Author Astafiev Viktor Petrovich
Victor Astafiev
FINAL BOW
(A story within stories)
BOOK ONE
Distant and close fairy tale
In the outskirts of our village, in the middle of a grassy clearing, a long log building with a lining of boards stood on stilts. It was called a “mangazina”, which was also adjacent to the importation - here the peasants of our village brought artel equipment and seeds, it was called the “community fund”. If a house burns down, even if the whole village burns down, the seeds will be intact and, therefore, people will live, because as long as there are seeds, there is arable land in which you can throw them and grow bread, he is a peasant, a master, and not a beggar.
At a distance from the importation there is a guardhouse. She snuggled under the stone scree, in the wind and eternal shadow. Above the guardhouse, high on the ridge, larches and pines grew. Behind her, a key was smoking out of the stones with a blue haze. It spread out along the foot of the ridge, marking itself with thick sedge and meadowsweet flowers in the summer, in winter - as a quiet park under the snow and as a path through the bushes crawling from the ridges.
There were two windows in the guardhouse: one near the door and one on the side towards the village. The window leading to the village was filled with cherry blossoms, stingweed, hops and various other things that had proliferated from the spring. The guardhouse had no roof. Hops swaddled her so that she resembled a one-eyed, shaggy head. An overturned bucket stuck out like a pipe from the hop tree; the door opened immediately onto the street and shook off raindrops, hop cones, bird cherry berries, snow and icicles, depending on the time of year and weather.
Vasya the Pole lived in the guardhouse. He was short, had a limp on one leg, and had glasses. The only person in the village who had glasses. They evoked timid politeness not only among us children, but also among adults.
Vasya lived quietly and peacefully, did not harm anyone, but rarely did anyone come to see him. Only the most desperate children furtively looked into the window of the guardhouse and could not see anyone, but they were still afraid of something and ran away screaming.
At the delivery station, the kids jostled with early spring and until the fall: they played hide and seek, crawled on their bellies under the log entrance to the importation gate, or were buried under the high floor behind the stilts, and also hid in the bottom of the barrel; they were fighting for money, for chicks. The hem was beaten by punks - with bats filled with lead. When the blows echoed loudly under the arches of the importation, a sparrow commotion flared up inside her.
Here, near the importation station, I was introduced to work - I took turns spinning a winnowing machine with the kids, and here for the first time in my life I heard music - a violin...
Rarely, very rarely indeed, Vasya the Pole played the violin, that mysterious, out-of-this-world person who inevitably comes into the life of every boy, every girl and remains in the memory forever. It seemed that such a mysterious person was supposed to live in a hut on chicken legs, in a rotten place, under a ridge, and so that the fire in it barely glimmered, and so that an owl laughed drunkenly over the chimney at night, and so that the key smoked behind the hut, and so that no one... no one knew what was going on in the hut and what the owner was thinking about.
I remember Vasya once came to his grandmother and asked her something. Grandma sat Vasya down to drink tea, brought some dry herbs and began to brew it in a cast iron pot. She looked pitifully at Vasya and sighed protractedly.
Vasya didn’t drink tea our way, not with a bite and not from a saucer, he drank straight from a glass, put a teaspoon on the saucer and didn’t drop it on the floor. His glasses sparkled menacingly, his cropped head seemed small, the size of a trouser. His black beard was streaked with gray. And it was as if it was all salted, and the coarse salt had dried it out.
Vasya ate shyly, drank only one glass of tea and, no matter how much his grandmother tried to persuade him, he did not eat anything else, ceremoniously bowed out and carried away a clay pot with herbal infusion in one hand, and a bird cherry stick in the other.
Lord, Lord! - Grandmother sighed, closing the door behind Vasya. - Your lot is hard... A person goes blind.
In the evening I heard Vasya's violin.
It was early autumn. The gates of importation are wide open. There was a draft in them, stirring the shavings in the bottoms repaired for grain. The smell of rancid, musty grain pulled into the gate. A flock of children, not taken to the arable land because they were too young, played robber detectives. The game progressed sluggishly and soon died out completely. In the fall, let alone in the spring, it somehow plays poorly. One by one, the children scattered to their homes, and I stretched out on the warm log entrance and began to pull out the grains that had sprouted in the cracks. I waited for the carts to rumble on the ridge so that I could intercept our people from the arable land, ride home, and then, lo and behold, they would let me take my horse to water.
Beyond the Yenisei, beyond the Guard Bull, it became dark. In the creek of the Karaulka River, waking up, a large star blinked once or twice and began to glow. It looked like a burdock cone. Behind the ridges, above the mountain tops, a streak of dawn smoldered stubbornly, not like autumn. But then darkness quickly came over her. The dawn was covered up like a luminous window with shutters. Until the morning.
It became quiet and lonely. The guardhouse is not visible. She hid in the shadow of the mountain, merged with the darkness, and only the yellowed leaves shone faintly under the mountain, in a depression washed by a spring. Because of the shadows they began to circle bats, squeaking above me, flying into the open gates of the importation shop, catching flies there and moths, no less.
I was afraid to breathe loudly, I squeezed myself into a corner of the importation. Along the ridge, above Vasya’s hut, carts rumbled, hooves clattered: people were returning from the fields, from farmsteads, from work, but I still did not dare to peel myself away from the rough logs, and I could not overcome the paralyzing fear that rolled over me. The windows in the village lit up. Smoke from the chimneys reached the Yenisei. In the thickets of the Fokinskaya River, someone was looking for a cow and either called it in a gentle voice, or scolded it with the last words.
In the sky, next to that star that was still shining lonely over the Karaulnaya River, someone threw a piece of the moon, and it, like a bitten half of an apple, did not roll anywhere, barren, orphaned, it became chilly, glassy, and everything around it was glassy. As he fumbled, a shadow fell across the entire clearing, and a shadow, narrow and big-nosed, also fell from me.
Across the Fokino River - just a stone's throw away - the crosses in the cemetery began to turn white, something creaked in the imported goods - the cold crept under the shirt, along the back, under the skin, to the heart. I had already leaned my hands on the logs in order to push off at once, fly all the way to the gate and rattle the latch so that all the dogs in the village would wake up.
But from under the ridge, from the tangles of hops and bird cherry trees, from the deep interior of the earth, music arose and pinned me to the wall.
It became even more terrible: on the left there was a cemetery, in front there was a ridge with a hut, on the right there was a terrible place behind the village, where there were a lot of white bones lying around and where a long time ago, the grandmother said, a man was strangled, behind there was a dark imported plant, behind it there was a village, vegetable gardens covered with thistles, from a distance similar to black clouds of smoke.
I’m alone, alone, there’s such horror all around, and there’s also music - a violin. A very, very lonely violin. And she doesn’t threaten at all. Complains. And there's nothing creepy at all. And there is nothing to be afraid of. Fool, fool! Is it possible to be afraid of music? Fool, fool, I never listened alone, so...
The music flows quieter, more transparent, I hear, and my heart lets go. And this is not music, but a spring flowing from under the mountain. Someone put his lips to the water, drinks, drinks and cannot get drunk - his mouth and inside are so dry.
For some reason I see the Yenisei, quiet in the night, with a raft with a light on it. An unknown man shouts from the raft: “Which village?” - For what? Where is he going? And you can see the convoy on the Yenisei, long and creaking. He also goes somewhere. Dogs are running along the side of the convoy. The horses walk slowly, drowsily. And you can still see a crowd on the bank of the Yenisei, something wet, washed away with mud, village people all along the bank, a grandmother tearing out the hair on her head.
This music speaks about sad things, about illness, it speaks about mine, how I was sick with malaria the whole summer, how scared I was when I stopped hearing and thought that I would forever be deaf, like Alyosha, my cousin, and how she appeared to me in In a feverish dream, my mother put a cold hand with blue nails to her forehead. I screamed and did not hear myself scream.
A screwed-up lamp burned in the hut all night, my grandmother showed me corners, shone a lamp under the stove, under the bed, saying that there was no one there.
I also remember a girl, white, funny, her hand was drying up. Transport workers took her to the city to treat her.
And again the convoy appeared.
He keeps going somewhere, walking, hiding in the icy hummocks, in the frosty fog. There are fewer and fewer horses, and the last one was stolen away by the fog. Lonely, somehow empty, ice, cold and motionless dark rocks with motionless forests.
But the Yenisei, neither winter nor summer, was gone; the living vein of the spring began to beat again behind Vasya’s hut. The spring began to grow fat, and not just one spring, two, three, a menacing stream was already gushing out of the rock, rolling stones, breaking trees, uprooting them, carrying them, twisting them. He is about to sweep away the hut under the mountain, wash away the imported goods and bring everything down from the mountains. Thunder will strike in the sky, lightning will flash, and mysterious fern flowers will flash from them. The forest will light up from the flowers, the earth will light up, and even the Yenisei will not be able to drown this fire - nothing will stop such a terrible storm!
“What is this?!” Where are the people? What are they looking at?! They should tie up Vasya!”
But the violin itself extinguished everything. Again one person is sad, again he feels sorry for something, again someone is traveling somewhere, maybe on a convoy, maybe on a raft, maybe on foot to distant places.
The world didn't burn, nothing collapsed. Everything is in place. The moon and star are in place. The village, already without lights, is in place, the cemetery is in eternal silence and peace, the guardhouse under the ridge, surrounded by burning bird cherry trees and the quiet string of a violin.
Everything is in place. Only my heart, filled with grief and delight, trembled, jumped, and beats at my throat, wounded for life by the music.
What was this music telling me? About the convoy? About a dead mom? About a girl whose hand is drying up? What was she complaining about? Who were you angry with? Why am I so anxious and bitter? Why do you feel sorry for yourself? And those over there...
Astafiev Viktor Petrovich
Victor Astafiev
Last bow
A story within stories
Sing, little bird,
Burn, my torch,
Shine, star, over the traveler in the steppe.
Al. Domnin
Book one
A fairy tale far and near
Zorka's song
Trees grow for everyone
Geese in the wormwood
The smell of hay
Horse with pink mane
Monk in new pants
Guardian Angel
Boy in a white shirt
Autumn sadness and joy
A photo where I'm not in it
Grandmother's holiday
Book two
Burn, burn clearly
Stryapukhina's joy
The night is dark, dark
The legend of the glass jar
Motley
Uncle Philip - ship mechanic
Chipmunk on the cross
Karasinaya death
Without shelter
Book three
Premonition of ice drift
Zaberega
War is raging somewhere
Love potion
Soy candy
Feast after the Victory
Last bow
Damaged little head
Evening thoughts
Comments
* BOOK ONE *
A fairy tale far and near
In the outskirts of our village, in the middle of a grassy clearing, a long log building with a lining of boards stood on stilts. It was called a “mangazina”, which was also adjacent to the importation - here the peasants of our village brought artel equipment and seeds, it was called the “community fund”. If the house burns down. even if the whole village burns down, the seeds will be intact and, therefore, people will live, because as long as there are seeds, there is arable land in which you can throw them and grow bread, he is a peasant, a master, and not a beggar.
At a distance from the importation there is a guardhouse. She snuggled under the stone scree, in the wind and eternal shadow. Above the guardhouse, high on the ridge, larches and pines grew. Behind her, a key was smoking out of the stones with a blue haze. It spread out along the foot of the ridge, marking itself with thick sedge and meadowsweet flowers in the summer, in winter as a quiet park under the snow and a path through the bushes crawling from the ridges.
There were two windows in the guardhouse: one near the door and one on the side towards the village. The window leading to the village was filled with cherry blossoms, stingweed, hops and various other things that had proliferated from the spring. The guardhouse had no roof. Hops swaddled her so that she resembled a one-eyed, shaggy head. An overturned bucket stuck out like a pipe from the hop tree; the door opened immediately onto the street and shook off raindrops, hop cones, bird cherry berries, snow and icicles, depending on the time of year and weather.
Vasya the Pole lived in the guardhouse. He was short, had a limp on one leg, and had glasses. The only person in the village who had glasses. They evoked timid politeness not only among us children, but also among adults.
Vasya lived quietly and peacefully, did not harm anyone, but rarely did anyone come to see him. Only the most desperate children furtively looked into the window of the guardhouse and could not see anyone, but they were still afraid of something and ran away screaming.
At the importation point, the children jostled about from early spring until autumn: they played hide and seek, crawled on their bellies under the log entrance to the importation gate, or were buried under the high floor behind the stilts, and even hid in the bottom of the barrel; they were fighting for money, for chicks. The hem was beaten by punks - with bats filled with lead. When the blows echoed loudly under the arches of the importation, a sparrow commotion flared up inside her.
Here, near the importation station, I was introduced to work - I took turns spinning a winnowing machine with the children, and here for the first time in my life I heard music - a violin...
Rarely, very rarely indeed, Vasya the Pole played the violin, that mysterious, out-of-this-world person who inevitably comes into the life of every boy, every girl and remains in the memory forever. It seemed that such a mysterious person was supposed to live in a hut on chicken legs, in a rotten place, under a ridge, and so that the fire in it barely glimmered, and so that an owl laughed drunkenly over the chimney at night, and so that the key smoked behind the hut. and so that no one knows what is going on in the hut and what the owner is thinking about.
I remember Vasya once came to his grandmother and asked her something. Grandma sat Vasya down to drink tea, brought some dry herbs and began to brew it in a cast iron pot. She looked pitifully at Vasya and sighed protractedly.
Vasya didn’t drink tea our way, not with a bite and not from a saucer, he drank straight from a glass, put a teaspoon on the saucer and didn’t drop it on the floor. His glasses sparkled menacingly, his cropped head seemed small, the size of a trouser. His black beard was streaked with gray. And it was as if it was all salted, and the coarse salt had dried it out.
Vasya ate shyly, drank only one glass of tea and, no matter how much his grandmother tried to persuade him, he did not eat anything else, ceremoniously bowed out and carried away a clay pot with herbal infusion in one hand, and a bird cherry stick in the other.
Lord, Lord! - Grandmother sighed, closing the door behind Vasya. -Your fate is hard... A person goes blind.
In the evening I heard Vasya's violin.
It was early autumn. The delivery gates are wide open. There was a draft in them, stirring the shavings in the bottoms repaired for grain. The smell of rancid, musty grain pulled into the gate. A flock of children, not taken to the arable land because they were too young, played robber detectives. The game progressed sluggishly and soon died out completely. In the fall, let alone in the spring, it somehow plays poorly. One by one, the children scattered to their homes, and I stretched out on the warm log entrance and began to pull out the grains that had sprouted in the cracks. I waited for the carts to rumble on the ridge so that I could intercept our people from the arable land, ride home, and then, lo and behold, they would let me take my horse to water.
Beyond the Yenisei, beyond the Guard Bull, it became dark. In the creek of the Karaulka River, waking up, a large star blinked once and began to glow. It looked like a burdock cone. Behind the ridges, above the mountain tops, a streak of dawn smoldered stubbornly, not like autumn. But then darkness quickly came over her. The dawn was covered up like a luminous window with shutters. Until the morning.
It became quiet and lonely. The guardhouse is not visible. She hid in the shadow of the mountain, merged with the darkness, and only the yellowed leaves shone faintly under the mountain, in a depression washed by a spring. From behind the shadows, bats began to circle, squeak above me, fly into the open gates of the importation, there to catch flies and moths, no less.
I was afraid to breathe loudly, I squeezed myself into a corner of the importation. Along the ridge, above Vasya’s hut, carts rumbled, hooves clattered: people were returning from the fields, from farmsteads, from work, but I still didn’t dare
Beauty has the ability to please the eye. The most ordinary things can evoke admiration due to their beauty. We encounter them every day, as they are around us. Beauty is all that beauty that surrounds a person and lives inside him. We are now talking about nature, music, animals and people. Everything conceals external and internal beauty.
You just need to have the ability to see and understand it.
V. Astafiev wrote in his work about the lonely singing of a violin, which suddenly managed to open before the main
hero of the beauty of the world, taught the vision and understanding of beauty. It taught the boy not to be afraid of the world, but to see the good in it. The character managed to feel in the music the consonance with his own emotional experiences, his own orphan’s grief, and at the same time, faith in the best. The child was seriously ill, but managed to recover - something similar also seemed to him in the singing of a sad violin. Astafiev wrote “There was no… evil around,” since the hero’s heart at that moment was filled with goodness.
We see the world both with ordinary eyes and with the eyes of the soul. If the soul is filled with anger and ugliness, then the world seems just as disgusting.
If a person is endowed with a pure and bright soul, then he sees only beauty around him. We've all met people who see the good in everything. But there are also many people who are constantly dissatisfied with everything. E. Porter’s book “Pollyanna” is dedicated to this very topic: life can become more joyful, the sun more bright and the world even more beautiful if you strive to find joy and beauty around you, rather than ugliness and sorrow.
Other works on this topic:
- What is beauty? I think everyone knows the meaning of this word. However, it is worth noting that beauty exists externally and internally. Important to someone appearance person, but for someone...
- Where does beauty live? Where does she hide from human gaze? Perhaps beauty lives in the bowl of a flower, perhaps it hides under the fallen autumn leaves or takes refuge somewhere...
- Beauty should be regarded as something beautiful that lives inside a person and at the same time surrounds him. This concept can be applied to people, nature or art....
- In French, this novel is called “Great Families,” and it contains goes in charge image about the old aristocratic family of La Monnerie and about a family of immigrants from Austria...
- Beauty is the joy of our life. V. Sukhomlinsky Plan 1. Know how to see the beautiful. 2. Comprehension of beauty: A) the beauty of nature; B) a person is beautiful at work; IN)...
- Our world is great, and the behavior of people in it is even greater and more diverse. It just so happened for thousands of years that we are born beautiful and ugly - how...
- The concept of beauty is very broad. And at the same time relatively. What is beautiful to one may be ugly to another. People, things,... can be beautiful.
- Beauty is a very individual concept. What one person admires, another will not even look at, and if he does, he will be very surprised. With what...
(1) In the outskirts of our village there was a long room made of boards on stilts. (2) For the first time in my life I heard music here - violin. (3) Vasya the Pole played it. (4) What did the music tell me? (5) About something very big, (6) What was she complaining about, who was she angry with? (7) I feel anxious and bitter, (8) I want to cry, because I feel sorry for myself, I feel sorry for those who sleep soundly in the cemetery!
(9) Vasya, without ceasing to play, said: “(10) This music was written by a man who was deprived of the most precious thing. (11) If a person has no mother, no father, no homeland, he is not yet an orphan. (12) Everything passes: love, regret about it, the bitterness of loss, even the pain from wounds - but the longing for the homeland never goes away and does not go away. (13) This music was written by my fellow countryman Oginsky. (14) I wrote at the border, saying goodbye to my homeland. (15) He sent her his last greetings. (16) The composer has long been gone from the world, but his pain, his melancholy, his love for native land, which no one can take away, is still alive.”
(17) “Thank you, uncle,” I whispered. (18) “What, boy?” -(19) “The only thing is that I’m not an orphan.” (20) With ecstatic tears I thanked Vasya, this night world, the sleeping village, and also the sleeping forest behind it. (21) At those moments there was no evil for me. (22) The world was kind and lonely just like me. (23) Music sounded within me about the ineradicable love for the homeland. (24) And the Yenisei, which does not sleep even at night, the silent village behind me, the grasshopper working with its last strength against the autumn in the nettles, it seems to be the only one in the whole world, the grass cast as if from metal - this was my homeland.
(25)...Many years have passed. (26) And then one day at the end of the war I stood near the cannons in a destroyed Polish city. (27) There was a smell of burning and dust all around. (28)1 suddenly, in the house across the street from me, the sounds of an organ were heard. (29) This music stirred up the memories. (30) Once I wanted to die from incomprehensible sadness and delight after I listened to Oginsky’s polonaise, (31) But now the same music that I listened to in childhood was refracted in me and petrified, especially that part of it, from which I once cried. (32) The music, just like on that distant night, grabbed the throat, but did not squeeze out tears, did not sprout pity. (33) She called somewhere, forced them to do something so that these fires would go out, so that people would not huddle in burning ruins, so that the sky would not throw up explosions. (34) Music ruled over the city, numb with grief, the same music that, like the sigh of his land, was kept in the heart of a man who had never seen his homeland and had been yearning for it all his life. (According to V. Astafiev)
Why does a person feel love for his homeland forever? It is the problem of homesickness that he addresses in his text. V. Astafiev.
This moral problem- one of those that is relevant today. A person cannot live outside his homeland. Remembering his childhood, the author talks about a person he knows who “lost what was most dear to him” and dedicated his music to his native land. V. Astafiev convinces that if a person has no mother, no father, but has a homeland, he is not yet an orphan.
One cannot but agree with the author that truly noble people we can name those who, despite life’s adversities, maintain an invisible connection with their small homeland, respectful attitude to your past. For example, when the Nazis, having occupied France, offered General Denikin, who fought against the Red Army during Civil War, cooperate with them against Soviet power, he refused, because his homeland was more valuable to him than political differences.
Experience confirms the author’s correctness fiction. Small Motherland- this is the cradle of childhood, the place where a person is formed as an individual, where the foundations of moral education are laid. And if he remembers this, then neither time, nor fashion, nor the people around him will change him. Thus, Tatyana Larina, the heroine of the novel “Eugene Onegin” in verse by A.S. Pushkin, becomes brilliant after marriage socialite, but behind the external changes one can easily recognize in her the former provincial young lady who is ready to give everything “for a shelf of books, for a lovely garden.”
So, a person experiences love for his homeland forever if he maintains his blood connection with his home, with his childhood. Tanya D., 11th grade
Composition
“The music grabbed you by the throat, but did not squeeze out tears, did not sprout pity.” In the proposed text V. Astafiev makes us think about the problem of the impact of art on humans.
The problem raised by the author remains relevant at all times and concerns people of different ages and professions. It is one of the “eternal” ones, because the desire to create is characteristic of every person. The author, telling his story, explains what music means to him. But also tries to convey to readers the importance of music for everyone. Convinces that music is like a key that unlocks tender or sad memories in people.
I completely agree with the author's opinion. Of course, art influences a person: it inspires him, reveals hidden feelings in him. An example of the influence of art on a person is the work of A.I. Kuprin “ Garnet bracelet" For Princess Vera, main character, music becomes a consolation after Zheltkov’s death, reveals the sensuality of her soul, transforms the heroine internally.
On the other hand, in the novel by A. Conan Doyle “Sherlock Holmes” main character To concentrate, I always picked up the violin. The music flowing from under the bow helped him make the right decision and reveal the secret.
So, to paraphrase V. Astafiev (“Music reigned in the heart of man”), we can say that music living in the hearts is capable of working miracles with a person. Anya K., 11th grade
What role does true art play?in a person's life? Whichcan have an impactmusic per person? Exactly the problem the impact of music on the human soulraises in his text V.P.Astafiev.
Author explains the problem with an exampletwo incidents from the life of the narrator who recalls feelings,awakened in his soul under the influence of music. The writer talks abouta boy who heard music for the first time and experienced feelings of pity for himself and other people, longing for his homeland.
Pondering the problemthe influence of music on a person, V.P. Astafiev compares the feelings experienced by the hero in childhood with the feelings during the war, when the narrator hears the same music.The author draws attention to the fact thatwhat is music nowhas a different effectat the listener: “she called somewhere,” “forced her to do something...”
(1) There lived in the guardhouse Vasya the Pole, a mysterious, out-of-this-world man who inevitably comes into the life of every boy, every girl and remains in the memory forever.
(2) In the evening I heard Vasya’s violin. (3) It was early autumn. (4) In the fall, let alone in the spring, it somehow plays poorly. (5) One by one, the children scattered to their homes, and I stretched out on the warm log entrance and began to pull out the grains that had sprouted in the cracks. (b) Suddenly, from under the ridge, from the tangles of hops and bird cherry trees, from the deep interior of the earth, music arose and nailed me to the wall.
(7) It became scary: on the left was a cemetery, in front was a ridge with a hut, on the right was a dark imported forest, behind it was a village, vegetable gardens covered in thistles, which from a distance looked like black puffs of smoke. (8) I’m alone, alone, there’s such horror all around, and also music - a violin. (9) A very, very lonely violin. (10) And she doesn’t threaten at all. (I) Complains. (12) And there’s nothing creepy at all. (13) And there is nothing to be afraid of. (14) Fool, fool! (15) Is it possible to be afraid of music? (16) Fool, fool, he never listened alone, that’s it. . .
(17) The music flows quieter, more transparent, I hear, and my heart lets go. (18) And this is not music, but a spring flowing from under the mountain. (19) Someone put his lips to the water, drinks, drinks and cannot get drunk - his mouth and inside are so dry. (20) This music speaks about sad things, it speaks about my illness, how I suffered from malaria the whole summer, how scared I was when I stopped hearing and thought that I would be deaf forever, how my mother appeared to me in a feverish dream, applied cold hand to forehead. (21) I screamed and did not hear my scream. . .
(22) 0 what was the violin telling me? (23) What did you complain about? (24) Who were you angry with? (25) Why am I so anxious and bitter? (26) Why do you feel sorry for yourself? (27) My heart, filled with grief and delight, trembled, jumped, and beats at my throat, wounded for life by the music.
(28) It ended unexpectedly, as if someone had laid an imperious hand on the violinist’s shoulder: “(29) Well, that’s enough!” (ZO) The violin fell silent mid-sentence, fell silent,
not by screaming, but by breathing out pain. (31) But already, besides her, of her own free will, some other violin soared higher, higher and with fading pain, a groan squeezed into her teeth, broke off into the sky. . .
(32) I sat for a long time, licking large tears that rolled onto my lips. (ZZ) I didn’t have the strength to get up and leave. (34) With touched tears I thanked Vasya, this night world, the sleeping village, the sleeping forest behind it. (35) I wasn’t even afraid to walk past the cemetery. (Zb) Nothing is scary now. (37) At those moments there was no evil around me. (38) The world was kind and lonely - nothing, nothing bad could fit in it.
15. 3. How do you understand the meaning of the phrase REAL ART? Formulate and comment on the definition you have given. Write essay-reasoning on the topic: “What is real art? ", taking the definition you gave as a thesis. Arguing your thesis, give 2 (two) example-argument, confirming your reasoning: give one example-argument from the text you read, and the second from your life experience.
