Program " Primary School 21st century"
Summary of a reading lesson in 4th grade
on the topic: A.P. Platonov “Love for the Motherland, or the Journey of a Sparrow”
Lesson objectives.
Familiarization with the content of A. Platonov’s fairy tale “Love for the Motherland or the Journey of a Sparrow” and the music of great composers.
Development of analytical thinking skills.
Formation of a child’s spiritual culture and aesthetic taste.
Nurturing the emotional sphere of students, increasing interest in literature and music.
Instill a sense of compassion, understanding, love for the Motherland, mercy, love for all living things, the ability to give good.
Learning to hear and listen to music.
Equipment: multimedia projector, presentation, portrait of the writer.
During the classes.
1 . Updating student activities.
Watch the video clip “It’s All Russia”
Why do we start our lesson with music?
What feelings did you experience when listening to music? (presentation 1.2 slide)
2 . Checking homework.
Name the poets who wrote poems about
Homeland? (N.M. Rubtsov, I.A. Bunin, A.A. Blok, K.D. Balmont) (presentation 3 slide)
3 .Selective reading. I will read excerpts, and you name the author and title of the work.
Again, like in the golden years,
Three worn out flapping harnesses,
And the painted knitting needles knit
Into loose ruts...
There is a word - and it is one.
Russia. This sound is a pipe.
The evening is fading, the distance is turning blue,
The sun is setting.
Farewell, my homeland! North, goodbye, -
The Fatherland of glory and valor.
My Rus', I love your birches!
From the first years I lived and grew up with them.
My school is wooden!
The time will come to leave -
The river behind me is foggy
He will run and run.
Answers on questions.
Which of these poems did you like the most?
Read it by heart.
4. Reading competition.
What lines speak about the poet’s love for his homeland?
5.Work on new topic lesson.
The teacher's introductory speech about the writer A.P. Platonov and his works. (presentation 4.5 slide)
6. The teacher reads the fairy tale in parts and analyzes the text by questions. Why is the fairy tale called this?What is this fairy tale about?
Let's open the first page of the fairy-tale incident “Love for the Motherland, or the Journey of a Sparrow.” Who is the main character in the fairy tale?
How do you imagine an old man? (1 task in a notebook)
7. Work in groups.
a) First group.
Why did the violinist go to play the violin at the monument to A.S. Pushkin?
What did the musician want to express when playing the violin?
Why doesn't a musician charge money for his art?
Why does he play at the Pushkin monument? Why do people stop near a musician?
Why did the violinist fall in love with the sparrow so much and carry bread for him every day?
Did the sparrow understand music?
What attracted the sparrow more - music or bread crumbs?
Conclusions . What, What does the concept of life include? What are its first terms? (Mercy, love for everything earthly.)
b) Second group. "Sparrow in Paradise"
Why did the sparrow feel sad on the new land, why does he want to fly home? What is he missing?
Who does he choose as his friends? Why? - Where does it find refuge?
What torments the sparrow? What does he dream about in a paradise country?
c) Third group . "The Musician and the Turtle."
Why did the musician buy a turtle? - What will the presence of a turtle in his house give to a musician?
Did the turtle understand the musician’s mood and his playing?
What is valuable for Platonov in man and in every living creature?
Conclusions . The ability and willingness to love.
G) Fourth group."The Sparrow and the Hurricane."
How does a sparrow feel in a hurricane?
How does he get his food? Is it difficult for him to get it?
Is he happy with life in a hurricane?
Why did the sparrow, when flying in a hurricane, forget how the pensioner looked after him?
What does he regret, what is he missing from the hurricane?
Conclusions . Are there new components in the “formula of life”?
e) Fifth group. A new meeting between the sparrow and the violinist.
Why does a fairy tale incident - contrary to fairy tale tradition - end tragically?
Why does the sparrow die? - Did the musician love the sparrow, and the sparrow love the musician?
Why did music lack complete consolation after the sparrow's death?
What do the old man and the sparrow have in common? What's different?
8.Listening to music. (Imagine yourself for a moment near the monument to Pushkin, listen to the music)
9. Analytical conclusions.Is it possible to put next to a musician, and Pushkin, and all the great people?
What is this story about? What important, secret things did the author want to tell readers about? Why is the story called “Love for the Motherland, or the Journey of a Sparrow”?
What does Andrei Platonov’s “formula of life” include? (Love for the Motherland, mercy, love for every living thing, the ability to give goodness, to give, selfless love.)
Is the death of a sparrow accidental?
No, the death of the sparrow is by no means accidental. Sparrow is one of those who are accustomed to clearly taking what they need from life. So, the sparrow is deprived of life-giving principles, which, according to Platonov, are labor, the ability and willingness to love and give. It is thanks to them that the miracle of life becomes possible.
10. Conversation. A fairy tale is a lie, but there is a hint in it
What is Platonov's writing goal? What do his parables teach? (To reveal to people the true meaning and truth of life, to show what a joy it is to understand the world and help it become better.)
What is in these works from the story and what from the fairy tale?(presentation 6 slide)
11. Work in notebooks.
12. Lesson summary. Reflection.-Which people around us do we like best?
How can you determine a person: is he good or evil?
What components of A. Platonov’s “formulas of life” are especially important today?
MERCY
Choose a synonym for that word: regret, participation, pity, condolences, compassion.
COMPASSION - pity, sympathy, aroused by the misfortune of another (Ozhegov’s Russian language dictionary)(presentation 7 slide)
10. Homework: Brief retelling of the work.
Let's see what components you derived in A. Platonov’s “formula of life” (see diagram).
The old violinist-musician loved to play at the foot of the Pushkin monument. This monument stands in Moscow, at the beginning of Tverskoy Boulevard, poems are written on it, and marble steps rise to it on all four sides. Having climbed these steps to the pedestal itself, the old musician turned his face to the boulevard, to the distant Nikitsky Gate, and touched the strings of the violin with a bow. Children, passers-by, newspaper readers from the local kiosk immediately gathered at the monument - and they all fell silent in anticipation of the music, because music consoles people, it promises them happiness and a glorious life. The musician placed the case from his violin on the ground opposite the monument; it was closed, and in it lay a piece of black bread and an apple so that he could eat whenever he wanted.
Usually the old man went out to play in the evening, at the first dusk. It was more beneficial for his music to make the world quieter and darker. He did not know the troubles of his old age, because he received a pension from the state and was fed enough. But the old man was bored by the thought that he was not bringing any good to people, and so he voluntarily went to play on the boulevard. There, the sounds of his violin were heard in the air, in the darkness, and at least occasionally they reached the depths of the human heart, touching him with a gentle and courageous force that captivated him to live a higher, higher life. wonderful life. Some music listeners took out money to give it to the old man, but did not know where to put it: the violin case was closed, and the musician himself was high at the foot of the monument, almost next to Pushkin. Then people put ten-kopeck pieces and pennies on the lid of the case. However, the old man did not want to cover his need at the expense of the art of music; hiding the violin back in the case, he showered money from it on the ground, not paying attention to their value. He went home late, sometimes already at midnight, when people became sparse and only some random lonely person listened to his music. But the old man could play for one person and played the piece to the end until the listener left, crying in the darkness to himself. Maybe he had his own grief, now disturbed by the song of art, or maybe he felt ashamed that he was living wrong, or he simply drank wine...
IN late autumn The old man noticed that a sparrow had sat down on the case, which was lying, as usual, at a distance on the ground. The musician was surprised that this bird was not yet sleeping and, even in the darkness of the evening, was busy working for its food. True, it is now difficult to feed yourself in a day: all the trees have already fallen asleep for the winter, the insects have died, the earth in the city is bare and hungry, because horses rarely walk and street cleaners immediately remove the manure after them. Where do sparrows actually eat in autumn and winter? After all, the wind in the city is weak and scanty between the houses - it does not hold the sparrow when it stretches its tired wings, so the sparrow has to wave and work with them all the time.
Sparrow, having examined the entire lid of the case, did not find anything useful on it for himself. Then he moved the money coins with his legs, took the smallest bronze penny from them with his beak and flew away with it to an unknown destination.
So, it was not for nothing that he flew in - at least he took something! Let him live and care, he also needs to exist.
The next evening, the old violinist opened the case - in case that if yesterday's sparrow flew in, it could feed on the pulp of the bread that lay at the bottom of the case. However, the sparrow did not appear; he had probably eaten somewhere else, and the penny was no good for him anywhere.
The old man still patiently waited for the sparrow, and on the fourth day he saw it again. The sparrow sat down on the bread in the case without interference and began to peck at the prepared food in a businesslike manner. The musician stepped down from the monument, approached the case and quietly examined the small bird. The sparrow was disheveled, big-headed, and many of its feathers had turned grey; From time to time he looked around vigilantly to see enemy and friend with precision, and the musician was surprised at his calm, reasonable eyes. This sparrow must have been very old or unhappy, because he had already acquired great intelligence from grief, misfortune and longevity.
For several days the sparrow did not appear on the boulevard; Meanwhile, pure snow fell and it froze. The old man, before going to the boulevard, daily crumbled soft music into the violin case. warm bread. Standing at the height of the foot of the monument, playing a gentle melody, the old man constantly watched his open case, the nearby paths and the dead bushes of flowers in the summer flowerbed. The musician was waiting for the sparrow and longing for it: where does it sit now and keep warm, what does it eat in the cold snow? The lanterns around the monument to Pushkin were burning quietly and brightly, beautiful, clean people, illuminated by electricity and snow, gently passed by the monument, moving away on their important and happy affairs. The old man continued to play, hiding within himself a pitiful feeling of sadness for the small, diligent bird that now lived somewhere and was exhausted.
But another five days passed, and the sparrow still did not fly to visit the Pushkin monument. The old violinist still left an open case with crumbled bread for him, but the musician’s senses were already tired from anticipation, and he began to forget the sparrow. The old man had to forget a lot in his life irrevocably. And the violinist stopped crumbling the bread; it now lay in the case in one piece, and only the musician left the lid open.
* * *
One day in the depths of winter, around midnight, snow began to snow. The old man played the last piece of Schubert’s “Winter Road” and then planned to retire. At that hour, a familiar gray-haired sparrow appeared from the middle of the wind and snow. He sat down with his thin, insignificant paws on the frosty snow; then he walked around the case a little, blown throughout his body by whirlwinds, but indifferent to them and fearless, and flew inside the case. There the sparrow began to peck at the bread, almost burying itself in its warm pulp. He ate for a long time, probably as much as half an hour; The blizzard had already almost completely covered the inside of the case with snow, and the sparrow was still moving inside the snow, working on its food. This means he knew how to eat for a long time. The old man approached the case with the violin and bow and waited for a long time in the midst of the whirlwind for the sparrow to free the case. Finally, the sparrow got out, brushed itself in a small snowdrift, said something briefly, and ran away on foot to its lodgings for the night, not wanting to fly in the cold wind, so as not to waste its strength.
The next evening the same sparrow again arrived at the Pushkin monument; he immediately sank into the case and began pecking at the finished bread. The old man looked at him from the height of the foot of the monument, played music on the violin from there and felt good in his heart. That evening the weather was calm, as if tired after yesterday's acrid snowdrift. Having eaten, the sparrow flew high out of the case and muttered a small song in the air...
It was not light for a long time in the morning. Waking up in his room, the retired musician heard the singing of a blizzard outside the window. Frosty, hard snow rushed down the alley and blocked out the daylight. Even at night, in the darkness, frozen forests and flowers of an unknown woman lay on the window glass. magical land. The old man began to admire this inspired play of nature, as if nature was also yearning for better happiness, like man and music.
You won’t have to go play on Tverskoy Boulevard today. Today the storm is singing, and the sounds of the violin will be too weak. Nevertheless, in the evening the old man put on his coat, tied a shawl around his head and neck, crumbled some bread into his pocket and went outside. With difficulty, suffocating from the hardened cold and wind, the musician walked along his lane to Tverskoy Boulevard. The icy branches of the trees on the boulevard crunched desertedly, and the monument itself rustled sadly from the flying snow rubbing against it. The old man wanted to put the bread lumps on the steps of the monument, but he saw that it was useless: the storm would immediately carry away the bread, and the snow would cover it. All the same, the musician left his bread on the step and saw it disappear in the darkness of the storm.
In the evening the musician sat at home alone; he played his violin, but there was no one to listen to him, and the melody sounded bad in the emptiness of the room, it touched only one single soul of the violinist, and this was not enough, or his soul became poor from old age. He stopped playing. There was a torrent of hurricane flowing outside - things were probably worse for the sparrows now. The old man went to the window and listened to the force of the storm through the frozen glass. Is the gray-haired sparrow even now not afraid to fly to the Pushkin monument to eat bread from the case?
* * *
The gray-haired sparrow was not afraid of the snow hurricane. Only he did not fly to Tverskoy Boulevard, but walked, because it was a little quieter below and he could take cover behind the local snowdrifts and various passing objects.
Sparrow carefully examined the entire surrounding area around the Pushkin monument and even rummaged with his feet in the snow, where an open case of bread usually stood. Several times he tried to fly upwind from the bare, wind-blown steps of the monument to see if the hurricane had brought any crumbs or old grains there; they could be caught and swallowed. However, the storm immediately took the sparrow as soon as it left the snow and carried it away until it hit a tree trunk or a tram mast, and then the sparrow quickly fell and buried itself in the snow to warm up and rest. Soon the sparrow stopped hoping for food. He raked a hole deeper in the snow, curled up in it and dozed off: just so that he would not freeze and die, and the storm would someday end. Still, the sparrow slept carefully, sensitively, watching the effect of the hurricane in its sleep. In the middle of sleep and night, the sparrow noticed that the snowy mound in which he was sleeping crawled along with him, and then all the snow around him collapsed, dissipated, and the sparrow was left alone in the hurricane.
The sparrow was carried away into the distance, at a large empty height. There wasn’t even snow here, just the bare, clean wind, hard from its own compressed force. Sparrow thought, curled his body closer and fell asleep in this hurricane.
Having slept, he woke up, but the storm was still carrying him. Sparrow had already become a little accustomed to living in a hurricane; it was even easier for him to exist now, because he did not feel the weight of his body and did not need to walk, fly, or take care of anything. Sparrow looked around in the darkness of the storm - he wanted to understand what time it was: day or night. But he was unable to see light or darkness through the darkness and again shrank and fell asleep, trying to conserve the warmth at least inside himself, and let his feathers and skin cool down.
When the sparrow woke up for the second time, he was still in the storm. He was now beginning to get used to it, only he was taken care of by food. The sparrow did not feel cold now, but there was no warmth - he only trembled in this darkness and stream of empty air. Sparrow shrank again, trying not to be conscious of anything until the hurricane passed.
The sparrow woke up on the ground, in clean and warm silence. He was lying on the leaves of large green grass. Unknown and invisible birds sang for a long time, musical songs, so the sparrow was surprised and listened to them for a while. Then he removed and cleaned his feathers after the blizzard and went to feed.
It was probably going on here eternal summer, and therefore there was a lot of food. Almost every herb bore fruit. On the stems between the leaves hung either ears with grains, or soft pods with small spicy cakes, or a large, hearty berry grew openly. The sparrow pecked all day until he felt ashamed and disgusted, he came to his senses and stopped eating, although he could have eaten a little more.
Having slept the night on a grass stem, the sparrow began to feed again in the morning. However, he now ate a little. Yesterday, due to severe hunger, he did not notice the taste of food, but today he felt that all the fruits of herbs and shrubs were too sweet or, on the contrary, bitter. But the fruits contained great nutritional value, in the form of thick, almost intoxicating fat, and on the second day the sparrow became slightly plump and shiny. And at night he began to suffer from heartburn, and then the sparrow yearned for the usual acidity of simple black bread; his small intestines and stomach whined from the sensation of warm, dark pulp in the musician’s case at the monument to Pushkin.
Soon the sparrow became completely sad on this summer, peaceful land. The sweetness and abundance of food, the light of the air and the fragrance of plants did not attract him. Wandering in the shade of the thickets, the sparrow did not meet either an acquaintance or a relative: sparrows did not live here. Local, fat birds had colorful, beautiful feathers; they usually sat high on tree branches and sang beautiful songs from there, as if light came from their throats. These birds rarely ate, because it was enough to peck one fat berry in the grass to be satisfied for the whole day and all night.
Sparrow began to live alone. He gradually flew around the entire local country, rising from the ground just above the bushes, and everywhere he observed dense groves of herbs and flowers, thick low trees, singing, proud birds and a blue, windless sky. It even rained here only at night, when everyone was asleep, so that bad weather would not spoil anyone’s mood.
After a while the sparrow found himself permanent place for life. It was the bank of a stream, covered with small stones, where nothing grew, where the earth lay more scanty and uncomfortable.
There was still one snake living there in a coastal crevice, but it had no poison or teeth; it ate by swallowing moist soil like a worm - and small earthen animals remained inside it, and the chewed earth came back out. Sparrow made friends with this snake. He often came to her and looked into her dark, friendly eyes, and the snake also looked at the sparrow. Then the sparrow left, and it became easier for him to live alone after his meeting with the snake.
Down the stream, a sparrow once saw a rather high, bare rock. He took off on it and decided to spend the night here, on an elevated rock, every night. Sparrow hoped that someday a storm would come and it would tear him, sleeping, off the rock and take him back home to Tverskoy Boulevard. The first night it was uncomfortable to sleep on the cool rock, but on the second night the sparrow got used to it and slept on the rock, deep, as if in a nest, warmed by the hope of a storm.
* * *
The old musician realized that the gray-haired, familiar sparrow had died forever in a winter hurricane. Snowfall, cold days and blizzards often did not allow the old man to go out onto Tverskoy Boulevard to play the violin.
On such days, the musician sat at home, and his only consolation was to look at the frozen window glass, where the picture of an overgrown, magical country, probably inhabited only by singing birds, formed and collapsed in silence. The old man could not imagine that his sparrow now lives in a warm, flowery region and sleeps at night on a high stone, exposing itself to the wind... In February, the musician bought himself a small turtle at a zoological store on Arbat. He once read that turtles live a long time, and the old man did not want the creature to which his heart would become accustomed to die before him. In old age, the soul does not heal, it is tormented by memory for a long time, so let the turtle survive his death.
Living with the turtle, the musician began to go to the Pushkin monument very rarely. Now every evening he played the violin at home, and the turtle slowly walked out into the middle of the room, stretched out his thin, long neck and listened to the music. She turned her head slightly away from the man, as if to hear better, and one of her black eyes looked at the musician with a meek expression. The turtle was probably afraid that the old man would stop playing and she would again become bored living alone on the bare floor. But the musician played for the turtle until late at night, until the turtle laid his little head on the floor in fatigue and sleep. Having waited for the turtle’s eyes to close with the wrinkles of his eyelids, the old man hid the violin in its case and also went to bed. But the musician slept poorly. His body was either shooting somewhere, or it was aching, or his heart was racing, and he often suddenly woke up in fear that he was dying. It usually turned out that he was still alive and outside the window, in a Moscow alley, the good night. In the month of March, waking up from a sinking heart, the old man heard a mighty wind; the glass in the window had thawed: the wind was probably blowing from the south, from the spring side. AND an old man I remembered the sparrow and felt sorry for it that it had died: soon it would be summer, the trees on Tverskoy Boulevard would rise again and the sparrow would still live in the world. And for the winter, the musician would take him to his room, the sparrow would make friends with the turtle and freely endure the winter in the warmth, as if in retirement... The old man fell asleep again, reassured by the fact that he had a living turtle and that was enough.
The sparrow also slept that night, although it flew in a hurricane from the south. He woke up only for one moment, when the blow of the hurricane tore him off the elevated stone, but, rejoicing, he immediately fell asleep again, squeezing himself warmer with his body. The sparrow woke up already before dark; the wind carried him with mighty force to a distant direction. The sparrow was not afraid of flight and heights; he stirred inside the hurricane, as if in a heavy, viscous dough, said something to himself and felt that he was hungry. Sparrow looked around with caution and noticed foreign objects around him. He examined them carefully and recognized them: they were individual fat berries from warm country, grains, pods and whole ears of corn, and even whole bushes and tree branches flew a little further from the sparrow. This means that the wind took with it more than just him, the sparrow. A small grain was rushing very close to the sparrow, but it was difficult to grab it, thanks to the burden of the wind: the sparrow stuck out its beak several times, but could not reach the grain, because its beak rested against the storm, like against a stone. Then the sparrow began to revolve around itself: it turned over with its legs up, released one wing, and the wind immediately blew it to the side - first to the nearby grain, and the sparrow immediately pecked it, and then the sparrow made its way to more distant berries and ears of corn. He fed himself to his fill and, in addition, learned how to move almost across the storm. After eating, the sparrow decided to fall asleep. He felt good now: plenty of food was flying next to him, and he didn’t feel cold or warm amid the hurricane. The sparrow slept and woke up, and when he woke up, he again lay down in the wind with his legs up to doze in peace. In the intervals between one sleep and another, he fed nourishingly from the surrounding air; sometimes some berry or pod with a sweet filling would stick close to the sparrow’s body, and then all he could do was peck and swallow this food. However, the sparrow was afraid that the wind would someday stop blowing, and he was already accustomed to living in the storm and eating abundantly from it. He no longer wanted to forage for food on the boulevards through constant predation, to be cold in the winter and to wander on foot on empty asphalt so as not to waste energy flying against the wind. He only regretted that among all this mighty wind there were no crumbs of sour black bread - only sweetness or bitterness was flying. Fortunately for the sparrow, the storm lasted for a long time, and when he woke up, he again felt weightless and tried to hum a song to himself out of satisfaction with life.
* * *
On spring evenings, the old violinist came out to play at the Pushkin monument almost every day. He took the turtle with him and placed it on its paws next to him. Throughout the music, the turtle listened motionlessly to the violin and, during breaks in the playing, patiently waited for the continuation. The violin case still lay on the ground opposite the monument, but the lid of the case was now permanently closed, because the old man no longer expected a gray-haired sparrow to visit him.
One fine evening the wind and snow began to blow. The musician hid the turtle in his bosom, put the violin in its case and went to the apartment. At home, as usual, he fed the turtle and then put it to rest in a box with cotton wool. After that, the old man wanted to take tea to warm his stomach and prolong the evening. However, there was no kerosene in the Primus and the bottle was also empty. The musician went to buy kerosene on Bronnaya Street. The wind has already stopped; Light, wet snow was falling. On Bronnaya, the sale of kerosene was closed for re-registration of goods, so the old man had to go to the Nikitsky Gate.
Having purchased kerosene, the violinist headed back home through the fresh, melting snow. Two boys stood at the gate of an old residential building, and one of them said to the musician:
- Uncle, buy a bird from us... We don’t have enough for a movie!
The violinist stopped.
“Come on,” he said. -Where did you get it?
“It fell from the sky onto the stones,” the boy answered and handed the bird to the musician in two folded handfuls.
The bird was probably dead. The old man put it in his pocket, paid the boy twenty kopecks and moved on.
At home, the musician took the bird out of his pocket into the light. The gray-haired sparrow lay in his hand; his eyes were closed, his legs were bent helplessly, and one wing hung without strength. It is impossible to understand whether the sparrow died temporarily or forever. Just in case, the old man put the sparrow in his bosom under his nightgown - by the morning he would either warm up or never wake up again.
After drinking tea, the musician carefully lay down to sleep on his side, not wanting to harm the sparrow.
Soon the old man dozed off, but immediately woke up: a sparrow moved under his shirt and pecked at his body. "Alive! - thought the old man. “That means his heart has moved away from death!” - and he took the sparrow out of the warmth under his shirt.
The musician put the revived bird to rest with the turtle for the night. She slept in a box - there was cotton wool there, it would be soft for the sparrow.
At dawn the old man finally woke up and looked at what the sparrow was doing with the turtle.
The sparrow lay on the cotton wool with its thin legs up, and the turtle, stretching its neck, looked at him with kind, patient eyes. Sparrow died and forgot forever that he was in the world.
Here is an introductory fragment of the book.
Only part of the text is open for free reading (restriction of the copyright holder). If you liked the book, full text can be obtained from our partner's website.
pages: 1 2
Platonov Andrey
Love for the Motherland, or the Journey of a Sparrow
Andrey Platonovich PLATONOV
LOVE OF THE MOTHERLAND, OR THE JOURNEY OF THE SPARROW
The old violinist-musician loved to play at the foot of the Pushkin monument. This monument stands in Moscow, at the beginning of Tverskoy Boulevard, poems are written on it, and marble steps rise to it on all four sides. Having climbed these steps to the pedestal itself, the old musician turned his face to the boulevard, to the distant Nikitsky Gate, and touched the strings of the violin with his bow. Children, passers-by, newspaper readers from the local kiosk immediately gathered at the monument - and they all fell silent in anticipation of the music, because music consoles people, it promises them happiness and a glorious life. The musician placed the case from his violin on the ground opposite the monument; it was closed, and in it lay a piece of black bread and an apple so that he could eat whenever he wanted.
Usually the old man went out to play in the evening, at the first dusk. It was more beneficial for his music to make the world quieter and darker. He did not know the troubles of his old age, because he received a pension from the state and was fed enough. But the old man was bored by the thought that he was not bringing any good to people, and so he voluntarily went to play on the boulevard. There, the sounds of his violin were heard in the air, in the darkness, and at least occasionally they reached the depths of the human heart, touching him with a gentle and courageous force that captivated him to live a higher, beautiful life. Some music listeners took out money to give it to the old man, but did not know where to put it: the violin case was closed, and the musician himself was high at the foot of the monument, almost next to Pushkin. Then people put ten-kopeck pieces and pennies on the lid of the case. However, the old man did not want to cover his need at the expense of the art of music; hiding the violin back in the case, he showered money from it on the ground, not paying attention to their value. He went home late, sometimes already at midnight, when people became sparse and only some random lonely person listened to his music. But the old man could play for one person and played the piece to the end until the listener left, crying in the darkness to himself. Maybe he had his own grief, now disturbed by the song of art, or maybe he felt ashamed that he was living wrong, or he simply drank wine...
In late autumn, the old man noticed that a sparrow had sat on the case, lying, as usual, at a distance on the ground. The musician was surprised that this bird was not yet sleeping and, even in the darkness of the evening, was busy working for its food. True, it is now difficult to feed yourself in a day: all the trees have already fallen asleep for the winter, the insects have died, the earth in the city is bare and hungry, because horses rarely walk and street cleaners immediately remove the manure after them. Where do sparrows actually eat in autumn and winter? After all, the wind in the city is weak and scanty between the houses - it does not hold the sparrow when it stretches its tired wings, so the sparrow has to wave and work with them all the time.
Sparrow, having examined the entire lid of the case, did not find anything useful on it for himself. Then he moved the money coins with his legs, took the smallest bronze penny from them with his beak and flew away with it to an unknown destination. This means that he didn’t fly in for nothing - at least he took something! Let him live and care, he also needs to exist.
The next evening, the old violinist opened the case - in case that if yesterday's sparrow flew in, it could feed on the pulp of the bread that lay at the bottom of the case. However, the sparrow did not appear; he had probably eaten somewhere else, and the penny was no good for him anywhere.
The old man still patiently waited for the sparrow, and on the fourth day he saw it again. The sparrow sat down on the bread in the case without interference and began to peck at the prepared food in a businesslike manner. The musician stepped down from the monument, approached the case and quietly examined the small bird. The sparrow was disheveled, big-headed, and many of its feathers had turned grey; From time to time he looked around vigilantly to see enemy and friend with precision, and the musician was surprised at his calm, reasonable eyes. This sparrow must have been very old or unhappy, because he had already acquired great intelligence from grief, misfortune and longevity.
For several days the sparrow did not appear on the boulevard; Meanwhile, pure snow fell and it froze. The old man, before going to the boulevard, crumbled warm soft bread into the violin case every day. Standing at the height of the foot of the monument, playing a gentle melody, the old man constantly watched his open case, the nearby paths and the dead bushes of flowers in the summer flowerbed. The musician was waiting for the sparrow and longing for it: where does it sit now and keep warm, what does it eat in the cold snow? The lanterns around the monument to Pushkin were burning quietly and brightly, beautiful, clean people, illuminated by electricity and snow, gently passed by the monument, moving away on their important and happy affairs. The old man continued to play, hiding within himself a pitiful feeling of sadness for the small, diligent bird that now lived somewhere and was exhausted.
But another five days passed, and the sparrow still did not fly to visit the Pushkin monument. The old violinist still left an open case with crumbled bread for him, but the musician’s senses were already tired from anticipation, and he began to forget the sparrow. The old man had to forget a lot in his life irrevocably. And the violinist stopped crumbling the bread; it now lay in the case in one piece, and only the musician left the lid open.
One day in the depths of winter, around midnight, snow began to snow. The old man played the last piece of Schubert's "Winter Road" and then planned to retire. At that hour, a familiar gray-haired sparrow appeared from the middle of the wind and snow. He sat down with his thin, insignificant paws on the frosty snow; then he walked around the case a little, blown throughout his body by whirlwinds, but indifferent to them and fearless, and flew inside the case. There the sparrow began to peck at the bread, almost burying itself in its warm pulp. He ate for a long time, probably as much as half an hour; The blizzard had already almost completely covered the inside of the case with snow, and the sparrow was still moving inside the snow, working on its food. This means he knew how to eat for a long time. The old man approached the case with the violin and bow and waited for a long time in the midst of the whirlwind for the sparrow to free the case. Finally, the sparrow got out, brushed itself in a small snowdrift, said something briefly, and ran away on foot to its lodgings for the night, not wanting to fly in the cold wind, so as not to waste its strength.
The old violinist-musician loved to play at the foot of the Pushkin monument. This monument stands in Moscow, at the beginning of Tverskoy Boulevard, poems are written on it, and marble steps rise to it on all four sides. Having climbed these steps to the pedestal itself, the old musician turned his face to the boulevard, to the distant Nikitsky Gate, and touched the strings of the violin with his bow. Children, passers-by, newspaper readers from the local kiosk immediately gathered at the monument - and they all fell silent in anticipation of the music, because music consoles people, it promises them happiness and a glorious life. The musician placed the case from his violin on the ground opposite the monument; it was closed, and in it lay a piece of black bread and an apple so that he could eat whenever he wanted.
Usually the old man went out to play in the evening, at the first dusk. It was more beneficial for his music to make the world quieter and darker. He did not know the troubles of his old age, because he received a pension from the state and was fed enough. But the old man was bored by the thought that he was not bringing any good to people, and so he voluntarily went to play on the boulevard. There, the sounds of his violin were heard in the air, in the darkness, and at least occasionally they reached the depths of the human heart, touching him with a gentle and courageous force that captivated him to live a higher, beautiful life. Some music listeners took out money to give it to the old man, but did not know where to put it: the violin case was closed, and the musician himself was high at the foot of the monument, almost next to Pushkin. Then people put ten-kopeck pieces and pennies on the lid of the case. However, the old man did not want to cover his need at the expense of the art of music; hiding the violin back in the case, he showered money from it on the ground, not paying attention to their value. He went home late, sometimes already at midnight, when people became sparse and only some random lonely person listened to his music. But the old man could play for one person and played the piece to the end until the listener left, crying in the darkness to himself. Maybe he had his own grief, now disturbed by the song of art, or maybe he felt ashamed that he was living wrong, or he simply drank wine...
In late autumn, the old man noticed that a sparrow had sat on the case, lying, as usual, at a distance on the ground. The musician was surprised that this bird was not yet sleeping and, even in the darkness of the evening, was busy working for its food. True, it is now difficult to feed yourself in a day: all the trees have already fallen asleep for the winter, the insects have died, the earth in the city is bare and hungry, because horses rarely walk and street cleaners immediately remove the manure after them. Where do sparrows actually eat in autumn and winter? After all, the wind in the city is weak and scanty between the houses - it does not hold the sparrow when it stretches its tired wings, so the sparrow has to wave and work with them all the time.
Sparrow, having examined the entire lid of the case, did not find anything useful on it for himself. Then he moved the money coins with his legs, took the smallest bronze penny from them with his beak and flew away with it to an unknown destination. This means that he didn’t fly in for nothing - at least he took something! Let him live and care, he also needs to exist.
The next evening, the old violinist opened the case - in case that if yesterday's sparrow flew in, it could feed on the pulp of the bread that lay at the bottom of the case. However, the sparrow did not appear; he had probably eaten somewhere else, and the penny was no good for him anywhere.
The old man still patiently waited for the sparrow, and on the fourth day he saw it again. The sparrow sat down on the bread in the case without interference and began to peck at the prepared food in a businesslike manner. The musician stepped down from the monument, approached the case and quietly examined the small bird. The sparrow was disheveled, big-headed, and many of its feathers had turned grey; From time to time he looked around vigilantly to see enemy and friend with precision, and the musician was surprised at his calm, reasonable eyes. This sparrow must have been very old or unhappy, because he had already acquired great intelligence from grief, misfortune and longevity.
For several days the sparrow did not appear on the boulevard; Meanwhile, pure snow fell and it froze. The old man, before going to the boulevard, crumbled warm soft bread into the violin case every day. Standing at the height of the foot of the monument, playing a gentle melody, the old man constantly watched his open case, the nearby paths and the dead bushes of flowers in the summer flowerbed. The musician was waiting for the sparrow and longing for it: where does it sit now and keep warm, what does it eat in the cold snow? The lanterns around the monument to Pushkin were burning quietly and brightly, beautiful, clean people, illuminated by electricity and snow, gently passed by the monument, moving away on their important and happy affairs. The old man continued to play, hiding within himself a pitiful feeling of sadness for the small, diligent bird that now lived somewhere and was exhausted.
But another five days passed, and the sparrow still did not fly to visit the Pushkin monument. The old violinist still left an open case with crumbled bread for him, but the musician’s senses were already tired from anticipation, and he began to forget the sparrow. The old man had to forget a lot in his life irrevocably. And the violinist stopped crumbling the bread; it now lay in the case in one piece, and only the musician left the lid open.
One day in the depths of winter, around midnight, snow began to snow. The old man played the last piece of Schubert’s “Winter Road” and then planned to retire. At that hour, a familiar gray-haired sparrow appeared from the middle of the wind and snow. He sat down with his thin, insignificant paws on the frosty snow; then he walked around the case a little, blown throughout his body by whirlwinds, but indifferent to them and fearless, and flew inside the case. There the sparrow began to peck at the bread, almost burying itself in its warm pulp. He ate for a long time, probably as much as half an hour; The blizzard had already almost completely covered the inside of the case with snow, and the sparrow was still moving inside the snow, working on its food. This means he knew how to eat for a long time. The old man approached the case with the violin and bow and waited for a long time in the midst of the whirlwind for the sparrow to free the case. Finally, the sparrow got out, brushed itself in a small snowdrift, said something briefly, and ran away on foot to its lodgings for the night, not wanting to fly in the cold wind, so as not to waste its strength.
The next evening the same sparrow again arrived at the Pushkin monument; he immediately sank into the case and began pecking at the finished bread. The old man looked at him from the height of the foot of the monument, played music on the violin from there and felt good in his heart. That evening the weather was calm, as if tired after yesterday's acrid snowdrift. Having eaten, the sparrow flew high out of the case and muttered a small song in the air...
It was not light for a long time in the morning. Waking up in his room, the retired musician heard the singing of a blizzard outside the window. Frosty, hard snow rushed down the alley and blocked out the daylight. Even at night, in the darkness, frozen forests and flowers of an unknown magical land lay on the window glass. The old man began to admire this inspired play of nature, as if nature was also yearning for better happiness, like man and music.
You won’t have to go play on Tverskoy Boulevard today. Today the storm is singing, and the sounds of the violin will be too weak. Nevertheless, in the evening the old man put on his coat, tied a shawl around his head and neck, crumbled some bread into his pocket and went outside. With difficulty, suffocating from the hardened cold and wind, the musician walked along his lane to Tverskoy Boulevard. The icy branches of the trees on the boulevard crunched desertedly, and the monument itself rustled sadly from the flying snow rubbing against it. The old man wanted to put the bread lumps on the steps of the monument, but he saw that it was useless: the storm would immediately carry away the bread, and the snow would cover it. All the same, the musician left his bread on the step and saw it disappear in the darkness of the storm.
In the evening the musician sat at home alone; he played his violin, but there was no one to listen to him, and the melody sounded bad in the emptiness of the room, it touched only one single soul of the violinist, and this was not enough, or his soul became poor from old age. He stopped playing. There was a torrent of hurricane flowing outside - things were probably worse for the sparrows now. The old man went to the window and listened to the force of the storm through the frozen glass. Is the gray-haired sparrow even now not afraid to fly to the Pushkin monument to eat bread from the case?
The gray-haired sparrow was not afraid of the snow hurricane. Only he did not fly to Tverskoy Boulevard, but walked, because it was a little quieter below and he could take cover behind the local snowdrifts and various passing objects.
Sparrow carefully examined the entire surrounding area around the Pushkin monument and even rummaged with his feet in the snow, where an open case of bread usually stood. Several times he tried to fly upwind from the bare, wind-blown steps of the monument to see if the hurricane had brought any crumbs or old grains there; they could be caught and swallowed. However, the storm immediately took the sparrow as soon as it came off the snow and carried it away until it hit a tree trunk or a tram mast, and then the sparrow quickly fell and buried itself in the snow to warm up and rest. Soon the sparrow stopped hoping for food. He raked a hole deeper in the snow, curled up in it and dozed off: just so that he would not freeze and die, and the storm would someday end. Still, the sparrow slept carefully, sensitively, watching the effect of the hurricane in its sleep. In the middle of sleep and night, the sparrow noticed that the snowy mound in which he was sleeping crawled along with him, and then all the snow around him collapsed, dissipated, and the sparrow was left alone in the hurricane.
The sparrow was carried away into the distance, at a large empty height. There wasn’t even snow here, just the bare, clean wind, hard from its own compressed force. Sparrow thought, curled his body closer and fell asleep in this hurricane.
Having slept, he woke up, but the storm was still carrying him. Sparrow had already become a little accustomed to living in a hurricane; it was even easier for him to exist now, because he did not feel the weight of his body and did not need to walk, fly, or take care of anything. Sparrow looked around in the darkness of the storm - he wanted to understand what time it was: day or night. But he was unable to see light or darkness through the darkness and again shrank and fell asleep, trying to conserve the warmth at least inside himself, and let his feathers and skin cool down.
When the sparrow woke up for the second time, he was still in the storm. He was now beginning to get used to it, only he was taken care of by food. The sparrow did not feel cold now, but there was no warmth either - he only trembled in this darkness and stream of empty air. Sparrow shrank again, trying not to be conscious of anything until the hurricane passed.
The sparrow woke up on the ground, in clean and warm silence. He was lying on the leaves of large green grass. The unknown and invisible birds sang long, musical songs, so that the sparrow was surprised and listened to them for a while. Then he removed and cleaned his feathers after the blizzard and went to feed.
It was probably an eternal summer here, and therefore there was a lot of food. Almost every herb bore fruit. On the stems between the leaves hung either ears with grains, or soft pods with small spicy cakes, or a large, hearty berry grew openly. The sparrow pecked all day until he felt ashamed and disgusted; he came to his senses and stopped eating, although he could have eaten a little more.
Having slept the night on a grass stem, the sparrow began to feed again in the morning. However, he now ate a little. Yesterday, due to severe hunger, he did not notice the taste of food, but today he felt that all the fruits of herbs and shrubs were too sweet or, on the contrary, bitter. But the fruits contained great nutritional value, in the form of thick, almost intoxicating fat, and on the second day the sparrow became slightly plump and shiny. And at night he began to suffer from heartburn, and then the sparrow yearned for the usual acidity of simple black bread; his small intestines and stomach whined from the sensation of warm, dark pulp in the musician’s case at the monument to Pushkin.
Soon the sparrow became completely sad on this summer, peaceful land. The sweetness and abundance of food, the light of the air and the fragrance of plants did not attract him. Wandering in the shade of the thickets, the sparrow did not meet either an acquaintance or a relative: sparrows did not live here. Local, fat birds had colorful, beautiful feathers; they usually sat high on tree branches and sang beautiful songs from there, as if light came from their throats. These birds rarely ate, because it was enough to peck one fat berry in the grass to be satisfied for the whole day and all night.
Sparrow began to live alone. He gradually flew around the entire local country, rising from the ground just above the bushes, and everywhere he observed dense groves of herbs and flowers, thick low trees, singing, proud birds and a blue, windless sky. It even rained here only at night, when everyone was asleep, so that bad weather would not spoil anyone’s mood.
After a while, the sparrow found a permanent place to live. It was the bank of a stream, covered with small stones, where nothing grew, where the earth lay more scanty and uncomfortable.
There was still one snake living there in a coastal crevice, but it had no poison or teeth; it ate by swallowing moist soil like a worm - and small earthen animals remained inside it, and the chewed earth came back out. Sparrow made friends with this snake. He often came to her and looked into her dark, friendly eyes, and the snake also looked at the sparrow. Then the sparrow left, and it became easier for him to live alone after his meeting with the snake.
Down the stream, a sparrow once saw a rather high, bare rock. He took off on it and decided to spend the night here, on an elevated rock, every night. Sparrow hoped that someday a storm would come and it would tear him, sleeping, off the rock and take him back home to Tverskoy Boulevard. The first night it was uncomfortable to sleep on the cool rock, but on the second night the sparrow got used to it and slept on the rock, deep, as if in a nest, warmed by the hope of a storm.
The old musician realized that the gray-haired, familiar sparrow had died forever in a winter hurricane. Snowfall, cold days and blizzards often did not allow the old man to go out onto Tverskoy Boulevard to play the violin.
On such days, the musician sat at home, and his only consolation was to look at the frozen window glass, where the picture of an overgrown, magical country, probably inhabited only by singing birds, formed and collapsed in silence. The old man could not imagine that his sparrow now lives in a warm, flowery region and sleeps at night on a high stone, exposing itself to the wind... In February, the musician bought himself a small turtle at a zoological store on Arbat. He once read that turtles live a long time, and the old man did not want the creature to which his heart would become accustomed to die before him. In old age, the soul does not heal, it is tormented by memory for a long time, so let the turtle survive his death.
Living with the turtle, the musician began to go to the Pushkin monument very rarely. Now every evening he played the violin at home, and the turtle slowly walked out into the middle of the room, stretched out his thin, long neck and listened to the music. She turned her head slightly away from the man, as if to hear better, and one of her black eyes looked at the musician with a meek expression. The turtle was probably afraid that the old man would stop playing and she would again become bored living alone on the bare floor. But the musician played for the turtle until late at night, until the turtle laid his little head on the floor in fatigue and sleep. Having waited for the turtle’s eyes to close with the wrinkles of his eyelids, the old man hid the violin in its case and also went to bed. But the musician slept poorly. His body was either shooting somewhere, or it was aching, or his heart was racing, and he often suddenly woke up in fear that he was dying. It usually turned out that he was still alive and outside the window, in a Moscow alley, the quiet night continued. In the month of March, waking up from a sinking heart, the old man heard a mighty wind; the glass in the window had thawed: the wind was probably blowing from the south, from the spring side. And the old man remembered the sparrow and felt sorry for it that it had died: soon it would be summer, the trees on Tverskoy Boulevard would rise again and the sparrow would still live in the world. And for the winter the musician would take him to his room, the sparrow would make friends with the turtle and freely endure the winter in the warmth, as if retired... The old man fell asleep again, reassured by the fact that he had a living turtle and that was enough.
The sparrow also slept that night, although it flew in a hurricane from the south. He woke up only for one moment, when the blow of the hurricane tore him off the elevated stone, but, rejoicing, he immediately fell asleep again, squeezing himself warmer with his body. The sparrow woke up already before dark; the wind carried him with mighty force to a distant direction. The sparrow was not afraid of flight and heights; he stirred inside the hurricane, as if in a heavy, viscous dough, said something to himself and felt that he was hungry. Sparrow looked around with caution and noticed foreign objects around him. He examined them carefully and recognized them: they were individual fat berries from a warm country, grains, pods and whole ears of corn, and even whole bushes and tree branches flew a little further from the sparrow. This means that the wind took with it more than just him, the sparrow. A small grain was rushing very close to the sparrow, but it was difficult to grab it, thanks to the burden of the wind: the sparrow stuck out its beak several times, but could not reach the grain, because its beak rested against the storm, like against a stone. Then the sparrow began to revolve around itself: it turned over with its legs up, released one wing, and the wind immediately blew it to the side - first to the nearby grain, and the sparrow immediately pecked it, and then the sparrow made its way to more distant berries and ears of corn. He fed himself to his fill and, in addition, learned how to move almost across the storm. After eating, the sparrow decided to fall asleep. He felt good now: plenty of food was flying next to him, and he didn’t feel cold or warm amid the hurricane. The sparrow slept and woke up, and when he woke up, he again lay down in the wind with his legs up to doze in peace. In the intervals between one sleep and another, he fed nourishingly from the surrounding air; sometimes some berry or pod with a sweet filling would stick close to the sparrow’s body, and then all he could do was peck and swallow this food. However, the sparrow was afraid that the wind would someday stop blowing, and he was already accustomed to living in the storm and eating abundantly from it. He no longer wanted to forage for food on the boulevards through constant predation, to be cold in the winter and to wander on foot on empty asphalt so as not to waste energy flying against the wind. He only regretted that among all this mighty wind there were no crumbs of sour black bread - only sweetness or bitterness was flying. Fortunately for the sparrow, the storm lasted for a long time, and when he woke up, he again felt weightless and tried to hum a song to himself out of satisfaction with life.
On spring evenings, the old violinist came out to play at the Pushkin monument almost every day. He took the turtle with him and placed it on its paws next to him. Throughout the music, the turtle listened motionlessly to the violin and, during breaks in the playing, patiently waited for the continuation. The violin case still lay on the ground opposite the monument, but the lid of the case was now permanently closed, because the old man no longer expected a gray-haired sparrow to visit him.
One fine evening the wind and snow began to blow. The musician hid the turtle in his bosom, put the violin in its case and went to the apartment. At home, as usual, he fed the turtle and then put it to rest in a box with cotton wool. After that, the old man wanted to take tea to warm his stomach and prolong the evening. However, there was no kerosene in the Primus and the bottle was also empty. The musician went to buy kerosene on Bronnaya Street. The wind has already stopped; Light, wet snow was falling. On Bronnaya, the sale of kerosene was closed for re-registration of goods, so the old man had to go to the Nikitsky Gate.
Having purchased kerosene, the violinist headed back home through the fresh, melting snow. Two boys stood at the gate of an old residential building, and one of them said to the musician:
Uncle, buy a bird from us... We don't have enough for a movie!
The violinist stopped.
Come on, he said. -Where did you get it?
“It fell from the sky onto the stones,” the boy answered and handed the bird to the musician in two folded handfuls.
The bird was probably dead. The old man put it in his pocket, paid the boy twenty kopecks and moved on.
At home, the musician took the bird out of his pocket into the light. The gray-haired sparrow lay in his hand; his eyes were closed, his legs were bent helplessly, and one wing hung without strength. It is impossible to understand whether the sparrow died temporarily or forever. Just in case, the old man put the sparrow in his bosom under his nightshirt - by morning he would either warm up or never wake up again.
After drinking tea, the musician carefully lay down to sleep on his side, not wanting to harm the sparrow.
Soon the old man dozed off, but immediately woke up: a sparrow moved under his shirt and pecked at his body. "Alive! - thought the old man. “That means his heart has moved away from death!” - and he took the sparrow out of the warmth under his shirt.
The musician put the revived bird to rest with the turtle for the night. She slept in a box - there was cotton wool there, it would be soft for the sparrow.
At dawn the old man finally woke up and looked at what the sparrow was doing with the turtle.
The sparrow lay on the cotton wool with its thin legs up, and the turtle, stretching its neck, looked at him with kind, patient eyes. Sparrow died and forgot forever that he was in the world.
In the evening the old musician did not go to Tverskoy Boulevard. He took the violin out of the case and began to play a gentle happy music. The turtle went out into the middle of the room and began to meekly listen to him alone. But there was something missing in the music to completely console the old man’s grieving heart. Then he put the violin back and began to cry.
“The old violinist-musician loved to play at the foot of the Pushkin monument. This monument stands in Moscow, at the beginning of Tverskoy Boulevard, poems are written on it, and marble steps rise to it on all four sides. Having climbed these steps to the pedestal itself, the old musician turned his face to the boulevard, to the distant Nikitsky Gate, and touched the strings of the violin with his bow. Children, passers-by, newspaper readers from the local kiosk immediately gathered at the monument - and they all fell silent in anticipation of the music, because music consoles people, it promises them happiness and a glorious life. The musician placed the case from his violin on the ground opposite the monument, it was closed, and in it lay a piece of black bread and an apple so that he could eat whenever he wanted...”
* * *
The given introductory fragment of the book Love for the Motherland, or the Journey of a Sparrow (A. P. Platonov) provided by our book partner - the company liters.
The old violinist-musician loved to play at the foot of the Pushkin monument. This monument stands in Moscow, at the beginning of Tverskoy Boulevard, poems are written on it, and marble steps rise to it on all four sides. Having climbed these steps to the pedestal itself, the old musician turned his face to the boulevard, to the distant Nikitsky Gate, and touched the strings of the violin with his bow. Children, passers-by, newspaper readers from the local kiosk immediately gathered at the monument - and they all fell silent in anticipation of the music, because music consoles people, it promises them happiness and a glorious life. The musician placed the case from his violin on the ground opposite the monument; it was closed, and in it lay a piece of black bread and an apple so that he could eat whenever he wanted.
Usually the old man went out to play in the evening, at the first dusk. It was more beneficial for his music to make the world quieter and darker. He did not know the troubles of his old age, because he received a pension from the state and was fed enough. But the old man was bored by the thought that he was not bringing any good to people, and so he voluntarily went to play on the boulevard. There, the sounds of his violin were heard in the air, in the darkness, and at least occasionally they reached the depths of the human heart, touching him with a gentle and courageous force that captivated him to live a higher, beautiful life. Some music listeners took out money to give it to the old man, but did not know where to put it: the violin case was closed, and the musician himself was high at the foot of the monument, almost next to Pushkin. Then people put ten-kopeck pieces and pennies on the lid of the case. However, the old man did not want to cover his need at the expense of the art of music; hiding the violin back in the case, he showered money from it on the ground, not paying attention to their value. He went home late, sometimes already at midnight, when people became sparse and only some random lonely person listened to his music. But the old man could play for one person and played the piece to the end until the listener left, crying in the darkness to himself. Maybe he had his own grief, now disturbed by the song of art, or maybe he felt ashamed that he was living wrong, or he simply drank wine...
In late autumn, the old man noticed that a sparrow had sat on the case, lying, as usual, at a distance on the ground. The musician was surprised that this bird was not yet sleeping and, even in the darkness of the evening, was busy working for its food. True, it is now difficult to feed yourself in a day: all the trees have already fallen asleep for the winter, the insects have died, the earth in the city is bare and hungry, because horses rarely walk and street cleaners immediately remove the manure after them. Where do sparrows actually eat in autumn and winter? After all, the wind in the city is weak and scanty between the houses - it does not hold the sparrow when it stretches its tired wings, so the sparrow has to wave and work with them all the time.
Sparrow, having examined the entire lid of the case, did not find anything useful on it for himself. Then he moved the money coins with his legs, took the smallest bronze penny from them with his beak and flew away with it to an unknown destination. So, it was not for nothing that he flew in - at least he took something! Let him live and care, he also needs to exist.
The next evening, the old violinist opened the case - in case that if yesterday's sparrow flew in, it could feed on the pulp of the bread that lay at the bottom of the case. However, the sparrow did not appear; he had probably eaten somewhere else, and the penny was no good for him anywhere.
The old man still patiently waited for the sparrow, and on the fourth day he saw it again. The sparrow sat down on the bread in the case without interference and began to peck at the prepared food in a businesslike manner. The musician stepped down from the monument, approached the case and quietly examined the small bird. The sparrow was disheveled, big-headed, and many of its feathers had turned grey; From time to time he looked around vigilantly to see enemy and friend with precision, and the musician was surprised at his calm, reasonable eyes. This sparrow must have been very old or unhappy, because he had already acquired great intelligence from grief, misfortune and longevity.
For several days the sparrow did not appear on the boulevard; Meanwhile, pure snow fell and it froze. The old man, before going to the boulevard, crumbled warm soft bread into the violin case every day. Standing at the height of the foot of the monument, playing a gentle melody, the old man constantly watched his open case, the nearby paths and the dead bushes of flowers in the summer flowerbed. The musician was waiting for the sparrow and longing for it: where does it sit now and keep warm, what does it eat in the cold snow? The lanterns around the monument to Pushkin were burning quietly and brightly, beautiful, clean people, illuminated by electricity and snow, gently passed by the monument, moving away on their important and happy affairs. The old man continued to play, hiding within himself a pitiful feeling of sadness for the small, diligent bird that now lived somewhere and was exhausted.
But another five days passed, and the sparrow still did not fly to visit the Pushkin monument. The old violinist still left an open case with crumbled bread for him, but the musician’s senses were already tired from anticipation, and he began to forget the sparrow. The old man had to forget a lot in his life irrevocably. And the violinist stopped crumbling the bread; it now lay in the case in one piece, and only the musician left the lid open.
End of introductory fragment.
