Kuprin Alexander
At the turning point (Cadets)
Alexander Kuprin
At the turning point (Cadets)
I. First impressions. - Old people. - Durable button.
What is an oiler? - Cargo. - Night.
II. Dawn. - Washbasin. - The rooster and his speech. - Teacher of Russian language
and its oddities. - Chetukha. - Cloth. - Chicks.
III. Saturday. - Magic lantern. - Brinken is bargaining. - Mena.
Purchase. - Goat. - Further history of the lantern. - Vacation.
IV. Bulanin's triumph. - Heroes of the gymnasium. - Pari. - Boy-shoemaker.
Honor. - Heroes again. - Photo. - Dejection. - Several gentle ones
scenes - To the sharap! - The pile is small! - Retribution. - Beggars.
V. Moral characteristics. - Pedagogy and your own world
Property and belly. - What does it mean to be friends and share. - Forsils.
Forgot. - Desperate. - Triumvirate. - Solid. - Strongmen.
VI. Fiscals. - Letter from Bulanin. - Uncle Vasya. - His stories and parodies
on them. - Uncle Vasya's pancakes. - Sysoev and Kvadratulov. - CONSPIRACY.
Sysoev is being "covered". - Crammers. - Fishermen. - More about the oppressed.
VII. Military gymnasiums. - Cadet Corps. - Dates. - "Ivan Ivanovich."
Trukhanov. - Ryabkov. - Days of slavery. - Disaster.
First impressions. - Old people. - Durable button. - What is an oiler? - Cargo. - Night.
Hey, how are you!.. Newbie... what's your last name?
Bulanin did not even suspect that this shout related to him - he was so stunned by new impressions. He had just come from the reception room, where his mother begged some tall military man with sideburns to be more lenient with her Mishenka at first. “Please, don’t be too strict with him,” she said, unconsciously stroking her son’s head at the same time, “he’s so gentle... so impressionable... he’s not at all like other boys.” At the same time, she had such a pitiful, pleading face, completely unusual for Bulanin, and the tall military man only bowed and jingled his spurs. Apparently, he was in a hurry to leave, but, due to a long-standing habit, he continued to listen with indifferent and polite patience to these outpourings of maternal concern...
Two long recreational halls younger age were full of people. The newcomers timidly huddled along the walls and sat on the window sills, dressed in a wide variety of costumes: there were yellow, blue and red shirt-shirts, sailor jackets with gold anchors, knee-high stockings and boots with patent leather cuffs, wide leather belts and narrow braided ones. The “old men” in gray Kalamyanka blouses, belted with belts, and the same trousers immediately caught the eye with their monotonous costume and especially their cheeky manners. They walked in twos and threes around the hall, hugging each other, twisting their tattered caps onto the back of their heads; some shouted to each other across the hall, others screamed and chased each other. Thick dust rose from the mastic-rubbed parquet floor. One might have thought that all this stomping, screaming and whistling crowd was deliberately trying to stun someone with their fuss and din.
Are you deaf? What's your last name, I ask?
Bulanin shuddered and raised his eyes. In front of him, with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, stood a tall pupil and looked at him with a sleepy, bored look.
“My last name is Bulanin,” answered the newcomer.
I am glad. Do you have any gifts, Bulanin?
It’s bad, brother, that you don’t have gifts. Bring it when you go on vacation.
OK, with pleasure.
But the old man did not leave. He was apparently bored and looking for entertainment. His attention was drawn to the large metal buttons sewn in two rows on Bulanin’s jacket.
“Look at how clever your buttons are,” he said, touching one of them with his finger.
Oh, these are such buttons... - Bulanin fussily rejoiced. “You can’t tear them off for anything.” Just try it!
The old man grabbed the button between his two dirty Fingers and began to twirl it. But the button did not budge. The jacket was sewn at home, made to fit, with the intention of dressing Vassenka in it when Mishenka becomes too small. And the mother herself sewed on the buttons with double wired thread.
The pupil left the button, looked at his fingers, where blue scars remained from the pressure of the sharp edges, and said:
A strong button!.. Hey, Bazutka,” he shouted to a little blond, pink fat man running past, “look what a healthy button the newbie has!”
Soon a rather dense crowd formed around Bulanin, in the corner between the stove and the door. A line immediately formed. "Cheers, I'm getting Bazutka!" - someone’s voice shouted, and immediately the others began to shout: “And I’m behind Miller! And I’m behind the Platypus! And I’m behind you!” - and while one was fiddling with a button, others were already holding out their hands and even clicking their fingers with impatience.
But the button still held tightly.
Call Gruzov! - said someone from the crowd.
Immediately others shouted: “Gruzov! Gruzov!” The two ran to look for him.
Gruzov came, a boy of about fifteen, with a yellow, wasted, prison-like face, who had been in the first two classes for four years, one of the first strong men of the age. He, in fact, did not walk, but dragged along, without lifting his legs from the ground and with each step, falling with his body first to one side, then to the other, as if he were swimming or skating. At the same time, he constantly spat through his teeth with some special coachman's daring. Pushing the crowd aside with his shoulder, he asked in a hoarse bass voice:
What do you have here guys?
They told him what was going on. But, feeling like a hero of the moment, he was in no hurry. Having carefully examined the newcomer from head to toe, he muttered:
Surname?..
What? - Bulanin asked timidly.
Fool, what's your last name?
Bu... Bulanin...
Why not Savraskin? Look, what a surname you have... horsey.
Everyone around me laughed obligingly. Gruzov continued:
And you Bulanka, have you ever tried butter oils?
N... no... I haven't tried it.
How? Never tried it?
Never...
That's the thing! Do you want me to treat you?
And, without waiting for Bulanin’s answer, Gruzov bent his head down and very painfully and quickly hit it, first with the end of his thumb, and then fractionally with the knuckles of all the others, clenched into a fist.
Here's a buttermilk for you, and another, and a third?.. Well, Bulanka, is it delicious? Maybe you want more?
The old men guffawed joyfully: “This Gruzov! Desperate!.. He fed the newcomer great with butter.”
Bulanin also tried to smile, although three oils hurt him so much that tears involuntarily came to his eyes. They explained to Gruzov why he was called. He confidently took hold of the button and began to twist it furiously. However, despite the fact that he made more and more efforts, the button continued to stubbornly stay in place. Then, out of fear of losing his authority in front of the “kids,” all red from the effort, he rested one hand on Bulanin’s chest, and with the other pulled the button toward himself with all his might. The button flew off with the meat, but the push was so fast and sudden that Bulanin immediately sat down on the floor. This time no one laughed. Maybe at that moment the thought flashed through everyone’s mind that he, too, was once a beginner, wearing the same jacket, sewn at home with his favorite hands.
Bulanin rose to his feet. No matter how hard he tried to restrain himself, tears still rolled out of his eyes, and he, covering his face with his hands, pressed himself against the stove.
Oh you roaring cow! - Gruzov said contemptuously, hit the newcomer on the back of the head with his palm, threw a button in his face and walked away with his slobish gait.
Soon Bulanin was left alone. He continued to cry. In addition to pain and undeserved resentment, some strange, complex feeling tormented his little heart - a feeling similar to as if he himself had just committed some bad, irreparable, stupid act. But for now he could not understand this feeling.
This first day of his gymnasium life dragged on terribly slowly, boringly and heavily, like a long dream. There were moments when it began to seem to him that not five or six hours, but at least half a month had passed since that sad moment when he and his mother climbed the wide stone steps of the front porch and tremblingly entered the huge glass doors on which the copper shone with a cold and impressive brightness...
Lonely, as if forgotten by the whole world, the boy examined the official environment around him. Two long halls - the recreation room and the tea room (they were separated by an arch) - were painted from below to the height of human height with brown oil paint, and above - with pink lime. On the left side of the recreation hall were windows, half covered with bars, and on the right were glass doors leading to classrooms; the spaces between the doors and windows were occupied by painted paintings from national history and drawings of various animals, and in the far corner a lamp glowed in front of a huge image of St. Alexander Nevsky, to which three steps covered with red cloth led. There were black tables and benches around the walls of the tea room; they were moved into one common table for tea and breakfast. On the walls there were also paintings depicting the heroic deeds of Russian soldiers, but they hung so high that even standing on the table, it was impossible to see what was signed under them... Along both halls, right in the middle of them, hung a long row of lowering lamps with lampshades and copper balls for counterweight...
Kuprin Alexander
At the turning point (Cadets)
Alexander Kuprin
At the turning point (Cadets)
I. First impressions. - Old people. - Durable button.
What is an oiler? - Cargo. - Night.
II. Dawn. - Washbasin. - The rooster and his speech. - Teacher of Russian language
and its oddities. - Chetukha. - Cloth. - Chicks.
III. Saturday. - Magic lantern. - Brinken is bargaining. - Mena.
Purchase. - Goat. - Further history of the lantern. - Vacation.
IV. Bulanin's triumph. - Heroes of the gymnasium. - Pari. - Boy-shoemaker.
Honor. - Heroes again. - Photo. - Dejection. - Several gentle ones
scenes - To the sharap! - The pile is small! - Retribution. - Beggars.
V. Moral characteristics. - Pedagogy and your own world
Property and belly. - What does it mean to be friends and share. - Forsils.
Forgot. - Desperate. - Triumvirate. - Solid. - Strongmen.
VI. Fiscals. - Letter from Bulanin. - Uncle Vasya. - His stories and parodies
on them. - Uncle Vasya's pancakes. - Sysoev and Kvadratulov. - CONSPIRACY.
Sysoev is being "covered". - Crammers. - Fishermen. - More about the oppressed.
VII. Military gymnasiums. - Cadet corps. - Dates. - "Ivan Ivanovich."
Trukhanov. - Ryabkov. - Days of slavery. - Disaster.
First impressions. - Old people. - Durable button. - What is an oiler? - Cargo. - Night.
Hey, how are you!.. Newbie... what's your last name?
Bulanin did not even suspect that this shout related to him - he was so stunned by new impressions. He had just come from the reception room, where his mother begged some tall military man with sideburns to be more lenient with her Mishenka at first. “Please, don’t be too strict with him,” she said, unconsciously stroking her son’s head at the same time, “he’s so gentle... so impressionable... he’s not at all like other boys.” At the same time, she had such a pitiful, pleading face, completely unusual for Bulanin, and the tall military man only bowed and jingled his spurs. Apparently, he was in a hurry to leave, but, due to a long-standing habit, he continued to listen with indifferent and polite patience to these outpourings of maternal concern...
The two long junior recreation halls were full of people. The newcomers timidly huddled along the walls and sat on the window sills, dressed in a wide variety of costumes: there were yellow, blue and red shirt-shirts, sailor jackets with gold anchors, knee-high stockings and boots with patent leather cuffs, wide leather belts and narrow braided ones. The “old men” in gray Kalamyanka blouses, belted with belts, and the same trousers immediately caught the eye with their monotonous costume and especially their cheeky manners. They walked in twos and threes around the hall, hugging each other, twisting their tattered caps onto the back of their heads; some shouted to each other across the hall, others screamed and chased each other. Thick dust rose from the mastic-rubbed parquet floor. One might have thought that all this stamping, screaming and whistling crowd was deliberately trying to stun someone with its fuss and din.
Are you deaf? What's your last name, I ask?
Bulanin shuddered and raised his eyes. In front of him, with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, stood a tall pupil and looked at him with a sleepy, bored look.
“My last name is Bulanin,” answered the newcomer.
I am glad. Do you have any gifts, Bulanin?
It’s bad, brother, that you don’t have gifts. Bring it when you go on vacation.
OK, with pleasure.
But the old man did not leave. He was apparently bored and looking for entertainment. His attention was drawn to the large metal buttons sewn in two rows on Bulanin’s jacket.
“Look at how clever your buttons are,” he said, touching one of them with his finger.
Oh, these are such buttons... - Bulanin fussily rejoiced. “You can’t tear them off for anything.” Just try it!
The old man grabbed the button between his two dirty Fingers and began to twirl it. But the button did not budge. The jacket was sewn at home, made to fit, with the intention of dressing Vassenka in it when Mishenka becomes too small. And the mother herself sewed on the buttons with double wired thread.
The pupil left the button, looked at his fingers, where blue scars remained from the pressure of the sharp edges, and said:
A strong button!.. Hey, Bazutka,” he shouted to a little blond, pink fat man running past, “look what a healthy button the newbie has!”
Soon a rather dense crowd formed around Bulanin, in the corner between the stove and the door. A line immediately formed. "Cheers, I'm getting Bazutka!" - someone’s voice shouted, and immediately the others began to shout: “And I’m behind Miller! And I’m behind the Platypus! And I’m behind you!” - and while one was fiddling with a button, others were already holding out their hands and even clicking their fingers with impatience.
But the button still held tightly.
Call Gruzov! - said someone from the crowd.
Immediately others shouted: “Gruzov! Gruzov!” The two ran to look for him.
Gruzov came, a boy of about fifteen, with a yellow, wasted, prison-like face, who had been in the first two classes for four years, one of the first strong men of the age. He, in fact, did not walk, but dragged along, without lifting his legs from the ground and with each step, falling with his body first to one side, then to the other, as if he were swimming or skating. At the same time, he constantly spat through his teeth with some special coachman's daring. Pushing the crowd aside with his shoulder, he asked in a hoarse bass voice:
What do you have here guys?
They told him what was going on. But, feeling like a hero of the moment, he was in no hurry. Having carefully examined the newcomer from head to toe, he muttered:
Surname?..
What? - Bulanin asked timidly.
Fool, what's your last name?
Bu... Bulanin...
Why not Savraskin? Look, what a surname you have... horsey.
Everyone around me laughed obligingly. Gruzov continued:
And you Bulanka, have you ever tried butter oils?
N... no... I haven't tried it.
How? Never tried it?
Never...
That's the thing! Do you want me to treat you?
And, without waiting for Bulanin’s answer, Gruzov bent his head down and very painfully and quickly hit it, first with the end of his thumb, and then fractionally with the knuckles of all the others, clenched into a fist.
Here's a buttermilk for you, and another, and a third?.. Well, Bulanka, is it delicious? Maybe you want more?
The old men guffawed joyfully: “This Gruzov! Desperate!.. He fed the newcomer great with butter.”
Bulanin also tried to smile, although three oils hurt him so much that tears involuntarily came to his eyes. They explained to Gruzov why he was called. He confidently took hold of the button and began to twist it furiously. However, despite the fact that he made more and more efforts, the button continued to stubbornly stay in place. Then, out of fear of losing his authority in front of the “kids,” all red from the effort, he rested one hand on Bulanin’s chest, and with the other pulled the button toward himself with all his might. The button flew off with the meat, but the push was so fast and sudden that Bulanin immediately sat down on the floor. This time no one laughed. Maybe at that moment the thought flashed through everyone’s mind that he, too, was once a beginner, wearing the same jacket, sewn at home with his favorite hands.
I
First impressions. - Old people. - Durable button. - What is an oiler? - Cargo. - Night.
- Hey, how are you!.. Newbie... what's your last name?
Bulanin did not even suspect that this shout was referring to him - he was so stunned by new impressions. He had just come from the reception room, where his mother begged some tall military man with sideburns to be more lenient with her Mishenka at first. “Please, don’t be too strict with him,” she said, unconsciously stroking her son’s head at the same time, “he’s so gentle... so impressionable... he’s not at all like other boys.” At the same time, she had such a pitiful, pleading face, completely unusual for Bulanin, and the tall military man only bowed and jingled his spurs. Apparently, he was in a hurry to leave, but, due to a long-standing habit, he continued to listen with indifferent and polite patience to these outpourings of maternal concern...
The two long junior recreation halls were full of people. The newcomers timidly huddled along the walls and sat on the window sills, dressed in a wide variety of costumes: there were yellow, blue and red shirt-shirts, sailor jackets with gold anchors, knee-high stockings and boots with patent leather cuffs, wide leather belts and narrow braided ones. The “old men” in gray Kalamyanka blouses, belted with belts, and the same trousers immediately caught the eye with their monotonous costume and especially their cheeky manners. They walked in twos and threes around the hall, hugging each other, twisting their tattered caps onto the back of their heads; some shouted to each other across the hall, others screamed and chased each other. Thick dust rose from the mastic-rubbed parquet floor. One might have thought that all this stamping, screaming and whistling crowd was deliberately trying to stun someone with its fuss and din.
-Are you deaf? What's your last name, I ask?
Bulanin shuddered and raised his eyes. In front of him, with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, stood a tall pupil and looked at him with a sleepy, bored look.
“My last name is Bulanin,” answered the newcomer.
- I am glad. Do you have any gifts, Bulanin?
- It’s bad, brother, that you don’t have gifts. Bring it when you go on vacation.
- OK, with pleasure.
But the old man did not leave. He was apparently bored and looking for entertainment. His attention was drawn to the large metal buttons sewn in two rows on Bulanin’s jacket.
“Look at how clever your buttons are,” he said, touching one of them with his finger.
“Oh, these are such buttons...” Bulanin fussily rejoiced. “You can’t tear them off for anything.” Just try it!
The old man grabbed the button between his two dirty Fingers and began to twirl it. But the button did not budge. The jacket was sewn at home, made to fit, with the intention of dressing Vassenka in it when Mishenka becomes too small. And the mother herself sewed on the buttons with double wired thread.
The pupil left the button, looked at his fingers, where blue scars remained from the pressure of the sharp edges, and said:
“A strong button!.. Hey, Bazutka,” he shouted to a small, blond, pink fat man running past, “look at what a healthy button the newbie has!”
Soon a rather dense crowd formed around Bulanin, in the corner between the stove and the door. A line immediately formed. “Cheers, I’m getting Bazutka!” - someone’s voice shouted, and immediately the others began to shout: “And I’m after Miller!” And I'm behind the Platypus! And I’m behind you!” - and while one was fiddling with a button, others were already holding out their hands and even clicking their fingers with impatience.
But the button still held tightly.
- Call Gruzov! - said someone from the crowd.
Immediately others shouted: “Gruzov! Loads! The two ran to look for him.
Gruzov came, a boy of about fifteen, with a yellow, wasted, prison-like face, who had been in the first two classes for four years - one of the first strong men of the age. He, in fact, did not walk, but dragged along, without lifting his legs from the ground and with each step, falling with his body first to one side, then to the other, as if he were swimming or skating. At the same time, he constantly spat through his teeth with some special coachman's daring. Pushing the crowd aside with his shoulder, he asked in a hoarse bass voice:
- What do you have here, guys?
They told him what was going on. But, feeling like a hero of the moment, he was in no hurry. Having carefully examined the newcomer from head to toe, he muttered:
- Surname?..
- What? – Bulanin asked timidly.
- Fool, what is your last name?
- Boo... Bulanin...
- Why not Savraskin? Look, what a surname you have... horsey.
Everyone around me laughed obligingly. Gruzov continued:
- And you Bulanka, have you ever tried butter oils?
- N... no... I haven’t tried it.
- How? Never tried it?
- Never...
- That's the thing! Do you want me to treat you?
And, without waiting for Bulanin’s answer, Gruzov bent his head down and very painfully and quickly hit it, first with the end of his thumb, and then fractionally with the knuckles of all the others, clenched into a fist.
- Here's a buttermilk for you, and another, and a third?.. Well, Bulanka, is it delicious? Maybe you want more?
The old people cackled joyfully: “This Gruzov! Desperate!.. He fed the newcomer great with oils.”
Bulanin also tried to smile, although three oils hurt him so much that tears involuntarily came to his eyes. They explained to Gruzov why he was called. He confidently took hold of the button and began to twist it furiously. However, despite the fact that he made more and more efforts, the button continued to stubbornly stay in place. Then, out of fear of losing his authority in front of the “kids,” all red from the effort, he rested one hand on Bulanin’s chest, and with the other pulled the button toward himself with all his might. The button flew off with the meat, but the push was so fast and sudden that Bulanin immediately sat down on the floor. This time no one laughed. Maybe at that moment the thought flashed through everyone’s mind that he, too, was once a beginner, wearing the same jacket, sewn at home with his favorite hands.
Bulanin rose to his feet. No matter how hard he tried to restrain himself, tears still rolled out of his eyes, and he, covering his face with his hands, pressed himself against the stove.
- Oh, you roaring cow! - Gruzov said contemptuously, hit the newcomer on the back of the head with his palm, threw a button in his face and walked away with his slobish gait.
Soon Bulanin was left alone. He continued to cry. In addition to pain and undeserved resentment, some strange, complex feeling tormented his little heart - a feeling similar to as if he himself had just committed some bad, irreparable, stupid act. But for now he could not understand this feeling.
This first day of his gymnasium life dragged on terribly slowly, boringly and heavily, like a long dream. There were moments when it began to seem to him that not five or six hours, but at least half a month had passed since that sad moment when he and his mother climbed the wide stone steps of the front porch and tremblingly entered the huge glass doors on which the copper shone with a cold and impressive brightness...
Lonely, as if forgotten by the whole world, the boy examined the official environment around him. Two long halls - the recreation room and the tea room (they were separated by an arch) - were painted from below to the height of human height with brown oil paint, and above - with pink lime. On the left side of the recreation hall were windows, half covered with bars, and on the right were glass doors leading to classrooms; The spaces between the doors and windows were occupied by painted paintings from Russian history and drawings of various animals, and in the far corner a lamp glowed in front of a huge image of St. Alexander Nevsky, to which three steps covered with red cloth led. There were black tables and benches around the walls of the tea room; they were moved into one common table for tea and breakfast. On the walls there were also paintings depicting the heroic deeds of Russian soldiers, but they hung so high that even standing on the table, it was impossible to see what was signed under them... Along both halls, right in the middle of them, hung a long row of lowering lamps with lampshades and copper balls for counterweight...
Having become bored with wandering along these endlessly long halls, Bulanin went out onto the parade ground - a large square lawn, surrounded on two sides by a rampart, and on the other two by a solid wall of yellow acacia. On the parade ground, old men played lapta, others walked around hugging each other, others from the rampart threw stones into a pond green with mud, which lay about fifty paces behind the line of ramparts; High school students were not allowed to go to the pond, and to monitor this, a guy on duty stood on the shaft during the walk.
All these impressions sank into Bulanin’s memory as sharp, indelible features. How many times later, during all seven years of his gymnasium life, did he see these brown and pink walls, and the parade ground with the stunted grass trampled by numerous feet, and the long, narrow corridors, and the cast-iron staircase - and he got so used to them that they became as if part of himself... But the impressions of the first day still did not die in his soul, and he could always evoke extremely vividly before his eyes the then appearance of all these objects, a appearance completely different from their present appearance, much brighter, fresher and as if naive.
In the evening, Bulanin, along with other newcomers, was given cloudy sweet tea and half a French roll in a stone mug. But the bun tasted sour, and the tea tasted like fish. After tea the man showed Bulanin his bed.
It took a long time for the younger bedroom to calm down. Old men in their shirts ran from bed to bed, you could hear laughter, the noise of fussing, ringing palm strikes on their naked bodies. Only an hour later this chaos began to calm down and the angry voice of the teacher, calling out the naughty kids by their last names, fell silent.
When the noise completely stopped, when the deep breathing of people sleeping was heard from everywhere, interrupted occasionally by sleepy delirium, Bulanin felt inexpressibly sad. Everything that he had forgotten for a while, that had been obscured by new impressions - all of this suddenly came to his mind with merciless clarity: home, sisters, brother, childhood playmate - the cook's nephew Savka and, finally, this dear, close face who is in the waiting room today seemed so pleading. Subtle, deep tenderness and some kind of painful pity for his mother filled Bulanin’s heart. He remembered all those times when he had been insufficiently gentle with her, disrespectful, and sometimes even rude. And it seemed to him that if now, by some magic, he saw his mother, he would be able to collect in his soul such a reserve of love, gratitude and affection that it would be enough for many, many years of loneliness. In his heated, excited and depressed mind, his mother’s face seemed so pale and sickly, the gymnasium - such an uncomfortable and harsh place, and he himself - such an unhappy, abandoned boy that Bulanin, pressing his mouth tightly to the pillow, began to cry with burning, desperate tears, from which his narrow iron bed shook, and some kind of dry, prickly ball stood in his throat... He also remembered today’s story with the button and blushed, despite the darkness. “Poor mother! How carefully she sewed on these buttons, biting off the ends of the thread with her teeth. With what pride, during fitting, she admired this jacket, pulling it from all sides...” Bulanin felt that he had committed a bad, low and cowardly act against her this morning when he suggested that the old men tear off the button.
He cried until sleep enveloped him in its wide embrace... But even in his sleep, Bulanin sighed intermittently and deeply for a long time, as very small children sigh after tears. However, he was not the only one who cried that night, hiding his face in the pillow, in the dim light of hanging lamps with counter-shades.
II
Dawn. - Washbasin. – The rooster and his speech. – Teacher of the Russian language and its oddities. - Chetukha. - Cloth. - Chicks.
Tra-ta-ta, tra-ta-ta, ta, ta, ta, ta...
Bulanin was just getting ready to go quail hunting with a brand new net and his faithful Savka... Suddenly awakened by these piercing sounds, he jumped up in fear on the bed and opened his eyes. A huge, red-haired, freckled soldier stood just above his head and, putting a shiny copper pipe, all red from exertion, with swollen cheeks and a tense neck, played some deafening and monotonous tune.
It was six o'clock on a stormy August morning. Drops of rain ran down the windows in zigzags. Through the windows one could see the gloomy gray sky and the yellow, stunted greenery of the acacias. It seemed that the monotonously harsh sounds of the trumpet made one feel the cold and melancholy of this morning even stronger and more unpleasantly.
In the first minutes, Bulanin could not figure out where he was and how he could find himself among this barracks environment with a long suite of pink arches and regular rows of beds, on which sleeping figures huddled under gray flannel blankets.
After blowing for a good five minutes, the soldier unscrewed the mouthpiece from his pipe, shook the saliva out of it and left.
Shivering from the cold, the students ran to the washroom with a towel tied around their waists. The entire wash basin was occupied by a long, narrow box made of red copper with twenty lifting rods at the bottom. Pupils were already crowding around him, impatiently waiting for their turn, pushing, snorting and dousing each other. Everyone didn't get enough sleep; The old men were angry and cursed in hoarse, sleepy voices. Several times, when Bulanin took a moment to stand under the tap, someone from behind grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and roughly pushed him away. He managed to wash himself only at the very last line.
After tea, the teachers came, divided all the newcomers into two sections and immediately separated them into classes.
In the second department, where Bulanin ended up, there were two second-year students: Brinken - a long, thin Ostsee with stubborn watery eyes and a drooping German nose, and Selsky - a small, cheerful high school student, good-looking, but a little bow-legged. Brinken, as soon as he entered the classroom, immediately announced that he was occupying “Kamchatka”. Newcomers hesitantly crowded around their desks.
Soon the teacher appeared. His arrival was announced by Selsky, who shouted: “Shh... The rooster is coming!..” The rooster turned out to be the same military man in the tanks whom Bulanin saw yesterday in the reception room; his name was Yakov Yakovlevich von Scheppe. He was a very clean, good-natured German. He always smelled a little like tobacco, a little cologne, and that special, not unpleasant smell that furniture and belongings emit in wealthy German families. Having laid right hand into the back pocket of his coat, and with his left fingering the chain hanging along the side, and at the same time quickly rising on tiptoes, then sinking onto his heels, the Rooster said a small but heartfelt speech:
- Well, so, gentlemen... uh... uh... how should I say... I have been appointed as your teacher. If only you knew that I will remain so throughout... all... uh... how to say... all seven years of your stay at the gymnasium. Therefore, I dare to think and hope that on the part of teachers or, how should I say... teachers - yes, that’s it: teachers... there will be no... uh... there will be no displeasure and... how to say... complaints... Remember that teachers are the same but your bosses and, except for the good... uh... uh... how to say... except for the good, they don’t wish anything for you...
He was silent for a while and several times in a row rose and fell on tiptoe, as if about to fly away (he was probably nicknamed the Rooster for this habit), and continued:
- Yes, sir! So, sir. You and I will have to live together very, very for a long time... that's why we'll try... uh... how to say... not to quarrel, not to scold, not to fight, sir.
Brinken and Selsky were the first to understand that in this familiarly affectionate place of speech one should laugh. The newcomers began giggling after them.
Poor Rooster had no eloquence at all. In addition to the constant: “uh”... word-erics and “how to say”, he had the unfortunate habit of speaking in rhymes and in the same cases using the same expressions. And the boys, with their keen perceptiveness and powers of observation, very quickly picked up these features of the Rooster. Sometimes, in the morning, waking up the sleepy pupils, Yakov Yakovlevich shouts: “Don’t dig, don’t lie around, don’t sit up!” Who's sitting there?
Having finished his speech, Rooster did a roll call for the entire department. Each time, meeting a more or less famous name, he, jumping up, as usual, asked:
- Aren’t you a relative of so-and-so?
And having received for the most part negative answer, shook his head up and down and said in a soft voice:
- Excellent, sir. Sit down, sir.
Then he placed all the students on desks two by two, and took Brinken from Kamchatka to the first bench, and left the class.
- What is your name? - Bulanin asked his neighbor, a thick-cheeked, ruddy boy in a black jacket with yellow buttons.
- Krivtsov. How are you?
- I am Bulanin. Do you want us to be friends?
- Let's. Where do your relatives live?
- In Moscow. And you?
- In Zhizdra. We have a big garden there, and a lake, and swans swim.
At this memory, Krivtsov could not hold back a deep, intermittent sigh.
“And I have my own riding horse,” his name is Mutsik. What a fast passion, like a pacer. And two rabbits, completely tame, take cabbage straight from your hands.
The rooster came again, this time accompanied by a man carrying a large basket with books, notebooks, pens, pencils, erasers and rulers on his shoulders. The books were already familiar to Bulanin for a long time: Yevtushevsky’s problem book, Margot’s French textbook, Polivanov’s anthology and Smirnov’s sacred history. All these sources of wisdom turned out to be greatly worn out by the hands of previous generations, who drew their knowledge from them. Under the crossed out surnames of the previous owners, new surnames were written on canvas bindings, which, in turn, made room for the newest ones. Many books bore immortal sayings like: “I’m reading a book, but I see nothing,” or:
This book belongs
Won't run away anywhere
Who will take her without asking?
He will be left without a nose,
or finally: “If you want to know my last name, see page 45.” On page 45 it says: “See. page 118,” and the 118th page in its turn sends the curious one on further searches until he comes to the same page from where he began to look for the stranger. There were also often offensive and mocking expressions addressed to the teacher of the subject that was treated in the textbook.
“Take care of your manuals,” said the Rooster when the distribution was over, “don’t put various... uh... how to say... various indecent inscriptions on them... For a lost or damaged textbook, a penalty will be imposed, sir, and they will be withheld... uh... how to say...” money, sir... from the culprit, sir... Then I appoint him senior in Selsky’s class. He is a second-year student and knows everything, sir, all sorts of... how to say... routines, sir... If anything is unclear to you or... how to say... preferable, sir, please contact me through him. Then, sir...
Someone opened the doors. The rooster quickly turned around and added in a half-whisper:
– And here is the Russian language teacher.
A long-haired blond man with an iconic appearance, in a shabby frock coat, came in with a cool magazine under his arm, so tall and thin that he had to hunch over quite a bit. The villager shouted: “Get up! Attention! - and approached him with a report: “Mr. teacher, in the second department of the first class of the N military gymnasium, everything is fine. According to the list of pupils there are thirty, one in the infirmary, there are twenty-nine.” The teacher (his name was Ivan Arkhipovich Sakharov) listened to this, making a question mark with his entire awkward figure over little Selsky, who involuntarily had to lift his head up to see Sakharov’s face. Then Ivan Arkhipovich shook his head at the image and muttered: “Prayer!” Relsky, in exactly the same tone as he had just now reported, read “Blessed Lord.”
- Sit down! - Ivan Arkhipovich ordered and he himself climbed onto the lectern (something like a box without a back wall, placed on a wide platform. Behind the box there was a chair for the teacher, whose legs were thus not visible to the class).
Ivan Arkhipovich's behavior seemed more than strange to Bulanin. First of all, he unfolded the magazine with a bang, slammed his palm on it and, sticking his lower jaw forward, made scary eyes at the class. “Exactly,” Bulanin thought, “like a giant in walking boots, before eating all the boys one by one.” Then he spread his elbows wide on the pulpit, rested his chin on his palms and, putting his nails in his mouth, began in a sing-song voice through his teeth:
- Well, sir, overseas eagles... corrupt students... What do you know? (Ivan Arkhipovich suddenly swayed forward and hiccupped.) You don’t know anything. Absolutely nothing. And you won't know anything. You were at home, I suppose, just playing grandmas and chasing pigeons across the roofs? And it’s beautiful! Wonderful! And they would still be doing this business. And why do you need to know how to read and write? Not a noble matter, sir. Learn or learn, but you will still depict a cow with “Ъ”, because... because... (Ivan Arkhipovich swayed again, this time more strongly than before, but again controlled himself), because your calling is to be eternal Mi-tro-fa- Well-shka-mi.
After talking in this spirit for about five minutes, and perhaps more, Sakharov suddenly closed his eyes and lost his balance. His elbows slipped, his head fell helplessly and heavily onto the open magazine, and snoring was clearly heard in the classroom. The teacher was hopelessly drunk.
This happened to him almost every day. True, he appeared sober two or three times a month, but these days were considered fatal in the gymnasium environment: then the magazine was decorated with countless “stakes” and zeros. Sakharov himself could be gloomy and silent and would expel you from class for any sudden movement. In every word of his, in every grimace of his face, swollen and red from vodka, one could feel a deep, sharp, desperate hatred both for the teaching profession and for the helicopter city that he was supposed to plant.
But the students took advantage of those moments with impunity when the heavy sleep of a hangover took possession of Ivan Arkhipovich’s sore head. Immediately, one of the “weak” was sent to “guard” at the door, the most enterprising climbed into the department, rearranged the points in the magazine and set new ones at their own discretion, pulled out the teacher’s watch from the pocket and examined it, smeared his back with chalk. However, to their credit, it must be said that as soon as the watchman, hearing the heavy steps of the inspector from a distance, let out the conventional: “Shh... The pusher is coming!..” - immediately dozens of helpful, albeit unceremonious hands began to slow down Ivan Arkhipovich.
Having slept for quite a long time, Sakharov suddenly, as if from a sudden jolt, raised his head, looked around the class with dull eyes and said sternly:
– Open your reading books to page thirty-six.
Everyone opened their books with exaggerated noise. Sakharov nodded his head at Bulanin's neighbor.
- Here you are... gentleman... how are you? Yes, yes, you are the one...” he added and shook his head, seeing that Krivtsov was hesitantly rising, his eyes searching around, “the one with the yellow buttons and the wart... What’s your title? What? Can not hear anything. Stand up when they talk to you. What is your title, I ask?
“Tell me your last name,” Selsky whispered from behind.
- Krivtsov.
- Let's write it down. What do you have depicted there on page thirty-six, my dear sir, Mr. Krivtsov?
“The Siskin and the Dove,” Krivtsov read.
- Exclaim, sir.
Almost all the teachers were distinguished by some oddities, to which Bulanin not only got used to very quickly, but even learned to copy them, since he was always distinguished by observation and agility. While, during the first days, he sorted out his impressions, two people involuntarily became central figures in his worldview: Yakov Yakovlevich von Scheppe - otherwise Rooster - and the isolated uncle Tomasz Tsiotuch, a Litvin by birth, whom his pupils simply called Chetukha. Chetukha served, it seems, almost from the founding of the former cadet corps, but in appearance he still seemed to be a very vigorous and handsome man, with cheerful black eyes and black curly hair. Every morning he freely dragged a huge bundle of firewood up to the third floor, and in the eyes of the schoolchildren his strength surpassed all human limits. He wore, like all the guys, a jacket made of thick gray cloth, sewn like a shirt. Bulanin thought for a long time that these jackets, which always smelled of cabbage soup, shag and some kind of acrid sourness, were made from horsehair, and therefore mentally called them hair shirts. Occasionally Chetukha would get drunk. Then he went to the bedroom, climbed under one of the furthest beds (all the pupils knew that he was terribly afraid of his wife, who beat him) and slept there for three hours, putting a log under his head. However, Chetukha was not without the peculiar good nature of an old soldier. It was worth listening to how he, waking up his sleeping pupils in the morning and pretending to pull off the blanket, said with a feigned threat: “Get tired! Get tired!.. Otherwise I’ll take your rolls!.. Get tired.”
During the first days, Yakov Yakovlevich and Chetukha did nothing but “fit” clothes for the newcomers. The fitting turned out to be a very simple matter: they lined up the entire junior age group according to height, gave each student a number, starting from the right flank to the left, and then dressed them in last year’s dress of the same number. Thus, Bulanin got a very wide jacket, reaching almost to his knees, and unusually short trousers.
On weekdays, in autumn and winter, schoolchildren wore black cloth jackets (they were called jackets), without belts, with blue shoulder straps, eight copper buttons in one row and red buttonholes on the collars. Festive uniforms were worn with patent leather belts and were distinguished from jackets by gold braid on the buttonholes and sleeves. Having served its term, the uniform was converted into a jacket and served in this form until it decayed. Overcoats with slightly shorter hems were issued to high school students for daily use under the name of jackets, or “duties,” as Chetukha called them. In general, in ordinary times the younger pupils looked extremely torn and dirty, and it cannot be said that the authorities took decisive measures against this. In winter, almost all the “kids” developed “pimples” on their hands, that is, the skin on the outer side of the hand became rough, peeled and cracked, which soon merged into one common dirty wound. Scabies was also a common occurrence. Against these diseases, as against all others, one universal remedy was taken - castor oil.
Of course, nowadays the morals of the cadet corps have changed. Our story refers to that transitional era when military gymnasiums were reformed into corps.
First impressions. - Old people. - Durable button. - What is an oiler? - Cargo. - Night.
Hey, how are you!.. Newbie... what's your last name?
Bulanin did not even suspect that this shout related to him - he was so stunned by new impressions. He had just come from the reception room, where his mother begged some tall military man with sideburns to be more lenient with her Mishenka at first. “Please, don’t be too strict with him,” she said, at the same time unconsciously stroking her son’s head, “he’s so gentle to me... so impressionable... he’s not at all like other boys.” At the same time, she had such a pitiful, pleading face, completely unusual for Bulanin, and the tall military man only bowed and jingled his spurs. Apparently, he was in a hurry to leave, but, due to a long-standing habit, he continued to listen with indifferent and polite patience to these outpourings of maternal concern...
The two long junior recreation halls were full of people. The newcomers timidly huddled along the walls and sat on the window sills, dressed in a wide variety of costumes: there were yellow, blue and red shirt-shirts, sailor jackets with gold anchors, knee-high stockings and boots with patent leather cuffs, wide leather belts and narrow braided ones. The “old men” in gray Kalamyanka blouses, belted with belts, and the same trousers immediately caught the eye with their monotonous costume and especially their cheeky manners. They walked in twos and threes around the hall, hugging each other, twisting their tattered caps onto the back of their heads; some shouted to each other across the hall, others screamed and chased each other. Thick dust rose from the mastic-rubbed parquet floor. One might have thought that all this stamping, screaming and whistling crowd was deliberately trying to stun someone with its fuss and din.
Are you deaf? What's your last name, I ask?
Bulanin shuddered and raised his eyes. In front of him, with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, stood a tall pupil and looked at him with a sleepy, bored look.
“My last name is Bulanin,” answered the newcomer.
I am glad. Do you have any gifts, Bulanin?
It’s bad, brother, that you don’t have gifts. Bring it when you go on vacation.
OK, with pleasure.
But the old man did not leave. He was apparently bored and looking for entertainment. His attention was drawn to the large metal buttons sewn in two rows on Bulanin’s jacket.
“Look at how clever your buttons are,” he said, touching one of them with his finger.
Oh, these are such buttons... - Bulanin fussily rejoiced. “You can’t tear them off for anything.” Just try it!
The old man grabbed the button between his two dirty Fingers and began to twirl it. But the button did not budge. The jacket was sewn at home, made to fit, with the intention of dressing Vassenka in it when Mishenka becomes too small. And the mother herself sewed on the buttons with double wired thread.
The pupil left the button, looked at his fingers, where blue scars remained from the pressure of the sharp edges, and said:
A strong button!.. Hey, Bazutka,” he shouted to a little blond, pink fat man running past, “look what a healthy button the newbie has!”
Soon a rather dense crowd formed around Bulanin, in the corner between the stove and the door. A line immediately formed. “Cheers, I’m getting Bazutka!” - someone’s voice shouted, and immediately the others began to shout: “And I’m after Miller!” And I'm behind the Platypus! And I’m behind you!” - and while one was fiddling with a button, others were already holding out their hands and even clicking their fingers with impatience.
But the button still held tightly.
Call Gruzov! - said someone from the crowd.
Immediately others shouted: “Gruzov! Loads! The two ran to look for him.
Gruzov came, a boy of about fifteen, with a yellow, wasted, prison-like face, who had been in the first two classes for four years, one of the first strong men of the age. He, in fact, did not walk, but dragged along, without lifting his legs from the ground and with each step, falling with his body first to one side, then to the other, as if he were swimming or skating. At the same time, he constantly spat through his teeth with some special coachman's daring. Pushing the crowd aside with his shoulder, he asked in a hoarse bass voice:
What do you have here guys?
They told him what was going on. But, feeling like a hero of the moment, he was in no hurry. Having carefully examined the newcomer from head to toe, he muttered:
Surname?..
What? - Bulanin asked timidly.
Fool, what's your last name?
Boo... Bulanin...
Why not Savraskin? Look, what a surname you have... horsey.
Everyone around me laughed obligingly. Gruzov continued:
And you Bulanka, have you ever tried butter oils?
N... no... I haven't tried it.
How? Never tried it?
Never…
That's the thing! Do you want me to treat you?
And, without waiting for Bulanin’s answer, Gruzov bent his head down and very painfully and quickly hit it, first with the end of his thumb, and then fractionally with the knuckles of all the others, clenched into a fist.
Here's a buttermilk for you, and another, and a third?.. Well, Bulanka, is it delicious? Maybe you want more?
The old people cackled joyfully: “This Gruzov! Desperate!.. He fed the newcomer great with oils.”
Bulanin also tried to smile, although three oils hurt him so much that tears involuntarily came to his eyes. They explained to Gruzov why he was called. He confidently took hold of the button and began to twist it furiously. However, despite the fact that he made more and more efforts, the button continued to stubbornly stay in place. Then, out of fear of losing his authority in front of the “kids,” all red from the effort, he rested one hand on Bulanin’s chest, and with the other pulled the button toward himself with all his might. The button flew off with the meat, but the push was so fast and sudden that Bulanin immediately sat down on the floor. This time no one laughed. Maybe at that moment the thought flashed through everyone’s mind that he, too, was once a beginner, wearing the same jacket, sewn at home with his favorite hands.
Bulanin rose to his feet. No matter how hard he tried to restrain himself, tears still rolled out of his eyes, and he, covering his face with his hands, pressed himself against the stove.
Oh you roaring cow! - Gruzov said contemptuously, hit the newcomer on the back of the head with his palm, threw a button in his face and walked away with his slobish gait.
Soon Bulanin was left alone. He continued to cry. In addition to pain and undeserved resentment, some strange, complex feeling tormented his little heart - a feeling similar to as if he himself had just committed some bad, irreparable, stupid act. But for now he could not understand this feeling.
This first day of his gymnasium life dragged on terribly slowly, boringly and heavily, like a long dream. There were moments when it began to seem to him that not five or six hours, but at least half a month had passed since that sad moment when he and his mother climbed the wide stone steps of the front porch and tremblingly entered the huge glass doors on which the copper shone with a cold and impressive brightness...
Lonely, as if forgotten by the whole world, the boy examined the official environment around him. Two long halls - the recreation room and the tea room (they were separated by an arch) - were painted from below to the height of human height with brown oil paint, and above - with pink lime. On the left side of the recreation hall were windows, half covered with bars, and on the right were glass doors leading to classrooms; The spaces between the doors and windows were occupied by painted paintings from Russian history and drawings of various animals, and in the far corner a lamp glowed in front of a huge image of St. Alexander Nevsky, to which three steps covered with red cloth led. There were black tables and benches around the walls of the tea room; they were moved into one common table for tea and breakfast. On the walls there were also paintings depicting the heroic deeds of Russian soldiers, but they hung so high that even standing on the table, it was impossible to see what was signed under them... Along both halls, right in the middle of them, hung a long row of lowering lamps with lampshades and copper balls for counterweight...
Kuprin Alexander
At the turning point (Cadets)
Alexander Kuprin
At the turning point (Cadets)
I. First impressions. - Old people. - Durable button.
What is an oiler? - Cargo. - Night.
II. Dawn. - Washbasin. - The rooster and his speech. - Teacher of Russian language
and its oddities. - Chetukha. - Cloth. - Chicks.
III. Saturday. - Magic lantern. - Brinken is bargaining. - Mena.
Purchase. - Goat. - Further history of the lantern. - Vacation.
IV. Bulanin's triumph. - Heroes of the gymnasium. - Pari. - Boy-shoemaker.
Honor. - Heroes again. - Photo. - Dejection. - Several gentle ones
scenes - To the sharap! - The pile is small! - Retribution. - Beggars.
V. Moral characteristics. - Pedagogy and your own world
Property and belly. - What does it mean to be friends and share. - Forsils.
Forgot. - Desperate. - Triumvirate. - Solid. - Strongmen.
VI. Fiscals. - Letter from Bulanin. - Uncle Vasya. - His stories and parodies
on them. - Uncle Vasya's pancakes. - Sysoev and Kvadratulov. - CONSPIRACY.
Sysoev is being "covered". - Crammers. - Fishermen. - More about the oppressed.
VII. Military gymnasiums. - Cadet corps. - Dates. - "Ivan Ivanovich."
Trukhanov. - Ryabkov. - Days of slavery. - Disaster.
First impressions. - Old people. - Durable button. - What is an oiler? - Cargo. - Night.
Hey, how are you!.. Newbie... what's your last name?
Bulanin did not even suspect that this shout related to him - he was so stunned by new impressions. He had just come from the reception room, where his mother begged some tall military man with sideburns to be more lenient with her Mishenka at first. “Please, don’t be too strict with him,” she said, unconsciously stroking her son’s head at the same time, “he’s so gentle... so impressionable... he’s not at all like other boys.” At the same time, she had such a pitiful, pleading face, completely unusual for Bulanin, and the tall military man only bowed and jingled his spurs. Apparently, he was in a hurry to leave, but, due to a long-standing habit, he continued to listen with indifferent and polite patience to these outpourings of maternal concern...
The two long junior recreation halls were full of people. The newcomers timidly huddled along the walls and sat on the window sills, dressed in a wide variety of costumes: there were yellow, blue and red shirt-shirts, sailor jackets with gold anchors, knee-high stockings and boots with patent leather cuffs, wide leather belts and narrow braided ones. The “old men” in gray Kalamyanka blouses, belted with belts, and the same trousers immediately caught the eye with their monotonous costume and especially their cheeky manners. They walked in twos and threes around the hall, hugging each other, twisting their tattered caps onto the back of their heads; some shouted to each other across the hall, others screamed and chased each other. Thick dust rose from the mastic-rubbed parquet floor. One might have thought that all this stamping, screaming and whistling crowd was deliberately trying to stun someone with its fuss and din.
Are you deaf? What's your last name, I ask?
Bulanin shuddered and raised his eyes. In front of him, with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, stood a tall pupil and looked at him with a sleepy, bored look.
“My last name is Bulanin,” answered the newcomer.
I am glad. Do you have any gifts, Bulanin?
It’s bad, brother, that you don’t have gifts. Bring it when you go on vacation.
OK, with pleasure.
But the old man did not leave. He was apparently bored and looking for entertainment. His attention was drawn to the large metal buttons sewn in two rows on Bulanin’s jacket.
“Look at how clever your buttons are,” he said, touching one of them with his finger.
Oh, these are such buttons... - Bulanin fussily rejoiced. “You can’t tear them off for anything.” Just try it!
The old man grabbed the button between his two dirty Fingers and began to twirl it. But the button did not budge. The jacket was sewn at home, made to fit, with the intention of dressing Vassenka in it when Mishenka becomes too small. And the mother herself sewed on the buttons with double wired thread.
The pupil left the button, looked at his fingers, where blue scars remained from the pressure of the sharp edges, and said:
A strong button!.. Hey, Bazutka,” he shouted to a little blond, pink fat man running past, “look what a healthy button the newbie has!”
Soon a rather dense crowd formed around Bulanin, in the corner between the stove and the door. A line immediately formed. "Cheers, I'm getting Bazutka!" - someone’s voice shouted, and immediately the others began to shout: “And I’m behind Miller! And I’m behind the Platypus! And I’m behind you!” - and while one was fiddling with a button, others were already holding out their hands and even clicking their fingers with impatience.
But the button still held tightly.
Call Gruzov! - said someone from the crowd.
Immediately others shouted: “Gruzov! Gruzov!” The two ran to look for him.
Gruzov came, a boy of about fifteen, with a yellow, wasted, prison-like face, who had been in the first two classes for four years, one of the first strong men of the age. He, in fact, did not walk, but dragged along, without lifting his legs from the ground and with each step, falling with his body first to one side, then to the other, as if he were swimming or skating. At the same time, he constantly spat through his teeth with some special coachman's daring. Pushing the crowd aside with his shoulder, he asked in a hoarse bass voice:
What do you have here guys?
They told him what was going on. But, feeling like a hero of the moment, he was in no hurry. Having carefully examined the newcomer from head to toe, he muttered:
Surname?..
What? - Bulanin asked timidly.
Fool, what's your last name?
Bu... Bulanin...
Why not Savraskin? Look, what a surname you have... horsey.
Everyone around me laughed obligingly. Gruzov continued:
And you Bulanka, have you ever tried butter oils?
N... no... I haven't tried it.
How? Never tried it?
Never...
That's the thing! Do you want me to treat you?
And, without waiting for Bulanin’s answer, Gruzov bent his head down and very painfully and quickly hit it, first with the end of his thumb, and then fractionally with the knuckles of all the others, clenched into a fist.
Here's a buttermilk for you, and another, and a third?.. Well, Bulanka, is it delicious? Maybe you want more?
The old men guffawed joyfully: “This Gruzov! Desperate!.. He fed the newcomer great with butter.”
Bulanin also tried to smile, although three oils hurt him so much that tears involuntarily came to his eyes. They explained to Gruzov why he was called. He confidently took hold of the button and began to twist it furiously. However, despite the fact that he made more and more efforts, the button continued to stubbornly stay in place. Then, out of fear of losing his authority in front of the “kids,” all red from the effort, he rested one hand on Bulanin’s chest, and with the other pulled the button toward himself with all his might. The button flew off with the meat, but the push was so fast and sudden that Bulanin immediately sat down on the floor. This time no one laughed. Maybe at that moment the thought flashed through everyone’s mind that he, too, was once a beginner, wearing the same jacket, sewn at home with his favorite hands.
Bulanin rose to his feet. No matter how hard he tried to restrain himself, tears still rolled out of his eyes, and he, covering his face with his hands, pressed himself against the stove.
Oh you roaring cow! - Gruzov said contemptuously, hit the newcomer on the back of the head with his palm, threw a button in his face and walked away with his slobish gait.
Soon Bulanin was left alone. He continued to cry. In addition to pain and undeserved resentment, some strange, complex feeling tormented his little heart - a feeling similar to as if he himself had just committed some bad, irreparable, stupid act. But for now he could not understand this feeling.
This first day of his gymnasium life dragged on terribly slowly, boringly and heavily, like a long dream. There were moments when it began to seem to him that not five or six hours, but at least half a month had passed since that sad moment when he and his mother climbed the wide stone steps of the front porch and tremblingly entered the huge glass doors on which the copper shone with a cold and impressive brightness...