Maksim Gorky. The legend of mother and Timur

Let us glorify the woman - Mother, an inexhaustible source of all conquering life! M. Gorky All the pride of the world comes from mothers! M. Gorky The purpose of the lesson: the formation of expressive reading skills, the ability to navigate in the text, draw conclusions and generalizations. Raising feelings of patriotism and courage, love for the world around and kindness, appreciation and gratitude to the older generation, an active life position. The anthem of the Mother sounds quite naturally, from which the 9th tale begins: “Let us glorify the woman - the Mother, the inexhaustible source of all conquering Life!”. This beginning immediately introduces us into an atmosphere of high and great feelings. He brings in that lofty pathos that characterizes the tale as a whole. Not by chance. It is in this tale that the spelling of the word Mother with a capital letter is first encountered.

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"Mother's Heart". Literature lesson in grade 8 on "Tales of Italy"

M. Gorky.

Teacher: Simutina Ludmila Vasilievna

Place of work: Municipal budgetary educational institution "secondary school No. 1" of the Kemsky municipal district.

Let's glorify the woman - Mother,

inexhaustible source

all-conquering life!

M. Gorky

All the pride of the world comes from mothers!

M. Gorky

The purpose of the lesson : the formation of expressive reading skills, the ability to navigate the text, draw conclusions and generalizations.Raising feelings of patriotism and courage, love for the world around and kindness, appreciation and gratitude to the older generation, an active life position.

Lesson type: a lesson in the assimilation of new knowledge and the complex application of previously learned.

Methods: partially - search, observation, expressive reading, comparison of different types of art, conversation.

Equipment:

1. The text of the fairy tales "The feat of the Mother", "The mother of the traitor" for each student.
2. Presentation.
3. Recording of Schubert's Hail Mary.
4. Notebooks on literature with the results of homework: write out Gorky's statements about his mother from the texts of fairy tales and think about their content.

During the classes.

1. Introduction by the teacher.

In 1906, M. Gorky settled on Capri, a small island in the Gulf of Naples. From the mainland to Capri, a steamboat runs with rows of benches darkened from the sun, moisture, and time. After 3 hours of travel, he sticks to high steep mountains, in the hollow between which a small village nestled. On a narrow street there are small shops selling multi-colored beads, straw hats, vegetables, lemons, oranges.

Roses bloom all year round. Every small patch of stone, where there is a little earth and sand, is covered with evergreen vegetation ... Lemon groves, cypresses, palm trees ...

Especially a lot of different colors……. Vesuvius is smoking in the distance, the smell of fish and algae is coming from the sea. The songs of the fishermen are heard.

It was here that in 1911-1913 Gorky's Tales of Italy were born.

Why fairy tales? After all, the events depicted in them are quite real. It has long been proven that much of them is "drawn from nature", reflects the facts of reality.

“Tales about Italy” are preceded by the words of G. H. Andersen: “There are no fairy tales better than those that life itself creates.” Gorky fairy tales are stories that reveal the "fabulousness" in real life. The main theme is abrupt, sudden changes, unexpected rebirths. One of the researchers of Gorky's creativity, noting the features of the originality of "fairy tales ..." writes: "Created on a completely realistic basis," fairy tales "are imbued with that poetry of creation and struggle, that spirit of upsurge. Impulse and faith in the inevitable victory of happiness, which is so characteristic of Gorky.

In all the tales of the Italian cycle, especially in three of them, the theme of motherhood sounds very bright.

Why does the image of the Mother become the main one in his fairy tales? This question will be one of the main ones in today's lesson.

The theme of motherhood has always worried artists, poets and writers. The image of the mother as a symbol of eternal truth, beauty, life-affirmation is found in the works of the masters of antiquity, the Middle Ages, the Renaissance.

Leonardo da Vinci, Santi Raphael, Lucas Cranach... It is from their canvases that the gentle, sincere, strong faces of the Mother look at us.

1. Preliminary conversation on fairy tales.

The anthem of the Mother sounds quite naturally, from which the 9th tale begins: “Let us glorify the woman - the Mother, the inexhaustible source of all conquering Life!”. This beginning immediately introduces us into an atmosphere of high and great feelings. He brings in that lofty pathos that characterizes the tale as a whole. Not by chance. It is in this tale that the spelling of the word Mother with a capital letter is first encountered.

Why do you think?

(student answers)

Let's open notebooks and write down the topic of the lesson: "Mother's Heart" ("Tales of Italy" by M. Gorky). Write down also one of the epigraphs of today's lesson.

1. Analytical conversation on a fairy tale.

Let's turn to the plot of the tale "The Feat of the Mother."

(short student retelling of the story)

Note. that the whole fairy tale is built on a literary device familiar to you, encountered in other works of Gorky. What is this reception?

(student answers - opposition, antithesis)

Yes, already at the very beginning of the tale, 2 hostile tendencies are opposed - maternal creation and cruel destruction. Life and death.

Who are the representatives of these opposite principles?

(student answers)

Yes, Mother and Timur play the main role in the conflict.

1. Working with text, writing conclusions in a notebook.

Draw a two-column table in your notebook. Let's try to characterize the two central characters of this tale.

Note. That the opposition of heroes goes not only on the internal, but also on the external level.

Follow how Mother and Timur look?

How does she behave with him, how does she talk?

(Lame (the inferiority of the "happy" conqueror --- the majesty of the Mother)

What opposes Mother Timur, his deadly power? ("What do you say about yourself, woman?")

(children's answers - the mission of serving life, requires justice, because she is the Mother and serves life).

What convinced Timur? What arguments of the Mother forced Timur to open his heart?

(Mother's Heart. Strength, wisdom, love contained in it).

The poetess L. Tatyanicheva has a wonderful poem (read by a trained student).

They tell me it's too much

I give love to children
What maternal anxiety

makes my life old...
Well, what can I answer them -

Hearts impassive as armor?
The love I gave to children

Makes me stronger.

Indeed, it was love for her son that gave the Mother so much strength that shocked even the ruler who had seen everything.

1. Dictionary work.

All fairy tales of M. Gorky are built on aphorisms, which express the main idea of ​​the work.

What is an aphorism?

The meaning of the word Aphorism according to Ozhegov:
Aphorism - Brief expressivesaying, containing generalizinginference

Let's analyze the aphorisms you wrote out in your notebook at home, and explain them. 1aphorism “Let us glorify the woman - Mother, an inexhaustible source of all conquering life.Let us glorify in the world the Woman-Mother, a single force before which Death obediently bows!”

2 aphorism " Without love there is no happiness, without a woman there is no love, without a mother there is neither a poet nor a hero.All the pride of the world comes from mothers!”

3 aphorism “Let's glorify the mother woman, whose love knows no barriers, whose breast fed the whole world!Everything beautiful in a person is from the rays of the sun and from the Mother's milk ... "

The tale ends with a chord summing up the philosophical results of the developing theme: “We (Mothers) are stronger than Death. We who continuously give the world sages, poets, heroes, we who sow in it everything for which it is glorious!

1. Analytical conversation on 11 tales "The mother of the traitor".

11 the tale begins with an aphorism: “You can talk about Mothers endlessly ...”

The lines following the aphorism depict a city that is in dire danger of destruction. The picture of the life of the besieged city is recreated very accurately. Landscape details give it special expressiveness.

Work with text. The moon is "a lost shield, beaten with blows of swords."

Against the backdrop of a suffering, bleeding city - Marianna, the mother of a traitor.

What unites her with all Mothers, with all other citizens?

What makes her related to the Mother from the previous tale?

(She loves her son very much. Until recently, she looked at her son with pride, as a precious gift to her homeland, as a good force born to help people.)

What is new in the image of the Mother?

(Understanding the responsibility for the son’s betrayal. These mother’s thoughts are expressed in aphorisms: “I am a mother, I love him (son) and consider myself guilty that he has become like that”, “Mothers hate the weapon of attack, recognizing only that which protects life "")

What is the main climactic scene in the story?

(mother talking to son)

And again, Gorky's favorite device is opposition.

Mother (maternal creation) - Son (individual destruction).

Logical continuation of the dialogue between Mother and Timur.

1. Summing up the lesson.

The Mother convinced Timur of the omnipotent power of the Mother, who gave the world all its heroes.

In tale 11, having appeared to her son as “the embodiment of the misfortunes of the city”, the Mother argues with him about who can be considered a hero ...

“A hero is one who creates life in spite of death, who conquers death…”

- What did the mother do? ("Man - I did everything I could for the motherland. Mother - I stay with my son.")

Conclusion. The grief of a mother who has lost her son is immeasurable, this is a terrible punishment, but worse than this punishment is the betrayal of her son - such is the leitmotif of M. Gorky's fairy tale.

The wonderful Austrian composer Franz Schubert wrote a very beautiful vocal composition glorifying the Mother “Ave Maria”. Let's listen to her.

(Listening to a piece of music)

1. D. h. Write a miniature essay “The Image of the Mother in “Tales of Italy” by M. Gorky.

Fifteen thousand round tents are spread out in the valley in a wide fan, all of them are like tulips, and above each, hundreds of silk flags flutter like fresh flowers.
And in the middle of them - the tent of Gurugan-Timur - like a queen among her friends. It is about four corners, a hundred steps on the sides, three spears in height, its middle is on twelve golden columns the thickness of a man, on top of its blue dome, it is all of black, yellow, blue stripes of silk, five hundred red cords attached it to the ground so that it does not rise into the sky, four silver eagles are at its corners, and under the dome, in the middle of the tent, on a dais, is the fifth, invincible Timur-Gurugan himself, the king of kings.

Maksim Gorky
THE LEGEND ABOUT THE MOTHER AND TIMUR
From the cycle "Tales of Italy"

Let us glorify the woman - Mother, an inexhaustible source of all conquering life!
Here we will talk about the iron Timur-lenge, the lame leopard, about Sahib-i-Kirani - a happy conqueror, about Tamerlane, as the infidels called him, about a man who wanted to destroy the whole world.
For fifty years he walked the earth, his iron foot crushed cities and states, like an elephant's foot anthills, red rivers of blood flowed from his paths in all directions; he built high towers from the bones of conquered peoples; he destroyed life, arguing in his strength with Death, he took revenge on her for taking his son Dzhigangir; a terrible man - he wanted to take away all the sacrifices from her - may she die of hunger and longing!
From the day his son Dzhigangir died and the people of Samarkand met the victor of the evil jetts dressed in black and blue, sprinkling dust and ashes on their heads, from that day until the hour of the meeting with Death in Otrar, where she overcame him, - thirty years Timur he never smiled - so he lived, closing his lips, bowing his head to no one, and his heart was closed to compassion for thirty years!

Let us glorify in the world a woman - Mother, a single force before which Death obediently bows! Here the truth will be told about the Mother, about how the servant and slave of Death, the iron Tamerlane, the bloody scourge of the earth, bowed before her.

This is how it was: Timur-bek was feasting in the beautiful valley of Kanigul, covered with clouds of roses and jasmine, in the valley, which the poets of Samarkand called "Love of Flowers" and from where you can see the blue minarets of the great city, the blue domes of mosques.
Fifteen thousand round tents are spread out in the valley in a wide fan, all of them are like tulips, and above each, hundreds of silk flags flutter like fresh flowers.
And in the middle of them - the tent of Gurugan-Timur - like a queen among her friends. It is about four corners, a hundred steps on the sides, three spears in height, its middle is on twelve golden columns the thickness of a man, on top of its blue dome, it is all of black, yellow, blue stripes of silk, five hundred red cords attached it to the ground so that it does not rise into the sky, four silver eagles are at its corners, and under the dome, in the middle of the tent, on a dais, is the fifth, invincible Timur-Gurugan himself, the king of kings.

He is wearing a wide robe of sky-colored silk, it is showered with grains of pearls - no more than five thousand large grains, yes! On his gray head is a white cap with a ruby ​​on a sharp top, and sways, sways - this bloody eye sparkles, looking around the world ...

On the ground, on carpets that no longer exist, there are three hundred golden jugs of wine and everything that is needed for the feast of kings, musicians are sitting behind Timur, no one is next to him, at his feet are his blood, kings and princes, and chiefs of troops , and closest to him is the drunken Kermani-poet, the one who once, to the question of the destroyer of the world:

Kermani! How much would you give for me if I was being sold? - answered the sower of death and horror:
- Twenty-five askers.
- But this is the price of only my belt! Timur exclaimed in surprise.
- I only think about the belt, - answered Kermani, - only about the belt, because you yourself are not worth a penny!

This is how the poet Kermani spoke to the king of kings, a man of evil and horror, and may the glory of the poet, the friend of truth, be for us forever higher than the glory of Timur.
Let us glorify the poets who have one god - a beautifully spoken, fearless word of truth, that's who god is for them - forever!

And now, in the hour of fun, revelry, proud memories of battles and victories, in the noise of music and folk games in front of the king's tent, where countless colorful jesters jumped, strong men fought, rope dancers bent, making them think that there were no bones in their bodies, competing in the dexterity to kill, warriors fenced and there was a performance with elephants, which were painted red and green, making this one - terrible and funny - others - at this hour of joy of Timur's people, drunk from fear of him, from pride in his glory, from fatigue of victories, and wine, and koumiss, - in this crazy hour, suddenly, through the noise, like lightning through a cloud, the cry of a woman, the proud cry of an eagle, a sound familiar and akin to his insulted soul, - insulted Death and therefore cruel to people and life.

He ordered to find out who was screaming there with a voice without joy, and they told him that some woman had appeared, she was covered in dust and tatters, she seemed crazy, spoke Arabic and demanded - she demanded! - to see him, the ruler of the three countries of the world.

Bring her! - said the king.

And here in front of him was a barefoot woman, in shreds of clothes faded in the sun, her black hair was loose to cover her bare chest, her face was like bronze, and her eyes were commanding, and the dark hand extended to Timur did not tremble.

Did you defeat Sultan Bayazet? she asked.
- Yes I. I have defeated many and him, and I am not yet tired of victories. What do you say about yourself, woman?
- Listen! - she said. - Whatever you do, you are only a person, and I am Mother! You serve death, I serve life. You are guilty before me, and now I have come to demand that you atone for your guilt - they told me that your motto is "Strength is in justice" - I do not believe this, but you must be fair to me, because I am Mother !

The king was wise enough to feel the power of their bold words, he said:
- Sit down and talk, I want to listen to you!
She sat down - as she found it convenient - in a close circle of kings, on a carpet, and this is what she said:
- I'm from near Salerno, it's far away, in Italy, you don't know where! My father is a fisherman, my husband too, he was handsome, like a happy man - it was I who gave him happiness to drink! And I also had a son - the most beautiful boy on earth ...
“Like my Jigangir,” the old warrior said quietly.
- The most beautiful and smart boy is my son! He was already six years old when Saracen pirates came ashore to us, they killed my father, husband and many more, and kidnapped the boy, and now I have been looking for him on earth for four years. Now you have it, I know it, because Bayazet's warriors captured the pirates, and you defeated Bayazet and took everything from him, you must know where my son is, you must give him to me!

Everyone laughed, and then the kings said - they always consider themselves wise!
- She is insane! - said the kings and friends of Timur, his princes and commanders, and everyone laughed.
Only Kermani looked at the woman seriously, and with great surprise Tamerlane.
- She is mad as a Mother! - quietly said the drunken poet Kermani; and the king, the enemy of the world, said:
- Woman! How did you come from this country, unknown to me, through the seas, rivers and mountains, through the forests? Why did animals and people - who are often more evil than the worst animals - not touch you, because you walked, even without weapons, the only friend of the defenseless, who does not betray them, as long as they have strength in their hands? I need to know all this in order to believe you and so that surprise before you does not prevent me from understanding you!

Let us glorify the woman - Mother, whose love knows no barriers, whose breast fed the whole world! Everything beautiful in a person - from the rays of the sun and from Mother's milk - that's what saturates us with love for life!

She said to Timur-Gurugan:
- I met only one sea, there were many islands and fishing boats on it, but if you are looking for your favorite, a fair wind blows. Rivers are easy to cross for those who were born and raised on the seashore. Mountains? I didn't see mountains.

Drunk Kermani said cheerfully:
- A mountain becomes a valley when you love!
- There were forests along the road, yes, it was! Boars, bears, lynxes and terrible bulls met, with their heads lowered to the ground, and leopards looked at me twice, with eyes like yours. But after all, every animal has a heart, I spoke to them, as to you, they believed that I was Mother, and they left, sighing, - they felt sorry for me! Don't you know that animals also love children and know how to fight for their life and freedom no worse than people?

Yes, woman! Timur said. - And often - I know - they love more, fight harder than people!
“People,” she continued, like a child, for every Mother is a hundred times a child in her soul, “people are always the children of their mothers,” she said, “after all, everyone has a Mother, every one of someone’s son, even you , old man, you know this - a woman gave birth, you can refuse God, but you will not refuse this, old man!

Yes, woman! exclaimed Kermani, the fearless poet. - So, - from a gathering of bulls - there will be no calves, without the sun flowers do not bloom, without love there is no happiness, without a woman there is no love, without a Mother - there is neither a poet nor a hero!
And the woman said:
- Give me my child, because I am a Mother and I love him!

Let's bow to the woman - she gave birth to Moses, Mohammed and the great prophet Jesus, who was put to death by the evil ones, but - as Sherifeddin said - he will rise again and come to judge the living and the dead, it will be in Damascus, in Damascus!

Let us worship the One who tirelessly gives birth to the great! Aristotle is Her son, and Firdusi, and sweet as honey, Saadi, and Omar Khayyam, like wine mixed with poison, Iskander and blind Homer are all Her children, they all drank Her milk, and She brought everyone into the world by the hand when they were no taller than a tulip - all the pride of the world - from Mothers!

And then the gray-haired destroyer of cities, the lame tiger Timur-Gurugan, thought, and was silent for a long time, and then said to everyone:
- Men tangri cooli Timur! I, the servant of God Timur, say what follows! Here - I have lived, for many years now, the earth is groaning under me, and for thirty years I have been destroying the harvest of death with this hand - in order to destroy it in order to avenge my son Dzhigangir, because she extinguished the sun of my heart! They fought with me for kingdoms and cities, but - no one, ever - for a man, and a man had no price in my eyes, and I did not know who he was and why on my way? It was I, Timur, who said to Bayazet, having defeated him: “O Bayazet, as you can see, states and people are nothing before God, look - he gives them to the power of people like us: you are crooked, I am lame!” So I said to him when they brought him to me in chains and he could not stand under their weight, so I said, looking at him in misfortune, and I felt life as bitter as wormwood, the grass of the ruins!

I, the servant of God Timur, say what follows! Here is a woman sitting in front of me, what darkness, and she aroused in my soul feelings unknown to me. She speaks to me as an equal, and she does not ask, but demands. And I see, I understood why this woman is so strong - she loves, and love helped her to know that her child is a spark of life, from which a flame can flare up for many centuries. Weren't all prophets children and heroes weak? Oh, Dzhigangir, the fire of my eyes, maybe you were destined to warm the earth, sow it with happiness - I watered it well with blood, and it became fat!

Again the scourge of the peoples thought for a long time and finally said:

I, the servant of God Timur, say what follows! Three hundred horsemen will immediately go to all the ends of my land, and let them find the son of this woman, and she will wait here, and I will wait with her, the same one who returns with a child on the saddle of his horse, he will be happy - says Timur! So, woman?
She brushed her black hair back from her face, smiled at him, and replied with a nod of her head:
Yes, king!
Then this terrible old man stood up and silently bowed to her, and the cheerful poet Kermani spoke, like a child, with great joy:

What is more beautiful than songs about flowers and stars?
Everyone will immediately say: songs about love!
What is more beautiful than the sun on a clear May afternoon?
And the lover will say: the one I love!
Oh, the stars in the midnight sky are beautiful - I know!
And the sun is beautiful on a clear summer afternoon - I know!
The eyes of my dear of all colors are more beautiful - I know!
And her smile is sweeter than the sun - I know!
But the most beautiful song of all has not yet been sung,
A song about the beginning of all beginnings in the world,
Song about the heart of the world, about the magic heart
The one whom we, people, call Mother!

And Timur-bek said to his poet:
Yes, Kermani! God was not mistaken in choosing your mouth to proclaim his wisdom!
- E! God himself is a good poet! - said the drunken Kermani.

And the woman smiled, and all the kings and princes, military leaders and all other children smiled, looking at her - Mother!
All this is true; all the words here are true, our mothers know about it, ask them and they will say:

Yes, all this is the eternal truth, we are stronger than death, we who continuously give the world sages, poets and heroes, we who sow in it everything that it is glorious for!

(Tashriflar: umumiy 3 445, bugungi 4)

Sultry day, silence; life froze in bright peace, the sky tenderly looks at the earth with a clear blue eye, the sun is its fiery pupil.

The sea is smoothly forged from blue metal, the motley boats of the fishermen are motionless, as if soldered into a semicircle of the bay, bright as the sky. A seagull flies by, lazily flapping its wings - the water will show another bird, whiter and more beautiful than the one in the air.

The distance is dying; there, quietly floating in the fog - or, hot by the sun, melting - a purple island, a lonely rock in the middle of the sea, a gentle semi-precious stone in the ring of the Gulf of Naples.

The rocky shore, cut by ledges, descends to the sea, all curly and lush in the dark foliage of grapes, orange trees, lemons and figs, all in the dull silver of olive foliage. Through the stream of greenery, steeply falling into the sea, golden, red and white flowers smile affably, and yellow and orange fruits remind of the stars on a moonless hot night when the sky is dark, the air is humid.

There is silence in the sky, the sea and the soul, I want to hear how all living things silently sing a prayer to the Sun God.

A narrow path winds between the gardens, and along it, quietly descending from stone to stone, a tall woman in a black dress, it has faded in the sun to brown spots, is walking towards the sea, and even from a distance her patches are visible. Her head is not covered - the silver of her gray hair shines, they shower in small rings on her high forehead, temples and dark skin of her cheeks; this hair must be impossible to comb smoothly.

Her face is sharp, stern, seeing it once - you will remember it forever, there is something deeply ancient in this dry face, and if you meet the direct and dark gaze of her eyes - the sultry deserts of the east, Deborah and Judith are involuntarily recalled.

Tilting her head, she is knitting something red; the steel of the hook sparkles, a ball of wool is hidden somewhere in the clothes, but it seems that the red thread comes from the woman's chest. The path is steep and capricious, you can hear the rustling, crumbling, stones, but this gray-haired one descends so confidently, as if her legs see the way.

Here is what they say about this man: she is a widow, her husband, a fisherman, went fishing shortly after the wedding and did not return, leaving her with a child under her heart.

When the child was born, she began to hide him from people, did not go out with him into the street, into the sun, to show off her son, as all mothers do, kept him in a dark corner of her hut, wrapped in rags, and for a long time none of the neighbors I saw how complex the newborn was - they saw only his big head and huge motionless eyes in his yellow face. They also noticed that she, healthy and agile, had previously struggled with poverty tirelessly, cheerfully, being able to inspire good spirits in others, but now she had become silent, always thinking about something, frowning and looking at everything through the fog of sadness with a strange look, which, like like he was asking for something.

It took a little time for everyone to recognize her grief: the child was born a freak, that's why she hid him, that's what depressed her.

Then the neighbors told her that, of course, they understand how shameful it is for a woman to be the mother of a freak; no one, except the Madonna, knows whether she was justly punished by this cruel insult, but the child is not to blame for anything and she deprives him of the sun in vain.

She listened to the people and showed them her son - his arms and legs were short, like the fins of a fish, his head, swollen into a huge ball, could hardly rest on a thin, flabby neck, and his face was like that of an old man, everything is in wrinkles, he has a pair of muddy an eye and a large mouth stretched into a dead smile.

The women wept, looking at him, the men, wrinkling their faces in disgust, sullenly left; The freak's mother sat on the ground, now hiding her head, now raising it, and looking at everyone as if she were asking without words about something that no one understood.

The neighbors made a box for the freak - like a coffin, stuffed it with sacks of wool and rags, put the freak in this soft, hot nest and placed the box in the shade in the yard, secretly hoping that under the sun, which works miracles every day, another miracle will happen.

But time passed, and he remained the same: a huge head, a long body with four powerless appendages; only his smile took on a more and more definite expression of insatiable greed, and his mouth filled with two rows of sharp, crooked teeth. Short paws learned to grab pieces of bread and almost unmistakably dragged them into a large, hot mouth.

He was mute, but when they ate somewhere close to him and the freak heard the smell of food, he hummed muffledly, opening his mouth and shaking his heavy head, and the cloudy whites of his eyes were covered with a red mesh of bloody veins.

He ate a lot and the further - more and more, his lowing became continuous; mother, without lowering her hands, worked, but often her earnings were negligible, and sometimes there was none at all. She did not complain and reluctantly - always silently - accepted the help of her neighbors, but when she was not at home, the neighbors, irritated by lowing, ran into the yard and thrust bread crusts, vegetables, fruits into their insatiable mouth - everything that could be eaten.

Soon he will eat you all over! they told her. "Why don't you take him somewhere to an orphanage, to a hospital?"

She replied sullenly:

I gave birth to him, and I must feed him.

She was beautiful, and not one man sought her love, all unsuccessfully, but to one who liked her more than others, she said:

I can't be your wife, I'm afraid to give birth to another freak, that would be ashamed of you. No, go away!

The man persuaded her, reminded her of the Madonna, who is fair to mothers and considers them her sisters, - the freak's mother answered him:

I do not know what is to blame, but - behold, punished severely.

He begged, wept and raged, then she said:

You can't do what you don't believe in. Get away!

He's gone somewhere far away, forever.

And for so many years she stuffed her bottomless, tirelessly chewing mouth, he devoured the fruits of her labors, her blood and life, his head grew and became more and more terrible, like a ball, ready to break away from a powerless, thin neck and fly away, touching the corners of houses , swaying lazily from side to side.

Anyone who looked into the yard involuntarily stopped, amazed, shuddering, not being able to understand - what he sees? By the wall overgrown with grapes, on the stones, as if on an altar, stood a box, and from it this head rose, and, clearly protruding against the background of greenery, a yellow, wrinkled, high-cheeked face attracted the gaze of a passer-by, staring, crawling out of its orbits and for a long time stuck in the memory of everyone who saw them, dull eyes, a wide, flattened nose quivered, exorbitantly developed cheekbones and jaws moved, flabby lips moved, revealing two rows of carnassial teeth, and, as if living their own separate lives, sticking out large, sensitive, animal ears - this terrible mask was covered by a hat of black hair, curled into small rings, like the hair of a Negro.

Holding in his hand, short and small, like the paw of a lizard, a piece of something edible, the freak bent his head with the movements of a pecking bird and, tearing off food with his teeth, loudly champed and sniffed. Fed up, looking at people, he always bared his teeth, and his eyes shifted to the nose, merging into a muddy bottomless spot on this half-dead face, whose movements resembled agony. If he was hungry, he stretched his neck forward and, opening his red mouth, moving his thin snake tongue, bellowed demandingly.

Baptized and praying, people walked away, remembering all the bad things that they had experienced, all the misfortunes experienced in life.

The old blacksmith, a man of a gloomy mind, said more than once:

In all this mute head evoked sad thoughts, feelings frightening the heart.

The freak's mother was silent, listening to the words of people, her hair quickly turned gray, wrinkles appeared on her face, she had long forgotten how to laugh. People knew that at night she stood motionless at the door, looking at the sky and as if waiting for someone; they said to each other:

What can she expect?

Plant him in the square by the old church! neighbors advised her. “Foreigners go there, they won't refuse to throw him some copper coins every day.

The mother trembled in fear, saying:

It will be terrible if people from other countries see it - what will they think of us?

She was answered:

Poverty is everywhere, everyone knows about it!

She shook her head.

But foreigners, driven by boredom, staggered everywhere, looked into all the yards and, of course, looked at her too: she was at home, she saw grimaces of disgust and disgust on the well-fed faces of these idle people, heard them talking about her son, twisting their lips and narrowing his eyes. Especially struck her in the heart were a few words spoken contemptuously, hostilely, with obvious triumph.

XI

You can talk about Mothers endlessly.

For several weeks now the city had been surrounded by a close ring of enemies clad in iron; bonfires were lit at night, and the fire looked from the black darkness at the walls of the city with many red eyes - they glowed maliciously, and this burning burning evoked gloomy thoughts in the besieged city.

From the walls they saw how the enemy's noose tightened more and more tightly, how their black shadows flickered around the lights; the neighing of well-fed horses was heard, the clanging of weapons, loud laughter, cheerful songs of people confident of victory were heard - and what is more painful to hear than the laughter and songs of the enemy?

All the streams that fed the city with water were thrown by the enemies with corpses, they burned the vineyards around the walls, trampled the fields, cut down the gardens - the city was open on all sides, and almost every day the cannons and muskets of the enemies showered it with iron and lead.

Detachments of soldiers, exhausted by battles, half-starved, marched sullenly along the narrow streets of the city; the groans of the wounded, the cries of delirium, the prayers of women and the crying of children poured out from the windows of the houses. They were talking depressedly, in an undertone, and, stopping each other's speech in mid-sentence, they listened intently - were the enemies going to attack?

Life became especially unbearable in the evening, when in the silence groans and cries sounded clearer and more abundant, when blue-black shadows crawled out of the gorges of distant mountains and, hiding the enemy camp, moved towards the half-broken walls, and above the black teeth of the mountains the moon appeared like a lost shield. beaten with swords.

Not expecting help, exhausted by toil and hunger, losing hope every day, people looked in fear at this moon, the sharp teeth of the mountains, the black mouths of the gorges and at the noisy camp of enemies - everything reminded them of death, and not a single star shone consolingly for them.

They were afraid to light fires in the houses, thick darkness flooded the streets, and in this darkness, like a fish in the depths of a river, a woman silently flashed, wrapped in a black cloak with her head.

When people saw her, they asked each other:

That's her?

And they hid in niches under the gates, or, with their heads down, silently ran past her, and the chiefs of patrols sternly warned her:

Are you out on the street again, Monna Marianne? Look, you can be killed, and no one will look for the culprit in this ...

She straightened up, waited, but the patrol passed by, not daring or disdaining to raise a hand against her; armed men walked around her like a corpse, but she remained in the darkness and again quietly, alone, walked somewhere, going from street to street, mute and black, like the embodiment of the misfortunes of the city, and all around, pursuing her, sad sounds crept plaintively: groans , crying, prayers and gloomy talk of soldiers who have lost hope of victory.

A citizen and mother, she thought about her son and homeland: at the head of the people who destroyed the city was her son, a cheerful and ruthless handsome man; until recently, she looked at him with pride, as at her precious gift to her homeland, as at a good force born by her to help the people of the city - the nest where she herself was born, gave birth and brought him up. Hundreds of unbreakable threads connected her heart with ancient stones, from which her ancestors built houses and laid the walls of the city, with the earth where the bones of her blood lay, with legends, songs and hopes of people - she lost the heart of the mother of the person closest to him and cried: it was like scales, but, weighing the love for his son and the city, he could not understand - what is easier, what is harder.

So she walked the streets at night, and many, not recognizing her, were frightened, took the black figure for the personification of death, close to everyone, and recognizing, they silently moved away from the mother of the traitor.

But one day, in a deaf corner, near the city wall, she saw another woman: kneeling beside a corpse, motionless, like a piece of earth, she prayed, raising her mournful face to the stars, and on the wall, above her head, watchmen were quietly talking and gnashing weapons, brushing against the stones of the prongs.

The traitor's mother asked:

Brother? - Son. The husband was killed thirteen days ago, and this one is today.

And, rising from her knees, the mother of the murdered man meekly said:

Madonna sees everything, knows everything, and I thank her!

For what? - asked the first, and she answered her:

Now that he honestly died fighting for his homeland, I can say that he aroused fear in me: frivolous, he loved a cheerful life too much, and it was fearful that for this he would betray the city, as did the son of Marianne, the enemy of God and people, the leader of our enemies, be damned, and be damned be the womb that bore him! ..

Covering her face, Marianne walked away, and in the morning the next day she appeared to the defenders of the city and said:

Either kill me because my son has become your enemy, or open the gate for me, I will go to him...

They have replyed:

You are a man, and the homeland should be dear to you; your son is as much an enemy to you as he is to each of us.

I am a mother, I love him and consider myself guilty of the fact that he is what he has become.

Then they began to consult what to do with her, and decided:

By honor - we cannot kill you for the sin of your son, we know that you could not inspire him with this terrible sin, and we guess how you must suffer. But the city does not need you even as a hostage - your son does not care about you, we think he has forgotten you, the devil, and - here is your punishment if you find that you deserve it! It seems to us more terrible than death!

Yes! - she said. - It's scarier.

They opened the gates in front of her, let her out of the city and watched for a long time from the wall as she walked along her native land, thickly saturated with the blood shed by her son: she walked slowly, with great difficulty tearing her legs off this land, bowing to the corpses of the defenders of the city, disgustedly pushing away a broken weapon with their foot, mothers hate the weapon of attack, recognizing only that which protects life.

She seemed to be carrying in her hands under a cloak a bowl full of moisture, and was afraid to spill it; moving away, it became smaller and smaller, and those who looked at it from the wall, it seemed as if despondency and hopelessness were moving away from them along with it.

They saw how she stopped halfway and, throwing off the hood of her cloak, looked at the city for a long time, and there, in the camp of the enemies, they noticed her, alone in the middle of the field, and, slowly, carefully, black figures like her approached her. .

They approached and asked - who is she, where is she going?

Your leader is my son,” she said, and not one of the soldiers doubted it. They walked beside her, speaking in praise of how smart and brave her son was, she listened to them, proudly raising her head, and was not surprised - her son should be like that!

And here she is before the man whom she knew nine months before his birth, before the one whom she never felt outside her heart - he is in silk and velvet before her, and his weapon is in precious stones. Everything is as it should be; this is how she saw him many times in her dreams - rich, famous and loved.

Mother! he said, kissing her hands. - You came to me, so you understood me, and tomorrow I will take this damned city!

Where you were born, she reminded him.

Intoxicated by his exploits, maddened by the thirst for even greater glory, he spoke to her with the impudent ardor of youth:

I was born in the world and for the world, to amaze him with surprise! I spared this city for your sake - it is like a thorn in my foot and prevents me from advancing to glory as quickly as I want it. But now - tomorrow - I will destroy the nest of stubborn!

Where every stone knows and remembers you as a child, she said.

Stones are dumb, if a man does not make them speak, let the mountains speak of me, that's what I want!

But - people? she asked.

Oh yes, I remember them, mother! And I need them, because only in the memory of people are heroes immortal!

She said:

A hero is one who creates life in spite of death, who conquers death...

No! he objected. - He who destroys is as glorious as he who builds cities. Look - we do not know whether Aeneas or Romulus built Rome, but - the name of Alaric and other heroes who destroyed this city is known for sure.

Who survived all the names, - reminded the mother.

So he spoke to her until sunset, she interrupted his crazy speeches less and less, and her proud head sank lower and lower.

Mother - creates, she - protects, and talking about destruction in front of her means talking against her, but he did not know this and denied the meaning of her life.

Mother is always against death; the hand that brings death into people's dwellings is hateful and hostile to Mothers - her son did not see this, blinded by the cold glare of glory that kills the heart.

And he did not know that the Mother is a beast as smart, ruthless as fearless, when it comes to the life that she, the Mother, creates and protects.

She sat bent over, and through the open cloth of the leader's rich tent she could see the city, where she first experienced the sweet trembling of conception and the painful convulsions of the birth of a child who now wants to destroy.

The crimson rays of the sun poured blood over the walls and towers of the city, the windows of the windows gleamed ominously, the whole city seemed wounded, and through hundreds of wounds the red juice of life poured; time passed, and now the city began to turn black, like a corpse, and, like funeral candles, the stars lit up above it.

She saw there, in the dark houses, where they were afraid to light a fire, so as not to attract the attention of enemies, in the streets full of darkness, the smell of corpses, the suppressed whispers of people awaiting death - she saw everything and everyone; familiar and dear stood close before her, silently awaiting her decision, and she felt like a mother to all the people of her city.

From the black peaks of the mountains, clouds descended into the valley and, like winged horses, flew to the city, doomed to death.

Maybe we will attack him at night, - said her son, - if the night is dark enough! It is inconvenient to kill when the sun looks into the eyes and the glare of the weapon blinds them - there are always many wrong blows, - he said, examining his sword.

The mother told him:

Come here, lay your head on my chest, rest, remembering how cheerful and kind you were as a child and how everyone loved you...

He obeyed, knelt down beside her and closed his eyes, saying:

I love only glory and you, because you gave birth to me the way I am.

What about women? she asked, leaning over him.

There are many of them, they quickly get bored, like everything is too sweet.

She asked him for the last time:

And you don't want to have kids?

For what? To kill them? Someone like me will kill them, and it will hurt me, and then I will be old and weak to avenge them.

You are beautiful, but as barren as lightning,” she said with a sigh.

He replied smiling:

Yes, like lightning...

And dozed off on his mother's chest, like a child.

Then she, covering him with her black cloak, stuck a knife in his heart, and he, shuddering, immediately died - after all, she knew very well where her son's heart was beating. And, throwing his corpse from her knees at the feet of the astonished guards, she said towards the city:

Man - I did everything I could for the motherland; Mother - I stay with my son! It's too late for me to give birth to another, nobody needs my life.

And the same knife, still warm from his blood - her blood - she plunged with a firm hand into her chest and also correctly hit the heart - if it hurts, it is easy to hit it.

As if thousands of metal strings are stretched in the dense foliage of olives, the wind shakes the hard leaves, they touch the strings, and these light continuous touches fill the air with a hot, intoxicating sound. This is not music yet, but it seems that invisible hands are tuning hundreds of invisible harps, and all the time you are waiting tensely for a moment of silence, and then a powerful hymn to the sun, sky and sea will burst out powerfully.

The wind is blowing, the trees are swaying and seem to go from the mountain to the sea, shaking their peaks. A wave beats evenly and deafly against the coastal stones; the sea is all in living white spots, as if countless flocks of birds have descended on its blue plain, they all swim in the same direction, disappear, diving into the depths, appear again and ring a little audibly. And, as if dragging them along, two ships, also similar to gray birds, sway on the horizon, raising their three-tiered sails high; all this - reminiscent of a long-standing, half-forgotten dream - does not look like life.

A strong wind will blow tonight! - says the old fisherman, sitting in the shade of stones, on a small beach dotted with ringing pebbles.

The surf threw fibers of fragrant seagrass on the stones - red, golden and green; the grass withers in the sun and hot stones, the salty air is saturated with the tart smell of iodine. Curly waves crash into the beach one after another.

The old fisherman looks like a bird - a small, constricted face, a hooked nose and invisible in the dark folds of the skin, round, must be very keen eyes. The fingers are hooked, inactive and dry.

Fifty years ago, sir, - says the old man, in tune with the rustle of the waves and the ringing of cicadas, - there was once such a cheerful and sonorous day when everyone laughs and sings. My father was forty, I was sixteen, and I was in love, it is inevitable at sixteen and in good sunshine.

- "Let's go, Guido, for pezzoni", - said the father. “Pezzoni, signor, a very thin and tasty fish with pink fins, it is also called coral fish, because it is found where there are corals, very deep. She is caught, standing at anchor, with a hook with a heavy sinker. Beautiful fish.

And we went, expecting nothing but good luck. My father was a strong man, an experienced fisherman, but shortly before that he fell ill - his chest hurt, and his fingers were spoiled with rheumatism - a disease of fishermen.

This is a very cunning and evil wind, this one, which blows so kindly on us from the shore, as if softly pushing us into the sea - there it approaches you imperceptibly and suddenly rushes at you, as if you had insulted it. The barge is immediately torn down and flies with the wind, sometimes up with a keel, and you are in the water. This happens in one minute, you do not have time to swear or remember the name of God, as you are already spinning, driving into the distance. The robber is more honest than this wind. However, people are always more honest than the elements.

Yes, and so this wind hit us four kilometers from the coast - very close, as you can see, it hit unexpectedly, like a coward and a scoundrel.

- Guido! - said the parent, grabbing the oars with mutilated hands. - Hold on, Guido! Alive - anchor!

But while I was picking up the anchor, my father was hit in the chest with an oar - the oars were pulled out of his hands - he fell to the bottom without memory. I had no time to help him, every second we could overturn. At first, everything is done quickly: when I got on the oars, we were already rushing somewhere, surrounded by water dust, the wind tore off the tops of the waves and sprinkled us like a priest, only with the best zeal and not at all in order to wash away our sins.

“This is serious, my son! - said the father, coming to his senses and looking towards the shore. "It's a long time, my dear."

If you are young, you do not easily believe in danger, I tried to row, did everything that needs to be done in the water at a dangerous moment, when this wind - the breath of evil devils - graciously digs thousands of graves for you and sings a requiem for free.

“Sit still, Guido,” said the father, grinning and shaking the water from his head. - What is the use of picking the sea with matches? Take care of your strength, otherwise they will wait for you at home in vain.

The green waves are throwing our little boat like children are balls, peering over the sides at us, rising over our heads, roaring, shaking, we fall into deep pits, climb white ridges - and the shore runs away from us farther and also dances like our barge . Then my father says to me:

- “You may return to earth, I will not! Listen to what I'm going to tell you about fish and work..."

And he began to tell me everything he knew about the habits of those and other fish - where, when and how to catch them more successfully.

“Perhaps we should pray, father?” - I suggested, when I realized that our affairs were bad: we were like a couple of rabbits in a pack of white dogs, baring their teeth at us from everywhere.

“God sees everything! - he said. - He knows that people who were created for the earth perish in the sea and that one of them, not hoping for salvation, must pass on to his son what he knows. The earth and people need work - God understands this ... "

And, having told me everything he knew about work, my father began to talk about how to live with people.

“Is it time to teach me now? - I said. “On earth, you didn’t do that!”

“On earth, I never felt death so close.”

The wind howled like a beast and splashed the waves - my father had to shout so that I could hear, and he shouted:

“Always act as if there is no one better than you and no one worse than you - that will be true! The nobleman and the fisherman, the priest and the soldier are one body, and you are just as necessary a member of it as all the others. Never approach a person thinking that there is more bad in him than good - think that there is more good in him - so it will be! People give what they ask."

This, of course, was not said right away, but, you know, like a command: we were thrown from wave to wave, and then from below, then from above, through the spray of water, I heard these words. Much was carried away by the wind before it reached me, much I could not understand - is it time to study, signor, when every minute threatens with death! I was frightened, for the first time I saw the sea so furious and felt so powerless in it. And I can't say - then or after, remembering those hours, I experienced a feeling that is still alive in the memory of my heart.

As I now see a parent: he is sitting at the bottom of the barge, spreading his sore arms, clutching the sides with his fingers, his hat has been washed off him, the waves rush on his head and on his shoulders, now from the right, then from the left, they beat him from behind and in front, he shakes his head, snorts and yells at me from time to time. Wet, he became small, and his eyes were huge from fear, or maybe from pain. I think it's from pain.

- "Listen! - shouted to me. “Hey, do you hear?”

Sometimes I answered him:

- "I hear!"

- "Remember - everything good comes from a person."

- "OK!" - I answer.

He never spoke to me like that on earth. He was cheerful, kind, but it seemed to me that he was looking at me mockingly and incredulously, that I was still a child for him. Sometimes it offended me - youth is proud.

His screams subdued my fear, which must be why I remember everything so well.

The old fisherman paused, looked into the white sea, smiled and said with a wink:

Looking closer at people, I know, sir, to remember is the same as to understand, and the more you understand, the more you see the good - it’s so, believe me!

Yes, and so - I remember his sweet wet face and huge eyes - they looked at me seriously, with love, and so that I knew then - I was not destined to die on this day. I was afraid, but I knew that I would not die.

Of course, we were knocked over. Here we are both in boiling water, in foam that blinds us, the waves throw our bodies, beat them against the keel of the barge. Even earlier we tied everything that could be tied to the banks, we have ropes in our hands, we will not tear ourselves away from our barge as long as there is strength, but it is difficult to stay on the water. Several times he or I was thrown onto the keel and immediately washed off. The most important thing here is that you feel dizzy, deaf and blind - your eyes and ears are filled with water, and you swallow a lot of it.

It dragged on for a long time - about seven hours, then the wind immediately changed, rushed thickly towards the shore, and we were carried to the land. Then I rejoiced, shouted:

- "Hold on!"

Father also shouted something, I understood one word:

- "Breaking..."

He thought about the stones, they were still far away, I did not believe him. But he knew the matter better than I did - we rushed among the mountains of water, clinging, like snails, to our nurse, fairly beaten about her, already exhausted and numb. It lasted a long time, but when the dark mountains of the coast became visible, everything went with inexpressible speed. Swinging, they moved towards us, leaning over the water, ready to tip over on our heads, - one, one - the white waves throw up our bodies, our barge crunches, like a nut under the heel of a boot, I am torn from it, I see the broken black edges of rocks, sharp like knives, I see my father's head high above me, then - above these claws of the devils. He was caught two hours later, with a broken back and a broken skull, to the brain. The wound on the head was huge, part of the brain was washed out of it, but I remember gray, with red veins, pieces in the wound, like marble or foam with blood. He was terribly mutilated, all broken, but his face was clean, calm, and his eyes were well, tightly closed.

I? Yes, I was also fairly crumpled, I was dragged ashore without memory. We were brought to the mainland, beyond Amalfi - a strange place, but, of course, our own people are also fishermen, such cases do not surprise them, but make them kind: people who lead a dangerous life are always kind!

I think that I was not able to tell about my father the way I feel, and what I have been holding in my heart for fifty-one years requires special words, maybe even songs, but - we are simple people, like fish, and we don’t know how speak as beautifully as you would like! You feel and know always more than you can say.

The whole point here is that he, my father, at the hour of death, knowing that he could not avoid it, was not afraid, did not forget about me, his son, and found the strength and time to convey to me everything that he considered important. I lived for sixty-seven years and I can say that everything he inspired me is true!

The old man took off his knitted cap, once red, now brown, took out a pipe from it and, tilting his naked, bronze skull, said forcefully:

That's right, dear sir! People are what you want to see them, look at them with kind eyes, and you will feel good, they will, too, from this they will become even better, you too! It's simple!

The wind grew stronger, the waves higher, sharper and whiter; birds have grown up on the sea, they are swimming faster and faster into the distance, and two ships with three-tiered sails have already disappeared behind the blue horizon.

The steep shores of the island are in the foam of the waves, the blue water is splashing, and the cicadas are tirelessly, passionately ringing.

XIII

On the day it happened, the sirocco was blowing, a damp wind from Africa - a bad wind! - it irritates the nerves, brings bad moods, which is why two cabbies - Giuseppe Chirotta and Luigi Mata - quarreled. The quarrel arose imperceptibly, it was impossible to understand who first called it, people only saw how Luigi threw himself on Giuseppe's chest, trying to grab him by the throat, and he, putting his head into his shoulders, hid his thick red neck and put out strong black fists.

They were immediately separated and asked:

What's the matter?

Blue with anger, Luigi shouted:

Let this bull repeat in front of everyone what he said about my wife!

Chirotta wanted to leave, he hid his small eyes in the folds of a scornful grimace and, shaking his round black head, refused to repeat the insult, then Mata said loudly:

He says he recognized the sweetness of my wife's caresses!

Hey! people said. - This is not a joke, it requires serious attention. Calm down, Luigi! You are a stranger here, your wife is our person, we all here knew her as a child, and if you are offended - her fault falls on all of us - let's be truthful!

We proceeded to Chirotta.

Did you say it?

Well, yes, he admitted.

And it is true?

Who ever caught me lying?

Chirotta - a decent man, a good family man - things took a very gloomy turn - people were embarrassed and thoughtful, and Luigi went home and said to Concetta:

I'd like to check out! I don't want to know you unless you prove that the words of this scoundrel are slander.

She, of course, cried, but - after all, tears do not justify; Luigi pushed her away, and now she was left alone, with a child in her arms, without money and bread.

Women intervened - first of all Katarina, a vegetable seller, a smart fox, a sort of, you know, old bag, tightly stuffed with meat and bones and in some places very wrinkled.

Sirs,” she said, “you have already heard that this concerns the honor of all of you. This is her prank, inspired by the moonlit night, the fate of two mothers is hurt - right? I take Concetta with me and she will live with me until the day when we discover the truth.

They did so, and then Katarina and that dry witch Lucia, a screamer whose voice can be heard for three miles, set about poor Giuseppe: they called and let's pinch his soul like an old rag:

Well, good man, tell me - did you take her many times, Concetta?

Fat Giuseppe puffed out his cheeks, thought, and said:

One day.

It could have been said without thinking, ”Lucia remarked aloud, but as if to herself.

Did it happen in the evening, at night, in the morning? asked Katharina, just like a judge.

Giuseppe, without thinking, chose the evening.

Was it still light?

Yes, said the fool.

So! So you saw her body?

Well, of course!

So tell us what it's like!

Then he understood what these questions were for, and opened his mouth, like a sparrow choking on a grain of barley, understood and muttered, angry so that his big ears bled and turned purple.

What, he says, can I say? After all, I did not treat her like a doctor!

Do you eat fruits without admiring them? Lucia asked. - But maybe you did notice one feature of Conchettina? she asks further and winks at him, snake.

It all happened so quickly, - says Giuseppe, - really, I did not notice anything.

So you didn't have it! - said Katarina, - she is a kind old woman, but when necessary, she knows how to be strict. In a word, they so entangled him in contradictions that the fellow finally lowered his bad head and confessed:

There was nothing, I said it out of spite.

The old women were not surprised by this.

So we thought, - they said, and, releasing him in peace, they referred the case to the court of men.

A day later, our society of workers met. Chirotta stood before them, accused of slandering a woman, and old Giacomo Fasca, the blacksmith, said quite well:

Citizens, comrades, good people! We demand justice for us - we must be fair to each other, let everyone know that we understand the high price of what we need, and that justice for us is not an empty word, as for our masters. Here is a man who slandered a woman, insulted a comrade, destroyed one family and brought grief to another, causing his wife to suffer from jealousy and shame. We must take it seriously. What are you offering?

Sixty-seven languages ​​said with one accord:

Get him out of the commune!

And fifteen found it too harsh, and an argument ensued. They shouted desperately - it was about the fate of a man, and not one: after all, he is married, has three children - what are the wife and children to blame for? He has a house, a vineyard, a pair of horses, four donkeys for foreigners - all this is raised by his hump and costs a lot of work. Poor Giuseppe stood alone in the corner, gloomy as the devil among children; he sat bent over in a chair, his head bowed, and kneaded his hat in his hands, already tore off the ribbon from it and gradually tore off the brim, and his fingers danced like a violinist's. And when they asked him, what would he say? - he said, straightening his body with difficulty and getting to his feet:

I ask for mercy! Nobody is without sin. To drive me away from the land where I lived for more than thirty years, where my ancestors worked, would not be fair!

Women were also against the expulsion, and finally Fasca suggested doing this:

I think, friends, he will be well punished if we put on him the responsibility of supporting Luigi's wife and his child - let him pay her half of what Luigino earned!

They argued a lot more, but in the end they settled on this, and Giuseppe Chirotta was very pleased that he got off so cheaply, and everyone was satisfied with this: the case did not go to court or to the knife, but was decided in his own circle. We do not like it, signor, when our affairs are written in the newspapers in a language in which understandable words rarely stick out, like teeth in an old man's mouth, or when judges, these strangers to us, who understand life very poorly, talk about us in such a tone, as if we savages, and they are God's angels who do not know the taste of wine and fish and who do not touch a woman! We are simple people and look at life simply.

So they decided: Giuseppe Chirotta feeds his wife Luigi Mata and their child, but the matter did not end there: when Luigino found out that the words of Chirotta were false, and his signora was innocent, and found out our verdict, he called her to him, writing briefly:

“Come to me and we will live well again. Do not take a centesim from this man, and if you have already taken it, throw it in his eyes! I am not guilty before you either, how could I think that a person lies in such a matter as love!

And Chirotta he wrote another letter:

“I have three brothers, and all four of us swore to each other that we would slaughter you like a sheep if you ever come down from the island to land in Sorrento, Castellamare, Toppe, or wherever. As soon as we find out, we will slaughter, remember! It is as true as the fact that the people of your commune are good, honest people. Your help is not needed by my signora, even my pig would refuse your bread. Live without leaving the island until I tell you - you can!

They say that Chirotta carried this letter to our judge and asked if it was possible to condemn Luigi for threatening him? And the judge said:

You can, of course, but then his brothers will probably slaughter you; they will come here and slaughter. I advise - wait! It is better. Anger is not love, it is short-lived...

The judge could say something like this: we have a very kind, very intelligent person and composes good poetry, but - I do not believe that Chirotta went to him and showed this letter. No, Chirotta is a decent guy after all, he would not have done another faux pas, because he would have been ridiculed for it.

We are simple, working people, signor, we have our own life, our own concepts and opinions, we have the right to build a life as we want and as best for us.

Socialists? Oh, my friend, a working man will be born a socialist, as I think, and although we do not read books, we hear the truth by smell - after all, the truth smells strong and is always the same - labor sweat!

On the terrace of the hotel, through the dark green canopy of vines, sunlight pours like a golden rain - golden threads stretched in the air. Strange patterns of shadows lie on the gray tiles of the floor and the white tablecloths of the tables, and it seems that if you look at them for a long time, you will learn to read them like poetry, you will understand what they are talking about. Clusters of grapes play in the sun, like pearls or a strange muddy olivine stone, and blue diamonds in a carafe of water on the table.

There is a small lace handkerchief in the aisle between the tables. Of course, the lady lost him, and she is divinely beautiful - it cannot be otherwise, it is impossible to think otherwise on this quiet day, full of sultry lyricism, a day when everything everyday and boring becomes invisible, as if disappearing from the sun, ashamed of itself.

Silence; only the birds chirp in the garden, the bees hum over the flowers, and somewhere on the mountain, among the vineyards, a song sighs hotly: two sing - a man and a woman, each verse is separated from the other by a moment of silence - this gives the song a special expressiveness, something prayerful .

Here the lady slowly ascends from the garden along the wide steps of the marble staircase; she is an old woman, very tall, dark stern face, sternly knitted eyebrows, thin lips stubbornly compressed, as if she had just said: "No!"

On her dry shoulders is a wide and long - like a cloak - a cape of golden silk trimmed with lace, gray hair is small, not tall, her heads are covered with black lace, in one hand is a red umbrella, with a long handle, in the other is a black velvet bag, embroidered silver. She walks through the web of rays straight, firmly, like a soldier, and knocks with the end of her umbrella on the ringing tiles of the floor. In profile, her face is even sterner: her nose is bent, her chin is sharp, and on it is a large gray wart, her bulging forehead hangs heavily over the dark pits where her eyes are hidden in a network of wrinkles. They are hidden so deep that the old woman seems to be blind.

Behind her, waddling from side to side like a drake, on the steps of the stairs noiselessly appears the square body of a hunchback, with a large, heavily bowed head in a gray soft hat. He keeps his hands in the pockets of his vest, which makes him even wider and more angular. He is wearing a white suit and white boots with soft soles. His mouth is painfully open, yellow uneven teeth are visible, a dark mustache, sparse and hard, unpleasantly bristles on his upper lip, he breathes quickly and hard, his nose twitches, but his mustache does not move. He walks, ugly twisting his short legs, his huge eyes boringly look at the ground. There are many big things on this small body: a large gold ring with a cameo on the ring finger of the left hand, a large gold ring with two rubies, a token at the end of a black ribbon that replaces the watch chain, and in a blue tie, an opal is too large, an unfortunate stone.

And a third figure, slowly, enters the terrace, also an old woman, small and round, with a kindly red face, with lively eyes, probably cheerful and talkative.

They pass along the terrace to the door of the hotel, like people from the paintings of Gogart: ugly, sad, funny and alien to everything under this sun - it seems that everything fades and dims at the sight of them.

They are Dutch brother and sister, children of a diamond dealer and a banker, people of a very strange fate, if you believe what is derisively told about them.

As a child, the hunchback was quiet, inconspicuous, thoughtful and did not like toys. This did not arouse special attention to him in anyone except his sister - his father and mother found that this was how a failed person should be, but in a girl who was four years older than her brother, his character aroused an anxious feeling.

She spent almost all her days with him, trying in every possible way to arouse revival in him, to cause laughter, slipped him toys - he stacked them, one on top of the other, building some kind of pyramids, and only very rarely smiled with a forced smile, usually he looked at his sister , as for everything, - with a sad look of large eyes, as if blinded by something; that look annoyed her.

Don't you dare look like that, you'll grow up to be an idiot! she shouted, stamping her feet, pinching him, hitting him, he whimpered, protected his head, throwing his long arms up, but he never ran away from her and never complained about the beatings.

Later, when it seemed to her that he could understand what was already clear to her, she urged him:

If you are a freak - you must be smart, otherwise everyone will be ashamed of you, dad, mom and everyone! Even people will become ashamed that there is a little freak in such a rich house. In a rich house, everything should be beautiful or smart - you know?

Yes,” he said seriously, tilting his large head to one side and looking into her face with the dark gaze of lifeless eyes.

Father and mother admired the girl's attitude to her brother, praised her good heart in his presence, and imperceptibly she became the recognized confidante of the hunchback - she taught him how to use toys, helped prepare lessons, read him stories about princes and fairies.

But, as before, he piled toys in high heaps, as if trying to achieve something, but he studied inattentively and poorly, only the miracles of fairy tales made him smile hesitantly, and one day he asked his sister:

Are princes humpbacked?

And the knights?

Of course not!

The boy sighed wearily, and she, putting her hand on his coarse hair, said:

But wise wizards are always hunchbacked.

So I'll be a magician, - the hunchback obediently remarked, and then, after thinking, he added:

Are fairies always beautiful?

Always.

May be! I think - even more beautiful, - she said honestly.

He was eight years old, and his sister noticed that every time during their walks, when they passed or drove past houses under construction, the boy’s face showed an expression of surprise, he stared for a long time at how people were working, and then turned his mute eyes inquiringly to her.

Is it interesting for you? she asked.

Shy, he replied:

Why?

I don't know.

But once he explained:

Such small people and bricks - and then huge houses. Is this how the whole city is made?

Yes of course.

And our house?

Certainly!

Looking at him, she said decisively:

You'll be a famous architect, that's what!

Many wooden cubes were bought for him, and from that time on, a passion for construction flared up in him: all day long, sitting on the floor of his room, he silently erected high towers that fell with a roar. He built them again, and it became so necessary for him that even at the table, during dinner, he tried to build something from knives, forks and napkin rings. His eyes became more focused and deeper, and his hands came to life and moved continuously, feeling with his fingers every object that they could take.

Now, during his walks around the city, he was ready to stand for hours in front of a house under construction, watching how a huge thing grows from a small one to the sky; his nostrils trembled, smelling the dust of bricks and the smell of boiling lime, his eyes became sleepy, covered with a film of intense thoughtfulness, and when he was told that it was indecent to stand on the street, he did not hear.

Let's go! his sister woke him up, tugging at his hand.

He bowed his head and walked, all looking back.

You will be an architect, yes? she suggested and asked.

One day, after dinner, in the living room, while waiting for coffee, my father started talking about the time to leave toys and start studying seriously, but my sister, in the tone of a person whose mind is recognized and who cannot be ignored, asked:

I hope, dad, that you are not thinking of sending him to an educational institution?

Big, shaven, without a mustache, adorned with many sparkling stones, the father said, lighting a cigar:

Why not?

Do you know, why!

Since it was about him, the hunchback quietly retired; he walked slowly and heard his sister say:

But everyone will laugh at him!

Oh yes, of course! - said the mother in a thick voice, damp, like an autumn wind.

People like him should be hidden! my sister said hotly.

Oh yes, there is nothing to be proud of! - said the mother. - How much mind in this head, oh!

Perhaps you are right, - agreed the father.

No, how crazy...

The hunchback came back, stood at the door and said:

I'm not stupid either...

We'll see, - said the father, and the mother remarked:

Nobody thinks like that...

You will study at home,” the sister announced, seating him next to her. - You will learn everything that an architect needs to know - do you like it?

Yes. You'll see.

What will I see?

What I like.

She was a little taller than him - by half a head - but she screened everything - both mother and father. At that time she was fifteen years old. He looked like a crab, and she - thin, slender and strong - seemed to him a fairy, under whose authority the whole house lived and he, a little hunchback.

And so polite, cold people go to him, they explain something, ask, and he indifferently admits to them that he does not understand the sciences, and coldly looks somewhere through the teachers, thinking about his own. It is clear to everyone that his thoughts are directed beyond the usual, he speaks little, but sometimes asks strange questions:

What happens to those who don't want to do anything?

The well-bred teacher, in a black, tightly buttoned frock coat, at the same time resembling a priest and a warrior, answered:

With such people, everything bad that you can imagine is done! So, for example, many of them become socialists.

Thank you! - says the hunchback, - he behaves with teachers correctly and dryly, like an adult. - What is a socialist?

At best, he is a dreamer and a lazy person, in general, he is a moral freak, devoid of an idea of ​​God, property, and the nation.

The teachers always gave short answers, their answers stuck in memory as tightly as pavement stones.

Can an old woman also be a moral deformity?

Oh, of course, among them...

And a girl?

Yes. It's innate...

Teachers said about him:

He has a weak aptitude for mathematics, but a great interest in moral matters...

You talk a lot, - his sister told him, having learned about his conversations with teachers.

They talk more.

And you don't pray to God...

He won't fix my hump...

Ah, that's how you started to think! she exclaimed in astonishment, and said:

I forgive you this, but - forget all that - do you hear?

She was already wearing long dresses, and he was thirteen years old.

Since that time, troubles have rained down on her abundantly: almost every time she entered her brother’s working room, some bars, boards, tools fell at her feet, hitting her shoulder, then her head, beating off her fingers - the hunchback always warned her cry:

Watch out!

But - always late, and she was in pain.

Once, limping, she ran up to him, pale, angry, and shouted in his face:

You're doing it on purpose, freak! and slapped him on the cheek.

His legs were weak, he fell and, sitting on the floor, quietly, without tears and without offense, said to her:

How can you think this? You love me, don't you? Do you love me?

She ran away, groaning, then came to explain.

You see, this has never happened before...

And this too, - he calmly noticed, making a wide circle with his long arm: boards, boxes were heaped in the corners of the room, everything had a very chaotic appearance, carpentry and lathes near the walls were littered with wood.

Why did you bring in so much of this rubbish? she asked, looking round in disgust and incredulity.

You'll see!

He had already begun to build: he made a house for rabbits and a kennel for a dog, he invented a rat trap, - his sister jealously followed his work and at the table proudly told about them to his mother and father, - his father, nodding his head approvingly, said:

It all started with little things, and it always starts like this!

And the mother, hugging her, asked her son:

Do you understand how to appreciate her concern for you?

Yes, said the hunchback.

When he made a rat trap, he called his sister to him and, showing her the clumsy construction, said:

This is no longer a toy, and you can take a patent! Look - how simple and strong, touch here.

The girl touched, something clapped, and she screamed wildly, and the hunchback, jumping around her, muttered:

Oh no, no, no...

The mother came running, the servants came. They broke the apparatus for catching rats, freed the pinched, bluish finger of the girl and carried her away in a swoon.

In the evening he was called to his sister, and she asked:

You did it on purpose, you hate me - why?

Shaking his hump, he answered, quietly and calmly:

You just touched it with the wrong hand.

You are lying!

But - why should I spoil your hands? It's not even the hand you hit me with...

Look, freak, you are not smarter than me! ..

He agreed:

His angular face was, as always, calm, his eyes looked intently - it was not believed that he was angry and could lie.

After that, she began to visit him not so often. Her friends visited her - noisy girls in multi-colored dresses, they gloriously ran around the large, a little cold and gloomy rooms - paintings, statues, flowers and gilding - everything became warmer with them. Sometimes his sister would come with them to his room—they stiffly held out their little pink-nailed fingers to him, touching his hand so carefully, as if they were afraid of breaking it. They spoke with him especially meekly and affectionately, looking with surprise, but without interest, at the hunchback among his tools, drawings, pieces of wood and shavings. He knew that all the girls called him "inventor" - this sister inspired them - and that they expected something from him in the future that should glorify the name of his father, - the sister spoke about it confidently.

He, of course, is not handsome, but he is very smart, she often reminded him.

She was nineteen years old and already married when her father and mother died at sea, during a trip on a pleasure yacht, wrecked and sunk by a drunken navigator of an American truck; she, too, was supposed to go on this walk, but her teeth suddenly hurt.

When the news of the death of her father and mother came, she, forgetting her toothache, ran around the room and shouted, raising her hands:

No, no, it can't be!

The hunchback stood at the door, wrapping himself in a curtain, looked at her attentively and said, shaking his hump:

My father was so round and empty - I don't understand how he could drown...

Shut up, you don't love anyone! the sister screamed.

I just don't know how to say kind words," he said.

The father's corpse was not found, and the mother was killed before she fell into the water - they pulled her out, and she lay in the coffin as dry and brittle as the dead branch of an old tree, which she had been in life.

Here we are left alone with you, - the sister said sternly and sadly to her brother after the funeral of her mother, pushing him away from her with a sharp look of gray eyes. - It will be difficult for us, we know nothing and we can lose a lot. So sorry I can't get married right now!

ABOUT! exclaimed the hunchback.

What is - o?

He thought and said:

We are alone.

You say it like that, it's like something makes you happy!

I am not happy about anything.

This is also very unfortunate! You look awfully little like a living person.

In the evenings her fiance came - a small, lively little man, blond, with a fluffy mustache on a tanned round face; he laughed untiringly all evening, and probably could have laughed all day. They were already engaged, and a new house was being built for them in one of the best streets in the city - the cleanest and quietest. The hunchback had never been to this construction site and did not like to listen when people talked about it. The groom clapped him on the shoulders with a small, plump hand, with rings on it, and said, baring his many small teeth:

You should go see this, huh? How do you think?

He refused for a long time under various pretexts, finally gave in and went with him and his sister, and when the two of them ascended to the upper tier of the scaffolding, they fell from there - the groom was right on the ground, working with lime, and the brother caught on the scaffolding with his dress, hung in the air and was removed by masons. He only dislocated his leg and arm, smashed his face, and the groom broke his spine and cut open his side.

My sister was convulsing, her hands scratched the ground, raising white dust; she cried for a long time, more than a month, and then she became like her mother - she lost weight, stretched out and began to speak in a damp, cold voice:

You are my misfortune!

He remained silent, lowering his large eyes to the ground. The sister dressed in black, drew her eyebrows into one line and, meeting her brother, clenched her teeth so that her cheekbones were pushed out by sharp corners, and he tried not to catch her eye and kept drawing up some kind of drawings, lonely, silent. So he lived until adulthood, and from that day an open struggle began between them, to which they devoted their whole lives - a struggle that connected them with strong links of mutual insults and insults.

On the day of his coming of age, he said to her in the tone of an elder:

There are no wise wizards, no good fairies, there are only people, some are evil, others are stupid, and everything that is said about good is a fairy tale! But I want the fairy tale to be reality. Remember, you said: “In a rich house, everything should be beautiful or smart”? In a rich city, too, everything should be beautiful. I'm buying land outside the city and I'll build a house there for myself and freaks like me, I'll get them out of this city where it's too hard for them to live, and it's unpleasant for people like you to look at them ...

No, she said, you certainly won't! This is a crazy idea!

This is your idea.

They argued, coldly and reservedly, as people of great hatred for each other argue when they do not need to hide this hatred.

It's decided! - he said.

Not by me,” replied the sister.

He lifted his hump and left, and after a while the sister found out that the land had been bought and, moreover, the diggers were already digging ditches for the foundation, dozens of carts were bringing brick, stone, iron and wood.

Do you still feel like a boy? she asked. - Do you think this is a game?

He was silent.

Once a week, his sister - dry, slender and proud - went out of town in a small carriage, driving a white horse herself, and, slowly passing by the works, coldly watched how the red meat of bricks was tied together by the sinews of iron beams, and the yellow tree lay down in a heavy mass. nerve threads. She saw from a distance the figure of her brother, like a crab, he crawled through the woods, with a cane in his hand, in a crumpled hat, dusty, gray, like a spider; then, at home, she looked intently into his excited face, into his dark eyes - they became softer and clearer.

No, - he said quietly, - I thought well, equally good for you and for us! It is a wonderful thing to build, and it seems to me that I will soon consider myself a happy person ...

She asked, mysteriously measuring his ugly body with her eyes:

Happy?

Yes! You know - the people who work are completely different from us, they excite special thoughts. How good it must be for a bricklayer to walk through the streets of the city where he built dozens of houses! There are many socialists among the workers, they are, above all, sober people, and, really, they have their own sense of dignity. Sometimes it seems to me that we do not know our people well ...

You sound strange, she said.

The hunchback came to life, becoming more talkative every day:

In essence, everything is going the way you wanted: here I am becoming a wise wizard, freeing the city from freaks, but you could, if you wanted, be a good fairy! Why don't you answer?

We'll talk about it later," she said, playing with her gold watch chain.

One day he spoke in a language completely unfamiliar to her:

Perhaps I am more to blame for you than you are for me...

She was surprised:

I am guilty? Before you?

Wait! Honestly, I'm not as guilty as you think! After all, I walk badly, perhaps I pushed him then - but there was no evil intention, no, believe me! I'm much more guilty of wanting to ruin the hand you hit me with...

Let's leave it! - she said.

I think it needs to be better! muttered the hunchback. - I think that good is not a fairy tale, it is possible ...

The huge building outside the city grew with great rapidity, spreading across the rich earth and rising into the sky, always gray, always threatening with rain.

One day, a bunch of official people came to work, they examined what had been built and, having quietly talked among themselves, forbade building further.

You did it! - shouted the hunchback, rushing at his sister and seizing her by the throat with long, strong hands, but strangers appeared from somewhere, tore him away from her, and the sister said to them:

You see, gentlemen, that he is really insane and guardianship is necessary! It began with him immediately after the death of his father, whom he passionately loved, ask the servants - they all know about his illness. They were silent until recently - these are kind people, the honor of the house where many of them have lived since childhood is dear to them. I also hid my misfortune - after all, one cannot be proud that a brother is insane ...

His face turned blue and his eyes popped out of their sockets as he listened to this speech, he became dumb and silently scratched the hands of the people holding him with his nails, and she continued:

A wasteful undertaking with this house, which I intend to give to the city as a psychiatric hospital named after my father...

He squealed, lost consciousness, and was taken away.

The sister continued and completed the building with the same speed with which he led her, and when the house was completely rebuilt, her brother entered it as the first patient. He spent seven years there, long enough to turn into an idiot; he developed melancholy, and during this time his sister grew old, lost hope of being a mother, and when she finally saw that her enemy had been killed and would not rise, she took him into her care.

And now they are circling the globe to and fro, like blinded birds, looking senselessly and bleakly at everything and see nothing anywhere but themselves.

The blue water seems as thick as oil, the propeller of the steamer works softly and almost silently in it. The deck does not tremble underfoot, only the mast is shaking tensely, directed to the clear sky; cables sing softly, stretched like strings, but - you are already used to this trembling, you do not notice it, and it seems that the steamer, white and slender, like a swan, is motionless on slippery water. To notice the movement, you need to look over the side: there a greenish wave repels from the white sides, frowns and runs away in wide soft folds, bending, sparkling with mercury and sleepily murmuring.

Morning, the sea has not yet fully awakened, the pink colors of sunrise have not faded in the sky, but Gorgonu Island has already passed - overgrown with forest, a harsh lonely stone, with a round gray tower on top and a crowd of white houses near the sleeping water. Several small boats quickly slipped past the sides of the steamer - these are people from the island going for sardines. The measured splash of long oars and the thin figures of fishermen remain in my memory - they row standing and swing, as if bowing to the sun.

Behind the stern of the steamer is a wide strip of greenish foam, over which seagulls lazily swoop; sometimes a python appears from nowhere, stretched out like a cigar, flies silently over the very water and suddenly pierces it like an arrow.

In the distance, the shores of Liguria rise cloudy from the sea - purple mountains; another two or three hours, and the steamer would enter the cramped harbor of marble Genoa.

The sun is rising higher, promising a hot day.

Two footmen ran out on deck; one is young, thin and nimble, a Neapolitan, with an elusive expression of a mobile face, the other is a middle-aged man, gray-moustached, black-browed, with silver bristles on a round skull; he has a hooked nose and serious intelligent eyes. Joking and laughing, they quickly set the table for coffee and ran away, and the passengers slowly got out of the cabins in single file, one by one: a fat man, with a small head and a swollen face, red-cheeked, but sad and wearily spread plump raspberry lips; a man in gray whiskers, tall, all sort of smoothed out, with inconspicuous eyes and a small button nose on a yellow flat face; behind them, stumbling over the copper threshold, jumped out a red-haired round man with a paunch, a militantly curled mustache, in a climbing suit and a hat with a green feather. All three stood up to the side, the fat one screwed up his eyes sadly and said:

That's how quiet, huh?

The whiskered man put his hands in his pockets, spread his legs, and looked like open scissors. The red-haired man took out a gold clock, large as a pendulum of a wall clock, looked at them, at the sky and along the deck, then began to whistle, swinging the clock and stamping his foot.

Two ladies appeared - one young, plump, with a porcelain face and affectionate milky blue eyes, her dark eyebrows seemed to be drawn and one higher than the other; the other is older, sharp-nosed, in a lush hairstyle of faded hair, with a large black mole on her left cheek, with two gold chains around her neck, a lorgnette and many charms at the waist of her gray dress.

They served coffee. The young woman silently sat down at the table and began to pour black moisture, rounding her bare arms to the elbows in a special way. The men approached the table, sat silently, the fat man took the cup and sighed, saying:

The day will be hot...

You're dripping on your knees, the older lady remarked.

He bowed his head, his chin and cheeks swollen against his chest, put the cup down on the table, brushed the drops of coffee from his gray trousers with a handkerchief, and wiped his sweaty face.

Yes! the redhead suddenly spoke loudly, shuffling his short legs. - Yes Yes! If even the left began to complain about hooliganism, then ...

Wait to crack, Ivan! interrupted the older lady. - Lisa won't come out?

She's not well, - the young woman answered sonorously.

But the sea is calm...

Ah, when a woman is in this position...

The fat man smiled and closed his eyes sweetly.

Overboard, tearing the calm surface of the sea, dolphins tumbled, - a man with sideburns looked at them attentively and said:

Dolphins are like pigs.

Red replied:

There's a lot of bullshit here.

The colorless lady raised a cup to her nose, sniffed the coffee, and grimaced in disgust.

Disgusting!

What about milk, huh? - supported the fat one, blinking in fright.

The porcelain-faced lady sang:

And everything is dirty, dirty! And everyone is terribly similar to the Jews ...

The redhead, choking on words, kept talking about something in the ear of the man with sideburns, exactly answered the teacher, knowing the lesson well and being proud of it. His listener was ticklish and curious, he gently shook his head from side to side, and on his flat face his mouth gaped like a crack on a cracked board. Sometimes he wanted to say something, he began in a strange, furry voice:

In my province...

And, without continuing, he again attentively bowed his head to the redhead's mustache.

The fat man sighed heavily, saying:

How you buzz, Ivan...

Well - give me coffee!

He moved towards the table, with a creak and a crackle, and his interlocutor said significantly:

Ivan has ideas.

You haven't had enough sleep,' said the older lady, looking through her lorgnette at the sideburner, who ran his hand over his face and looked at his palm.

I feel like I'm powdered, don't you think so?

Ah, uncle! the young woman exclaimed. - This is the peculiarity of Italy! The skin is terribly dry here!

The older lady asked:

Do you notice, Lydie, how bad sugar they have?

A large man came out on deck, in a cap of gray curly hair, with a big nose, cheerful eyes and a cigar in his mouth - the footmen standing at the side bowed respectfully to him.

Good afternoon guys, good afternoon! Nodding his head benevolently, he said in a loud, hoarse voice.

The Russians fell silent, looking askance at him, the mustachioed Ivan said in an undertone:

A retired military man, you can immediately see ....

Noticing that they were looking at him, the gray-haired man took a cigar out of his mouth and politely bowed to the Russians, - the older lady threw her head up and, putting a lorgnette to her nose, looked defiantly at him, the barbel for some reason became embarrassed, quickly turning away, snatched his watch from his pocket and again became swing them in the air. Only the fat man answered the bow, pressing his chin to his chest - this embarrassed the Italian, he nervously put a cigar in the corner of his mouth and asked the elderly footman in an undertone:

Russians?

Yes, sir! Russian governor with his last name...

What kind faces they always have...

Very good people...

The best of the Slavs, of course ...

A little careless, I'd say...

Careless? Is it?

It seems to me - careless to people.

The fat Russian blushed and, smiling broadly, said in a low voice:

He speaks about us...

What? - the eldest asked, wrinkling her face in disgust.

The best, he says, are the Slavs, - the fat man answered, giggling.

They are flattering,” declared the lady, and red-haired Ivan hid his watch and, twisting his mustache with both hands, said dismissively:

They are all amazingly ignorant of us...

They praise you, - said the fat one, - but you think that it is due to ignorance ...

Nonsense! I'm not talking about that, but in general ... I myself know that we are the best.

The man with whiskers, who had been watching the dolphins play all the time, sighed and, shaking his head, remarked:

What a stupid fish!

Two more approached the gray-haired Italian: an old man, in a black frock coat, with glasses, and a long-haired young man, pale, with a high forehead, thick eyebrows; all three of them stood up to the side, about five steps from the Russians, the gray-haired one said softly:

When I see Russians - I remember Messina...

Remember how we met the sailors in Naples? - asked the young man.

Yes! They will not forget this day in their forests!

Have you seen a medal in honor of them?

I don't like work.

They talk about Messina, - the fat one told his people.

And - laugh! exclaimed the young lady. - Marvelous!

Seagulls caught up with the steamer, one of them, flapping its crooked wings strongly, hung over the side, and the young lady began to throw biscuits to her. The birds, catching the pieces, fell overboard and again, screaming greedily, rose into the blue void above the sea. Coffee was brought to the Italians, they also began to feed the birds, throwing biscuits up, - the lady strictly moved her eyebrows and said:

Here are the monkeys!

Tolstoy listened attentively to the lively conversation of the Italians and again said:

He is not a military man, but a merchant, he talks about trading with us in grain and that they could also buy kerosene, timber and coal from us.

I immediately saw that I was not a military man, - the older lady admitted.

The redhead again began to talk about something in the ear of the sideburner, who listened to him and stretched his mouth skeptically, and the young Italian spoke, looking sideways in the direction of the Russians:

What a pity that we know little of this country of big people with blue eyes!

The sun is already high and burning strongly, the sea is dazzling, in the distance, from the starboard side, mountains or clouds are growing from the water.

Annette, - says the sideburner, smiling from ear to ear, - listen to what this funny Jean has come up with, - what a way to destroy the rebels in the villages, this is very witty!

And, swaying in his chair, he slowly and boringly spoke, as if translating from a foreign language:

It is necessary, he says, that on the days of fairs, as well as rural holidays, the local zemstvo chief prepares, at the expense of the treasury, stakes and stones, and then he would put the peasants - also at the expense of the treasury - ten, twenty, fifty - depending on the number people - buckets of vodka - nothing else is needed!

I don't understand! said the older lady. - It's a joke?

No seriously! You think ma tante...

The young lady opened her eyes wide and shrugged her shoulders.

What nonsense! To drink vodka from the treasury when they already ...

No, wait, Lydia! cried the redhead, jumping up in his chair. The whisker laughed soundlessly, his mouth wide open and swaying from side to side.

Just think - those hooligans who do not have time to get drunk will kill each other with stakes and stones, is it clear?

Why - each other? asked the fat man.

It's a joke? the older lady inquired again.

The redhead, smoothly spreading his short arms, heatedly argued:

When they are tamed by the authorities - the left screams about cruelty and atrocity, then you need to find a way for them to tame themselves, right?

The steamer rocked, the fat lady clutched the table in fright, the crockery rattled, the older lady, putting her hand on the fat man's shoulder, asked sternly:

What is it?

We are turning...

Higher and clearer the banks rise from the water - hills and mountains, shrouded in mist, covered with gardens. Dove-gray stones look out from the vineyards, white houses hide in dense clouds of greenery, window glass sparkles in the sun, and bright spots are already visible to the eye; on the very shore nestled among the rocks a small house, its façade facing the sea and hung all over with a heavy mass of bright purple flowers, and above, from the stones of the terrace, red geraniums flow in thick streams. The colors are cheerful, the shore seems gentle and hospitable, the soft outlines of the mountains call to themselves, into the shade of the gardens.

How cramped everything is here,” the fat man said with a sigh; the older lady looked implacably at him, then—in her lorgnette—at the shore, and tightly pursed her thin lips, tossing her head up.

There are already a lot of dark-skinned people on deck in light suits, they are talking noisily, Russian ladies look at them dismissively, like queens at their subjects.

How they wave their hands, - says the young one; the fat man, puffing, explains:

This is a property of the language, it is poor and requires gestures ...

My God! My God! - the eldest sighs deeply, then, after thinking, asks:

What, there are also many museums in Genoa?

It seems only three, - the fat one answered her.

And this is a graveyard? the young woman asked. - Campo Santo. And churches, of course.

And the cabbies are nasty, like in Naples?

The redhead and the sideburner got up, went to the side and there they are talking anxiously, interrupting each other.

What does the Italian say? - the lady asks, adjusting her magnificent hairstyle. Her elbows are pointed, her ears are large and yellow, like withered leaves. The fat man listens attentively and obediently to the curly-haired Italian's lively story.

They, gentlemen, must have a very ancient law forbidding Jews to visit Moscow - this is obviously a relic of despotism, you know - Ivan the Terrible! Even in England there are many archaic laws that have not been repealed to this day. Or maybe this Jew mystified me, in a word, for some reason he did not have the right to visit Moscow - the ancient city of kings, shrines ...

And here, in Rome, the mayor is a Jew - in Rome, which is older and more sacred than Moscow, - said the young man, grinning.

And deftly beats dad-tailor! put in the old man with glasses, clapping his hands loudly.

What is the old man shouting about? the lady asked, dropping her hands.

Some nonsense. They speak in a Neapolitan dialect...

He came to Moscow, you need to have shelter, and now this Jew goes to a prostitute, gentlemen, there is nowhere else, - so he said ...

Fable! - the old man said resolutely and waved his hand away from the narrator.

To tell the truth, I think so too.

She turned him over to the police, but at first she took money from him, as if he was using her ...

Muck! - said the old man. - He is a man of dirty imagination, and nothing more. I know Russians from the university - they are kind guys ...

The fat Russian, wiping his sweaty face with a handkerchief, said to the ladies, lazily and indifferently:

He tells a Jewish joke.

With such heat! - the young lady chuckled, and the other remarked:

In these people, with their gestures and noise, there is still something boring ...

A city grows on the shore; rise from behind the hills of the house and, becoming closer to each other, form a solid wall of buildings, as if carved from ivory and reflecting the sun.

It looks like Yalta, - the young lady determines, getting up. - I'm going to Lisa.

Swaying, she slowly carried her large body wrapped in a bluish cloth along the deck, and when she caught up with a group of Italians, the gray-haired one interrupted his speech and said quietly:

What beautiful eyes!

Yes, the old man in glasses shook his head. - This is what Basilide must have been like!

Basilis is a Byzantine?

I see her as a Slav...

They talk about Lydia, - said the fat one.

What? the lady asked. - Of course, vulgarity?

About her eyes. Praise...

The lady made a face.

Sparkling with copper, the steamer affectionately and quickly pressed closer and closer to the shore, the black walls of the pier became visible, hundreds of masts rose into the sky from behind them, bright patches of flags hung motionless in some places, black smoke melted in the air, the smell of oil, coal dust was heard , the noise of works in the harbor and the complex rumble of a big city.

The fat man suddenly laughed.

Are you what? asked the lady, screwing up her gray, faded eyes.

The Germans will crush them, by God, you'll see!

What are you happy about?

The whisker, looking down at his feet, asked the red-haired man, loudly and strictly grammatically:

Would you be happy with this surprise or not?

The redhead, twirling his mustache ferociously, did not answer.

The steamer went quieter. The muddy-green water splashed and sobbed against the white sides, as if complaining; marble houses, high towers, openwork terraces were not reflected in it. The black mouth of the port was opened, crowded with many ships.

XVII

A man in a light-coloured suit, dry and clean-shaven, like an American, sat down at an iron table by the door of the restaurant, and lazily sang:

Everything around is densely dotted with acacia flowers - white and like gold: the rays of the sun shine everywhere, on the ground and in the sky - the quiet fun of spring. In the middle of the street, clicking their hooves, little donkeys with shaggy ears run, heavy horses walk slowly, people walk slowly - you clearly see that all living things want to stay in the sun as long as possible, in the air full of the honey smell of flowers.

Again - strikes, riots, right?

He shrugged, smiling softly.

If it were possible without it...

An old woman in a black dress, stern as a nun, silently offered the engineer a bouquet of violets, he took two and handed one to his interlocutor, saying thoughtfully:

You, Trama, have such a good brain, and, really, it is a pity that you are an idealist ...

Thanks for the flowers and the compliment. Did you say sorry?

Yes! You are essentially a poet, and you have to study to become a good engineer...

Trama, laughing softly, baring his white teeth, said:

Oh, that's right! An engineer is a poet, I was convinced of this while working with you ...

You are a kind person...

And I thought - why shouldn't the engineer become a socialist? A socialist also needs to be a poet...

They laughed, both looking at each other equally intelligently, surprisingly different, one - dry, nervous, worn out, with faded eyes, the other - as if forged yesterday and not yet polished.

No, Trama, I would rather have my own workshop and a dozen or so fellows like you. Wow, here we would do something...

He tapped his fingers softly on the table and sighed as he threaded the flowers into his buttonhole.

Damn it, - Trama exclaimed excitedly, - what trifles interfere with life and work ...

Are you calling the history of mankind trifles, Master Trama? - Smiling thinly, the engineer asked; the worker pulled off his hat, waved it, and spoke, ardently and lively:

Eh, what is the history of my ancestors?

your ancestors? asked the engineer, emphasizing the first word with an even sharper smile.

Yes mine! Is this audacity? Let there be boldness! But - why are Giordano Bruno, Vico and Mazzini not my ancestors - do I not live in their world, do I not use what their great minds have sown around me?

Ah, in that sense!

Everything that is given to the world by those who have departed from it is given to me!

Of course, - said the engineer, seriously moving his eyebrows.

And everything that has been done before me - before us - is the ore that we must turn into steel - isn't it?

Why not? It is clear!

After all, you scientists, like us workers, live off the work of the minds of the past.

I do not argue, - said the engineer, bowing his head; near him stood a boy in gray rags, small, like a ball broken by a game; holding a bouquet of crocuses in his dirty paws, he insistently said:

Take my flowers, sir...

I already have...

Flowers are never enough...

Bravo, baby! Trama said. - Bravo, give me two...

And when the boy gave him flowers, he raised his hat and suggested to the engineer:

Anything?

Thank you.

Wonderful day, isn't it?

You can feel it even at my fifty years...

He looked around thoughtfully, narrowing his eyes, then sighed.

You, I think, should especially strongly feel the play of the spring sun in your veins, this is not only because you are young, but - as I see it - the whole world is different for you than for me, right?

I don't know, - he said, grinning, - but life is beautiful!

With your promises? - the engineer asked skeptically, and this question seemed to touch his interlocutor, - putting on his hat, he quickly said:

Life is beautiful in everything that I like about it! Damn it, my dear engineer, for me, words are not just sounds and letters - when I read a book, see a picture, admire the beautiful - I feel as if I did it all myself!

Both laughed, one loudly and openly, as if showing off his ability to laugh, throwing his head back, throwing out his broad chest, the other almost soundlessly, sobbing laughter, exposing teeth in which gold was stuck, as if he had recently chewed it and forgot to clean the greenish bones of his teeth. .

Unless you rebel...

Oh, I always rebel...

And, making a serious face, screwing up his bottomless black eyes, he asked:

I hope - we then behaved quite correctly?

Shrugging, the engineer stood up.

Oh yeah. Yes! This story - you know? - cost the company thirty-seven thousand lire...

It would be wiser to include them in wages...

Hm! You think badly. Prudence? It is different for every animal.

He held out his dry yellow hand and, as the worker shook it, he said:

I still repeat that you should study and study...

I am learning every minute...

You would have developed into an engineer with a good imagination.

Uh, fantasy does not prevent me from living and now ...

Goodbye, stubborn...

The engineer walked under the acacias, through the network of sunlight, walking slowly with long, dry legs, carefully pulling the glove on the thin fingers of his right hand - a small, blue-black garcon moved away from the door of the restaurant where he was listening to this conversation, and said to the worker, who was rummaging through purse, taking out copper coins:

Our famous one is getting old...

He will stand up for himself! the worker exclaimed confidently. - He has a lot of fire under his skull...

Where will you speak next?

In the same place, at the labor exchange. Did you hear me?

Three times, comrade...

After shaking each other's hands firmly, they parted with a smile; one went in the direction opposite to the one where the engineer had disappeared, the other, humming thoughtfully, began to clear the dishes from the tables.

A group of schoolchildren in white aprons - boys and girls march in the middle of the road, noise and laughter fly from them with sparks, the two in front loudly blow trumpets rolled from paper, acacias quietly shower them with snow of white petals. Always - and in the spring especially eagerly - you look at the children and want to shout after them, cheerfully and loudly:

Hey you people! Long live your future!

"A hero is the one who creates life in spite of death..." (according to M. Gorky's story "The Traitor's Mother")

1. students will think about the role of a mother in a person's life, reading M. Gorky's story "The Mother of the Traitor" (XI from "Tales of Italy");
2. students will develop the ability to analyze the text, highlight the main problem;
3. students will learn the culture of communication, perceiving correctly any opinion.

Methods: five lines - characteristics (syncwines), directed reading, double entry diary, essay. (The class is divided into 4 groups of 5-6 people..

Equipment: printouts of text for each student, presentation, sheets, markers.

During the classes

I. Stimulation of interest in learning.

Every day you are escorted to classes, the same person takes care of you - your mother. Everyone can talk about mom endlessly. The story of M. Gorky, which is included in the cycle of stories “Tales of Italy” under number XI, begins with a similar phrase. We will read the story, but not to the end. The ending is up to you to write.

1A. Reading a story. (Up to 6 parts).

Exercise: - Try to write the ending of this piece.

(They write for 5 minutes, then read, the options are posted on the board).

There is a discussion.

II. Implementation of the doctrine. Tasks for the 1st part.

You can talk about Mothers endlessly.

For several weeks now the city had been surrounded by a close ring of enemies clad in iron; bonfires were lit at night, and the fire looked from the black darkness at the walls of the city with many red eyes - they glowed maliciously, and this burning burning evoked gloomy thoughts in the besieged city. From the walls they saw how the enemy's noose tightened more and more tightly, how their black shadows flickered around the lights; the neighing of well-fed horses was heard, the ringing of weapons, loud laughter was heard, cheerful songs of people confident of victory were heard - and what is more painful to hear than the laughter and songs of the enemy?

All the streams that fed the city with water were thrown by the enemies with corpses, they burned the vineyards around the walls, trampled the fields, cut down the gardens - the city was open on all sides, and almost every day the cannons and muskets of the enemies showered it with iron and lead. Detachments of soldiers, exhausted by battles, half-starved, marched sullenly along the narrow streets of the city; the groans of the wounded, the cries of delirium, the prayers of women and the crying of children poured out from the windows of the houses. They talked depressedly, in an undertone, and, stopping each other's speech in mid-sentence, listened intently - were the enemies going to attack? “...” Not expecting help, exhausted by labor and hunger, people lost hope every day. They were afraid to light fires in the houses, thick darkness flooded the streets, and inIn this darkness, like a fish in the depths of a river, a woman silently flickered, her head wrapped in a black cloak. When people saw her, they asked each other:

That's her?

She! - and hid in niches under the gates or, with lowered heads, silently ran past her, and the patrol leaders warned her sternly: “Are you out on the street again, Monna Marianne? Look, you can be killed, and no one will look for the culprit...”. She straightened up, waited, but the patrol passed by, not daring or disdaining to raise a hand against her; armed men walked around her like a corpse, but she remained in the darkness and again quietly, alone, walked somewhere, from street to street, mute and black, like the embodiment of the misfortunes of the city, and all around, pursuing her, mournful sounds crawled: groans, weeping, prayers and gloomy talk of soldiers who have lost hope of victory.

What is the title of part 1? (Unbearable life in the ring of enemies.)

Make up the characteristics - five lines according to the text of Part I by groups:

What questions arise when reading the 1st part?

(What is this woman who is known and shunned by all the people of the besieged city?)

Reading the 2nd part.

A citizen and mother, she thought about her son and homeland: at the head of the people who destroyed the city was her son, a cheerful and ruthless handsome man; until recently, she looked at him with pride, as her precious gift to her homeland, as a good force born by her to help the people of the city - the nest where she was born herself, gave birth and nursed him. Hundreds of inseparable threads connected her heart with ancient stones, of which her ancestors built houses and laid the walls of the city, with the land where the bones of her blood lay, with legends, songs and hopes of people - the mother of the person closest to him lost the heart and cried: it was like scales, but, weighing love for her son and city , could not understand - what is easier, what is harder.

So she walked the streets at night, and many, not recognizing her, were frightened, mistaking the black figure for the personification of death, close to everyone, and recognizing, they silently moved away from the mother of the traitor.

But one day, in a deaf corner, near the city wall, she saw another woman: kneeling beside a corpse, motionless, like a piece of earth, she prayed, raising her mournful face to the stars. The traitor's mother asked:

- Husband?

- No.

- Brother?

- Son. The husband was killed thirteen days ago, and this one is today, - and, rising from her knees, the mother of the murdered man meekly said:

– Madonna sees everything, knows everything, and I thank her!

- For what? the first one asked, and she answered her:

“Now that he honestly died fighting for his homeland, I can say that he aroused fear in me: frivolous, he loved a cheerful life too much, and it was scary that for this he would betray the city, as did the son of Marianne, the enemy of God and people, the leader of our enemies, damn him, damn the womb that bore him! ..

Covering her face, Marianne walked away, and in the morning...

What is the name of this part? Write for the name any phrase suitable for the name. (The heart of a mother is like a scale; the mother of a traitor is like the personification of death.)

– What do you think, what can happen after that, because it ends with the word “and in the morning...”?

Reading the 3rd part.

The next day, the mother appeared to the defenders of the city and said:

- Either kill me because my son became your enemy, or open the gate for me, I will go to him ...

They have replyed:

- You are a person, and the homeland should be dear to you; your son is as much an enemy to you as he is to each of us.

- I am a mother, I love him and consider myself guilty that he is what he has become.

Then they began to consult what to do with her, and decided:

- By honor - we cannot kill you for the sin of your son, we know that you could not inspire him with this terrible sin, and we can guess how you must suffer. But the city does not need you even as a hostage - your son does not care about you, we think he has forgotten you, the devil - and - here is your punishment if you think you deserve it! It seems to us more terrible than death!

- Yes! - she said. - It's scarier!

They opened the gates in front of her, let her out of the city and watched for a long time from the wall as she walked along her native land, thickly saturated with the blood spilled by her son: she walked slowly, with great difficulty tearing her legs off this land, bowing to the corpses of the defenders of the city, disgustedly pushing away a broken weapon with their foot, mothers hate the weapon of attack, recognizing only that which protects life.

She seemed to be carrying in her hands under a cloak a bowl full of moisture, and was afraid to spill it; moving away, she became smaller and smaller, and those who looked at her from the wall, it seemed as if despondency and hopelessness were moving away from them along with her. They saw how she stopped halfway and, throwing off the hood of her cloak, looked at the city for a long time, and there, in the camp of the enemies, they noticed her, alone in the middle of the field, and, slowly, carefully, black figures like her approached her. .

What would you call this part? (Punishment is worse than death; Mothers recognize only weapons that protect life; A difficult road to a son.)

Reading the 4th part.

They approached and asked - who is she, where is she going?

“Your leader is my son,” she said, and not one of the soldiers doubted it. They walked beside her, speaking in praise of how smart and brave her son was. She listened to them, proudly raising her head, and was not surprised - her son should be like that!

And here she is in front of a man whom she knew nine months before his birth, in front of one whom she never felt outside her heart - he is in silk and velvet before her, and his weapon is in precious ones. Everything is as it should be; this is how she saw him many times in her dreams - rich, famous and loved.

- Mother! he said, kissing her hands. - You came to me, so you understood me, and tomorrow I will take this damned city!

“Where you were born,” she reminded him.

Intoxicated by his exploits, maddened by the thirst for even greater glory, he spoke to her with the impudent ardor of youth:

-I was born in the world and for the world, to amaze him with surprise! I spared this city for your sake - it is like a thorn in my foot and prevents me from progressing to glory as quickly as I want it. But now - tomorrow - I will destroy the nest of stubborn!

Where every stone knows and remembers you as a child,” she said.

Stones are dumb unless a man makes them speak - let the mountains speak of me, that's what I want!

But - people? she asked.

Oh yes, I remember them, mother! And I need them, because only in the memory of people are heroes immortal! She said:

A hero is one who creates life in spite of death, who conquers death...

No! he objected. He who destroys is as glorious as he who builds cities. Look - we do not know whether Aeneas or Romulus built Rome, but the name of Alaric and other heroes who destroyed this city is known for sure.

Who survived all the names, reminded the mother.

So he spoke to her until sunset, she interrupted his crazy speeches less and less, and her proud head sank lower and lower.

Mother creates, she protects, and to speak about destruction in front of her means to speak against her, but he did not know this and denied the meaning of her life.

Mother is always against death; the hand that brings death into people's dwellings is hateful and hostile to Mothers - her son did not see this, blinded by the cold glare of glory that kills the heart. And he did not know that the Mother is an animal as smart, ruthless as fearless, when it comes to the life that she, the Mother, creates and protects.

She sat bent over, and through the open canvas of the leader’s rich tent she could see the city, where she first experienced the sweet trembling of conception and the painful convulsions of the birth of a child who now wants to destroy.

The crimson rays of the sun poured blood over the walls and towers of the city, the glass of the windows shone ominously, the whole city seemed wounded, and through hundreds of wounds the red juice of life flowed; time passed, and now the city began to turn black, like a corpse, and, like funeral candles, the stars lit up above it.

She saw them in dark houses, where they were afraid to light a fire so as not to attract the attention of enemies, in streets full of darkness, the smell of corpses, the suppressed whispers of people awaiting death - she saw everything and everyone; familiar and dear stood close before her, silently awaiting her decision, and she felt herself a mother to all the people of her city. From the black peaks of the mountains, clouds descended into the valley and, like winged horses, flew to the city, doomed to death.

“Perhaps we will fall on him in the night,” her son said, if the night was dark enough! It is inconvenient to kill when the sun looks into the eyes and the glare of the weapon blinds them - there are always many wrong blows, - he said, examining his sword. The mother told him:

- Come here, lay your head on my chest, rest, remembering how cheerful and kind you were as a child and how everyone loved you ...

He obeyed, lay down on his knees beside her and closed his eyes, saying:

I love only glory and you, because you gave birth to me the way I am.

What about women? she asked, leaning over him.

There are a lot of them, they quickly get bored, like everything is too sweet. She asked him for the last time:

And you don't want to have kids?

For what? To kill them? Someone like me will kill them, and it will hurt me, and then I will be old and weak to avenge them.

You are beautiful, but sterile as lightning,” she said with a sigh.

- Yes, like lightning ... - he answered, smiling, and dozed off on his mother's chest, like a child.

What were you thinking while reading this part of the text? What did you experience?

What would you call this part? (The cold glare of glory that kills the heart.)

Describe the woman's son and the city that is about to be destroyed:

What do you think a mother will do to protect her beloved city from her own son? (Students talk about the possible actions of the mother.)

Why does a mother need her son to calm down and fall asleep? What do you think about it?

Reading the 5th part.

Then she, covering him with her black cloak, stuck a knife into his heart, and he, shuddering, immediately died - after all, she knew well where her son's heart was beating. And, throwing the corpse from her knees at the feet of the astonished guard, she said towards the city:

- Man - I did everything I could for the motherland; Mother - I stay with my son! It's too late for me to give birth to another, nobody needs my life.

And the same knife, still warm from his blood - her blood - she plunged with a firm hand into her chest and also correctly hit the heart - if it hurts, it is easy to hit it.

What impression did this story make on you?

III. Reflection.

What is the name of this story?

Write a cinquain on the topic "Mom", "Life" or

Essay "What is the meaning of human life?"

Students write 5-10 minutes, read each other's essays.

One of the students, selected from the group, reads out his work in front of the "Author's chair" class.

What is the meaning of human life?

Why does a person live? Very often, life is compared to a road that must be passed with dignity from beginning to end, from birth to death. There are stations at different times on this road: childhood, adolescence, youth, adulthood, old age. How to go this way? What is its ultimate goal? What do you need to be so that people remember with a kind word? Probably the greatest purpose of life is to benefit people, near and far, to increase the good in those around us. And goodness is above all the happiness of all people. It is made up of many things, and every time life sets a task for a person that needs to be able to solve.

M. Gorky wrote about the suffering of the mother who raised her son - a traitor in the story "The Mother of the Traitor". The mother “creates and protects life”, dreams of the glory and well-being of her son. The woman feels guilty that she raised a hard-hearted proud man who wants to destroy his native city. Unable to reason, convince, stop her son, the mother kills him first, and then herself. This double murder gives life to the native city, convinces the enemies of the senselessness of destruction, restores the good name of the mother who protects LIFE.

So, the path to good - this is the meaning of human life. To be true to your family, friends, city, country, people - walk this path with dignity.

Thanks to everyone for their frankness, we will continue talking about the work of M. Gorky in the next lesson, to which you are invited to readstory "Old Woman Izergil" - Homework.