One of the best works V. Rasputin - the book "French Lessons", summary which is suggested in the article. It is dedicated to A.P. Kopylova - the teacher of the writer, who for the first time made a teenager think about what kindness, humanity, willingness to sacrifice oneself for the welfare of another are.
The beginning of an independent life
The narration is conducted in the first person and represents the memories of an adult about the most significant days of his difficult childhood.
The action takes place in 1948 in a Siberian village. The main character - an eight-year-old boy who was the eldest of three children in the family. The mother had to bring them up alone, but seeing her son's excellent learning abilities, she decides to send him to the 5th grade of the district school. It was fifty kilometers from home, and therefore the boy, who had never parted with his family before, felt very lonely there. He lived with a familiar mother, who was also raising children without a husband.
Studying was easy, only the French lesson caused problems. Rasputin (a summary conveys only the main points of the story) noted that his village accent in every possible way resisted foreign words. And every time the teacher, Lidia Mikhailovna, began to frown and close her eyes in despair.
Chiku game
Constant hunger was another problem. The mother handed over little food, and they ran out very quickly: either the hostess helped, or her children. Therefore, the hero immediately began to eat all the products, and then for several days "put his teeth on the shelf." A couple of times my mother gave money: a little, but I bought a can of milk for five days. I often went to bed after drinking boiling water.
The summary of the work "French Lessons" continues with a story about how the hero began to gamble. Once Fedka, the owner's son, took him out of the gardens. There the boys played chiku. While the boy did not have money, he carefully watched and delved into the rules. And when the village driver brought money from his mother, he decided to try his luck at the game instead of buying milk. At first he was losing, and therefore in the evenings he ran to the clearing, took out the hidden puck and trained. Finally, the hero won for the first time. Now he had money for milk every night. I didn't want much - I won the ruble and ran away immediately. This became the reason for an unpleasant story that soon happened in the clearing. Here is a summary.
"French Lessons" contains a story about boys gathering outside the gardens. Vadik, the oldest, was in charge. He directed the game and did not touch the boy for a while. But one day he stopped him when he was about to leave. Vadik, who stepped on the coin, said that it did not turn over from the blow, which means that there is no win. As a result, the hero tried to prove something, and he was beaten.
Difficult conversation
In the morning, Lydia Mikhailovna, who was also the class teacher, immediately noticed the bruises on the boy's face. After class, she left the student to talk. Here is a summary of it.
"French lessons" emphasize the contrast between the characters. Lydia Mikhailovna was neat, beautiful, she always emanated a pleasant smell of perfume, which made her seem unearthly to the boy. He wore his father's altered clothes, old teals, which no one else had at school. And now he was answering her questions about where he was spending the money won. The author emphasizes that the news about milk came as a complete surprise to the teacher.
This incident did not reach the director, and the hero was very happy.
Painful lessons with Lydia Mikhailovna
In the fall, the hero's business became very bad: the driver did not come anymore, and the bag of potatoes he had brought literally evaporated. The boy had to go to the gardens again. However, on the fourth day he was beaten again, and Lydia Mikhailovna, seeing bruises on his face, went for a trick. She decided to give him a one-to-one French lesson at her home.
Rasputin (the summary does not tell in full how hard these visits to the teacher were given to the hero) notes that the boy was lost from fear and every time he could not wait for the end of the lesson. And Lydia Mikhailovna first tried to invite him to the table, and when she realized that it was useless, she sent a parcel. Opening the box, the boy was delighted, but immediately caught himself: where did the mother get pasta? They never existed in the village. And also hematogen! He immediately understood everything and went with the package to the teacher. She was sincerely surprised that you can only eat potatoes, peas, radishes ... This was the first attempt to help a capable, but starving student. We have described its summary. French lessons from Lydia Mikhailovna continued, but now they were already real lessons.
The game of "measurements"
A couple of weeks after the story with the parcel, the teacher started talking about the chick, as if in order to compare her with the "measurements". In fact, this was the only way to help the boy. At first, she just told him about how she loved to play "wall" as a girl. Then she showed what the essence of the game was, and finally offered to try my hand at "make-believe". And when the rules were mastered, she noted that it was simply not interesting to play: money adds excitement. So the summary of the story continues.
The French lesson was now fast, and then they began to play "wall", or "freezing". The main thing is that the boy could buy milk every day for “honestly earned money”.
But one day Lydia Mikhailovna began to "swerve". This happened after the hero realized that she was playing along with him. As a result, a verbal skirmish arose, the consequences of which were tragic.
Conversation with the director: a summary
"French lessons" don't end well for the characters. They were so carried away by the argument that they did not notice how the director entered the room - it was at the school. Stunned by what he saw (the class teacher is playing with his student for money), he called what was happening a crime and did not even try to understand the situation. Lydia Mikhailovna said goodbye and left three days later. They never saw each other again.
In the middle of winter, a parcel came to school in the name of the boy, in which there were pasta and three apples from the Kuban.
This is the summary of the story, the French lesson in which became, perhaps, the main moral lesson in the hero's life.
In the article we will analyze the "French Lessons". This is the work of V. Rasputin, which is quite interesting in many ways. We will try to compose own opinion about this work, and also consider the various artistic techniques that were applied by the author.
History of creation
Let's start our analysis of French Lessons with the words of Valentin Rasputin. One day in 1974, in an interview with an Irkutsk newspaper called Soviet Youth, he said that, in his opinion, only his childhood can make a person a writer. At this time, he must see or feel something that will allow him to take up the pen in an older age. And while he said that education, life experience, books can also strengthen such a talent, but it should be born in childhood. In 1973, the story "French Lessons" was published, the analysis of which we will consider.
Later, the writer said that he did not have to look for prototypes for his story for a long time, since he was familiar with the people he wanted to talk about. Rasputin said that he just wants to return the good that others once did for him.
The story tells about Anastasia Kopylova, who was the mother of Rasputin's friend, playwright Alexander Vampilov. It should be noted that the author himself singles out this work as one of the best and favorite. It was written thanks to Valentine's childhood memories. He said that this is one of those memories that warms the soul, even when you briefly remember them. Recall that the story is completely autobiographical.
Once, in an interview with the correspondent of the Literatura v shkola magazine, the author talked about how Lydia Mikhailovna came to visit. By the way, in the work she is named by her real name. Valentine spoke about their gatherings when they drank tea and for a long, long time remembered the school and their village is very old. Then it was the happiest time for everyone.
Genre and genre
Continuing the analysis of "French Lessons", let's talk about the genre. The story was written during the heyday of this genre. In the 1920s, the most prominent representatives were Zoshchenko, Babel, Ivanov. In the 60s and 70s, a wave of popularity passed to Shukshin and Kazakov.
It is the story, unlike other prose genres, that responds most quickly to the slightest changes in the political situation and social life. This is due to the fact that such a work is quickly written, so it displays information promptly and in a timely manner. In addition, correcting this work does not take as much time as correcting an entire book.
In addition, the story is rightfully considered the oldest and very first literary genre. Brief retelling events was known in primitive times. Then people could tell each other about a duel with enemies, hunting and other situations. We can say that the story arose simultaneously with speech, and it is primordially inherent in humanity. Moreover, it is not only a way of transmitting information, but also a means of memory.
It is believed that such a prose work should be up to 45 pages long. An entertaining feature of this genre is that it is read literally in one breath.
An analysis of Rasputin's French Lessons will allow us to understand that this is a very realistic work with notes of autobiography, which narrates from the first person and is captivating.
Subject
The writer begins his story with the words that in front of teachers it is very often as shameful as in front of parents. At the same time, I am ashamed not for what happened in the school, but for what was taken out of it.
Analysis of French Lessons shows that the main theme works are the relationship between student and teacher, as well as spiritual life, illuminated by knowledge and moral meaning. Thanks to the teacher, the formation of a person takes place, he acquires a certain spiritual experience. Analysis of the work of "French Lessons" by VG Rasputin leads to the understanding that for him the real example was Lydia Mikhailovna, who taught him real spiritual and moral lessons that will be remembered for a lifetime.
Idea
Even brief analysis Rasputin's French Lessons allows us to understand the idea of \u200b\u200bthis work. Let's figure it out gradually. Of course, if a teacher plays with his student for money, then, from the point of view of pedagogy, he commits the most terrible act. But is it really so, and what could be behind such actions in reality? The teacher sees that there are hungry post-war years outside, and her very strong student does not finish eating. She also understands that the boy will not accept help directly. Therefore, she invites him to her home for additional tasks, for which she rewards him with food. She also gives him parcels allegedly from her mother, although in fact she herself is the real sender. A woman deliberately loses to a child in order to give him her change.
Analysis of "French Lessons" allows you to understand the idea of \u200b\u200bthe work, hidden in the words of the author himself. He says that we learn from books not experience and knowledge, but primarily feelings. It is literature that fosters feelings of nobility, kindness and purity.
main characters
Let's consider the main characters in the analysis of "French Lessons" by V.G. Rasputin. We are watching an 11-year-old boy and his French teacher Lidia Mikhailovna. The woman, according to the description, is not more than 25 years old, she is soft and kind. She reacted to our hero with great understanding and sympathy, and truly fell in love with his dedication. She managed to see this child's unique learning abilities, and she could not help herself not to help them develop. As you can understand, Lydia Mikhailovna was an extraordinary woman who felt compassion and kindness to the people around her. However, she paid for this by being fired from her job.
Volodya
Now let's talk a little about the boy himself. He amazes with his desire not only the teacher, but also the reader. He is irreconcilable, and wants to gain knowledge in order to break out into people. The boy tells the story that he always studied well and strive for better result... But often he found himself in not very funny situations and he got it badly.
Plot and composition
An analysis of the story "French Lessons" by Rasputin cannot be imagined without considering the plot and composition. The boy says that in 48 he went to the fifth grade, or rather went. They only had in the village primary School, therefore, in order to study in best location, he had to pack up early and go 50 km to the regional center. Thus, the boy is torn out of the family nest and his usual environment. At the same time, the realization comes to him that he is the hope not only of his parents, but of the whole village. In order not to let all these people down, the child overcomes melancholy and cold, and tries to show his abilities as much as possible.
The young teacher of the Russian language treats him with special understanding. She begins to study with him additionally in order to feed the boy and help him a little. She perfectly understood that this proud child would not be able to accept her help directly, as she was an outsider. The idea with the parcel was a failure, as she bought urban products, which immediately gave her away. But she found another opportunity and invited the boy to play with her for money.
Climax
The culmination of the event occurs at a moment when the teacher has already started this dangerous game with noble motives. In this, readers with the naked eye understand the whole paradox of the situation, since Lydia Mikhailovna perfectly understood that for such a relationship with a student, she could not only lose her job, but also receive criminal liability. The child was not yet fully aware of all the possible consequences of such behavior. When trouble struck, he became deeper and more serious about the act of Lydia Mikhailovna.
The final
The ending of the story echoes the beginning a little. The boy receives a parcel with Antonov's apples, which he has never tasted. You can also draw a parallel with the first unsuccessful sending of his teacher, when she bought pasta. All these details bring us to the end.
An analysis of Rasputin's French Lessons allows us to see the big heart of a little woman and how a little ignorant child opens before him. Everything here is the lessons of humanity.
Artistic originality
The writer describes with great psychological accuracy the relationship between a young teacher and a hungry child. In the analysis of the work "French Lessons" it should be noted the kindness, humanity and wisdom of this story. The action flows in the narrative rather slowly, the author pays attention to many everyday details. But, despite this, the reader is immersed in the atmosphere of events.
As always, Rasputin's language is expressive and simple. He uses phraseological turns in order to improve the imagery of the entire work. Moreover, his phraseological units can most often be replaced with one word, but then a certain charm of history will be lost. The author also uses some jargons and common words that give the boy's stories realism and vitality.
Value
After analyzing the work "French Lessons", one can draw conclusions about the meaning of this story. Note that the work of Rasputin has been attracting modern readers for many years. Depicting everyday life and everyday situations, the author manages to present spiritual lessons and moral laws.
Based on the analysis of Rasputin's French Lessons, we can see how he perfectly describes complex and progressive characters, as well as how the heroes have changed. Reflections on life and man allow the reader to find goodness and sincerity in himself. Of course, the main character found himself in a difficult situation, like all people of that time. However, from the analysis of Rasputin's French Lessons, we see that difficulties temper the boy, due to which his strong qualities are manifested more and more vividly.
Later, the author said that, analyzing his whole life, he understands that best friend for him was his teacher. Despite the fact that he has already lived a lot and has gathered many friends around him, Lidia Mikhailovna does not get out of his head.
Summing up the article, let's say that the real prototype of the heroine of the story was L.M. Molokov, who really studied French with V. Rasputin. All the lessons he learned from this, he transferred into his work and shared with readers. Everyone who yearns for school and childhood and wants to plunge into this atmosphere again should read this story.
Valentin Rasputin became known to a wide range of readers as a "village" writer. He is primarily interested not in the novelties of our life, but in that ancient, primordially Russian, deep, that is leaving our life.
But besides this, he also portrayed the hardships that fell on the shoulders of the peasants, which could not but be reflected in children's lives. In the story "French Lessons" Rasputin describes the difficult, half-starved life of a village boy. His mother tries her best to educate him. At the age of eleven, he begins an independent life. And although he is a very good student, hunger remains his constant companion. He was awfully bad, so even his mother was afraid of him. He perfectly understands that it is not easy for her, so he hides the hardships of his life from her, tries not to upset her with complaints. He knows perfectly well the value of money, the price of each package to his mother. Such a small, not yet psychologically strong man, nevertheless, has a hard inner core that does not allow him to break under the blows of fate. He proudly and steadfastly endures hunger, rejects the help of the teacher Lidia Mikhailovna. He also tolerates humiliation on the part of the Chika players. This game at one point becomes his only hope for survival. But the cruelty of his peers forces him to leave the field of play.
Lidia Mikhailovna helps him out. French lessons are carried from school to her home. And here the teacher herself invites the boy to play. She understands perfectly well that the little proud man will never accept her gifts. Therefore, she gives him the opportunity to honestly earn them, win. It is with this thought that he calms himself down by taking money. Young, but already wise and quick-witted, she first plays along with the boy, and then, pony-may, how it offends him, she starts to cheat right before his eyes. This convinces him of the honesty of the money he earned. “I immediately completely forgot that only yesterday Lidia Mikhailovna tried to play along with me, and only made sure that she did not deceive me. Well well! Lydia Mikhailovna, called ".
Thus, the French lessons will become lessons of kindness, generosity, although not appreciated, not understood. The ending of the work is sad. Lidia Mikhailovna was dismissed and left for her homeland. But even there she does not forget about her student, sends him a parcel with pasta, and at the bottom, as the boy guesses, are three apples. Sadness slips into the final lines: the boy had seen them before only in the picture. Material from the site
Rasputin thinks about the fate of children who took on their fragile shoulders the heavy burden of the era of coups, wars and revolutions. But, nevertheless, there is kindness in the world that can overcome all difficulties. Belief in the bright ideal of kindness is a characteristic feature of Rasputin's works.
Plan
- The village boy arrives at school. She studies well.
- Due to his poor existence and constant hunger, he begins to gamble. For luck in the game, he is beaten.
- The teacher Lydia Mikhailovna makes him study additional French.
- At her house, they start gambling. The boy again has funds for food.
- The director catches them at one of the games. This ends with the dismissal of Lydia Mikhailovna.
Didn't find what you were looking for? Use search
On this page material on topics:
- analysis of the story "French Lessons"
- an essay on what lesson Lydia Mikhailovna taught her student plan
- chekhov surgery chameleon thick and thin crossword
- plan to lead Rasputin French lessons
- what did Rasputin write besides French lessons?
It's strange: why do we feel guilty before our teachers every time, just like before our parents? And not for what happened at school - no, but for what happened to us after.
I went to fifth grade in 1948. It would be more correct to say, I went: in our village there was only an elementary school, therefore, in order to study further, I had to equip myself from home fifty kilometers away to the regional center. A week earlier, my mother went there, agreed with her friend that I would be accommodated with her, and on the last day of August, Uncle Vanya, the driver of the only lorry on the collective farm, unloaded me on Podkamennaya Street, where I was to live, helped to bring a node with bed, patted goodbye on the shoulder encouragingly and drove off. So, at the age of eleven, my independent life began.
Hunger that year had not yet let go, but my mother had three of us, I am the oldest. In the spring, when it was especially tight, I swallowed myself and made my sister swallow the eyes of sprouted potatoes and grains of oats and rye in order to breed plantings in my stomach - then I would not have to think about food all the time. All summer we diligently watered our seeds with pure Angara water, but for some reason we did not wait for the harvest or it was so small that we did not feel it. However, I think that this idea is not completely useless and will come in handy for a person someday, and we, out of inexperience, did something wrong there.
It is difficult to say how my mother decided to let me go to the district (we called the district center a district). We lived without a father, we lived very badly, and she, apparently, reasoned that it would not be worse - nowhere. I studied well, went to school with pleasure and in the village confessed to be literate: I wrote for old women and read letters, went through all the books that ended up in our unprepossessing library, and in the evenings I told the children all sorts of stories from them, adding more from myself. But they especially believed in me when it came to bonds. People accumulated a lot of them during the war, tables of winnings came often, and then the bonds were brought to me. It was believed that I had a happy eye. The winnings did happen, most often small ones, but the collective farmer in those years was glad to any penny, and then a completely unexpected luck fell out of my hands. The joy from her involuntarily fell on me. I was singled out from the village children, even fed; Once Uncle Ilya, a generally stingy, tight-fisted old man, having won four hundred rubles, in the heat of the moment raked me a bucket of potatoes - in the spring it was a considerable wealth.
And all the same because I understood the bond numbers, the mothers said:
- Your brainy guy is growing. You are ... let's teach him. The diploma will not be wasted.
And my mother, in spite of all misfortunes, gathered me, although no one from our village in the region had studied before. I was the first. Yes, I did not understand how it should be, what was ahead of me, what tests await me, my dear, in a new place.
I studied well here too. What was left for me? - then I came here, I had no other business here, and I didn’t know how to take care of what was entrusted to me then. I would hardly have dared to go to school if I had remained unlearned at least one lesson, so in all subjects, except French, I kept an A.
I didn't get along well with French because of the pronunciation. I easily memorized words and phrases, translated quickly, coped well with the difficulties of spelling, but my pronunciation betrayed my Angarsk origins right up to the last generation, where no one had ever pronounced foreign words, if at all suspected their existence. I spilled in French in the manner of our village tongue twisters, swallowing half of the sounds as unnecessary, and blasting out the other half in short barking bursts. Lydia Mikhailovna, a French teacher, listening to me, winced helplessly and closed her eyes. Of course, I never heard anything like this. Again and again she showed how to pronounce nasal, vowel combinations, asked to repeat - I was lost, my tongue in my mouth was stiff and did not move. It was all wasted. But the worst thing started when I came home from school. There I was involuntarily distracted, all the time I had to do something, there the guys bothered me, together with them - like it or not - I had to move, play, and in the lessons - work. But as soon as I was alone, a longing came at once - longing for home, for the village. Never before, even for a day, had I been away from my family and, of course, was not ready to live among strangers. I felt so bad, so bitter and hateful! - worse than any disease. I wanted only one thing, dreamed of one thing - home and home. I have lost a lot of weight; my mother, who arrived at the end of September, was afraid for me. With her, I strengthened myself, did not complain or cry, but when she began to leave, I could not stand it and with a roar I chased the car. Mother waved her hand to me from the back so that I would fall behind, not disgrace myself and her, I did not understand anything. Then she made up her mind and stopped the car.
“Get ready,” she demanded as I approached. Enough, unlearn, let's go home.
I came to my senses and ran away.
But it wasn't just my homesickness that I lost weight. Plus, I was constantly undernourished. In the fall, while Uncle Vanya was driving bread in his one and a half to Zagotzerno, which was not far from the regional center, food was sent to me quite often, about once a week. But the trouble is that I missed her. There was nothing there, except bread and potatoes, and from time to time the mother stuffed cottage cheese into a jar, which she took from someone else: she did not keep a cow. Brought - it seems a lot, if you miss it in two days - it's empty. I very soon began to notice that a good half of my bread was mysteriously disappearing somewhere. I checked it - and it is: was - no. The same thing happened with the potatoes. Who was pulling - whether Aunt Nadya, a loud, wrapped-up woman who was alone with three children, one of her older girls or the youngest, Fedka - I did not know, I was afraid even to think about it, let alone follow. It was a shame only that my mother, for my sake, tears the last away from her own, from her sister and brother, but it still goes by. But I forced myself to come to terms with that. It will not be easier for a mother if she hears the truth.
The famine here was not at all like the famine in the country. There always, and especially in autumn, it was possible to intercept, pluck, dig, lift something, fish walked in the Angara, a bird flew in the forest. Here for me everything around was empty: strangers, stranger gardens, stranger land. A small rivulet of ten rows was filtered with nonsense. Once on Sunday I sat with a fishing rod all day and caught three small, about a teaspoon, gudgeons - you can't get enough of such fishing either. I didn't go anymore - what a waste of time to translate! In the evenings he hung around at the tea house, at the bazaar, remembering what they were selling for, choking on saliva and walking back with nothing. There was a hot kettle on Aunt Nadia's stove; throwing naked boiling water and warming up the stomach, went to bed. Back to school in the morning. So he held out until that happy hour when a lorry drove up to the gate and Uncle Vanya knocked on the door. Hungry and knowing that my grub would not last long anyway, no matter how I saved it, I gorged myself to the bone, to the cramps and stomach, and then, a day or two later, put my teeth back on the shelf.
Once, back in September, Fedka asked me:
- Aren't you afraid to play Chika?
- Which chick? - I did not understand.
- The game is like that. For money. If we have money, let's go and play.
- And I don’t. Let's go, at least see. See how great it is.
Fedka took me to the gardens. We walked along the edge of an oblong, ridge, hill, completely overgrown with nettles, already black, tangled, with drooping poisonous clusters of seeds, got over, jumping over heaps, through the old dump and in the lowland, on a clean and flat small meadow, we saw the guys. We approached. The guys were on their guard. All of them were about the same age as me, except for one - a tall and sturdy guy with a long red bangs, noticeable by his strength and power. I remembered: he went to the seventh grade.
- Why did you bring this? - he said displeasedly to Fedka.
- He's his, Vadik, his, - Fedka began to make excuses. - He lives with us.
- Will you play? - Vadik asked me.
- No money.
- Look, don’t tell anyone that we are here.
- Here's another! - I was offended.
They didn’t pay any more attention to me, I stepped aside and began to observe. Not all were playing - sometimes six, sometimes seven, the rest just stared, rooting mainly for Vadik. He was the boss here, I understood that immediately.
It didn't cost anything to figure out the game. Each put ten kopecks on the line, a pile of coins was thrown upside down on a platform bounded by a bold line two meters from the cash register, and on the other side, from a boulder that had grown into the ground and served as a support for the front leg, a round stone washer was thrown. You had to throw it with the expectation that it rolled up to the line as close as possible, but did not go beyond it - then you got the right to be the first to break the cash register. They beat me with the same puck, trying to turn over. coins on the eagle. Turned over - yours, hit further, no - give this right to the next one. But the most important thing was to cover the coins with a puck when throwing, and if at least one of them ended up on an eagle, the entire cash register without a word went into your pocket, and the game began again.
Vadik was cunning. He walked to the boulder after all, when the full picture of the sequence was in front of his eyes and he saw where to throw in order to come forward. Money was received first, but rarely reached the last. Probably everyone understood that Vadik was cunning, but no one dared to tell him about it. True, he played well. Approaching the rock, squatting slightly, squinting, aiming the puck at the target and slowly, smoothly straightening - the puck slipped out of his hand and flew to where he was aiming. With a quick movement of his head, he threw the bangs that had moved up, casually spat to the side, showing that the job was done, and with a lazy, deliberately slow step walked towards the money. If they were in a heap, he beat sharply, with a ringing, while single coins he touched with a puck carefully, with a knuckle, so that the coin does not beat and spin in the air, and, without rising high, just waddle to the other side. Nobody else could do that. The guys thrashed at random and took out new coins, and whoever had nothing to get, went to the audience.
It seemed to me that if I had money, I could play. In the village we fiddled with grandmas, but even there we need an accurate eye. And I, moreover, loved to invent for myself amusements for accuracy: I pick up a handful of stones, find the target more difficult and throw at it until I achieve the full result - ten out of ten. He threw both from above, over the shoulder, and from below, hanging a stone over the target. So I had some knack. There was no money.
My mother sent me bread because we had no money, otherwise I would have bought it here. Where do they come from on the collective farm? Still, twice she put five in my letter - for milk. It’s fifty kopecks at the present, you won’t get hold of it, but it’s still money, you could buy five half-liter jars of milk at the bazaar, a ruble per jar. I was ordered to drink milk because of anemia, and I often suddenly felt dizzy for no reason.
But, having received an A for the third time, I did not go for milk, but exchanged it for change and went to the dump. The place here was well chosen, you can't say anything: the meadow, enclosed by hills, was not visible from anywhere. In the village, in full view of the adults, they chased for such games, threatened the director and the police. Nobody bothered us here. And not far away, in ten minutes you will run.
The first time I dropped ninety kopecks, the second - sixty. Of course, it was a pity for the money, but I felt that I was getting used to the game, my hand gradually got used to the puck, learned to release just as much force for a throw as was required for the puck to go right, my eyes also learned to know in advance where it would fall and how much more roll on the ground. In the evenings, when everyone was leaving, I came back here again, took out the puck hidden by Vadik from under the stone, raked out my change from my pocket and threw it until it got dark. I made sure that out of ten throws, three or four were right for money.
And finally the day came when I won.
Autumn was warm and dry. Even in October it was so warm that one could walk in a shirt, the rains rarely fell and seemed random, inadvertently brought in from somewhere out of bad weather by a weak favorable breeze. The sky was turning blue quite like summer, but it seemed to be narrower, and the sun was setting early. Over the hills in clean hours the air smoked, carrying a bitter, intoxicating smell of dry wormwood, distant voices sounded clearly, birds flying away screamed. The grass in our meadow, yellowed and blown away, still remained alive and soft, free from the game, or better to say, the lost guys, were busy on it.
Now every day after school I came running here. The guys changed, newcomers appeared, and only Vadik did not miss a single game. It didn’t start without him. Vadik, like a shadow, was followed by a big-headed, clipped, stocky guy, nicknamed Ptah. At school, I had never met Ptahu before, but, looking ahead, I will say that in the third quarter he suddenly, like a snow on his head, fell on our class. It turns out that he stayed in fifth for the second year and, under some pretext, arranged a vacation for himself until January. Ptakha also usually won, although not as much as Vadik, smaller, but did not remain at a loss. Yes, because, probably, he did not stay, because he was at the same time with Vadik and he slowly helped him.
From our class, Tishkin sometimes ran into the clearing, a fussy boy with blinking eyes, who liked to raise his hand in class. Knows, does not know - all the same pulls. They will call - silent.
- Why did you raise your hand? - they ask Tishkin.
He spanked with his little eyes:
- I remembered, but while getting up, I forgot.
I was not friends with him. From shyness, silence, excessive rural isolation, and most importantly, from the wild homesickness that did not leave any desires in me, I did not get along with any of the guys then. They were not drawn to me either, I was left alone, not understanding and not distinguishing loneliness from my bitter situation: alone - because here, and not at home, not in the village, I have many comrades there.
Tishkin did not seem to notice me in the clearing. Having lost quickly, he disappeared and did not appear again soon.
And I won. I started winning all the time, every day. I had my own calculation: there was no need to roll the puck around the court trying to get the right to the first shot; when there are many players, it is not easy: the closer you reach to the line, the greater the danger of crossing it and remaining the last. It is necessary to cover the cash register when throwing. And so I did. Of course, I took risks, but with my skill it was a justified risk. I could have lost three, four times in a row, but on the fifth, taking the box office, I returned my loss three times. Lost again and returned again. I rarely had to bang the puck on the coins, but even then I used my own trick: if Vadik kicked over himself, on the contrary, I bailed away from myself - that was unusual, but that was how the puck held the coin, did not let it spin and, moving away, turned over after itself.
Now I have money. I did not allow myself to get too carried away with the game and hang around in the clearing until the evening, I only needed a ruble, every day a ruble. Having received it, I ran away, bought a jar of milk at the bazaar (the aunts grumbled looking at my bent, battered, torn coins, but they poured milk), dined and sat down to my lessons. All the same, I did not eat enough, but the very thought that I was drinking milk added strength to me and subdued my hunger. It seemed to me that my head was spinning much less now.
At first, Vadik was calm about my winnings. He himself did not go to waste, and from his pockets hardly anything fell to me. Sometimes he even praised me: here, they say, how to throw, learn, daubers. However, Vadik soon noticed that I was leaving the game too quickly, and one day he stopped me:
- What are you - grabbed the cash register and tore? Look how smart he is! Play.
- I need lessons, Vadik, to do, - I began to dissuade.
- Those who need to do their homework don't come here.
And Ptakha sang along:
- Who told you that they gamble like that? For this, you want to know, they beat a little. Got it?
More Vadik did not give me the puck before him and only allowed the last to approach the stone. He threw well, and often I reached into my pocket for a new coin without touching the puck. But I shot better, and if I got the opportunity to shoot, the puck, like magnetized, flew as if for money. I myself was amazed at my accuracy, I should have guessed to hold it, play more inconspicuously, and I, artless and mercilessly continued to bomb the cashier. How was I to know that no one had ever been forgiven forgiven, if in his business he pulled ahead? Then do not expect mercy, do not seek intercession, for others he is an upstart, and the one who follows him hates him most of all. I had to comprehend this science on my own skin that autumn.
I had just gotten into the money again and was going to collect it when I noticed that Vadik had stepped on one of the coins that were scattered on the sides. All the others were tails up. In such cases, when throwing, they usually shout “to the warehouse!”, So that - if there is no eagle - to collect the money in one pile for a blow, but, as always, I hoped for luck and did not shout.
- Not in the warehouse! - announced Vadik.
I went up to him and tried to move his foot off the coin, but he pushed me away, quickly grabbed it from the ground and showed me tails. I managed to notice that the coin was on an eagle, otherwise he would not have closed it.
“You turned her over,” I said. - She was on an eagle, I saw.
He thrust his fist under my nose.
- Have you seen this? Smell what it smells like.
I had to come to terms. It was pointless to insist on our own; if a fight starts, no one, not a single soul will intercede for me, not even Tishkin, who was spinning right there.
Vadik's evil, narrowed eyes looked at me point-blank. I bent down, gently hit the nearest coin, turned it over and pushed the second one. “The hluzda will lead you to the truth,” I decided. "Anyway, I'll take them all now." I again set the puck to strike, but did not have time to lower it: someone suddenly kicked me hard from behind with a knee, and I awkwardly, with my head bent down, pushed into the ground. They laughed all around.
Ptakha stood behind me, smiling expectantly. I sent:
- What about you ?!
- Who told you it was me? - he denied. - Did you dream, or what?
- Come here! - Vadik held out his hand for the puck, but I did not give it. Resentment overtook my fear of nothing in the world, I was no longer afraid. For what? Why are they doing this to me? What have I done to them?
- Come here! - Vadik demanded.
- You turned that coin! - I shouted to him. - I saw that I turned it over. Saw.
- Come on, repeat, - he asked, advancing on me.
“You turned her over,” I said more quietly, knowing well what would follow.
Ptah hit me first, again from behind. I flew to Vadik, he quickly and deftly, without trying on, hit me with his head in the face, and I fell, blood spurted from my nose. As soon as I jumped up, Ptah attacked me again. It was still possible to break free and run away, but for some reason I did not think about it. I turned between Vadik and Ptah, almost not defending myself, holding my nose, from which blood was gushing, and in despair, adding to their rage, stubbornly shouting the same thing:
- Flipped over! Flipped over! Flipped over!
They hit me in turns, one and two, one and two. Someone third, small and spiteful, kicked me in the legs, then they were almost completely covered with bruises. I just tried not to fall, never to fall again, even in those minutes it seemed to me a shame. But in the end, they knocked me to the ground and stopped.
- Get out of here while you're alive! - Vadik commanded. - Fast!
I got up and, sobbing, tossing my dead nose, trudged up the hill.
- Just blame someone - we'll kill! - Vadik promised after me.
I didn't answer. Everything in me somehow hardened and closed in resentment, I did not have the strength to get the word out of myself. And, just climbing the mountain, I could not resist and, as if foolishly, screamed at the top of my lungs - so I heard, probably, the entire village:
- Flip-u-st!
Ptakha rushed after me, but immediately returned - apparently, Vadik judged that I had had enough and stopped him. For about five minutes I stood and, sobbing, looked at the clearing where the game had started again, then I went down the other side of the hill to the hollow covered with black nettles, fell on the hard dry grass and, not holding back any longer, bitterly, sobbed.
There was not on that day and could not be in the whole world of a man more unhappy than me.
In the morning I looked at myself in the mirror with fear: my nose was swollen and swollen, there was a bruise under my left eye, and below it, on my cheek, a fat bloody abrasion was curving. I had no idea how to go to school in this form, but somehow I had to go, I did not dare to skip lessons for whatever reason. For example, people's noses and by nature happen to be cleaner than mine, and if it were not for the usual place, you would never guess that this is a nose, but nothing can justify an abrasion and a bruise: it is immediately clear that they are not showing off here on my own free will.
Shielding my eyes with my hand, I dashed into the classroom, sat down at my desk and bowed my head. The first lesson, as luck would have it, was French. Lydia Mikhailovna, by right class teacher, was interested in us more than other teachers, and it was difficult to hide anything from her. She entered, greeted, but before the class was seated, she had a habit of carefully examining almost each of us, making what seemed to be humorous, but obligatory remarks. And, of course, she saw the marks on my face right away, even though I hid them as best I could; I realized this because the guys began to turn at me.
- Well, - said Lidia Mikhailovna, opening the magazine. “There are wounded among us today.
The class laughed, and Lidia Mikhailovna again raised her eyes to me. They squinted at her and looked as if past, but by that time we had already learned to recognize where they were looking.
- What happened? She asked.
- Fell, - I blurted out, for some reason not knowing in advance to come up with an even more or less decent explanation.
- Oh, how unfortunate. Fell yesterday or today?
- Today. No, last night when it was dark.
- Hi, fell! - shouted Tishkin, choking with joy. - Vadik from the seventh grade brought it to him. They played for money, and he began to argue and earned money, I saw. And he said he fell.
I was dumbfounded by this betrayal. Does he not understand anything at all, or is it on purpose? For gambling, we could be kicked out of school in no time. I finished badly. Everything in my head was alarmed with fear and buzzed: disappeared, now disappeared. Well, Tishkin. Here is Tishkin so Tishkin. Delighted. Has clarified - there is nothing to say.
“I wanted to ask you something completely different, Tishkin,” Lydia Mikhailovna stopped him without being surprised and without changing her calm, slightly indifferent tone. - Go to the blackboard, since you're talking, and get ready to answer. She waited until Tishkin, who was confused and immediately unhappy, came out to the blackboard, and briefly said to me: “You’ll stay after lessons.
Most of all I was afraid that Lydia Mikhailovna would drag me to the director. This means that, in addition to today's conversation, tomorrow they will take me out in front of the school line and force me to tell what prompted me to do this dirty business. The director, Vasily Andreevich, kept asking the guilty person, no matter what he was doing - broke a window, fought or smoked in the restroom: "What prompted you to do this dirty business?" He paced in front of the ruler, throwing his arms behind his back, bringing his shoulders forward in time with wide strides, so that it seemed as if the tightly buttoned, bulging dark jacket was moving on its own slightly in front of the director, and urged: “Answer, answer. We are waiting. look, the whole school is waiting for you to tell us. " The pupil would start muttering something in his defense, but the director would cut him off: “You answer my question, answer my question. How was the question asked? " - "What prompted me?" - Exactly: what prompted? We listen to you. " The case usually ended in tears, only after that the director calmed down, and we dispersed to classes. It was more difficult with high school students who did not want to cry, but also could not answer Vasily Andreyevich's question.
Once our first lesson began ten minutes late, and all this time the director was interrogating one ninth-grader, but without getting anything intelligible from him, he took him to his office.
And what, I wonder, will I say? It would be better to be kicked out immediately. I had a glimpse, a little touching this thought, thought that then I would be able to return home, and immediately, as if burned, I was frightened: no, with such a shame one cannot go home. It would be another matter if I had dropped out of school myself ... But even then you can say about me that I am an unreliable person, since I could not stand what I wanted, and then everyone will shun me at all. No, not like that. I would still be patient here, I would get used to it, but you can't go home like that.
After lessons, freezing with fear, I waited for Lydia Mikhailovna in the corridor. She left the staff room and, nodding, led me into class. As always, she sat down at the table, I wanted to sit at the third desk, away from her, but Lidia Mikhailovna pointed me to the first, right in front of me.
- Is it true that you gamble? She began immediately. She asked too loudly, it seemed to me that at school it was necessary to speak about it only in a whisper, and I was even more frightened. But there was no point in locking myself up, Tishkin managed to sell me with giblets. I mumbled:
- True.
- So how - do you win or lose? I hesitated, not knowing which is better.
- Let's tell it how it is. Are you losing, probably?
“You… win.
- Well, at least so. You win, then. And what do you do with money?
At first at school, I could not get used to the voice of Lydia Mikhailovna for a long time; it confused me. In our village they spoke, wrapping their voice deep in their gut, and therefore it sounded freely, while in Lydia Mikhailovna it was somehow shallow and light, so you had to listen to it, and not from powerlessness at all - she sometimes could speak to her heart's content , but as if from concealment and unnecessary savings. I was ready to blame everything on French: of course, while I was studying, while I was adjusting to someone else's speech, my voice sat down without freedom, weakened, like a bird in a cage, wait now for it to disperse and get stronger again. Even now, Lydia Mikhailovna asked as if at that time she was busy with something else, more important, but it was still impossible to get away from her questions.
“So what do you do with the money you win? Do you buy candy? Or books? Or are you saving up for something? After all, you probably have a lot of them now?
- No, not much. I only win a ruble.
- And you don't play anymore?
- And the ruble? Why the ruble? What are you doing with him?
- I'm buying milk.
- Milk?
She sat in front of me, neat, all smart and beautiful, beautiful both in clothes, and in her feminine youth, which I vaguely felt, the smell of perfume from her reached me, which I took for the very breath; besides, she was not a teacher of some kind of arithmetic, not of history, but of the mysterious French language, from which something special, fabulous, not subject to anyone, like me, for example. Not daring to look up at her, I did not dare to deceive her. And why, after all, was I to deceive?
She paused, examining me, and with my skin I felt how, at the look of her squinting, attentive eyes, all my troubles and absurdities swell and fill with their evil strength. There was, of course, something to look at: a skinny, wild boy with a broken face, unkempt without a mother and lonely, in an old, washed jacket on sagging shoulders, which was just right on his chest, was hovering on a desk with a broken face, unkempt without a mother and alone; in altered from his father's riding breeches and tucked into teal light green trousers with traces of yesterday's fight. I noticed even earlier with what curiosity Lydia Mikhailovna was looking at my shoes. From the whole class in teals went only me. Only the next autumn, when I flatly refused to go to school with them, my mother sold a sewing machine, our only value, and bought me tarpaulin boots.
“And yet you don’t need to gamble for money,” said Lidia Mikhailovna thoughtfully. - You would have managed somehow without it. Can I do it?
Not daring to believe in my salvation, I easily promised:
I spoke sincerely, but what can you do if our sincerity cannot be tied with ropes.
In fairness, I must say that in those days I had a really bad time. In the dry autumn, our collective farm paid off the lavishness early, and Uncle Vanya did not come again. I knew that my mother couldn't find a place for herself at home, worrying about me, but that didn't make me feel any better. The sack of potatoes that Uncle Vanya had brought back last time evaporated so quickly, as if at least the cattle were fed with it. It's good that, realizing myself, I thought to hide a little in an abandoned shed standing in the courtyard, and now I lived only with this crate. After school, stealthily like a thief, I would sneak into the shed, put a few potatoes in my pocket and run across the street, into the hills, in order to start a fire somewhere in a convenient and hidden lowland. I was hungry all the time, even in my sleep I felt convulsive waves rolling through my stomach.
Hoping to stumble upon a new group of players, I began to slowly explore the neighboring streets, wander through the wastelands, watching the guys who were carried into the hills. It was all in vain, the season was over, the cold October winds blew. And only in our clearing did the guys continue to gather. I circled nearby, saw how the puck gleams in the sun, how, waving his arms, Vadik commands and familiar figures lean over the cashier.
In the end, I broke down and went down to them. I knew that I was going to humiliation, but no less humiliation was once and for all to come to terms with the fact that I was beaten and kicked out. I was itching to see how Vadik and Ptaha would react to my appearance and how I could keep myself. But most of all hunger drove. I needed a ruble - not for milk, but for bread. I knew no other way to get it.
I walked over, and the game stopped by itself, everyone stared at me. Ptakha was wearing a hat with tucked ears, sitting, like everyone else on him, carefree and bold, in a checkered shirt with short sleeves; Vadik forced in a beautiful thick jacket with a lock. Nearby, piled up in one heap, lay sweatshirts and coats, on them, huddled in the wind, sat a little boy, five or six years old.
Ptah was the first to meet me:
- What did you come for? Have you been hit for a long time?
- I came to play, - I answered as calmly as possible, looking at Vadik.
- Who told you what's wrong with you, - Ptaha swore, - will they play here?
- What, Vadik, will we hit right away or will we wait a little?
- Why did you stick to a man, Ptah? - squinting at me, said Vadik. - Understood, the man came to play. Maybe he wants to win ten rubles each with you?
“You don’t have ten rubles each,” I said just so as not to seem like a coward.
- We have more than you dreamed. Put it on, don't talk until Ptah gets angry. And then he is a hot man.
- Give him, Vadik?
- Don't, let him play. - Vadik winked at the guys. - He plays great, we don't hold a candle to him.
Now I was a scientist and understood what it was - the kindness of Vadik. Apparently, he was tired of a boring, uninteresting game, therefore, in order to tickle his nerves and feel the taste of a real game, he decided to let me into it. But as soon as I touch his pride, I will again be in trouble. He will find something to complain about, next to him is Ptah.
I decided to play it safe and not bother with the cashier. Like everyone else, so as not to stand out, I rolled the puck, fearing inadvertently falling into the money, then quietly bales of coins and looked around to see if Ptah had come in from behind. In the early days, I did not allow myself to dream of the ruble; about twenty or thirty kopecks for a piece of bread, and that's good, and then give it here.
But what should have happened sooner or later, of course, happened. On the fourth day, when, having won a ruble, I was about to leave, I was beaten again. True, this time it was easier, but one trace remained: my lip was very swollen. At school I had to bite it constantly. But, no matter how I hid it, no matter how I sipped it, Lydia Mikhailovna made out. She deliberately called me to the blackboard and made me read the French text. I could not pronounce it correctly with ten healthy lips, but there is nothing to say about one.
- Enough, oh, enough! - Lidia Mikhailovna was frightened and waved her hands at me, as at an evil spirit. - What is it? No, I'll have to study with you separately. There is no other way out.
Thus began my agonizing and awkward days. From the very morning I waited with fear for the hour when I would have to be alone with Lydia Mikhailovna, and, breaking my tongue, repeat after her words that were inconvenient for pronunciation, invented only for punishment. Well, why else, if not for mockery, merge three vowels into one thick stringy sound, the same "o", for example, in the word "weaisoir" (many), which you can choke on? Why, with some kind of moaning, let sounds through the nose, when from time immemorial it served a person for a completely different need? What for? There must be boundaries of reason. I covered with sweat, blushed and gasped, and Lydia Mikhailovna, without respite and without pity, made me call my poor tongue. And why me alone? There were as many guys at school who spoke French no better than me, but they walked free, did what they wanted, and I, like a damned one, puffed out one for all.
It turned out that this is not the worst thing. Lydia Mikhailovna suddenly decided that there was not enough time at school until the second shift, and she told me to come to her apartment in the evenings. She lived next to the school, in teachers' houses. The director himself lived in the other, more half of Lydia Mikhailovna's house. I went there like torture. And without that, by nature, timid and shy, lost from any trifle, in this clean, neat apartment of the teacher, at first I literally turned to stone and was afraid to breathe. I had to tell me to undress, go into the room, sit down - I had to be moved, like a thing, and almost by force to get words out of me. It didn’t help my success in French. But, strange to say, we did less work here than at school, where the second shift seemed to interfere with us. Moreover, Lydia Mikhailovna, bustling about the apartment, asked me or told me about herself. I suspect that she deliberately invented for me that she went to the French faculty only because she was not given this language at school and she decided to prove to herself that she could master it no worse than others.
Huddled in a corner, I listened, not wanting to wait until they let me go home. There were many books in the room, a large beautiful radio set on the nightstand by the window; with a turntable - a rare miracle at that time, and for me an unprecedented miracle. Lydia Mikhailovna put on records, and dexterous male voice again taught French. One way or another, there was no escape from him. Lydia Mikhailovna, in a simple home dress, in soft felt shoes, walked around the room, making me shudder and freeze when she approached me. I just could not believe that I was sitting in her house, everything here was too unexpected and extraordinary for me, even the air, saturated with light and unfamiliar smells of life different than I knew. One involuntarily created the feeling that I was spying on this life from the outside, and out of shame and embarrassment for myself, I wrapped myself even deeper in my kurgozny jacket.
Lydia Mikhailovna was then probably twenty-five or so; I well remember her correct and therefore not too lively face with narrowed eyes to hide the braid; a tight, rarely revealing smile and completely black, short-cropped hair. But with all this, there was no toughness in her face, which, as I later noticed, becomes almost a professional sign of teachers over the years, even the kindest and gentlest by nature, but there was some kind of cautious, cunning, perplexity, related to her and as if saying: I wonder how I got here and what am I doing here? Now I think that by that time she had managed to be married; in her voice, in her gait - soft, but confident, free, in all her behavior one could feel courage and experience in her. And besides, I have always been of the opinion that girls who study French or spanish language, become women earlier than their peers, who study, say, Russian or German.
It's a shame now to remember how frightened and lost I was when Lydia Mikhailovna, having finished our lesson, called me to supper. If I were a thousand times hungry, every appetite would immediately jump out of me like a bullet. Sit down at the same table with Lydia Mikhailovna! No no! I'd better learn all French by tomorrow so that I never come here again. A piece of bread would probably really get stuck in my throat. It seems that I did not even suspect that Lidia Mikhailovna, like all of us, eats the most ordinary food, and not some kind of heavenly semolina - so she seemed to me an extraordinary person, unlike everyone else.
I jumped up and, muttering that I was full, that I didn't want to, backed up along the wall towards the exit. Lydia Mikhailovna looked at me with surprise and resentment, but it was impossible to stop me by any means. I was running away. This was repeated several times, then Lydia Mikhailovna, in despair, stopped inviting me to the table. I breathed more freely.
Once I was told that downstairs, in the locker room, there was a parcel for me, which some guy had brought to school. Uncle Vanya, of course, is our driver - what a man! Probably, our house was closed, and Uncle Vanya could not wait for me from school - so he left me in the locker room.
I hardly endured until the end of the class and rushed downstairs. Aunt Vera, a school cleaner, showed me a white plywood box in the corner in which mail parcels are equipped. I wondered: why in the box? - the mother usually sent food in an ordinary bag. Maybe it's not for me at all? No, my class and my last name were printed on the lid. Apparently, Uncle Vanya had already inscribed here - so as not to confuse, for whom. What is it that mother has invented to hammer food into the box ?! Look how intelligent she has become!
I could not carry the parcel home without knowing what was in it: not that patience. It is clear that there are no potatoes. For bread, the container is also, perhaps, too small, and inconvenient. In addition, bread was sent to me recently, I still had it. Then what is there? Right there, at school, I climbed under the stairs, where I remembered the ax lay, and, finding it, tore off the lid. It was dark under the stairs, I climbed back out and, looking around furtively, put the box on the nearest window sill.
Looking into the package, I was stunned: on top, covered with a neatly large white sheet of paper, lay pasta. Blimey! Long yellow tubes, stacked one to the other in even rows, flashed in the light with such wealth, more dear to me, nothing existed. Now it is clear why my mother put together the box: so that the pasta does not break, does not crumble, they come to me safe and sound. I carefully took out one tube, looked, blew into it, and, unable to hold back any longer, began to grump greedily. Then, in the same way, he took up the second, the third, wondering where to hide the drawer so that the overly voracious mice in my hostess's pantry would not get pasta. Not for that mother bought them, spent her last money. No, I won't let pasta so easily. This is not some potato for you.
And suddenly I choked. Pasta ... Indeed, where did the mother get the pasta? We never had them in our village, you can't buy them there for any money. What then happens? Hastily, in despair and hope, I shoveled the pasta and found at the bottom of the box several large pieces of sugar and two tiles of hematogen. Hematogen confirmed that it was not the mother who sent the package. Who, then, who? I glanced at the cover again: my class, my last name - to me. Interesting, very interesting.
I squeezed the lid nails into place and, leaving the box on the windowsill, went up to the second floor and knocked on the staff room. Lydia Mikhailovna has already left. Nothing, we will find, we know where he lives, we have been. So, here's how: if you don't want to sit down at the table, get food at home. So so. Will not work. There is no one else. This is not a mother: she would not have forgotten to put in a note, she would have told where, from what mines such wealth came from.
When I sideways climbed into the door with the parcel, Lidia Mikhailovna assumed that she did not understand anything. She looked at the box, which I put on the floor in front of her, and asked in surprise:
- What is it? What are you bringing? What for?
“You did it,” I said in a trembling, cracking voice.
- What have I done? What are you talking about?
- You sent this package to the school. I know you.
I noticed that Lydia Mikhailovna blushed and was embarrassed. This was the only time, apparently, when I was not afraid to look her straight in the eyes. I didn't care if she was a teacher or my second aunt. Here I asked, not she, and asked not in French, but in Russian, without any articles. Let him answer.
- Why did you decide it was me?
- Because we don't have any pasta there. And there is no hematogen.
- How! Doesn't happen at all ?! - She was amazed so sincerely that she betrayed herself.
- It doesn't happen at all. It was necessary to know.
Lydia Mikhailovna suddenly laughed and tried to hug me, but I pulled away. from her.
- Indeed, one should have known. How am I so ?! She thought for a moment. - But here it was difficult to guess - honestly! I'm a city man. You say it doesn't happen at all? What happens then with you?
- Peas happen. Radish happens.
- Peas ... radish ... And we have apples in the Kuban. Oh, how many apples are there now. Today I wanted to go to the Kuban, but for some reason I came here. - Lydia Mikhailovna sighed and looked sideways at me. - Do not get mad. I wanted the best. Who knew you could get caught on pasta? Nothing, now I'll be smarter. And take these pasta ...
“I won’t take it,” I interrupted her.
- Well, why are you doing that? I know that you are starving. And I live alone, I have a lot of money. I can buy what I want, but I am the only one ... I eat something little by little, I'm afraid to get fat.
“I'm not starving at all.
“Please don’t argue with me, I know. I spoke to your mistress. What's wrong if you take this pasta now and cook yourself a good lunch today. Why can't I help you - the only time in my life? I promise not to slip any more parcels. But this one please take it. You have to eat your fill to learn. How many well-fed loafers in our school, who do not understand anything and will probably never think, and you are a capable boy, you cannot leave school.
Her voice was starting to make me sleepy; I was afraid that she would persuade me, and, angry with myself for understanding Lydia Mikhailovna's rightness, and for the fact that I was going to not understand her, I, shaking my head and muttering something, rushed out the door.
Our lessons did not stop there, I continued to go to Lydia Mikhailovna. But now she took me for real. She apparently decided: well, French is so French. True, the sense from this came out, gradually I began to pronounce French words rather tolerably, they no longer broke off at my feet with heavy cobblestones, but, ringing, tried to fly somewhere.
“Good,” Lydia Mikhailovna encouraged me. - In this quarter, the five will not work yet, and in the next - it will be necessary.
We did not remember the parcel, but I was on my guard just in case. You never know what Lydia Mikhailovna will undertake to think up more? I knew for myself: when something doesn't work out, you will do everything to make it work, you won't just give up. It seemed to me that Lidia Mikhailovna was constantly looking at me expectantly, and looking closely, she was laughing at my wildness - I was angry, but this anger, oddly enough, helped me to keep myself more confident. I was no longer that unrequited and helpless boy who was afraid to take a step here, little by little I got used to Lydia Mikhailovna and her apartment. Still, of course, he was shy, huddled in a corner, hiding his teals under a chair, but the former stiffness and oppression receded, now I myself dared to ask Lydia Mikhailovna questions and even enter into arguments with her.
She made another attempt to seat me at the table - in vain. Here I was adamant, stubbornness in me was enough for ten.
Probably, it was already possible to stop these studies at home, the most important thing I learned, my tongue loosened up and began to move, the rest would eventually be added at school lessons. There are years and years ahead. What will I do next if I learn everything at once from start to finish? But I did not dare to tell Lydia Mikhailovna about this, and she, apparently, did not at all consider our program completed, and I continued to pull my French strap. However, is it a strap? Somehow, involuntarily and imperceptibly, without expecting it myself, I felt a taste for the language and in my free moments, without any urging, I climbed into the dictionary, looked into the distant texts in the textbook. Punishment turned into pleasure. I was still spurred on by self-esteem: if it didn’t work, it will work out, and it will work out - no worse than the best. Am I from another test, or what? If I didn't have to go to Lydia Mikhailovna yet ... I myself, myself ...
Once, two weeks after the story with the parcel, Lidia Mikhailovna, smiling, asked:
- Well, you don't play for money anymore? Or are you going somewhere on the sidelines and playing?
- How to play now ?! - I was surprised, pointing out the window where the snow lay.
- And what was that game? What is it?
- Why do you need? - I was wary.
- Interesting. We used to play in childhood too, so I want to know if this is a game or not. Tell me, tell me, don't be afraid.
I told, keeping silent, of course, about Vadik, about Ptah and about my little tricks that I used in the game.
- No, - Lydia Mikhailovna shook her head. - We played the wall game. Do you know what it is?
- Here look. - She easily jumped out from the table at which she was sitting, found coins in her purse and pushed a chair away from the wall. - Come here, look. I hit the wall with a coin. - Lydia Mikhailovna lightly hit, and the coin, ringing, flew like an arc to the floor. - Now, - Lidia Mikhailovna thrust the second coin into my hand, - you beat me. But keep in mind: you need to beat so that your coin is as close to mine as possible. To be able to measure them, reach with the fingers of one hand. The game is called in another way: measurements. If you get it, you won. Bey.
I hit - my coin, hitting the edge, rolled into the corner.
- Oh, - Lidia Mikhailovna waved her hand. - Long away. Now you start. Consider: if my coin touches yours, even a little, edge, - I win twice. Do you understand?
- What is there incomprehensible?
- Let's play?
I couldn't believe my ears:
- How am I going to play with you?
- What is it?
- You're a teacher!
- So what? The teacher is a different person, or what? Sometimes it gets boring to be just a teacher, to teach and teach endlessly. Constantly pulling herself up: that is not allowed, that is not possible. ”Lidia Mikhailovna narrowed her eyes more than usual and looked thoughtfully out of the window with a distance. - Sometimes it is useful to forget that you are a teacher - otherwise you will become such a byaka and beech that living people will become bored with you. For a teacher, perhaps the most important thing is not to take himself seriously, to understand that he can teach very little. She shook herself and immediately cheered up. - As a child, I was a desperate girl, my parents have had enough with me. Even now I still often want to jump, jump, rush somewhere, do something not according to the program, not according to the schedule, but at will. I sometimes jump and jump here. A person grows old not when he reaches old age, but when he ceases to be a child. I would love to jump every day, but Vasily Andreevich lives behind the wall. He is a very serious person. In no case should he find out that we are playing "zameryashki".
- But we do not play any "measurements". You just showed me.
- We can play as simple as they say, for fun. But you still don’t betray me to Vasily Andreyevich.
Lord, what's going on in this world! How long have I been afraid to death that Lydia Mikhailovna would drag me to the director for gambling, and now she asks me not to betray her. The end of the world is not otherwise. I looked around, not knowing what frightened, and blinked in confusion.
- Well - let's try? If you don't like it, let's quit.
“Come on,” I agreed hesitantly.
- Get started.
We took up the coins. It was evident that Lydia Mikhailovna had once really played, and I was just trying on the game, I had not yet figured out for myself how to hit the wall with a coin - whether with an edge or flat, at what height and with what force when is it better to throw ... My blows were blind; if they were counting, I would have lost quite a lot in the first minutes, although there was nothing tricky about these “measurements”. Most of all, of course, I was embarrassed and oppressed, did not allow me to get used to the fact that I was playing with Lydia Mikhailovna. In no dream could this have been dreamed of, in no bad thought think about it. I didn’t come to my senses immediately and not easily, but when I came to my senses and began to look a little at the game, Lydia Mikhailovna took it and stopped it.
“No, that’s not so interesting,” she said, straightening up and brushing her hair that had slipped over her eyes. - To play is so real, but the fact that you and I are like three-year-old kids.
“But then it will be a gamble,” I timidly reminded her.
- Of course. And what are we holding in our hands? The game for money cannot be substituted by anything else. In this way, she is good and bad at the same time. We can agree on a very small rate, but interest will still appear.
I was silent, not knowing what to do and how to be.
- Are you afraid? - Lidia Mikhailovna encouraged me.
- Here's another! I'm not afraid of anything.
I had one little thing with me. I gave the coin to Lydia Mikhailovna and took mine out of my pocket. Well, let's play for real, Lydia Mikhailovna, if you like. Something to me - I was not the first to start Vadik, pervosti on me, too, zero attention, and then came to his senses, climbed with his fists. I learned there, and I will learn here. It’s not French, and I’ll clean up French too soon.
I had to accept one condition: since Lydia Mikhailovna's hand is larger and her fingers are longer, she will begin to measure with her thumb and middle fingers, and I, as expected, with my thumb and little finger. It was fair and I agreed.
The game started over. We moved from the room to the hallway, where it was freer, and beat against a flat plank fence. They beat, knelt down, crawled on the floor, touching each other, stretched out their fingers, measuring the coins, then again rising to their feet, and Lidia Mikhailovna announced the count. She played noisily: she screamed, clapped her hands, teased me - in a word, she behaved like an ordinary girl, not a teacher, I sometimes even wanted to shout. But nevertheless she won, and I lost. Before I had time to recover, eighty kopecks ran over me, with great difficulty I managed to knock this debt down to thirty, but Lidia Mikhailovna hit mine with her coin from a distance, and the account immediately jumped to fifty. I started to worry. We agreed to pay at the end of the game, but if things continue like this, my money will not be enough very soon, I have a little more than a ruble. This means that it is impossible to cross the ruble - not that shame, shame and shame for life.
And then I suddenly noticed that Lidia Mikhailovna was not even trying to beat me at all. When measuring, her fingers hunched over, not lining the entire length - where she supposedly could not reach the coin, I reached without any effort. This offended me and I got up.
“No,” I said, “that's not how I play. Why are you playing along with me? It's not fair.
“But I really can't get them,” she began to refuse. - I have some kind of wooden fingers.
- You can.
- Okay, okay, I'll try.
I don’t know about mathematics, but in life the best proof is by contradiction. When the next day I saw that Lidia Mikhailovna, in order to touch the coin, secretly pushes it to her finger, I was stunned. Looking at me and for some reason not noticing that I can see her perfectly pure water fraud, she as if nothing had happened continued to move the coin.
- What are you doing? - I was indignant.
- I? And what am I doing?
- Why did you move her?
- No, she was lying there, - in the most shameless way, with some kind of even joy, Lydia Mikhailovna denied herself no worse than Vadik or Ptah.
Blimey! The teacher is called! I saw with my own eyes at a distance of twenty centimeters that she was touching the coin, and she assures me that she did not touch, and even laughs at me. Is she taking me for a blind man? For the little one? Teaches French is called. I immediately completely forgot that only yesterday Lydia Mikhailovna tried to play along with me, and only made sure that she did not deceive me. Well well! Lydia Mikhailovna, called.
That day we studied French for fifteen or twenty minutes, and then even less. We have a different interest. Lydia Mikhailovna made me read a passage, made comments, listened to the comments again, and we did not hesitate to move on to the game. After two small losses, I started winning. I quickly got used to the "measurements", figured out all the secrets, knew how and where to beat, what to do as a point guard, so as not to substitute my coin for freezing.
And again I have money. Again I ran to the market and bought milk - now in ice cream mugs. I carefully cut off the influx of cream from the mug, stuffed the crumbling ice slices into my mouth and, feeling their satiated sweetness all over my body, closed my eyes in pleasure. Then he turned the circle upside down and hammered the sweetish milk sludge with a knife. He allowed the leftovers to melt and drank them, eating them with a piece of black bread.
Nothing, it was possible to live, but in the near future, as we heal the wounds of the war, they promised a happy time for everyone.
Of course, accepting money from Lydia Mikhailovna, I felt awkward, but every time I was reassured by the fact that it was an honest win. I never asked for a game, Lydia Mikhailovna suggested it herself. I did not dare to refuse. It seemed to me that the game gives her pleasure, she was cheerful, laughed, and bothered me.
We wish we knew how it would all end ...
... Kneeling opposite each other, we argued about the account. Before that, too, it seems, was arguing about something.
“You must understand, garden head,” Lidia Mikhailovna argued, crawling over me and waving her arms, “why should I deceive you? I keep the score, not you, I know better. I lost three times in a row, and before that there was a "chick".
- "Chica" is not easy.
- Why doesn't it count?
We were shouting, interrupting each other, when we heard a surprised, if not startled, but firm, ringing voice:
- Lydia Mikhailovna!
We froze. Vasily Andreevich stood at the door.
- Lydia Mikhailovna, what's the matter with you? What's going on here?
Lidia Mikhailovna, slowly, very slowly, got up from her knees, flushed and disheveled, and, smoothing her hair, said:
- I, Vasily Andreevich, hoped that you would knock before entering here.
- I knocked. Nobody answered me. What's going on here? - can you explain please. I have a right to know as a director.
- We play "wall", - Lydia Mikhailovna calmly answered.
- Are you playing for money with this? .. - Vasily Andreevich pointed a finger at me, and in fear I crawled behind the partition to hide in the room. - Playing with a student ?! Did I understand you correctly?
- Correctly.
- Well, you know ... - The director was gasping for breath, he was out of breath. “I’m at a loss to name your action right away. It is a crime. Deposition. Seduction. And more, more ... I've been working at school for twenty years, I've seen all kinds of things, but this ...
And he raised his hands over his head.
Three days later, Lydia Mikhailovna left. The day before, she met me after school and walked me home.
“I'll go to my place in the Kuban,” she said, saying goodbye. - And you study calmly, no one will touch you for this stupid incident. This is my fault. Study. ”She patted my head and left.
And I never saw her again.
In the middle of winter, after the January holidays, a parcel arrived at school by mail. When I opened it, taking the ax out from under the stairs again, there were pasta tubes in neat, dense rows. And below, in a thick cotton wrap, I found three red apples.
Previously, I only saw apples in pictures, but I guessed that it was them.
The action in Valentin Rasputin's story "French Lessons" takes place in the Russian outback, which has just begun to recover from the consequences of the war with. The main character is an eleven-year-old boy who, through his efforts, goes to study from his remote village to the regional center.
It is in and around the school that the events of the story unfold.
Torn away from his mother and forced to live in a strange family, the boy feels discomfort all the time. Having never found friends, the hero is almost always alone, distrustful of people and always hungry. Someone is carrying bread and potatoes from his meager stocks, collected for his son by a selfless mother. The condition of the thin boy is such that every day he needs to drink at least one glass of milk, for which he has no money.
The main concern of the hero of the story is study. He was very good at all subjects, with the exception of the French language: he could not get the pronunciation. The young teacher Lidia Mikhailovna struggled in vain to eliminate this deficiency. The French speech did not yield, despite the boy's persistence and conscientiousness.
Somehow the hero witnessed a far from childish game for money, in which older guys were playing with enthusiasm, having gathered in a remote and deserted place. Having tried his hand at this wisdom, the boy gradually began to win. The meager kopecks that he earned by this trade were more than enough for milk. Health began to improve.
The boy's success in playing for money caused the older guys to displease. It all ended badly - after the next win, they beat him off, forbidding him to come again. From, injustice and resentment caught his breath, the boy sobbed long and inconsolably, experiencing what had happened.
A lesson in humanity
The next day, the boy appeared before the French teacher in all its glory. A split lip and abrasions on his face eloquently indicated that the guy was in serious problems. Having found out, the anxious Lydia Mikhailovna learned to her horror that he had started gambling because he had no opportunity to eat well.
Driven by a noble desire to help the boy, the teacher insisted that he come to her home to study additional French. Between conversations about life and lessons, she tried to feed the boy. And when he flatly refused to accept such gifts from her hands, Lydia Mikhailovna went for a trick. She somehow accidentally suggested after another homework to play for money in a game she had invented.
On reflection, the hero found this way of making money quite honest and gradually got carried away, throwing coins.
It was for this exciting and noisy lesson that the school director found the teacher with the student. Without trying to understand the motives of the teacher's act, the headmaster fired her in anger for immoral behavior, which, in his opinion, was a flagrant case of molestation of a gullible child. Lydia Mikhailovna, not wanting to make excuses, was forced to leave school, but she never reproached the boy for what happened.
This is the summary of this story, surprising in its power of impact. French lessons have become an invaluable life experience for the boy. The teacher's noble deed allowed him to know what real compassion and compassion are.