Place the commas Did the boundless golden waves slowly roll towards the sun? Jokes - pictures, video jokes, funny stories and anecdotes.

On the bed, arms wrapped around your knees.
Lukerya Petrovna, wearing worn out felt shoes, entered the room and
I began to tidy it up for the night.
“Today penmanship, tomorrow drawing,” Boris Ivanovich muttered,
rocking slightly on the bed. - This is how our whole life is.
Lukerya Petrovna looked back at her husband, silently and furiously spat
onto the floor and began to untangle her hair that had become matted during the day, shaking it off
them with straw and wood chips.
Boris Ivanovich looked at his wife and in a melancholic voice suddenly
said:
- What, Lusha, what if they really invent electric shocks?
tools? Let's say there is a small button on the music stand... The conductor pokes
finger and she calls...
“And it’s very simple,” said Lukerya Petrovva. - Very simple...
Oh, you’ll sit on my neck!.. I feel like you’ll sit...
Boris Ivanovich moved from the bed to a chair and thought.
-Are you grieving? - said Lukerya Petrovna, - are you thinking? For the mind
grabbed... If you didn't have a wife and a house, well, where would you be, you holoshtan,
gone? Well, for example, will they trample you with the orchestra?
“It’s not a matter of trampling, Lusha,” said Boris Ivanovich. - And in
that everything is wrong. Case... For some reason, I, Lusha, play the trio-
golnik. And in general... If you throw the game away from life, how can you live then? How,
other than that, am I attached?
Lukerya Petrovna, lying in bed, listened to her husband, trying in vain to
guess the meaning of his words. And, assuming in them a personal insult and pretension
gape at her real estate, said again:
- Oh, sit on my neck! Sit down, Pilate the martyr, you cat of a bitch.
“I won’t sit down,” said Kotofeev.
And, choking again, he got up from his chair and began to walk around the room.
those.
A terrible emotion gripped him. Running his hand over his head, as if
Trying to get rid of some vague thoughts, Boris Ivanovich sat down on the chair again.
And he sat for a long time in a motionless position.
Then, when Lukerya Petrovna’s breathing became light, with a slight
Whistling, snoring, Boris Ivanovich got up from his chair and left the room.
And, having found his hat, Boris Ivanovich put it on his head and in some kind of
In extraordinary anxiety he went out into the street. It was only ten o'clock. stood
excellent, quiet August evening. Kotofeev walked along the avenue, widely
waving his hands. A strange and unclear excitement did not leave him.
He reached the station without even noticing it.
I went to the buffet, drank a glass of beer and, again choking and feeling...
that he couldn’t breathe, he went outside again.
He walked slowly now, sadly lowering his head, thinking about something. But if
ask him what he was thinking about, he would not answer - he himself did not know.
He walked straight from the station and in the alley, near the city garden, sat down on
bench and took off his hat.
Some girl with wide hips short skirt and in light stockings
Kakh walked past Kotofeev once, then returned, then passed again and
The end sat down next to her, looking at Kotofeev.
Boris Ivanovich shuddered, looked at the girl, shook his head and quickly
Ro walked away.
And suddenly everything seemed terribly disgusting and unbearable to Kotofeev.
And all life is boring and stupid.
“And why did I live…” Boris Ivanovich muttered. - I'll come tomorrow -
invented, they will say. Already, they will say, the electric impact tool has been invented.
ment. Congratulations, they will say. Look, they will say, for a new job.
A strong chill engulfed Boris Ivanovich’s entire body.
He almost ran forward and, reaching the church fence, stopped -
Xia. Then, groping for the gate with his hand, he opened it and entered the fence.
Cool air, several quiet birches, stone slabs of graves somehow
Kotofeev was immediately reassured. He sat down on one of the slabs and thought. After
said out loud:
- Today penmanship, tomorrow drawing. So is our whole life.
Boris Ivanovich lit a cigarette and began to think about how he would start
live in the event of something.
“I’ll live,” Boris Ivanovich muttered, “but I won’t go to Lusha.”
Better for the people I bow at your feet. Here, I’ll say, a man, I’ll say, is dying,
citizens. Don't leave me in misery...
Boris Ivanovich shuddered and stood up. Trembling and chills seized him again
body.
And suddenly it seemed to Boris Ivanovich that the electric triangle
invented a long time ago and is only kept secret, in terrible secret, With
so as to immediately, with one blow, knock him down.
Boris Ivanovich, in some melancholy, almost ran out of the fence into the street and
walked away, shuffling quickly.
It was quiet outside.
Several belated passersby hurried to their homes.
Boris Ivanovich stood on the corner, then, almost without realizing it,
What was he doing? He walked up to some passer-by and, taking off his hat,
som said:
- Citizen... You are welcome... Maybe a person is dying at this moment-
that...
The passer-by looked at Kotofeev with fear and quickly walked away.
“Ah,” Boris Ivanovich shouted, sinking onto the wooden sidewalk. -
Citizens!.. You are welcome... To my misfortune... To my misfortune... Give me,
whoever can!
Several passers-by surrounded Boris Ivanovich, looking at him with fear.
gom and amazement.
The policeman on guard approached, anxiously patting his hand on his holster.
volver, and tugged Boris Ivanovich by the shoulder.
“He’s drunk,” someone in the crowd said with pleasure. - Got drunk,

It was a beautiful August evening, around 6:00 p.m., when I woke up to my dog ​​licking my face and squeaking a little. On the eve
there was some kind of party with an amount of alcohol incompatible with life. He opened his eyes and the dog continued his work. I had a mild, non-obsessive hangover. It was expressed in partial paralysis of half of my body, i.e. my right arm and right leg didn't listen to my brain. I also became deaf and lost sight in my left eye. Even if I wanted to say something at this moment, the most I could manage was:
-Ahhh...uuuu...yyyy...
From the eyes of my dog, I realized that if I didn’t take him outside in the next 5 minutes, then the smell of his shit would be added to the smell of my fumes. I threw on a denim jacket (which would later play an important role) and tumbled out into the street. It was Sunday.
Have you ever tried to walk with an arm and leg completely beyond your control? I crawled to the stall. He showed with gestures that I needed two beers, one of which was destroyed instantly. And life gets better along the way! And so it was decided to go for a walk in the botanical garden. It's a twenty minute walk.
And here I am: dogs, people, evening, warmth. I tried to find a secluded corner so that I could calmly drink a second bottle of beer and my dog ​​could calmly chase, which is simply not possible to do in the Botanical Garden on Sunday.
It’s hard to say now whether it was the beer or yesterday’s party, but my body experienced the first wave. Have you ever been run over by a steamroller? I was run over that day! He ran over my head and slowly began to move towards my feet. The only place, through which everything that was moving the skating rink could come out - my ass. Cold sweat covered my entire body in an instant. My ass asked me:
- Hey, brother, maybe we can take a piss?
And at the same moment the wave subsided and disappeared completely. Here is a man, and a fool understands that he must slowly move home. But on the other hand, everything has passed, life is wonderful! And so I leaned against a tree and lit a cigarette.
The second wave came like a tsunami. Sharply, powerfully, she tried to squeeze everything out of me in one fell swoop. I think I even grunted. Cold sweat covered my body for the second time that evening. I didn’t just want to shit, I realized that either I’m going to shit now, or I need to plug my ass with my finger. The second wave gradually subsided. I started smoking again. The dog was peacefully gnawing on a stick. I felt good. But even then, alarming notes arose in my brain: “Shouldn’t I go home?”, but the second bottle of beer in my jacket, cigarettes and a wonderful evening drove this thought very far away. My right half of my body began to come to its senses - I began to hear with both ears!
The third wave came like a tsunami! My ass didn’t ask me anything, it just screamed:
- Now boy, let me take a shit!
She didn't ask, but affirmed. My eyes bulged out of their sockets, I think my tongue even fell out of my mouth. With titanic efforts, squeezing my buttocks and bringing my knees together, I realized that I had a maximum of three to four minutes, I couldn’t stand it any longer. Having fastened the dog to the leash, I rushed, just straight up, people, have you ever tried to run with your buttocks tightly clenched and your knees together? I ran and dragged the dog behind me. After running about thirty meters, I realized that in the direction I was rushing, I wouldn’t be able to take a shit. And so, I abruptly changed direction and ran in the other direction. It was what was trying to crawl out of me that prevented me from getting my bearings. When I glanced at the dog, which was flying after me without touching the ground with its paws, there was only one question in its eyes:
- Master, why are you running so fast?
The pressure in the ass has reached critical parameters. I was already okay with XXX. I was ready to just sit down and take a shit where I stood. But my upbringing did not allow me to do this. The shirt stuck to my body. I could practically see my ass starting to open up. My consciousness disappeared, only wild instincts remained. And lo and behold! A small clearing, hidden from view by bushes. How I quickly took off my pants - I did it in a mighty way, without hesitation and without thinking about anything. I had terrible indigestion.
You probably know that a dog's sense of smell is a hundred times stronger than the human sense of smell. My dog ​​moved his nose strangely and very confidently headed towards my ass. But having received two blows to the face with a fist, I realized that this was not his best decision.
- Oh, who is this handsome guy?
I almost lost my mind. I almost blurted out that I was the handsome one. Directly towards my place the vysera was going very cute creature female, with a French bulldog. I'm left with only two options.
1. In two seconds, wipe your ass, put on your pants and appear in all your glory. But my ass was giving me hints that the process was far from being completed.
2.Continue to sit in this position. Pretend to just squat down
I chose the second option, throwing the jacket over my legs in one motion. I stayed sitting!
-Are you having a boy or a girl, otherwise I forgot my glasses at home and can’t see? – the pilot said, approaching me.
-I have a small child! – I squeezed out of myself. I didn’t control my ass, we lived different lives at that moment.
I’m writing these lines and crying, how hard it is to shit in front of beautiful girl, while pretending to be squatting.
My dog ​​is playing playfully with a bulldog named Musya. Well, how can you call a bulldog Musya?
“Oh, you know, we recently moved here and we have no friends,” the girl chirped.
Wait, I’ll wake up now, and I’ll be your friend, it flashed through my head.
- Who has waaas, - XXX my ass is going to burn me now.
“That’s how it is with Musya and me,” the girl giggled.
My legs were numb. It was ten minutes into the conversation. If only she didn’t change her position, otherwise she would immediately see my bare ass and what was under my ass, and there was something to look at. During the entire conversation, I felt like shit was constantly pouring out of my ass in small portions.
- Oh, do you go to exhibitions? - the creature chirped.
“Hooooodim,” I moaned.
“Oh, how interesting, tell me,” the creature sang innocently, batting its eyes.
XXXX, it's just XXXX, I shit right in front of a pretty girl, and she also asks me to tell me how we go to exhibitions.
“Well, we are the champions of Ukraine,” a couple more sounds like that and she’ll think I’m not feeling well. And I really don’t feel very good anymore. The conversation is about twenty minutes into the conversation. She chirps about how she feeds and raises Musya, and I shit little by little.
I stopped feeling my legs. I tried to push one of them forward a little, I didn’t really like the idea, because I almost fell into my shit. It's time to stop all this, but how? Should I say that I just took a shit and I need to wipe my ass and then we will continue our nice conversation? No, the option is gone.
- My name is Angela, what’s yours? - said the girl.
You still extend your hand to me for a handshake.
- And I’m Saaaashaa, - XXXX, my ass decided to completely ruin this idyll.
- I walk in the morning at 10-00 and in the evening at 19-00, watch how your dog walks with mine, write down my phone number, let's walk together.
To be honest, I really wanted to send her to XXX, along with Musya, but I reached into my jacket pocket to write down the phone number. XXXXX, I picked up the girl when I took a shit! Gee, gee, gee... Then I was no longer laughing
My ass itself made such a disgusting sound that it is impossible to describe it. But, most likely, it looked like a wet, intermittent, loud fart, interspersed with the sounds of falling, liquid shit. I tried to hide these sounds behind a cough. Maybe the girl didn’t understand anything, but Musya clearly caught the direction of these sounds. Musya slowly trotted straight towards me. My XXXX, the dog, lay there and chewed on a stick. There was only one thing in my thoughts, how to drive Musya away. If she comes any closer, she will certainly catch the subtle smell of my feces, and then Musya will definitely decide to find out the nature of the origin of these aromas. The ass made a sound again, I didn’t drown out anything, I just sat listening to the girl’s chirping and waited for my fate. Musya carefully walked past me and headed towards my ass. I don’t know what she was doing there, but I clearly felt Musya’s hot breath, right next to my ass. I wanted to cry. But Musya went much further, she began to lick my ass, the anus itself. A thought flashed through my head: “If Musya licks my ass, that means she’s standing at least waist-deep in my shit!” This is where I went completely crazy, I just imagined the look of that Musya when she finished licking my ass. Mistress Musya continued to babble about the problems of raising dogs, feeding and training, Musya continued to lick my ass, and I just lit a cigarette and cried.
And it was in this heavenly idyll that the moment of truth came. The fourth wave of fecal eruption was similar to the ninth wave. I could no longer control myself or my ass. I didn't even try to hold back this wave. I got the impression that at that moment two kilograms of shit burst out of me. Musya grunted strangely and fell silent. I didn't even sweat anymore, I just waited.
“Musya, Musya, my girl, come to me,” the hostess was alarmed.
“And before, XXXX, you couldn’t call your dog,” flashed through my head. When I saw Musya, all the fears that I had experienced before were just baby talk. Musya moved in a strange zigzag, constantly bumping into sticks and branches. At the same time, she made sounds like some kind of wet cough and wheezing. When Musya walked past me, I just went nuts! I completely crap on Musya, from head to toe, I crap all over Musya’s eyes, ears, mouth, nose and generally his whole body. It was a big piece of shit on bulldog legs.
- You had a dog white. But now it's brown. You forgot your glasses at home.
- What did you do?
- That’s right, you should take her in your arms in order to determine the strange changes in the color of your pet.
Mistress Musi took her in her arms.....

Damn, Angela was a test pilot!....

Topic: Homogeneous and heterogeneous definitions (educational complex of V. V. Babaytseva, grade 8)
Equipment: cards No. 1 and No. 2
Organizing time
Repetition of learned material.
Conversation.
- What is a definition?
- Give example sentences with homogeneous members, expressed by definitions.
Answers
- Read the sentences written on cards No. 1.
I. 1) It was a wet, cold autumn in the city. (B. Emelyanov) 2) The poplars trembled with young, sticky, fragrant foliage. (A. Kuprin)3) It was somehow really sad in this small garden, already touched by late autumn. (B. Gorbatov)
II. 1) There was a long freight train. (A. Chekhov) 2) Behind the road is a trimmed linden alley. (L. Tolstoy) 3) Light pink clouds floated across the sky. (S. Aksakov)
- Name the definitions in these sentences, underline them.
- Why are definitions separated by commas in some sentences and not in others?
A common answer: you cannot put the conjunction and between adjectives that are not separated by a comma.
- Definitions not separated by commas are inconsistent.
Why do you think?
(They characterize objects from different sides)
- Open paragraph 189 (p. 254) of the textbook “Theory” and write down point by point which definitions are homogeneous and which are heterogeneous. Write the entry in the form of a table.

Complete exercise 286 of the textbook “Practicum”
Checking and analyzing errors.
Working with cards No. 2.
-Identify homogeneous or heterogeneous definitions in sentences, explain how you reasoned.
1) A damp, cold, burning wind rushed through the streets. (A. Fadeev) 2) It was a great, quiet August evening. (A. Fadeev) 3) Cold metallic light flashed on thousands of wet leaves. (D. Granin) 4) I will then possess the eternal, undoubted truth... (I. Turgenev) 5) He glorifies the ancient Russian cities. 6) It was as if there was no bottom in the deep, dark, creepy well.
Analysis of proposals.
- Open the textbook “Practice” and do exercise 187.
Analysis of the exercise.
- What new have you learned about definitions?
- How to determine whether definitions are heterogeneous?
D/Z: exercise 289.

And, having found his hat, Boris Ivanovich put it on his head and, in some extraordinary anxiety, went out into the street. It was only ten o'clock. It was a fine, quiet August evening. Kotofeev walked along the avenue, waving his arms widely. A strange and unclear excitement did not leave him.

He reached the station without even noticing it.

I went to the buffet, drank a glass of beer and, again suffocating and feeling that I didn’t have enough breath, went out into the street again.

He walked slowly now, sadly lowering his head, thinking about something. But if you asked him what he was thinking about, he would not answer - he himself did not know.

He walked straight from the station and on the alley, near the city garden, sat down on a bench and took off his hat.

Some girl with wide hips, in a short skirt and light stockings walked past Kotofeev once, then returned, then passed again and finally sat down next to him, looking at Kotofeev.

Boris Ivanovich shuddered, looked at the girl, shook his head and quickly walked away.

And suddenly everything seemed terribly disgusting and unbearable to Kotofeev. And all life is boring and stupid.

And why did I live... - Boris Ivanovich muttered. “I’ll come tomorrow, it’s invented,” they’ll say. They will say that an electric percussion instrument has already been invented. Congratulations, they will say. Look, they will say, for a new job.

A strong chill engulfed Boris Ivanovich’s entire body.

He almost ran forward and, reaching the church fence, stopped. Then, groping for the gate with his hand, he opened it and entered the fence.

The cool air, several quiet birch trees, and the stone slabs of the graves somehow immediately calmed Kotofeev. He sat down on one of the slabs and thought. Then he said out loud:

Today penmanship, tomorrow drawing. So is our whole life.

Boris Ivanovich lit a cigarette and began to think about how he would begin to live if something happened.

“I’ll live,” Boris Ivanovich muttered, “but I won’t go to Lusha.” I’d rather bow at the people’s feet. Here, I will say, a person, I will say, is dying, citizens. Don't leave me in misery...

Boris Ivanovich shuddered and stood up. Trembling and chills took over his body again.

And suddenly it seemed to Boris Ivanovich that the electric triangle had been invented a long time ago and was only being kept secret, a terrible secret, in order to immediately, with one blow, bring it down.

Boris Ivanovich, in some melancholy, almost ran out of the fence into the street and walked, quickly shuffling his feet.

It was quiet outside.

Several belated passersby hurried to their homes.

Boris Ivanovich stood on the corner, then, almost without realizing what he was doing, he walked up to some passerby and, taking off his hat, said in a dull voice:

Citizen... You are welcome... Maybe a person is dying at this moment...

The passer-by looked at Kotofeev with fear and quickly walked away.

“Ah,” Boris Ivanovich shouted, sinking onto the wooden sidewalk. Citizens!.. You are welcome... To my misfortune... To my misfortune... Give as much as you can!

Several passers-by surrounded Boris Ivanovich, looking at him with fear and amazement.

The policeman came up, anxiously patting his hand on the holster of his revolver, and tugged Boris Ivanovich by the shoulder.

“He’s drunk,” someone in the crowd said with pleasure. - Got drunk, damn it, on a weekday. There is no law against them!

A crowd of curious people surrounded Kotofeev. Some of the compassionate people tried to raise him to his feet. Boris Ivanovich rushed away from them and jumped to the side. The crowd parted.

Boris Ivanovich looked around in confusion, gasped and suddenly silently ran to the side.

Cut it, timidly! Grab it! - someone howled in a heart-rending voice.

The policeman whistled sharply and piercingly. And the trill of the whistle shook the whole street.

Boris Ivanovich, without looking back, ran at an even, fast pace, hanging his head low.

People ran behind, hooting wildly and slapping their feet in the mud.

Boris Ivanovich rushed around the corner and, reaching the church fence, jumped over it.

Boris Ivanovich ran onto the porch, quietly gasped, looking back, and leaned on the door.

The door gave way and creaked open on rusty hinges.

Boris Ivanovich ran inside.

For one second he stood motionless, then, clasping his head in his hands, he rushed upstairs along some shaky, dry and creaking steps.

Here! - yelled the willing investigator. - Take it, brothers! Cut anything you like...

Hundreds of passers-by and ordinary people rushed through the fence and burst into the church. It was dark.

Then someone struck a match and lit a wax candle on a huge candlestick.

Naked high walls and the pitiful church utensils were suddenly illuminated with a meager yellow flickering light.

Boris Ivanovich was not in the church.

And when the crowd, pushing and buzzing, rushed back in some kind of fear, from above, from the bell tower, the buzzing sound of the alarm was suddenly heard.

At first, rare blows, then more and more often, floated in the quiet night air.

It was Boris Ivanovich Kotofeev, with difficulty swinging his heavy copper tongue, striking the bell, as if deliberately trying to wake up the whole city, all the people.

This went on for a minute.

Here! Brothers, is it really possible to let the man out?

Cut to the bell tower! Get the tramp!

Several people rushed upstairs.

When Boris Ivanovich was taken out of the church, a huge crowd of half-dressed people, a police squad and a suburban fire brigade stood at the church fence.

Silently, through the crowd, Boris Ivanovich was led by the arms and dragged to the police headquarters.

Boris Ivanovich was deathly pale and trembling all over. And his feet dragged disobediently along the pavement.

Subsequently, many days later, when Boris Ivanovich was asked why he did all this and why, most importantly, he climbed into the bell tower and began to ring, he shrugged his shoulders and angrily remained silent, or said that he did not remember the details. And when he was reminded of these details, he waved his hands in embarrassment, begging him to talk about it.

And that night they kept Boris Ivanovich in the police until the morning and, having drawn up an unclear and foggy report on him, they released him home, taking a written undertaking not to leave the city.

In a torn frock coat, without a hat, all drooping and yellow, Boris Ivanovich returned home in the morning.

Boris Ivanovich closed the door behind the teacher and, going into his bedroom, sat down on the bed, clasping his knees with his hands.
Lukerya Petrovna, wearing worn out felt shoes, entered the room and began tidying it up for the night.
“Today penmanship, tomorrow drawing,” Boris Ivanovich muttered, rocking slightly on the bed. - This is how our whole life is.
Lukerya Petrovna looked back at her husband, silently and furiously spat on the floor and began to untangle her hair, which had become matted during the day, shaking off straw and wood chips from it.
Boris Ivanovich looked at his wife and suddenly said in a melancholy voice:
- What, Lusha, what if they really invent electric percussion instruments? Let’s say there’s a small button on the music stand... The conductor points his finger and it rings...
“And it’s very simple,” said Lukerya Petrovva. - It’s very simple... Oh, you’ll sit on my neck!.. I feel like you’ll sit...
Boris Ivanovich moved from the bed to a chair and thought.
-Are you grieving? - said Lukerya Petrovna, - are you thinking? I grabbed my mind... If you didn’t have a wife and a home, where would you go, you little bastard? Well, for example, will they trample you with the orchestra?
“It’s not a matter of trampling, Lusha,” said Boris Ivanovich. - But the fact is that everything is wrong. Case... For some reason, I, Lusha, play the triangle. And in general... If you throw the game away from life, how can you live then? What else am I attached to besides this?
Lukerya Petrovna, lying in bed, listened to her husband, trying in vain to unravel the meaning of his words. And, suggesting in them a personal insult and a claim to her real estate, she said again:
- Oh, sit on my neck! Sit down, Pilate the martyr, you cat of a bitch.
“I won’t sit down,” said Kotofeev.
And, choking again, he got up from his chair and began to walk around the room.
A terrible emotion gripped him. Running his hand over his head, as if trying to get rid of some unclear thoughts, Boris Ivanovich sat down on the chair again.
And he sat for a long time in a motionless position.
Then, when Lukerya Petrovna’s breathing turned into a light snoring with a slight whistle, Boris Ivanovich got up from his chair and left the room.
And, having found his hat, Boris Ivanovich put it on his head and, in some extraordinary anxiety, went out into the street. It was only ten o'clock. It was a fine, quiet August evening. Kotofeev walked along the avenue, waving his arms widely. A strange and unclear excitement did not leave him.
He reached the station without even noticing it.
I went to the buffet, drank a glass of beer and, again suffocating and feeling that I didn’t have enough breath, went out into the street again.
He walked slowly now, sadly lowering his head, thinking about something. But if you asked him what he was thinking about, he would not answer - he himself did not know.
He walked straight from the station and on the alley, near the city garden, sat down on a bench and took off his hat.
Some girl with wide hips, in a short skirt and light stockings walked past Kotofeev once, then returned, then passed again and finally sat down next to him, looking at Kotofeev.
Boris Ivanovich shuddered, looked at the girl, shook his head and quickly walked away.
And suddenly everything seemed terribly disgusting and unbearable to Kotofeev. And all life is boring and stupid.
“And why did I live…” Boris Ivanovich muttered. “I’ll come tomorrow, it’s invented,” they’ll say. They will say that an electric percussion instrument has already been invented. Congratulations, they will say. Look, they will say, for a new job.
A strong chill engulfed Boris Ivanovich’s entire body.
He almost ran forward and, reaching the church fence, stopped. Then, groping for the gate with his hand, he opened it and entered the fence.
The cool air, several quiet birch trees, and the stone slabs of the graves somehow immediately calmed Kotofeev. He sat down on one of the slabs and thought. Then he said out loud:
- Today penmanship, tomorrow drawing. So is our whole life.
Boris Ivanovich lit a cigarette and began to think about how he would begin to live if something happened.
“I’ll live,” Boris Ivanovich muttered, “but I won’t go to Lusha.” I’d rather bow at the people’s feet. Here, I will say, a person, I will say, is dying, citizens. Don't leave me in misery...
Boris Ivanovich shuddered and stood up. Trembling and chills took over his body again.
And suddenly it seemed to Boris Ivanovich that the electric triangle had been invented a long time ago and was only being kept secret, a terrible secret, in order to immediately, with one blow, bring it down.
Boris Ivanovich, in some melancholy, almost ran out of the fence into the street and walked, quickly shuffling his feet.
It was quiet outside.
Several belated passersby hurried to their homes.
Boris Ivanovich stood on the corner, then, almost without realizing what he was doing, he walked up to some passerby and, taking off his hat, said in a dull voice:
- Citizen... You are welcome... Maybe a person is dying at this moment...
The passer-by looked at Kotofeev with fear and quickly walked away.
“Ah,” Boris Ivanovich shouted, sinking onto the wooden sidewalk. Citizens!.. You are welcome... To my misfortune... To my misfortune... Give as much as you can!
Several passers-by surrounded Boris Ivanovich, looking at him with fear and amazement.
The policeman came up, anxiously patting his hand on the holster of his revolver, and tugged Boris Ivanovich by the shoulder.
“He’s drunk,” someone in the crowd said with pleasure. - Got drunk, damn it, on a weekday. There is no law against them!
A crowd of curious people surrounded Kotofeev. Some of the compassionate people tried to raise him to his feet. Boris Ivanovich rushed away from them and jumped to the side. The crowd parted.
Boris Ivanovich looked around in confusion, gasped and suddenly silently ran to the side.
- Cut it, timid! Grab it! - someone howled in a heart-rending voice.
The policeman whistled sharply and piercingly. And the trill of the whistle shook the whole street.
Boris Ivanovich, without looking back, ran at an even, fast pace, hanging his head low.
People ran behind, hooting wildly and slapping their feet in the mud.
Boris Ivanovich rushed around the corner and, reaching the church fence, jumped over it.
- Here! - howled the same voice. - Here, brothers! Come here, catch up!.. Cut...
Boris Ivanovich ran onto the porch, quietly gasped, looking back, and leaned on the door.
The door gave way and creaked open on rusty hinges.
Boris Ivanovich ran inside.
For one second he stood motionless, then, clasping his head in his hands, he rushed upstairs along some shaky, dry and creaking steps.
- Here! - yelled the willing investigator. - Take it, brothers! Cut anything you like...
Hundreds of passers-by and ordinary people rushed through the fence and burst into the church. It was dark.
Then someone struck a match and lit a wax candle on a huge candlestick.
The bare high walls and pitiful church utensils were suddenly illuminated with a meager yellow flickering light.
Boris Ivanovich was not in the church.
And when the crowd, pushing and buzzing, rushed back in some kind of fear, from above, from the bell tower, the buzzing sound of the alarm was suddenly heard.
At first, rare blows, then more and more often, floated in the quiet night air.
It was Boris Ivanovich Kotofeev, with difficulty swinging his heavy copper tongue, striking the bell, as if deliberately trying to wake up the whole city, all the people.
This went on for a minute.
Then the familiar voice howled again:
- Here! Brothers, is it really possible to let the man out?
Cut to the bell tower! Get the tramp!
Several people rushed upstairs.
When Boris Ivanovich was taken out of the church, a huge crowd of half-dressed people, a police squad and a suburban fire brigade stood at the church fence.
Silently, through the crowd, Boris Ivanovich was led by the arms and dragged to the police headquarters.
Boris Ivanovich was deathly pale and trembling all over. And his feet dragged disobediently along the pavement.
Subsequently, many days later, when Boris Ivanovich was asked why he did all this and why, most importantly, he climbed into the bell tower and began to ring, he shrugged his shoulders and angrily remained silent, or said that he did not remember the details. And when he was reminded of these details, he waved his hands in embarrassment, begging him to talk about it.
And that night they kept Boris Ivanovich in the police until the morning and, having drawn up an unclear and foggy report on him, they released him home, taking a written undertaking not to leave the city.
In a torn frock coat, without a hat, all drooping and yellow, Boris Ivanovich returned home in the morning.
Lukerya Petrovna howled loudly and beat her breasts, cursing her birthday and her entire unhappy life with such human rabble as Boris Ivanovich Kotofeev.
And that same evening, Boris Ivanovich, as always, in a clean, neat frock coat, sat in the back of the orchestra and melancholy tinkled his triangle.
Boris Ivanovich was, as always, clean and combed, and nothing in him spoke of what a terrible night he had lived through.
And only two deep wrinkles from nose to lips appeared on his face.
These wrinkles didn’t exist before.
And there was no longer that stooped posture with which Boris Ivanovich sat in the orchestra.
But everything will grind - there will be flour.
Boris Ivanovich Kotofeev will live for a long time.
He, dear reader, will outlive you and me. We think so.
1924

WHAT THE NIGHTINGALE SINGED ABOUT

But they will laugh at us in three hundred years! It’s strange, they will say, how the little people lived. Some will say they had money, passports. Some acts of civil status and square meters living space...
Well! Let them laugh.
One thing is offensive: the devils won’t understand half of it. And how can they understand, if their life is such, that maybe we never even dreamed of it!
The author does not know and does not want to guess what kind of life they will have. Why fray your nerves and upset your health - it’s still pointless, anyway, the author probably won’t see this future in full have a wonderful life.
Will she be beautiful? For his own peace of mind, it seems to the author that there will be a lot of nonsense and rubbish there too.
However, maybe this nonsense will be of small quality.
Well, let's say, someone, excuse the poverty of thought, was spat at from an airship. Or someone’s ashes were mixed up in the crematorium and instead of a deceased relative they were given some foreign and poor-quality dust... Of course, this is not without that - such insignificant troubles will happen in small things day to day.
And the rest of your life will probably be excellent and wonderful.
Maybe there won't even be any money. Maybe everything will be free, for nothing. Let's say, they will impose some fur coats or mufflers in Gostiny Dvor for nothing.
“Take,” they will say, “we, citizen, have an excellent fur coat.”
And you will pass by. And your heart won't beat.
“No,” you say, “dear comrades.” Damn it, your fur coat gave up on me. I have six of them.
Oh, damn! How cheerful and attractive the author portrays future life!
But here it is worth thinking about it. After all, if you throw out some kind of money matters and selfish motives from life, then what amazing forms life itself will take! What excellent qualities human relationships will acquire! And, for example, love. What a magnificent flower this most graceful feeling will surely blossom!
Oh, what life will be, what life! With what sweet joy the author thinks about her, even as a stranger, even without the slightest guarantee of catching her. But here is love.
There should be a special discussion about this. After all, many scientists and other people generally tend to lower this feeling. Excuse me, they say, what kind of love? There is no love. And it never happened. And in general, they say, this is an ordinary act of the same civil status, well, for example, like a funeral.
The author cannot agree with this.
The author does not want to confess to a casual reader and does not want to reveal to his critics that he is especially unpleasant. intimate life, but still, understanding it, the author remembers one girl in the days of her youth. She had such a stupid white face, arms, pitiful shoulders. And what a calf’s delight the author fell into! What sensitive moments the author experienced when, from an excess of all kinds of noble feelings, he fell to his knees and, like a fool, kissed the ground.
Now, when fifteen years have passed and the author is slightly graying from various illnesses, and from life’s shocks, and from worries, when the author simply does not want to lie and there is no reason to lie to him, when, finally, the author wants to see life as it is, without any lies and decorations - he, not afraid to appear funny person from the last century, still claims that scientists and public circles are very mistaken about this.
For these lines about love, the author already foresees a number of cruel rebuke from public figures.
“This,” they will say, “comrade, is not an example—your own figure.” Why, they say, are you poking your love tricks in your nose? Your person, they will say, is not in tune with the era and, in general, accidentally survived to the present day.
- Have you seen it? Accidentally! That is, “let me ask you, how is this an accident? Well, will you order me to lie down under the tram?”
“Yes, it’s whatever you like,” they’ll say. - Under a tram or from a bridge, but your existence is not based on anything. Look, they will say, at simple, inexperienced people, and you will see how differently they reason.
Ha!.. Sorry, reader, for the insignificant laugh. Recently the author read in Pravda about how one small artisan, a hairdressing apprentice, bit off the nose of one citizen out of jealousy.
Is this not love? Do you think it was a beetle that spoiled it?
Do you think the nose was bitten off for taste?
Well, to hell with you! The author does not want to get upset and spoil his blood. He still needs to finish the story, go to Moscow and, in addition, make several unpleasant visits to some people literary critics, asking them to take their time writing critical articles and reviews of this story.
So, love.
Let everyone think about this elegant feeling as they want. The author, recognizing his own insignificance and inability to live, even, to hell with you, let the tram go ahead - the author still remains unconvinced.
The author only wants to tell the reader about one small love episode that happened against the backdrop of the present day. Again, they will say, minor episodes? Again, they will say, little things in a two-ruble book? What, they say, are you crazy, young man? But who, they say, needs this on a cosmic scale?
The author honestly and openly asks:
- Don't interfere, comrades! Let the person speak out, at least by way of discussion!..
Ugh! It’s so hard to write in literature!
Then you will be completely gone while you fight your way through the impenetrable jungle.
And for what? For some reason love story citizen Bylinkin. He is not the author's matchmaker or brother. The author did not borrow from him. And he is not connected with ideology. Yes, to tell the truth, the author is deeply indifferent to him. And the author has no desire to paint it with strong colors. In addition, the author does not really remember the face of this Bylinkin, Vasily Vasilyevich.
As for other persons participating in one way or another in this story, other persons also passed before the author’s gaze little noticed. Perhaps Lizochka Rundukova, whom the author remembered for very special and, so to speak, subjective reasons.
Mishka Rundukov, her brother, is already less memorable. This guy was extremely impudent and a bully. In appearance, he was sort of fair-haired and slightly muzzled.
Yes, the author also has no desire to talk about his appearance. The boy is in transition. You describe him, and he, the son of a bitch, will grow up by the time the book comes out, and then figure out what kind of Bear Rundukov he is. And where did his mustache come from, when he didn’t even have a mustache at the time he described the events.
As for the old woman herself, so to speak, mother Rundukova, the reader himself is unlikely to express a complaint if we completely bypass the old woman in our description. Moreover, old women are generally difficult to describe artistically. Old lady and old lady. And the dog will figure her out what kind of old lady she is. And who needs a description of, say, her nose? Nose and nose. And a detailed description of it will not make it easier for the reader to live in the world.
Of course, the author would not have undertaken to write fiction stories if he had only such meager and insignificant information about the heroes. The author has enough information.
For example, the author very vividly depicts their entire life. Their small locker house. It's kind of dark, on one floor. On the façade there is number twenty-two. Higher up on the board there is a gaff drawn. For fire. Who should carry what? Rundukova, that means dragging the gaff. But do they have a hook? Oh, I suppose not!.. Well, no matter fiction look into it and bring this to the attention of the county administration.
And the entire interior of their house and, so to speak, its material design in the sense of furniture also emerge quite clearly in the author’s memory... The three rooms are small. The floor is crooked. Becker piano. A kind of creepy piano. But you can play on it. Some furniture. Sofa. Cat or cat on the sofa. On the mirror glass there is a watch under a cap. The cap is dusty. And the mirror itself is cloudy - its face is lying. The chest is huge. He smells like mothballs and dead flies.
It would probably be boring for the capital's citizens to live in these rooms!
It’s probably boring for a metropolitan citizen to enter their kitchen, where wet laundry is hung on a string.
And the old woman is cooking food at the stove. For example, he peels potatoes. The husk curls up like a ribbon under the knife.
Just let the reader not think that the author describes these small details with love and admiration. No!
There is no sweetness or romanticism in these small memories. The author knows these houses and these kitchens. I came in. And he lived in them. And maybe he still lives. There is nothing good in this, it’s just a pathetic pity. Well, if you enter this kitchen, you will certainly end up with your face in wet underwear. And thank you, if in the noble part of the toilet, otherwise in some wet stocking, God forgive me!
It's disgusting to put your face in your stocking! Well, to hell with it! Such disgusting.
And for reasons not related to fiction, the author had to visit the Rundukovs several times. And the author always wondered how such an outstanding young lady, such, one might say, lily of the valley and nasturtium, as Lizochka Rundukova, lived in such trifles and pettiness.
The author always felt very, very sorry for this pretty young lady. We will talk about it at length and in detail in due time, but for now the author is forced to tell something about citizen Vasily Vasilyevich Bylinkin.
About what kind of person he is. Where did he come from? And is he politically reliable? And what does he have to do with the respected Rundukovs? And isn't he related to them?
No, he is not a relative. He just accidentally and temporarily got mixed up in their lives.
The author has already warned the reader that he did not remember this Bylinkin’s face very much. Although at the same time the author, closing his eyes, sees him as if alive.
This Bylinkin always walked slowly, even thoughtfully.
He kept his hands behind him. He blinked his eyelashes terribly often.
And his figure was somewhat stooped, apparently crushed by everyday circumstances. Bylinkin wore his heels inward all the way to the heels.
As for education, the education seemed to be no less than four classes of the old gymnasium.
Social background- unknown.
A man arrived from Moscow at the very height of the revolution and did not talk about himself.
And why he came is also unclear. Did it seem more well-fed in the provinces? Or was he unable to sit in one place and was drawn to, so to speak, unknown distances and adventures? Damn him! You can’t get into every psychology.
But most likely it seemed more satisfying in the provinces. That’s why, at first, a man walked around the market and looked with appetite at fresh bread and mountains of all kinds of products.
But, by the way, how he fed is an unclear mystery to the author. Maybe he even extended his hand. Or maybe he collected corks from mineral and fruit waters. And I sold it after. There were also such desperate speculators in the city.
Only, apparently, the man lived poorly. He was completely worn out and began to lose hair. And he walked timidly, looking around and dragging his feet. He even stopped blinking his eyes and looked motionless and bored.
And then, for an unknown reason, he went uphill. And by the time our love story played out, Bylinkin had a strong social status, public service and a salary of the seventh grade plus for the workload.
And by this moment Bylinkin had already somewhat rounded out his figure, poured, so to speak, the lost vital juices into himself again and again, as before, blinked his eyes frequently and cheekily.
And he walked down the street with the heavy gait of a man who has been through life, and has the right to live, and who knows his full worth.
And indeed, by the time the events unfolded, he was a man at least not quite thirty-two years old.
He walked a lot and often along the streets and, waving a stick, knocked down flowers, or grass, or even leaves along the way. Sometimes he sat down on a boulevard bench and cheerfully breathed deeply, smiling happily.
What he was thinking about and what exceptional ideas came into his head - no one knows. Maybe he didn't think about anything. Maybe he was just getting excited about his rightful existence. Or most likely he thought that he absolutely needed to change his apartment.
And in fact: he lived with Volosatov, with the deacon of a living church, and, due to his official position, he was very worried about living with a person so politically soiled.
He asked many times if anyone, for God’s sake, knew of any new apartment or room, since he was no longer able to live with a minister of a certain cult.
And finally, out of the kindness of their hearts, someone got him a small room, two square fathoms in size. It was just in the house of the respected Rundukovs. Bylinkin immediately moved. Today he inspected the room and moved in tomorrow morning, hiring water carrier Nikita for this purpose.
Father deacon did not need this Bylinkin on any side, however, apparently wounded in his unclear but distinct feelings, the deacon swore terribly and even threatened to punch Bylinkin in the face on occasion. And when Bylinkin was putting his goods on the cart, the deacon stood at the window and laughed loudly artificially, thereby wanting to show his complete indifference to leaving.
The deaconess ran out from time to time into the yard and, throwing some thing onto the cart, shouted:
- Good riddance. Stone into the water. We don't delay.
The assembled public and neighbors laughed with pleasure, transparently hinting at their supposed love relationship. The author does not undertake to assert this. Does not know. And he doesn’t want to start unnecessary gossip in fine literature.
The room was rented to Bylinkin, Vasily Vasilyevich, without any self-interest and even without any special need. Or rather, the old woman Daria Vasilievna Rundukova was afraid that, due to the housing crisis, their apartment would be densified by moving in some crude and unnecessary element.
Bylinkin even took advantage of this circumstance somewhat. And, passing by Becker’s piano, he glanced angrily at it and noticed with displeasure that this instrument, generally speaking, was superfluous and that he himself, Bylinkin, a quiet man, shocked by life, who had been on two fronts and was shelled by artillery, could not tolerate the unnecessary philistine sounds.
The old woman said offendedly that they have had this grand piano for forty years and for Bylinkin’s whims they cannot break it or pull out the strings and pedals from it, and especially since Lizochka Rundukova is learning to play the instrument and, perhaps, this is her main goal for life.
Bylinkin angrily waved the old woman aside, declaring that he was speaking in the form of a delicate request, and not at all in the form of a strict order.
At which the old woman, extremely offended, burst into tears and almost refused the room altogether if she had not thought about the possibility of moving in from the outside.
Bylinkin moved in in the morning and groaned in his room until the evening, installing and tidying everything according to his metropolitan taste.
Two or three days passed quietly and without much change. Bylinkin went to work, returned late and walked around the room for a long time, shuffling with felt shoes.
In the evening I chewed something and finally fell asleep, snoring slightly and wheezing.
Lizochka Rundukova walked around somewhat quiet these two days and asked her mother many times, as well as Mishka Rundukov, about what Bylinkin was like in their opinion, whether he smoked a pipe and whether he had any contact with the naval commissariat in his life.
Finally, on the third day, she saw Bylinkin herself.
It was early in the morning. Bylinkin, as usual, was getting ready for work.
He walked down the corridor in a nightgown with an open collar. The pants from his pants were hanging behind him, fluttering in different directions. He walked slowly, holding a towel and scented soap in one hand. With his other hand he smoothed his hair, which had become disheveled during the night.
She stood in the kitchen going about her household chores, fanning the samovar or splitting a splinter from a dry log.
She cried out quietly when she saw him and rushed to the side, ashamed of her untidy morning toilet.
And Bylinkin, standing in the doorway, looked at the young lady with some amazement and delight.
And it’s true: she was very good that morning.
This youthful freshness of a slightly sleepy face. That messy flow of blond hair. Slightly raised nose. And bright eyes. And a small but plump figure. All this was unusually attractive about her.
She had that charming negligence and, perhaps, even the sloppiness of that Russian woman who jumps out of bed in the morning and, unwashed, in felt shoes on her bare feet, fusses around the house.
The author, perhaps, even likes such women. He has nothing against such women.
In essence, there is nothing good about them, these plump, lazy-eyed women. There is no liveliness in them, no brightness of temperament, and, finally, no flirtatious posture. So - she moves little, wears soft shoes, unkempt... Generally speaking, perhaps even disgusting. But here you go!
And a strange thing, reader!
This kind of doll lady is, so to speak, an invention of the bourgeois Western culture, is not at all to the author’s liking. She has such a hairstyle, God knows, it’s Greek - you can’t touch it. If you touch it, you won’t end up with screams and scandals. This dress isn't real - don't touch it again. You'll either tear it or get dirty. Tell me: who needs this? What is the beauty and joy of existence here?
Ours, for example, as soon as it sits down, you can clearly see that it’s sitting, and not pinned on a pin, like the other one. And that one is like on a pin. Who needs this?
The author admires many things in foreign culture, but regarding women, the author remains with his national opinion.
Bylinkin, too, apparently liked such women.
In any case, he now stood in front of Lizochka Rundukova and, his mouth slightly open with delight and not even tidying up his hanging suspenders, looked at her with joyful amazement.
But it lasted one minute.
Lizochka Rundukova, quietly gasping and rushing around the kitchen, walked out, straightening her toilet and tangled hair as she went.
In the evening, when Bylinkin returned from work, he slowly walked into his room, expecting to meet Lizochka in the corridor.
But I didn’t meet him.
Then later, in the evening, Bylinkin dashed off to the kitchen five or six times and finally met Lizochka Rundukova, to whom he bowed terribly respectfully and gallantly, slightly bowing his head to the side and making with his hands that vague gesture that conventionally shows admiration and extreme pleasantness.
Several days of such meetings in the corridor and in the kitchen brought them much closer.
Bylinkin would now come home and, listening to Lizotchka playing some kind of trampoline on the piano, begged her to portray something more and more sentimental.
And she played some kind of dog waltz or shimmy or struck a few bravura chords of the second or third, and maybe even, God knows, the fourth rhapsody of Liszt.
And he, Bylinkin, who had twice visited all fronts and was fired upon by heavy artillery, listened as if for the first time to these rattling sounds of Becker’s piano. And, sitting in his room, he dreamily leaned back in his chair, thinking about the delights human existence.
Very luxurious life started with Mishka Rundukov. Bylinkin twice gave him a ten-kopeck piece and once a five-kopeck piece, asking Mishka to whistle quietly into his fingers when the old woman was in her kitchen and Lizochka was alone in the room.
Why Bylinkin needed this is extremely unclear to the author. The old woman looked at the lovers with complete delight, hoping not to late autumn marry them and get rid of Lizochka.
Mishka Rundukov also did not understand Bylinkin’s psychological subtleties and whistled on his own six times a day, inviting Bylinkin to look into this or that room.
And Bylinkin would enter the room, sit down next to Lizochka, exchange first insignificant phrases with her, then ask her to play some of her favorite things on the instrument. And there, at the piano, when Lizochka stopped playing, Bylinkin put his gnarled fingers, the fingers of a philosophically minded man, burned by life and shelled by heavy artillery, on Lizochka’s white hands and asked the young lady to tell about her life, keenly interested in the details of her previous existence.
Sometimes he asked if she had ever felt the thrill of real, true love, or if this was her first time.
And the young lady smiled mysteriously and, quietly fingering the piano keys, said:
- Don't know…
They fell in love with each other passionately and dreamily.
They could not see each other without tears and trembling.
And when they met, each time they experienced a new and new surge of enthusiastic joy.
Bylinkin, however, looked at himself with some fear and thought with amazement that he, who had been on all fronts twice and had earned the right to exist with extraordinary difficulty, would now easily give his life for one insignificant whim of this rather pretty young lady.
And, going over in his memory those women who passed through his life, and even the last one, the deaconess, with whom he did have an affair (the author is absolutely sure of this), Bylinkin thought with confidence that only now, in his thirty-second year, he found out true love and a genuine thrill of feeling.