An interesting story starting with the letter “P”

Usually, prefaces are not written for stories. But it is necessary for the story “Visiting the Prilukin Estate”. Firstly, this story is written in an original genre, when all words begin with the same letter. Secondly, and perhaps most importantly:

“A Visit to the Prilukin Estate” truly demonstrates the richness of the Russian language. Thirdly, it is necessary to show the reason for the appearance of the story. There may be several such reasons. The author made the assumption that linguists from England, France, Germany, Italy, Poland and Russia met at one scientific symposium. Naturally, they started talking about languages. And they began to find out whose language was better, richer, more expressive.

The Englishman said: “England is a country of great sailors and travelers who have spread the glory of its language throughout the world. English language“The language of Shakespeare, Dickens, Byron is undoubtedly the best in the world.”

“I don’t agree,” the German replied. - German- the language of science and philosophy, medicine and technology, the language in which Goethe’s world work “Faust” was written is the best in the world.”

“You are both wrong,” the Italian entered into the argument. - Think, all of humanity loves music, songs, romances, operas. And in what language are the best love romances, the most enchanting melodies and brilliant operas heard? In the language of sunny Italy."

"A significant contribution to world literature, - said the representative of France, - contributed by French writers. Obviously, everyone has read Balzac, Hugo, Stendach... Their works demonstrate the greatness of the French language. By the way, in the 19th century, many representatives of the Russian intelligentsia studied French.”

The representative of Poland took the floor. “In its own way,” he said, “the Polish language is original. Poles consider it understandable and beautiful. This is confirmed by the works of Bolesław Prus, Henryk Sienkiewicz and my other compatriots.”

The Russian listened silently and attentively, thinking about something. But when it was his turn to talk about language, he said: “Of course, I could, just like each of you, say that the Russian language, the language of Pushkin and Lermontov, Tolstoy and Nekrasov, Chekhov and Turgenev, surpasses all the languages of the world. But I won't follow your path. Tell me, could you compose a short story in your languages with a beginning and an outcome, with a consistent development of the plot, but so that all the words of this story begin with the same letter?

The interlocutors looked at each other. This question puzzled them. All five answered that it was impossible to do this in their languages.

“But in Russian this is quite possible,” said the Russian. After a short pause, he suggested: “I can prove it to you now. Tell me a letter,” he turned to the Pole.

“It doesn’t matter,” answered the Pole. “Since you turned to me, write a story starting with the letter “p”, with which the name of my country begins.”

“Wonderful,” said the Russian. - Here's a story with the letter "p." By the way, this story could, for example, be called “A Visit to the Prilukin Estate.”

VISITING THE PRILUKIN ESTATE

Before the Orthodox patronal feast of St. Panteleimon, Pyotr Petrovich Polenov received a letter by mail. After afternoon tea, a thick package was brought by the plump postman Prokofy Peresypkin. After thanking and seeing off the letter carrier, Polenov read the letter full of pleasant wishes. “Peter Petrovich,” wrote Polina Pavlovna Prilukina, “come. Let's talk, walk, dream. Come, Pyotr Petrovich, as soon as possible, after the first Friday, while the weather is beautiful.”

Pyotr Petrovich liked the invitation letter: it was nice to receive Polina Pavlovna’s message. I thought and dreamed.

I remembered the first pre-autumn trip the year before, and last year’s re-visit to the Prilukinsky estate after Easter.

Anticipating an excellent reception, Polenov analyzed the letter, thought about the trip, and adopted the right plan: to go at Prilukina’s invitation, to see Polina Pavlovna, whom he liked.

After dinner, Pyotr Petrovich cleaned his low shoes, blackened the scuffs, hung his coat under his raincoat, prepared a pullover and jacket, checked the strength of the sewn buttons, and hemmed the collar. He brought the briefcase, opened it slightly, and put in the gift intended for Polina Pavlovna. Then he put a towel, a purse, a first aid dressing bag, tweezers, a pipette, pills, and a plaster. Polenov almost always prudently took something like this when traveling: sometimes he had to bandage passengers and help the injured. Covering his briefcase, Polenov ventilated the room, prepared the bed, and turned off the lamp.

Pyotr Petrovich woke up early in the morning and stretched. I got up and warmed up: I did five minutes of squats, lumbar twists, and jumps. I had breakfast. I dressed up for the holiday and straightened my fastened suspenders.

Having left the penates, Polenov hurried to visit the barbershop: he shaved, cut his hair, combed his hair. Having thanked the hairdresser in a friendly manner, Pyotr Petrovich walked half a kilometer along Privalovsky Prospekt, crossed an underground passage, crossed the rebuilt square, embellished after the redevelopment. There are plenty of passengers. Walking along the platform crowded with passengers, Polenov stood aside and respectfully greeted the strolling postmaster Petukhov. I met a friend Porfiry Plitchenko. We stood and chatted about everyday problems. On the way, I grabbed half a liter of semi-sweet port wine and bought peonies. Having given the seller five altyn, I received a couple of packs of shortbread cookies. “The purchases will come in handy,” Polenov concluded.

Buying a five-ruble reserved seat, I remembered the Prilukin estate and realized: Polina Pavlovna would like it.

The mail and passenger train, having passed Pskov, Ponyri, Pristen, Prokhorovka, Pyatikhatki, arrived in the afternoon.

The conductor showed Priluki's station and wiped the handrails. The train gradually slowed down. Polenov, thanking the conductor, left the train, crossed the access roads and the platform. I greeted the trackman and walked along the station alley. Turning right, I went straight. The Prilukin estate appeared.

In front of the main entrance, Pyotr Petrovich was greeted by Polina Pavlovna’s most respectable, gray-haired father, Pavel Panteleevich. We said hello.

“We’re waiting, we’re waiting,” said the personable, flexible Pavel Panteleevich, puffing on a cigarette. - Please, Pyotr Petrovich, sit down and take a rest after the trip. Let's wait for Polina Pavlovna, then we'll go have a snack.

His bald nephew approached with a springy penguin gait and greeted the arrival of Pyotr Petrovich.

Let me introduce myself: Prokhor Polikarpovich,” said Prilukin’s nephew, adjusting his pince-nez.

Polkan, a half-sighted pinscher, hobbled with a limp. The dog barked quietly at first, then, after sniffing Polenov’s low shoes, he became quiet, cuddled himself, and lay down.

A bushy-haired Polina Pavlovna, covered with a Panama hat, appeared in front of the painted front garden. Waving a blue handkerchief, she smoothly approached.

Pyotr Petrovich bowed warmly, presented peonies, and kissed the outstretched fingers.

We talked for half an hour, joked, and recalled Polenov’s past visits. Pyotr Petrovich turned and looked: the fence intertwined with wire was still blocking the landowner's courtyard in half. The first half of the courtyard was a rectangular clearing crossed by pedestrian lanes sprinkled with sand. The right half of the courtyard was intended for basements and outbuildings.

We walked along the trampled clearing. A one-and-a-half story strong five-wall building appeared before Polenov. “Perhaps the building is half a century old,” thought Polenov. We passed the portico.

Holding Polina Pavlovna, Pyotr Petrovich crossed the threshold of the hallway and stepped over the threshold of the spacious room. I looked closely. There is complete order everywhere. I was amazed at the pomp and splendor of the room. Brocade curtains, touching the floor, covered the primroses placed on the window sills. The parquet floor is covered with elongated wool-blend rugs that fit tightly.

Fawn semi-matte panels were illuminated by candlesticks attached almost to the ceiling. It smelled like paraffin. The ceiling along the perimeter was supported by rectangular pilasters covered with varnish. Hanging under the candlesticks are attractive landscape panels, portraits of great-grandfather Pavel Panteleevich of Polish origin, politician Peter the Great, lieutenant of the Poltava infantry regiment Pashchenko, writers Pisemsky, Pomyalovsky, poets Pushkin, Prokofiev, Pestel, travelers Przhevalsky, Potanin. Pavel Panteleevich admired Pushkin’s poetry and periodically reread Pushkin’s poems and prose stories.

Pyotr Petrovich asked Pavel Panteleevich to explain why there was a bandoleer suspended under the landscape panel. Prilukin came closer, opened the cartridge belt, showed Polenov the cartridges, and said:

At the friendly suggestion of the St. Petersburg landowner Pautov, from time to time you have to go hunting and relax after the daily ups and downs of the household. The last half of the year showed an increase in swimming birds. The bird population everywhere is constantly replenished.

Pavel Panteleevich accepted Pyotr Petrovich’s request to try hunting and wander around the floodplain area of the winding Potudan flowing nearby.

There followed an invitation to lunch. The food was excellent. They served buttered dumplings sprinkled with pepper, fried liver garnished with fragrant parsley, pilaf, pickles, pate, spicy salted tomatoes, salted boletus, aspen mushrooms, portioned cut pudding, mashed puree, hearth pie, cooled yogurt, and sugared donuts. They served orange wine, port wine, pepper wine, beer, and punch.

Pavel Panteleevich crossed himself, rubbed the bridge of his nose, crunched his fingers, and smacked his lips. After drinking half a glass of orange juice, I began to eat some dumplings. Polina Pavlovna sipped her port wine. Pyotr Petrovich, following the example of Polina Pavlovna, sipped semi-sweet port wine. Shemyannik tried pepper. Polenov was offered to try the foamy beer. I liked the beer.

We drank a little and ate for a fee. Supporting a polished tray, the servants brought browned fluffy pampushki, anointed with peach jam. We enjoyed shortbread cookies, gingerbread, cakes, marshmallows, peaches, and ice cream.

At Polenov's request, Pavel Panteleevich invited a cook. The full cook arrived.

Introduced herself: “Pelageya Prokhorovna Postolova.” Pyotr Petrovich stood up, personally thanked Pelageya Prokhorovna, and praised the prepared food. Sitting down, I felt pleasantly satiated.

After eating we went to rest. Polina Pavlovna invited Polenov to see the sparrowhawk. Then she showed an attractive purple parrot, Petrusha. The parrot greeted those who approached with a respectful bow. He jumped up and started begging, constantly repeating: “Petrusha to eat, Petrusha to eat...”. ,

An elderly hanger-on, Praskovya Patrikeevna, came up, covered with a worn, colorful scarf, pinched a Lenten pie, and placed it in front of the parrot. Petrusha sniffed, pecked, bowed, and cleaned his feathers. Jumping on the rungs, he began to repeat: “Petrusha ate, Petrusha ate...”.

After looking at the parrot, we visited Polina Pavlovna’s reception room and admired the repainted floor, covered in the middle with a half-cloth carpet. Polenov asked Polina Pavlovna to sing. Polina Pavlovna sang popular songs. Those present applauded. “A captivating songbird,” noted Pyotr Petrovich.

Polina Pavlovna ran her fingers over the piano: a forgotten potpourri flowed smoothly.

After a pause, we danced to the gramophone brought by our nephew. Polina Pavlovna turned around in a pirouette, then did a “step” in a semicircle. The nephew wound up the spring of the gramophone and rearranged the record. We listened to a polonaise and danced a polka dance. Dad started dancing, arms akimbo.

Having left the premises, Pavel Panteleevich sent the servant to call the clerk. The clerk tried to arrive quickly. Pavel Panteleevich meticulously asked:

Did the carpenter repair the span?

Having received positive confirmation, he ordered the clerk to bring a pair of piebalds. The prepared landowner's steam-window carriage rolled up. “Piebald thoroughbreds,” thought Polenov.

The clerk looked at the horseshoes, straightened, trimmed, the lines, bandaged them, adjusted the girth, tied the leash, checked the strength of the screwed semicircular wire footrest, and wiped the front of the carriage with a tied bunch of semi-moist tow. The plush pillows were covered with a blanket. Polina Pavlovna went to change clothes.

While Polina Pavlovna was changing clothes, Pyotr Petrovich understandingly observed the process of the fireman's meticulous check of the pump and fire-fighting devices. After viewing, the fireman recommended that the clerk who came up fill the sandbox with sand and paint the stage.

Polina Pavlovna arrived, taking a starched cape. Pyotr Petrovich helped Polina Pavlovna climb up the step. Sit down more comfortably.

The dressed-up clerk, imitating the landowner, stood up, whistled, waved his whip, whipped up the piebalds, and shouted:

Let's go, pegs, let's go!

The span took off. We were pretty shocked, so we drove slower. We drove through a dusty field plowed by plowers using steam engines (Poltava resident Pashchenko helped purchase the steam engines). The fertile soil has dried up. Wheatgrass and motherwort have withered; tumbleweeds and plantains have faded and turned yellow; The nightshade fruits have darkened.

A decent sown area of ripening wheat appeared to the right-hander. The gentle hill was ablaze with sunflowers. Having left the cab, we crossed a wasteland and a clearing. One by one we walked straight along the sandy strip.

At a distance stretched a deep pond. Come over. In the middle of the surface of the pond a couple of beautiful pelicans swam.

Let’s go shopping,” Polenov suggested.

We’ll catch a cold,” Polina Pavlovna warned. Then she admitted: “I’m not a good swimmer.”

We wandered around the reach. Minnows and roaches splashed nearby, and pond leeches swam.

Using a pontoon raft, we had a pleasant ride around the pond under a firmly attached canvas sail. Then we walked through a clearing half overgrown with wormwood and semi-shrubs.

Behind the pond pristine nature appeared. Pyotr Petrovich was struck by the beautiful landscape panorama. Privolye! Space! Simply excellent! Polina Pavlovna sniffed the fragrant petunia, admired the spider's weaving of a transparent web, and was afraid to disturb it. Polenov, squinting, listened: songbirds were singing. Disturbed quails called to each other every minute, and frightened warblers fluttered. There were ferns and wildflowers everywhere. We admired the pyramidal fir and plane tree intertwined with ivy.

Pyotr Petrovich noticed the migration of bees: perhaps an apiary had been set up behind the coppice. “Beekeeping is profitable, the bee product is useful,” Polenov estimated.

A pasture was visible in front of the churchyard; the elderly, bare-haired shepherd Pakhom, holding his staff, was tending the breeding first-calf heifers, nibbling on the dodder.

The one and a half hour walk around Prilukino seemed simply excellent. After the trip, Pavel Panteleevich affably invited Polenov to take a walk through the garden, then see the buildings and production.

An intermittent, muffled cry was heard. Pyotr Petrovich listened and shrugged his shoulders. Pavel Panteleevich understood the frightened Polenov and hastened to explain:

The nephew flogs the assistant shepherd Porfishka. The day before yesterday I kept watch over a one and a half month old piglet. Serves it right. It's time to wise up.

He will grow up and become wiser.

“The vile executioner, he found a reason to flog the shepherd,” Polenov thought about Prokhor Polikarpovich. The astute Pyotr Petrovich noticed: the nephew is a scoundrel, a sycophant - he has adapted, takes advantage of the landowner's indulgences. I was embarrassed to contradict Prilukin. I understood: my nephew was constantly under the protection of Prilukin.

We visited the nursery, saw a half-hectare peach plantation, greenhouses, and a demonstration poultry farm. The birder showed fifty pieds. Before construction, the servants sorted through last year's rotted hemp. A cart drove through the courtyard; under the supervision of a nimble clerk, the brought millet was moved under the outbuilding. The servants fed washed, steamed wheat to the spotted gilts who ran up.

Five tanned guys alternated with a cross-cut saw to cut half-meter logs served by the carpenter Parfen. The woodpile was gradually replenished. While receiving decent pay, the guys had to work hard. Having finished sawing, the guys helped the carpenter nail the crossbar supporting the woodpiles more firmly."

Behind the primitive outbuilding, a rooster crowed, flying over the fence. As they walked around the planting, the Plymouth Rocks pecked at the sprinkled millet.

Polenov inquired about the progressive process of processing fruit products and obtaining monthly profits. They explained to Pyotr Petrovich in detail: profits are calculated periodically, products are sold cheaper to Prilukin residents, and more expensive to visiting customers. Production numbers are consistently decent.

Having visited the converted semi-basement premises, Polenov looked production process getting jam.

Pyotr Petrovich was asked to taste peach jam. I liked the jam.

Half of the basement has been converted into a bakery. The baker showed the baking ovens. The blazing stove flame illuminated the stands covered with whitewashed linen, prepared for holiday pies.

After viewing the stoves, Polina Pavlovna advised Pyotr Petrovich to take a walk in the park.

Let’s sit down,” Polina Pavlovna suggested.

“Perhaps,” Polenov supported.

We noticed a flat stump under the fir tree. Sit down. We were silent. It’s clear: we’re tired. A peacock calmly strolled nearby.

“Fine weather,” whispered Polina Pavlovna.

Polenov, thoughtful, agreed. We talked about the weather and our friends.

Polina Pavlovna told about her visit to Paris. Polenov envied the “traveller”. We remembered the details of the walk along the pond. They joked, laughed, exchanged jokes, retold proverbs and sayings.

Polina Pavlovna moved closer and ran her fingers over Polenov’s shoulder. Pyotr Petrovich turned and admired Polina Pavlovna: beauty, like the first snowdrop. The first kiss sounded.

“Let’s get married, let’s get married,” Pavel Panteleevich approached quietly, half-jokingly, half-seriously, winking, the mother-of-pearl buttons of his striped pajamas gleaming.

Let’s get married, let’s get married,” repeated the nimble nephew who appeared, squeaking like a parrot, looking intently over his pince-nez.

“Daddy, stop it,” the pink-faced Polina Pavlovna asked in a half-whisper.

Stop, stop pretending, good boy,” said Pavel Panteleevich. He shook his finger at the simple-minded Polina Pavlovna, patting Polenov on the shoulder.

Pyotr Petrovich blushed, straightened his jacket, bowed respectfully to Polina Pavlovna from the waist up, and hurried to leave the park.

As Polina Pavlovna saw off Polenov, she wished him a pleasant journey... Pavel Panteleevich opened his cigarette case, crushed the cigarette with his fingers, lit a cigarette, and coughed. The nephew, obedient to his patron, nicknamed by Polenov the loitering hanger-on, wiped his pince-nez with a handkerchief, touched his sweaty chin, stomped around, and said nothing.

The beaming Polina Pavlovna quietly kissed the gilded ring given by Pyotr Petrovich.

It became evening and cool.

While waiting for the train, Polenov, on reflection, analyzed his behavior. He admitted: he practically acted according to the rules of decency. Walking along the platform, I waited for the train to approach. I tried to understand what had happened while listening to the sound of the train. Polenov thought: “Polina Pavlovna is a suitable party, suitable. Change your mind? Why? Changing your mind, changing your mind is a bad omen.” I understood: I fell in love with Polina Pavlovna. I was glad to see Pavel Panteleevich.

The prospect of receiving a rightfully decent estate flashed before Polenov. Pyotr Petrovich recognized the landowner’s principle of bringing benefit as correct. At first, Polenov considered Prilukin a pedant. Later I realized: Pavel Panteleevich is an excellent enterprising production worker who correctly understands industrial practice. I thought: “We’ll have to succeed, follow the example of the lifelong position of the landowner.”

Whistling invitingly, the locomotive puffed and puffed. Polenov, like fellow passengers, dozed off halfway, reclining, calmly.

Arrived after midnight. I ventilated the empty chambers. I had dinner. I prepared the bed: I laid out a sheet, put on a duvet cover, straightened the rumpled pillow, and brought a woolen blanket. Tired, he lay down to sleep. The feather bed welcomed Polenov, who was tired after a pleasant trip.

Woke up late. I had a hearty meal. Showing punctuality, he visited the post office: he sent Polina Pavlovna a message - a proposal, written in almost printed handwriting. Added an afterword: “It’s time to end the vegetation...”.

Pyotr Petrovich was bored for a couple of five-day days while Polina Pavlovna sent confirmation of receipt of the letter. I read it. Polina Pavlovna accepted the offer and invites Pyotr Petrovich to come and talk.

Polenov went by invitation. The reception of Pyotr Petrovich was simply excellent. A quiet Polina Pavlovna approached and bowed, supporting a poplin dress sewn by a Prilukinsky dressmaker before Polenov’s arrival. I bowed to the invited friends. Polenov noticed: Polina Pavlovna used powder and lipstick.

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The required procedure was completed. Polenov repeated the proposal. Polina Pavlovna made a heartfelt confession. Friends praised Pyotr Petrovich’s action, congratulated him, presented them with the gifts they had prepared, saying:

Pyotr Petrovich did the right thing. Look: a truly beautiful couple.

Having accepted the donated items, Polenov thanked those present.

The feast dedicated to the engagement lasted almost half a day.

The Englishman, the Frenchman, the Pole, the German and the Italian were forced to admit that the Russian language is the richest.

At one of the scientific symposiums, four linguists met: an Englishman, a German, an Italian and a Russian. And, naturally, we started talking about languages. Whose language is supposed to be better, richer, and to which language does the future belong?

The Englishman said:
- England is a country of great conquests, sailors and travelers who spread the glory of its language to all corners of the world. English is the language of Shakespeare, Dickens, Byron, of course. best language peace.

“Nothing like that,” said the German, “our language is the language of science and philosophy, medicine and technology.” The language of Kant and Hegel, in which the best work of world poetry is written - Goethe's Faust.

“You are both wrong,” the Italian entered into the argument. Think, the whole world, all of humanity loves music, songs, romances, operas. In what language are the best love romances, the most enchanting melodies and brilliant operas heard? In the language of sunny Italy.

The Russian was silent for a long time, listened modestly, and finally said:
- Of course, I could also say, like each of you, that the Russian language - the language of Pushkin, Tolstoy, Turgenev, Chekhov - is superior to all the languages of the world. But I won't follow your path. Tell me, could you compose a short story in your languages with a plot, with a consistent plot, and so that all the words of this story begin with the same letter?

This greatly puzzled the interlocutors and all three said:
- No, this cannot be done in our languages.
- But in Russian it is quite possible, and I will now prove it to you. Name any letter,” said the Russian, turning to the German.
He replied:
- All the same, let’s say the letter “P”.
- Great, here’s a story starting with the letter “P”:
Pyotr Petrovich Petukhov, lieutenant of the fifty-fifth Podolsk Infantry Regiment, received a letter by mail full of pleasant wishes. “Come,” wrote the lovely Polina Pavlovna Perepelkina, “let’s talk, dream, dance, take a walk, visit a half-forgotten, half-overgrown pond, go fishing. Come, Pyotr Petrovich, to stay as soon as possible.”

Petukhov liked the proposal. I figured: I’ll come. I grabbed a half-worn field cloak and thought: this will come in handy.

The train arrived after noon. Pyotr Petrovich was received by Polina Pavlovna’s most respected father, Pavel Panteleimonovich. “Please, Pyotr Petrovich, sit down more comfortably,” said dad. A bald nephew came up and introduced himself: “Porfiry Platonovich Polikarpov. Please, please."

The lovely Polina appeared. A transparent Persian scarf covered her full shoulders. We talked, joked, and invited us to lunch. They served dumplings, pilaf, pickles, liver, pate, pies, cake, half a liter of orange juice. We had a hearty lunch. Pyotr Petrovich felt pleasantly satiated.

After eating, after a hearty snack, Polina Pavlovna invited Pyotr Petrovich to take a walk in the park. In front of the park stretched a half-forgotten, half-overgrown pond. We went sailing. After swimming in the pond we went for a walk in the park.

“Let’s sit down,” suggested Polina Pavlovna. Sit down. Polina Pavlovna moved closer. We sat and were silent. The first kiss sounded. Pyotr Petrovich got tired, offered to lie down, laid out his half-worn field raincoat, and thought: it would come in handy. We lay down, rolled around, fell in love. “Pyotr Petrovich is a prankster, a scoundrel,” Polina Pavlovna said habitually.

“Let’s get married, let’s get married!” whispered the bald nephew. “Let’s get married, let’s get married,” the father approached in a deep voice. Pyotr Petrovich turned pale, staggered, then ran away. As I ran, I thought: “Polina Petrovna is a wonderful match, I’m really excited.”

The prospect of receiving a beautiful estate flashed before Pyotr Petrovich. I hastened to send an offer. Polina Pavlovna accepted the proposal and later got married. Friends came to congratulate us and brought gifts. Handing over the package, they said: “Wonderful couple.”

The Russian language is great and powerful: Stories in which all words begin with the same letter. Tautogram.

The Russian language is great and powerful
Four linguists met at one of the symposiums: English, German, Italian and Russian.
The conversation turned to languages.
They began to argue, whose language is more beautiful, better, richer, and to which language does the future belong?
Englishman said: “England is a country of great conquerors, sailors and travelers who spread the glory of its language to all corners of the world. The English language – the language of Shakespeare, Dickens, Byron – is undoubtedly the best language in the world.”
“Nothing of the kind,” said German, - “Our language is the language of science and physics, medicine and technology. The language of Kant and Hegel, the language in which the best work of world poetry is written – Goethe’s Faust.”
“You are both wrong,” entered into an argument Italian, - “Think, the whole world, all of humanity loves music, songs, romances, operas! What language are the best love romances and brilliant operas in? In the language of sunny Italy!
Russian He was silent for a long time, listened modestly and finally said: “Of course, I could also say, like each of you, that the Russian language - the language of Pushkin, Tolstoy, Turgenev, Chekhov - is superior to all the languages of the world. But I won't follow your path. Tell me, could you compose a short story in your languages with a plot, with a consistent development of the plot, so that all the words in the story begin with the same letter?”
This greatly puzzled the interlocutors and all three said: “No, this is impossible in our languages.” Then the Russian replies: “But in our language this is quite possible, and I will now prove it to you. Name any letter." The German replied: “It doesn’t matter. Letter "P", For example".
“Great, here’s a story for you with this letter”, - answered the Russian.
Pyotr Petrovich Petukhov, lieutenant of the fifty-fifth Podolsk Infantry Regiment, received a letter by mail full of pleasant wishes. “Come,” wrote the lovely Polina Pavlovna Perepelkina, “let’s talk, dream, dance, take a walk, visit a half-forgotten, half-overgrown pond, go fishing. Come, Pyotr Petrovich, to stay as soon as possible.”
Petukhov liked the proposal. I figured: I’ll come. I grabbed a half-worn field cloak and thought: this will come in handy.
The train arrived after noon. Pyotr Petrovich was received by Polina Pavlovna’s most respected father, Pavel Panteleimonovich. “Please, Pyotr Petrovich, sit down more comfortably,” said dad. A bald nephew came up and introduced himself: “Porfiry Platonovich Polikarpov. Please, please."
The lovely Polina appeared. A transparent Persian scarf covered her full shoulders. We talked, joked, and invited us to lunch. They served dumplings, pilaf, pickles, liver, pate, pies, cake, half a liter of orange juice. We had a hearty lunch. Pyotr Petrovich felt pleasantly satiated.
After eating, after a hearty snack, Polina Pavlovna invited Pyotr Petrovich to take a walk in the park. In front of the park stretched a half-forgotten, half-overgrown pond. We went sailing. After swimming in the pond we went for a walk in the park.
“Let’s sit down,” suggested Polina Pavlovna. Sit down. Polina Pavlovna moved closer. We sat and were silent. The first kiss sounded. Pyotr Petrovich got tired, offered to lie down, laid out his half-worn field raincoat, and thought: it would come in handy. We lay down, rolled around, fell in love. “Pyotr Petrovich is a prankster, a scoundrel,” Polina Pavlovna said habitually.
“Let’s get married, let’s get married!” whispered the bald nephew. “Let’s get married, let’s get married,” the father approached in a deep voice. Pyotr Petrovich turned pale, staggered, then ran away. As I ran, I thought: “Polina Petrovna is a wonderful match, I’m really excited.”
The prospect of receiving a beautiful estate flashed before Pyotr Petrovich. I hastened to send an offer. Polina Pavlovna accepted the proposal and later got married. Friends came to congratulate us and brought gifts. Handing over the package, they said: “Wonderful couple.”
The interlocutors, linguists, having heard the story, were forced to admit that the Russian language is the best and richest language in the world.

Tautogram- a poem or prose text in which all words begin with the same letter.
In the yenik and the wind
Yesterday, second-grader Vovochka Vishenkin was called to the veranda by counselor Valentina Vasilyevna Vorobyova. Vovochka rushed out of the trailer like a whirlwind and, looking up, shouted defiantly to everyone around him:
Have you seen it, big guys? Didn't the counselor call you? Are you having fun? When you meet Valentina, you will be excited!
The gang did not start at first. But soon everything became clear when Vishenkin left the counselor with a broom. Guilty, sweating from excitement, Vovochka furiously rotated the branches and shouted screams. Sighing and grumbling in an undertone, Vovochka twirled a broom, sweeping cornflowers, bindweed, elm branches and generally a heap of all sorts of things from the veranda, perceiving himself as a camel, a helipad and Vanka the broom.
Everyone around looked closely at Vovochkin appearance: Vishenkin got all dirty, his hair was tousled, and everyone screamed joyfully and squealed with delight.
And Vovochka sprinkled water around, put the broom in a bucket and looked at the veranda with a disheveled look.
Vovochka no longer screamed, did not show off, did not look arrogantly around, did not choose free expressions, but loved everyone, including his enemies.
Suddenly a very cheerful breeze rushed in, swirled like a heap in interaction with the broom, ran up eccentrically along the vertical, threw a high turn into takeoff, wobbling around the air distributor, disturbing Vovochkin’s gaze.
Armed with a broom and bucket, Vovochka again ruffled the marks, straightened up, trampling down the scraps that had been thrown out a second time.
Exhausted, Vova, tortured and forced to return to the veranda, entered Valentina Vasilyevna and announced:
That's it, I beg for your attentive admiration and return your broom!
That's all about the broom and the wind, the relationships around Vovochka.
M oh dear magician, my Maria, -
Dreams of a flickering beacon.
The sea hazes are rebellious,
My dear magician, my Maria, -
The muddy darkness beckons with silence...
The world's shallows are aiming at me
My dear magician, my Maria,
Dreams of a flickering beacon.
Valery Bryusov
Tautograms known to us since childhood:
P Peter Petrovich went for a walk.
I caught a parrot and took it to sell.
I asked for half and got half.
(From Explanatory dictionary V.I. Dalya)
ABOUT once, walking around the vicinity of Lake Onega,
Father Onuphry discovered Olga naked.
- Give it up, Olga, - I’ll get rich!
Olga gave herself to Father Onufry.
Father Onuphry deceived Olga.

Pyotr Petrovich Petukhov, lieutenant of the fifty-fifth Podolsk Infantry Regiment, received a letter by mail full of pleasant wishes.

“Come,” wrote the lovely Polina Pavlovna Perepelkina, “we’ll talk, dream, dance, take a walk, visit a half-forgotten, half-overgrown pond, and go fishing. Come, Pyotr Petrovich, to stay as soon as possible.”

Petukhov liked the proposal. I figured: I’ll come. I grabbed a half-worn field cloak and thought: this will come in handy.

The train arrived after noon. Pyotr Petrovich was received by Polina Pavlovna’s most respected father, Pavel Panteleimonovich.

“Please, Pyotr Petrovich, sit down more comfortably,” said dad. A bald nephew came up and introduced himself: “Porfiry Platonovich Polikarpov. Please, please."

“Let’s sit down,” suggested Polina Pavlovna. Sit down. Polina Pavlovna moved closer. We sat and were silent. The first kiss sounded.

Pyotr Petrovich got tired, offered to lie down, laid out his half-washed field raincoat, and thought: it would come in handy. We lay down, rolled around, fell in love. “Pyotr Petrovich is a prankster, a scoundrel,” Polina Pavlovna said habitually.

“Let’s get married, let’s get married!” - whispered the bald nephew.
“Let’s get married, let’s get married,” the father approached in a deep voice.

Pyotr Petrovich turned pale, staggered, then ran away. As I ran, I thought: “Polina Petrovna is a wonderful match, I’m really excited.”

Here is a story that cannot be reproduced in any language in the world! The thinking of a Russian speaker is fundamentally different from that of speakers of other languages.

“Linguists from England, France, Germany, Italy, Poland and Russia met at one scientific symposium. Naturally, they started talking about languages. And they began to find out whose language was better, richer, more expressive.

The Englishman said: “England is a country of great sailors and travelers who have spread the glory of its language throughout the world. The English language - the language of Shakespeare, Dickens, Byron - is undoubtedly the best in the world."

“I don’t agree,” the German replied. “The German language is the language of science and philosophy, medicine and technology, the language in which Goethe’s world work “Faust” was written is the best in the world.”