Another day passed and the hussar completely recovered.

Well, my father, he is still a hunter of stories.

Mitrofan for me.

Postal station dictator

Who hasn’t cursed the stationmasters, who hasn’t sworn at them? Who, in a moment of anger, did not demand from them a fatal book in order to write into it his useless complaint about oppression, rudeness and malfunction? Who does not consider them monsters of the human race, equal to the late clerks or, at least, the Murom robbers? Let us, however, be fair, we will try to put ourselves in their position, and perhaps we will begin to judge them much more leniently. What is a stationmaster? A real martyr of the fourteenth grade, protected by his rank only from beatings, and even then not always (I refer to the conscience of my readers). What is the position of this dictator, as Prince Vyazemsky jokingly calls him? Isn't this real hard labor? I have peace neither day nor night. The traveler takes out all the frustration accumulated during a boring ride on the caretaker. The weather is unbearable, the road is bad, the driver is stubborn, the horses are not moving - and the caretaker is to blame. Entering his poor home, a passer-by looks at him as if he were an enemy; it would be good if he managed to get rid of the uninvited guest soon; but if the horses don't happen. God! what curses, what threats will rain down on his head! In the rain and slush, he is forced to run around the yards; in a storm, in the Epiphany frost, he goes into the entryway, just to rest for a minute from the screams and pushes of an irritated guest. The general arrives; the trembling caretaker gives him the last two threes, including the courier one. The general leaves without saying thank you. Five minutes later - the bell rings. and the courier throws his travel document on his table. Let's look into all this carefully, and instead of indignation, our hearts will be filled with sincere compassion. A few more words: for twenty years in a row I traveled across Russia in all directions; I know almost all postal routes; I know several generations of coachmen; I don’t know a rare caretaker by sight, I haven’t dealt with a rare one; I hope to publish a curious stock of my travel observations in a short time; For now I will only say that the class of stationmasters is presented to the general opinion in the most false form. These much-maligned caretakers are generally peaceful people, naturally helpful, inclined towards community, modest in their claims to honor and not too money-loving. From their conversations (which are inappropriately neglected by gentlemen passing by) one can glean a lot of interesting and instructive things. As for me, I confess that I prefer their conversation to the speeches of some 6th class official traveling on official business.

You can easily guess that I have friends from the venerable class of caretakers. Indeed, the memory of one of them is precious to me. Circumstances once brought us closer together, and this is what I now intend to talk about with my dear readers.

In 1816, in the month of May, I happened to be driving through the *** province, along a highway that has now been destroyed. I was in a minor rank, rode on carriages, and paid fees for two horses. As a result of this, the caretakers did not stand on ceremony with me, and I often took in battle what, in my opinion, was rightfully due me. Being young and hot-tempered, I was indignant at the baseness and cowardice of the caretaker when this latter gave the troika he had prepared for me under the carriage of the official master. It took me just as long to get used to having a picky servant hand me a dish at the governor’s dinner. Nowadays both seem to me to be in the order of things. In fact, what would happen to us if instead of the generally convenient rule: honor the rank of rank, Another thing came into use, for example: honor your mind? What controversy would arise! and who would the servants start serving the food with? But I turn to my story.

The day was hot. Three miles from the station it began to drizzle, and a minute later the pouring rain soaked me to the last thread. Upon arrival at the station, the first concern was to quickly change clothes, the second was to ask myself some tea. “Hey Dunya! - the caretaker shouted, “put on the samovar and go get some cream.” At these words, a girl of about fourteen came out from behind the partition and ran into the hallway. Her beauty amazed me. “Is this your daughter?” – I asked the caretaker. “Daughter, sir,” he answered with an air of satisfied pride; “Yes, so intelligent, so agile, like a dead mother.” Then he began to copy out my travel document, and I began to look at the pictures that decorated his humble but neat abode. They depicted the story of the prodigal son: in the first, a respectable old man in a cap and dressing gown releases a restless young man, who hastily accepts his blessing and a bag of money. Another vividly depicts the depraved behavior of a young man: he sits at a table, surrounded by false friends and shameless women. Further, a squandered young man, in rags and a three-cornered hat, tends pigs and shares a meal with them; his face shows deep sadness and remorse. Finally, his return to his father is presented; a kind old man in the same cap and dressing gown runs out to meet him: the prodigal son is on his knees; in the future, the cook kills a well-fed calf, and the elder brother asks the servants about the reason for such joy. Under each picture I read decent German poetry. All this has been preserved in my memory to this day, as well as pots with balsam and a bed with a colorful curtain, and other objects that surrounded me at that time. I see, as now, the owner himself, a man of about fifty, fresh and cheerful, and his long green coat with three medals on faded ribbons.

A. Pushkin

Stationmaster

...One winter evening, when the caretaker was lining a new book, and his daughter was sewing a dress for herself behind the partition, a troika drove up, and a traveler in a Circassian hat, in a military overcoat, wrapped in a shawl, entered the room, demanding horses. The horses were all in full speed. At this news the traveler raised his voice and his whip; but Dunya, accustomed to such scenes, ran out from behind the partition and affectionately turned to the traveler with the question: would he like to have something to eat? Dunya's appearance had its usual effect. The passerby's anger passed; he agreed to wait for the horses and ordered himself dinner. Taking off his wet, shaggy hat, unraveling his shawl and pulling off his overcoat, the traveler appeared as a young, slender hussar with a black mustache. He settled down with the caretaker and began to talk cheerfully with him and his daughter. Dinner was served. Meanwhile, the horses arrived, and the caretaker ordered that they immediately, without feeding, be harnessed to the traveler’s wagon; but when he returned, he found a young man almost unconscious lying on a bench: he felt sick, had a headache, and was unable to travel. How to be! The caretaker gave him his bed, and it was supposed, if the patient did not feel better, to send to S*** for a doctor the next morning.

The next day the hussar became worse. His man went on horseback to the city to get a doctor. Dunya tied a scarf soaked in vinegar around his head and sat down with her sewing by his bed. The patient groaned in front of the caretaker and did not say almost a word, but he drank two cups of coffee and, groaning, ordered himself lunch. Dunya did not leave his side. He constantly asked for a drink, and Dunya brought him a mug of lemonade she had prepared. The sick man wet his lips and each time he returned the mug, as a sign of gratitude, he shook Dunyushka’s hand with his weak hand. The doctor arrived at lunchtime. He felt the patient’s pulse, spoke to him in German and announced in Russian that all he needed was peace and that in two days he would be able to hit the road. The hussar gave him twenty-five rubles for the visit and invited him to dinner; the doctor agreed; They both ate with great appetite, drank a bottle of wine and parted very pleased with each other.

Another day passed, and the hussar completely recovered. He was extremely cheerful, joked incessantly, first with Dunya, then with the caretaker; he whistled songs, talked to passers-by, wrote down their travel information in the postal book, and became so fond of the kind caretaker that on the third morning he was sorry to part with his kind guest.

N. Gogol

The story of how I quarreled

Ivan Ivanovich with Ivan Nikiforovich

...Wonderful man Ivan Ivanovich! What kind of house does he have in Mirgorod? What apple and pear trees he has right next to his windows! Just open the window and the branches burst into the room. This is all in front of the house; But look what he has in his garden! What's missing? Plums, cherries, sweet cherries, all kinds of vegetable gardens, sunflowers, cucumbers, melons, pods, even a threshing floor and a forge.

Ivan Nikiforovich is also a very good person. His yard is near the yard of Ivan Ivanovich. They are such friends with each other as the world has never produced. Despite their great friendship, these rare friends were not entirely alike. The best way to recognize their characters is by comparison: Ivan Ivanovich has an extraordinary gift of speaking extremely pleasantly. Lord, how he speaks! This feeling can only be compared to when someone is searching in your head or slowly running a finger along your heel. Ivan Nikiforovich, on the contrary, is more silent, but if he slaps a word, then just hold on: he will shave it off better than any razor. Ivan Ivanovich is thin and tall; Ivan Nikiforovich is a little lower, but extends in thickness. Ivan Ivanovich's head looks like a radish with its tail down; Ivan Nikiforovich's head on a radish with his tail up. It is only after dinner that Ivan Ivanovich lies in his shirt under the canopy; in the evening he puts on a bekesha and goes somewhere - either to the city store, where he supplies flour, or to catch quails in the field. Ivan Nikiforovich lies on the porch all day; if the day is not too hot, then he usually puts his back in the sun and doesn’t want to go anywhere. Ivan Ivanovich gets very angry if he gets a fly in the borscht: then he loses his temper and throws the plate, and the owner gets it. Ivan Nikiforovich is extremely fond of swimming, and when he sits up to his neck in water, he orders a table and a samovar to be placed in the water, and he really likes to drink tea in such coolness. Ivan Ivanovich is of a somewhat timid nature. Ivan Nikiforovich, on the contrary, has trousers with such wide folds that if they were inflated, the entire yard with barns and buildings could be placed in them. Ivan Ivanovich has large, expressive tabash-colored eyes and a mouth somewhat similar to the letter Izhitsa; Ivan Nikiforovich has small, yellowish eyes, completely disappearing between thick eyebrows and plump cheeks, and a nose in the shape of a ripe plum.

However, despite some differences, both Ivan Ivanovich and Ivan Nikiforovich are wonderful people.

The wonderful city of Mirgorod! There are no buildings in it! And under thatch, and under the roof, even under a wooden roof; to the right is the street, to the left is the street, beautiful hedges everywhere; Hops curl through it, pots hang on it, because of it the sunflower shows its sun-shaped head, the poppy turns red, and fat pumpkins flash. Luxury! The wattle fence is always decorated with objects that make it even more picturesque: either a draped blanket, or a shirt, or trousers. There is no theft or fraud in Mirgorod, and therefore everyone hangs whatever he pleases. If you approach the square, then, of course, stop for a while to admire the view: there is a puddle on it, an amazing puddle! the only one you have ever seen! It occupies almost the entire area. Beautiful puddle! Houses and small houses, which from a distance can be mistaken for haystacks, surrounded around, marvel at its beauty.

But I have those thoughts that there is no better home than the district court. Whether it is oak or birch, I don’t care; but, dear sirs, there are eight windows in it! eight windows in a row, directly onto the square and onto that body of water that I have already spoken about and which the mayor calls a lake! Only it is painted the color of granite: all the other houses in Mirgorod are simply whitewashed. The roof on it is all wooden, and would even have been painted red if the stationery oil prepared for it, seasoned with onions, had not been eaten, which happened on purpose during Lent, and the roof remained unpainted. A porch protrudes into the square, on which chickens often run, because cereals or something edible are always almost scattered on the porch, which, however, is not done on purpose, but solely due to the carelessness of the petitioners.

M. Sholokhov.

Quiet Don.

. The world opened up to Aksinya in its innermost sound: green leaves of ash trees with white lining and cast oak leaves in patterned carvings rustled tremulously in the wind; a continuous rumble floated from the thickets of young aspen trees; far, far away, a cuckoo was counting the unlived years of someone indistinctly and sadly; a crested lapwing flying over the lake persistently asked: “Whose are you, whose are you?”; some tiny gray bird, two steps from Aksinya, drank water from the road rut, throwing back its head and sweetly squinting its eye; velvety dusty bumblebees buzzed; dark-skinned wild bees swayed on the corollas of meadow flowers. They broke off and carried fragrant “pollens” into the shady, cool hollows. Sap dripped from the poplar branches. And from under the hawthorn bush oozed the tart and tart scent of last year’s rotting leaves.

Aksinya, sitting motionless, insatiably inhaled the diverse smells of the forest. Filled with wonderful and polyphonic sounds, the forest lived a powerful, primordial life. The flooded soil of the meadow, abundantly saturated with spring moisture, swept out and grew such a rich variety of herbs that Aksinya’s eyes were lost in this most wonderful interweaving of flowers and herbs.

Smiling and silently moving her lips, she carefully fingered the stems of nameless blue, modest flowers, then leaned over with her plump figure to sniff, and suddenly caught the lingering and sweet aroma of lily of the valley. Feeling around with her hands, she found it. It grew right there, under an impenetrably shady bush. Wide, once green leaves still jealously protected from the sun a low, humpbacked stem topped with snow-white drooping cups of flowers. But the leaves, covered with dew and yellow rust, were dying, and the flower itself had already been touched by mortal decay: the two lower calyxes wrinkled and turned black, only the top - all covered in sparkling tears of dew - suddenly flared up under the sun with a blinding, captivating whiteness.

K. Paustovsky

Residents of an old house.

The troubles began at the end of summer, when the bow-legged dachshund Funtik appeared in the old village house. Funtik was brought from Moscow.

One day, the black cat Stepan was sitting, as always, on the porch and, slowly, washed himself. He licked the splayed hand, then, closing his eyes, rubbed as hard as he could with his slobbery paw behind his ear. Suddenly Stepan felt someone's gaze. He looked around and froze with his paw tucked behind his ear. Stepan's eyes turned white with anger. A small red dog stood nearby. One of his ears curled up. Trembling with curiosity, the dog stretched his wet nose towards Stepan - he wanted to sniff this mysterious beast.

Stepan contrived and hit Funtik on the inverted ear.

War was declared, and since then life for Stepan has lost all its charm. There was no point in thinking about lazily rubbing his muzzle against the jambs of cracked doors or lying in the sun near the well. I had to walk cautiously, on tiptoe, look around more often and always choose some tree or fence ahead in order to escape from Funtik in time.

... Now I had to walk around the garden not on the ground, but along a high fence, for some unknown reason, covered with rusty barbed wire and, moreover, so narrow that at times Stepan thought for a long time about where to put his paw.

. Only once during the whole summer did Stepan, sitting on the roof, grin.

In the yard, among the curly goose grass, there was a wooden bowl with muddy water - crusts of black bread were thrown into it for the chickens. Funtik went to the bowl and carefully pulled out a large soggy crust from the water.

The grumpy, long-legged rooster, nicknamed “The Gorlach,” looked intently at Funtik with one eye. Then he turned his head and looked with the other eye. The rooster could not believe that here, nearby, in broad daylight, a robbery was taking place.

Having thought, the rooster raised his paw, his eyes became bloodshot, something began to bubble inside him, as if distant thunder was thundering inside the rooster.

Stepan knew what this meant - the rooster was furious. Swiftly and fearfully, stamping its calloused paws, the rooster rushed towards Funtik and pecked him in the back. There was a short and strong knock. Funtik let go of the bread, laid back his ears and, with a desperate cry, rushed into the hole under the house.

The rooster flapped his wings victoriously, raised thick dust, pecked at the soggy crust and threw it aside in disgust - the crust must have smelled like dog.

Funtik sat under the house for several hours and only in the evening he crawled out and, sidestepping the rooster, made his way into the rooms. His muzzle was covered in dusty cobwebs, and dried spiders were stuck to his mustache.

[1] Scheme fig. 1a is taken from the book by A. M. Egorov “Vocal Hygiene and Its Physiological Foundations.”

[2] Schemes of drawings are taken from the book of prof. M. E. KhvattseM “Speech deficiencies in schoolchildren.” M., Uchpedgiz, 1958.

[3] For an exception, see the chapter “Norms of Literary Pronunciation”.

[4] When practicing diction on phrases and texts, do not forget about their meaning.

[5] To work on a speech based on the material of a fairy tale, you should take small excerpts from it, after first familiarizing yourself with the content of the entire fairy tale and determining its main idea.

[6] Check the correctness of accents in dictionaries.

[7] pronounced like a short "i".

[8] K. S. Stanislavsky. Collected works in 8 volumes, vol. 3, M., “Iskusstvo”, 1955, p. 63.

[9] See: N. I. Zhinkin, Mechanisms of Speech, M., Publishing House of the Academy of Pedagogical Sciences, 1968.

[10] See article: E.I. Almazov. Mutation period in the voice of boys.—Sb. “Children’s voice”, M. Pedizdat, 1970, p. 160.

[11] See: A.S. Avdulina. Do you know how to breathe, M., “Knowledge”, 1965.

[12] In the future, we will not remind you that before inhaling, naturally, you should exhale.

[13] K. S. Stanislavsky. Collected Works, vol. 3, p. 63.

[14] Numbering of lines is given for more convenient division of the text by events.

[15] The passages are given in abbreviation. Changes have been made to the text to bring the language of epics closer to the modern language.

[16] M.Yu. Lermontov. Collected works in 4 volumes, vol. 4, M., Publishing House of the USSR Academy of Sciences, 1959, p. 576.

[17] Sat. “Stanislavsky. Writers, artists, directors about the great figure
Russian Theater", M., "Iskusstvo", 1963, p. 136.

[18] Sat. "Mikhail Semenovich Shchepkin", pp. 200, 201.

[19] K. S. Stanislavsky. Collected Works, vol. 3, p. 97.

[20] K. S. Stanislavsky. Collected Works, vol. 3, p. 99.

[21] Ibid., p. 100.

[22] K. S. Stanislavsky. Collected Works, vol. 3, p. 122.

[23] M.K. The word in the actor's work. M., “Iskusstvo”, 1954, p. 108.

[24] K. S. Stanislavsky. Collected Works, vol. 3, p. 135.

[25] K. S. Stanislavsky. Collected Works, vol. 3, p. 100.

[26] Sentences are given with punctuation marks omitted in some cases.

[27] Pariah - in India, people from the lower class, deprived of all rights (disenfranchised, outcast, oppressed people).

[28] M. Knebel. A word about the actor’s work, page 72.

[29] M. Knebel. The Word in the Actor's Work, p. 68. 236

A. Pushkin

Stationmaster

...One winter evening, when the caretaker was lining a new book, and his daughter was sewing a dress for herself behind the partition, a troika drove up, and a traveler in a Circassian hat, in a military overcoat, wrapped in a shawl, entered the room, demanding horses. The horses were all in full speed. At this news the traveler raised his voice and his whip; but Dunya, accustomed to such scenes, ran out from behind the partition and affectionately turned to the traveler with the question: would he like to have something to eat? Dunya's appearance had its usual effect. The passerby's anger passed; he agreed to wait for the horses and ordered himself dinner. Taking off his wet, shaggy hat, unraveling his shawl and pulling off his overcoat, the traveler appeared as a young, slender hussar with a black mustache. He settled down with the caretaker and began to talk cheerfully with him and his daughter. Dinner was served. Meanwhile, the horses arrived, and the caretaker ordered that they immediately, without feeding, be harnessed to the traveler’s wagon; but when he returned, he found a young man almost unconscious lying on a bench: he felt sick, had a headache, and was unable to travel. How to be! The caretaker gave him his bed, and it was supposed, if the patient did not feel better, to send to S*** for a doctor the next morning.

The next day the hussar became worse. His man went on horseback to the city to get a doctor. Dunya tied a scarf soaked in vinegar around his head and sat down with her sewing by his bed. The patient groaned in front of the caretaker and did not say almost a word, but he drank two cups of coffee and, groaning, ordered himself lunch. Dunya did not leave his side. He constantly asked for a drink, and Dunya brought him a mug of lemonade she had prepared. The sick man wet his lips and each time he returned the mug, as a sign of gratitude, he shook Dunyushka’s hand with his weak hand. The doctor arrived at lunchtime. He felt the patient’s pulse, spoke to him in German and announced in Russian that all he needed was peace and that in two days he would be able to hit the road. The hussar gave him twenty-five rubles for the visit and invited him to dinner; the doctor agreed; They both ate with great appetite, drank a bottle of wine and parted very pleased with each other.

Another day passed, and the hussar completely recovered. He was extremely cheerful, joked incessantly, first with Dunya, then with the caretaker; he whistled songs, talked to passers-by, wrote down their travel information in the postal book, and became so fond of the kind caretaker that on the third morning he was sorry to part with his kind guest.

N. Gogol

The story of how I quarreled

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