Dark alleys(2). Everything about Russia and about Russia: history, encyclopedia, news, photos The blizzard rises towards the night GDZ

656. Read the text. Identify simple and complex sentences and identify structural differences between them. Establish the types of simple sentences and predicative parts of complex sentences by composition. Explain the use of punctuation marks.

It's getting dark, a blizzard rises towards night...

Tomorrow is Christmas, a big, cheerful holiday, and this makes the foul twilight, the endless backwoods road and the field buried in the darkness of drifting snow seem even sadder. The sky hangs lower and lower over him; The bluish-leaden light of the fading day is faintly glimmering, and in the foggy distance those pale elusive lights that always flicker before the tense eyes of a traveler on winter steppe nights are already beginning to appear.

Apart from these ominous mysterious lights, nothing is visible half a mile ahead. It’s good that it’s frosty, and the wind easily blows hard snow off the road. But on the other hand, it hits them in the face, falls asleep with a hiss of roadside oak poles, tears off and carries away their blackened, dry leaves in the drifting smoke, and, looking at them, you feel lost in the desert, among the eternal northern twilight...

In a field, far from large roads, far from big cities and railways, there is a farm. Even the village, which once was near the farm itself, now nests about five miles away from it. The Baskakovs many years ago called this farmstead Luchezarovka, and the village - Luchezarovskie Dvoriki. B.

657. Determine what each sentence is (simple, simple complicated, complex).

1. It was still hot, gloomy from the clouds, and a thunderstorm was approaching. B.

2. Not all of the tenacious fuse of youth must have come out yet. TV

3. It is not appropriate to believe rumors, but not everyone can see rumors. TV

4. Only now I would like to turn closer to my birthplace. EU.

5. Krutsifersky noticed that the question of dowry was completely alien to him. Hertz.

6. But Morgunk liked to hang up the warm flail, sit and winnow the day’s worth of bread. Those.

7. Only the wind rushes at your feet and burns your eyes to tears. Tark.

8. The garden was small, and this was its dignity. Tyn.

658. Determine the type of each complex sentence: with a conjunction, with non-union connection between predicative parts, with a conjunction connection between some parts of the sentence and a non-conjunction connection between others. In the latter case, identify the dominant type of connection.

1. Sometimes you wander down the street - suddenly a senseless thirst for a miracle comes from nowhere and runs 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 so dark that you could poke out your eyes.

4. Between the round loose clouds the sky turns innocently blue, and the gentle sun warms the barns and courtyards in the calm. B.

5. The cockerel calmed down, the noise died down, and the king forgot. P.

6. Gavrila Afanasyevich quickly got up from the table; everyone rushed to the windows; and in fact they saw the sovereign ascending the porch, leaning on the shoulder of his orderly. P.

7. A burdock's eyelash will die, a grasshopper's saddle will sparkle like a rainbow, a steppe bird will comb its sleepy wing. Tark.

8. The dusk turned softly blue in the park, and silver stars appeared above the tops of the oak trees. B.

659. Establish means of communication that are essential for determining the type of complex sentence or for expressing the relationships between its parts: only conjunctions, only allied words, only intonation, intonation and order.
doc of the sequence of parts, allied words or conjunctions and the order of the parts.

1. The sun was shining; Through the large window one could see the beautiful tree-lined Tsarskoe Selo road. Tyn.

2. You not only cannot talk to me, but it is difficult for you to even look at me. Bulg.

3. From the bright sun, the eyes could not discern what was down there: darkness, slanting dusty streaks of light from holes in the roof. Buckle.

4. It was not yet dawn when Nikolai Petrovich woke up from stomping in the bedroom. IN.

5. On the rock you can see the ruins of some castle: they are covered with huts of peaceful Ossetians, as if with nests of swallows. P.

6. Charsky thought that the Neapolitan was going to give several cello concerts and was delivering his tickets home. P.

7. Since dawn, the cuckoo across the river cuckoos loudly in the distance, and the young birch forest smells of mushrooms and leaves. B.

8. Unsteady and terrible cries hung over the farmsteads, and an owl flew from the bell tower to the cemetery, fossilized by calves, moaning over the brown, grassy graves. 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 curled blue, rain began to fall, and behind the white fence, merging with the roar of voices, the bells on the horses stepping from foot to foot tinkled invitingly and tenderly. Sh.

2. The rain is warm, but still not warm enough to sit in just a shirt. B.

3. Even though a lot is left behind, even though the hot fires have burned away, my new day is filled with novelty, it requires a swift ride. Tat.

4. Every time you pass the station and come out to the pier,
The silence of Venice surprises you, you get drunk from sea ​​air channels. B.

5. It seemed that if the dance had not ended, one would have suffocated from the tension. B.

6. If, to complete the answer, you want to simultaneously resolve all historical and political questions, then you will need 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 childhood room, which later saw me as a young man, and which is now sad with me about my failed youth? B.

9. Ibrahim answered absent-mindedly that, probably, the sovereign was now working at a shipyard. P.

661. Determine the relationships between predicative parts in a complex sentence and its type.

1. The other beauties shared her displeasure, but remained silent, because modesty was then considered a necessary property of a young woman. P.

2. As soon as Polotnyany plant The Pushkin family appeared, 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 and proud. Sh.

5. Closing the distance of the fields like a haze for half an hour, a sudden rain fell in slanting stripes - and again the skies turned deeply blue over the refreshed forests. B.

6. As soon as the royal old fort looks through the cliffs, the cheerful sailors will rush to the familiar port. Hum.

7. Anyone can compose an epigram, but talent lies in applying each verse accurately and sharply. Tyn.

8. Later, during any student riots, at least a couple of glasses were broken in the 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 a complex sentence are connected. Analyze the composition of predicative units complex sentences.

1. My nerves were high after the experience, I talked about my adventures, so the hospitable host had no time to talk. Gil.

2. The old man was surprised and frightened: he had been fishing for thirty and three years and had not heard the fish speak. P.

3. It seemed to me that the sad autumn month had been floating over the earth for a long, long time, that the hour of rest had come from all the lies and bustle of the day. B.

4. Alexander saw how his father’s lips moved and smiled, and his gaze became amiable and intelligent. Tyn.

5. The newspaper was located on the corner of Bolshaya Dmitrovka and Strastnoy Boulevard and was printed in a huge university printing house, where business was going brilliantly; there was even a school for typesetters. Gil.

6. If Ostap had found out that he was playing such tricky games and faced such a proven defense, he would have been 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 the light frosts rang through the lungs, and by noon the earth was receding and there was a smell of March, frozen bark of cherry trees, and rotten straw. Sh.

It rains all the time, there are pine forests all around. Every now and then, in the bright blue, white clouds accumulate above them, thunder rolls high, then brilliant rain begins to fall through the sun, quickly turning from the heat into fragrant pine steam... Everything is wet, greasy, mirror-like... In the estate park the trees were so so large that the dachas built here and there seemed small underneath 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 completely finished - uncaulked walls, unplaned floors, stoves without dampers, almost no furniture. And from the constant dampness, my boots, lying under the bed, were overgrown with velvet mold.
It got dark in the evenings only at midnight: the half-light of the west stands and stands through the motionless, quiet forests. On moonlit nights, this half-light strangely mixed with the moonlight, also motionless and enchanted. And from the calm that reigned everywhere, from the purity of the sky and air, it seemed that there would be no more rain. But then I fell asleep, having escorted her to the station, and suddenly I heard: a downpour with thunderclaps was falling on the roof again, there was darkness all around and lightning was falling vertically... In the morning, on the purple ground in the damp alleys there were dazzling shadows and dazzling spots of the sun, birds were clattering , called flycatchers, the thrushes chattered hoarsely. By noon it was floating again, clouds appeared and rain began to fall. Before sunset it became clear, on my log walls the crystal-golden net of the low sun trembled, falling into the windows through the foliage. Then I went to the station to meet her. The train was approaching, countless summer residents were pouring out onto the platform, there was a smell of coal from the locomotive and the damp freshness of the forest, she appeared in the crowd, with a net laden with bags of snacks, fruit, a bottle of Madeira... We ate dinner face to face. Before her late departure we wandered around the park. She became somnambulistic and walked with her head on my shoulder. A black pond, centuries-old trees stretching into the starry sky... An enchanted, bright night, endlessly silent, with endlessly long shadows of trees on silver meadows that look like lakes.
In June, she went with me to my village - without getting married, she began to live with me as a wife, and began to manage things. I spent the long autumn not bored, in everyday worries, reading. Of our neighbors, the one who most often visited us was a certain Zavistovsky, 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. He returned by moonlight. And, entering the house, he did not find her anywhere. I sat down at the samovar alone.
- Where is the lady, Dunya? Did you go for a walk?
- I don’t know, sir. They haven't been home since breakfast.
“Get dressed and leave,” my old nanny said gloomily, walking through the dining room and without raising her head.
“It’s true that she went to Zavistovsky,” I thought, “it’s true that she’ll come with him soon - it’s already seven o’clock...” And I went and lay down in the office and suddenly fell asleep - I’d been freezing on the road all day. And just as suddenly, he woke up an hour later - with a clear and wild thought: “But she left me! She hired a man in the village and went to the station, to Moscow - everything will happen from her! But maybe she’s returned?” I walked around the house - no, I didn’t come back. Shame on the servants...
At about ten o'clock, not knowing what to do, I put on a sheepskin coat, took a gun for some reason and walked along the high road to Zavistovsky, thinking: “As if on purpose, he didn’t come today, and I still have a whole terrible night ahead of me! Is it really true?” left, abandoned? No, it can’t be!” I’m walking, creaking along a well-worn path among the snow, snowy fields glisten on the left under the low, poor moon... I turned off the main road and went to Zavistovsky’s estate: an alley of bare trees leading to it across the field, then the entrance to the courtyard, on the left is an old, beggarly man house, it’s dark in the house... I went up onto the icy porch, with difficulty opened the heavy door in shreds of upholstery - in the hallway the open burnt stove was red, warm and dark... But it was dark in the hall too.
- Vikenty Vikentich!
And he silently, in felt boots, appeared on the threshold of the office, also lit only by the moon through the triple window.
- Oh, it’s you... Come in, come in, please... And I, as you can see, am at dusk, whileing away the evening without a fire...
I walked in and sat down on the lumpy sofa.
- Imagine. The muse has disappeared somewhere...
He said nothing. Then in an almost inaudible voice:
- Yes, yes, I understand you...
- That is, what do you understand?
And immediately, also silently, also in felt boots, with a shawl on her shoulders, Muse came out of the bedroom adjacent to the office.
“You have a gun,” she said. - If you want to shoot, then shoot not at him, but at me.
And 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 this skirt, for these felt boots I’m ready to give my life.” !"
“The matter is clear and over,” she said. - The scenes are useless.
“You are monstrously cruel,” I said with difficulty.
“Give me a cigarette,” she said to Zavistovsky.
He cowardly leaned towards her, handed her a cigarette case, began rummaging through his pockets for matches...
“You’re already speaking to me on a first-name basis,” I said, breathless, “you could at least not speak to him on a first-name basis in front of me.”
- Why? - she asked, raising her eyebrows, holding her cigarette in the air.
My heart was already pounding in my throat, beating in my temples. I stood up and staggered out.
October 17, 1938

LATE HOUR

Oh, it’s been so long since I’ve been there, I said to myself. From the age of nineteen. I once lived in Russia, felt it to be my own, had complete freedom to travel anywhere, and it was not difficult to travel just three hundred miles. But I didn’t go, I kept putting it off. And years and decades went by and by. But now we can’t put it off any longer: it’s either now or never. I must take advantage of the only and last opportunity, since the hour is late and no one will meet me.
And I walked across the bridge over the river, far away seeing everything around in the month-long light of the July night.
The bridge was so familiar, the same as before, as if I had seen it yesterday: crudely ancient, humpbacked and as if not even stone, but somehow petrified from time to eternal indestructibility - as a high school student I thought it 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 something had changed in the world since I was a boy, a young man: before the river was not navigable, but now it has probably been deepened and cleared; The moon was to my left, quite far above the river, and in its unsteady light and in the flickering, trembling shine of the water there was a white paddle steamer, which seemed empty - it was so silent - although all its portholes were illuminated, like motionless golden eyes and all were reflected in the water as flowing golden pillars: the steamer was exactly standing on them. This happened 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 below them also flowing columns of reflections from the lanterns on the bridges hang, only they are three-colored: white, blue and red - Russian national flags. There are no lights on the bridge here, and it is dry and dusty. And ahead, on the hill, the city is darkened by gardens; a fire tower sticks out above the gardens. My God, what an unspeakable happiness it was! It was during the night fire that I first kissed your hand and you squeezed mine in response - I will never forget this secret consent. The whole street turned 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 was burning far away, across the river, but terribly hot, greedily, urgently. There, clouds of smoke poured out thickly in a black-purple fleece, crimson sheets of flame burst out of them high, and near us they, trembling, shone copper in the dome of the Archangel Michael. And in the cramped space, in the crowd, amid the anxious, now pitiful, now joyful talk of the common people who had come running from everywhere, I heard the smell of your girlish hair, neck, canvas dress - and then suddenly I decided, I took, all trembling, your hand...
Beyond the bridge I climbed a hill and walked into the city along 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, of a sleeping steppe city. Some gardens faintly and cautiously fluttered their leaves from the steady current of the weak July wind, which pulled from somewhere from the fields and blew gently on me. I walked - the big moon also walked, rolling and passing through the blackness of the branches in a mirror circle; the wide streets lay in shadow - only in the houses on the right, which the shadow did not reach, the white walls were illuminated and the black glass shimmered with a mournful gloss; and I walked in the shadows, stepped along the spotted sidewalk - it was see-throughly covered with black silk lace. She had this evening dress, very elegant, long and slender. It suited her slim figure and black young eyes incredibly well. She was mysterious in him and insultingly did not pay attention to me. Where was it? Visiting who?
My goal was to visit Old Street. And I could have gone there by another, closer route. But I turned into these spacious streets in the gardens because I wanted to look at the gymnasium. And, having reached it, he marveled again: and here everything remained the same as half a century ago; a stone fence, a stone courtyard, a large stone building in the courtyard - everything is just as official, boring as it once was, with me. I hesitated at the gate, I wanted to evoke in myself sadness, the pity of memories - but I could not: yes, first a first-grader with a comb-haired haircut in a brand new blue cap with silver palms above the visor and in a new overcoat with silver buttons entered these gates, then a thin young man in a gray jacket and smart trousers with straps; but is it me?
The old street seemed to me only a little narrower than it had seemed before. Everything else was unchanged. Bumpy pavement, not a single tree, on both sides there are dusty merchant houses, the sidewalks are also bumpy, such that it is better to walk in the middle of the street, in full monthly light... 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 markets, and it was 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 go to your house. And he, it’s true, hasn’t changed, but it’s all the more terrifying to see him. Some strangers, new people live in it now. Your father, your mother, your brother - they all outlived you, the young one, but they also died in due time. Yes, and everyone died for me; 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 it all began, proceeded 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 about what she was like in those distant times, our times: simply pulled back dark hair, clear eyes, a light tan of a young face, a light summer look. a dress under which there is purity, strength and freedom of a young body... This was the beginning of our love, a time of unclouded happiness, intimacy, trust, enthusiastic tenderness, joy...
There is something very special about the warm and bright nights of Russian provincial towns at the end of summer. What peace, what prosperity! An old man with a mallet wanders around the cheerful city at night, but only for his own pleasure: there is nothing to guard, sleep peacefully, good people, you will be guarded by God's favor, this high shining sky, which the old man looks at carelessly, wandering along the pavement that has warmed up during the day and only occasionally, for fun, starting a dance trill with a mallet. And on such a night, at that late hour, when he was the only one awake in the city, you were waiting for me in your garden, already dry by autumn, and I secretly slipped into it: quietly opened the gate that you had previously unlocked, quietly and quickly ran through the yard and behind the shed in the depths of the yard, he entered the motley twilight of the garden, where your dress faintly whitened in the distance, on a bench under the apple trees, and, quickly approaching, with joyful fear he met the sparkle of your waiting eyes.
And we sat, sat in some kind of bewilderment of happiness. With one hand I hugged you, hearing your heartbeat, in the other I held your hand, feeling all of you through it. And it was already so late that you couldn’t even hear the beater - the old man lay down somewhere on a bench and dozed off with a pipe in his teeth, basking in the monthly light. When I looked to the right, I saw how high and sinlessly the moon shines over the yard and the roof of the house glistens like a fish. When I looked to the left, I saw a path overgrown with dry herbs that disappeared under other apple trees, and behind them a lone green star peeking low from behind some other garden, glowing impassively and at the same time expectantly, silently saying something. But I saw both the courtyard and the star only briefly - there was only one thing in the world: a light dusk and the radiant twinkle of your eyes in the dusk.
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 everything you gave me on earth.
I walked out into the middle of the bright street and went to my yard. Turning around, I saw that everything was still white at the gate.
Now, having risen from the pedestal, I went back the same way I had come. No, besides Old Street, I had another goal, which I was afraid to admit to myself, but the fulfillment of which, I knew, was inevitable. And I went - take a look and leave forever.
The road was familiar again. Everything goes 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 the city. Very smelly rows. In Obzhorny Row, under the awnings above long tables and benches, gloomy. In Skobyany, an icon of the big-eyed Savior in a rusty frame hangs on a chain above the middle of the passage. In Muchnoye, a whole flock of pigeons were always running and pecking along the pavement in the morning. You go to the gymnasium - there are so many of them! And all the fat ones, with rainbow-colored crops, peck and run, femininely, gently wagging, swaying, twitching their heads monotonously, as if not noticing you: they take off, whistling with their wings, only when you almost step on one of them. And at night, large dark rats, nasty and scary, rushed around quickly and anxiously.
Monastyrskaya street - a span into the fields and a road: one from the city to home, to the village, the other to city ​​of the dead. In Paris, for two days, house number such and such on such and such a street stands out from all other houses with the plague props of the entrance, its mournful frame with silver, for two days a sheet of paper with a mourning border lies in the entrance on the mourning cover of the table - they sign it as a sign of sympathy polite visitors; then, at some final time, a huge chariot with a mourning canopy stops at the entrance, the wood of which is black and resinous, like a plague coffin, the rounded carved floors of the canopy indicate the heavens with large white stars, and the corners of the roof are crowned with curly black plumes - ostrich feathers from the underworld; the chariot is harnessed to tall monsters in coal-horned blankets with white eye socket rings; sitting on an infinitely high trestle and waiting to be taken out is an old drunkard, also symbolically dressed up in a fake grave uniform and the same triangular hat, inwardly probably always grinning 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 him on towels, a rice-colored face with a motley corolla on its forehead sways, above closed convex eyelids. So they carried her too.
At the exit, to the left of the highway, a monastery from the time of Alexei Mikhailovich, serfs, always closed gate and the fortress walls, from behind which the gilded turnips of the cathedral shine. Further, completely in the field, there is a very spacious square of other walls, but low: they contain a whole grove, broken up 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 and endless. I timidly took off my hat and entered. How late and how dumb! The moon was already low behind the trees, but everything around, as far as the eye could see, was still clearly visible. The entire space of this grove of the dead, its crosses and monuments was patterned in a transparent shadow. The wind died down towards the pre-dawn hour - the light and dark spots, all colorful under the trees, were sleeping. In the distance of the grove, from behind the cemetery church, suddenly something flashed and with furious speed, in a dark ball, rushed towards me - I, beside myself, shied away to the side, my whole head immediately froze and tightened, my heart rushed and froze... What was that? It flashed and disappeared. But the heart remained standing in my chest. And so, with my heart stopping, carrying it within 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 the dry grasses, lay a lonely elongated and rather narrow stone, with its head to the wall. From behind the wall, a low green star looked out like a wondrous gem, radiant like the old one, but silent and motionless.
October 19, 1938

At eleven o'clock in the evening, the Moscow-Sevastopol fast train 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 a first-class carriage. A conductor was crossing the rails with a red lantern in his hanging hand, and the lady asked:
- Listen, why are we standing?
The conductor replied that the oncoming courier was late.
The station was dark and sad. Dusk had long fallen, but in the west, beyond the station, beyond the blackening wooded fields, the long Moscow summer dawn was still shining deathly. The damp smell of the swamp came through the window. In the silence one could hear from somewhere the uniform and seemingly damp creak of a twitch.
He leaned on the window, she on his shoulder.
“I once lived in this area on vacation,” he said. - Was a tutor in one country estate, about five versts from here. Boring area. Shallow forest, magpies, mosquitoes and dragonflies. There is no view anywhere. In the estate one could admire the horizon only 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 was some semblance of a garden, behind the garden there was either a lake or a swamp, overgrown with kuga and water lilies, and the inevitable punt near the muddy bank.
- And, of course, the bored country girl whom you drove around 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 even turned out poetic. In the west, the sky is greenish and transparent all night, and there, on the horizon, just like now, something is smoldering and smoldering... There was only one oar, and it looked like a shovel, and I rowed it like a savage, then to the right, then to the left. On the opposite bank it was dark from the shallow forest, but behind it all night there was this strange half-light. And everywhere there is unimaginable silence - only mosquitoes whine and dragonflies fly. I never thought that they fly at night, but it turned out that they fly for some reason. Downright scary.
The oncoming train finally made a noise, came rushing in with a roar and wind, merging into one golden strip of illuminated windows, and rushed past. The carriage immediately started moving. The conductor entered the compartment, illuminated it and began to prepare the beds,
- Well, what happened between you and this girl? Real romance? For some reason you never told me about her. What was she like?
- Thin, tall. She wore a yellow cotton sundress and peasant shorts 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. There is nothing to wear, well, a sundress. In addition, she was an artist and studied at the Stroganov School of Painting. Yes, she herself was picturesque, even iconographic. A long black braid on the back, a dark face with small dark moles, a narrow regular nose, black eyes, black eyebrows... The hair was dry and coarse, slightly curly. 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 the ankles are all dry, with bones protruding under the thin dark skin.
- I know this guy. I had a friend like this in my classes. Must be hysterical.
- Maybe. Moreover, her face was similar to her mother, and her mother, some kind of princess with Eastern blood, suffered from something like black melancholy. She only came out to the table. He comes out, sits down and is silent, coughs without raising his eyes, and keeps switching first his knife and then his fork. If he suddenly speaks, it will be so unexpectedly and loudly that you will flinch.
- And father?
- Also silent and dry, tall; retired military man. Only their boy, whom I rehearsed, was simple and sweet.
The conductor came out of the compartment, said that the beds were ready, and wished him good night.
- What was her name?
- Russia.
- What kind of name is this?
- Very simple - Marusya.
- Well, were you very much in love with her?
- Of course, it seemed terrible,
- And she?
He paused and answered dryly:
- She probably thought so too. But let's go to bed. I was terribly tired during the day.
- Very nice! I just got interested for nothing. Well, tell me in a few words how and how your romance ended.
- Nothing. He left and that was the end of the matter.
- 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 in the resulting cramped compartment, undressed and, with the joy of the road, lay down under the fresh, glossy sheets and on the same pillows, all sliding from the raised headboard.
The blue-purple peephole above the door quietly looked 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 charming. Because she walked in soft shoes, without heels, her whole body was worried under the yellow sundress. The sundress was wide, light, and her long girlish body was so free in it. One day she got her feet wet in the rain, ran from 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 entire life. The fresh, fragrant rain was noisy faster and louder behind the open doors to the balcony; everyone in the darkened house was sleeping after dinner - and how terribly he and she were frightened by some black rooster with a metallic-green tint in a large fiery crown, which suddenly also ran in from the garden with the clicking of their claws on the floor at that very hot moment when they forgot all caution. Seeing them jump up from the sofa, he hastily and bent over, as if out of delicacy, ran back into the rain with his shiny tail hanging down...
At first she kept looking at him; when he spoke to her, she blushed darkly and responded with a mocking mutter; at the table she often touched him, loudly addressing his father:
- Don’t 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 yogurt, and he hates cottage cheese.
In the mornings he was busy with the boy, she was busy with housework - the whole house was on her. They had lunch at one, and after lunch she went to her mezzanine or, if it wasn’t raining, to the garden, where her easel stood under a birch tree, and, brushing off mosquitoes, she painted from life. Then she began to go out onto the balcony, where after dinner he sat with a book in a slanting reed chair, stood with her hands behind her back, and looked at him with a vague grin:
- May I know what wisdom you would like to study?
- History of the French Revolution.
- Oh, my God! I didn’t even know that there was a revolutionary in our house!
- Why did you abandon your painting?
- I’m about to give it up completely. She became convinced of her mediocrity.
- Show me something from your writings.
- Do you think that you know anything about painting?
- You are terribly proud.
- There is that sin...
Finally, one day she suggested that he go for a ride on the lake, and suddenly she said decisively:
- It seems that the rainy period of our tropical places is over. Let's have fun. Our gas chamber, however, is quite rotten and has a holey bottom, but Petya and I filled all the holes with a pile...
The day was hot, it steamed, the coastal grasses were dotted with yellow flowers night blindness, were stiflingly heated by damp heat, and countless pale green moths hovered low over them.
He adopted her constant mocking tone and, approaching the boat, said:
- Finally, you have condescended to me!
- Finally, you gathered the thoughts to answer me! - she answered smartly and jumped onto the bow of the boat, scaring away the frogs that splashed into the water from all sides, but suddenly she squealed wildly and picked up her sundress up to her knees, stamping her feet:
- Oh! Oh!
He caught a glimpse of the shiny darkness 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 some kind of Hindu pallor, the moles on her face became darker, the blackness of her hair and eyes seemed even blacker. She breathed a sigh of relief:
- Oh, what disgusting. It’s not for nothing that the word horror comes from a snake. We have them everywhere here, in the garden, and under the house... And Petya, imagine, takes them in his hands!
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 you hit him hard!
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’s still just a girl! But, pretending to be indifferent, he anxiously stepped into the boat, and, resting his oar on the icy bottom, turned it forward with his bow and pulled it through the tangled thicket of underwater grasses onto the green brushes of kugi and flowering water lilies, all in front covered with a continuous layer of their thick, round foliage, brought it onto the water and sat down on a bench in the middle, rowing right and left.
- Really, good? - she shouted.
- Very! - he answered, taking off his cap, and turned to her: - Be kind enough to throw it near you, otherwise I’ll sweep it into this trough, which, excuse me, still leaks and is full of leeches.
She placed the cap on her lap.
- Don’t worry, throw it anywhere.
She pressed her cap to her chest:
- No, I will take care of him!
His heart trembled tenderly again, but he turned away again and began vigorously throwing his oar into the water that glittered among the cougars and water lilies.
Mosquitoes clung to my face and hands, everything around me was blinding with warm silver: the steamy air, the wavering sunlight, the curly whiteness of the clouds that shone softly in the sky and in the clearings of water among the islands of cougars and water lilies; everywhere it was so shallow that the bottom with underwater grasses was visible, but somehow it did not interfere with the bottomless depth into which the reflected sky with clouds went. Suddenly she squealed again - and the boat fell on its side: she stuck her hand into the water from the stern and, catching the stem of a water lily, pulled it towards her so hard that she fell along with the boat - he barely had time to jump up and catch her armpits. She laughed and, falling on the stern with her back, sprayed wet hand right in his eyes. Then he grabbed her again and, not understanding what he was doing, kissed her on her laughing lips. She quickly hugged his neck and awkwardly kissed him on the cheek...
Since then they began to swim at night. The next day she called him into the garden after lunch and asked:
- Do you love me?
He answered warmly, remembering yesterday's kisses in the boat:
- From the first day of our meeting!
“Me too,” she said. - No, at first I hated it - it seemed to me that you didn’t notice me at all. But, thank God, all this is already the past. This evening, after everyone has settled down, go there again and wait for me. Just leave the house as carefully as possible - my mother watches my every step, jealous to the point of madness.
At night she came to the shore with a blanket on her arm. Out of joy, he greeted her with confusion and only asked:
- Why the blanket?
- How stupid. We'll be cold. Well, quickly sit down and row to that shore...
They were silent the whole way. When they approached the forest on the other side, she said:
- Here you go. Now come to me. Where's the blanket? Oh, he's below 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, just quietly, quietly. And you hug me... everywhere...
Under her sundress she had only a shirt. She gently, barely touching, kissed him on the edges of his lips. He, with a clouded head, threw it to the stern. She hugged him frantically...
After lying there exhausted, she stood 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 won’t 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 darkness with her entire long body and began to tie a braid around her head, raising her arms, showing her dark armpits and raised breasts, not ashamed of her nakedness and the dark toe under her stomach. Having tied him up, she quickly kissed him, jumped to her feet, fell flat into the water, threw her head back and noisily kicked her feet.
Then he, in a hurry, helped her get dressed and wrap herself in a blanket. In the darkness, her black eyes and black hair tied in a braid were fabulously visible. He no longer dared to touch her, he only kissed her hands and was silent from unbearable happiness. It seemed as if there was someone in the darkness of the coastal forest, silently smoldering here and there with fireflies, standing and listening. Sometimes something rustled there cautiously. She raised her head:
- Wait, what is this?
- Don’t be afraid, it’s probably a frog crawling ashore. Or a hedgehog in the forest...
- What if it’s a Capricorn?
- Which Capricorn?
- I don't know. But just think: some capricorn 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 kissing her cold breast like something sacred. What a completely new creature she had become for him! And the greenish half-light stood and did not go out behind the blackness of the low forest, faintly reflected in the flat white water in the distance, dewy coastal plants smelled sharply like celery, invisible mosquitoes whined mysteriously, pleadingly - and flew, flew with a quiet crackling sound over the boat and further, above this glowing water at night, scary, sleepless dragonflies. And somewhere something rustled, crawled, made its way...
A week later he was ugly, disgraced, stunned by the horror of a completely sudden separation, kicked out of the house.
One afternoon they were sitting in the living room and, touching their heads, looked at pictures in old issues of Niva.
-Have you stopped loving me yet? - he asked quietly, pretending to look carefully.
- Silly. Terribly stupid! - she whispered.
Suddenly softly running steps were heard - and her crazy mother stood on the threshold in a worn black silk robe and worn morocco shoes. Her black eyes sparkled tragically. She ran as if on stage and shouted:
- I understood everything! I felt it, I was watching! Scoundrel, she can't be yours!
And, raising her hand in her long sleeve, she fired a deafening shot from the ancient pistol with which Petya scared the sparrows, loading it only with gunpowder. In the smoke, he rushed towards her and 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 through the house in response to the scream and shot, began to scream with foam on her blue lips even more theatrically:
- Only she will step over my corpse to you! If he runs away with you, I’ll hang myself that same day, throw myself off the roof! Scoundrel, get out of my house! Marya Viktorovna, choose: mother or him!
She whispered:
- You, you, mom...
He woke up, opened his eyes - the blue-violet peephole above the door was still steadily, mysteriously, gravely looking at him from the black darkness, and still with the same speed, steadily rushing forward, the carriage rushed, springing, swaying. That sad stop is already far, far away. And a whole twenty years ago there was all this - copses, magpies, swamps, water lilies, snakes, cranes... Yes, there were also cranes - how could he forget about them! Everything was strange in that amazing summer, strange was also the pair of cranes that flew from somewhere from time to time to the coastal swamp, and the fact that they only let her come to them and, arching their thin, long necks with a very stern, but they looked at her from above with benevolent curiosity when she, softly and easily running towards them in her multi-colored shorts, suddenly squatted down in front of them, spreading her yellow sundress on the wet and warm greenery of the coast, and with childish enthusiasm looked into their beautiful and formidable black pupils, narrowly captured by a ring of dark gray rays. He looked at her and at them from afar, 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 their legs were excessively long and thin - one was completely black, the other was greenish. Sometimes they both stood for hours on one leg in incomprehensible immobility, sometimes for no apparent reason they jumped up, opening their huge wings; otherwise they would walk importantly, step forward slowly, measuredly, raise their paws, squeezing their three fingers into a ball, and put them loosely, spreading their fingers like predatory claws, and all the time shaking their heads... However, when she ran up to them, he was already I didn’t think about anything and didn’t see anything - I only saw her blossoming sundress, shuddering with mortal languor at the thought of her dark body under it, about the dark moles on it. And on that last day of theirs, on that last sitting next to each other 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 at him eyes with joyful black-mirror eyes:
- And I love you so much now that there is nothing sweeter to me than even this smell inside the cap, the smell of your head and your disgusting cologne!

Outside Kursk, in the dining car, when after breakfast he was drinking coffee and cognac, his wife said to him:
- Why are you drinking so much? This seems to be the fifth glass already. Are you still sad, remembering your country girl with bony feet?
“I’m sad, I’m sad,” he answered, smiling unpleasantly. -Dacha 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, sighing carelessly, and began to look out the sunny window.
September 27, 1940

GORGEOUS

An official of the treasury chamber, an elderly widower, married a young, beautiful 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, he would break into a fistula. And she was small, well-built and strong, always well dressed, very attentive and efficient around the house, and had a keen eye. He seemed as uninteresting in all respects as many provincial officials, but his first marriage was to a beauty - everyone just threw up their hands: why and why did such people marry him?
And so the second beauty calmly hated his seven-year-old boy from the first, pretending that she did not 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, naturally lively and affectionate, began to be afraid to say a word in their presence, and there he completely hid, becoming as if 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, small room near the dining room, decorated with blue velvet furniture. But his sleep was restless; every night he would knock the sheets and blanket onto 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 told you to hide in big chest the late lady in the corridor.
And the boy, in his complete loneliness in the whole world, began to live a completely independent life, completely isolated from the rest of the house - inaudible, imperceptible, the same day after day: humbly sitting in the corner of the living room, drawing houses on a slate board or reading in a whisper from the warehouses. He keeps looking out the windows at the same book with pictures, bought during his late mother’s time... He sleeps on the floor between the sofa and a 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 into the corridor into his mother’s chest. All the rest of his goodness is hidden there.
September 28, 1940

FOOL

The deacon's son, a seminarian who came 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 even more with his imagination: in the afternoon, before dinner, he spied from the coastal vines over the creek of the river how they came there with the girls worked and, throwing their shirts off their sweaty white bodies over their heads, with noise and laughter, lifting up their faces, arching their backs, threw themselves into the hot glistening water; then, not able to control himself, he stood up, crept in the darkness through the entryway into the kitchen, where it was black and hot, as if in a heated oven, and, holding out his hands forward, groped for the bunk on which the cook was sleeping, a poor, rootless girl who was reputed to be a fool, and she , out of fear, she didn’t even scream. From then on, 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 constable and his wife, everyone knew who this boy was from, and the seminarian, coming for the holidays, could not see him out of spiteful 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 invited guests to tea in order to be proud of the future academician. The guests also talked about his brilliant future, drank tea, ate various preserves, and the happy deacon started up a gramophone that hissed and then screamed loudly in the midst of their lively conversation.
Everyone fell silent and with smiles of pleasure began to listen to the washing away sounds of “On the pavement street”, when suddenly the cook’s boy, to whom his mother, thinking to touch everyone with him, foolishly whispered: “Run, dance, little girl,” rushed into the room and danced awkwardly, out of tune, and stomped. ". Everyone was confused 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 deaconess, at his request, sent the cook away. They were kind and compassionate people, they were very used to her, they loved her for her irresponsibility, obedience and in every possible way they asked their son to have mercy. But he remained adamant, and they did not dare to disobey him. In the evening, the cook, quietly crying and holding her bundle in one hand and the boy’s hand in the other, left the yard.
All summer after that, she walked with him through villages and villages, begging for Christ's sake. She was worn out, frayed, baked in the wind and sun, thin to the bones and skin, but she was tireless. She walked barefoot, with a sackcloth bag over her shoulder, propped up with a high stick, and in villages and hamlets she silently bowed in front of each hut. The boy walked behind her, also with a bag over his shoulder in her old shoes, broken and hardened, like those supports that lie somewhere in a ravine.
He was a freak. He had a large, flat crown covered in red boar hair, a flattened nose with wide nostrils, and hazel eyes that were very shiny. But when he smiled, he was very sweet.
September 28, 1940

ANTIGONE

In June, from his mother’s estate, the student went to his uncle and aunt; he needed to visit them, find out how they were doing, how the health of his uncle, who had lost the general’s legs, was. The student served this duty every summer and now rode with submissive calm, leisurely read in the second-class carriage, placing his young round thigh on the heel of the sofa, Averchenka’s new book, absentmindedly looked 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 his white cap with a blue band was a student's one, everything else was military-style: a white jacket, greenish leggings, boots with patent leather tops, a cigarette case with an incendiary orange tourniquet.
Uncle and aunt were rich. When he came home from Moscow, they sent him to the station with a heavy carriage, a couple of work horses and not a coachman, but a worker. And at his uncle’s station he always entered for a while into a completely different life, into the pleasure of great wealth, and began to feel handsome, cheerful, and mannered. So it was now. With involuntary folly, he sat down in a light rubber carriage, harnessed by a fast karak troika, driven by a young coachman in a blue sleeveless jacket and a yellow silk shirt.
A quarter of an hour later, the troika flew, softly playing with a scattering of bells and hissing tires on the sand around the flower bed, into the round courtyard of a vast estate, to the platform of a spacious new house on two floors. A tall servant in half tanks, a red vest with black stripes and boots came out onto the platform to get his things. The student made a deft and incredibly wide jump from the stroller: smiling and swaying as he walked, his aunt appeared on the threshold of the lobby - a wide scalloped robe on a large flabby body, a large sagging face, an anchor nose and yellow tan marks under her brown eyes. She kissed him kindly on the cheeks, and with feigned joy he fell to her soft dark hand, quickly thinking: lie for three whole days like this, and in your free time you don’t know what to do with yourself! Pretending and hastily answering her feignedly caring questions about her mother, he followed her into the large lobby, looked with cheerful hatred at the somewhat hunched over stuffed brown bear with shiny glass eyes, standing clubfooted at full height at the entrance to the wide staircase in top floor and helpfully holding in his clawed front paws a bronze dish for business cards, and suddenly he even paused from gratifying surprise: a chair with a plump, pale, blue-eyed general was smoothly rolling towards him by a tall, stately beauty in a gray canvas dress, in a white apron and a white scarf, with large gray eyes, all shining with youth, strength, purity , the shine of sleek hands, the matte whiteness of the face. Kissing his uncle's hand, he managed to look at the extraordinary slenderness of her dress and legs. The general joked:
- But this is my Antigone, my good guide, although I am not blind, like Oedipus, and especially to pretty women. Meet young people.
She smiled slightly, only returning the student's bow with a bow.
A tall servant in sideburns and a red vest led him past the bear upstairs, along a staircase shiny with dark yellow wood with a red carpet in the middle and along the same corridor, led him into a large bedroom with a marble toilet room nearby - this time in a different way than before, and with windows facing 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 has the most honest rules” - but something else was already standing: that’s how a woman is!
Humming, he began to shave, wash and change clothes, put on pants with straps, thinking:
“There are such women! And what can you give for the love of such a woman! And with such beauty, how can you give old men and women rides in wheelchairs!”
And ridiculous thoughts came into my head: just stay here for a month, two, secretly from everyone, enter into friendship, intimacy with her, arouse 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 to me for your sake...
Running down the stairs to his aunt and uncle - their chambers were below - he thought:
“However, what nonsense is creeping into my head! Of course, you can stay here under some pretext... you can start courting unnoticed, pretend to be madly in love... But will you achieve anything? And if you achieve it, what next? “How can I get rid of this story? Is it true that I should get married?”
For an hour he sat with his aunt and uncle in his huge office 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 tables for smoking, and on the fireplace with a large a photographic portrait in a rosewood frame under a gold crown, on which was his own free stroke: Alexander.
“I’m so glad, uncle and aunt, that I’m with you again,” he said at the end, thinking about his sister. - And how wonderful it is here! It will be terrible to leave.
- Who is driving you? - Uncle answered. -Where are you rushing? Live until you get bored.
“Of course,” said my aunt absently.
Sitting and talking, he constantly waited: she would come in, the maid would announce that tea was ready in the dining room, and she would come to give her uncle a ride. But tea was served into the office - a table with a silver teapot on an alcohol lamp was wheeled in, and my 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 it,” he thought, leaving the office, entered the dining room, where the servants were lowering the curtains on the high sunny windows, and for some reason looked to the right, into the doors of the hall, where in the late afternoon light glass cups on the legs of a piano glittered on the parquet floor. , then went to the left, into the living room, behind which there was a sofa; From the living room I went out onto the balcony, went down to the colorful flower bed, walked around it and wandered along the high shady alley... It was still hot in the sun, and there were still two hours left before lunch.

565. Read an excerpt from the novel “Crime and Punishment.” Determine the type of speech. Specify characteristic features this type of speech.

It was a tiny cell, about six paces long, which had the most pitiful appearance with its yellow, dusty wallpaper falling off the wall everywhere, and so low that even a slightly tall person felt terrified in it, and everything seemed to be about to you hit your head on the ceiling. The furniture corresponded to the room: there were three old chairs, not entirely in good working order, a painted table in the corner, on which lay several notebooks and books; just by the way they were dusty, it was clear that no one’s hand had touched them for a long time; and, finally, an awkward large sofa, which occupied almost the entire wall and half the width of the entire room, once upholstered in chintz, but now in rags and served as Raskolnikov’s bed. Often he slept on it as 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 all the linen he had, clean and worn, so that the headboard would be higher. stood in front of the sofa small table. It was difficult to become more dejected and shabby; but for Raskolnikov it was even pleasant in his current state of mind. He resolutely withdrew from everyone, like a turtle into 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 other monomaniacs who are too focused on something.

(F. Dostoevsky)

1. Explain the placement of punctuation marks in the highlighted sentence.
2. Find an occasional word (individual author’s neologism) in the text, 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 stylistic and syntactic function fulfill the first and last paragraphs?

“THE DEAR CREATION OF RUSSIAN HANDS -
GOLDEN FORTRESS OF THE KREMLIN..."

“Whoever has never been to the top of Ivan the Great, who has never had the opportunity to take one 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 a city of which there are 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 dates back to 1147; This is also the first mention of the Kremlin. Only in those distant times was it called “grad” (“city of Moscow”).

Over eight and a half centuries, the appearance of the Kremlin has changed several times. 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 the 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 that still exist today. Total length 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 government and political life Russia. The Moscow Kremlin is a unique architectural and artistic ensemble, the largest museum in the world, which carefully preserves the “cherished traditions of generations.”

There are many artistic and historical monuments on the territory of the Kremlin. Here are just a few of them: the Ivan the Great bell tower (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 is Ivanovo Square, where the Tsar’s decrees were read loudly (hence: shout at the top of Ivanovo Square); the Tsar Bell, which, if it rang, would be heard 50-60 km away; The Tsar Cannon is a monument to foundry art and ancient Russian artillery; The Grand Kremlin Palace and the Chamber of Facets; Cathedral Square with the Archangel Cathedral, Assumption and Annunciation Cathedrals; The Armory Chamber - the first Moscow museum - and other “witnesses of the centuries”.

In the words of M.Yu. Lermontov, “...it is impossible to describe the Kremlin, nor its battlements, nor its dark passages, nor its magnificent palaces... You must see, see... you 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, among other figurative and expressive means, assign a special role to epithets? Write out the words with brackets, opening them and explaining the spelling.

It's getting dark and a blizzard rises towards night.

Apart from the ominous mysterious lights, nothing is visible (half a mile) ahead. It’s good that it’s frosty and the wind easily blows the hard snow off the road. But for that, it hits you in the face, falls asleep with a hiss of roadside oak branches, tears off and carries away their blackened dry leaves in the smoke of drifting snow, and, looking at them, you feel lost in a desert world among the eternal northern twilight.

There is a farmstead in a field, far from roadways, far from big cities and railways. Further on, the village, which once was near the farm itself, now nests five (eight) versts from it. The farm was called Luchezarovka a long time ago.

Luchezarovka! The wind makes noise around her like the sea; and in the yard, drifting snow smokes over the high blue (white) snowdrifts, like over grave hills. These snowdrifts are surrounded by scattered buildings far apart from each other. All the buildings are in the old style, long and low. The facade of the house looks into the courtyards with only three small (small) windows. The large thatched roof had turned black with age. A narrow brick chimney rises above the house like a long neck.

It seems that the estate has become extinct: (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 wander around the house at night, coming from the meadows through the garden to the balcony itself.

(According to I. Bunin)

1. Find in the text and write down simple one-part sentences and one-part sentences as part of complex sentences, highlight them grammar basics and define the type.
2. In the highlighted sentence, determine the function of the colon and indicate the part of speech of the words with neither.
3. Find in the text sentences complicated by: 1) comparative phrase; 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 the 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 to him, Tolstoy, but going to Pushkin , we see before us the whole of Russia, its life and its destiny (and therefore our life, our destiny). The very elusiveness of Pushkin’s “essence,” the roundness and completeness of his work, attracts and confuses. It would seem that everything has been said about Pushkin. But you take his book, start re-reading it, and you feel that almost nothing has been said. It is truly scary to “open your mouth”, to write even 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 in Russian literature two speeches about Pushkin are remembered, said on the eve of death, when a person sums up the results, checks himself: 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 freedom in this area.

Will 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 thoughts about Pushkin are now completely satisfactory. Undoubtedly, in our criticism, starting with Belinsky, there are many very approximate judgments about him. Some are rightfully recognized as “classics” and remain valuable. But another era is making itself felt.

(G. Adamovich)

1. Explain punctuation. Make it full parsing second sentence.
2. Determine your speech style and give reasons for your answer. Name the most striking features of this style of speech.
3. Provide examples of parcellation in the text.
4. Find the compositional elements: 1) thesis; 2) arguments; 3) conclusion. What type of speech is this composition typical for?
5. Make a plan for the text, indicating micro-topics.

569. Determine the style and type of speech. Make a plan for the text, indicating the elements of composition and micro-themes. Analyze the vocabulary of this text. What styles of speech can it be classified as?

It is generally accepted that the telegraph, telephone, trains, cars and airliners are designed to save a person’s precious time, to free up leisure that can be used to develop their spiritual abilities. But an amazing paradox occurred. Can we, hand on heart, say that each of us who uses the services of technology has more time than people had in the pre-telephone, pre-telegraph, pre-aviation era? Yes, my God! Everyone who lived in relative prosperity then (and we all live in relative prosperity now) 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 that Michelangelo or Balzac did not have enough time. But that’s why they missed it because there are only twenty-four hours in a day, and only sixty or seventy years in life. We, if we give ourselves free rein, will be fussing about forty-eight hours in one day, we will flutter like crazy from city to city, from continent to continent and still won’t find an hour to calm down and do something leisurely, thorough, in the spirit of normal human life. nature.

Technology has made each state as a whole and humanity as a whole powerful. In terms of destructive fire 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 off, well, at least from the Martians, would have met them differently than two or three centuries ago. But the question is, has technology made just a person more powerful, one person, a person as such, was powerful biblical Moses who led her people from a foreign land, Joan of Arc was powerful, Garibaldi and Raphael, Spartacus and Shakespeare, Beethoven and Petofi, Lermontov and Tolstoy were powerful. You never know... Discoverers of new lands, the first polar explorers, great sculptors, painters and poets, giants of thought and spirit, devotees of ideas. Can we say that everything is ours? technical progress made a person 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 pull first.

Yes, all together, possessing modern technology, we are more powerful. We hear and see for thousands of kilometers, our arms are monstrously elongated. We can hit someone even on another continent. We have already reached the moon with our 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 alone, can you say to yourself that you are... more powerful than all your predecessors on planet Earth?

Humanity can collectively conquer the Moon or antimatter, but still for desk the person sits down separately.

(V. Soloukhin “Letters from the Russian Museum”)

570. Title the text. Highlight your keywords. Determine the topic and main idea of ​​the text. Write a miniature essay (essay) on this topic.

Teacher and student... Remember what Vasily Andreevich Zhukovsky wrote on his portrait, presented to young Alexander Pushkin: “To the victorious 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 singing to young ones. As bird catchers say, “they set them to a good song.” But how they put it! They don’t poke their noses in, they don’t coerce or force. They're just singing. They try with all their bird strength to sing as best and as clearly as possible. The main thing is cleaner! The purity of the whistle is valued above all else. The old people sing, and the young people listen and learn. They learn to sing, not to sing along!”

(M. Dudin)

571. Read an excerpt from the story “The White Steamship” by the famous Russian and Kyrgyz writer Chingiz Aitmatov.

Old Momun, whom wise people called the Efficient Momun, was known to everyone in the area, and he knew everyone. Momun earned this nickname by his invariable friendliness to everyone he even knew in the slightest degree, by his readiness to always do something for anyone, to serve anyone. And yet his diligence was not valued by anyone, just as gold would not be valued if they suddenly began to give it away for free. No one treated Momun with the respect that people his age enjoy. They treated him easily. He was tasked with slaughtering cattle, greeting honored guests and helping them dismount, serving tea, or even chopping wood, and carrying water.

It’s his own fault that he’s the Efficient Momun.

That's how he was. Efficient Momun!

Both the old man and the little one were on first-name terms with him; one could make fun of him - the old man was harmless; it was possible to ignore him - an unresponsive old man. It is not for nothing, they say, that people do not forgive those who do not know how to force themselves to be respected. But he couldn't.

He knew a lot in life. He worked as a carpenter, a saddle maker, and was a rick-heaver; When I was younger, I put up such stacks on the collective farm that it was a pity to take them apart in winter: the rain flowed off the stack like off a goose, and the snow fell on the gable roof. During the war, he built factory walls in Magnitogorsk as a labor army worker and was called a Stakhanovite. He returned, cut down houses on the border, and worked in the forest. Although he was listed as an auxiliary worker, he looked after the forest, and Orozkul, his son-in-law, mostly traveled around visiting guests. Unless when the authorities arrive, Orozkul himself will show the forest and organize a hunt, here he was the master. Momun looked after the cattle, and he kept an apiary. Momun lived his whole life from morning to evening at work, in troubles, but he did not learn to force himself to be respected.

And Momun’s appearance was not at all that of an aksakal. No sedateness, no importance, no severity. He was a good-natured man, and at first glance one could discern this ungrateful human quality in him. At all times they teach people like this: “Don’t be kind, be evil! Here you go, here you go! Be evil,” and he, to his misfortune, remains incorrigibly kind. His face was smiling and wrinkled, wrinkled, and his eyes always asked: “What do you want? Do you want me to do something for you? So I am now, just tell me what your need is.”

The nose is soft, duck-like, as if there is no cartilage at all. And he is small, nimble, an old man, like a teenager.

Why the beard - it didn’t work either. It's a joke. On his bare chin there are two or three reddish hairs - that’s all the beard is.

It’s different - you suddenly see a portly old man riding along the road, with a beard like a sheaf, in a spacious fur coat with a wide lambskin lapel, in an expensive hat, and even on a good horse, and a silver-plated saddle - whatever a sage or a prophet, you should bow to him It’s not shameful, such a person is honored everywhere! And Momun was born just the Efficient Momun. Perhaps his only advantage was that he was not afraid of losing himself in someone’s eyes. (He sat down wrong, said wrong, answered wrong, smiled wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong...) In this sense, Momun, without knowing it, was an extremely happy person.

Many people die not so much from illnesses as from an irrepressible, eternal passion that consumes them - to pretend to be more than they are. (Who doesn’t want to be known as smart, worthy, beautiful and also 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 does the author raise? Formulate it.
2. What lexical, morphological, syntactic means of language confirm that this text belongs to the language of fiction?
3. What expressive means of language does Chingiz Aitmatov use to paint the portrait of the old man Momun? Name them and give examples from the text.
4. Write a review of this text, express your attitude to 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.”

It's getting dark, a blizzard rises towards night...

Tomorrow is Christmas, big one happy holiday, and this makes the foul twilight, the endless wilderness road and the field buried in the darkness of drifting snow seem even sadder. The sky hangs lower and lower over him; The bluish-leaden light of the fading day is faintly glimmering, and in the foggy distance those pale elusive lights that always flicker before the strained eyes of a traveler on winter steppe nights are already beginning to appear...

Apart from these ominous mysterious lights, nothing is visible half a mile ahead. It’s good that it’s frosty and the wind easily blows hard snow off the road. But on the other hand, it hits them in the face, falls asleep with a hiss on roadside oak poles, tears off and carries away their blackened, dry leaves in the drifting smoke, and, looking at them, you feel lost in the desert, among the eternal northern twilight...

In a field, far from large roads, far from big cities and railways, there is a farm. Even the village, which once was near the farm itself, now nests about five miles away from it. Many years ago the Baskakovs called this farmstead Luchezarovka, and the village - Luchezarovskie Dvoriki.

Luchezarovka! The wind is noisy like the sea around her, and in the yard, on high white snowdrifts, like on grave hills, drifting snow smokes. These snowdrifts are surrounded by scattered buildings far from each other: the manor's house, the "coach" barn and the "people's" hut. All the buildings are low and long in the old style. The house is paneled; its front facade looks into the courtyard with only three small windows; porches - with awnings on poles; the large thatched roof had turned black with age. There was a similar one on the people's hall, but now only the skeleton of this roof remains and a narrow brick chimney rises above it like a long neck...

And it seems that the estate has died out: there are no signs of human habitation, except for a started sweep near the barn, 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 steppe wind, among the winter fields. Wolves wander around the house at night, coming from the meadows through the garden to the balcony itself.

Once upon a time... However, who doesn’t know what happened “once upon a time!” Now there are only twenty-eight acres of arable land and four acres of estate land listed at Luchezarovka. The family of Yakov Petrovich Baskakov moved to the city: Glafira Yakovlevna is married to a land surveyor, and Sofya Pavlovna lives with her almost all year round. But Yakov Petrovich is an old steppe dweller. In his lifetime he walked through several estates in the city, but did not want to end there “the last third of his life,” as he put it about human old age. His former serf, the talkative and strong old woman Daria, lives with him; she nursed all the children of Yakov Petrovich and remained forever at the Baskakovsky house. In addition to her, Yakov Petrovich also keeps a worker who replaces the cook: cooks do not live in Luchezarovka for more than two or three weeks.

Someone will live with him! - they say. - There the heart will wear out from mere melancholy!

That is why Sudak, the man from Dvorikov, replaces them. He is a lazy and quarrelsome person, but he gets along here. Carrying water from the pond, heating the stoves, cooking bread, kneading the cuttings for the white gelding and smoking shag with the master in the evenings is not much work.

Yakov Petrovich rents out all the land to the peasants, household its extremely easy. Before, when the estate had barns, a barnyard and a barn, the estate still looked like human habitation. But what are barns, barns and cattle yards needed for with twenty-eight dessiatines mortgaged and remortgaged in the bank? They were more prudent

Yabluchansky Electronic Library . It's getting dark and a blizzard rises towards night. Tomorrow is Christmas, a big, cheerful holiday, and this makes the foul twilight, the endless backwoods road and the field buried in the darkness of drifting snow seem even sadder. The sky hangs lower and lower over him; The bluish-leaden light of the fading day is faintly glimmering, and in the foggy distance those pale elusive lights are already beginning to appear, which always flicker before the tense eyes of a traveler on winter steppe nights... Apart from these ominous mysterious lights, nothing is visible half a mile ahead. It’s good that it’s frosty and the wind blows easily. roads are hard snow. But on the other hand, it hits them in the face, falls asleep with a hiss on roadside oak poles, tears off and carries away their blackened, dry leaves in the drifting smoke, and, looking at them, you feel lost in the desert, among the eternal northern twilight... In a field, far away There is a farmstead located away from major roads, far from big cities and railways. Even the village, which once was near the farm itself, now nests about five miles away from it. Many years ago the Baskakovs called this farmstead Luchezarovka, and the village - Luchezarovskie Dvoriki. Luchezarovka! The wind is noisy like the sea around her, and in the yard, on high white snowdrifts, like on grave hills, drifting snow smokes. These snowdrifts are surrounded by scattered buildings far from each other, a manor house, a “coach” barn and a “people’s” hut. All buildings are in the old style - low and long. The house is paneled; its front facade looks into the courtyard with only three small windows; porches - with awnings on poles; the large thatched roof had turned black with age. There was a similar one in the living room, but now only the skeleton of that roof remains and a narrow brick chimney rises above it like a long neck... And it seems that the estate has died out: no signs of human habitation, except for the beginning of a sweep near the barn, 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 steppe wind, among the winter fields. Wolves wander around the house at night, coming from the meadows through the garden to the balcony itself. Once upon a time... However, who doesn’t know what happened “once upon a time”! Now there are only twenty-eight acres of arable land and four acres of estate land listed at Luchezarovka. The family of Yakov Petrovich Baskakov moved to the city: Glafira Yakovlevna is married to a land surveyor, and Sofya Pavlovna lives with her almost all year round. But Yakov Petrovich is an old steppe dweller. In his lifetime he spent time on several estates in the city, but did not want to end there “the last third of his life,” as he put it about human old age. His former serf, the talkative and strong old woman Daria, lives with him; she nursed all the children of Yakov Petrovich and remained forever at the Baskakovsky house. In addition to her, Yakov Petrovich also keeps a worker who replaces the cook: cooks do not live in Luchezarovka for more than two or three weeks. - He will live with him! - they say. - There the heart will wear out from mere melancholy! That is why Sudak, the man from Dvorikov, replaces them. He is a lazy and quarrelsome person, but he gets along here. Carrying water from the pond, heating the stoves, cooking bread, kneading cuttings for the white gelding and smoking shag with the master in the evenings is not much work. Yakov Petrovich rents out all his land to the peasants; his household management is extremely simple. Before, when the estate had barns, a barnyard and a barn, the estate still looked like human habitation. But what are barns, barns and farmyards needed for with twenty-eight dessiatines mortgaged and remortgaged in the bank? It was more prudent to sell them and at least for a while live on them more cheerfully than usual. And Yakov Petrovich first sold the barn, then the barns, and when he used the entire top of the barnyard for heating, he also sold stone walls his. And it became uncomfortable in Luchezarovka! It would have been terrible even for Yakov Petrovich in the midst of this ruined nest, since from hunger and cold Daria used to go to the village to visit her nephew, a shoemaker, on all the major winter holidays, but by winter Yakov Petrovich was rescued by another, more true friend. - Selam alekum! - an old voice rang out on some gloomy day to the “maid’s room” of Luchezarov’s house. How he perked up at this, familiar with the most Crimean campaign, Tatar greeting Yakov Petrovich! At the threshold stood respectfully and, smiling, bowed, a small gray-haired man, already broken, frail, but always invigorated, like all former courtyard people. This is Yakov Petrovich’s former orderly, Kovalev. Forty years have passed since the Crimean campaign, but every year he appears before Yakov Petrovich and greets him with words that remind them both of the Crimea, pheasant hunting, spending the night in Tatar huts... - Alekyum selam! - Yakov Petrovich also exclaimed cheerfully. - Alive? “But he’s a Sevastopol hero,” answered Kovalev. Yakov Petrovich with a smile examined his sheepskin coat, covered with a soldier's cloth, the old undershirt in which Kovalev rocked as a gray-haired boy, the yellow felt boots that he loved to show off so much because they were yellow... - How does God have mercy on you? - asked Kovalev. Yakov Petrovich examined himself. And he is still the same: a thick figure, a gray, cropped head, a gray mustache, a good-natured, carefree face with small eyes and a “Polish” shaved chin, a goatee... “Baybak still,” Yakov Petrovich joked in response. - Well, take off your clothes, take off your clothes! Where have you been? Fishing, gardening? - Udil, Yakov Petrovich. There, the dishes were carried away by the hollow water this year - and God forbid! - So, he was sitting in the dugouts again? - In the dugouts, in the dugouts... - Is there tobacco? - There is a little. - Well, sit down, let's wrap it up. - How is Sofya Pavlovna? - In the city. I visited her recently, but quickly ran away. Here it’s mortally boring, but there it’s even worse. And my dear son-in-law... You know what kind of man he is! The most terrible serf, interesting! - You can’t make a gentleman out of a boor! - You won’t do it, brother... Well, to hell with it! - How is your hunt? - It’s all gunpowder, there’s no shot. The other day I got my hands on something, went and killed one of the cross-faced... - This year is their passion! - That's the point. Tomorrow we'll fill ourselves with light. - Necessarily. - By God, I’m glad to see you from the bottom of my heart! Kovalev grinned. - Are the checkers intact? - he asked, rolling a cigarette and handing it to Yakov Petrovich. - Safe, safe. Let's have lunch and cut it! It's getting dark. The pre-holiday evening is coming. A blizzard breaks out in the yard, the window becomes increasingly covered with snow, and it becomes colder and gloomier in the “maid’s room.” This is an old room with low ceiling, with log walls, black from time to time, and almost empty: under the window there is a long bench, near the bench there is a simple wooden table, there is a chest of drawers against the wall, in the top drawer of which there are plates. In fairness, it was called a maid’s room a long time ago, about forty or fifty years ago, when the courtyard girls sat here and weaved lace. Now the maid's room is one of the living rooms of Yakov Petrovich himself. One half of the house, with windows overlooking the courtyard, consists of a maid's room, a footman's room and an office among them; the other, with windows overlooking the cherry orchard, is from the living room and hall. But in winter, the servant's room, the living room and the hall are not heated, and it is so cold there that both the card table and the portrait of Nicholas I freeze through. On this stormy pre-holiday evening, the girls' room is especially uncomfortable. Yakov Petrovich sits on a bench and smokes. Kovalev stands by the stove with his head bowed. Both are wearing hats, felt boots and fur coats; Yakov Petrovich's lamb coat is worn directly over his linen and belted with a towel. The floating bluish smoke of shag is vaguely visible in the dusk. You can hear the wind rattling broken glass in the living room windows. The motel is raging around the house and clearly breaks through the conversation of its inhabitants: it all seems as if someone has arrived. - Wait! - Yakov Petrovich suddenly stops Kovalev. - It must be him. Kovalev falls silent. And he thought he heard the creaking of a sleigh at the porch, someone’s voice coming indistinctly through the noise of the snowstorm... “Come and look,” he must have arrived. But Kovalev does not at all want to run out into the cold, although he is very impatiently awaiting Sudak’s return from the village with shopping. He listens very carefully and resolutely objects: “No, it’s the wind.” - Why is it hard for you to look? - Why watch when no one is there? Yakov Petrovich shrugs his shoulders; he begins to get irritated... So everything was going well... A rich man from Kalinovka came with a request to write a petition to the zemstvo chief (Yakov Petrovich is famous in the neighborhood as a writer of petitions) and brought a chicken, a bottle of vodka and a ruble of money for this. True, the vodka was drunk while writing and reading the petition, the chicken was slaughtered and eaten that same day, but the ruble remained intact - Yakov Petrovich saved it for the holiday... Then yesterday morning Kovalev suddenly appeared and brought with him a dozen and a half pretzels eggs, and also sixty kopecks. And the old people were cheerful and