656. Read the text. Indicate simple and complex sentences, determine the structural differences between them. Set the types of simple sentences and predicative parts of complex sentences by composition. Explain the use of punctuation marks.
It gets dark, a blizzard rises at night ...
Tomorrow is Christmas, a big merry holiday, and this makes the unfavorable twilight, the endless back road and the field immersed in the haze of snow even more sad. The sky hangs lower and lower over him; the bluish-lead light of the fading day faintly glimmers, and in the foggy distance those pale, elusive lights are already beginning to appear, which always flicker before the strained eyes of the traveler on winter steppe nights.
Apart from these ominous mysterious lights, nothing can be seen ahead at half a verst. It’s good that it’s frosty, and the wind easily blows hard snow off the road. But on the other hand, he hits them in the face, falls asleep roadside oak poles with a hiss, tears off and carries away their blackened, dry leaves in the smoke of snow, and, looking at them, you feel lost in the desert, among the eternal northern twilight ...
In a field, far from the big roads, far from big cities and railways, there is a farm. Even the village, which was once near the farm itself, now nests five versts from it. The Baskakovs called this farm many years ago Luchezarovka, and the village - Luchezarovskie Dvoriki. B.
657. Determine what each sentence is (simple, simple complicated, complex).
1. It was still hot, it was gloomy from the clouds, a thunderstorm was approaching. B.
2. Not all of the fuse of tenacious youth must have come out yet. Tv.
3. Rumors are not to be believed, but not every hearing is sighted. Tv.
4. Only closer to my native land, I would like to turn now. EU
5. Krucifersky noticed that the question of dowry was completely alien to him. Hertz.
6. But it was a pleasure for Morgunk, having hung a warm flail, to sit and winnow on the current the bread stuffed during the day. Those.
7. Only the wind rushes to the feet and burns the eyes to tears. Tark.
8. The garden was small, and this was its dignity. Tyn.
658. Determine the type of each compound sentence: with an allied connection, with an allied connection between predicative parts, with an allied connection between some parts of the sentence and an allied connection between others. In the latter case, identify the dominant type of connection.
1. Sometimes you wander along the street - all of a sudden, out of nowhere, a senseless thirst for a miracle will pass down your back, like a shiver. Tark.
2. In the morning my man came to me and announced that Count Pushkin had safely crossed the snowy mountains on oxen and arrived in Dushet. P.
3. By ten o'clock it is already so dark that at least one eye is gouged out.
4. Between the round, loose clouds, the sky innocently turns blue, and the gentle sun warms the humens and courtyards in the calm. B.
5. The cockerel calmed down, the noise subsided, and the king forgot himself. P.
6. Gavrila Afanasyevich hastily got up from the table; everyone rushed to the windows; and in fact they saw the sovereign, who ascended the porch, leaning on the shoulder of his orderly. P.
7. The burdock's eyelashes will die, the grasshopper's saddle will sparkle like a rainbow, the steppe bird will comb its sleepy wing. Tark.
8. The dusk was softly blue in the park, and silver stars appeared above the tops of the oaks. B.
659. Establish means of communication that are essential for determining the type of a complex sentence or for expressing relations between its parts: only conjunctions, only allied words, only intonation, intonation and order
doc of the parts, allied words or conjunctions and the order of the parts.
1. The sun shone; through the large window one could see the beautiful tree-lined Tsarskoye Selo road. Tyn.
2. You not only cannot speak to me, but it is difficult for you even to look at me. Bulg.
3. From the bright sun, the eyes could not distinguish what was down there: darkness, oblique dusty streaks of light from holes in the roof. Buckle.
4. It had not yet dawned when Nikolai Petrovich woke up from the clatter in the bedroom. AT.
5. The ruins of a castle are visible on the rock: they are covered with sacks of peaceful Ossetians, as if with nests of swallows. P.
6. Charsky thought that the Neapolitan was going to give several concerts on the cello and was delivering his tickets home. P.
7. Since dawn, the cuckoo cuckoos loudly in the distance beyond the river, and in the young birch forest it smells of mushrooms and leaves. B.
8. Unsteady and terrible screams hung over the farms, and the owl flew from the bell tower to the cemetery, soiled by calves, groaned over the brown graves that had been poisoned. Sh.
660. Prove that the given sentences are complex. Determine the modality of each predicative part that is part of a complex sentence.
1. Somewhere beyond the Don, lightning was blue, it was raining, and behind the white fence, merging with the rumble of voices, bells on horses shifting from one foot to the other tinkled invitingly and gently. Sh.
2. The rain is warm, but still not enough to sit in one shirt. B.
3. Let a lot be left behind, let the hot fires blaze, my new day is filled with newness, it requires a fast ride. Tat.
4. Whenever you pass the station and go to the pier,
the silence of Venice surprises you, you get drunk from the sea air of the canals. B.
5. It seemed that if the dance had not ended, one could suffocate from tension. B.
6. If, for a complete answer, you want to resolve all historical and political questions along the way, then you will have to devote forty years of your life to this, and even then success is doubtful. Hertz.
7. Every minute it seems to me that the pass is two steps away from me, and the bare and rocky ascent does not end. B.
8. Is this really the same month that once looked into my children's room, which later saw me as a young man and which now mourns with me about my failed youth? B.
9. Ibrahim answered absently that the sovereign was probably now working at a shipyard. P.
661. Determine the relationship between the predicative parts in a complex sentence and its type.
1. Other beauties shared her displeasure, but were silent, because modesty was then considered a necessary accessory of a young woman. P.
2. As soon as the Pushkin family appeared at the Linen Factory, Natalya Ivanovna Goncharova arrived. Forge.
3. After "Godunov" there was no longer any doubt that Pushkin was the first poet of Russia. T.-V.
4. The bloodless sun grinned like a widow, the strict virgin blue of the sky was repulsively pure, proud. Sh.
5. As a haze closed the distance of the fields for half an hour, a sudden rain fell in oblique stripes - and again the skies over the refreshed forests are deeply blue. B.
6. As soon as the royal old fort looks through the cliffs, as cheerful sailors rush to the familiar port. Gum.
7. Everyone can compose an epigram, but the talent lies in applying each verse accurately and sharply. Tyn.
8. Later, during all sorts of student riots, at least a couple of glasses were broken in Moskovskie Vedomosti, and on Tatyana's Day, cat concerts of a peaceful nature were repeated in front of the editorial office. Gil.
662. Indicate how the predicative parts in the composition of a complex sentence are connected. Analyze the composition of the predicative units of complex sentences.
1. My nerves were elated after the experience, I talked about my adventures, so that the hospitable host had no time to talk. Gil.
2. The old man was surprised, frightened: he fished for thirty years and three years and did not hear the fish speak. P.
3. It seemed to me that the sad autumn month had been floating above the earth for a long, long time, that the hour had come to rest from all the lies and bustle of the day. B.
4. Alexander saw how his father's lips moved and smiled, and his eyes became kind and intelligent. Tyn.
5. The newspaper was placed on the corner of Bolshaya Dmitrovka and Strastnoy Boulevard and was printed in a huge university printing house, where things were going brilliantly, there was even a typesetting school. Gil.
6. If Ostap knew that he plays such tricky games and faces such a tried and tested defense, he would be extremely surprised. I., P.
7. While the carriages were leaving, the escort officer announced to us that he was seeing off the Persian court poet, and, at my request, introduced me to Fazil Khan. P.
8. In the mornings, light frosts rang, and by noon the earth receded and smelled of March, frozen bark of cherry trees, rotten straw. Sh.
Rain all the time, pine forests all around. Every now and then, in the bright blue, white clouds accumulate above them, thunder rolls high, then a brilliant rain begins to pour through the sun, quickly turning from the heat into fragrant pine steam ... Everything is wet, greasy, mirror-like ... In the park of the estate, the trees were so so large that the dachas built in some places in it seemed small under them, like dwellings under trees in tropical countries. The pond stood like a huge black mirror, half covered with green duckweed... I lived on the outskirts of the park, in the forest. My log dacha was not quite completed - unpaved walls, unplaned floors, stoves without dampers, almost no furniture. And from constant dampness, my boots, lying under the bed, were overgrown with velvet mold.
It got dark in the evenings only towards midnight: the half-light of the west stands and stands through the motionless, quiet forests. On moonlit nights, this half-light mixed strangely with the moonlight, also motionless, enchanted. And from the calmness that reigned everywhere, from the purity of the sky and air, it seemed that there would be no more rain. But now I was falling asleep, having escorted her to the station, and suddenly I heard: a downpour with thunder peals was again falling on the roof, darkness was all around and lightning falling in a plumb line ... , called flycatchers, the thrushes crackled hoarsely. By noon it was soaring again, clouds were found and it began to rain. Before sunset, it became clear, on my log walls, the crystal-gold grid of the low sun trembled, falling through the windows through the foliage. Then I went to the station to meet her. A train was approaching, countless summer residents were pouring out onto the platform, it smelled of the coal of a steam locomotive and the damp freshness of the forest, she showed up in the crowd, with a net burdened with packets of snacks, fruits, a bottle of Madeira ... We dined together eye to eye. Before her late departure we wandered through the park. She became somnambulistic, walked with her head on my shoulder. A black pond, age-old trees stretching into the starry sky... An enchanted-light night, infinitely silent, with infinitely long shadows of trees on silver glades that look like lakes.
In June, she went with me to my village - without getting married, she began to live with me, like a wife, began to manage. I spent a long autumn without being bored, in everyday worries, reading. Of our neighbors, one Zavistovsky most often visited us, a lonely, poor landowner who lived about two versts from us, frail, red-haired, timid, narrow-minded - and not a bad musician. In winter, he began to appear with us almost every evening. I had known him since childhood, but now I was so used to him that an evening without him was strange to me. We played checkers with him or he played four hands with her on the piano.
Before Christmas I once went to the city. Came back by moonlight. And when he entered the house, he did not find her anywhere. Sat at the samovar alone.
- And where is the mistress, Dunya? Gone to play?
- I don't know. They haven't been home since breakfast.
“Get dressed and left,” my old nanny said gloomily, walking through the dining room without raising her head.
“It’s true, she went to Zavistovsky,” I thought, “it’s true, she will soon come with him - it’s already seven o’clock ...” And I went and lay down in the office and suddenly fell asleep - I was cold all day on the road. And just as suddenly I woke up an hour later - with a clear and wild thought: “Why, she left me! She hired a peasant in the village and went to the station, to Moscow - everything will come of her! Went through the house - no, did not return. Shame on the servants...
At ten o'clock, not knowing what to do, I put on a sheepskin coat, for some reason took a gun and went along the high road to Zavistovsky, thinking: "As luck would have it, he didn't come today, and I still have a whole terrible night ahead of me! Is it really true left, left? No, it can't be!" I walk, creaking along a well-trodden path among the snows, snow fields shine on the left under a low, poor moon ... I turned off the main road, went to the Zavistovsky estate: an alley of bare trees leading to it across the field, then the entrance to the courtyard, on the left is an old, beggar house, it's dark in the house... He climbed the icy porch, with difficulty opened the heavy door in tufts of upholstery, - in the hallway the open burned-out stove blushes, it's warm and dark... But it's dark in the hall.
- Vikenty Vikentich!
And he noiselessly, in felt boots, appeared on the threshold of the office, which was also lit only by the moon through the triple window.
- Oh, it's you ... Come in, come in, please ... And as you can see, I am twilight, while away the evening without a fire ...
I went in and sat down on the bumpy sofa.
- Imagine. The music has disappeared...
He said nothing. Then in an almost inaudible voice:
Yes, yes, I understand you...
- That is, what do you understand?
And immediately, also noiselessly, also in felt boots, with a shawl on her shoulders, Muse came out of the bedroom adjoining the study.
“You are with a gun,” she said. - If you want to shoot, then shoot not at him, but at me.
She sat down on the other sofa opposite.
I looked at her felt boots, at her knees under a gray skirt - everything was clearly visible in the golden light falling from the window - I wanted to shout: “I can’t live without you, for these knees alone, for a skirt, for felt boots, I’m ready to give my life !"
“The matter is clear and finished,” she said. - Scenes are useless.
“You are monstrously cruel,” I said with difficulty.
"Give me a cigarette," she said to Zavistovsky.
He leaned cowardly towards her, held out a cigarette case, began to fumble through his pockets for matches...
“You are already talking to me on “you,” I said, panting, “you could at least not speak to him on “you” in front of me.
- Why? she asked, raising her eyebrows, holding a cigarette out of the way.
My heart was already pounding in my throat, beating in my temples. I got up and staggered out.
October 17, 1938
LATE HOUR
Oh, how long have I been there, I said to myself. From the age of nineteen. He once lived in Russia, felt it as his own, had complete freedom to travel anywhere, and it was not great work to travel some three hundred miles. But he didn’t go, he put everything off. And years and decades went by. But now it is no longer possible to postpone any longer: either now or never. It is necessary to use the only and last opportunity, since the hour is late and no one will meet me.
And I went over the bridge over the river, seeing far away in the moonlight of the July night.
The bridge was so familiar, the old one, as if I had seen it yesterday: crudely ancient, humpbacked and as if not even stone, but some kind of petrified from time to time to eternal indestructibility - I thought as a high school student that he was still under Batu. However, only some traces of the city walls on the cliff under the cathedral and this bridge speak of the antiquity of the city. Everything else is old, provincial, nothing more. One thing was strange, one thing indicated that, after all, something had changed in the world since I was a boy, a young man: before the river was not navigable, but now it must have been deepened and cleared; the moon was to my left, quite far above the river, and in its shaky light and in the flickering, trembling brilliance of the water, the paddle steamer was white, which seemed empty - it was so silent - although all its portholes were lit, like motionless golden eyes and everything was reflected in the water with streaming golden pillars: the steamer stood exactly on them. It was in Yaroslavl, and in the Suez Canal, and on the Nile. In Paris, the nights are damp, dark, a hazy glow turns pink in the impenetrable sky, the Seine flows under the bridges with black tar, but under them, too, streaming pillars of reflections from the lanterns on the bridges hang, only they are tricolor: white, blue and red - Russian national flags. There are no lights on the bridge here, and it is dry and dusty. And ahead, on a hillock, the city darkens with gardens, a fire tower sticks out above the gardens. My God, what an inexpressible happiness it was! It was during the night fire that I kissed your hand for the first time and you squeezed mine in response - I will never forget this secret consent. The whole street was black with people in an ominous, unusual illumination. I was visiting you when the alarm suddenly sounded and everyone rushed to the windows, and then behind the gate. It burned far away, beyond the river, but terribly hot, greedily, hastily. Clouds of smoke were thickly pouring down there in a black-purple rune, and red cloths of flame were escaping high from them, near us, trembling, they shivered coppery in the dome of Michael the Archangel. And in the cramped quarters, in the crowd, amid the anxious, now pitiful, now joyful conversation of the common people who had fled from everywhere, I heard the smell of your girlish hair, neck, canvas dress - and then suddenly I made up my mind, took, all fading, your hand ...
Behind the bridge, I climbed the hill, went to the city by a paved road.
There was not a single fire anywhere in the city, not a single living soul. Everything was silent and spacious, calm and sad - the sadness of the Russian steppe night, the sleeping steppe city. Some gardens barely audibly, carefully fluttered their leaves from the even current of a weak July wind, which pulled from somewhere in the fields, gently blew on me. I walked - the big moon also walked, rolling and passing through the blackness of the branches in a mirrored circle; the broad streets lay in shadow—only in the houses to the right, to which the shadow did not reach, white walls were lit and black windows shimmered with a mournful luster; and I walked in the shade, stepped on the spotty pavement - it was translucently covered with black silk lace. She had such an evening dress, very elegant, long and slender. It unusually went to her thin figure and black young eyes. She was mysterious in him and insultingly paid no attention to me. Where was it? Visiting who?
My goal was to visit Old Street. And I could go there by another, close way. But I turned into these spacious streets in the gardens because I wanted to look at the gymnasium. And, having reached it, he again wondered: and here everything remained the same as half a century ago; a stone fence, a stone yard, a large stone building in the yard - everything is just as bureaucratic, boring, as it once was with me. I hesitated at the gate, I wanted to evoke sadness in myself, the pity of memories - and I couldn’t: yes, a first grader with a comb-cut hair in a brand new blue cap with silver palms over the visor and in a new overcoat with silver buttons entered these gates, then a thin young man in a gray jacket and smart drawstring trousers; but is it me?
The old street seemed to me only a little narrower than it seemed before. Everything else was unchanged. A bumpy pavement, not a single tree, dusty merchants' houses on both sides, the sidewalks are also bumpy, such that it is better to walk in the middle of the street, in full moonlight ... And the night was almost the same as that one. Only that one was at the end of August, when the whole city smells of apples that lie in mountains in the bazaars, and it is so warm that it was a pleasure to walk in one blouse, belted with a Caucasian strap ... Is it possible to remember this night somewhere there, as if in sky?
I still didn't dare to go to your house. And he, it is true, has not changed, but it is all the more terrible to see him. Some strangers, new people live in it now. Your father, your mother, your brother - all outlived you, young, but also died in their time. Yes, and I have all died; and not only relatives, but also many, many with whom I, in friendship or friendship, began life; how long ago did they start, confident that there would be no end to it, but everything began, flowed and ended before my eyes - so quickly and before my eyes! And I sat down on a pedestal near some merchant's house, impregnable behind its locks and gates, and began to think what it was like in those distant, our times: just tied up dark hair, a clear look, a light tan of a young face, a light summer a dress under which the purity, strength and freedom of a young body ... This was the beginning of our love, a time of unclouded happiness, intimacy, gullibility, enthusiastic tenderness, joy ...
There is something very special about the warm and bright nights of Russian county towns at the end of summer. What a world, what prosperity! An old man with a mallet wanders around the nightly cheerful city, but only for his own pleasure: there is nothing to guard, sleep peacefully, good people, God's favor guards you, this is a high shining sky, at which the old man carelessly glances, wandering along the pavement heated during the day and only occasionally, for fun, launching a dance trill with a mallet. And on such a night, at that late hour, when he was the only one who did not sleep in the city, you were waiting for me in your garden, which had already dried up by autumn, and I secretly slipped into it: I quietly opened the gate, previously unlocked by you, quietly and quickly ran through the yard and behind the barn in the depths of the yard he entered the motley twilight of the garden, where your dress was faintly white in the distance, on a bench under the apple trees, and, quickly approaching, met with joyful fright the gleam of your waiting eyes.
And we sat, sat in a kind of bewilderment of happiness. With one hand I hugged you, hearing the beating of your heart, in the other I held your hand, feeling through it all of you. And it was already so late that not even a beater could be heard - the old man lay down somewhere on a bench and dozed off with a pipe in his teeth, basking in the moonlight. When I looked to the right, I saw how high and sinlessly the moon was shining above the yard, and the roof of the house was shining like a fish. When he looked to the left, he saw a path overgrown with dry herbs, disappearing under other apple trees, and behind them a lone green star peering low from behind some other garden, glimmering impassively and at the same time expectantly, saying something soundlessly. But I saw only a glimpse of the courtyard and the star - there was only one thing in the world: a slight twilight and a radiant flicker of your eyes in the twilight.
And then you walked me to the gate, and I said:
- If there is a future life and we meet in it, I will kneel there and kiss your feet for all that you have given me on earth.
I went out into the middle of the bright street and went to my farmstead. Turning around, I saw that he was still turning white in the gate.
Now, having risen from the pedestal, I went back the way I had come. No, besides Old Street, I also had another goal, which I was afraid to admit to myself, but the fulfillment of which, I knew, was inevitable. And I went to take a look and leave forever.
The road was familiar again. Everything is straight, then to the left, along the bazaar, and from the bazaar - along Monastyrskaya - to the exit from the city.
The bazaar is like another city within a city. Very smelly rows. In Glutton Row, under awnings over long tables and benches, it is gloomy. In Skobyan, an icon of the big-eyed Savior in a rusty setting hangs on a chain over the middle of the aisle. In Flour in the morning they always ran, pecking on the pavement with a whole flock of pigeons. You go to the gymnasium - how many of them! And all the fat ones, with iridescent goiters, peck and run, feminine, pinch wagging, swaying, monotonously twitching their heads, as if not noticing you: they take off, whistling their wings, only when you almost step on one of them. And at night, large dark rats, ugly and terrible, quickly and preoccupiedly rushed about here.
Monastyrskaya street - a flight to the fields and the road: one from the city home, to the village, the other - to the city of the dead. In Paris, for two days, a house number such and such on such and such a street stands out from all other houses with a plague props of the entrance, its mourning frame with silver, for two days lies in the entrance on the mourning cover of the table a piece of paper in a mourning border - they sign on it as a sign of sympathy polite visitors; then, at a certain deadline, a huge chariot with a mourning canopy stops at the entrance, the tree of which is black and resinous, like a plague coffin, the rounded carved floors of the canopy testify to the heavens with large white stars, and the corners of the roof are crowned with curly black sultans - ostrich feathers from hell; tall monsters in charcoal horned blankets with white rings of eye sockets are harnessed to the chariot; an old drunkard sits on infinitely high goats and waits to be carried out, also symbolically dressed in a fake coffin uniform and the same three-cornered hat, inwardly, no doubt, he always smirks at these solemn words! "Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis"1. - Everything is different here. A breeze blows from the fields along Monastyrskaya, and an open coffin is carried towards it on towels, a rice face with a motley halo on its forehead, over closed convex eyelids, sways. So they carried her.
At the exit, to the left of the highway, there is a monastery from the time of Alexei Mikhailovich, fortified, always closed gates and fortress walls, behind which the gilded turnips of the cathedral shine. Further, quite in the field, there is a very spacious square of other walls, but not high: they contain a whole grove, broken by intersecting long avenues, on the sides of which, under old elms, lindens and birches, everything is dotted with various crosses and monuments. Here the gates were wide open, and I saw the main avenue, smooth, endless. I timidly took off my hat and entered. How late and how mute! The moon was already low behind the trees, but everything around, as far as the eye could see, was still clearly visible. The whole space of this grove of the dead, its crosses and monuments, was patterned in a transparent shade. The wind died down by the predawn hour - light and dark spots, all dazzling under the trees, were asleep. In the distance of the grove, behind the cemetery church, something suddenly flashed and with frantic speed, a dark ball rushed at me - I, beside myself, shied to the side, my whole head immediately froze and tightened, my heart jerked and sank .. . What was it? Passed and disappeared. But the heart in the chest remained standing. And so, with a stopped heart, carrying it in me like a heavy cup, I moved on. I knew where to go, I kept walking straight along the avenue - and at the very end of it, already a few steps from the back wall, I stopped: in front of me, on level ground, among dry grasses, an elongated and rather narrow stone lay alone, heading to Wall. From behind the wall, a small green star looked like a wondrous gem, radiant, like the former one, but mute, motionless.
October 19, 1938
At eleven o'clock in the evening, the fast train Moscow-Sevastopol stopped at a small station outside Podolsk, where it was not supposed to stop, and was waiting for something on the second track. On the train, a gentleman and a lady approached the lowered window of the first-class carriage. A conductor with a red lantern in his hanging hand was crossing the rails, and the lady asked:
- Listen, why are we standing?
The conductor replied that the oncoming courier was late.
The station was dark and sad. Twilight had long since set in, but in the west, behind the station, behind the blackening wooded fields, the long summer dawn of Moscow still shone deathly. There was a damp smell of swamp in the window. In the silence there was heard from somewhere the even and, as it were, raw creak of the twitch.
He leaned against the window, she leaned on his shoulder.
“I once lived in this area on vacation,” he said. - I was a tutor in a country estate, about five miles from here. Boring area. Small forest, magpies, mosquitoes and dragonflies. No view anywhere. In the estate, one could only admire the horizon from the mezzanine. The house, of course, was in the Russian dacha style and very neglected, - the owners were impoverished people, - behind the house there is some semblance of a garden, behind the garden is not that lake, not that swamp, overgrown with kuga and water lilies, and the inevitable punt near the marshy shore.
- And, of course, the bored country girl that you rolled through this swamp.
- Yes, everything is as it should be. Only the girl was not at all bored. I rolled it more and more at night, and it came out even poetically. In the west, the sky is greenish and transparent all night long, and there, on the horizon, just like now, everything is smoldering and smoldering ... There was only one oar and something like a shovel, and I rowed with it like a savage, then to the left. On the opposite bank it was dark from a small forest, but behind it this strange half-light stood all night. And everywhere there is unimaginable silence - only mosquitoes whine and dragonflies fly. I never thought that they fly at night - it turned out that for some reason they fly. Downright scary.
At last the oncoming train rustled, rushed in with a roar and wind, merging into one golden strip of illuminated windows, and rushed past. The car immediately started moving. The conductor entered the compartment, lit it up and began to prepare the beds,
- Well, what did you have with this girl? Real romance? For some reason you never told me about her. What was she like?
- Skinny, tall. She wore a yellow cotton sundress and peasant boots on her bare feet, woven from some kind of multi-colored wool.
- Also, then, in the Russian style?
- I think that most of all in the style of poverty. Nothing to wear, well, a sundress. In addition, she was an artist, studied at the Stroganov School of Painting. Yes, she herself was picturesque, even icon-painting. A long black braid on her back, a swarthy face with small dark moles, a narrow, regular nose, black eyes, black eyebrows... Her hair was dry and coarse and slightly curled. All this, with a yellow sundress and white muslin sleeves of a shirt, stood out very beautifully. The ankles and the beginning of the foot in chunks are all dry, with bones protruding under the thin dark skin.
- I know this guy. I had a friend like that in my class. Hysterical, must be.
- Maybe. Moreover, her face was similar to her mother, and her mother, who was born some kind of princess with oriental blood, suffered from something like black melancholy. She only went to the table. He comes out, sits down and is silent, coughs without raising his eyes, and everything shifts now the knife, then the fork. If he suddenly speaks, then so unexpectedly and loudly that you shudder.
- And the father?
- Also silent and dry, tall; retired soldier. Simple and sweet was only their boy, whom I rehearsed.
The conductor came out of the compartment, said that the beds were ready, and wished good night.
- What was her name?
- Russia.
- What is that name?
- Very simple - Marusya.
- So what, you were very in love with her?
- Of course, it seemed terrible,
- And she?
He paused and answered dryly:
“Probably she thought so too. But let's go to bed. I was terribly tired during the day.
- Very cute! Only interested in gift. Well, tell me at least in a nutshell how and how your romance ended.
- Nothing. He left and that was the end of it.
Why didn't you marry her?
“Obviously, I had a presentiment that I would meet you.
- No seriously?
- Well, because I shot myself, and she stabbed herself with a dagger ...
And, having washed and brushed their teeth, they shut themselves up in the resulting closeness of the compartment, undressed and, with the joy of the journey, lay down under the fresh glossy sheet of sheets and on the same pillows, all sliding from the raised headboard.
A blue-purple peephole above the door peered quietly into the darkness. She soon fell asleep, he did not sleep, lay, smoked and mentally looked at that summer ...
She also had many small dark moles on her body - this feature was lovely. Because she walked in soft shoes, without heels, her whole body was agitated under a yellow sundress. The sundress was wide, light, and her long girlish body was so free in it. Once she wet her feet in the rain, ran out of the garden into the living room, and he rushed to take off her shoes and kiss her wet narrow feet - there was no such happiness in his whole life. Fresh, fragrant rain rustled faster and thicker behind the doors open to the balcony, in the darkened house everyone slept after dinner - and how terribly he and her were frightened by some black cock with a metallic green tint in a large fiery crown, which also suddenly ran in from the garden with the sound of claws on the floor at that very hot moment when they forgot all caution. Seeing how they jumped up from the sofa, he hurriedly and bent over, as if out of delicacy, ran back into the rain with his shiny tail lowered ...
At first she kept looking at him; when he spoke to her, she blushed darkly and answered with a mocking mutter; at the table she often offended him, loudly addressing her father:
- Do not treat him, dad, in vain. He doesn't like dumplings. However, he doesn’t like okroshka, and he doesn’t like noodles, and he despises curdled milk, and hates cottage cheese.
In the mornings he was busy with the boy, she was doing housework - the whole house was on her. They had dinner at one, and after dinner she went to her mezzanine or, if it was not raining, to the garden, where her easel stood under a birch tree, and, brushing off mosquitoes, painted from nature. Then she began to go out onto the balcony, where, after dinner, he sat with a book in a slanted reed armchair, stood with his hands behind his back, and looked at him with an indefinite smile:
- Can I find out what wisdom you deign to study?
- History of the French Revolution.
- Oh, my God! I didn't even know we had a revolutionary in our house!
- And why did you abandon your painting?
- I'm about to give up completely. Convinced of her incompetence.
- And you show me something from your writings.
- Do you think you know anything about painting?
- You are terribly proud.
- There is a sin...
Finally, she offered him a ride on the lake one day, and suddenly said resolutely:
- It seems that the rainy period of our tropical places is over. Let's have some fun. Our gas chamber, it is true, is quite rotten and has a bottom full of holes, but Petya and I filled up all the holes with kuga...
The day was hot, steaming, the coastal grasses, mottled with the yellow flowers of night blindness, were stiflingly heated by damp heat, and countless pale green moths hovered low over them.
He adopted her constant mocking tone and, going up to the boat, said:
- Finally, you condescended to me!
- Finally, you gathered your thoughts to answer me! she answered briskly and jumped on the bow of the boat, scaring away the frogs, splashing into the water from all sides, but suddenly she squealed wildly and grabbed the sundress to her knees, stamping her feet:
- Oh! Already!
He caught a glimpse of the brilliant brownness of her bare legs, grabbed the oar from the bow, hit the snake wriggling along the bottom of the boat with it, and, hooking it, threw it far into the water.
She was pale with a kind of Indian pallor, the moles on her face had become darker, the blackness of her hair and eyes seemed to be even blacker. She breathed a sigh of relief.
- Oh, what a mess. No wonder the word horror comes from the snake. We have them everywhere here, both in the garden and under the house ... And Petya, imagine, picks them up!
For the first time she spoke to him simply, and for the first time they looked directly into each other's eyes.
- But what a fine fellow you are! How well you hit him!
She completely came to her senses, smiled and, running from bow to stern, sat down cheerfully. In her fright, she struck him with her beauty, now he thought with tenderness: yes, she is still a girl! But, making an air of indifference, he anxiously stepped into the boat, and, resting the oar on the gelatinous bottom, turned it bow forward and pulled it through the tangled thicket of underwater grasses to the green brushes of the kugi and flowering water lilies, which covered everything in front with a continuous layer of their thick, round foliage, brought her on the water and sat down on a bench in the middle, paddling right and left.
- Really, okay? she called.
- Highly! - he answered, taking off his cap, and turned to her: - Be so kind as to throw it near you, otherwise I will brush it into this trough, which, excuse me, still leaks and is full of leeches.
She placed the cap on her knees.
- Don't worry, throw it anywhere.
She pressed her cap to her chest.
No, I'll take care of him!
Again his heart trembled tenderly, but again he turned away and began to forcefully launch the oar into the water glistening among the kugi and water lilies.
Mosquitoes stuck to the face and hands, everything around was blinded by warm silver: steamy air, unsteady sunlight, the curly white of the clouds, softly shining in the sky and in the clearings of the water among the islands of kuga and water lilies; everywhere it was so shallow that one could see the bottom with underwater grasses, but somehow it did not interfere with that bottomless depth into which the reflected sky with clouds went. Suddenly she screeched again - and the boat fell on its side: she put her hand into the water from the stern and, catching the stalk of a water lily, pulled it towards her so that it collapsed along with the boat - he barely had time to jump up and catch her armpits. She laughed and, falling back on the stern, splashed from her wet hand right into his eyes. Then he grabbed her again and, not understanding what he was doing, kissed her laughing lips. She quickly wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him awkwardly on the cheek...
Since then, they began to swim at night. The next day, after dinner, she called him to the garden and asked:
- Do you love me?
He responded warmly, remembering yesterday's kisses in the boat:
- Since the first day of our meeting!
“Me too,” she said. - No, at first I hated it - it seemed to me that you did not notice me at all. But, thank God, all this is already in the past. Tonight, when everyone has settled down, go there again and wait for me. Just get out of the house as carefully as possible - my mother watches my every step, jealous to the point of madness.
At night she came ashore with a plaid on her arm. For joy, he met her bewildered, only asked:
- A plaid why?
- How stupid. We will be cold. Well, hurry up and row to the other shore ...
They were silent the whole way. When they swam to the forest on the other side, she said:
- Here you go. Now come to me. Where is the plaid? Ah, he's under me. Cover me, I'm cold, and sit down. Like this ... No, wait, yesterday we kissed somehow stupidly, now I'll kiss you first myself, only quietly, quietly. And you hug me... everywhere...
Under the sundress she had only a shirt. She gently, barely touching, kissed him on the edges of his lips. He, with a confused head, threw her aft. She hugged him passionately...
Lying down in exhaustion, she got up and with a smile of happy fatigue and pain that had not yet subsided said:
Now we are husband and wife. Mom says that she will not survive my marriage, but I don’t want to think about it now ... You know, I want to swim, I love it terribly at night ...
She undressed over her head, turned white in the dusk with her whole long body and began to tie her head with a scythe, raising her hands, showing dark mice and raised breasts, not ashamed of her nakedness and dark toe under her stomach. She tied him up, kissed him quickly, jumped to her feet, fell flat into the water, threw her head back and thumped noisily with her feet.
Then, hurrying, he helped her get dressed and wrap herself in a blanket. In the dusk, her black eyes and black hair, tied with a braid, were fabulously visible. He no longer dared to touch her, only kissed her hands and was silent from unbearable happiness. It always seemed that someone was in the darkness of the coastal forest, silently smoldering in some places with fireflies - standing and listening. Sometimes there is something gently rustling. She raised her head.
- Wait, what is this?
- Don't be afraid, it's true, the frog crawls out onto the shore. Or a hedgehog in the forest...
- What if it's a Capricorn?
- Which Capricorn?
- I dont know. But just think: some ibex comes out of the forest, stands and looks ... I feel so good, I want to talk terrible nonsense!
And he again pressed her hands to his lips, sometimes, as if something sacred, kissed her cold breast. What a completely new creature she had become for him! And behind the blackness of the low forest, a greenish half-light stood and did not go out, weakly reflected in the flat whitening water in the distance, sharply, of celery, the dewy coastal plants smelled, mysteriously, pleadingly invisible mosquitoes whined - and they flew, flew with a quiet crackling over the boat and further, over this at night glowing water, terrible, sleepless dragonflies. And somewhere something rustled, crawled, made its way ...
A week later, he was ugly, shamefully, stunned by the horror of a completely sudden separation, expelled from home.
Once after dinner they were sitting in the living room and, touching their heads, looked at the pictures in the old issues of the Niva.
- Have you fallen in love with me yet? he asked quietly, pretending to be watching carefully.
- Silly. Terribly stupid! she whispered.
Suddenly, softly running steps were heard - and her crazy mother stood on the threshold in a black silk tattered dressing gown and worn morocco shoes. Her black eyes sparkled tragically. She ran as if onto a stage and shouted:
- I understood everything! I felt, I watched! Scoundrel, she can't be yours!
And, throwing up her hand in a long sleeve, she fired deafeningly from the old pistol, with which Petya frightened the sparrows, loading it only with gunpowder. He, in the smoke, rushed to her, grabbed her tenacious hand. She broke free, hit him in the forehead with a pistol, cut his eyebrow bloody, threw it at him, and, hearing that they were running around the house to shout and shot, she began to shout even more theatrically with foam on her bluish lips:
- Only over my corpse will she step over to you! If he runs away with you, on the same day I will hang myself, I will throw myself from the roof! Scoundrel, get out of my house! Marya Viktorovna, choose: mother or he!
She whispered:
- You, you, mother...
He woke up, opened his eyes - still steadily, mysteriously, gravely, the blue-purple peephole above the door was looking at him from the black darkness, and still with the same speed steadily rushing forward, springing, swaying, the carriage rushed. Already far, far away was that sad half-station. And as much as twenty years ago, all this happened - copses, magpies, swamps, water lilies, snakes, cranes ... Yes, there were still cranes - how could he forget about them! Everything was strange in that amazing summer, strange and a pair of some kind of cranes, flying from somewhere to the shore of the swamp from time to time, and the fact that they only let her alone and, arching their thin, long necks with a very stern, but with benevolent curiosity they looked at her from above, when she, softly and easily running up to them in her multi-colored boots, suddenly squatted down in front of them, spreading her yellow sundress on the damp and warm green of the coast, and with childish enthusiasm looked into their beautiful and formidable black pupils, narrowly seized by a ring of dark gray iris. He looked at her and at them from a distance, through binoculars, and clearly saw their small shiny heads - even their bone nostrils, the wells of strong, large beaks, with which they killed snakes with one blow. Their short bodies with fluffy tufts of tails were tightly covered with steel plumage, the scaly canes of the legs were excessively long and thin - in one they were completely black, in the other greenish. Sometimes they both stood for whole hours on one leg in an incomprehensible immobility, sometimes for no reason they jumped up, opening their huge wings; otherwise they walked about importantly, stepped slowly, measuredly, raised their paws, squeezing their three fingers into a ball, and set them apart, spreading their fingers like predatory claws, and shook their heads all the time ... However, when she ran up to them, he already he didn’t think about anything and didn’t see anything - he saw only her blossoming sundress, trembling with mortal exhaustion at the thought of her swarthy body under it, of dark moles on it. And on that last day of theirs, on that last sitting side by side in the living room on the sofa, over a volume of the old "Niva", she also held his cap in her hands, pressed it to her chest, as then, in the boat, and spoke, shining in his eyes with joyful black-mirror eyes:
“And I love you so much now that there is nothing dearer to me than even this smell inside the cap, the smell of your head and your nasty cologne!”
Behind Kursk, in the dining car, when after breakfast he drank coffee with cognac, his wife said to him:
- Why are you drinking so much? This is already, it seems, the fifth glass. Are you still sad, do you remember your country girl with bony feet?
“I’m sad, I’m sad,” he replied, smiling unpleasantly. - Country girl... Amata nobis quantum arnabitur nulla!2
- Is it in Latin? What does it mean?
- You don't need to know that.
"How rude you are," she said with a casual sigh, and looked out the sunny window.
September 27, 1940
GORGEOUS
An official of the Treasury, an elderly widower, married a young, beautiful woman, the daughter of a military commander. He was silent and modest, and she knew her worth. He was thin, tall, consumptive, wore iodine-colored glasses, spoke somewhat hoarsely and, if he wanted to say something louder, broke into a fistula. And she was small, well-built and strongly built, always well-dressed, very attentive and housekeeping, she had a sharp-sighted look. He seemed just as uninteresting in all respects as many provincial officials, but he was also married to a beautiful woman by his first marriage - everyone just shrugged their shoulders: for what and why did such people go for him?
And now the second beauty calmly hated his seven-year-old boy from the first, pretended not to notice him at all. Then the father, out of fear of her, also pretended that he did not and never had a son. And the boy, by nature lively, affectionate, began to be afraid to say a word in their presence, and there he completely hid, became, as it were, non-existent in the house.
Immediately after the wedding, he was transferred to sleep from his father's bedroom on a sofa in the living room, a small room near the dining room, decorated with blue velvet furniture. But his sleep was restless, every night he knocked down the sheet and blanket on the floor. And soon the beauty said to the maid:
- This is a disgrace, he will wear out all the velvet on the sofa. Lay it out for him, Nastya, on the floor, on that mattress that I ordered you to hide in the large chest of the late lady in the corridor.
And the boy, in his round loneliness all over the world, began to live a life completely independent, completely isolated from the whole house, a life inaudible, imperceptible, the same from day to day: he humbly sits in the corner of his living room, draws houses on a slate board or reads in a whisper from warehouses he keeps looking out the windows at the same book with pictures, bought during the time of his dead mother ... He sleeps on the floor between the sofa and the tub with a palm tree. He makes his own bed in the evening and diligently cleans it himself, rolls it up in the morning and takes it to the corridor in his mother's chest. All the rest of his goodness is hidden there.
September 28, 1940
STUPID
The deacon’s son, a seminarian who had come to the village to visit his parents for the holidays, woke up one dark hot night from severe bodily excitement and, after lying down, inflamed himself with even more imagination: in the afternoon, before dinner, he peeped from the coastal willow over the creek of the river, how they came there with the work of a girl, and throwing shirts off their sweaty white bodies over their heads, with noise and laughter, uplifting their faces, arching their backs, threw themselves into the hotly shining water; then, not controlling himself, he got up, crept in the darkness through the porch into the kitchen, where it was black and hot, as in a stoked oven, groped, stretching his hands forward, for the bunks on which the cook slept, a poor, rootless girl who was known to be a fool, and she She didn't even scream out of fear. Since then, he lived with her all summer and adopted a boy, who began to grow up with his mother in the kitchen. The deacon, the deaconess, the priest himself and his whole house, the whole family of the shopkeeper and the police officer with his wife, everyone knew who this boy was from, and the seminarian, coming for the holidays, could not see him from malicious shame for his past: he lived with a fool!
When he finished the course - "brilliantly!", as the deacon told everyone - and again came to his parents for the summer before entering the academy, on the very first holiday they called guests for tea in order to be proud of the future academician in front of them. The guests also talked about his brilliant future, drank tea, ate various jams, and in the midst of their lively conversation the happy deacon started a hissing and then loudly screaming gramophone.
Everyone was silent and, with smiles of pleasure, began to listen to the tempting sounds of “Along the pavement street”, when suddenly he flew into the room and awkwardly, danced out of tune, stomped the cook’s boy, to whom his mother, thinking to touch everyone with him, foolishly whispered: “Run, dance, baby ". Everyone was taken aback by surprise, and the deacon's son, turning purple, rushed at him like a tiger and threw him out of the room with such force that the boy rolled head over heels into the hallway.
The next day, the deacon and the deaconess, at his request, sent the cook away. They were kind and compassionate people, they got used to her very much, fell in love with her for her meekness, obedience, and in every possible way asked her son to have mercy. But he remained adamant, and they did not dare to disobey him. Toward evening the cook, weeping softly and holding her bundle in one hand and the boy's hand in the other, left the yard.
All summer after that, she went with him through the villages and villages, begging for Christ's sake. She was worn out, frayed, baked in the wind and in the sun, emaciated to the bones and skin, but she was tireless. She walked barefoot, with a sackcloth bag over her shoulder, propped up by a high stick, and in the villages and villages silently bowed before each hut. The boy followed behind her, also with a sack over his shoulder in her old shoes, broken and hardened, like those buttresses lying somewhere in a ravine.
He was a freak. He had a large, flat crown in red boar hair, a flattened nose with wide nostrils, hazel eyes and very shiny. But when he smiled, he was very sweet.
September 28, 1940
ANTIGONE
In June, from the estate of his mother, the student went to his uncle and aunt - it was necessary to visit them, find out how they were doing, like the health of an uncle who had lost his legs to the general. The student served this duty every summer and now rode with submissive calmness, leisurely reading in a second-class carriage, putting his young round thigh on the back of the sofa, Averchenko’s new book, absent-mindedly looking out the window as telegraph poles with white porcelain cups in the form of lilies of the valley. He looked like a young officer - only he had a white student cap with a blue band, everything else was a military model: a white tunic, greenish breeches, boots with lacquered tops, a cigarette case with an incendiary orange cord.
Uncle and aunt were rich. When he came home from Moscow, they sent a heavy tarantass, a pair of working horses and not a coachman, but a worker, to the station for him. And at his uncle's station, he always entered for a while into a completely different life, into the pleasure of great prosperity, he began to feel handsome, cheerful, mannered. So it was now. With involuntary foppishness, he got into a light rubber-wheeled carriage drawn by a frisky troika, driven by a young coachman in a blue tank top and a yellow silk shirt.
A quarter of an hour later, the troika flew, softly playing with a scattering of bells and hissing on the sand around the flower garden with tires, into the round courtyard of a vast estate, to the platform of a spacious new two-story house. A tall servant in half-shirts, in a red waistcoat with black stripes and boots, came out on the platform to take things. The student made a deft and incredibly wide jump from the carriage: smiling and swaying on the go, aunt appeared on the threshold of the lobby - a wide burlap robe on a large flabby body, a large sagging face, an anchored nose and yellow marks under brown eyes. She kindly kissed him on the cheeks, he with feigned joy clung to her soft dark hand, quickly thinking: for three whole days to lie like this, and in his free time not to know what to do with himself! Pretendingly and hurriedly answering her pretentious inquiries about her mother, he followed her into the large vestibule, looked with cheerful hatred at a somewhat hunched stuffed brown bear with sparkling glassy eyes, standing clubfoot to its full height at the entrance to the wide staircase to the upper floor and obligingly holding in his clawed front paws a bronze plate for calling cards, and suddenly even paused in gratifying surprise: a chair with a plump, pale, blue-eyed general was steadily rolling towards him a tall, stately beauty in a gray canvas dress, in a white apron and a white scarf, with large gray eyes, all radiant with youth, strength, purity, the brilliance of well-groomed hands, the matte whiteness of her face. Kissing his uncle's hand, he managed to look at the unusual harmony of her dress and legs. The general joked:
- And this is my Antigone, my good guide, although I am not blind, like Oedipus, and especially on pretty women. Meet young people.
She smiled slightly, only bowing in response to the bow of the student.
A tall servant in half-tanks and a red waistcoat led him past the bear upstairs, up a staircase of shiny dark yellow wood with a red carpet in the middle and along the same corridor, led him into a large bedroom with a marble dressing room next to it - this time into some other, than before, and windows to the park, not the courtyard. But he walked without seeing anything. The cheerful nonsense with which he entered the estate was still spinning in his head - "my uncle of the most honest rules" - but there was already something else: what a woman!
Humming, he began to shave, wash and change clothes, put on pants with thongs, thinking:
"There are such women! And what can be given for the love of such a woman! And how, with such beauty, to roll old men and old women in wheelchairs!"
And absurd thoughts came into my head: take it and stay here for a month, two, secretly from everyone enter into friendship with her, into intimacy, call her love, then say: be my wife, I am all and forever yours. Mom, aunt, uncle, their amazement when I tell them about our love and our decision to unite our lives, their indignation, then persuasion, screams, tears, curses, disinheritance - everything is nothing for me for you ...
Running down the stairs to his aunt and uncle - their chambers were downstairs - he thought:
“However, what nonsense gets into my head! Of course, you can stay here under some pretext ... you can start courting imperceptibly, pretend to be madly in love ... But will you achieve anything? "How to get rid of this story? Is it true, to get married?"
For an hour he sat with his aunt and uncle in his huge study with a huge desk, with a huge ottoman covered with Turkestan fabrics, with a carpet on the wall above it, hung crosswise with oriental weapons, with inlaid smoking tables, and on the fireplace with a large photographic portrait in a rosewood frame under a gold crown, on which was his own freehand stroke: Alexander.
“How glad I am, uncle and aunt, that I am with you again,” he said at the end, thinking of his sister. - And how wonderful it is here! It will be terrible to leave.
- And who's chasing you? - answered the uncle. - Where are you in a hurry? Live for yourself until you get bored.
“Of course,” said the aunt absently.
Sitting and talking, he waited incessantly: she was about to enter, the maid would announce that tea was ready in the dining room, and she would come to roll her uncle. But tea was brought into the study - they rolled in a table with a silver teapot on a spirit lamp, and aunt poured it herself. Then he kept hoping that she would bring some medicine to her uncle ... But she never came.
- Well, to hell with her, - he thought, leaving the office, he entered the dining room, where the servants lowered the curtains on the high sunny windows, looked for some reason to the right, at the door of the hall, where glass cups on the legs of the piano shone in the evening light in the parquet , then went to the left, into the living room, behind which was the sofa; from the living room he went out onto the balcony, went down to the multi-colored flower garden, went around it and wandered along the high shady avenue ... It was still hot in the sun, and there were still two hours before dinner.
565. Read an excerpt from Crime and Punishment. Determine the type of speech. Specify the characteristic features of this type of speech.
It was a tiny cell, about six paces long, which had the most miserable appearance with its yellow, dusty wallpaper everywhere lagging behind the wall, and so low that a slightly tall person felt terribly in it, and everything seemed to bang your head on the ceiling. The furniture corresponded to the room: there were three old chairs, not entirely serviceable, a painted table in the corner, on which lay several notebooks and books; by the mere fact that they were covered with dust, it was clear that no one's hand had touched them for a long time; and, finally, a clumsy large sofa, which occupied almost the entire wall and half the width of the entire room, once upholstered in chintz, but now in tatters and serving as Raskolnikov's bed. Often he slept on it the way he was, without undressing, without a sheet, covering himself with his old, shabby student coat and with one small pillow in his head, under which he put everything that he had, clean and worn linen, so that the headboard would be higher. There was a small table in front of the sofa. It was difficult to sink down and get sloppy; but Raskolnikov was even pleased in his present state of mind. He resolutely withdrew from everyone, like a turtle in its shell, and even the face of the maid, who was obliged to serve him and who sometimes looked into his room, aroused bile and convulsions in him. This happens with some monomaniacs who are too focused on something.
(F. Dostoevsky)
1. Explain the punctuation in the highlighted sentence.
2. Find an occasional word in the text (individual-author's neologism), explain its meaning and method of formation.
3. Break the text into paragraphs and formulate their micro-topics.
566. Analyze the text, determine its type and style of speech. What genre does it belong to? What is the stylistic and syntactic function of the first and last paragraphs?
"RUSSIAN HANDS DEAR CREATION -
THE GOLDEN FORTRESS OF THE KREMLIN...»
“Whoever has never been at the top of Ivan the Great, who has never happened to take a look at our entire ancient capital from end to end, who has never admired this majestic, almost boundless panorama, has no idea about Moscow, for Moscow is not an ordinary city, what a thousand; Moscow is not a silent mass of cold stones arranged in a symmetrical order... no! she has her own soul, her own life,” wrote M.Yu. Lermontov.
The first mention of Moscow in chronicles refers to 1147; this is the first mention of the Kremlin. Only in those distant times it was called "grad" ("city of Moscow").
For eight and a half centuries, the appearance of the Kremlin has repeatedly changed. The name Kremlin appeared no earlier than the 14th century. Under Prince Dmitry Donskoy in 1367, new walls of white stone were erected around the Kremlin; Moscow becomes white-stone and retains its name to this day.
The modern architectural ensemble of the Kremlin began to take shape at the end of the 15th century: brick walls and towers were erected around the Kremlin, which still exist today. The total length of the Kremlin walls with towers is 2235 m; the walls have 1045 battlements.
The Kremlin is a witness to the heroic past of the Russian people. Today it is the center of the state and political life of Russia. The Moscow Kremlin is a unique architectural and artistic ensemble, the largest museum in the world, which carefully preserves the "cherished legends of generations."
There are many art and historical monuments on the territory of the Kremlin. Here are just a few of them: the bell tower "Ivan the Great" (its height is 81 m, with a cross - about 100 m), only in the 20th century did buildings appear in Moscow higher than this bell tower; nearby - Ivanovskaya Square, where royal decrees were read out loudly (hence: shouting at the top of Ivanovo square); the Tsar Bell, which, if it rang, would be heard 50-60 km away; Tsar Cannon - a monument of foundry art and ancient Russian artillery; Grand Kremlin Palace and the Palace of Facets; Cathedral Square with the Archangel Cathedral, Assumption and Annunciation Cathedrals; The Armory - the first Moscow museum - and other "witnesses of the centuries".
In the words of M.Yu. Lermontov, "...neither the Kremlin, nor its battlements, nor its dark passages, nor its magnificent palaces can be described ... One must see, see ... one must feel everything that they say to the heart and imagination! ..".
567. Read the text and title it. Determine the type of speech. Why does the author assign a special role to epithets among other figurative and expressive means? Write out the words in brackets, opening them and explaining the spelling.
It gets dark, a blizzard rises at night.
In addition to the ominous mysterious lights, in (half) a verst (no) nothing is visible (in) in front. It’s good that it’s frosty and the wind easily blows hard snow off the road. But for (that) he hits in the face, falls asleep with a hiss roadside oak branches, tears off and carries away their blackened dry leaves in the smoke of snow, and looking at them, you feel lost in the desert world among the eternal northern twilight.
In a field, (in) far from the roads, far from big cities and railways, there is a farm. Further on, the village, which was once near the farm itself, now nests five (eight) versts from it. The farm was called Luchezarovka a long time ago.
Luchezarovka! Noisy, like the sea, the wind around her; and in the yard, on high blue (white) snowdrifts, as if on grave hills, the snow smokes. These snowdrifts are surrounded far from each other by scattered buildings. All buildings are old-fashioned, long and low. The facade of the house looks into the courtyards only with three small (small) windows. The large thatched roof was blackened with age. A narrow brick chimney rises above the house like a long neck.
It seems that the estate has died out: (no) any signs of human habitation, not a single trace in the yard, not a single sound of human speech! Everything is clogged with snow, everything sleeps in a lifeless sleep to the tunes of the wind among the winter flat fields. Wolves roam around the house at night, coming from the meadows through the garden to the very balcony.
(According to I. Bunin)
1. Find in the text and write out simple one-part sentences and one-part sentences in complex sentences, highlight their grammatical foundations and determine the type.
2. In the highlighted sentence, define the function of the colon and indicate the part of speech of words with neither.
3. Find sentences in the text that are complicated by: 1) comparative turnover; 2) a separate agreed definition. Write them down, graphically explaining the punctuation marks.
568. Read the text. Determine its main idea. Title the text. What will it express - the theme or the main idea?
Pushkin is the subject of eternal reflection of Russian people. They thought about him, they still think about him now, more than about any other of our writers: probably because, touching, for example, Tolstoy, we are limited in our thoughts by him, Tolstoy, and going to Pushkin , we see before us the whole of Russia, her life and her destiny (and, therefore, our life, our destiny). The very elusiveness of Pushkin's "essence", the roundness and completeness of his work - attract and confuse. It would seem that everything is said about Pushkin. But when you take his book, you start rereading it, and you feel that almost nothing has been said. It is truly scary to “open your mouth”, to write at least a few words about him, so everything here is known in advance and at the same time only approximately, deceptively true.
It is no coincidence that two speeches about Pushkin made on the eve of death, when a person sums up, checks himself, are remembered in Russian literature: the speeches of Dostoevsky and Blok. Both spoke not entirely about Pushkin, or rather - about his. But they could not talk about anyone else like that, with such excitement, in such a tone, because before their death they apparently wanted to talk about everything “essentially”, “about the most important”, and only Pushkin represents in this area freedom.
Shall we now accept what is contained in these speeches? Hardly. Especially what Dostoevsky said. It is remarkable that, in general, none of the past assessments, none of the past reflections on Pushkin are now completely satisfying. Undoubtedly, in our criticism, starting with Belinsky, there are many very approximate judgments about him. Some are rightly recognized as "classic" and remain valuable. But another era makes itself felt.
(G. Adamovich)
1. Explain the punctuation marks. Do a full parse of the second sentence.
2. Determine the style of speech, argue your answer. Name the most striking signs of this style of speech.
3. Indicate examples of parceling in the text.
4. Find compositional elements: 1) thesis; 2) arguments; 3) output. What type of speech is characterized by such a composition?
5. Make a plan for the text, indicating the micro-topics.
569. Determine the style and type of speech. Make a plan of the text, indicating the elements of composition and micro-themes. Analyze the vocabulary of this text. What styles of speech can be attributed to it?
It is generally accepted that the telegraph, telephone, trains, cars and liners are designed to save a person his precious time, to free up leisure that can be used to develop one's spiritual abilities. But there was an amazing paradox. Can we honestly say that each of us who uses the services of technology has more time than people of the pre-telephone, pre-telegraph, pre-aviation era had? Yes, my God! Everyone who then lived in relative prosperity (and we all live now in relative prosperity) had many times more time, although everyone then spent a week or even a month on the road from city to city instead of our two or three hours.
They say there was not enough time for Michelangelo or Balzac. But they lacked it because there were only twenty-four hours in a day, and only sixty or seventy years in a life. But we, give us free rein, will fuss and forty-eight hours in one day, we will flutter like clockwork from city to city, from mainland to mainland, and we will not choose an hour to calm down and do something unhurried, thorough, in the spirit of a normal human being. nature.
Technology has made every state as a whole and humanity as a whole powerful. In terms of fire destroying and all kinds of power, America of the twentieth century is not the same as America of the nineteenth, and humanity, if it had to fight back, well, at least from the Martians, would have met them differently than two or three centuries ago. But the question is whether technology made a simple person, one person, a person as such more powerful, the biblical Moses was powerful, who led his people out of a foreign land, Joan of Arc was powerful, Garibaldi and Raphael, Spartacus and Shakespeare, Beethoven and Petofi, Lermontov and Tolstoy. But you never know... Discoverers of new lands, the first polar travelers, great sculptors, painters and poets, giants of thought and spirit, ascetics of the idea. Can we say that all our technical progress has made man more powerful precisely from this, the only correct point of view? Of course, powerful tools and devices ... but even a spiritual nonentity, a coward can pull the right lever or press the right button. Perhaps the coward will jerk in the first place.
Yes, all together, having modern technology, we are more powerful. We hear and see for thousands of miles, our arms are monstrously elongated. We can hit someone even on another mainland. We have already reached the moon with the hand with the camera. But that's all of us. When "you" are left alone with yourself without radioactive and chemical reactions, without nuclear submarines and even without a spacesuit - just one, can you say to yourself that you are ... more powerful than all your predecessors on planet Earth?
Mankind collectively can conquer the Moon or antimatter, but all the same, a person sits down at a desk individually.
(V. Soloukhin "Letters from the Russian Museum")
570. Title the text. Highlight keywords. Determine the topic and main idea of the text. Write a miniature essay (essay) on the topic.
Teacher and student... Remember that Vasily Andreyevich Zhukovsky wrote on his portrait, presented to the young Alexander Pushkin: "To the winner-student from the defeated teacher." The student must certainly surpass his teacher, this is the highest merit of the teacher, his continuation, his joy, his right, even if illusory, to immortality. And this is what Vitaly Valentinovich Bianchi said to his best student Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov during one of his last walks: “It is known that old and experienced nightingales teach the young to sing. As the birders say, "they put them on a good song." But how they put it! They don’t poke their noses, they don’t force and they don’t force. They just sing. With all their bird strength they try to sing as best and pure as possible. The main thing is to be cleaner! The purity of the whistle is valued above all else. The old people sing, and the young ones listen and learn. Learn to sing, not sing along!
(M. Dudin)
571. Read an excerpt from the story "The White Steamboat" by the famous Russian and Kyrgyz writer Chingiz Aitmatov.
Old Momun, whom the wise people called Quick Momun, was known by everyone in the area, and he knew everyone. Momun earned such a nickname by his invariable friendliness to everyone whom he knew even the slightest bit, by his readiness to always do something for anyone, to serve anyone. And yet, his zeal was not appreciated by anyone, just as gold would not be appreciated if it suddenly began to be distributed free of charge. No one treated Momun with the respect that people of his age enjoy. He was easily dealt with. He was instructed to slaughter cattle, meet honored guests and help them get off the saddle, serve tea, and even chop wood, carry water.
It's his own fault that he's Efficient Momun.
That's how he was. Quick Momun!
Both the old and the young were with him on "you", it was possible to play a trick on him - the old man is harmless; one could not reckon with him - the old man was unrequited. No wonder, they say, people do not forgive those who do not know how to make themselves respected. And he couldn't.
He did a lot in life. He worked as a carpenter, as a saddleman, he was a stacker; when I was still younger, I used to set up such stacks on the collective farm that it was a pity to take them apart in winter: the rain flowed down from the stacks like from a goose, and the snow fell like a gable roof. During the war, he laid factory walls in Magnitogorsk as a labor army soldier, they called him a Stakhanovite. He returned, cut down houses on the cordon, and was engaged in forestry. Although he was listed as an auxiliary worker, he kept an eye on the forest, and Orozkul, his son-in-law, mostly visited guests. Unless when the authorities come, then Orozkul himself will show the forest and arrange a hunt, then he was the master. Momun went for cattle, and he kept an apiary. Momun lived all his life from morning to evening in work, in troubles, but he did not learn how to force himself to be respected.
And Momun's appearance was not at all aksakal's. No degree, no importance, no severity. He was a good-natured man, and at first glance this ungrateful human quality was discerned in him. At all times they teach such: “Do not be kind, be evil! Here's to you, here's to you! Be evil, ”and he, to his misfortune, remains incorrigibly kind. His face was smiling and wrinkled, and his eyes were always asking: “What do you want? Do you want me to do something for you? So I am now, you just tell me what your need is.
The nose is soft, ducky, as if completely without cartilage. Yes, and a small, nimble, old man, like a teenager.
What a beard - and that failed. One laugh. On a bare chin, two or three reddish hairs - that's the whole beard.
Whether it's the case - you see suddenly a portly old man is riding along the road, and his beard is like a sheaf, in a spacious fur coat with a wide lambskin lapel, in an expensive hat, and even with a good horse, and a silver-plated saddle - what is not a sage, what is not a prophet, and bow to such it’s not shameful, such honor is everywhere! And Momun was born only Quick Momun. Perhaps his only advantage was that he was not afraid to drop himself in someone's eyes. (He sat down in the wrong way, said the wrong thing, answered the wrong way, smiled the wrong way, wrong, wrong, wrong...) In this sense, Momun, without suspecting it himself, was an extremely happy person.
Many people die not so much from diseases, but from an indefatigable, eternal passion that gnaws at them - to pretend to be more than they are. (Who doesn’t want to be known as smart, worthy, handsome and, moreover, formidable, fair, decisive? ..)
But Momun was not like that.
Momun had his own troubles and sorrows, from which he suffered, from which he cried at night. Outsiders knew almost nothing about it.
1. What is this text about? What problem is the author raising? Formulate it.
2. What lexical, morphological, syntactic means of the language confirm that this text belongs to the language of fiction?
3. With what expressive means of language does Chingiz Aitmatov paint the portrait of old Momun? Name them and give examples from the text.
4. Write a review on this text, express your attitude towards both the hero of the story and the problem raised by the author.
5. Write an essay on the topic "If all people treated each other with respect."
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