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Kuprin Alexander
At the turning point (Cadets)

I

First impressions. - Oldies. - Durable button. - What is buttermilk? – Cargo. - Night.

- Hey, how are you! .. Newcomer ... what is your last name?

Bulanin did not even suspect that this cry was for him - before that he was stunned by new impressions. He had just come from the reception room, where his mother was begging some tall, whiskered military man to be more indulgent at first with her Mishenka. “Please, don’t be too strict with him,” she said, unconsciously stroking her son’s head at the same time, “he is so gentle with me ... so impressionable ... he doesn’t look like other boys at all.” At the same time, she had such a pitiful, begging face, completely unusual for Bulanin, and the tall military man only bowed and clinked his spurs. Apparently, he was in a hurry to leave, but, by virtue of a long-standing habit, he continued to listen with indifferent and polite patience to these outpourings of maternal solicitude ...

The two long junior recreation halls were full of people. The newcomers timidly huddled along the walls and sat on the windowsills, dressed in the most varied costumes: there were yellow, blue and red blouses-shirts, sailor jackets with gold anchors, knee-high stockings and boots with lacquered lapels, wide leather and narrow lace belts. The "old men" in gray Kalamyanka blouses, girded with belts, and the same pantaloons, immediately caught the eye with their monotonous costume and especially cheeky manners. They walked in twos and threes around the hall, embracing, twisting their frayed caps to the back of their heads; some were calling to one another across the hall, others were chasing each other screaming. Thick dust rose from the parquet rubbed with mastic. One might think that all this trampling, screaming and whistling crowd deliberately tried to stun someone with their fuss and uproar.

- You're deaf, aren't you? What is your last name, I ask you?

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 surname is Bulanin,” the newcomer answered.

- I am glad. Do you have any presents, Bulanin?

“It’s bad, brother, that you don’t have gifts. Go on vacation bring it.

- OK, with pleasure.

But the old man did not leave. He seemed to be bored and looking for entertainment. His attention was drawn to the large metal buttons sewn in two rows on Bulanin's jacket.

“Look, what clever buttons you have,” he said, touching one of them with his finger.

- Oh, these are such buttons ... - Bulanin was fussily delighted. “They can’t be torn off for anything. Here, try it!

The old man grabbed a button between his two dirty fingers and began to twirl it. But the button didn't budge. The jacket was sewn at home, sewn to fit, in order to dress Vasenka in it when Mishenka becomes small. And the buttons were sewn on by the mother herself with a 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, Bazoutka, - he shouted to a little blond, pink fat man running past, - look what a healthy button the newcomer has!

Soon a fairly dense crowd formed around Bulanin, in the corner between the stove and the door. There was a queue immediately. "Chur, I'm behind Bazutka!" shouted a voice, and immediately the others began to roar: “And I'm after Miller! And I'm behind the Platypus! And I'm behind you! - and while one was twirling a button, others were already stretching out their hands and even snapping their fingers with impatience.

But the button still held tight.

- Call Gruzov! - said someone from the crowd.

Immediately others shouted: “Gruzov! Cargo!” The two ran to look for him.

Gruzov came, a boy of about fifteen, with a yellow, exhausted, prisoner's face, who had been in the first two classes for four years, one of the first strong men of his age. In fact, he did not walk, but dragged along, not raising his legs from the ground, and with each step his body fell first to one side, then to the other, as if he were swimming or skating. At the same time, he spat every minute through his teeth with some kind of special coachman's dashing. Pushing the pile aside with his shoulder, he asked in a hoarse bass:

- What do you guys have here?

They told him what was the matter. But, feeling like a hero of the moment, he was in no hurry. Looking at the newcomer carefully from head to toe, he muttered:

- Surname?..

- What? asked Bulanin timidly.

"Fool, what's your last name?"

- Bu ... Bulanin ...

- Why not Savraskin? Look what kind of surname you are ... horse.

Laughed helpfully all around. Gruz continued:

- And you Bulanka, have you ever tried butter?

“N…no…didn’t try.

- How? Never tried?

- Never...

- That's the thing! Do you want me to feed 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 butter 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 butters.

Bulanin also struggled to smile, although the three oils hurt him so much that involuntarily tears came to his eyes. They explained to Gruzov why he was called. He self-confidently took hold of the button and began to twist it fiercely. However, despite the fact that he made more and more efforts, the button continued to stubbornly hold on to its place. Then, for 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 with all his might. The button flew off with the meat, but the push was so quick and sudden that Bulanin immediately sat on the floor. This time no one laughed. Perhaps, at that moment, the thought flashed through everyone that he, too, had once been a beginner, in 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 from his eyes, and he covered his face with his hands, pressed himself against the stove.

- Oh, you roar-cow! - Gruzov said contemptuously, hit the newcomer on the back of the head with his palm, threw a button in his face and left with his slovenly 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 that, as if he himself had just committed some bad, irreparable, stupid act. But for the time being, he could not understand this feeling.

Terribly slow, boring and heavy, like a long dream, this first day of gymnasium life dragged on for Bulanin. 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 copper shone with a cold and impressive brightness ...

Lonely, as if forgotten by the whole world, the boy examined the official situation surrounding him. Two long halls - recreational and tea (they were separated by an arch) - were painted from below to the height of a man's height with brown oil paint, and above with pink lime. On the left side of the recreational hall stretched windows, half-covered with bars, and on the right side glass doors leading to the classrooms; the piers between the doors and windows were occupied with painted pictures from Russian history and drawings of various animals, and in the far corner a lampada flickered in front of a huge image of St. Alexander Nevsky, to which three steps upholstered in red cloth led. Around the walls of the tea room were black tables and benches; they were moved to one common table for tea and breakfast. Paintings depicting the heroic deeds of Russian soldiers also hung on the walls, but they hung so high that, even standing on the table, it was impossible to see what was signed under them ... Along both halls, just in the middle of them, hung a long row of lamps with lamp shades and copper balls for counterweight ...

Tired of 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 the old men played bast shoes, others walked around embracing, still others threw stones from the ramparts into a pond green with mud, which lay about fifty paces behind the line of ramparts; the gymnasium students were not allowed to go to the pond, and in order to keep an eye on this, an uncle on duty stuck out on the shaft during the walk.

All these impressions, with sharp, indelible features, sunk into Bulanin's memory. How many times later, in all the seven years of school life, had he seen those brown and pink walls, and the parade ground with stunted grass trampled by numerous feet, and the long, narrow corridors, and the cast-iron staircase—and he had become so accustomed to them that they became as if a part of himself... But the impressions of the first day still did not die in his soul, and he could always call extremely vividly before his eyes the then appearance of all these objects, a view 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 in a stone mug and half a French roll. But the roll turned out to be sour in taste, and the tea tasted like fish. After tea the uncle showed Bulanin his bed.

The junior bedroom could not settle down for a long time. Old men in only shirts ran from bed to bed, laughter was heard, the noise of fuss, sonorous blows with the palm of their hands on their naked bodies. Only an hour later this mess began to calm down and the angry voice of the tutor, who called the rascals by their last names, ceased.

When the noise completely ceased, when the deep breathing of the sleeping people was heard from everywhere, interrupted from time to time by sleepy delirium, Bulanin became inexpressibly hard. Everything that he forgot for a while, that was shrouded in new impressions, - all this suddenly came to his mind with merciless clarity: home, sisters, brother, friend of children's games - the cook's nephew Savka, and, finally, this dear, close person who is today in the waiting room seemed so begging. A subtle, deep tenderness and some painful pity for his mother overwhelmed Bulanin's heart. He remembered all those times when he had been insufficiently gentle with her, disrespectful, sometimes even rude. And it seemed to him that if now, by some magic, he saw his mother, then he would be able to collect in his soul such a supply of love, gratitude and affection that it would be enough for many, many years of loneliness. In his overheated, agitated 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 unfortunate, abandoned boy, that Bulanin, pressing his mouth tightly against the pillow, began to cry with burning, desperate tears, from which his narrow iron bed trembled, 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 the 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 offered the old men to tear off a button.

He wept until sleep embraced him with its wide arms... But even in the dream, Bulanin sighed for a long time, intermittently and deeply, as very small children sigh after tears. However, he was not alone in crying that night, hiding his face in a pillow, in the dim light of hanging lamps with counter-shades.

II

Dawn. - Washer. - 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 with a brand new net and with the faithful Savka to go to the quail ... Suddenly awakened by these piercing sounds, he jumped up in fright on the bed and opened his eyes. Just above his head stood a huge, red-haired, freckled soldier, and, putting a shiny copper trumpet to his lips, all red from exertion, with swollen cheeks and tense neck, played some deafening and monotonous tune.

It was six o'clock on a stormy August morning. Raindrops zigzag down the glass. Through the windows one could see the gloomy gray sky and the yellow stunted green of the acacias. It seemed that the monotonously sharp sounds of the trumpet made me feel the cold and melancholy of this morning even more strongly 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 flannelette blankets.

After blowing his trumpet for a good five minutes, the soldier unscrewed the mouthpiece of his trumpet, shook the saliva out of it, and left.

Shivering from the cold, the pupils ran to the washroom, tying a towel around their waists. The entire basin was occupied by a long, narrow chest of red copper with twenty lifting rods underneath. Pupils were already crowding around him, impatiently waiting for their turn, pushing, snorting and pouring water on each other. Everyone did not get enough sleep; the old men were angry and swore in hoarse, sleepy voices. Several times, when Bulanin, seizing a moment, stood under the tap, someone from behind took him by the collar of his shirt and roughly pushed him away. He managed to wash himself only in the very last turn.

After tea, the educators came, divided all the newcomers into two sections, and immediately separated them into classes.

In the second section, where Bulanin ended up, there were two repeaters: Brinken, a long, thin Ostsee with stubborn, watery eyes and a drooping German nose, and Selsky, a cheerful little schoolboy, pretty, but a little bow-legged. Brinken, as soon as he entered the classroom, immediately announced that he was occupying Kamchatka. The newcomers hesitantly crowded around the desks.

Soon a teacher appeared. His arrival was heralded by Selsky, who shouted: "Shh... The rooster is coming! .." The rooster turned out to be the same military man in tank tops whom Bulanin had seen yesterday in the waiting room; his name was Yakov Yakovlevich von Scheppe. He was a very clean, good-natured German. He always smelled of a little tobacco, a little cologne, and that special, not unpleasant smell that furniture and things in wealthy German families emit. Putting his right hand in 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 tiptoe, then lowering himself on his heels, the Rooster made a small but heartfelt speech:

- Well, so, gentlemen ... uh ... uh ... how to say ... I have been appointed your tutor. Yes, you would know that I will remain them all ... all ... er ... how to say ... all the seven years of your stay at the gymnasium. Therefore, I dare to think and hope that teachers or, how to say ... teachers - yes, that's it: teachers ... will not ... uh ... there will be no displeasure and ... how to say ... complaints ... Remember that teachers are those but your bosses and, except for the good ... uh ... uh ... how to say ... except for the good, they wish you nothing ...

He was silent for a while, and several times in a row he rose and then lowered himself on tiptoe, as if about to fly away (for this habit, they probably called him the Rooster), and continued:

- Yes, sir! So-and-so. You and I will have to live together for a very, very long time ... therefore, we will try ... er ... 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. Behind them, the newcomers giggled as well.

The poor Rooster was not at all eloquent. In addition to the constant: "uh" ... the word-eriks and "how to say", he had an unfortunate habit of speaking in rhymes and in the same cases using the same expressions. And the boys, with their sharp perceptiveness and observation, very quickly picked up these features of the Rooster. Sometimes, in the morning, waking up overslept pupils, Yakov Yakovlevich shouts: “Don’t dig, don’t wallow, don’t sit out! ..”, and a whole choir from around the corner, knowing in advance which remark follows next, yells, imitating his intonations: “ Who sits there?"

Having finished his speech, the Rooster made a roll call to the entire department. Every time he came across a more or less loud name, he jumped up and down as usual and asked:

“Are you a relative of such and such?”

And, having received a mostly negative answer, he shook his head from top to bottom and said in a soft voice:

- Great, sir. Sit down.

Then he placed all the pupils on desks in twos, and removed Brinken from Kamchatka to the first bench, and left the class.

- What is your name? Bulanin asked his neighbour, a plump-cheeked, ruddy-faced boy in a black jacket with yellow buttons.

- Krivtsov. How about you?

- Me - Bulanin. Do you want us to be friends?

- Let's. Where do your relatives live?

- In Moscow. And you?

- In Zhizdra. We have a large garden there, and a lake, and swans swim.

At this recollection, Krivtsov could not restrain a deep, broken sigh.

- And I have my own riding horse, - Mutsik's name is. What a fast passion, like a pacer. And two rabbits, completely tame, take cabbage straight from their hands.

The rooster came again, this time accompanied by an uncle who carried on his shoulders a large basket with books, notebooks, pens, pencils, rubber bands and rulers. The books had already been familiar to Bulanin for a long time: Yevtushevsky's problem book, Margo's French textbook, Polivanov's reader and Smirnov's sacred history. All these sources of wisdom turned out to be the heavily frayed hands of previous generations, who drew their knowledge from them. Under the crossed-out names of the former owners, new names were written on canvas bindings, which, in turn, made room for the newest ones. Many books were emblazoned with immortal sayings like: "I'm reading a book, but I see a fig," or:

This book belongs
Won't run away
Who will take it 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 is: "See. p. 118”, and page 118 in its turn sends the curious on further searches, until he comes to the same page from which he began to look for a stranger. There were also often offensive and mocking expressions addressed to the teacher of the subject that was treated by the textbook.

“Take care of your manuals,” said the Rooster, when the distribution was over, “don’t make various ... er ... how to say ... various indecent inscriptions on them ... For a lost or damaged textbook, a penalty will be imposed and will be withheld ... er ... how to say ... money, sir... from the guilty person, sir... Then I appoint senior in the Selsky class. He is a repeater and knows everything, sir, all sorts of ... how to say ... orders, sir and orders, sir ... If you don’t understand anything or ... how to say ... desirable, sir, please contact me through him. Then-with…

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 icon-painter, in a shabby frock coat, entered with a cool magazine under his arm, so tall and thin that he had to stoop rather hunched over. Selsky shouted: “Get up! Attention!" - and approached him with a report: “Mr. teacher, everything is going well in the second department of the first class of the N-th military gymnasium. According to the list of pupils, there are thirty, one is in the infirmary, there are twenty-nine. The teacher (his name was Ivan Arkhipovich Sakharov) listened to this, depicting with all his awkward figure a question mark over little Selsky, who involuntarily had to lift his head up in order to see Sakharov's face. Then Ivan Arkhipovich shook his head at the image and grunted: “Prayer!” Selsky, in exactly the same tone as he had just reported, read "Good Lord."

- Sit down! - ordered Ivan Arkhipovich and climbed into the pulpit himself (something like a box without a back wall, placed on a wide platform. Behind the box was a chair for the teacher, whose legs the class could not see in this way).

The behavior of Ivan Arkhipovich seemed to Bulanin more than strange. First of all, he unrolled the magazine with a crack, slapped it with his palm, and thrusting his lower jaw forward, made terrible eyes at the class. “Exactly the same,” thought Bulanin, “like a giant in walking boots, before eating all the boys one by one.” Then he spread his elbows wide on the pulpit, propped his chin on his palms, and, putting his nails into his mouth, began in a singsong voice through his teeth:

“Well, eagles from overseas… depraved pupils… What do you know? (Ivan Arkhipovich suddenly swayed forward and hiccupped.) You don't know anything. Nothing. And you won't know anything. At home, I suppose, you only played money and chased pigeons on the roofs? And pre-beautifully! Wonderful gum! And they would still be doing this. And why do you need to know something literate? Not a noble matter, sir. Study, don’t study, but anyway you will depict a cow through “b”, because ... because ... (Ivan Arkhipovich swayed again, this time stronger than before, but again he managed 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 even more, Sakharov suddenly closed his eyes and lost his balance. His elbows slipped, his head fell helplessly and heavily on the open magazine, and snoring was clearly heard in the class. The teacher was hopelessly drunk.

This happened to him almost every day. True, he was sober two or three times a month, but these days were considered fatal in the gymnasium. 1
Of course, at the present time the morals of the cadet corps have changed. Our story refers to that transitional era when military gymnasiums were reformed into corps.

Wednesday: Then the magazine was decorated with countless "cols" and zeros. Sakharov himself was gloomy and silent, and sent him out of class for any sudden movement. In his every word, in every grimace of his swollen and red face from the vodka, one felt a deep, sharp, desperate hatred both for the teaching profession and for the garden that he was supposed to plant.

On the other hand, the pupils used with impunity those moments when the heavy sleep of a hangover took possession of Ivan Arkhipovich's sick head. Immediately, one of the “weak” ones was sent to “guard” at the door, the most enterprising climbed into the pulpit, rearranged the scores in the journal and set new ones at their discretion, pulled out a watch from the teacher’s pocket and examined it, smeared his back with chalk. However, it must be said to their credit, as soon as the watchman, hearing the heavy steps of the inspector from a distance, started up the conditional: “Sh ... The pusher is coming! ..” - immediately dozens of helpful, though unceremonious hands began to pull Ivan Arkhipovich.

After sleeping for quite some time, Sakharov suddenly, as if from a sudden shock, raised his head, looked around the class with bleary eyes, and said sternly:

“Open your anthologies to page thirty-six.

Everyone opened their books with an exaggerated noise. Sakharov nodded his head at his neighbor Bulanin.

- Here you are ... mister ... how are you? Yes, yes, you’re the best…” he added and shook his head, seeing that Krivtsov hesitantly got up, looking around with his eyes, “the one with the yellow buttons and the wart… What’s your title?” What? Can not hear anything. Get up when you are spoken to. What is your title, I ask?

“Say your last name,” Selsky whispered from behind.

- Krivtsov.

- Let's write it down. What do you have depicted there on the thirty-sixth page, my dear sir, Mr. Krivtsov?

“The Siskin and the Dove,” read Krivtsov.

- Proclaim, sir.

Almost all the teachers were distinguished by some oddities, which Bulanin not only got used to very quickly, but even learned to copy them, since he was always distinguished by observation and glibness. While during the first days he sorted out his impressions, two people involuntarily became the central figures in his worldview: Yakov Yakovlevich von Sheppe - otherwise the Rooster - and the separated uncle Tomasz Tsiotukh, a Litvin family, whom the pupils called simply Chetukha. Chetukha, it seems, had served almost since the founding of the former cadet corps, but 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 schoolboys his strength surpassed all human limits. He wore, like all uncles, a jacket of thick gray cloth, sewn in the manner of a shirt. Bulanin thought for a long time that these jackets, which always smelled of cabbage soup, shag and some kind of caustic sourness, were made from horse hair, and therefore he mentally called them hair shirts. Occasionally Chetukha got drunk. Then he went into 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 sleeping pupils in the morning and pretending to pull off the blanket, sentenced with a mock threat: “Get tired! Get tired! .. Otherwise I’ll eat your rolls! .. Get tired.

The first days, Yakov Yakovlevich and Chetukha did nothing but “fit” clothes for newcomers. Fitting turned out to be a very simple matter: they built the entire younger age according to height, gave each pupil a number, starting from the right flank to the left, and then dressed 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, schoolboys 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 lacquered leather belts and differed from jackets by gold galloons on buttonholes and sleeves. Having served its term, the uniform was remade into a jacket and served in this form until decay. Overcoats with somewhat shortened floors were issued to gymnasium students for daily use under the name of jackets, or "duty officers", 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 “kids” developed “chicks” on their hands, that is, the skin on the outer side of the hand roughened, peeled and cracked, which soon merged into one common dirty wound. Scabies was also not uncommon. Against these diseases, as against all others, one universal remedy was castor oil.

Favorite stories of Koshchei Yozhkovich.

Alexander Ivanovich Kuprin
(1870 - 1938)

At the turning point. (The Cadets).

EXTRACT.

First impressions.

Hey, how are you!.. Newbie... what's your last name?

Bulanin did not even suspect that this cry was for him - before that he was stunned by new impressions. He had just come from the reception room, where his mother was begging some tall, whiskered military man to be more indulgent at first with her Mishenka. “Please, don’t be too strict with him,” she said, unconsciously stroking her son’s head at the same time, “he’s so gentle with me ... so impressionable ... he doesn’t look like other boys at all.” At the same time, she had such a pitiful, begging face, completely unusual for Bulanin, and the tall military man only bowed and clinked his spurs. Apparently, he was in a hurry to leave, but, by virtue of a long-standing habit, he continued to listen with indifferent and polite patience to these outpourings of maternal solicitude ...

The two long junior recreation halls were full of people. The newcomers timidly huddled along the walls and sat on the windowsills, dressed in the most varied costumes: there were yellow, blue and red blouses-shirts, sailor jackets with gold anchors, knee-high stockings and boots with lacquered lapels, wide leather and narrow lace belts. The "old men" in gray Kalamyanka blouses, girded with belts, and the same pantaloons, immediately caught the eye with their monotonous costume and especially cheeky manners. They walked in twos and threes around the hall, embracing, twisting their frayed caps to the back of their heads; some were calling to one another across the hall, others were chasing each other screaming. Thick dust rose from the parquet rubbed with mastic. One might think that all this trampling, screaming and whistling crowd deliberately tried to stun someone with their fuss and uproar.

You're deaf, right? What is your last name, I ask you?

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 surname is Bulanin, - the newcomer answered.
- I am glad. Do you have any presents, Bulanin?
- No...
- It's bad, brother, that you have no gifts. Go on vacation bring it.
- Okay, I'll bring it.
- And share with me ... Okay? ..
- OK, with pleasure.

But the old man did not leave. He seemed to be bored and looking for entertainment. His attention was drawn to the large metal buttons sewn in two rows on Bulanin's jacket.
“Look, what clever buttons you have,” he said, touching one of them with his finger.
- Oh, these are such buttons ... - Bulanin fussily delighted. - They can't be torn off. Here, try it!

The old man grabbed a button between his two dirty fingers and began to twirl it. But the button didn't budge. The jacket was sewn at home, sewn to fit, in order to dress Vasenka in it when Mishenka becomes small. And the buttons were sewn on by the mother herself with a 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, Bazoutka, - he shouted to a little blond, pink fat man running past, - look what a healthy button the newcomer has!

Soon a fairly dense crowd formed around Bulanin, in the corner between the stove and the door. There was a queue immediately. "Chur, I'm after Bazutka!" - someone's voice shouted, and immediately the others began to shout: "And I'm after Miller! And I'm after the Platypus! And I'm after you!" - and while one was twirling a button, others were already stretching out their hands and even snapping their fingers with impatience.
But the button still held tight.
- Call Gruzov! - said someone from the crowd.

Immediately others shouted: "Cargo! Cargo!" The two ran to look for him.

Gruzov came, a boy of about fifteen, with a yellow, drunk, prisoner-like face, who had been in the first two classes for four years - one of the first strong men of his age. In fact, he did not walk, but dragged along, not raising his legs from the ground, and with each step his body fell first to one side, then to the other, as if he were swimming or skating. At the same time, he spat every minute through his teeth with some kind of special coachman's dashing. Pushing the pile aside with his shoulder, he asked in a hoarse bass:
- What do you guys have here?

They told him what was the matter. But, feeling like a hero of the moment, he was in no hurry. Looking at the newcomer carefully from head to toe, he muttered:
- Surname?..
- What? asked Bulanin timidly.
- Fool, what's your last name?
- Bu... Bulanin...
- And why not Savraskin? Look at you, what kind of surname ... horse.

Laughed helpfully all around. Gruz continued:
- And you Bulanka, have you ever tried butters?
- N... no... I haven't tried it.
- How? Never tried?
- Never...
- That's the thing! Do you want me to feed 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 butter for you, and another, and a third? .. Well, Bulanka, is it delicious?” Maybe you want more?
The old men cackled joyfully: "This Cargo! Desperate! .. He fed the newcomer great with butter."

Bulanin also struggled to smile, although the three oils hurt him so much that involuntarily tears came to his eyes. They explained to Gruzov why he was called. He self-confidently took hold of the button and began to twist it fiercely. However, despite the fact that he made more and more efforts, the button continued to stubbornly hold on to its place. Then, for 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 with all his might. The button flew off with the meat, but the push was so quick and sudden that Bulanin immediately sat on the floor. This time no one laughed. Perhaps, at that moment, the thought flashed through everyone that he, too, had once been a beginner, in 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 from his eyes, and he covered his face with his hands, pressed himself against the stove.
- Oh, you roar-cow! - Gruzov said contemptuously, hit the newcomer on the back of the head with his palm, threw a button in his face and left with his slovenly 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 that looked like he himself had just committed some bad, irreparable, stupid act. But for the time being, he could not understand this feeling.

Terribly slow, boring and heavy, like a long dream, this first day of gymnasium life dragged on for Bulanin. 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 copper shone with a cold and impressive brightness...

Lonely, as if forgotten by the whole world, the boy examined the official situation surrounding him. Two long halls - recreational and tea (they were separated by an arch) - were painted from below to the height of human growth with brown oil paint, and above with pink lime. On the left side of the recreational hall stretched windows, half-covered with bars, and on the right side glass doors leading to the classrooms; the piers between the doors and windows were occupied with painted pictures from Russian history and drawings of various animals, and in the far corner a lampada flickered in front of a huge image of St. Alexander Nevsky, to which three steps upholstered in red cloth led. Around the walls of the tea room were black tables and benches; they were moved to one common table for tea and breakfast. Paintings also hung on the walls 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, just in the middle of them, hung a long row of descending lamps with lampshades and brass balls for counterweight...

Bored of 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 the old men played bast shoes, others walked around embracing, still others threw stones from the ramparts into a pond green with mud, which lay about fifty paces behind the line of ramparts; the gymnasium students were not allowed to go to the pond, and in order to keep an eye on this, the uncle on duty stuck out on the rampart during the walk.

All these impressions, with sharp, indelible features, sunk into Bulanin's memory. How many times later, in all the seven years of school life, had he seen those brown and pink walls, and the parade ground with stunted grass trampled by numerous feet, and the long, narrow corridors, and the cast-iron stairs—and he had become 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 call extremely vividly before his eyes the then appearance of all these objects, a view completely different from their present appearance, much brighter, fresh and seemingly naive.

In the evening, Bulanin, along with other newcomers, was given cloudy sweet tea in a stone mug and half a French roll. But the roll turned out to be sour in taste, and the tea tasted like fish. After tea the uncle showed Bulanin his bed.

The junior bedroom could not settle down for a long time. Old men in only shirts ran from bed to bed, laughter was heard, the noise of fuss, sonorous blows with the palm of their hands on their naked bodies. Only an hour later this mess began to calm down and the angry voice of the tutor, who called the rascals by their last names, ceased.

When the noise completely ceased, when the deep breathing of the sleeping people was heard from everywhere, interrupted from time to time by sleepy delirium, Bulanin became inexpressibly hard. Everything that he forgot for a while, that was shrouded in new impressions, - all this suddenly came to his mind with merciless clarity: home, sisters, brother, friend of children's games - the cook's nephew Savka, and, finally, this dear, close person who is today in the waiting room seemed so begging.

A subtle, deep tenderness and some painful pity for his mother overwhelmed Bulanin's heart. He remembered all those times when he had been insufficiently gentle with her, disrespectful, sometimes even rude. And it seemed to him that if now, by some magic, he saw his mother, then he would be able to collect in his soul such a supply of love, gratitude and affection that it would be enough for many, many years of loneliness. In his overheated, agitated 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 unfortunate, abandoned boy, that Bulanin, pressing his mouth tightly to the pillow, burst into tears with burning, desperate tears, from which his narrow iron bed trembled, 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 diligently she sewed on these buttons, biting off the ends of the thread with her teeth. With what pride, during the fitting, she admired this jacket, pulling it from all sides ..." Bulanin felt that he had committed a bad, low and a cowardly act when he suggested to the old men to tear off a button. Koshchei's stories

Kuprin Alexander

At the turning point (Cadets)

Alexander Kuprin

At the turning point (Cadets)

I. First impressions. - Oldies. - Durable button.

What is buttermilk. - Cargo. - Night.

II. Dawn. - Washer. - Rooster and his speech. - Teacher of Russian language

and his oddities. - Chetukha. - Cloth. - Chicks.

III. Saturday. - Magic lantern. - Brinken is trading. - Mena.

Purchase. - Goat. - Further history of the lantern. - Vacation.

IV. The triumph of Bulanin. - Heroes of the gymnasium. - Pari. - A shoemaker boy.

Honor. - Heroes again. - Photo. - Despondency. - A few gentle

scenes. - To the sharap! - The pile is small! - Retribution. - Beggars.

V. Moral characteristic. - Pedagogy and own world

property and life. - What does it mean to be friends and share. - Forces.

Forgotten. - Desperate. - Triumvirate. - Solid. - Strong men.

VI. Fiscals. - Bulanin's letter. - Uncle Vasya. - His stories and parodies

on them. - Uncle Vasya's pancakes. - Sysoev and Kvadratulov. - CONSPIRACY.

Sysoev is being "covered". - Crows. - Fishermen. - More about the oppressed.

VII. Military high schools. - Cadets. - Finnikov. - "Ivan Ivanovich".

Trukhanov. - Ryabkov. - Days of slavery. - Disaster.

First impressions. - Oldies. - Durable button. - What is buttermilk. - Cargo. - Night.

Hey, how are you!.. Newbie... what's your last name?

Bulanin did not even suspect that this cry was for him - before that he was stunned by new impressions. He had just come from the reception room, where his mother was begging some tall, whiskered military man to be more indulgent at first with her Mishenka. “Please, don’t be too strict with him,” she said, unconsciously stroking her son’s head at the same time, “he’s so gentle with me ... so impressionable ... he doesn’t look like other boys at all.” At the same time, she had such a pitiful, begging face, completely unusual for Bulanin, and the tall military man only bowed and clinked his spurs. Apparently, he was in a hurry to leave, but, by virtue of a long-standing habit, he continued to listen with indifferent and polite patience to these outpourings of maternal solicitude ...

The two long junior recreation halls were full of people. The newcomers timidly huddled along the walls and sat on the windowsills, dressed in the most varied costumes: there were yellow, blue and red blouses-shirts, sailor jackets with gold anchors, knee-high stockings and boots with lacquered lapels, wide leather and narrow lace belts. The "old men" in gray Kalamyanka blouses, girded with belts, and the same pantaloons, immediately caught the eye with their monotonous costume and especially cheeky manners. They walked in twos and threes around the hall, embracing, twisting their frayed caps to the back of their heads; some were calling to one another across the hall, others were chasing each other screaming. Thick dust rose from the parquet rubbed with mastic. One might think that all this trampling, screaming and whistling crowd deliberately tried to stun someone with their fuss and uproar.

You're deaf, right? What is your last name, I ask you?

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 surname is Bulanin, - the newcomer answered.

I am glad. Do you have any presents, Bulanin?

It's bad, brother, that you don't have presents. Go on vacation bring it.

OK, with pleasure.

But the old man did not leave. He seemed to be bored and looking for entertainment. His attention was drawn to the large metal buttons sewn in two rows on Bulanin's jacket.

Look how clever your buttons are,” he said, touching one of them with his finger.

Oh, these are such buttons ... - Bulanin fussily delighted. - They can't be torn off. Here, try it!

The old man grabbed a button between his two dirty fingers and began to twirl it. But the button didn't budge. The jacket was sewn at home, sewn to fit, in order to dress Vasenka in it when Mishenka becomes small. And the buttons were sewn on by the mother herself with a 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, Bazoutka, - he shouted to a little blond, pink fat man running past, - look at what a healthy button the newcomer has!

Soon a fairly dense crowd formed around Bulanin, in the corner between the stove and the door. There was a queue immediately. "Chur, I'm after Bazutka!" - someone's voice shouted, and immediately the others began to shout: "And I'm after Miller! And I'm after the Platypus! And I'm after you!" - and while one was twirling a button, others were already stretching out their hands and even snapping their fingers with impatience.

But the button still held tight.

Call Gruz! - said someone from the crowd.

Immediately others shouted: "Cargo! Cargo!" The two ran to look for him.

Gruzov came, a boy of about fifteen, with a yellow, drunk, prisoner-like face, who had been in the first two classes for four years - one of the first strong men of his age. In fact, he did not walk, but dragged along, not raising his legs from the ground, and with each step his body fell first to one side, then to the other, as if he were swimming or skating. At the same time, he spat every minute through his teeth with some kind of special coachman's dashing. Pushing the pile aside with his shoulder, he asked in a hoarse bass:

What do you guys have here?

They told him what was the matter. But, feeling like a hero of the moment, he was in no hurry. Looking at the newcomer carefully from head to toe, he muttered:

Surname?..

What? asked Bulanin timidly.

Fool, what's your last name?

Bu... Bulanin...

Why not Savraskin? Look at you, what kind of surname ... horse.

Laughed helpfully all around. Gruz continued:

And you Bulanka, have you ever tried butters?

N... no... haven't tried it.

How? Never tried?

Never...

That's the thing! Do you want me to feed 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 butter for you, and another, and a third? .. Well, Bulanka, is it tasty? Maybe you want more?

The old men cackled joyfully: "This Cargo! Desperate! .. He fed the newcomer great with butter."

Bulanin also struggled to smile, although the three oils hurt him so much that involuntarily tears came to his eyes. They explained to Gruzov why he was called. He self-confidently took hold of the button and began to twist it fiercely. However, despite the fact that he made more and more efforts, the button continued to stubbornly hold on to its place. Then, for 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 with all his might. The button flew off with the meat, but the push was so quick and sudden that Bulanin immediately sat on the floor. This time no one laughed. Perhaps, at that moment, the thought flashed through everyone that he, too, had once been a beginner, in 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 from his eyes, and he covered his face with his hands, pressed himself against the stove.

Oh, you roar-cow! - Gruzov said contemptuously, hit the newcomer on the back of the head with his palm, threw a button in his face and left with his slovenly 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 that looked like he himself had just committed some bad, irreparable, stupid act. But for the time being, he could not understand this feeling.

Terribly slow, boring and heavy, like a long dream, this first day of gymnasium life dragged on for Bulanin. 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 copper shone with a cold and impressive brightness...

Lonely, as if forgotten by the whole world, the boy examined the official situation surrounding him. Two long halls - recreational and tea (they were separated by an arch) - were painted from below to the height of human growth with brown oil paint, and above with pink lime. On the left side of the recreational hall stretched windows, half-covered with bars, and on the right side glass doors leading to the classrooms; the piers between the doors and windows were occupied with painted pictures from Russian history and drawings of various animals, and in the far corner a lampada flickered in front of a huge image of St. Alexander Nevsky, to which three steps upholstered in red cloth led. Around the walls of the tea room were black tables and benches; they were moved to one common table for tea and breakfast. Paintings also hung on the walls 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, just in the middle of them, hung a long row of descending lamps with lampshades and brass balls for counterweight...

First impressions. - Oldies. - Durable button. - What is buttermilk? — Cargo. - Night.

“Hey, how are you!.. Newbie… what’s your last name?” Bulanin did not even suspect that this cry was directed to him - he was so stunned by new impressions. He had just come from the reception room, where his mother was begging some tall, whiskered military man to be more indulgent at first with her Mishenka. “Please, don’t be too strict with him,” she said, unconsciously stroking her son’s head at the same time, “he’s so gentle with me ... so impressionable ... he doesn’t look like other boys at all.” At the same time, she had such a pitiful, begging face, completely unusual for Bulanin, and the tall military man only bowed and clinked his spurs. Apparently, he was in a hurry to leave, but, by virtue of a long-standing habit, he continued to listen with indifferent and polite patience to these outpourings of maternal solicitude ... The two long junior recreation halls were full of people. The newcomers timidly huddled along the walls and sat on the windowsills, dressed in the most varied costumes: there were yellow, blue and red blouses-shirts, sailor jackets with gold anchors, knee-high stockings and boots with lacquered lapels, wide leather and narrow lace belts. The "old men" in gray Kalamyanka blouses, girded with belts, and the same pantaloons, immediately caught the eye with their monotonous costume and especially cheeky manners. They walked in twos and threes around the hall, embracing, twisting their frayed caps to the back of their heads; some were calling to one another across the hall, others were chasing each other screaming. Thick dust rose from the parquet rubbed with mastic. One might think that all this trampling, screaming and whistling crowd deliberately tried to stun someone with their fuss and din. "You're deaf, aren't you?" What is your last name, I ask you? 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 surname is Bulanin,” the newcomer answered. - I am glad. Do you have any presents, Bulanin?- No... “It’s bad, brother, that you don’t have presents. If you go on vacation bring it. - Okay, I'll bring it. - And share with me ... Okay? .. - OK, with pleasure. But the old man did not leave. He seemed to be bored and looking for entertainment. His attention was drawn to the large metal buttons sewn in two rows on Bulanin's jacket. “Look, what clever buttons you have,” he said, touching one of them with his finger. “Oh, these are such buttons ...” Bulanin was fussily delighted. “They can’t be torn off for anything. Here, try it! The old man grabbed a button between his two dirty fingers and began to twirl it. But the button didn't budge. The jacket was sewn at home, sewn to fit, in order to dress Vasenka in it when Mishenka becomes small. And the buttons were sewn on by the mother herself with a 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: “Strong button! .. Hey, Bazoutka,” he shouted to a little blond, pink fat man running past, “look at the newbie’s healthy button!” Soon a fairly dense crowd formed around Bulanin, in the corner between the stove and the door. There was a queue immediately. "Chur, I'm behind Bazutka!" shouted a voice, and immediately the others began to roar: “And I'm after Miller! And I'm behind the Platypus! And I'm behind you! - and while one was twirling a button, the others were already stretching out their hands and even snapping their fingers in impatience. But the button still held tight. - Call Gruzov! someone in the crowd said. Immediately others shouted: “Gruzov! Cargo!” The two ran to look for him. Gruzov came, a boy of about fifteen, with a yellow, drunk, prisoner-like face, who had been in the first two classes for four years—one of the first strong men of his age. In fact, he did not walk, but dragged along, not raising his legs from the ground, and with each step his body fell first to one side, then to the other, as if he were swimming or skating. At the same time, he spat every minute through his teeth with some kind of special coachman's dashing. Pushing the pile aside with his shoulder, he asked in a hoarse bass: - What do you guys have here? They told him what was the matter. But, feeling like a hero of the moment, he was in no hurry. Looking at the newcomer carefully from head to toe, he muttered:- Surname?.. - What? asked Bulanin timidly. "Fool, what's your last name?"— Bu... Bulanin... — And why not Savraskin? Look at you, what a surname ... horse. Laughed helpfully all around. Gruz continued: — And you, Bulanka, have you ever tried butter? “N… no… haven’t tried. - How? Never tried?- Never... - That's the thing! Do you want me to feed 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 butter 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 with olives. Bulanin also struggled to smile, although the three oils hurt him so much that involuntarily tears came to his eyes. They explained to Gruzov why he was called. He self-confidently took hold of the button and began to twist it fiercely. However, despite the fact that he made more and more efforts, the button continued to stubbornly hold on to its place. Then, for 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 with all his might. The button flew off with the meat, but the push was so quick and sudden that Bulanin immediately sat on the floor. This time no one laughed. Perhaps, at that moment, the thought flashed through everyone that he, too, had once been a beginner, in 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 from his eyes, and he covered his face with his hands, pressed himself against the stove. - Oh, you roar-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 slovenly 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 that looked like he himself had just committed some bad, irreparable, stupid act. But for the time being, he could not understand this feeling. Terribly slow, boring and heavy, like a long dream, this first day of gymnasium life dragged on for Bulanin. 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 copper shone with a cold and impressive brightness... Lonely, as if forgotten by the whole world, the boy examined the official situation surrounding him. Two long halls - recreational and tea (they were separated by an arch) - were painted from below to the height of a man with brown oil paint, and above with pink lime. On the left side of the recreational hall stretched windows, half-covered with bars, and on the right - glass doors leading to the classrooms; the piers between the doors and windows were occupied with painted pictures from Russian history and drawings of various animals, and in the far corner a lampada flickered in front of a huge image of St. Alexander Nevsky, to which three steps upholstered in red cloth led. Around the walls of the tea room were black tables and benches; they were moved to one common table for tea and breakfast. Paintings also hung on the walls 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, just in the middle of them, hung a long row of descending lamps with lampshades and brass balls for counterweight... Tired of 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 the old men played bast shoes, others walked around embracing, still others threw stones from the ramparts into a pond green with mud, which lay about fifty paces behind the line of ramparts; the gymnasium students were not allowed to go to the pond, and in order to keep an eye on this, an uncle on duty stuck out on the rampart during the walk. All these impressions, with sharp, indelible features, sunk into Bulanin's memory. How many times later, in all the seven years of school life, had he seen those 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 stairs—and he had become so used to them that they became as if a part of himself ... But the impressions of the first day still did not die in his soul, and he could always call extremely vividly before his eyes the then appearance of all these objects - a view completely different from their present appearance, much brighter , fresh and seemingly naive. In the evening, Bulanin, along with other newcomers, was given cloudy sweet tea in a stone mug and half a French roll. But the roll turned out to be sour in taste, and the tea tasted like fish. After tea the uncle showed Bulanin his bed. The junior bedroom could not settle down for a long time. Old men in only shirts ran from bed to bed, laughter was heard, the noise of fuss, sonorous blows with the palm of their hands on their naked bodies. Only an hour later this mess began to calm down and the angry voice of the tutor, who called the rascals by their last names, ceased. When the noise completely ceased, when the deep breathing of the sleeping people was heard from everywhere, interrupted from time to time by sleepy delirium, Bulanin became inexpressibly hard. Everything that he forgot for a while, that was shrouded in new impressions - all this suddenly came to his mind with merciless clarity: home, sisters, brother, friend of children's games - the cook's nephew Savka, and, finally, this dear, close person who is today in the waiting room seemed so begging. A subtle, deep tenderness and some painful pity for his mother overwhelmed Bulanin's heart. He remembered all those times when he had been insufficiently gentle with her, disrespectful, sometimes even rude. And it seemed to him that if now, by some magic, he saw his mother, then he would be able to collect in his soul such a supply of love, gratitude and affection that it would be enough for many, many years of loneliness. In his overheated, agitated, 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 unfortunate, abandoned boy, that Bulanin, pressing his mouth tightly against the pillow, began to cry with burning, desperate tears, from which his narrow iron bed trembled, 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 the 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 offered the old men to tear off a button. He wept until sleep embraced him with its wide arms... But even in the dream, Bulanin sighed for a long time, intermittently and deeply, as very small children sigh after tears. However, he was not alone in crying that night, hiding his face in a pillow, in the dim light of hanging lamps with counter-shades.

Kuprin Alexander

At the turning point (Cadets)

Alexander Kuprin

At the turning point (Cadets)

I. First impressions. - Oldies. - Durable button.

What is buttermilk. - Cargo. - Night.

II. Dawn. - Washer. - Rooster and his speech. - Teacher of Russian language

and his oddities. - Chetukha. - Cloth. - Chicks.

III. Saturday. - Magic lantern. - Brinken is trading. - Mena.

Purchase. - Goat. - Further history of the lantern. - Vacation.

IV. The triumph of Bulanin. - Heroes of the gymnasium. - Pari. - A shoemaker boy.

Honor. - Heroes again. - Photo. - Despondency. - A few gentle

scenes. - To the sharap! - The pile is small! - Retribution. - Beggars.

V. Moral characteristic. - Pedagogy and own world

property and life. - What does it mean to be friends and share. - Forces.

Forgotten. - Desperate. - Triumvirate. - Solid. - Strong men.

VI. Fiscals. - Bulanin's letter. - Uncle Vasya. - His stories and parodies

on them. - Uncle Vasya's pancakes. - Sysoev and Kvadratulov. - CONSPIRACY.

Sysoev is being "covered". - Crows. - Fishermen. - More about the oppressed.

VII. Military high schools. - Cadets. - Finnikov. - "Ivan Ivanovich".

Trukhanov. - Ryabkov. - Days of slavery. - Disaster.

First impressions. - Oldies. - Durable button. - What is buttermilk. - Cargo. - Night.

Hey, how are you!.. Newbie... what's your last name?

Bulanin did not even suspect that this cry was for him - before that he was stunned by new impressions. He had just come from the reception room, where his mother was begging some tall, whiskered military man to be more indulgent at first with her Mishenka. “Please, don’t be too strict with him,” she said, unconsciously stroking her son’s head at the same time, “he’s so gentle with me ... so impressionable ... he doesn’t look like other boys at all.” At the same time, she had such a pitiful, begging face, completely unusual for Bulanin, and the tall military man only bowed and clinked his spurs. Apparently, he was in a hurry to leave, but, by virtue of a long-standing habit, he continued to listen with indifferent and polite patience to these outpourings of maternal solicitude ...

The two long junior recreation halls were full of people. The newcomers timidly huddled along the walls and sat on the windowsills, dressed in the most varied costumes: there were yellow, blue and red blouses-shirts, sailor jackets with gold anchors, knee-high stockings and boots with lacquered lapels, wide leather and narrow lace belts. The "old men" in gray Kalamyanka blouses, girded with belts, and the same pantaloons, immediately caught the eye with their monotonous costume and especially cheeky manners. They walked in twos and threes around the hall, embracing, twisting their frayed caps to the back of their heads; some were calling to one another across the hall, others were chasing each other screaming. Thick dust rose from the parquet rubbed with mastic. One might think that all this trampling, screaming and whistling crowd deliberately tried to stun someone with their fuss and uproar.

You're deaf, right? What is your last name, I ask you?

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 surname is Bulanin, - the newcomer answered.

I am glad. Do you have any presents, Bulanin?

It's bad, brother, that you don't have presents. Go on vacation bring it.

OK, with pleasure.

But the old man did not leave. He seemed to be bored and looking for entertainment. His attention was drawn to the large metal buttons sewn in two rows on Bulanin's jacket.

Look how clever your buttons are,” he said, touching one of them with his finger.

Oh, these are such buttons ... - Bulanin fussily delighted. - They can't be torn off. Here, try it!

The old man grabbed a button between his two dirty fingers and began to twirl it. But the button didn't budge. The jacket was sewn at home, sewn to fit, in order to dress Vasenka in it when Mishenka becomes small. And the buttons were sewn on by the mother herself with a 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, Bazoutka, - he shouted to a little blond, pink fat man running past, - look at what a healthy button the newcomer has!

Soon a fairly dense crowd formed around Bulanin, in the corner between the stove and the door. There was a queue immediately. "Chur, I'm after Bazutka!" - someone's voice shouted, and immediately the others began to shout: "And I'm after Miller! And I'm after the Platypus! And I'm after you!" - and while one was twirling a button, others were already stretching out their hands and even snapping their fingers with impatience.