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Topic: “A man has one mother, he has one motherland”
Goals:
General - to bring students to the understanding that a person,
He who betrays his homeland betrays his own mother
private - to analyze M. Gorky's fairy tale "Mother
Traitor” and “Mother’s Ballad” by L. Tatyanicheva;
Answer the questions:
Is it possible to remain a faithful son, becoming a traitor to the Motherland?
Is it possible to change the Motherland without changing the mother?
Equipment for the lesson: texts of the fairy tale "The Mother of the Traitor", "Ballads of the Mother", reproductions of paintings.
Epigraph to the lesson:
It's easier to punish your heart
It is easier with the mind to be in discord.
With maternal grief
Compare
You can only mother's grief ...L. Tatyanicheva
Lesson structure:
1. Call of interest.
2. Reading and analytical activities based on the fairy tale Mother of the Traitor.
3. Reading and analytical activity on the poem
L. Tatyanicheva "The Ballad of the Mother."
- Conclusion.
During the classes:
- Call of interest.
1. The word of the teacher.
What can be in the world more sacred than the name mothers!..
A person who has not yet taken a step on the ground and is just starting to babble, uncertainly and diligently adds up the syllables “ma-ma” and, feeling his luck, laughs, happy ...
The grain grower, blackened from sleepless work, presses to his blackened lips a handful of the same dark earth, which has given birth to both rye and wheat, and says gratefully: “Thank you, nurse-mother ...”
A soldier who stumbled upon an oncoming fragment and fell to the ground, with a weakening hand, sends the last bullet to the enemy: “For the Motherland!”
All the most precious shrines are named and illuminated by the name of the mother, because the very concept of life is connected with this name.
2 folk wisdom the word "mother" put next to another great word - "Motherland".
What proverbs about these words do you know?
Motherland is the mother of all mothers.
Mother nature is the beginning of all beginnings.
One per person own mother, he has one and his homeland
Native land is a mother, know how to stand up for her.
In the difficult years of the war, in the minds of the people, the concepts of "Motherland" and "mother" merge into one. Mothers bless their sons for the battle to save the Motherland.
Is it possible to remain a faithful son, becoming a traitor to the Motherland? Is it possible to change the Motherland without changing the mother?
We will try to answer these questions after we read one chapter from "Tales of Italy" by M. Gorky and "The Ballad of the Mother" by L. Tatyanicheva.
II. Reading and analytical activities based on M. Gorky's fairy tale "The Mother of the Traitor".
“Tales about Italy” are prefaced with the words of G.H. Andersen: “There are no fairy tales better than those that life itself creates.”
Several tales from this book are dedicated to mothers: “Glory to the mother!”, “Mother of the traitor”, “Nuncha”. All of them sing of the ever-existing and eternal feeling of motherhood.
2. Commented reading of the fairy tale "The mother of the traitor." (During the reading, a reference plan and unfamiliar words are explained).
1. City surrounded by enemies.
2. A woman wrapped in a cloak.
3. Meeting Marianne with another woman, grieving over her dead son.
4. Care of Marianne from the city.
5. Meeting with the son and trying to reason with him.
6. Retribution for betrayal.
3. Analytical conversation.
Why did Marianne become a stranger in her hometown? (Because her son is a traitor, the leader of the enemies who besieged the city).
Find and read the passage that talks about the feelings of the mother for the betrayal of her son.
Why did Marianne walk around the city only at night?
What made Marianna leave the city? (In the city they took her for death itself, they didn’t want to communicate with her, but the main thing that made her leave the city was that she was a “citizen and mother” and she didn’t want to hear more curses against her son).
How did she try to awaken in her son a feeling of love for the Motherland, her city, repentance for betrayal? (She tried to persuade him and said that this was his hometown, where "every stone knows and remembers you as a child").
Why couldn't the mother convince her son to lift the siege and stop sowing death? (The son thought of nothing but fame).
How did mother save her hometown? (She killed her son by plunging a knife into his heart - "because she knew where her son's heart was beating").
Why did she plunge the same knife into her heart? (It hurt her and was torn between love for the Motherland and her son, because the son killed, and “Mother is always against death; the hand that introduces death into people’s homes is hateful and hostile”),
III. Reading and analytical activities based on the poem by L. Tatyanicheva "The Ballad of the Mother".
- I don't want you to get the impression that a mother's sense of citizenship can only defeat the feeling of love for her child in a fairy tale.
As an epigraph to her ballad, Lyudmila Tatyanicheva took lines from newspapers of the war years: “Here is a loaded pistol. Dali faithful people. I will leave the hut, and you shoot yourself. Or kill me.” The fascist hireling did not have the courage to disobey his mother. He shot himself."
2. Reading the ballad by the teacher.
L. Tatyanicheva
BALLAD ABOUT A PARTISAN
Burgomaster's house
In the middle of the village
Like unexpected thunder
The mother came to the son.
Stood at the door
At the bottom of the dawn:
- Or kill me
A mournful look is heavy:
- Deadline to keep the answer! -
Mother put.
And the revolver lies
Rounding your eye.
Right judgment to administer
The mother took it upon herself.
What will the son decide?
At this terrible hour?
He takes a revolver
Like a beast, enraged.
He yells at his mother:
- Go away! -
Blood taste in the mouth.
Drawn by death
A line in front of him.
The mother is standing.
How carved.
And looks straight ahead
And in the eyes of reproach.
And in the eyes of the storm
The power is hidden
And more tears
Unspilled…
The ray of dawn has grown
In a red column of fire.
- Or die yourself
The son shuddered.
Like a beaten animal.
- Go away, - shouts, -
He cocked a tight trigger.
Oh, and a steep threshold!
And there was thunder
Shaking the house.
... A shaky step is not fast.
Fractional heart beat.
Partisan Forest
Noisy around.
Frost whined
Dog on a leash.
The mother cries without tears:
The tears are gone!
- Analytical conversation.
Who came to judge in the burgomaster's house? ("The right court to administer the mother herself undertook")
What do you understand by the expression "justice"? (This is a court of honor, conscience, it is not subject to anyone, because it is right.)
How did the son meet his mother? (He was furious because his mother made a demand: "Or kill me, or die yourself!")
What words characterize the state of a traitor son? (The son is "furious", "silent, like a wounded beast", "I can't live now")
What lines show that her mission is difficult for the mother? (In the eyes of the mother
“thunderstorm, power, hidden, and even an unshed tear ...”)
What means of expression does the author use to convey the power of the mother's demand? (At the beginning of the poem, when the mother came to her son’s house, the dawn was busy - “She stood at the door on the hem of the dawn”, and then her demands become categorical, and the dawn turns “into a red pillar of fire”)
How can we understand that the betrayal of a son is a terrible grief for a mother? (After the death of her son, “the mother cries without tears: the tears are frozen!”)
IV. Conclusion.
At all times, people associate the word "mother" with the word "motherland". One cannot remain a loving and devoted son without being a devoted son of one's Motherland. And you can not remain a real citizen, forgetting or betraying his own mother.
V. Creative work.
Write an essay "My attitude to the act of the mother."
You can talk about Mothers endlessly. For several weeks now the city had been surrounded by a close ring of enemies clad in iron; bonfires were lit at night, and the fire looked from the black darkness at the walls of the city with many red eyes - they glowed with malevolent joy, and this lurking burning caused gloomy thoughts in the besieged city. From the walls they saw how the enemy's noose tightened more and more tightly, how their black shadows flickered around the lights; the neighing of well-fed horses was heard, the clatter of weapons, loud laughter could be heard, the cheerful songs of people confident of victory were heard - and what is more painful to hear than the laughter and songs of the enemy? All the streams that fed the city with water were thrown by the enemies with corpses, they burned the vineyards around the walls, trampled the fields, cut down the gardens - the city was open on all sides, and almost every day the cannons and muskets of the enemies showered it with iron and lead. Detachments of soldiers, exhausted by battles, half-starved, marched sullenly along the narrow streets of the city; the groans of the wounded, the cries of delirium, the prayers of women and the crying of children poured out from the windows of the houses. They spoke subduedly, in an undertone, and, stopping each other's speech in mid-sentence, listened intently to see if the enemies were attacking? Life became especially unbearable in the evening, when in the silence groans and cries sounded clearer and more abundant, when blue-black shadows crawled out of the gorges of distant mountains and, hiding the enemy camp, moved towards the half-broken walls, and above the black teeth of the mountains the moon appeared like a lost shield. beaten with swords. Without expecting help, exhausted by toil and hunger, losing hope every day, people looked in fear at this moon, the sharp teeth of the mountains, the black mouths of the gorges and at the noisy camp of enemies - everything reminded them of death, and not a single star shone consolingly for them. They were afraid to light fires in the houses, thick darkness flooded the streets, and in this darkness, like a fish in the depths of a river, a woman silently flashed, wrapped in a black cloak with her head. When people saw her, they asked each other:
- That's her? - She!
And they hid in niches under the gates or, with their heads down, silently ran past her, and the patrol leaders warned her sternly: “Are you out on the street again, Monna Marianne?” Look, you can be killed, and no one will look for the culprit in this ... She straightened up, waited, but the patrol passed by, not daring or disdaining to raise a hand against her; armed men walked around her like a corpse, but she remained in the darkness and again quietly, alone, walked somewhere, going from street to street, mute and black, like the embodiment of the misfortunes of the city, and all around, pursuing her, sad sounds crept plaintively: groans , crying, prayers and gloomy talk of soldiers who have lost hope of victory. A citizen and mother, she thought about her son and homeland: at the head of the people who destroyed the city was her son, a cheerful and ruthless handsome man; until recently she looked at him with pride, as at her precious gift to her homeland, as at good power, born by her to help the people of the city - the nest where she was born herself, gave birth and nursed him. Hundreds of unbreakable threads connected her heart with ancient stones, from which her ancestors built houses and laid the walls of the city, with the earth where the bones of her blood lay, with legends, songs and hopes of people - she lost the heart of the mother of the person closest to him and cried: it was like scales, but, weighing the love for his son and the city, he could not understand - what is easier, what is harder. So she walked the streets at night, and many, not recognizing her, were frightened, took the black figure for the personification of death, close to everyone, and recognizing, they silently moved away from the mother of the traitor. But one day, in a deaf corner, near the city wall, she saw another woman: kneeling beside a corpse, motionless, like a piece of earth, she prayed, raising her mournful face to the stars, and on the wall, above her head, watchmen were quietly talking and gnashing weapons, brushing against the stones of the prongs. The traitor's mother asked: "Husband?" - No. - Brother? - Son. The husband was killed thirteen days ago, and this one is today. And, rising from her knees, the mother of the murdered man meekly said: “Madonna sees everything, knows everything, and I thank her!” - For what? - the first one asked, and she answered her: - Now that he honestly died fighting for his homeland, I can say that he aroused fear in me: frivolous, he loved a fun life too much, and it was fearful that for this he would betray the city , as did the son of Marianna, the enemy of God and people, the leader of our enemies, curse him, and curse the womb that carried him! .. Covering her face, Marianna walked away, and in the morning the next day she appeared to the defenders of the city and said: Either kill me because my son has become your enemy, or open the gates for me, I will go to him... They answered: - You are a man, and the homeland should be dear to you; your son is as much an enemy to you as he is to each of us. - I am a mother, I love him and consider myself guilty of the fact that he is what he has become. Then they began to consult what to do with her, and decided: - By honor - we cannot kill you for the sin of your son, we know that you could not inspire him with this terrible sin, and we guess how you must suffer. But the city does not need you even as a hostage - your son does not care about you, we think that he has forgotten you, the devil, and - here is your punishment if you find that you deserve it! It seems to us worse than death!
- Yes! - she said. - This is scarier.
They opened the gates in front of her, let her out of the city and watched for a long time from the wall as she walked along native land, densely saturated with the blood spilled by her son: she walked slowly, with great difficulty tearing her legs off this earth, bowing to the corpses of the defenders of the city, disgustedly pushing away broken weapons with her foot - mothers hate the weapon of attack, recognizing only that which protects life. She seemed to be carrying in her hands under a cloak a bowl full of moisture, and was afraid to spill it; moving away, it became smaller and smaller, and those who looked at it from the wall, it seemed as if despondency and hopelessness were moving away from them along with it. They saw how she stopped halfway and, throwing off the hood of her cloak, looked at the city for a long time, and there, in the camp of the enemies, they noticed her, alone in the middle of the field, and, slowly, carefully, black figures like her approached her. . They came up and asked who she was, where is going? “Your leader is my son,” she said, and not one of the soldiers doubted it. They walked beside her, speaking in praise of how smart and brave her son was, she listened to them, proudly raising her head, and was not surprised - her son should be like that! And here she is before the man whom she knew nine months before his birth, before the one whom she never felt outside her heart - in silk and velvet he is before her, and his weapon is in precious stones . Everything is as it should be; this is how she saw him many times in her dreams - rich, famous and loved. — Mother! he said, kissing her hands. - You came to me, so you understood me, and tomorrow I will take this damned city! “Where you were born,” she reminded him. Intoxicated by his exploits, maddened by the thirst for even greater glory, he told her with the impudent ardor of youth: - I was born in the world and for the world, to amaze him with surprise! I spared this city for your sake - it is like a thorn in my foot and prevents me from advancing to glory as quickly as I want it. But now - tomorrow - I will destroy the nest of stubborn ones! “Where every stone knows and remembers you as a child,” she said. “Stones are dumb unless a man makes them speak—let the mountains speak of me, that’s what I want!” But people? she asked. — Oh, yes, I remember them, mother! And I need them, because only in the memory of people are heroes immortal! She said: “A hero is one who creates life in spite of death, who conquers death...” “No! he objected. “The one who destroys is as glorious as the one who builds cities. Look - we do not know whether Aeneas or Romulus built Rome, but - the name of Alaric and other heroes who destroyed this city is known for sure. “Who survived all the names,” reminded the mother. So he spoke to her until sunset, she interrupted his crazy speeches less and less, and her proud head sank lower and lower. Mother creates, she protects, and talking about destruction in front of her means talking against her, but he did not know this and denied the meaning of her life. Mother is always against death; the hand that brings death into people's dwellings is hateful and hostile to Mothers - her son did not see this, blinded by the cold glare of glory that kills the heart. And he did not know that the Mother is a beast as smart, ruthless as fearless, when it comes to the life that she, the Mother, creates and protects. She sat bent over, and through the open cloth of the leader's rich tent she could see the city, where she first experienced the sweet trembling of conception and the painful convulsions of the birth of a child who now wants to destroy. The crimson rays of the sun poured blood over the walls and towers of the city, the windows of the windows gleamed ominously, the whole city seemed wounded, and through hundreds of wounds the red juice of life poured; time passed, and now the city began to turn black, like a corpse, and, like funeral candles, the stars lit up above it. She saw there, in the dark houses, where they were afraid to light a fire, so as not to attract the attention of enemies, in the streets full of darkness, the smell of corpses, the suppressed whispers of people awaiting death - she saw everything and everyone; familiar and dear stood close before her, silently awaiting her decision, and she felt like a mother to all the people of her city. Clouds were descending from the black peaks of the mountains into the valley and, as if winged horses, flew to the city, doomed to death. “Perhaps we will attack him at night,” her son said, “if the night is dark enough!” It is inconvenient to kill when the sun looks into the eyes and the glare of the weapon blinds them - there are always many wrong blows, ”he said, examining his sword. His mother told him: “Come here, lay your head on my chest, rest, remembering how cheerful and kind you were as a child and how everyone loved you ... He obeyed, lay down on her knees and closed his eyes, saying: “I love only glory and you, for the fact that you gave birth to me the way I am. - What about women? she asked, leaning over him. - There are a lot of them, they quickly get bored, like everything is too sweet. She asked him to last time: And you don't want to have children? - For what? To kill them? Someone like me will kill them, and it will hurt me, and then I will be old and weak to avenge them.
“You are beautiful, but barren as lightning,” she said with a sigh. He replied smiling: Yes, like lightning...
And dozed off on his mother's chest, like a child. Then she, covering him with her black cloak, stuck a knife into his heart, and he, shuddering, immediately died - after all, she knew very well where her son's heart was beating. And, throwing his corpse from her knees at the feet of the astonished guards, she said towards the city: - Man - I did everything I could for the motherland; Mother - I stay with my son! It's too late for me to give birth to another, nobody needs my life. And the same knife, still warm from his blood - her blood - she plunged with a firm hand into her chest and also correctly hit the heart - if it hurts, it is easy to hit it.
- students will think about the role of a mother in a person's life, reading M. Gorky's story "The Mother of the Traitor" (XI from "Tales of Italy");
- students will develop the ability to analyze the text, highlight the main problem;
- students will learn the culture of communication, perceiving correctly any opinion.
I, the servant of God Timur, say what follows! Here is a woman sitting in front of me, what darkness, and she aroused in my soul feelings unknown to me. She speaks to me as an equal, and she does not ask, but demands. And I see, I understood why this woman is so strong - she loves, and love helped her to know that her child is a spark of life, from which a flame can flare up for many centuries. Weren't all prophets children and heroes weak? Oh, Dzhigangir, the fire of my eyes, maybe you were destined to warm the earth, sow it with happiness - I watered it well with blood, and it became fat!
Again the scourge of the peoples thought for a long time and finally said:
- I, the servant of God Timur, say what follows! Three hundred horsemen will immediately go to all the ends of my land, and let them find the son of this woman, and she will wait here, and I will wait with her, the same one who returns with a child on the saddle of his horse, he will be happy - says Timur! So, woman?
She brushed her black hair back from her face, smiled at him, and replied with a nod of her head:
Yes, king!
Then this terrible old man stood up and silently bowed to her, and the cheerful poet Kermani spoke, like a child, with great joy:
What is more beautiful than songs about flowers and stars?
Everyone will immediately say: songs about love!
What is more beautiful than the sun on a clear May afternoon?
And the lover will say: the one I love!
Oh, the stars in the midnight sky are beautiful - I know!
And the sun is beautiful on a clear summer afternoon - I know!
The eyes of my dear of all colors are more beautiful - I know!
And her smile is sweeter than the sun - I know!
But the most beautiful song of all has not yet been sung,
A song about the beginning of all beginnings in the world,
Song about the heart of the world, about the magic heart
The one whom we, people, call Mother!
And Timur-leng said to his poet:
Yes, Kermani! God was not mistaken in choosing your mouth to proclaim his wisdom!
- E! God himself is a good poet! said the drunken Kermani.
And the woman smiled, and all the kings and princes, military leaders and all other children smiled, looking at her - Mother!
All this is true; all the words here are true, our mothers know about it, ask them and they will say:
- Yes, all this is the eternal truth, we - stronger than death, we who continuously give the world sages, poets and heroes, we who sow in it everything for which it is glorious!
You can talk about Mothers endlessly.
For several weeks the city had been surrounded by a close ring of enemies clad in iron; bonfires were lit at night, and the fire looked from the black darkness at the walls of the city with many red eyes - they glowed with malevolence, and this burning burning evoked gloomy thoughts in the besieged city.
From the walls they saw how the enemy's noose tightened more and more tightly, how their black shadows flickered around the lights; the neighing of well-fed horses was heard, the clanging of weapons, loud laughter, cheerful songs of people confident of victory were heard - and what is more painful to hear than the laughter and songs of the enemy?
All the streams that fed the city with water were thrown by the enemies with corpses, they burned the vineyards around the walls, trampled the fields, cut down the gardens - the city was open on all sides, and almost every day the cannons and muskets of the enemies showered it with iron and lead.
Detachments of soldiers, exhausted by battles, half-starved, marched sullenly along the narrow streets of the city; the groans of the wounded, the cries of delirium, the prayers of women and the crying of children poured out from the windows of the houses. They spoke subduedly, in an undertone, and, stopping each other's speech in mid-sentence, listened intently - were the enemies going to attack?
Life became especially unbearable in the evening, when in the silence groans and cries sounded clearer and more abundant, when blue-black shadows crawled out of the gorges of distant mountains and, hiding the enemy camp, moved towards the half-broken walls, and above the black teeth of the mountains the moon appeared like a lost shield. beaten with swords.
Not expecting help, exhausted by toil and hunger, losing hope every day, people looked in fear at this moon, the sharp teeth of the mountains, the black mouths of the gorges and the noisy camp of enemies - everything reminded them of death, and not a single star shone consolingly for them.
They were afraid to light fires in the houses, thick darkness flooded the streets, and in this darkness, like a fish in the depths of a river, a woman silently flashed, wrapped in a black cloak with her head.
When people saw her, they asked each other:
- That's her?
And they hid in niches under the gates, or, with their heads down, silently ran past her, and the chiefs of patrols sternly warned her:
“Are you out on the street again, Monna Marianne?” Look, you can be killed, and no one will look for the culprit in this ...
She straightened up, waited, but the patrol passed by, not daring or disdaining to raise a hand against her; armed men walked around her like a corpse, but she remained in the darkness and again quietly, alone, walked somewhere, going from street to street, mute and black, like the embodiment of the misfortunes of the city, and all around, pursuing her, sad sounds crept plaintively: groans , crying, prayers and gloomy talk of soldiers who have lost hope of victory.
A citizen and mother, she thought about her son and homeland: at the head of the people who destroyed the city was her son, a cheerful and ruthless handsome man; until recently, she looked at him with pride, as at her precious gift to her homeland, as at a good force born by her to help the people of the city - the nest where she herself was born, gave birth and brought him up. Hundreds of unbreakable threads connected her heart with ancient stones, from which her ancestors built houses and laid the walls of the city, with the earth where the bones of her blood lay, with legends, songs and hopes of people - she lost the heart of the mother of the person closest to him and cried: it was like scales, but, weighing the love for his son and the city, he could not understand - what is easier, what is harder.
So she walked the streets at night, and many, not recognizing her, were frightened, mistaking the black figure for the personification of death, close to everyone, and recognizing, they silently moved away from the mother of the traitor.
But one day, in a deaf corner, near the city wall, she saw another woman: kneeling beside a corpse, motionless, like a piece of earth, she prayed, raising her mournful face to the stars, and on the wall, above her head, watchmen were quietly talking and gnashing weapons, brushing against the stones of the prongs.
The traitor's mother asked:
- Son. The husband was killed thirteen days ago, and this one is today.
And, rising from her knees, the mother of the dead man meekly said:
– Madonna sees everything, knows everything, and I thank her!
- For what? the first one asked, and she answered her:
“Now that he honestly died fighting for his homeland, I can say that he aroused fear in me: frivolous, he loved a cheerful life too much, and it was fearful that for this he would betray the city, as did the son of Marianne, the enemy of God and people, the leader of our enemies, cursed be he, and cursed be the womb that bore him! ..
Covering her face, Marianna walked away, and in the morning the next day she appeared to the defenders of the city and said:
“Either kill me because my son has become your enemy, or open the gate for me, I will go to him…
They have replyed:
- You are a person, and the homeland should be dear to you; your son is as much an enemy to you as he is to each of us.
- I am a mother, I love him and consider myself guilty of the fact that he is what he has become.
Then they began to consult what to do with her, and decided:
- By honor - we cannot kill you for the sin of your son, we know that you could not inspire him with this terrible sin, and we can guess how you must suffer. But the city does not need you even as a hostage - your son does not care about you, we think that he has forgotten you, the devil, and - here is your punishment if you find that you deserve it! It seems to us more terrible than death!
"A hero is the one who creates life in spite of death..." (according to M. Gorky's story "Mother of the Traitor")
Methods: five lines - characteristics (syncwines), directed reading, double entry diary, essay. (The class is divided into 4 groups of 5-6 people..
Equipment: printouts of text for each student, presentation, sheets, markers.
During the classes
I. Stimulation of interest in learning.
Every day you are escorted to classes, the same person takes care of you - your mother. Everyone can talk about mom endlessly. The story of M. Gorky, which is included in the cycle of stories “Tales of Italy” under number XI, begins with a similar phrase. We will read the story, but not to the end. The ending is up to you to write.
1A. Reading a story. (Up to 6 parts).
Exercise: - Try to write the ending of this piece.
(They write for 5 minutes, then read, the options are posted on the board).
There is a discussion.
II. Implementation of the doctrine. Tasks for the 1st part.
You can talk about Mothers endlessly.
For several weeks now the city had been surrounded by a close ring of enemies clad in iron; bonfires were lit at night, and the fire looked from the black darkness at the walls of the city with many red eyes - they glowed maliciously, and this burning burning evoked gloomy thoughts in the besieged city. From the walls they saw how the enemy's noose tightened more and more tightly, how their black shadows flickered around the lights; the neighing of well-fed horses was heard, the clanging of weapons, loud laughter was heard, cheerful songs of people confident of victory were heard - and what is more painful to hear than the laughter and songs of the enemy?
All the streams that fed the city with water were thrown by the enemies with corpses, they burned the vineyards around the walls, trampled the fields, cut down the gardens - the city was open on all sides, and almost every day the cannons and muskets of the enemies showered it with iron and lead. Detachments of soldiers, exhausted by battles, half-starved, marched sullenly along the narrow streets of the city; the groans of the wounded, the cries of delirium, the prayers of women and the crying of children poured out from the windows of the houses. They talked depressedly, in an undertone, and, stopping each other's speech in mid-sentence, listened intently - were the enemies going to attack? “...” Not expecting help, exhausted by labor and hunger, people lost hope every day. They were afraid to light fires in the houses, thick darkness flooded the streets, and inIn this darkness, like a fish in the depths of a river, a woman silently flickered, her head wrapped in a black cloak. When people saw her, they asked each other:
That's her?
She! - and hid in niches under the gates or, with lowered heads, silently ran past her, and the chiefs of patrols sternly warned her: “Are you out on the street again, Monna Marianne? Look, you can be killed, and no one will look for the culprit...”. She straightened up, waited, but the patrol passed by, not daring or disdaining to raise a hand against her; armed men walked around her like a corpse, but she remained in the darkness and again quietly, alone, walked somewhere, from street to street, mute and black, like the embodiment of the misfortunes of the city, and all around, pursuing her, mournful sounds crawled: groans, weeping, prayers and gloomy talk of soldiers who have lost hope of victory.
What is the title of part 1? (Unbearable life in the ring of enemies.)
Make up the characteristics - five lines according to the text of Part I by groups:
What questions arise when reading the 1st part?
(What is this woman who is known and shunned by all the people of the besieged city?)
Reading the 2nd part.
A citizen and mother, she thought about her son and homeland: at the head of the people who destroyed the city was her son, a cheerful and ruthless handsome man; until recently, she looked at him with pride, as at her precious gift to her homeland, as at a good force born by her to help the people of the city - the nest where she herself was born, gave birth and nursed him. Hundreds of unbreakable threads connected her heart with ancient stones, of which her ancestors built houses and laid the walls of the city, with the land where the bones of her blood lay, with legends, songs and hopes of people - the mother of the person closest to him lost the heart and cried: it was like scales, but, weighing love for her son and city , could not understand - what is easier, what is harder.
So she walked the streets at night, and many, not recognizing her, were frightened, mistaking the black figure for the personification of death, close to everyone, and recognizing, they silently moved away from the mother of the traitor.
But one day, in a deaf corner, near the city wall, she saw another woman: kneeling beside the corpse, motionless, like a piece of earth, she prayed, raising her mournful face to the stars. The traitor's mother asked:
- Husband?
- No.
- Brother?
- Son. The husband was killed thirteen days ago, and this one is today, - and, rising from her knees, the mother of the murdered man meekly said:
– Madonna sees everything, knows everything, and I thank her!
- For what? the first one asked, and she answered her:
- Now that he honestly died fighting for his homeland, I can say that he aroused fear in me: frivolous, he loved too much happy life, and it was fearful that for this he would betray the city, as did the son of Marianne, the enemy of God and people, the leader of our enemies, damn him, damn the womb that carried him! ..
Covering her face, Marianne walked away, and in the morning...
What is the name of this part? Write for the name any phrase suitable for the name. (The heart of a mother is like a scale; the mother of a traitor is like the personification of death.)
- What do you think, what can happen after that, because it ends with the word “and in the morning ...”?
Reading the 3rd part.
The next day, the mother appeared to the defenders of the city and said:
- Either kill me because my son became your enemy, or open the gate for me, I will go to him ...
They have replyed:
- You are a person, and the homeland should be dear to you; your son is as much an enemy to you as he is to each of us.
- I am a mother, I love him and consider myself guilty that he is what he has become.
Then they began to consult what to do with her, and decided:
- By honor - we cannot kill you for the sin of your son, we know that you could not inspire him with this terrible sin, and we can guess how you must suffer. But the city does not need you even as a hostage - your son does not care about you, we think he has forgotten you, the devil - and - here is your punishment if you think you deserve it! It seems to us more terrible than death!
- Yes! - she said. - It's scarier!
They opened the gates in front of her, let her out of the city and watched for a long time from the wall as she walked along her native land, thickly saturated with the blood spilled by her son: she walked slowly, with great difficulty tearing her legs off this land, bowing to the corpses of the defenders of the city, disgustedly pushing away a broken weapon with their foot, mothers hate the weapon of attack, recognizing only that which protects life.
She seemed to be carrying in her hands under a cloak a bowl full of moisture, and was afraid to spill it; moving away, she became smaller and smaller, and those who looked at her from the wall, it seemed as if despondency and hopelessness were moving away from them along with her. They saw how she stopped halfway and, throwing off the hood of her cloak, looked at the city for a long time, and there, in the camp of the enemies, they noticed her, alone in the middle of the field, and, slowly, carefully, black figures like her approached her. .
What would you call this part? (Punishment is worse than death; Mothers recognize only weapons that protect life; hard road to son.)
Reading the 4th part.
They approached and asked - who is she, where is she going?
“Your leader is my son,” she said, and not one of the soldiers doubted it. They walked beside her, speaking in praise of how smart and brave her son was. She listened to them, proudly raising her head, and was not surprised - her son should be like that!
And here she is in front of a man whom she knew nine months before his birth, in front of one whom she never felt outside her heart - he is in silk and velvet before her, and his weapon is in precious ones. Everything is as it should be; this is how she saw him many times in her dreams - rich, famous and loved.
- Mother! he said, kissing her hands. - You came to me, so you understood me, and tomorrow I will take this damned city!
“Where you were born,” she reminded him.
Intoxicated by his exploits, maddened by the thirst for even greater glory, he spoke to her with the impudent ardor of youth:
-I was born in the world and for the world, to amaze him with surprise! I spared this city for your sake - it is like a thorn in my foot and prevents me from progressing to glory as quickly as I want it. But now - tomorrow - I will destroy the nest of stubborn!
Where every stone knows and remembers you as a child,” she said.
Stones are dumb unless a man makes them speak - let the mountains speak of me, that's what I want!
But - people? she asked.
Oh yes, I remember them, mother! And I need them, because only in the memory of people are heroes immortal! She said:
A hero is one who creates life in spite of death, who conquers death...
No! he objected. He who destroys is as glorious as he who builds cities. Look - we do not know whether Aeneas or Romulus built Rome, but the name of Alaric and other heroes who destroyed this city is known for sure.
Who survived all the names, reminded the mother.
So he spoke to her until sunset, she interrupted his crazy speeches less and less, and her proud head sank lower and lower.
Mother creates, she protects, and to speak about destruction in front of her means to speak against her, but he did not know this and denied the meaning of her life.
Mother is always against death; the hand that brings death into people's dwellings is hateful and hostile to Mothers - her son did not see this, blinded by the cold glare of glory that kills the heart. And he did not know that the Mother is an animal as smart, ruthless as fearless, when it comes to the life that she, the Mother, creates and protects.
She sat bent over, and through the open canvas of the leader’s rich tent she could see the city, where she first experienced the sweet trembling of conception and the painful convulsions of the birth of a child who now wants to destroy.
The crimson rays of the sun poured blood over the walls and towers of the city, the glass of the windows shone ominously, the whole city seemed wounded, and through hundreds of wounds the red juice of life poured; time passed, and now the city began to turn black, like a corpse, and, like funeral candles, the stars lit up above it.
She saw them in dark houses, where they were afraid to light a fire so as not to attract the attention of enemies, in streets full of darkness, the smell of corpses, the suppressed whispers of people awaiting death - she saw everything and everyone; familiar and dear stood close before her, silently awaiting her decision, and she felt herself a mother to all the people of her city. From the black peaks of the mountains, clouds descended into the valley and, like winged horses, flew to the city, doomed to death.
“Perhaps we will fall upon him in the night,” her son said, if the night was dark enough! It is inconvenient to kill when the sun looks into the eyes and the glare of the weapon blinds them - there are always many wrong blows, - he said, examining his sword. The mother told him:
- Come here, lay your head on my chest, rest, remembering how cheerful and kind you were as a child and how everyone loved you ...
He obeyed, lay down on his knees beside her and closed his eyes, saying:
I love only glory and you, because you gave birth to me the way I am.
What about women? she asked, leaning over him.
There are a lot of them, they quickly get bored, like everything is too sweet. She asked him for the last time:
And you don't want to have kids?
For what? To kill them? Someone like me will kill them, and it will hurt me, and then I will be old and weak to avenge them.
You are beautiful, but sterile as lightning,” she said with a sigh.
- Yes, like lightning ... - he answered, smiling, and dozed off on his mother's chest, like a child.
What were you thinking while reading this part of the text? What did you experience?
What would you call this part? (The cold glare of glory that kills the heart.)
Describe the woman's son and the city that is about to be destroyed:
What do you think a mother will do to protect her from her own son favorite city? (Students talk about the possible actions of the mother.)
Why does a mother need her son to calm down and fall asleep? What do you think about it?
Reading the 5th part.
Then she, covering him with her black cloak, stuck a knife in his heart, and he, shuddering, immediately died - after all, she knew well where her son's heart was beating. And, throwing the corpse from her knees at the feet of the astonished guard, she said towards the city:
- Man - I did everything I could for the motherland; Mother - I stay with my son! It's too late for me to give birth to another, nobody needs my life.
And the same knife, still warm from his blood - her blood - she plunged with a firm hand into her chest and also correctly hit the heart - if it hurts, it is easy to hit it.
What impression did this story make on you?
III. Reflection.
What is the name of this story?
Write a cinquain on the topic "Mom", "Life" or
Essay "What is the meaning of human life?"
Students write 5-10 minutes, read each other's essays.
One of the students, selected from the group, reads out his work in front of the "Author's chair" class.
What is the meaning of human life?
Why does a person live? Very often, life is compared to a road that must be passed with dignity from beginning to end, from birth to death. There are stations at different times on this road: childhood, adolescence, youth, adulthood, old age. How to go this way? What is its ultimate goal? What do you need to be so that people remember kind word? Probably the greatest purpose of life is to benefit people, near and far, to increase the good in those around us. And goodness is above all the happiness of all people. It is made up of many things, and every time life sets a task for a person that needs to be able to solve.
M. Gorky wrote about the suffering of the mother who raised her son - a traitor in the story "The Mother of the Traitor". The mother “creates and protects life”, dreams of the glory and well-being of her son. The woman feels guilty that she raised a hard-hearted proud man who wants to destroy his native city. Unable to reason, convince, stop her son, the mother kills him first, and then herself. This double kill gives life hometown, convinces enemies of the senselessness of destruction, restores good name mother protecting LIFE.
So, the path to good - this is the meaning of human life. To be true to your family, friends, city, country, people - walk this path with dignity.
Thanks to everyone for their frankness, we will continue talking about the work of M. Gorky in the next lesson, to which you are invited to readstory "Old Woman Izergil" - Homework.
Fifteen thousand round tents are spread out in the valley in a wide fan, all of them are like tulips, and above each, hundreds of silk flags flutter like fresh flowers.
And in the middle of them - the tent of Gurugan-Timur - like a queen among her friends. It is about four corners, a hundred steps on the sides, three spears in height, its middle is on twelve golden columns the thickness of a man, on top of its blue dome, it is all of black, yellow, blue stripes of silk, five hundred red cords attached it to the ground so that it does not rise into the sky, four silver eagles are at its corners, and under the dome, in the middle of the tent, on a dais, is the fifth, invincible Timur-Gurugan himself, the king of kings.
Maksim Gorky
THE LEGEND ABOUT THE MOTHER AND TIMUR
From the cycle "Tales of Italy"
Let's glorify the woman - Mother, inexhaustible source all-conquering life!
Here we will talk about the iron Timur-lenge, the lame leopard, about Sahib-i-Kirani - a happy conqueror, about Tamerlane, as the infidels called him, about a man who wanted to destroy the whole world.
For fifty years he walked the earth, his iron foot crushed cities and states, like an elephant's foot anthills, red rivers of blood flowed from his paths in all directions; he built tall towers from the bones of conquered peoples; he destroyed life, arguing in his strength with Death, he took revenge on her for taking his son Dzhigangir; scary man- he wanted to take away all the sacrifices from her - may she die of hunger and longing!
From the day his son Dzhigangir died and the people of Samarkand met the victor of the evil jetts dressed in black and blue, sprinkling dust and ashes on their heads, from that day until the hour of the meeting with Death in Otrar, where she overcame him, - thirty years Timur he never smiled - so he lived, closing his lips, bowing his head to no one, and his heart was closed to compassion for thirty years!
Let us glorify in the world a woman - Mother, a single force before which Death obediently bows! Here the truth will be told about the Mother, about how the servant and slave of Death, the iron Tamerlane, the bloody scourge of the earth, bowed before her.
This is how it was: Timur-bek was feasting in the beautiful valley of Kanigul, covered with clouds of roses and jasmine, in the valley, which the poets of Samarkand called "Love of Flowers" and from where you can see the blue minarets of the great city, the blue domes of mosques.
Fifteen thousand round tents are spread out in the valley in a wide fan, all of them are like tulips, and above each, hundreds of silk flags flutter like fresh flowers.
And in the middle of them - the tent of Gurugan-Timur - like a queen among her friends. It is about four corners, a hundred steps on the sides, three spears in height, its middle is on twelve golden columns the thickness of a man, on top of its blue dome, it is all of black, yellow, blue stripes of silk, five hundred red cords attached it to the ground so that it does not rise into the sky, four silver eagles are at its corners, and under the dome, in the middle of the tent, on a dais, is the fifth, invincible Timur-Gurugan himself, the king of kings.
He is wearing a wide robe of sky-colored silk, it is showered with grains of pearls - no more than five thousand large grains, yes! On his gray head white hat with a ruby on a sharp top, and sways, sways - this bloody eye sparkles, looking around the world ...
On the ground, on carpets that no longer exist, there are three hundred golden jugs of wine and everything that is needed for the feast of kings, musicians sit behind Timur, next to him - no one, at his feet - his blood, kings and princes, and chiefs of troops , and closest to him is the drunken Kermani-poet, the one who once, to the question of the destroyer of the world:
Kermani! How much would you give for me if I was being sold? - answered the sower of death and horror:
- Twenty-five askers.
- But this is the price of only my belt! Timur exclaimed in surprise.
- I only think about the belt, - answered Kermani, - only about the belt, because you yourself are not worth a penny!
This is how the poet Kermani spoke to the king of kings, a man of evil and horror, and may the glory of the poet, the friend of truth, be for us forever higher than the glory of Timur.
Let us glorify the poets who have one god - a beautifully spoken, fearless word of truth, that's who god is for them - forever!
And now, in the hour of fun, revelry, proud memories of battles and victories, in the noise of music and folk games in front of the king’s tent, where countless colorful jesters jumped, strongmen fought, rope dancers bent, making them think that there were no bones in their bodies, competing in the dexterity to kill, warriors fenced and there was a performance with elephants, which were painted red and green colors, making this some - terrible and funny - others, - at this hour of joy for Timur's people, drunk from fear of him, from pride in his glory, from fatigue of victories, and wine, and koumiss, - at this crazy hour, suddenly, through the noise Like lightning through a cloud, the cry of a woman, the proud cry of an eagle, flew to the ears of the victorious Bayazet Sultan, a sound familiar and akin to his offended soul - offended by Death and therefore cruel to people and life.
He ordered to find out who was screaming there with a voice without joy, and they told him that some woman had appeared, she was covered in dust and tatters, she seemed crazy, spoke Arabic and demanded - she demanded! - to see him, the ruler of the three countries of the world.
Bring her! - said the king.
And there was a woman in front of him - barefoot, in shreds of clothes faded in the sun, her black hair was loose to cover bare chest, her face is like bronze, and her eyes are imperious, and the dark hand extended to Timur did not tremble.
Did you defeat Sultan Bayazet? she asked.
- Yes I. I have defeated many and him, and I am not yet tired of victories. What do you say about yourself, woman?
- Listen! - she said. - Whatever you do, you are only a person, and I am Mother! You serve death, I serve life. You are guilty before me, and now I have come to demand that you atone for your guilt - they told me that your motto is "Strength is in justice" - I do not believe this, but you must be fair to me, because I am Mother !
The king was wise enough to feel the power of their bold words, he said:
- Sit down and talk, I want to listen to you!
She sat down - as she found it convenient - in a close circle of kings, on a carpet, and this is what she said:
- I'm from near Salerno, it's far away, in Italy, you don't know where! My father is a fisherman, my husband is also, he was handsome as happy man- It was I who gave him happiness! And I also had a son - the most beautiful boy on earth ...
“Like my Jigangir,” the old warrior said quietly.
- The most beautiful and smart boy is my son! He was already six years old when Saracen pirates came ashore to us, they killed my father, husband and many more, and kidnapped the boy, and now I have been looking for him on earth for four years. Now you have it, I know it, because Bayazet's soldiers captured the pirates, and you defeated Bayazet and took everything from him, you must know where my son is, you must give him to me!
Everyone laughed, and then the kings said - they always consider themselves wise!
- She is insane! - said the kings and friends of Timur, his princes and commanders, and everyone laughed.
Only Kermani looked at the woman seriously, and with great surprise Tamerlane.
- She is mad as a Mother! - quietly said the drunken poet Kermani; and the king, the enemy of the world, said:
- Woman! How did you come from this country, unknown to me, through the seas, rivers and mountains, through the forests? Why did animals and people - who are often more evil than the worst animals - not touch you, because you walked, even without weapons, the only friend of the defenseless, who does not betray them, as long as they have strength in their hands? I need to know all this in order to believe you and so that surprise before you does not prevent me from understanding you!
Let us glorify the woman - Mother, whose love knows no barriers, whose breast fed the whole world! Everything beautiful in a person - from the rays of the sun and from Mother's milk - that's what saturates us with love for life!
She said to Timur-Gurugan:
- I met only one sea, there were many islands and fishing boats on it, but if you are looking for your favorite, a fair wind blows. Rivers are easy to cross for those who were born and raised on the seashore. Mountains? I didn't see mountains.
Drunk Kermani said cheerfully:
- A mountain becomes a valley when you love!
- There were forests along the road, yes, it was! Boars, bears, lynxes and terrible bulls met, with their heads lowered to the ground, and leopards looked at me twice, with eyes like yours. But after all, every animal has a heart, I spoke to them, as to you, they believed that I was Mother, and they left, sighing, - they felt sorry for me! Don't you know that animals also love children and know how to fight for their life and freedom no worse than people?
Yes, woman! Timur said. - And often - I know - they love more, fight harder than people!
“People,” she continued, like a child, for every Mother is a hundred times a child in her soul, “people are always the children of their mothers,” she said, “after all, everyone has a Mother, every one of someone’s son, even you , old man, you know this - a woman gave birth, you can refuse God, but you will not refuse this, old man!
Yes, woman! exclaimed Kermani, the fearless poet. - So, - from a gathering of bulls - there will be no calves, without the sun flowers do not bloom, without love there is no happiness, without a woman there is no love, without a Mother - there is neither a poet nor a hero!
And the woman said:
- Give me my child, because I am a Mother and I love him!
Let's bow to the woman - she gave birth to Moses, Mohammed and the great prophet Jesus, who was put to death by the evil ones, but - as Sherifeddin said - he will rise again and come to judge the living and the dead, it will be in Damascus, in Damascus!
Let us worship the One who tirelessly gives birth to the great! Aristotle is Her son, and Firdusi, and sweet as honey, Saadi, and Omar Khayyam, like wine mixed with poison, Iskander and blind Homer are all Her children, they all drank Her milk, and She brought everyone into the world by the hand when they were no taller than a tulip - all the pride of the world - from Mothers!
And then the gray-haired destroyer of cities, the lame tiger Timur-Gurugan, thought, and was silent for a long time, and then said to everyone:
- Men tangri cooli Timur! I, the servant of God Timur, say what follows! Here - I have lived, for many years now, the earth is groaning under me, and for thirty years I have been destroying the harvest of death with this hand - in order to destroy it in order to avenge my son Dzhigangir, because she extinguished the sun of my heart! They fought with me for kingdoms and cities, but - no one, ever - for a man, and a man had no price in my eyes, and I did not know who he was and why on my way? It was I, Timur, who said to Bayazet, having defeated him: “O Bayazet, as you can see, states and people are nothing before God, look - he gives them to the power of people like us: you are crooked, I am lame!” So I said to him when they brought him to me in chains and he could not stand under their weight, so I said, looking at him in misfortune, and I felt life as bitter as wormwood, the grass of the ruins!
I, the servant of God Timur, say what follows! Here is a woman sitting in front of me, what darkness, and she aroused in my soul feelings unknown to me. She speaks to me as an equal, and she does not ask, but demands. And I see, I understood why this woman is so strong - she loves, and love helped her to know that her child is a spark of life, from which a flame can flare up for many centuries. Weren't all prophets children and heroes weak? Oh, Dzhigangir, the fire of my eyes, maybe you were destined to warm the earth, sow it with happiness - I watered it well with blood, and it became fat!
Again the scourge of the peoples thought for a long time and finally said:
I, the servant of God Timur, say what follows! Three hundred horsemen will immediately go to all the ends of my land, and let them find the son of this woman, and she will wait here, and I will wait with her, the same one who returns with a child on the saddle of his horse, he will be happy - says Timur! So, woman?
She brushed her black hair back from her face, smiled at him, and replied with a nod of her head:
Yes, king!
Then this terrible old man stood up and silently bowed to her, and the cheerful poet Kermani spoke, like a child, with great joy:
What is more beautiful than songs about flowers and stars?
Everyone will immediately say: songs about love!
What is more beautiful than the sun on a clear May afternoon?
And the lover will say: the one I love!
Oh, the stars in the midnight sky are beautiful - I know!
And the sun is beautiful on a clear summer afternoon - I know!
The eyes of my dear of all colors are more beautiful - I know!
And her smile is sweeter than the sun - I know!
But the most beautiful song of all has not yet been sung,
A song about the beginning of all beginnings in the world,
Song about the heart of the world, about the magic heart
The one whom we, people, call Mother!
And Timur-bek said to his poet:
Yes, Kermani! God was not mistaken in choosing your mouth to proclaim his wisdom!
- E! God himself is a good poet! - said the drunken Kermani.
And the woman smiled, and all the kings and princes, military leaders and all other children smiled, looking at her - Mother!
All this is true; all the words here are true, our mothers know about it, ask them and they will say:
Yes, all this is the eternal truth, we are stronger than death, we who continuously give the world sages, poets and heroes, we who sow in it everything that it is glorious for!
(Tashriflar: umumiy 2 867, bugungi 1)
