Composition

History of creation

“I am sure that a person’s writer is made by his childhood, his ability to early age see and feel everything that then gives him the right to take up the pen. Education, books, life experience educate and strengthen this gift in the future, but it should be born in childhood,” wrote Valentin Grigorievich Rasputin in 1974 in the Irkutsk newspaper “Soviet Youth”. In 1973, one of Rasputin's best stories "French Lessons" was published. The writer himself singles it out among his works: “I didn’t have to invent anything there. Everything happened to me. I didn't have to go far for the prototype. I needed to return to people the good that they once did for me.

Rasputin's story "French Lessons" is dedicated to Anastasia Prokopievna Kopylova, the mother of his friend, the famous playwright Alexander Vampilov, who worked at school all her life. The story was based on the memory of a child's life, it, according to the writer, "was one of those that warm even with a slight touch to them."

The story is autobiographical. Lidia Mikhailovna is named in the work by her own name (her last name is Molokova). In 1997, the writer, in an interview with a correspondent for the Literature at School magazine, spoke about meetings with her: “Recently she was visiting me, and we long and desperately remembered our school, and the Angarsk village of Ust-Uda almost half a century ago, and much of that difficult and happy time."

Genus, genre, creative method

The work "French Lessons" is written in the genre of the story. The heyday of the Russian Soviet short story falls on the twenties (Babel, Ivanov, Zoshchenko) and then the sixties and seventies (Kazakov, Shukshin, etc.). More quickly than other prose genres, the story reacts to changes in social life, as it is written faster.

The story can be considered the oldest and the first of the literary genres. Brief retelling events - an incident on a hunt, a duel with an enemy, and the like - is already an oral story. Unlike other kinds and forms of art, conditional in its essence, the story is inherent in humanity, having arisen simultaneously with speech and being not only the transmission of information, but also a means of social memory. The story is the original form of the literary organization of language. The story is considered to be completed prose work up to forty-five pages. This is an approximate value - two author's sheets. Such a thing is read "in one breath."

Rasputin's story "French Lessons" is a realistic work written in the first person. It can be fully considered an autobiographical story.

Subject

“It’s strange: why do we, just like before our parents, every time feel guilty before our teachers? And not for what happened at school, no, but for what happened to us later. So the writer begins his story "French Lessons". Thus, he defines the main themes of the work: the relationship between the teacher and the student, the image of life illuminated by the spiritual and moral sense, the formation of a hero, his acquisition of spiritual experience in communication with Lidia Mikhailovna. French lessons, communication with Lydia Mikhailovna became life lessons for the hero, education of feelings.

Playing for money a teacher with her student, from the point of view of pedagogy, is an immoral act. But what is behind this act? - asks the writer. Seeing that the schoolboy (during the hungry post-war years) was malnourished, the teacher French under the guise of extra classes invites him to her home and tries to feed him. She sends him packages, as if from her mother. But the boy refuses. The teacher offers to play for money and, of course, "loses" so that the boy can buy milk for these pennies. And she is happy that she succeeds in this deception.

The idea of ​​the story lies in the words of Rasputin: “The reader learns from books not about life, but about feelings. Literature, in my opinion, is primarily the education of feelings. And above all, kindness, purity, nobility. These words are directly related to the story "French Lessons".

Main heroes

The main characters of the story are an eleven-year-old boy and French teacher Lidia Mikhailovna.

Lidia Mikhailovna was no more than twenty-five years old and "there was no cruelty in her face." She treated the boy with understanding and sympathy, appreciated his determination. She saw remarkable learning abilities in her student and is ready to help them develop in any way. Lidia Mikhailovna is endowed with an extraordinary ability for compassion and kindness, for which she suffered, having lost her job.

The boy impresses with his determination, desire to learn and go out into the world under any circumstances. The story about the boy can be presented in the form of a quotation plan:

1. "In order to study further ... and I had to equip myself in the district center."
2. “I studied well here ... in all subjects, except French, I kept fives.”
3. “I felt so bad, so bitter and disgusted! - worse than any disease.
4. "Having received it (ruble), ... I bought a jar of milk at the market."
5. "They took turns beating me ... that day there was no person more unfortunate than me."
6. "I was frightened and lost ... she seemed to me an extraordinary person, not like everyone else."

Plot and composition

“I went to the fifth grade in forty-eight. It would be more correct to say, I went: in our village there was only Primary School, therefore, in order to study further, I had to equip myself from home fifty kilometers away to the regional center. For the first time, an eleven-year-old boy, by the will of circumstances, is cut off from his family, torn from his usual environment. However, the little hero understands that the hopes of not only his relatives, but the whole village are pinned on him: after all, according to the unanimous opinion of his fellow villagers, he is called to be a "learned man." The hero makes every effort, overcoming hunger and homesickness, so as not to let his countrymen down.

With special understanding, a young teacher approached the boy. She began to additionally study French with the hero, hoping to feed him at home. Pride did not allow the boy to accept help from a stranger. The idea of ​​Lidia Mikhailovna with the parcel was not crowned with success. The teacher filled it with "urban" products and thereby gave herself away. In search of a way to help the boy, the teacher invites him to play for money in the "wall".

The climax of the story comes after the teacher began to play with the boy in the wall. The paradox of the situation sharpens the story to the limit. The teacher could not help but know that at that time such a relationship between a teacher and a student could lead not only to dismissal from work, but also to criminal liability. The boy did not fully understand this. But when the trouble did happen, he began to understand the behavior of the teacher more deeply. And this led him to realize some aspects of the life of that time.

The ending of the story is almost melodramatic. The parcel with Antonov apples, which he, a resident of Siberia, never tried, seems to echo the first, unsuccessful parcel with city food - pasta. More and more strokes are preparing this finale, which turned out to be not at all unexpected. In the story, the heart of an incredulous village boy opens before the purity of a young teacher. The story is surprisingly modern. It contains the great courage of a little woman, the insight of a closed, ignorant child, and the lessons of humanity.

Artistic originality

With wise humor, kindness, humanity, and most importantly, with complete psychological accuracy, the writer describes the relationship between a hungry student and a young teacher. The narration flows slowly, with everyday details, but the rhythm imperceptibly captures it.

The language of the story is simple and at the same time expressive. The writer skillfully used phraseological turns, achieving expressiveness and figurativeness of the work. Phraseologisms in the story "French Lessons" for the most part express one concept and are characterized by a certain meaning, which is often equal to the meaning of the word:

“I studied here and it’s good. What was left for me? Then I came here, I didn’t have anything else to do here, and I didn’t know how to treat everything that was entrusted to me in a slipshod way” (lazily).

“At school, I had not seen a bird before, but, looking ahead, I’ll say that in the third quarter, he suddenly, like snow on his head, fell on our class” (unexpectedly).

“Hungry and knowing that my grub would not last long, no matter how much I saved it, I ate to satiety, to pain in my stomach, and then after a day or two I again planted my teeth on the shelf” (starve).

“But there was no point in locking myself up, Tishkin managed to sell me with giblets” (betray).

One of the features of the language of the story is the presence of regional words and obsolete vocabulary, characteristic of the time of the story. For example:

To rent - to rent an apartment.
A lorry is a truck with a carrying capacity of 1.5 tons.
Tearoom - a kind of public dining room, where tea and snacks are offered to visitors.
Toss - to sip.
Naked boiling water is clean, without impurities.
Vyakat - to chat, to speak.
To bale - to hit lightly.
Khlyuzda is a rogue, a deceiver, a cheater.
Prytika - what is hidden.

The meaning of the work

The work of V. Rasputin invariably attracts readers, because next to the ordinary, everyday in the works of the writer there are always spiritual values, moral laws, unique characters, complex, sometimes contradictory, inner world heroes. The author's thoughts about life, about man, about nature help us to discover in ourselves and in the world around us inexhaustible reserves of goodness and beauty.

In difficult times, the main character of the story had to learn. The post-war years were a kind of test not only for adults, but also for children, because both good and bad in childhood are perceived much brighter and sharper. But difficulties build character, so main character often shows such qualities as willpower, pride, sense of proportion, endurance, determination.

Many years later, Rasputin will again turn to the events of bygone years. “Now that a fairly large part of my life has been lived, I want to comprehend and understand how correctly and usefully I spent it. I have many friends who are always ready to help, I have something to remember. Now I understand that my closest friend is my former teacher, a French teacher. Yes, decades later, I remember her as a true friend, the only person who understood me while I was at school. And even years later, when we met with her, she showed me a gesture of attention, sending apples and pasta, as before. And whoever I am, no matter what depends on me, she will always treat me only as a student, because for her I was, am and will always remain a student. Now I remember how then she, taking the blame on herself, left the school, and said goodbye to me: “Study well and don’t blame yourself for anything!” By this she taught me a lesson and showed me how a real a kind person. After all, it is not for nothing that they say: a school teacher is a teacher of life.

History of creation

“I am sure that what makes a person a writer is his childhood, the ability at an early age to see and feel everything that then gives him the right to take up a pen. Education, books, life experience educate and strengthen this gift in the future, but it should be born in childhood,” wrote Valentin Grigorievich Rasputin in 1974 in the Irkutsk newspaper “Soviet Youth”. In 1973, one of Rasputin's best stories "French Lessons" was published. The writer himself singles it out among his works: “I didn’t have to invent anything there. Everything happened to me. I didn't have to go far for the prototype. I needed to return to people the good that they once did for me.

Rasputin's story "French Lessons" is dedicated to Anastasia Prokopievna Kopylova, the mother of his friend, the famous playwright Alexander Vampilov, who worked at school all her life. The story was based on the memory of a child's life, it, according to the writer, "was one of those that warm even with a slight touch to them."

The story is autobiographical. Lidia Mikhailovna is named in the work by her own name (her last name is Molokova). In 1997, the writer, in an interview with a correspondent for the Literature at School magazine, spoke about meetings with her: “Recently she was visiting me, and we long and desperately remembered our school, and the Angarsk village of Ust-Uda almost half a century ago, and much of that difficult and happy time."

Genus, genre, creative method

The work "French Lessons" is written in the genre of the story. The heyday of the Russian Soviet short story falls on the twenties (Babel, Ivanov, Zoshchenko) and then the sixties and seventies (Kazakov, Shukshin, etc.). More quickly than other prose genres, the story reacts to changes in social life, as it is written faster.

The story can be considered the oldest and the first of the literary genres. A brief retelling of an event - an incident on a hunt, a duel with an enemy, and the like - is already an oral story. Unlike other kinds and forms of art, conditional in its essence, the story is inherent in humanity, having arisen simultaneously with speech and being not only the transmission of information, but also a means of social memory. The story is the original form of the literary organization of language. A story is considered to be a completed prose work of up to forty-five pages. This is an approximate value - two author's sheets. Such a thing is read "in one breath."

Rasputin's story "French Lessons" is a realistic work written in the first person. It can be fully considered an autobiographical story.

Subject

“It’s strange: why do we, just like before our parents, every time feel guilty before our teachers? And not for what happened at school, no, but for what happened to us later. So the writer begins his story "French Lessons". Thus, he defines the main themes of the work: the relationship between the teacher and the student, the image of life illuminated by spiritual and moral meaning, the formation of the hero, the acquisition of spiritual experience by him in communication with Lydia Mikhailovna. French lessons, communication with Lydia Mikhailovna became life lessons for the hero, education of feelings.

Idea

Playing for money a teacher with her student, from the point of view of pedagogy, is an immoral act. But what is behind this action? - asks the writer. Seeing that the schoolboy (during the hungry post-war years) is malnourished, the French teacher, under the guise of additional classes, invites him to her home and tries to feed him. She sends him packages, as if from her mother. But the boy refuses. The teacher offers to play for money and, of course, "loses" so that the boy can buy milk for these pennies. And she is happy that she succeeds in this deception.

The idea of ​​the story lies in the words of Rasputin: “The reader learns from books not about life, but about feelings. Literature, in my opinion, is primarily the education of feelings. And above all, kindness, purity, nobility. These words are directly related to the story "French Lessons".

Main heroes

The main characters of the story are an eleven-year-old boy and French teacher Lidia Mikhailovna.

Lidia Mikhailovna was no more than twenty-five years old and "there was no cruelty in her face." She treated the boy with understanding and sympathy, appreciated his determination. She saw remarkable learning abilities in her student and is ready to help them develop in any way. Lidia Mikhailovna is endowed with an extraordinary ability for compassion and kindness, for which she suffered, having lost her job.

The boy impresses with his determination, desire to learn and go out into the world under any circumstances. The story about the boy can be presented in the form of a quotation plan:

1. "In order to study further ... and I had to equip myself in the district center."
2. “I studied well here ... in all subjects, except French, I kept fives.”
3. “I felt so bad, so bitter and disgusted! - worse than any disease.
4. "Having received it (ruble), ... I bought a jar of milk at the market."
5. "They took turns beating me ... that day there was no person more unfortunate than me."
6. "I was frightened and lost ... she seemed to me an extraordinary person, not like everyone else."

Plot and composition

“I went to the fifth grade in forty-eight. It would be more correct to say, I went: in our village there was only an elementary school, therefore, in order to study further, I had to equip myself from a house fifty kilometers away to the district center. For the first time, an eleven-year-old boy, by the will of circumstances, is cut off from his family, torn from his usual environment. However, the little hero understands that the hopes of not only his relatives, but the whole village are pinned on him: after all, according to the unanimous opinion of his fellow villagers, he is called to be a "learned man." The hero makes every effort, overcoming hunger and homesickness, so as not to let his countrymen down.

With special understanding, a young teacher approached the boy. She began to additionally study French with the hero, hoping to feed him at home. Pride did not allow the boy to accept help from a stranger. The idea of ​​Lidia Mikhailovna with the parcel was not crowned with success. The teacher filled it with "urban" products and thereby gave herself away. In search of a way to help the boy, the teacher invites him to play for money in the "wall".

The climax of the story comes after the teacher began to play with the boy in the wall. The paradox of the situation sharpens the story to the limit. The teacher could not help but know that at that time such a relationship between a teacher and a student could lead not only to dismissal from work, but also to criminal liability. The boy did not fully understand this. But when the trouble did happen, he began to understand the behavior of the teacher more deeply. And this led him to realize some aspects of the life of that time.

The ending of the story is almost melodramatic. The parcel with Antonov apples, which he, a resident of Siberia, never tried, seems to echo the first, unsuccessful parcel with city food - pasta. More and more strokes are preparing this finale, which turned out to be not at all unexpected. In the story, the heart of an incredulous village boy opens before the purity of a young teacher. The story is surprisingly modern. It contains the great courage of a little woman, the insight of a closed, ignorant child, and the lessons of humanity.

Artistic originality

With wise humor, kindness, humanity, and most importantly, with complete psychological accuracy, the writer describes the relationship between a hungry student and a young teacher. The narration flows slowly, with everyday details, but the rhythm imperceptibly captures it.

The language of the story is simple and at the same time expressive. The writer skillfully used phraseological turns, achieving expressiveness and figurativeness of the work. Phraseologisms in the story "French Lessons" for the most part express one concept and are characterized by a certain meaning, which is often equal to the meaning of the word:

“I studied here and it’s good. What was left for me? Then I came here, I didn’t have anything else to do here, and I didn’t know how to treat everything that was entrusted to me in a slipshod way” (lazily).

“At school, I had not seen a bird before, but, looking ahead, I’ll say that in the third quarter, he suddenly, like snow on his head, fell on our class” (unexpectedly).

“Hungry and knowing that my grub would not last long, no matter how much I saved it, I ate to satiety, to pain in my stomach, and then after a day or two I again planted my teeth on the shelf” (starve).

“But there was no point in locking myself up, Tishkin managed to sell me with giblets” (betray).

One of the features of the language of the story is the presence of regional words and obsolete vocabulary, characteristic of the time of the story. For example:

Lodge - rent an apartment.
Lorry - a truck with a carrying capacity of 1.5 tons.
Tea room - a kind of public dining room, where tea and snacks are offered to visitors.
toss - sip.
Naked boiling water - pure, without impurities.
Blather - talk, speak.
bale - hit hard.
Hluzda - a swindler, a deceiver, a trickster.
pritaika - what is hidden.

The meaning of the work

The work of V. Rasputin invariably attracts readers, because next to the ordinary, everyday in the writer's works there are always spiritual values, moral laws, unique characters, a complex, sometimes contradictory, inner world of heroes. The author's thoughts about life, about man, about nature help us to discover in ourselves and in the world around us inexhaustible reserves of goodness and beauty.

In difficult times, the main character of the story had to learn. The post-war years were a kind of test not only for adults, but also for children, because both good and bad in childhood are perceived much brighter and sharper. But difficulties temper character, so the main character often shows such qualities as willpower, pride, sense of proportion, endurance, determination.

Many years later, Rasputin will again turn to the events of bygone years. “Now that a fairly large part of my life has been lived, I want to comprehend and understand how correctly and usefully I spent it. I have many friends who are always ready to help, I have something to remember. Now I understand that my closest friend is my former teacher, a French teacher. Yes, decades later, I remember her as a true friend, the only person who understood me while studying at school. And even years later, when we met with her, she showed me a gesture of attention, sending apples and pasta, as before. And whoever I am, no matter what depends on me, she will always treat me only as a student, because for her I was, am and will always remain a student. Now I remember how then she, taking the blame on herself, left the school, and said goodbye to me: “Study well and don’t blame yourself for anything!” By doing this, she taught me a lesson and showed me how a real kind person should act. After all, it is not for nothing that they say: a school teacher is a teacher of life.

The stories of V. G. Rasputin are distinguished by a surprisingly attentive and careful attitude to a person, to his difficult fate. The author draws images ordinary people who live an ordinary life with its sorrows and joys. At the same time, he reveals to us the rich inner world of these people. So, in the story “French Lessons”, the author reveals to the readers the life and spiritual world of a village teenager.

Story

French lessons

Anastasia Prokopyevna Kopylova

Strange: why do we, just like before our parents, every time feel guilty before our teachers? And not for what happened at school - no, but for what happened to us after.

I went to the fifth grade in forty-eight. It would be more correct to say, I went: in our village there was only an elementary school, therefore, in order to study further, I had to equip myself from a house fifty kilometers away to the regional center. A week earlier, my mother had gone there, agreed with her friend that I would lodge with her, and on the last day of August, Uncle Vanya, the driver of the only lorry on the collective farm, unloaded me on Podkamennaya Street, where I was to live, helped bring a bundle of bed, patted him on the shoulder reassuringly and drove off. So, at the age of eleven, my independent life began.

The hunger that year had not yet let go, and my mother had three of us, I was the oldest. In the spring, when it was especially hard, I swallowed myself and forced my sister to swallow the eyes of sprouted potatoes and grains of oats and rye in order to dilute the plantings in the stomach - then you would not have to think about food all the time. All summer we diligently watered our seeds with pure Angarsk water, but for some reason we did not wait for the harvest, or it was so small that we did not feel it. However, I think that this undertaking is not entirely useless and someday it will come in handy for a person, and due to inexperience, we did something wrong there.

It is hard to say how my mother decided to let me go to the district (the district center was called the district). We lived without a father, lived very badly, and she, apparently, reasoned that it would not be worse - there was nowhere. I studied well, I went to school with pleasure, and in the village I was recognized as a literate person: I wrote for old women and read letters, went through all the books that ended up in our unprepossessing library, and in the evenings told all sorts of stories from them to the children, adding more from myself. But they especially believed in me when it came to bonds. People accumulated a lot of them during the war, the tables of winnings came often, and then the bonds were carried to me. I thought I had a lucky eye. Winnings really did happen, most often small ones, but the collective farmer in those years was happy with any penny, and here completely unexpected luck fell out of my hands. The joy from her involuntarily fell to me. I was singled out from the village children, they even fed me; Once Uncle Ilya, in general, a stingy, tight-fisted old man, having won four hundred rubles, in the heat of the moment he brought me a bucket of potatoes - in the spring it was a considerable wealth.

And all because I understood bond numbers, mothers said:

Your brainy guy is growing. You are ... let's teach him. Gratitude will not go to waste.

And my mother, in spite of all the misfortunes, gathered me together, although before that no one from our village in the region had studied. I was first. Yes, I did not understand properly what was ahead of me, what trials awaited me, my dear, in a new place.

I studied here and it's good. What was left for me? - then I came here, I had no other business here, and then I still did not know how to treat carelessly what was assigned to me. I would hardly have dared to go to school if I had not learned at least one lesson, so in all subjects except French, I kept fives.

I didn't get along well with French because of the pronunciation. I easily memorized words and phrases, quickly translated, coped well with the difficulties of spelling, but pronunciation with a head betrayed all my Angaran origin right up to the last generation, where no one ever pronounces foreign words, if at all suspected of their existence. I sputtered in French in the manner of our village tongue twisters, swallowing half of the sounds as unnecessary, and blurting out the other half in short barking bursts. Lidia Mikhailovna, the French teacher, listened to me, wincing helplessly and closing her eyes. She had never heard of anything like it, of course. Again and again she showed how to pronounce nasals, vowel combinations, asked me to repeat - I was lost, my tongue in my mouth became stiff and did not move. Everything was wasted. But the worst thing happened when I came home from school. There I was involuntarily distracted, all the time I had to do something, there the guys bothered me, along with them - like it or not, I had to move, play, and in the classroom - work. But as soon as I was left alone, longing immediately piled up - longing for home, for the village. Never before, even for a day, had I been absent from my family and, of course, I was not ready to live among strangers. I felt so bad, so bitter and disgusted! - worse than any disease. I wanted only one thing, I dreamed of one thing - home and home. I lost a lot of weight; my mother, who arrived at the end of September, was afraid for me. With her, I strengthened myself, did not complain and did not cry, but when she began to leave, I could not stand it and chased the car with a roar. Mother waved her hand to me from the back so that I would be behind, not to disgrace myself and her, I did not understand anything. Then she made up her mind and stopped the car.

Get ready,” she demanded as I approached. Enough, weaned, let's go home.

I came to my senses and ran away.

But I lost weight not only because of homesickness. In addition, I was constantly malnourished. In the autumn, while Uncle Vanya was taking bread on his lorry to Zagotzerno, which was not far from the district center, food was sent to me quite often, about once a week. But the problem is that I missed her. There was nothing there but bread and potatoes, and occasionally her mother stuffed cottage cheese into a jar, which she took from someone for something: she did not keep a cow. It seems that they will bring a lot, you will miss it in two days - it's empty. I very soon began to notice that a good half of my bread was disappearing somewhere in the most mysterious way. Checked - it is: there was no. The same thing happened with potatoes. Whether it was Aunt Nadya, a noisy, overwhelmed woman who was running around alone with three children, one of her older girls or her younger one, Fedka, I didn’t know, I was afraid to even think about it, let alone follow. It was just a shame that my mother, for my sake, tears the last thing from her own, from her sister and brother, but it still goes by. But I forced myself to come to terms with it. It will not be easier for the mother if she hears the truth.

The famine here was not at all like the famine in the countryside. There, always, and especially in autumn, it was possible to intercept, pluck, dig, lift something, fish walked in the Angara, a bird flew in the forest. Here everything around me was empty: strange people, strange vegetable gardens, strange land. A small river for ten rows was filtered with nonsense. I once sat with a fishing rod all day on Sunday and caught three small, about a teaspoon, minnows - you won’t get good from such fishing either. I didn’t go anymore - what a waste of time to translate! In the evenings, he hung around at the teahouse, at the market, remembering what they sell for how much, choked on saliva and walked back with nothing. Aunt Nadia had a hot kettle on the stove; throwing boiled water over the naked man and warming his stomach, he went to bed. Back to school in the morning. And so he lived up to that happy hour, when a lorry and a half drove up to the gate and Uncle Vanya knocked on the door. Hungry and knowing that my grub would still not last long, no matter how much I saved it, I ate to satiety, to pain and stomach, and then, after a day or two, again planted my teeth on the shelf.

Once, back in September, Fedka asked me:

Are you afraid to play "chika"?

In what "chika"? - I did not understand.

The game is like that. For money. If we have money, let's go play.

And I don't have. Let's go, let's take a look. You'll see how great it is.

Fedka took me to the gardens. We walked along the edge of an oblong, ridge-like hill, completely overgrown with nettles, already black, tangled, with drooping poisonous clusters of seeds, climbed over, jumping in heaps, through an old dump and in a lowland, on a clean and flat small clearing, we saw the guys. We approached. The guys were worried. All of them were about the same age as me, except for one - tall and strong, noticeable for his strength and power, a guy with a long red bang. I remembered: he went to the seventh grade.

Why else did you bring this? he said discontentedly to Fedka.

He is his own, Vadik, his own, - Fedka began to justify himself. - He lives with us.

Will you play? - Vadik asked me.

There is no money.

Look, don't yell to anyone that we're here.

Here's another! - I was offended.

No one paid any more attention to me, I stepped aside and began to observe. Not everyone played - sometimes six, sometimes seven, the rest just stared, rooting mainly for Vadik. He was in charge here, I understood it at once.

It didn't cost anything to figure out the game. Each staked ten kopecks on the bet, a stack of coins was lowered tails up onto a platform bounded by a thick line about two meters from the cash register, and on the other side, from a boulder that had grown into the ground and served as an emphasis for the front foot, they threw a round stone puck. You had to throw it in such a way that it rolled as close as possible to the line, but did not go beyond it - then you got the right to be the first to break the cash register. They beat him with the same puck, trying to turn it over. eagle coins. Turned over - yours, beat further, no - give this right to the next one. But it was considered most important of all when throwing the puck to cover the coins, and if at least one of them turned out to be on the eagle, the entire cash register went into your pocket without talking, and the game began again.

Vadik was cunning. He walked to the boulder after everyone else, when the full picture of the turn was before his eyes and he saw where to throw to get ahead. The money went first, it rarely reached the last. Probably, everyone understood that Vadik was cunning, but no one dared to tell him about it. True, he played well. Approaching the stone, he crouched a little, squinted, pointed the puck at the target and slowly, smoothly straightened up - the puck slipped out of his hand and flew where he was aiming. With a quick movement of his head, he tossed the bangs that had gone down, casually spat to the side, showing that the deed was done, and with a lazy, deliberately slow step stepped towards the money. If they were in a heap, he hit sharply, with a ringing sound, but he touched single coins with a puck carefully, with a knurling, so that the coin would not beat and spin in the air, but, not rising high, would just roll over to the other side. Nobody else could do that. The guys hit at random and took out new coins, and those who had nothing to get, turned into spectators.

It seemed to me that if I had money, I could play. In the countryside, we fiddled with grandmothers, but even there you need an accurate eye. And besides, I liked to invent for myself amusements for accuracy: I will pick up a handful of stones, find a harder target and throw it at it until I achieve the full result - ten out of ten. He threw both from above, from behind his shoulder, and from below, hanging a stone over the target. So I had some flair. There was no money.

Mother sent me bread because we had no money, otherwise I would have bought it here too. Where can they get on the collective farm? Nevertheless, twice she put me five in a letter - for milk. At present it is fifty kopecks, you can’t get hold of it, but all the same, money, you could buy five half-liter cans of milk at the bazaar, at a ruble per jar. I was ordered to drink milk from anemia, I often suddenly felt dizzy for no reason at all.

But, having received a five for the third time, I did not go for milk, but exchanged it for a trifle and went to the dump. The place here was chosen sensibly, you can’t say anything: the clearing, closed by hills, was not visible from anywhere. In the village, in full view of adults, such games were chased, threatened by the director and the police. Nobody bothered us here. And not far, in ten minutes you will reach.

The first time I lost ninety kopecks, the second sixty. Of course, it was a pity for the money, but I felt that I was adjusting to the game, my hand was gradually getting used to the puck, I was learning to release exactly as much force for a shot as it was required for the puck to go right, my eyes also learned to know in advance where it would fall and how much more roll across the ground. In the evenings, when everyone dispersed, I returned here again, took out the puck hidden by Vadik from under the stone, raked out my change from my pocket and threw it until it got dark. I made sure that out of ten throws, three or four guessed exactly for the money.

And finally the day came when I won.

Autumn was warm and dry. Even in October it was so warm that one could walk in a shirt, the rains fell rarely and seemed random, inadvertently brought from somewhere out of bad weather by a weak tail breeze. The sky was turning blue quite like summer, but it seemed to have become narrower, and the sun was setting early. In clear hours the air smoked over the hills, carrying the bitter, intoxicating smell of dry wormwood, distant voices sounded clearly, flying birds screamed. The grass in our clearing, yellowed and smoky, nevertheless remained alive and soft, free from the game, or rather, lost guys, were busy on it.

Now I come here every day after school. The guys changed, newcomers appeared, and only Vadik did not miss a single game. She didn't start without him. Behind Vadik, like a shadow, followed a big-headed, short-haired, stocky guy, nicknamed Ptah. At school, I had never met Ptah before, but, looking ahead, I’ll say that in the third quarter, he suddenly, like snow on his head, fell on our class. It turns out that he stayed in the fifth for the second year and, under some pretext, gave himself a vacation until January. Ptakha also usually won, although not in the same way as Vadik, less, but did not remain at a loss. Yes, because, probably, he did not stay, because he was at the same time with Vadik and he slowly helped him.

From our class, Tishkin sometimes ran into the clearing, a fussy boy with blinking eyes who liked to raise his hand in class. Knows, does not know - still pulls. Called - silent.

Why did you raise your hand? - ask Tishkin.

He slapped his little eyes:

I remembered, but by the time I got up, I forgot.

I didn't make friends with him. From timidity, silence, excessive rural isolation, and most importantly - from wild homesickness, which did not leave any desires in me, I did not get along with any of the guys then. They were not attracted to me either, I remained alone, not understanding and not singling out loneliness from my bitter situation: alone - because here, and not at home, not in the village, I have many comrades there.

Tishkin didn't even seem to notice me in the clearing. Having quickly lost, he disappeared and did not appear again soon.

And I won. I began to win constantly, every day. I had my own calculation: no need to roll the puck around the court, seeking the right to the first shot; when there are many players, it is not easy: the closer you reach for the line, the greater the danger of going over it and remaining last. It is necessary to cover the cash register when throwing. So I did. Of course, I took a risk, but with my skill it was a justified risk. I could lose three, four times in a row, but on the fifth, having taken the cashier, I returned my loss three times. Lost again and returned again. I rarely had to hit the puck on the coins, but even here I used my own trick: if Vadik rolled over myself, on the contrary, I baled away from myself - it was so unusual, but the puck held the coin in this way, did not let it spin and, moving away, turned over after itself.

Now I have money. I did not allow myself to get too carried away with the game and hang around in the clearing until the evening, I needed only a ruble, every day for a ruble. Having received it, I ran away, bought a jar of milk at the market (the aunts grumbled, looking at my bent, beaten, torn coins, but they poured milk), dined and sat down for lessons. All the same, I didn’t eat my fill, but the mere thought that I was drinking milk added strength to me and subdued my hunger. It seemed to me that my head was now spinning much less.

At first, Vadik was calm about my winnings. He himself was not at a loss, and from his pockets it is unlikely that I got anything. Sometimes he even praised me: here, they say, how to quit, study, muffins. However, soon Vadik noticed that I was leaving the game too quickly, and one day he stopped me:

What are you - zagreb cash desk and tear? Look what a smart one! Play.

I need to do my homework, Vadik, - I began to excuse myself.

Who needs to do homework, he does not go here.

And Bird sang:

Who told you that this is how they play for money? For this, you want to know, they beat a little. Understood?

Vadik didn't give me the puck before him anymore and let me get to the stone only last. He shot well, and often I reached into my pocket for a new coin without touching the puck. But I threw better, and if I got the opportunity to throw, the puck, like a magnet, flew like a money. I myself was surprised at my accuracy, I should have guessed to hold it back, play more inconspicuously, but I ingenuously and ruthlessly continued to bomb the box office. How was I to know that no one has ever been forgiven if he is ahead in his work? Then do not expect mercy, do not seek intercession, for others he is an upstart, and the one who follows him hates him most of all. I had to comprehend this science in my own skin that autumn.

I had just hit the money again and was going to collect it when I noticed that Vadik had stepped on one of the scattered coins. All the rest were upside down. In such cases, when throwing, they usually shout “to the warehouse!” In order - if there is no eagle - to collect the money in one pile for the strike, but, as always, I hoped for luck and did not shout.

Not in the warehouse! Vadik announced.

I approached him and tried to move his foot off the coin, but he pushed me away, quickly grabbed it from the ground and showed me tails. I managed to notice that the coin was on the eagle - otherwise he would not have closed it.

You flipped her, I said. - She was on an eagle, I saw.

He thrust his fist under my nose.

Didn't you see this? Smell what it smells like.

I had to reconcile. It was pointless to insist on one's own; if a fight starts, no one, not a single soul will intercede for me, not even Tishkin, who was spinning right there.

Vadik's evil, narrowed eyes looked at me point-blank. I bent down, tapped the nearest coin softly, turned it over and moved the second one. “Hluzda will lead you to the truth,” I decided. “I’m going to take them all now anyway.” Again he pointed the puck for a hit, but he didn’t have time to lower it: someone suddenly gave me a strong knee from behind, and I awkwardly, bowed down with my head, poked into the ground. Laughed around.

Behind me, smiling expectantly, stood Bird. I was taken aback:

What are you?!

Who told you it was me? he answered. - Dreamed, or what?

Come here! - Vadik extended his hand for the puck, but I did not give it away. Resentment overwhelmed me with fear of nothing in the world, I was no longer afraid. For what? Why are they doing this to me? What did I do to them?

Come here! - demanded Vadik.

You flipped that coin! I called out to him. - I saw it turned over. Saw.

Come on, repeat," he asked, advancing on me.

You turned it over,” I said more quietly, knowing full well what would follow.

First, again from behind, I was hit by Ptah. I flew at Vadik, he quickly and deftly, without trying on, poked me with his head in the face, and I fell, blood spurted from my nose. As soon as I jumped up, Ptah attacked me again. It was still possible to break free and run away, but for some reason I did not think about it. I twirled between Vadik and Ptah, almost not defending myself, holding my hand to my nose, from which blood was gushing, and in despair, adding to their rage, stubbornly shouting the same thing:

Flipped over! Flipped over! Flipped over!

They beat me in turn, one and a second, one and a second. Someone third, small and vicious, kicked my legs, then they were almost completely covered with bruises. I tried only not to fall, not to fall again for anything, even in those moments it seemed to me a shame. But in the end they knocked me to the ground and stopped.

Get out of here while you're alive! - ordered Vadik. - Fast!

I got up and, sobbing, tossing my dead nose, trudged up the mountain.

Just blather to someone - we'll kill! - Vadik promised me after.

I didn't answer. Everything in me somehow hardened and closed in resentment, I did not have the strength to get a word out of myself. And, only having climbed the mountain, I could not resist and, as if foolish, I shouted at the top of my lungs - so that the whole village probably heard:

Flip-u-st!

Ptakha was about to rush after me, but he immediately returned - apparently, Vadik decided that enough was enough for me, and stopped him. For about five minutes I stood and, sobbing, looked at the clearing, where the game began again, then went down the other side of the hill to a hollow, tightened around with black nettles, fell on the hard dry grass and, not holding back any longer, wept bitterly, sobbing.

There was not and could not be in the whole wide world a person more unfortunate than me.

In the morning I looked at myself in the mirror with fear: my nose was swollen and swollen, there was a bruise under my left eye, and below it, on my cheek, there was a fat bloody abrasion. I had no idea how to go to school in this form, but somehow I had to go, skipping classes for whatever reason, I did not dare. Suppose that people’s noses and by nature happen to be cleaner than mine, and if it weren’t for the usual place, you would never guess that this is a nose, but nothing can justify an abrasion and a bruise: it’s immediately obvious that they show off here not of my good will.

Shielding my eye with my hand, I darted into the classroom, sat down at my desk and lowered my head. The first lesson, unfortunately, was French. Lidia Mikhailovna, by right class teacher, was interested in us more than other teachers, and it was difficult to hide anything from her. She came in and greeted us, but before seating the class, she had a habit of carefully examining almost every one of us, making supposedly playful, but obligatory remarks. And, of course, she immediately saw the marks on my face, even though I hid them as best I could; I realized this because the guys began to turn around on me.

Well, - said Lidia Mikhailovna, opening the magazine. There are wounded among us today.

The class laughed, and Lidia Mikhailovna looked up at me again. They mowed at her and looked as if past, but by that time we had already learned to recognize where they were looking.

What happened? she asked.

Fell, - I blurted out, for some reason not having guessed in advance to come up with even the slightest degree of decent explanation.

Oh, how unfortunate. Did it crash yesterday or today?

Today. No, last night when it was dark.

Hee fell! shouted Tishkin, choking with joy. - This was brought to him by Vadik from the seventh grade. They played for money, and he began to argue and earned, I saw it. He says he fell.

I was dumbfounded by such betrayal. Does he not understand anything at all or is it on purpose? For playing for money, we could be expelled from school in no time. Finished it. In my head everything was alarmed and buzzed with fear: it was gone, now it was gone. Well, Tishkin. Here is Tishkin so Tishkin. Pleased. Brought clarity - nothing to say.

I wanted to ask you, Tishkin, something completely different, - without being surprised and without changing her calm, slightly indifferent tone, Lidia Mikhailovna stopped him. - Go to the blackboard, since you're talking, and get ready to answer. She waited until the bewildered, who immediately became unhappy Tishkin came out to the blackboard, and briefly said to me: - You will stay after the lessons.

Most of all, I was afraid that Lidia Mikhailovna would drag me to the director. This means that, in addition to today's conversation, tomorrow I will be taken out in front of the school line and forced to tell what prompted me to do this dirty business. The director, Vasily Andreevich, asked the offender, no matter what he did, broke a window, got into a fight or smoked in the restroom: “What prompted you to do this dirty business?” He paced in front of the ruler, throwing his hands behind his back, moving his shoulders forward in time with his broad steps, so that it seemed as if the tightly buttoned, protruding dark jacket was moving independently a little ahead of the director, and urged: “Answer, answer. We are waiting. look, the whole school is waiting for you to tell us.” The student began to mutter something in his defense, but the director interrupted him: “You answer my question, answer my question. How was the question asked? - "What prompted me?" - “That's it: what prompted? We listen to you." The case usually ended in tears, only after that the director calmed down, and we went to classes. It was more difficult with high school students who did not want to cry, but could not answer Vasily Andreevich's question either.

Once our first lesson started ten minutes late, and all this time the director was interrogating one ninth-grader, but, having not achieved anything intelligible from him, he took him to his office.

And what, interestingly, I will say? It would have been better to get kicked out right away. I briefly touched on this thought and thought that then I would be able to return home, and then, as if burned, I was frightened: no, you can’t go home with such a shame. Another thing is if I myself had left school ... But even then it can be said about me that I am an unreliable person, since I could not stand what I wanted, and then everyone would shun me altogether. No, just not like that. I would still be patient here, I would get used to it, but you can’t go home like that.

After the lessons, trembling with fear, I waited for Lidia Mikhailovna in the corridor. She left the staff room and nodded as she led me into the classroom. As always, she sat down at the table, I wanted to sit at the third desk, away from her, but Lidia Mikhailovna pointed to the first one, right in front of her.

Is it true that you play for money? she started right away. She asked too loudly, it seemed to me that at school it was necessary to talk about it only in a whisper, and I was even more scared. But there was no point in locking myself up, Tishkin managed to sell me with giblets. I mumbled:

So how do you win or lose? I hesitated, not knowing which was better.

Let's tell it like it is. Are you losing, perhaps?

You… win.

Okay, anyway. You win, that is. And what do you do with money?

At first, at school, for a long time I could not get used to Lidia Mikhailovna's voice, it confused me. In our village they spoke, wrapping their voice deep in their guts, and therefore it sounded to their heart's content, but with Lidia Mikhailovna it was somehow small and light, so that you had to listen to it, and not from impotence at all - she sometimes could say to her heart's content , but as if from secrecy and unnecessary savings. I was ready to blame everything on French: of course, while I was studying, while I was adjusting to someone else's speech, my voice sat without freedom, weakened, like a bird in a cage, now wait for it to disperse again and get stronger. And now Lidia Mikhailovna asked as if she was at that time busy with something else, more important, but she still couldn’t get away from her questions.

Well, so what do you do with the money you win? Do you buy candy? Or books? Or are you saving up for something? After all, you probably have a lot of them now?

No, not much. I only win a ruble.

And you don't play anymore?

And the ruble? Why ruble? What are you doing with it?

I buy milk.

She sat in front of me neat, all smart and beautiful, beautiful in clothes, and in her feminine young pore, which I vaguely felt, the smell of perfume from her reached me, which I took for my very breath; besides, she was not a teacher of some kind of arithmetic, not of history, but of the mysterious French language, from which something special, fabulous, beyond the control of anyone, everyone, like me, for example, came. Not daring to raise my eyes to her, I did not dare to deceive her. And why, after all, should I lie?

She paused, examining me, and I felt with my skin how, at the glance of her squinting, attentive eyes, all my troubles and absurdities really swell and fill with their evil strength. There was, of course, something to look at: in front of her, a scrawny, wild boy with a broken face, untidy without a mother and alone, in an old, washed-out jacket on sagging shoulders, which was just right on his chest, but from which his arms protruded far, was crouched on the desk; in light green trousers made from his father's breeches and tucked into teal, with traces of yesterday's fight. Even earlier I had noticed the curiosity with which Lidia Mikhailovna looked at my shoes. Of the entire class, I was the only one wearing teals. Only the following autumn, when I flatly refused to go to school with them, did my mother sell the sewing machine, our only valuable asset, and buy me tarpaulin boots.

And yet, you don’t need to play for money, ”said Lidia Mikhailovna thoughtfully. - How would you manage without it. Can you get by?

Not daring to believe in my salvation, I easily promised:

I spoke sincerely, but what can you do if our sincerity cannot be tied with ropes.

In fairness, I must say that in those days I had a very bad time. In the dry autumn, our collective farm settled early with the delivery of grain, and Uncle Vanya did not come again. I knew that at home my mother couldn’t find a place for herself, worrying about me, but that didn’t make it any easier for me. The sack of potatoes brought for the last time by Uncle Vanya evaporated so quickly, as if they were fed, at least, to livestock. It’s good that, having remembered, I guessed to hide a little in an abandoned shed standing in the yard, and now I lived only with this hiding place. After school, slinking like a thief, I darted into the shed, put a few potatoes in my pocket, and ran out into the hills to start a fire somewhere in a comfortable and hidden lowland. I was hungry all the time, even in my sleep I felt convulsive waves rolling through my stomach.

Hoping to stumble upon a new group of players, I began to slowly explore the neighboring streets, wandered through wastelands, followed the guys who were drifting into the hills. It was all in vain, the season was over, the cold October winds were blowing. And only in our clearing the guys continued to gather. I was circling nearby, I saw how the puck flashed in the sun, how, waving his arms, Vadik was in command and familiar figures were leaning over the cash register.

In the end, I could not stand it and went down to them. I knew that I was going to be humiliated, but it was no less humiliating to accept once and for all the fact that I was beaten and kicked out. I was itching to see how Vadik and Ptah would react to my appearance and how I could behave. But most of all, it was hunger. I needed a ruble - no longer for milk, but for bread. I didn't know of any other way to get it.

I approached, and the game paused by itself, everyone stared at me. The bird was wearing a cap with turned-up ears, sitting, like everyone else on it, carefree and bold, in a checkered, loose-fitting shirt with short sleeves; Vadik forsil in a beautiful thick jacket with a lock. Nearby, piled in one heap, lay sweatshirts and coats, on them, huddled in the wind, sat a small boy, five or six years old.

Bird met me first:

What came? Haven't beaten in a while?

I came to play, - I answered as calmly as possible, looking at Vadik.

Who told you that with you, - Bird cursed, - they will play here?

What, Vadik, will we hit right away or will we wait a bit?

Why are you sticking to a man, Bird? - squinting at me, Vadik said. - Understood, a man came to play. Maybe he wants to win ten rubles from you and me?

You don't have ten rubles each, - just so as not to seem like a coward to myself, I said.

We have more than you dreamed of. Set, don't talk until Bird gets angry. And he is a hot man.

Give it to him, Vadik?

No, let him play. - Vadik winked at the guys. - He plays great, we are no match for him.

Now I was a scientist and understood what it was - Vadik's kindness. Apparently, he was tired of a boring, uninteresting game, therefore, in order to tickle his nerves and feel the taste of a real game, he decided to let me into it. But as soon as I touch his vanity, I'll be in trouble again. He will find something to complain about, next to him is Ptah.

I decided to play carefully and not to covet the cashier. Like everyone else, in order not to stand out, I rolled the puck, afraid of inadvertently hitting the money, then quietly poked the coins and looked around to see if Ptah had come in behind. In the early days I did not allow myself to dream of a ruble; twenty or thirty kopecks for a piece of bread, and that's good, and then give it here.

But what was supposed to happen sooner or later, of course, happened. On the fourth day, when, having won a ruble, I was about to leave, they beat me again. True, this time it was easier, but one trace remained: my lip was very swollen. At school, I had to bite her constantly. But no matter how I hid it, no matter how I bit it, Lidia Mikhailovna saw it. She deliberately called me to the blackboard and made me read the French text. I wouldn't be able to pronounce it correctly with ten healthy lips, and there's nothing to say about one.

Enough, oh, enough! - Lidia Mikhailovna was frightened and waved her hands at me, as if at an evil spirit. - Yes, what is it? No, you will have to work separately. There is no other way out.

Thus began a painful and awkward day for me. Since the very morning, I have been waiting with fear for the hour when I will have to be alone with Lidia Mikhailovna, and, breaking my tongue, repeat after her words that are inconvenient for pronunciation, invented only for punishment. Well, why else, if not for mockery, merge three vowels into one thick viscous sound, the same “o”, for example, in the word “veaisoir” (a lot), which you can choke on? Why, with some kind of priston, let sounds through the nose, when from time immemorial it has served a person for a completely different need? For what? There must be limits to reason. I was covered with sweat, blushed and choked, and Lidia Mikhailovna, without respite and without pity, made me callous my poor tongue. And why me alone? There were all sorts of guys at school who spoke no better French than I did, but they walked free, did what they wanted, and I, like a damned one, took the rap for everyone.

It turned out that this is not the worst thing. Lidia Mikhailovna suddenly decided that we were running out of time at school until the second shift, and told me to come to her apartment in the evenings. She lived near the school, in teachers' houses. On the other, larger half of Lidia Mikhailovna's house, the director himself lived. I went there like torture. Already by nature timid and shy, lost at any trifle, in this clean, tidy apartment of the teacher, at first I literally turned to stone and was afraid to breathe. I had to speak so that I undressed, went into the room, sat down - I had to be moved like a thing, and almost by force to extract words from me. It didn't help my French at all. But, strange to say, we did less here than at school, where the second shift supposedly interfered with us. Moreover, Lidia Mikhailovna, bustling about the apartment, asked me questions or told me about herself. I suspect that she deliberately invented for me that she went to the French faculty only because she was not given this language at school either, and she decided to prove to herself that she could master it no worse than others.

Hiding in a corner, I listened, not waiting for tea when they let me go home. There were a lot of books in the room, a large beautiful radio set on the bedside table by the window; with a player - rare for those times, but for me it was an unprecedented miracle. Lidia Mikhailovna put on records, and the dexterous male voice again taught French. One way or another, there was nowhere for him to go. Lidia Mikhailovna, in a simple house dress, in soft felt shoes, walked around the room, making me shudder and freeze when she approached me. I could not believe that I was sitting in her house, everything here was too unexpected and unusual for me, even the air, saturated with light and unfamiliar smells of a different life than I knew. Involuntarily, a feeling was created, as if I were peeping into this life from the outside, and out of shame and embarrassment for myself, I wrapped myself even deeper into my short jacket.

Lidia Mikhailovna was then probably twenty-five or so; I remember well her regular and therefore not too lively face, with her eyes screwed up to hide the pigtail in them; tight, rarely revealed to the end smile and completely black, short hair. But with all this, one could not see the harshness in her face, which, as I later noticed, becomes over the years almost a professional sign of teachers, even the most kind and gentle by nature, but there was some kind of cautious, with a cunning, bewilderment related to to herself and seemed to say: I wonder how I ended up here and what I'm doing here? Now I think that by that time she had managed to be married; in her voice, in her walk - soft, but confident, free, in her whole behavior, courage and experience were felt in her. And besides, I have always been of the opinion that girls who study French or Spanish, become women earlier than their peers who study, say, Russian or German.

I am ashamed now to remember how frightened and lost I was when Lidia Mikhailovna, having finished our lesson, called me to supper. If I were a thousand times hungry, every appetite immediately jumped out of me like a bullet. Sit down at the same table with Lydia Mikhailovna! No no! I'd rather tomorrow I will learn all French by heart so that I will never come here again. A piece of bread would probably really get stuck in my throat. It seems that before that I did not suspect that Lidia Mikhailovna, like all of us, eats the most ordinary food, and not some kind of manna from heaven, so she seemed to me an extraordinary person, unlike everyone else.

I jumped up and, mumbling that I was full, that I didn’t want to, backed up along the wall to the exit. Lidia Mikhailovna looked at me with surprise and resentment, but it was impossible to stop me by any means. I ran. This was repeated several times, then Lidia Mikhailovna, in despair, stopped inviting me to the table. I breathed more freely.

Once I was told that downstairs, in the locker room, there was a package for me that some guy brought to school. Uncle Vanya, of course, is our driver - what a man! Probably, our house was closed, and Uncle Vanya could not wait for me from the lessons - so he left me in the locker room.

I hardly endured until the end of classes and rushed downstairs. Aunt Vera, the school cleaning lady, showed me a white plywood box in the corner, in which mail parcels are packed. I was surprised: why in a drawer? - Mother used to send food in an ordinary bag. Maybe it's not for me at all? No, my class and my last name were printed on the lid. Apparently, Uncle Vanya already wrote here - so as not to be confused for whom. What is this mother thought up to nail food in a box ?! Look how intelligent she has become!

I could not carry the parcel home without knowing what was in it: not that kind of patience. It is clear that there are no potatoes. For bread, the container is also, perhaps, too small, and inconvenient. In addition, bread was sent to me recently, I still had it. Then what is there? Immediately, at school, I climbed under the stairs, where, I remembered, there was an ax, and, having found it, I tore off the lid. It was dark under the stairs, I climbed back out and, furtively looking around, put the box on the nearest windowsill.

Looking into the parcel, I was stunned: on top, neatly covered with a large white sheet of paper, lay pasta. Wow! Long yellow tubes, laid one to the other in even rows, flashed in the light with such wealth, which nothing more expensive for me existed. Now it’s clear why my mother packed the box: so that the pasta wouldn’t break, didn’t crumble, they arrived to me safe and sound. I carefully took out one tube, looked, blew into it, and, unable to restrain myself any longer, began to grunt greedily. Then, in the same way, I took up the second, the third, thinking about where I could hide the box so that the pasta would not get to the overly voracious mice in my mistress's pantry. Not for that mother bought them, spent the last money. No, I won't go for pasta that easily. This is not some potato for you.

And suddenly I choked. Pasta… Really, where did mother get pasta? We never had them in our village, you can't buy them there for any money. What is it then? Hastily, in desperation and hope, I sorted through the pasta and found several large lumps of sugar and two hematogen tiles at the bottom of the box. Hematogen confirmed that the parcel was not sent by the mother. Who, in this case, who? I looked at the lid again: my class, my last name - me. Interesting, very interesting.

I pressed the nails of the lid into place and, leaving the box on the windowsill, went up to the second floor and knocked on the staff room. Lidia Mikhailovna has already left. Nothing, we'll find it, we know where he lives, we've been. So, here's how: if you don't want to sit down at the table, get food at home. So yes. Will not work. No one else. This is not a mother: she would not forget to put a note, she would tell where, from what mines such wealth came from.

When I sideways climbed in with the parcel through the door, Lidia Mikhailovna pretended not to understand anything. She looked at the box, which I placed on the floor in front of her, and asked in surprise:

What is this? What is it you brought? For what?

You did it,” I said in a trembling, breaking voice.

What have I done? What are you talking about?

You sent this package to the school. I know you.

I noticed that Lidia Mikhailovna blushed and became embarrassed. This was the only, apparently, case when I was not afraid to look her straight in the eyes. I didn't care if she was a teacher or my second cousin. Then I asked, not she, and asked not in French, but in Russian, without any articles. Let him answer.

Why did you think it was me?

Because we don't have any pasta there. And there is no hematogenous.

How! Doesn't happen at all? She was so sincerely surprised that she betrayed herself completely.

It doesn't happen at all. It was necessary to know.

Lidia Mikhailovna suddenly laughed and tried to hug me, but I pulled away. from her.

Indeed, you should have known. How am I like this?! She thought for a moment. - But it was hard to guess - honestly! I'm a city person. Are you saying it doesn't happen at all? What happens to you then?

Peas happen. Radish happens.

Peas ... radish ... And we have apples in the Kuban. Oh, how many apples are there now. Today I wanted to go to the Kuban, but for some reason I came here. Lidia Mikhailovna sighed and glanced at me. - Do not get mad. I wanted the best. Who knew you could get caught eating pasta? Nothing, now I'll be smarter. Take this pasta...

I won’t take it,” I interrupted her.

Well, why are you like this? I know that you are hungry. And I live alone, I have a lot of money. I can buy whatever I want, but I'm the only one ... I eat a little, I'm afraid to get fat.

I'm not hungry at all.

Please don't argue with me, I know. I spoke to your mistress. What's wrong if you take this pasta now and cook yourself a good dinner today. Why can't I help you for the only time in my life? I promise not to send any more packages. But please take this one. You have to eat enough to study. There are so many well-fed loafers in our school who don’t understand anything and probably never will, and you are a capable boy, you can’t leave school.

Her voice began to have a soporific effect on me; I was afraid that she would persuade me, and, angry with myself for understanding Lidia Mikhailovna's rightness, and for the fact that I was going to not understand her after all, I, shaking my head and muttering something, ran out the door.

Our lessons did not stop there, I continued to go to Lidia Mikhailovna. But now she took me for real. She apparently decided: well, French is French. True, the sense of this came out, gradually I began to pronounce quite tolerably French words, they no longer broke off at my feet with heavy cobblestones, but, ringing, tried to fly somewhere.

Good, - Lydia Mikhailovna encouraged me. - In this quarter, the five will not work yet, but in the next - for sure.

We did not remember the parcel, but just in case, I kept my guard. You never know what Lidia Mikhailovna will undertake to come up with? I knew from my own experience: when something doesn’t work out, you will do everything to make it work out, you just won’t give up. It seemed to me that Lidia Mikhailovna was looking at me expectantly all the time, and looking closely, chuckles at my wildness - I was angry, but this anger, oddly enough, helped me to be more confident. I was no longer that meek and helpless boy who was afraid to take a step here, little by little I got used to Lidia Mikhailovna and her apartment. Still, of course, I was shy, hiding in a corner, hiding my teals under a chair, but the former stiffness and oppression receded, now I myself dared to ask Lidia Mikhailovna questions and even enter into disputes with her.

She made another attempt to put me at the table - in vain. Here I was adamant, stubbornness in me was enough for ten.

Probably, it was already possible to stop these classes at home, I learned the most important thing, my tongue softened and moved, the rest would eventually be added at school lessons. Years and years ahead. What will I do then if I learn everything in one go from beginning to end? But I did not dare to tell Lidia Mikhailovna about this, and she, apparently, did not at all consider our program completed, and I continued to pull my French strap. However, a webbing? Somehow involuntarily and imperceptibly, without expecting it myself, I felt a taste for the language and in my free moments, without any prodding, I climbed into the dictionary, looked into the texts farther in the textbook. Punishment turned into pleasure. Ego also spurred me on: if it didn’t work out, it will work out, and it will work out - no worse than the best. From another test, or what? If it were not yet necessary to go to Lidia Mikhailovna ... I myself, myself ...

Once, about two weeks after the story with the parcel, Lidia Mikhailovna, smiling, asked:

So you don't play for money anymore? Or are you going somewhere on the sidelines and playing?

How to play now?! I wondered, looking out the window where the snow lay.

And what was that game? What is it?

Why do you need? I got worried.

Interesting. We used to play as children, so I want to know if this is a game or not. Tell me, tell me, don't be afraid.

I told him, omitting, of course, about Vadik, about Ptah and about my little tricks that I used in the game.

No, - Lidia Mikhailovna shook her head. - We played in the "wall". Do you know what it is?

Here look. - She easily jumped out from behind the table at which she was sitting, found coins in her purse and pushed the chair away from the wall. Come here, look. I bang the coin against the wall. - Lidia Mikhailovna lightly hit, and the coin, clinking, flew off to the floor in an arc. Now, - Lidia Mikhailovna thrust a second coin into my hand, you beat. But keep in mind: you need to beat so that your coin is as close as possible to mine. So that they can be measured, get them with the fingers of one hand. In another way, the game is called: freezing. If you get it, then you win. Bay.

I hit - my coin, hitting the edge, rolled into a corner.

Oh, - Lidia Mikhailovna waved her hand. - Far. Now you are starting. Keep in mind: if my coin touches yours, even a little, by the edge, I win doubly. Understand?

What is not clear here?

Let's play?

I didn't believe my ears:

How can I play with you?

What is it?

You are a teacher!

So what? The teacher is a different person, isn't it? Sometimes you get tired of being only a teacher, teaching and teaching endlessly. Constantly pulling yourself up: this is impossible, this is impossible, - Lidia Mikhailovna screwed up her eyes more than usual and looked thoughtfully, aloofly out the window. “Sometimes it’s useful to forget that you’re a teacher, otherwise you’ll become such a buffoon and buffoon that living people will get bored with you.” Perhaps the most important thing for a teacher is not to take himself seriously, to understand that he can teach very little. - She shook herself and immediately cheered up. - And I was a desperate girl in childhood, my parents suffered with me. Even now I still often want to jump, jump, rush somewhere, do something not according to the program, not according to the schedule, but at will. I'm here, it happens, I jump, I jump. A person ages not when he lives to old age, but when he ceases to be a child. I would love to jump every day, but Vasily Andreevich lives behind the wall. He is a very serious person. In no case should he find out that we are playing "freeze".

But we don't play any "freezes". You just showed me.

We can play as easy as they say, make-believe. But you still don't betray me to Vasily Andreevich.

Lord, what is going on in the world! How long have I been scared to death that Lidia Mikhailovna would drag me to the director for playing for money, and now she asks me not to give her away. Doomsday - not otherwise. I looked around, frightened for some reason, and blinked my eyes in confusion.

Well, shall we try? If you don't like it - leave it.

Come on, I agreed hesitantly.

Get started.

We took the coins. It was evident that Lidia Mikhailovna had really played at one time, and I was only just trying on the game, I had not yet figured out for myself how to beat a coin against the wall with an edge or flat, at what height and with what force when it was better to throw. My blows went blind; if they had kept score, I would have lost quite a lot in the first minutes, although there was nothing tricky in these “squabbles”. Most of all, of course, what embarrassed and oppressed me, did not allow me to get used to the fact that I was playing with Lidia Mikhailovna. Not a single dream could dream of such a thing, not a single bad thought to think about it. I did not come to my senses immediately and not easily, but when I came to my senses and began to look at the game little by little, Lidia Mikhailovna took it and stopped it.

No, that's not interesting, - she said, straightening up and brushing her hair that had fallen over her eyes. - Play - so real, but the fact that we are like three-year-old kids.

But then it will be a game for money, - I timidly reminded.

Certainly. What are we holding in our hands? There is no other way to replace gambling with money. This is good and bad at the same time. We can agree on a very small rate, but there will still be interest.

I was silent, not knowing what to do and how to be.

Are you afraid? Lidia Mikhailovna encouraged me.

Here's another! I'm not afraid of anything.

I had some small things with me. I gave the coin to Lidia Mikhailovna and took mine out of my pocket. Well, let's play for real, Lidia Mikhailovna, if you like. Something to me - I was not the first to start. Vadik had zero attention to me either, and then he came to his senses, climbed with his fists. Learned there, learn here. It's not French, and I'll get French to my teeth soon.

I had to accept one condition: since Lydia Mikhailovna’s hand is larger and her fingers are longer, she will measure with her thumb and middle finger, and I, as expected, with my thumb and little finger. It was fair and I agreed.

The game restarted. We moved from the room to the hallway, where it was freer, and beat on a smooth wooden fence. They beat, knelt down, crawled across the floor, touching each other, stretched their fingers, measuring the coins, then again rising to their feet, and Lidia Mikhailovna announced the score. She played noisily: she screamed, clapped her hands, teased me - in a word, she behaved like an ordinary girl, not a teacher, I even wanted to shout at times. But nevertheless she won, and I lost. Before I had time to come to my senses, eighty kopecks ran into me, with great difficulty I managed to knock off this debt to thirty, but Lidia Mikhailovna from a distance hit mine with her coin, and the account immediately jumped to fifty. I started to worry. We agreed to pay at the end of the game, but if things continue like this, my money will not be enough very soon, I have a little more than a ruble. So, you can’t go over the ruble - otherwise it’s a shame, shame and shame for life.

And then I suddenly noticed that Lidia Mikhailovna was not even trying to beat me at all. When measuring, her fingers hunched over, not stretching out to their full length - where she allegedly could not reach the coin, I reached out without any effort. This offended me, and I got up.

No, I said, I don't play like that. Why are you playing along with me? This is unfair.

But I really can’t get them,” she began to refuse. - I have wooden fingers.

Okay, okay, I'll try.

I don't know how it is in mathematics, but in life the best proof is by contradiction. When the next day I saw that Lidia Mikhailovna, in order to touch the coin, surreptitiously pushes it to her finger, I was stunned. Looking at me and for some reason not noticing that I perfectly see her pure fraud, she continued to move the coin as if nothing had happened.

What are you doing? - I was indignant.

I? And what am I doing?

Why did you move her?

No, she was lying there, - in the most shameless way, with some kind of even joy, Lidia Mikhailovna opened the door no worse than Vadik or Ptakha.

Wow! The teacher is called! I saw with my own eyes at a distance of twenty centimeters that she was touching a coin, and she assures me that she did not touch it, and even laughs at me. Does she take me for a blind man? For a little one? French language teaches, is called. I immediately completely forgot that just yesterday Lidia Mikhailovna tried to play along with me, and I only made sure that she did not deceive me. Well well! Lidia Mikhailovna, is called.

On this day we studied French for fifteen or twenty minutes, and then even less. We have another interest. Lidia Mikhailovna made me read the passage, made comments, listened to the comments again, and without delay we moved on to the game. After two small losses, I began to win. I quickly got used to the "freezes", figured out all the secrets, knew how and where to hit, what to do as a point guard, so as not to substitute my coin under the freeze.

And again I have money. Again I ran to the market and bought milk - now in ice cream mugs. I carefully cut off the influx of cream from the mug, put the crumbling ice slices into my mouth and, feeling their full sweetness all over my body, closed my eyes in pleasure. Then he turned the circle upside down and hollowed out the sweetish milk sludge with a knife. He allowed the leftovers to melt and drank them, eating them with a piece of black bread.

Nothing, it was possible to live, but in the near future, as soon as we heal the wounds of the war, they promised a happy time for everyone.

Of course, accepting money from Lidia Mikhailovna, I felt embarrassed, but each time I was reassured by the fact that this was an honest win. I never asked for a game, Lidia Mikhailovna suggested it herself. I didn't dare refuse. It seemed to me that the game gives her pleasure, she was cheerful, laughed, disturbed me.

We would like to know how it all ends ...

... Kneeling against each other, we argued about the score. Before that, too, it seems, they were arguing about something.

Understand you, garden head, - crawling on me and Waving her arms, argued Lidia Mikhailovna, - why should I deceive you? I keep score, not you, I know better. I lost three times in a row, and before that I was “chika”.

- "Chika" is not a reading word.

Why is it not readable?

We were shouting, interrupting each other, when we heard a surprised, if not startled, but firm, ringing voice:

Lydia Mikhailovna!

We froze. Vasily Andreevich stood at the door.

Lidia Mikhailovna, what's the matter with you? What's going on here?

Lidia Mikhailovna slowly, very slowly got up from her knees, flushed and disheveled, and smoothing her hair, she said:

I, Vasily Andreevich, was hoping that you would knock before entering here.

I knocked. Nobody answered me. What's going on here? Explain, please. I have the right to know as a director.

We are playing in the "wall", - Lydia Mikhailovna calmly answered.

Do you play for money with this? .. - Vasily Andreevich pointed his finger at me, and with fear I crawled behind the partition to hide in the room. - Are you playing with a student? Did I understand you correctly?

Right.

Well, you know... - The director was suffocating, he did not have enough air. - I'm at a loss to immediately name your act. It is a crime. Corruption. Seduction. And more, more ... I have been working at school for twenty years, I have seen everything, but this ...

And he raised his hands above his head.

Three days later, Lidia Mikhailovna left. The day before, she met me after school and walked me home.

I'll go to my place in the Kuban, - she said, saying goodbye. - And you study calmly, no one will touch you for this stupid case. It's my fault here. Learn, - she patted me on the head and left.

And I never saw her again.

In the middle of winter, after the January holidays, a parcel arrived at school by mail. When I opened it, taking out the ax again from under the stairs, there were tubes of pasta in neat, dense rows. And below, in a thick cotton wrapper, I found three red apples.

I used to see apples only in pictures, but I guessed that they were.

Notes

Kopylova A.P. - mother of the playwright A. Vampilov (Ed. note).

The story "French Lessons", which we are now analyzing, was published in 1973. Despite the small volume, the work occupies an important place in the work of Valentin Rasputin. Much has been brought into the narrative from my own life experience, a difficult childhood and meetings with different people.

The story is autobiographical: it is based on the events of the post-war period, when Rasputin studied in the village of Ust-Uda, many kilometers from home. Subsequently, Rasputin said that often people feel guilty before teachers in the same way as before their parents, but not for what happened at school, but for what "became with us after." It is in childhood, according to the writer, that the child receives the most important lessons in his life. About these lessons, about dear people, about the formation of a person, the story “French Lessons” was written.

The image of the main character in Rasputin's story "French Lessons"

The hero of the story largely repeats the author's childhood fate, and the analysis of "French Lessons" illustrates this well. At the age of eleven, his independent life began: his mother sent him to study in the district center. In the village, the boy was considered a literate man: he studied well, read and wrote letters for the old women, and even knew how to fill bonds. But a simple desire to gain knowledge was not enough. Living in the regional center was not easy, as elsewhere in the hungry post-war years.

Often the boy had nothing to eat, the stocks of potatoes brought by his mother quickly ran out. As the child discovered, the son of the mistress of the house where he huddled was stealing food on the sly. Already here we see the character of the boy: his stubborn desire to study well, despite malnutrition and homesickness, firmness of will and responsibility. It is no coincidence that he considered it shameful to return home without studying and struggled with all the difficulties. Let's continue the analysis of the work "French Lessons".

To avoid excruciating hunger, the teenager had to decide on a not entirely legal matter: to play for money with older guys. The smart boy quickly understood the essence of the game and unraveled the secret of winning. And once again, the mother sent some money - the boy decided to play. Rasputin emphasizes that he spent money on milk and now felt hunger less acutely.

But, of course, the constant winnings of the stranger did not please Vadik and his company. Therefore, the hero soon paid for his luck. Vadik acted dishonestly: he turned over the coin. During the fight, or rather, the beating of the child, he still tried to prove his case, repeated "turned over." This situation shows his stubbornness and unwillingness to agree with a lie.

But, of course, not only this situation became an edification for the boy. Hereby life lesson was for him the help of a teacher at a difficult moment. After her student was beaten for the second time, Lidia Mikhailovna realized that she could not do without her help.

If you are doing an analysis of “French Lessons”, note the following thought: there are two narrators in the work: the narration is conducted in the first person, that is, on behalf of an eleven-year-old teenager, but events and people are shown and commented on by an adult, a writer who wisely looks back at himself young . It is this matured man who recalls his shyness and pride at the same time when he came to the teacher to study French and refused dinner when he indignantly told her that he could not accept the package. It is this adult who understands how much Lidia Mikhailovna meant to him and how much she did. She taught him to help people and not leave them in a difficult situation, to be grateful and do good, not thinking about gratitude and not expecting a reward. This is the meaning of the title of the story "French Lessons".

The image of a teacher in Rasputin's story "French Lessons"

Lidia Mikhailovna - a real man, a French teacher who taught in a small village. We see her through the eyes of a hero. She is young, beautiful, the mysterious French language itself seemed to give her mystery, it seemed to the boy that the slight smell of perfume was “the very breath”. She is shown as a subtle and sensitive person. She is attentive to the students, does not scold for wrongdoing (as the headmaster constantly does), but asks and listens thoughtfully. Having learned why the hero played for money, despite the prohibitions, Lidia Mikhailovna tries different ways to help him: he invites him to study French at his home, at the same time hoping to feed him, sends a parcel with apples and pasta. But when all this does not work, he decides to play for money with the student. And then he takes all the blame. Thanks to the analysis of the work “French Lessons”, this idea is clearly visible.

It has sincerity and cheerful enthusiasm. She tells how she herself studied at the institute, what beautiful apples grow in her homeland, and when playing “sweeps”, she got carried away and argued. It is she who says in the story: “A person grows old not when he lives to old age, but when he ceases to be a child.”

The spiritual beauty and kindness of the teacher were remembered by the boy for many years. In the story, he pays tribute to the memory of such open, honest, disinterested people.

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"French Lessons" analysis of Rasputin's autobiographical story can be found in this article.

"French Lessons" analysis of the story

Year of writing — 1987

Genre- story

Theme "French Lessons" life in the post-war years.

French Lesson Idea: Selfless and disinterested kindness is an eternal human value.

The end of the story suggests that even after parting, the connection between people is not broken, does not disappear:

“In the middle of winter, after the January holidays, a package arrived at school by mail ... it contained pasta and three red apples ... I used to see them only in the picture, but I guessed that they were.”

"French Lessons" problems

Rasputin touches on the problems of morality, growing up, mercy

The moral problem in Rasputin's story "French Lessons" is in the education of human values ​​- kindness, philanthropy, respect, love. A boy who does not have enough money for food constantly feels hungry, he does not have enough transfers from matter. In addition, the boy was sick, and in order to recover, he needed to drink a glass of milk a day. He found a way to make money - he played "chika" with the boys. He played pretty well. But having received money for milk, he left. Other boys considered it a betrayal. They provoked a fight and beat him up. Not knowing how to help him, the French teacher invited the boy to come to her classes and eat. But the boy was embarrassed, he did not want such "handouts". Then she offered him a game for money.

The moral significance of Rasputin's story is in the chanting of eternal values ​​- kindness and philanthropy.

Rasputin thinks about the fate of children who have taken on their fragile shoulders the heavy burden of the era of upheavals, wars and revolutions. But, nevertheless, there is kindness in the world that can overcome all difficulties. Belief in the bright ideal of kindness is a characteristic feature of Rasputin's works.

"French Lessons" plot

The hero of the story comes from the village to study in the district center, where the eight-year-old is. He lives hard, hungry - the time after the war. The boy has no relatives or friends in the district, he lives in an apartment with someone else's aunt Nadya.

The boy starts playing "chika" in order to earn money for milk. At one of the difficult moments, a young French teacher comes to the aid of the boy. She went against all existing rules by playing with him at home. Only so she could give him money so he could buy food. One day, the principal of the school caught them playing this game. The teacher was fired, and she went to her place in the Kuban. And after the winter, she sent the author a package containing pasta and apples, which he only saw in the picture.