaya, but I lived in Zelenograd, and in order to be at the school around 8:30, I had to get up at 5:40. I came home around nine, then an hour of music lessons, an hour of homework, an hour of stretching and gymnastics. As a result, I fell asleep at one in the morning. Therefore, I was sent to a boarding school for out-of-town students (I still use the word “boarding school” to scare my new acquaintances, but in fact it was just a dormitory). And although I began to sleep more than four hours, I could no longer read as before due to the incredible workload.

The school “gave me” a stereotype, getting rid of which led me to my current profession: all ballerinas are stupid. The teachers said this, my parents’ friends said this, my new non-ballet acquaintances said this later. “If there had been a ballerina on the Titanic, he would not have drowned, because a ballerina is like a traffic jam,” I’ve heard plenty of similar stories. Therefore, from the age of ten, I firmly decided that I would prove to everyone that ballerinas are not stupid. I deliberately carried a lot of books with me in my hands, so that the cover was always visible. I read what was too early to read in order to “wipe our noses” from the teachers who again said that we were stupid.

When I entered GITIS at the Faculty of Theater Studies, I realized that I was simply categorically uneducated. Even then, at the age of seventeen, my classmates were discussing Bart, but I had never even heard of him. I was terribly angry with myself and my ballet education. During the first semester, some of my fellow students openly laughed at me: my critical experiments were extremely naive and full of stupid journalistic clichés. But by the end of my studies, it turned out that I was the only one who somehow graduated with honors, and only I was invited to graduate school.

Literally a couple of years later, I ended up in Paris for my studies. The first shock was the library of the Pompidou Center. Firstly, there are no library cards in it, and secondly, you can take your entire backpack with you, rather than pulling out a pencil and a couple of pieces of paper in order to pass. You can sit there until ten o’clock in the evening, and when you get tired, you can go to a cafe or to the balcony to breathe (from the balconies at the Pompidou you have such a view that even five minutes is enough for a new portion of inspiration). Over the course of a year, I studied the entire modern dance section at the Pompidou, and had to look for a more specialized place. I found the Dance Center, which is located in a not very favorable area, quite far from the center, and the view from the balcony was no longer inspiring.

I watched hours of videos, typed hundreds of books; librarians compiled a program for me, pulled out archives, and helped with translation. It seemed as if I had woken up after a hundred-year coma and was trying to understand in a couple of years what had happened during these hundred years. The two years spent in that center gave me all the basic knowledge that I did not receive in fifteen years of ballet training in Russia. I left France with an excess of sixty kilograms. I have more than three hundred foreign books on choreography, and this is only the cream of the crop - I have already managed to sell the rest of the nonsense in France. I won’t even talk about ballet books in Russian - this baggage has been accumulating since college.

Every time I travel, I look for second-hand bookshops - there you can find treasures for pennies: Nijinsky’s diaries for fifty cents or a rare book about “The Rite of Spring” for two euros, I took from a secret store at a flea market in Paris. In New York, I visited all the bookstores and compiled a huge guide to the best dance book spots, but in the end I thought that there were no more people like me, obsessed with one topic, and no one would read it. Now it seems to me that I read indecently little. At the same time, before each lecture I study several books, some of which I have to swallow whole in a couple of days. But since they relate to my professional interests, I do not consider them “real” reading.

I always take my Kindle with me at all times. I bought it when I started giving lectures at GITIS: I had exactly a week to prepare, and if the topic was narrow, for example, “The Third Generation of Modern Dance in America,” then only the corresponding book could save me: the electronic version could be downloaded instantly and it cost cheaper. Over the course of a couple of years, my Kindle library accumulated a decent number of dance books, and when the course ended, I downloaded a ton of interesting books not related to choreography. I usually read several books in parallel on the Kindle, often guilty of doing it diagonally, but still learning to do it more slowly. Now I’m trying to read Sarah Bernhardt’s diaries slowly and carefully, but it’s very difficult: such a narcissistic and impudent tone still needs to be endured, and the book itself is huge.

Every time I travel, I look for used bookstores - there you can find treasures for pennies

Polanski's novel

"Angelin Preljocaj"

Angelin Preljocaj is the person who turned me from a ballet dancer into a researcher of modern choreography, and because of him I ended up at the Sorbonne. When I studied at GITIS, we did not have the history of ballet, but I heard about courses on the history of modern choreography at the ISI (Institute of Contemporary Art), taught by Violetta Aleksandrovna Mainietse, she later became my guide to this research world. At one of the first lectures, she showed “Romeo and Juliet” by a choreographer with a strange surname, and I was dumbfounded because the ballet was not based on Shakespeare at all, but on “1984” by Orwell.

From that moment on, I began to study Preljocaj, and I also chose him for my diploma, having discovered, however, a month before my defense that nothing had been written about him in Russian. I had to pluck up the courage and write to him personally. A couple of hours later I received a letter that on April 9, Monsieur Preljocaj was waiting for me in his studio for an interview. Quite a few books have been written about him, as he is one of the most important choreographers in France, but this one is my favorite. When director Roman Polanski asks choreographer Angelin Preljocaj a question, it’s already interesting. And most importantly, Polanski’s questions tell a lot about himself, which makes this book interesting not only for lovers of modern dance.

Nancy Reynolds, Malcolm McCormick

"No Fixed Points: Dance in the Twentieth Century"

A monumental work by George Balanchine Foundation director Nancy Reynolds on twentieth-century modern dance. My reference book is full of notes and comments. There are no works on the history of modern dance in Russian at all. The entire twentieth century, from Martha Graham to Wim Vandekeybus, is known only to practitioners and researchers. The course that I came up with was dedicated to the twentieth century; Having finished one lecture, I began preparing the next one on the same day.

It was from this book that I wrote the basis for the lectures, and with others - memories, memoirs, reviews, monographs - I already supplemented the story. Of course, I took the name for my project on modern choreography No fixed points from Nancy Reynolds, who, in turn, took it from the American choreographer Merce Cunningham, who, in turn, took it from Einstein. The point is that there are no fixed points in space, therefore, everything that is happening now is movement, and therefore dance. And we are all, to one degree or another, artists and dancers.

Martha Graham

"The Blood Memory: An Autobiography"

Martha Graham is a major figure in twentieth-century modern dance. Kind of like Charlie Chaplin for cinema. How many books have been written about her work, life, novels, men, productions - it’s impossible to count. But this one always stands apart, as it was written by Martha herself. Like any autobiography, it is seasoned with a dose of narcissism, but in order to learn about life from the point of view of the hero himself, there is no better option. Here you will find wonderful stories about how her student Madonna pulled the troupe out of debt, how she hid her real age from her “nosy” husband Eric Hawkins, how she wasted her choreographic talent when she taught children at Denishawn School.

A couple of years ago, I came to the Garage Museum with the idea of ​​translating into Russian cult books about modern dance, which were written in the twentieth century, translated into several dozen languages ​​and republished several times. I told you that until now (and it was 2015) there is nothing in Russian about modern dance. Many of my students are hearing for the first time the names of those who are as classic for students in Europe or America as Petipa is for us. In the same GITIS, I could not give a list of literature for study, since it would consist entirely of foreign books. “Garage” eventually believed me, and we launched the “GARAGE DANCE” series, where Graham’s autobiography will be released at number one. This is truly a huge and very important undertaking, and I am happy that this particular book will become available to readers in Russian.

Irina Deshkova

“An illustrated encyclopedia of ballet in stories and historical anecdotes for children and their parents”

This book can only be found in used bookstores, but if you find it, grab it - it's happiness. Irina Pavlovna Deshkova taught the history of ballet at our school, and these were the best lessons. She did not list the dates of Petipa’s life in a monotonous voice, but showed us some incredible videos like Riverdance (everyone already knows about it now, but in the nineties it was a revelation) or the Disney masterpiece “Fantasia,” where hippos dance in tutus to Tchaikovsky, and dinosaurs live out their tragic fate to the tune of “The Rite of Spring.”

I still believe that there is no better initiation into classical music for children. When Irina Deshkova wrote this book, we were all obliged to buy it. Frankly, I didn’t open it for a very long time. But already as an adult, I found it by accident and couldn’t put it down - I read it in a couple of hours and laughed with delight. The book consists of witty and beautifully written articles, arranged in alphabetical order, from stories about what "arabesque" is or who Louis XIV was, to anecdotes about a ballerina who killed a thief with a kick.

Elizaveta Surits

“Choreographic art of the twenties. Development trends"

Elizaveta Yakovlevna Surits is our chief ballet historian, who is appreciated and adored by absolutely everyone. Abroad they talk about her exclusively with aspiration and delight. But, surprisingly, with all the academic recognition, her books are incredibly easy to read. You don't have to wade through complex structures and little-used expressions, and you don't feel stupid when discovering her work.

I recommend all of her books - from the monograph dedicated to Leonid Massine to the only work in Russian on the history of dance in the United States, “Ballet and Dance in America.” But this is the one I love the most, since the twenties of the twentieth century were a very difficult period for ballet and dance. She talks about the early years of the young Georgy Balanchivadze, who later became the famous American choreographer George Balanchine, about the experiments of Kasyan Goleizovsky and Fyodor Lopukhov ahead of their time, and about many others, slightly less famous.

Twyla Tharp

"The Habit of Creativity"

Twyla Tharp is well known in Russia. Everyone remembers Baryshnikov dancing to Vysotsky - so Tharp choreographed it. She is actually Baryshnikov’s “godmother” in America, since after her “Push comes to shove,” the fugitive Soviet ballet dancer turned into the legendary Misha Baryshnikov, and it was she who launched his American career.

The super popular Twyla wrote a book about how to tame your muse. How to make the muse come to you exactly from nine to six, because the habit of creating is not something given from above, but painstaking work. The book immediately became a bestseller, and it was sold as a business guide. We have no right to wait for inspiration. A choreographer has artists to pay, a mortgage to pay, and children to go to college, so it is very important to develop the habit of creating. The book contains many examples, tests and exercises that will help you understand problems, for example, with time management. The book is written in American style, with slogans and motivational phrases, and is very inspiring.

Kurt Joss

"60 Years of The Green Table (Studies in Drama and Dance)"

I hunted for this book on Amazon for a very long time: sometimes it was very expensive, sometimes it disappeared for a long time. In the end, after a year of torment, I was able to grab it and was happy, since there is very little information on the German choreographer and teacher of Pina Bausch, Kurt Jooss. There are two copies in my library - one of them has a very interesting dedicatory inscription. One day a couple of years ago, an acquaintance of mine, who had nothing to do with dancing, called me and said that his colleague’s aunt, who was a little fond of ballet, had died and left behind a library that her nephew was about to throw away. Out of politeness, I agreed, but I understood that, most likely, my grandmother had a couple of books by Krasovskaya, maybe something on Soviet ballet - in general, something that was beyond my scientific interests.

When I entered, I saw that the whole apartment was lined with books about ballet. And then it dawned on me who this grandmother was - a very famous dance researcher in Soviet times, a former artist of the ensemble named after Igor Moiseev, where I also danced for several years. I urgently called GITIS, the archives, and the Union of Theater Workers so that this library would not be missed, but I still took several foreign books for myself. One of them is about Kurt Jooss. And Igor Moiseev signed it: “To a profound art critic - in the future and a charming being - in the present, on the joyful day for us of her birth, I am pleased to leave it as a souvenir. 22/II 1959. I. Moiseev.”

Lynn Garafola

"Russian Ballet of Diaghilev"

Books continue and continue to be written about Diaghilev and the Russian Seasons. This incredibly attractive story gives rise to a lot of speculation and fables. It seems like a hundred years have already passed, each of the twenty ballet seasons has been studied inside and out, but every year some new work comes out - the writers stop researching and simply go through the known facts.

But Lynn Garafola, an American researcher and professor at Barnard College, part of Columbia University, has written a truly excellent book. I always suggest starting to get acquainted with Diaghilev’s enterprise with its painstakingly collected work. This scientist can be trusted, and, moreover, it is pleasant to know that her work does not contain speculation about Russian ballet and especially the Soviet period, which often abound in foreign books. She is not mistaken in the names of little-known choreographers - not everyone can correctly write some complex surname like Yury Grigorovich in a book.

Oleg Levenkov

"George Balanchine"

George Balanchine, aka Georges Balanchine, aka Georgy Melitonovich Balanchivadze, built a ballet school and the first professional troupe in America from scratch. Before America, he worked as a choreographer in Diaghilev's seasons, studied at the ballet school in Petrograd and danced for a couple of years at the theater, which is now called the Mariinsky. A lot has been written about him - he is called the main choreographer of the twentieth century and even the “Petipa of the twentieth century.” But mostly the books deal with the American period, when he perfected his distinctive abstract style.

The periods of Diaghilev and, most importantly, in Russia remain less studied, although they were very interesting. Surprisingly, there is no full-fledged monograph on Balanchine in Russian. And now Oleg Romanovich Levenkov, the creator of the Diaghilev Festival in Perm, released the first part of his biography. Oleg Romanovich was a famous Balanchine scholar, the main one in our country. This book is not a chronology of Balanchine's life, nor a loose adaptation of the famous biography written by Bernard Taper, but a very elegant study of a little-studied period of the choreographer's life. Unfortunately, due to the fact that Levenkov suddenly passed away (this shocked the entire ballet world), he did not have time to release the second volume.

Jean Effel

"World creation"

My husband and I found this Soviet four-volume set in a trash heap - someone, apparently, emptied the bookcases and laid out this treasure. Effel's cartoons, of course, are often on the brink, but looking at the history of the creation of the world from the position of not an omnipotent principle, but practically the same person as we are, is very interesting. These cartoons were very popular in the Soviet Union, and, most interestingly, a ballet was staged based on them.

In 1971, the Kirov Theater (now the Mariinsky) hosted the premiere of the ballet “The Creation of the World” by Vladimir Vasilyov and Natalia Kasatkina, where the role of Adam was performed by the young talented artist Mikhail Baryshnikov. Three years later, he fled the Soviet Union, which caused a lot of problems for this ballet - a “hotbed” of too free ideas. As children, we heard a lot about this legendary ballet, where Baryshnikov revealed himself as a brilliant actor and where his talent was already evident outside of the classical roles. I saw this edition of Effel when I was a child with my parents, but I was able to connect these cartoons and the ballet with Baryshnikov only after I accidentally found this edition in a trash heap.