Who wrote the gifts of the Magi. As a writer with a bitter fate, O. Henry wrote the most touching Christmas story, “Gifts of the Magi. The plot of the novel "Gifts of the Magi" with quotes

Mikhail Yurjevich Lermontov

"Demon"

From a cosmic height, the “sad Demon” surveys the wild and wonderful world of the Central Caucasus: Kazbek sparkles like a facet of a diamond, the Terek jumps like a lioness, the Darial Gorge winds like a snake - and feels nothing but contempt. Evil even then bored the spirit of evil Everything is a burden: and perpetual loneliness, and immortality, and unlimited power over the insignificant earth. Meanwhile, the landscape is changing. Under the wing of the flying Demon is no longer a cluster of rocks and abysses, but the lush valleys of happy Georgia: the brilliance and breath of a thousand plants, the voluptuous midday heat and the dewy aromas of bright nights. Alas, these luxurious paintings do not cause new thoughts in the inhabitant of the superstellar regions. Only for a moment the distracted attention of the Demon is delayed by the festive revival in the usually silent possessions of the Georgian feudal lord: the owner of the estate, Prince Gudal, betrothed the only heiress, in his high house they are preparing for the wedding celebration.

Relatives have gathered ahead of time, the wine is already pouring, by sunset the groom of Princess Tamara, the illustrious ruler of Sinodal, will also arrive, and while the servants are rolling out ancient carpets: according to custom, on the roof covered with carpets, the bride, even before the appearance of the groom, must perform a traditional dance with a tambourine. Princess Tamara is dancing! Oh, how she dances! Now it rushes like a bird, circling a small tambourine above its head, then it freezes like a frightened doe, and a light cloud of sadness runs over the lovely bright-eyed face. After all, this is the last day of the princess in her father's house! How will someone else's family meet her? No, no, Tamara is not given in marriage against her will. The groom chosen by her father is to her heart: in love, young, good-looking - what more! But here no one hampered her freedom, but there... Having driven away the "secret doubt", Tamara smiles again. Smiling and dancing. The gray-haired Gudal is proud of her daughter, the guests admire, raise their horns, utter magnificent toasts: “I swear, such a beauty / Never bloomed under the sun of the south!” The demon and he admired someone else's bride. It circles and circles over the wide courtyard of the Georgian castle, as if chained to a dancing girl's figure with an invisible chain. In the desert of his soul there is an inexplicable excitement. Has a miracle happened? It truly happened: “In him, a feeling suddenly spoke / Once in his native language!” Well, and what will the free son of ether, enchanted by a powerful passion for an earthly woman, do? Alas, the immortal spirit acts in the same way as a cruel and powerful tyrant would have done in his situation: he kills an opponent. At the instigation of the Demon, Tamara's fiancé is attacked by robbers. Having plundered the wedding gifts, interrupted the guards and dispersed the timid camel drivers, the abreks disappear. The faithful horse (priceless suit, golden) takes out the wounded prince from the battle, but he, already in the darkness, is overtaken by an evil stray bullet on the tip of an evil spirit. With a dead master in a saddle embroidered with colored silks, the horse continues to gallop at full speed: the horseman, who has dipped his golden mane in the last frenzied shake, must keep the prince’s word: ride alive or dead to the wedding feast, and only having reached the gate, falls dead.

There is groaning and crying in the bride's family. Blacker than the clouds, Gudal, he sees God's punishment in what happened. Falling on the bed, as she was - in pearls and brocade, Tamara sobs. And suddenly: a voice. Unfamiliar. Magic. He consoles, calms, heals, tells fairy tales and promises to fly to her every evening - the night flowers barely bloom - so that "on silk eyelashes / Golden dreams evoke ...". Tamara looks around: no one!!! Did it feel like it? But then where is the confusion? Which has no name! In the morning, the princess still falls asleep and sees a strange one - is it not the first of the promised gold ones? - dream. Shining with unearthly beauty, a certain “alien” is leaning towards her headboard. This is not a guardian angel, there is no luminous halo around his curls, however, he doesn’t seem to look like a fiend either: it’s too sad, he looks with love! And so every night: as soon as the night flowers wake up, it appears. Guessing that it is not someone else that confuses her with an irresistible dream, but the "evil spirit" himself, Tamara asks her father to let her go to the monastery. Gudal gets angry - suitors, one more enviable than the other, besiege their house, and Tamara refuses everyone. Having lost his patience, he threatens a reckless curse. This threat does not stop Tamara either; finally Gudal relents. And here she is in a secluded monastery, but even here, in a sacred monastery, during the hours of solemn prayers, through church singing, she hears the same magical voice, in a fog of incense rising to the vaults of a gloomy temple, Tamara sees the same image and the same eyes — irresistible as a dagger.

Having fallen on her knees in front of the divine icon, the poor virgin wants to pray to the saints, and her disobedient heart “prays to Him.” The beautiful sinner is no longer deceived at her own expense: she is not just embarrassed by an obscure dream of love, she is in love: passionately, sinfully, as if the night guest who captivated her with unearthly beauty was not an alien from the invisible, immaterial world, but an earthly youth. The demon, of course, understands everything, but, unlike the unfortunate princess, he knows what she does not know: an earthly beauty will pay for a moment of physical closeness with him, an unearthly creature, with death. That's why he hesitates; he is even ready to abandon his criminal plan. At least he thinks so. One night, having already approached the cherished cell, he tries to leave, and in fear he feels that he cannot flap his wing: the wing does not move! Then he sheds a single tear - an inhuman tear burns through the stone.

Realizing that even he, seemingly omnipotent, cannot change anything, the Demon appears to Tamara no longer in the form of an obscure nebula, but incarnated, that is, in the form of a winged, but beautiful and courageous person. However, the way to the sleeping Tamara's bed is blocked by her guardian angel and demands that the vicious spirit does not touch his, angelic, shrine. The Demon, with a sly smile, explains to the messenger of paradise that he appeared too late and that in his, the Demon, possessions - where he owns and loves - the cherubs have nothing to do. Tamara, waking up, does not recognize the young man of her dreams in a random guest. She also does not like his speeches - charming in a dream, in reality they seem dangerous to her. But the Demon opens his soul to her - Tamara is touched by the immensity of the sorrows of the mysterious stranger, now he seems to her a sufferer. And yet, something worries her both in the guise of an alien and in reasoning that is too complicated for her weakening mind. And she, oh holy naivety, asks him to swear that he is not disingenuous, does not deceive her gullibility. And the Demon swears. Whatever he does not swear by - and by heaven, which he hates, and by hell, which he despises, and even by the shrine, which he does not have. The Demon Oath is a brilliant example of male love eloquence - which a man will not promise a woman when the fire of desire burns in his blood! In his “impatience of passion,” he does not even notice that he contradicts himself: either he promises to take Tamara to the starry lands and make her the queen of the world, or he assures that it is here, on an insignificant earth, that he will build for her magnificent - from turquoise and amber - palaces. And yet, the outcome of a fatal date is not decided by words, but by the first touch - hot male lips - to trembling female lips. The night watchman of the monastery, making a routine round, slows down his steps: in the cell of the new nun there are unusual sounds, something like "two mouths kissing in agreement." Embarrassed, he stops and hears: first a groan, and then a terrible, albeit weak, like a death cry.

Notified of the death of the heiress, Gudal takes the body of the deceased from the monastery. He firmly decided to bury his daughter in a high-mountain family cemetery, where one of his ancestors, in atonement for many sins, erected a small temple. In addition, he does not want to see his Tamara, even in a coffin, in a coarse hair shirt. By his order, the women of his hearth dress up the princess in the way that they did not dress up on the days of fun. For three days and three nights, higher and higher, a mournful train moves, ahead of Gudal on a snow-white horse. He is silent, and the rest are silent. So many days have passed since the death of the princess, but corruption does not touch her - the color of the brow, as in life, is whiter and cleaner than the covers? And this smile, as if frozen on the lips?! Mysterious as her death itself!!! Having given up its peri to the gloomy land, the funeral caravan sets off on its way back... The wise Gudal did everything right! The river of time washed away from the face of the earth both his high house, where his wife bore him a beautiful daughter, and the wide yard where Tamara played a child. And the temple and the cemetery are intact with him, they can still be seen - there, high, at the turn of jagged rocks, because nature, with its highest power, made the grave of the beloved Demon inaccessible to humans.

In the heights of heaven, the Demon looks at the wild and picturesque world of the Caucasus. He sees beautiful mountains and rivers. But he feels nothing but disgust. Even evil is tired of the Demon. He cannot stand loneliness and immortality, and unlimited power over the earth. The demon flies and sees another picture that caught his attention. In one Georgian estate, Prince Gudal gives his only daughter in marriage. Preparations for the wedding are going on in his house.

Relatives have already gathered, and in the evening Tamara's fiancé, the ruler of Sinodal, should arrive. Tamara dances with a tambourine, as custom requires, before the groom arrives. Tamara is beautiful. Even the Demon flying over the manor got the feeling. Suddenly he realizes that he is experiencing an already lost sense of passion. Did a miracle happen to him? He acts as any tyrant would have done in his place. The demon sent the robbers to the groom so that they would kill him. And then a horse enters the estate, and on it is a dead owner.

Grief in the bride's family. Gudal cannot express his anger, he sees God's punishment in what happened. Tamara went to her room and fell on the bed with bitter sobs. Suddenly, she hears a wonderful voice that soothes her by telling tales. The voice promises to be with her every evening. Tamara woke up and did not see anyone next to her. In the morning, she finally manages to fall asleep, and she had an amazing dream. A stranger leaned over to her bed. She does not understand who it is, but she sees sadness and love in his eyes. And this happens every night. Tamara, unable to bear this, decides to leave for a monastery. The father resists at first, but then concedes. And now, in the monastery, she hears that voice again. The girl begins to pray, but realizes that she loves this stranger from her dreams with all her heart.

And Demon sees it. He knows that one moment of intimacy with him dooms the girl to death. He is already ready to abandon his plan, but moving away from her cell, he cannot even wave a wing. The demon realized that he was not so omnipotent.

He enters the girl's cell and seduces her. The next day, the father took the body of his only daughter.

Year: 1839 Genre: poem

Main characters: Tamara - princess, demon, fiancé of Princess Sinodal, Gudal - prince-father.

Plot:

A demon flies in silence and loneliness over the expanses of Georgia. He is sad and disappointed - he has long been bored with immortality, power over people and cruel fun. The demon can only aimlessly rush between heaven and earth, not knowing peace and hating everything around.

At this time, the wedding of his only daughter, Tamara, is being celebrated in the rich house of Prince Gudal. The fun is in full swing, the tables are bursting with generous treats, and the wines are flowing like water. The young bride, according to the custom of her ancestors, performs a wedding dance with a tambourine.

A demon flying nearby is captivated by the beauty of the young princess and falls in love with her. But Tamara's fiancé is already hurrying to the wedding feast. He impatiently drives his horse, wanting to hug his betrothed as soon as possible, and after him comes a caravan with rich gifts.

In a hurry, the young man forgets to pray at the roadside chapel, and the demon gains power over him. Tormented by malice and jealousy, the envoy of hell kills Tamara's betrothed by the hands of robbers. The faithful horse brings his lifeless body to the threshold of the Gudala estate.

The unfortunate Tamara is inconsolable - not having time to get married, she becomes a widow. At sunset, a demon appears to her, comforting her with sweet speeches and promising to come every night. The girl is confused and excited, soon she gradually begins to fall in love with an unearthly image. At the same time, the princess understands that a new feeling threatens her with trouble, because the demon smells of evil.

Rejecting the proposals of the hand and heart of the new suitors, Tamara asks her father, angry with her behavior, to allow her to retire in the monastery. But even in the cell, the girl has no peace - the demon continues to pursue her, seducing the blessings of extraterrestrial life. A sincere feeling makes him tormented by doubts and pity for his beloved, at some point he is even ready to abandon her.

Everything is decided by a fatal kiss - the princess dies, but thereby saves herself from temptation - her soul has already been destined for a place in paradise. The demon is alone again.

The poem teaches a simple truth: as long as a person is in the grip of doubt, his soul belongs to the demon. Only by overcoming them, one can be cleansed and return to God.

Read the detailed summary of Demon Lermontov

The Demon flew high in the sky. He flew from time immemorial and nothing below attracted him, but only caused a storm of hatred and anger. The evil spirit, wherever he saw, sowed hatred in the hearts of people for his own satisfaction. His power was limitless.

Once, as always indifferent to everything that happens below, the Demon flew over the Caucasus, over Georgia, over high mountains, over fast rivers, over meadows and cities. At this time, the celebration of the wedding of his only daughter, the beautiful Tamara, began in the house of Prince Gudal. Tamara, a young and beautiful girl, was in love with the wealthy Sinodal. She was happy that she was marrying her beloved with the blessing of her parents.

The prince's estate was already full of guests and the celebration was already in full swing. According to custom, the bride, while waiting for the groom, must dance her last dance in her parents' house. A place was prepared for her to dance - carpets were laid, music began to play. Tamara began her farewell dance, immersed in exciting thoughts. This is the last day when she is an unmarried girl, and then she will have to leave for a strange house, live with the groom's relatives - she did not know how they would accept her. The only thought that warmed the heart of the young beauty was the thought of an early meeting with her beloved Sinodal. Meanwhile, Sinodal and his people were driving along the mountain road to the Gudala estate.

Fascinated by the beauty and plasticity of Tamara, the evil Demon fell in love to the point of madness. Burning with jealousy, he set the robbers on the young Sinodal's caravan. The robbers, knowing the area well, mercilessly killed the entire caravan, and only the groom managed to get out of the battlefield thanks to his fast horse. But, before Sinodal had time to escape from the criminals, a bullet overtook him and mortally wounded him. Having reached the princely house, he died in the arms of his beloved.

For a long time Tamara cried, did not sleep at night, thinking about her fiancé. The evil insidious Demon came to her and whispered words of love, he appeared to her in the form of a beautiful young man. At first, Tamara thought that these were visions and so that they would disappear, she asked her father to send her to a monastery. She decided to dedicate the rest of her life to prayer and service to God. For a long time Gudal did not dare - she was the only one with him, but nevertheless heeded the requests of his daughter. Even in the monastery, the Demon did not leave Tamara alone. And she, in turn, began to think more and more about him, even when she prayed, she thought about the mysterious ghost.

The demon was really truly in love with the princess. He wanted closeness with her, but he knew that if he touched her, Tamara would die. For some time, the Demon left thoughts about his desires, so as not to harm the girl, but blinded by love, one day he decided to appear before her with his own eyes. Once an evil spirit in the form of a young man, only with wings, entered Tamara's cell, but a bright Angel blocked his way. Listening to the sweet speeches of the Demon, Tamara believed in his kindness and disinterestedness - in this case, the Angel was powerless and retreated. But Tamara did not suspect that she could be hiding under the gentle embraces and passionate kisses of the Demon. She allowed him to kiss her, and this kiss was the last for her. Tamara's dying cry was heard by a monastery attendant passing by.

The demon decided to take not only the life of the beauty, but also her soul, and now the Angel came to the defense and did not give Tamara's pure soul to the evil spirit.

The dead Tamara was as beautiful as in life, and a dying passionate smile remained on her lips. She was dressed in the most beautiful clothes and buried in the family cemetery high in the mountains. A lot of time has passed since then, even Gudal's house was destroyed, but the grave of the beautiful Tamara is still intact on the top of the mountain.

The shortest content. Essence and theme.

Picture or drawing Demon

Other retellings and reviews for the reader's diary

• Rasputin

  The childhood of the famous writer Valentin Rasputin passed in a small Siberian village. Entering the Irkutsk University, Rasputin immediately begins his creative activity. He works as a freelance reporter for a youth newspaper.

• Summary Semyanovsky Front-line childhood

  There is a war going on. Very quickly, a boy named Fedya became a complete orphan. The guy was hired by kurkul Tretiak. The boy worked for him for several years. What he just did not do: dealt with economic issues and did any work.

• Summary of Likhanov Labyrinth

  Tolik has a dream, as if he was in a laboratory where experiments are being carried out on people, and where they tried to strangle him. Waking up, he retells his parents and grandmother, to which the latter says that this is in trouble.

• Green

  The work of the writer A.S. Green is based on everyday stories, he transferred his experienced situations to paper. The very first story did not see the light of day immediately after it was written, as the authorities considered it anti-government and agitational.

• Summary Ruslan and Lyudmila Pushkin

  Prince Vladimir decided to arrange a holiday by bringing together his sons, friends and other people. The reason for the celebration was the wedding of his only daughter, Luda. Everyone is excited about this event.

From the collection of short stories "Four Million" O.Henry, 1906

Gifts of the Magi
(Translated by E. Kalashnikova)

One dollar eighty seven cents. That was it. Of these, sixty cents are in one cent coins. For each of these coins, one had to bargain with a grocer, a greengrocer, a butcher, so that even the ears burned with the silent disapproval that such frugality aroused. Della counted three times. One dollar eighty seven cents. And tomorrow is Christmas.

The only thing that could be done here was to slam on the old couch and cry. That's exactly what Della did. Where does the philosophical conclusion come from that life consists of tears, sighs and smiles, and sighs predominate.

While the mistress of the house goes through all these stages, let's look at the house itself. Furnished apartment for eight dollars a week. The atmosphere is not so much blatant poverty, but rather eloquently silent poverty. Below, on the front door, a letter-box, through which no letter could squeeze, and an electric bell-button, from which no mortal could make a sound. To this was added a card bearing the inscription "Mr. James Dillingham Young." "Dillingham" came into full swing during a recent period of prosperity, when the owner of the said name received thirty dollars a week. Now, with that income reduced to twenty dollars, the letters in the word "Dillingham" faded, as if seriously wondering if it could be reduced to a modest and unassuming "D"? But when Mr. James Dillingham Jung came home and went upstairs to his apartment, he was invariably greeted with the exclamation of "Jim!" - and the tender embrace of Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you under the name of Della. And this is really, really cute.

Della stopped crying and brushed her puff over her cheeks. She now stood at the window and looked despondently at the gray cat walking along the gray fence along the gray yard. Tomorrow is Christmas, and she only has one dollar and eighty-seven cents for a present for Jim! For many months she gained literally every cent, and that's all she achieved. Twenty dollars a week won't get you far. The expenses turned out to be more than she expected. This is always the case with spending. Just a dollar and eighty-seven cents for Jim's present! Her Jim! How many joyful hours she spent thinking about what to give him for Christmas. Something very special, rare, precious, something just a little worthy of the high honor of belonging to Jim.
Go to the online Vulcan Deluxe app - the best slots for you
In the wall between the windows stood a dressing table. Have you ever looked into the dressing table of an eight-dollar furnished apartment? A very thin and very mobile person can, by observing the successive change of reflections in his narrow doors, form a fairly accurate idea of ​​\u200b\u200bhis own appearance. Della, who was of a frail build, managed to master this art.

She suddenly jumped away from the window and rushed to the mirror. Her eyes sparkled, but the color drained from her face in twenty seconds. With a quick movement, she pulled out the hairpins and loosened her hair.

I must tell you that the James Dillingham Jungs had two treasures that were their pride. One is Jim's gold watch that belonged to his father and grandfather, the other is Della's hair. If the Queen of Sheba lived in the house opposite, Della, after washing her hair, would certainly dry her loose hair at the window - especially in order to make all the outfits and jewelry of Her Majesty fade. If King Solomon served in the same house as a porter and kept all his wealth in the basement, Jim, passing by, would take out his watch from his pocket every time - especially to see how he tears his beard out of envy.

And then Della's beautiful hair fell apart, shining and shimmering like the jets of a chestnut waterfall. They descended below the knees and wrapped almost her entire figure in a cloak. But she immediately, nervous and in a hurry, began to pick them up again. Then, as if hesitating, she stood motionless for a minute, and two or three tears fell on the shabby red carpet.

An old brown jacket on her shoulders, an old brown hat on her head - and, tossing her skirts, flashing with wet sparkles in her eyes, she was already rushing down to the street.

The sign at which she stopped read: “M-te Sophronie. All kinds of hair products. Della ran up to the second floor and stopped, panting for breath.

— Will you buy my hair? she asked madam.

“I buy hair,” said Madame. - Take off your hat, we need to look at the goods.

The chestnut waterfall flowed again.

"Twenty dollars," said madam, weighing the thick mass in her hand as usual.

"Let's hurry," Della said.

The next two hours flew by on pink wings - I apologize for the hackneyed metaphor. Della was shopping around looking for a present for Jim.

Finally she found. No doubt it was made for Jim, and only for him. Nothing like it was found in other stores, and she turned everything upside down in them. It was a platinum pocket watch chain, simple and austere in design, captivating by its true qualities, and not by ostentatious brilliance, as all good things should be. She, perhaps, could even be recognized as worthy of a watch. As soon as Della saw it, she knew that the chain must belong to Jim. She was just like Jim himself. Modesty and dignity - these qualities distinguished both. Twenty-one dollars had to be paid to the cashier, and Della hurried home with eighty-seven cents in her pocket. With such a chain, Jim in any society will not be ashamed to ask what time it is. Gorgeous as his watch was, he often glanced at it furtively, because it hung on a wretched leather strap.

At home, Della's excitement subsided and gave way to forethought and calculation. She took out her curling iron, lit the gas, and set about repairing the damage caused by generosity combined with love. And this is always the hardest work, my friends, gigantic work.

Not even forty minutes had passed before her head was covered with cool little curls that made her surprisingly similar to a boy who had run away from lessons. She looked at herself in the mirror with a long, attentive and critical look.

Well, she told herself, if Jim doesn't kill me the moment he looks at me, he'll think I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what was I to do, oh, what was I to do, since I had only a dollar and eighty-seven cents!”

At seven o'clock the coffee was brewed, and the red-hot frying pan stood on the gas stove, waiting for the mutton cutlets.

Jim was never late. Della clutched the platinum chain in her hand and sat on the edge of the table near the front door. Soon she heard his footsteps down the stairs and turned pale for a moment. She had a habit of turning to God with short prayers about all sorts of everyday little things, and she whispered hastily:

“God, make sure he doesn’t like me!”

The door opened and Jim entered and closed it behind him. He had a thin, worried face. It's not easy being burdened with a family at twenty-two! He needed a new coat for a long time, and his hands were freezing without gloves.

Jim stood motionless at the door, like a setter smelling a quail. His eyes rested on Della with an expression she couldn't understand, and she became frightened. It wasn't anger, or surprise, or reproach, or horror—none of the feelings one might expect. He just stared at her without taking his eyes off her, and his face did not change its strange expression.

Della jumped off the table and rushed to him.

"Jim, dear," she cried, "don't look at me like that!" I cut my hair and sold it because I wouldn't mind if I didn't have anything to give you for Christmas. They will grow back. You're not angry, are you? I couldn't help it. My hair grows very fast. Well, wish me a Merry Christmas, Jim, and let's enjoy the holiday. If you knew what a gift I have prepared for you, what a wonderful, wonderful gift!

- Did you cut your hair? Jim asked with tension, as if, despite the increased brain activity, he still could not grasp this fact.

“Yes, she cut her hair and sold it,” said Della. "But you'll still love me, won't you?" I'm still the same, albeit with short hair.

Jim looked around the room in bewilderment.

“So, your braids are gone now?” he asked with a senseless insistence.

"Don't look, you won't find them," said Della. - I'm telling you: I sold them - cut them off and sold them. Today is Christmas Eve, Jim. Be nice to me, because I did it for you. Maybe the hairs on my head can be counted,” she continued, and her gentle voice suddenly sounded serious, “but no one, no one could measure my love for you! Fry cutlets, Jim?

And Jim came out of his daze. He pulled his Della into his arms. Let's be modest and take a few seconds to consider some foreign object. Which is more - eight dollars a week or a million a year? A mathematician or a sage will give you the wrong answer. The magi brought precious gifts, but there was not one among them. However, these vague hints will be explained further.

Jim took a bundle from his coat pocket and tossed it on the table.

"Don't misunderstand me, Dell," he said. - No hairstyle and haircut can make me stop loving my girl. But unfold this bundle, and then you will understand why I was a little taken aback at the first minute.

White nimble fingers tore at the twine and paper. There was a cry of delight, and immediately—alas! - purely feminine, replaced by a stream of tears and groans, so that it was necessary to immediately apply all the sedatives that were at the disposal of the owner of the house.

For there were combs on the table, that very set of combs - one back and two side ones - which Della had long admired reverently in one Broadway window. Lovely combs, real tortoiseshell, with glittering pebbles set into the edges, and just the color of her brown hair. They were expensive - Della knew this - and her heart long languished and languished from an unrealizable desire to possess them. And now they belonged to her, but there are no longer beautiful braids that would adorn their desired brilliance.

Nevertheless, she pressed her combs to her chest, and when at last she found the strength to raise her head and smile through her tears, she said:

“My hair grows really fast, Jim!

Then she suddenly jumped up like a scalded kitten and exclaimed:

- Oh my god!

After all, Jim had not yet seen her wonderful gift. She hurriedly handed him the chain in her open palm. The matte precious metal seemed to play in the rays of her stormy and sincere joy.

"Isn't it lovely, Jim?" I ran all over the city until I found this. Now you can watch at least a hundred times a day what time it is. Give me a watch. I want to see what it will look like all together.

But Jim, instead of obeying, lay down on the couch, put both hands under his head and smiled.

"Dell," he said, "we'll have to hide our presents for now, let them lie down for a bit." They are too good for us now. I sold the watch to buy you combs. And now, perhaps, it's time to fry the cutlets.

The Magi, those who brought gifts to the baby in the manger, were, as you know, wise, surprisingly wise people. It was they who started the fashion to make Christmas gifts. And since they were wise, their gifts were wise, perhaps even with a stipulated right of exchange in case of unsuitability. And here I was telling you an unremarkable story about two stupid children from an eight-dollar apartment who, in the most unwise way, sacrificed their greatest treasures for each other. But let it be said for the edification of the wise of our day, that of all the givers these two were the wisest. Of all those who offer and receive gifts, only those like them are truly wise. Anywhere and everywhere. They are the wolves.

Lines of fate
(Translated by N. Dekhtereva)

Tobin and I once thought of taking a ride to Coney Island. There were four dollars between us, and Tobin needed to have fun. Cathy Mahorner, his sweetheart from Sligo, has been lost since the day three months ago when she left for America with two hundred dollars of her own savings and another hundred from the sale of Tobin's ancestral estate - a fine house in Boch Schonnauch and a pig . And since that letter in which she wrote Tobin that she was going to see him, there was not a word from Kathy Mahorner. Tobin advertised in the newspapers, but to no avail, they did not find the girl.

Well, here we are, me and Tobin, moving on to Koni - maybe, we thought, the slides, the wheel, and the smell of roasted corn kernels will shake him up a little. But Tobin is such a guy, it's not easy to stir him up - longing has eaten into his skin hard. He gnashed his teeth as soon as he heard the balloons squeak. I scolded the picture in the illusion. And even though he never refused a drink, just offer it - he did not even look at Punch and Judy. And when those who strive to photograph your physique on a brooch or a medallion went, he climbed up to go to them properly.

“Here,” he says, “here I will amuse myself. Let the fortune-teller-enchantress from the country of the Nile examine my palm, let her tell me whether what should come true will come true.

Tobin is a guy who believes in signs and unearthly phenomena in earthly life. He was stuffed with all sorts of reprehensible beliefs and superstitions - he took on faith and black cats, and lucky numbers, and newspaper forecasts of the weather.

Well, we enter this magical chicken coop - everything is arranged there as it should be, in a mysterious way - both red curtains and pictures - hands on which lines intersect, like rails at a junction station. A sign above the entrance shows that Madame Zozo, an Egyptian palmist, is operating here. Inside the tent sat a fat woman in a red jumper embroidered with some kind of squiggles and little animals. Tobin gives her a dime and sticks out his hand, which is akin to the hoof of a drafthorse.

The sorceress takes Tobin's hand and looks to see what's wrong: the horseshoe, perhaps, flew off or the stone in the arrow wound up.

“Listen,” this Madame Zozo says, “your leg…

“It's not a leg,” Tobin interrupts. “Maybe it’s not God knows what beauty, but it’s not a leg, it’s my arm.”

“Your foot,” Madame continues, “has not always walked on smooth paths - this is how the lines of fate show on your palm. And there are many more failures ahead of you. Mount of Venus - or is it just an old corn? indicates that your heart has known love. You were in big trouble because of your sweetheart.

“She's hinting about Kathy Mahorner,” Tobin whispers loudly in my direction.

- Wow! Tobin tells me. - Heard?

“Beware,” the fortuneteller continues, “brunettes and blondes, they will get you into trouble.” You will soon be traveling on water and financial losses. And I also see a line that promises you good luck. One person will enter your life, he will bring you happiness. You recognize him by his nose - he has a crooked nose.

“And his name is not written on the palm of your hand?” Tobin asks. “It would be nice to know how to call this hook-nosed one when he comes to give me my happiness.

“His name,” the fortune-teller says thoughtfully, “is not written on the lines of fate, but it is clear that it is long and has the letter “O” in it.” Everything, nothing more to say. Goodbye. Don't block the entrance.

- Well well; Tobin says as we walk towards the dock. “Just wonders how she knows all this for sure.

When we squeezed to the exit, some Negritos touched Tobin on his ear of his cigar. Trouble came out. Tobin began to thrash the guy on the neck, the women raised a squeal, - well, I was not at a loss, I managed to drag my friend away before the police arrived. Tobin is always in a lousy mood when he's having fun.

And when they were already driving back, the barman on the steamboat began to beckon: “Whom to serve? Who wants beer? and Tobin admitted that yes, he did—wanted to blow the foam off their mug of filthy liquor. And he reached into his pocket, but found that in the crush someone had scooped up all the remaining coins from him. The barman, for lack of physical evidence, unhooked from Tobin, and we were left with nothing - we sat and listened to the Italians on the deck chirping on the violin. It turned out that Tobin returned with Horses even gloomier, and sorrows settled in him even stronger than before the walk.

On a bench near the railing sat a young woman dressed to ride in red cars. And her hair was the color of an unsmoked meerschaum pipe. Tobin, when passing by, accidentally caught her a little on the leg, and after drinking he is always polite with the ladies. He decided to forcefully take off his hat when he apologized, but knocked her off her head, and the wind carried her overboard.

Tobin came back and sat back down in his seat and I started to keep an eye on him - the guy was getting into a lot of trouble. When bad luck came crashing down on Tobin like this, without a break, he was able to knock out the first dandy he came across or take command of a ship.

And suddenly Tobin grabs my hand, not himself.

“Listen, John,” he says. Do you know what we are doing to you? We travel on water!

“Hush, hush,” I tell him. - Get a hold of yourself. We'll land in ten minutes.

“Look at that lady, the blonde,” he says. “On the one on the bench, see? Did you forget about the negritos? What about the financial losses, the coins that were stolen from me, one dollar and sixty-five cents? BUT?

I thought that he was simply counting the troubles that had fallen on him - they do this sometimes to justify their violent behavior, and I tried to explain to him that all this, they say, was nothing.

“Listen,” Tobin says, “you don't know a damn thing about miracles and prophecy that the elect are capable of. Well, remember what the fortuneteller saw on my arm today? Yes, she told the whole truth, everything turns out according to her, right before our eyes. "Watch out," she said, "brunettes and blondes, they'll get you into trouble." Have you forgotten about the negritos - even though I also hit him right - but can you find me a woman more blonde than the one who caused my hat to fall into the water? And where is the one dollar and sixty-five cents that I had in my vest pocket when we got out of the range?

The way Tobin laid it all out for me seemed to match exactly with the sorceress's predictions, although it seems to me that such minor unfortunate incidents can happen to anyone you want on Koni, and predictions are not required here.

Tobin got up, walked around the entire deck - he goes and glares at all the passengers in a row with his red peepers. I ask what it all means. You never know what's on Tobin's mind until he starts throwing his stuff away.

“I should have known it myself,” he tells me. - I am looking for my happiness, which was promised to me by the lines of fate in my palm. I'm looking for a hook-nosed guy who will give me my luck. Without him, we're screwed. Tell me, John, have you ever seen such a bunch of straight-nosed gorloders?

At half-past nine the steamer landed, and we disembarked and stomped home across Twenty-second Street, past Broadway—Tobin was walking without a hat.

On the corner, we see, there is some type standing under a gas lamp - standing and staring at the moon over the elevated. A lanky one, decently dressed, with a cigar in his mouth, and I suddenly see that his nose from the bridge of the nose to the tip has time to bend twice, like a snake. Tobin noticed it too, and immediately began to breathe rapidly, like a horse when the saddle is removed from it. He went straight to this guy and I went with him.

“Good evening to you,” Tobin says to the hooknose.

He takes the cigar out of his mouth and answers Tobin just as politely.

- Tell me, what's your name? Tobin continues. Is it very long or not? Maybe duty tells us to get to know you.

“My name is,” the guy answers politely, “Friedenhausman.” Maximus G. Friedenhausman.

“The length is right,” Tobin says. - And how do you spell it, is there a letter "O" somewhere in the middle?

“No,” the guy answers.

- But still, can't it be written with the letter "O"? Tobin asks again, concern in his voice.

“If foreign spelling disgusts you,” says the big-nosed one, “you can, perhaps, instead of “a” put “o” in the third syllable of my last name.

“It's all right then,” Tobin says. “This is John Malone and Daniel Tobin.

“Very flattered,” says the lanky one, and bows. "Now, since I can't understand why you brought up the spelling question on the street corner, would you mind explaining to me why you're free?"

“By two signs,” Tobin tries to tell him, “that you both have, you, as the fortuneteller prophesied on the sole of my hand, should give me my happiness and finish off all those lines of trouble, starting with the black man and the blonde who sat on cross-legged steamer, and then another financial loss - one dollar and sixty-five cents. And so far everything has come together, right on schedule.

The lanky one stopped smoking and looked at me.

Can you make any corrections to this statement? he asks. Or are you one of those? Judging by your appearance, I thought you were his watchman.

“No, it’s true,” I say. - The thing is that just as one horseshoe is similar to another, so you are an exact copy of that supplier of good luck, about which my friend was guessed by the hand. If you're not the right one, then maybe the lines on Danny's arm crossed awkwardly somehow, I don't know.

“So there are two of you,” says the hook-nosed one, looking to see if there is a policeman nearby. “It was very, very nice to meet you. Good luck.

And then he puts the cigar in his mouth again and moves at a fast pace across the street. But Tobin and I are not far behind, Tobin hugging him on one side, me on the other.

- How! says the lanky one, stopping on the opposite sidewalk and pushing his hat back on his head. Are you following me? I told you,” he says very loudly, “I am delighted to meet you, but now I don’t mind saying goodbye. I rush to my house.

“Hurry,” Tobin says, snuggling up to his sleeve, “hurry to your house.” And I will sit at your doorstep, wait until you leave the house in the morning. Because it depends on you, you are supposed to remove all the curses - and the black man, and the blonde, and financial losses - one dollar sixty-five cents.

“Strange nonsense,” the hook-nosed one turns to me, as to a more reasonable psycho. "Will you take him where he belongs?"

“Listen,” I tell him. “Daniel Tobin is perfectly sane. Maybe he was a little worried - he drank enough to get worried, but not enough to calm down. But he does nothing wrong, he just acts according to his superstitions and predictions, about which I will now explain to you.

And then I tell him the facts about the fortune-teller and that the finger of suspicion points to him as a messenger of fate to give Tobin good luck.

“Now you understand,” I conclude, “what is my share in this whole story? I am a friend of my friend Tobin, as I understand it. It is not difficult to be the friend of the fortunate, it is profitable. And it is not difficult to be a friend of a poor man - then they will exalt you to the skies, they will also print a portrait, as you stand near his house - hold the orphan by the hand with one hand, and with the other you have a scoop with coal. But a lot has to be endured by one who is friends with a complete fool. And this is what I got, - I say, - because, according to my concepts, you can’t read another fate on the palm of your hand, except for the one imprinted on you by the handle of the pick. And even though your nose may be as hooked as you won’t find in all of New York, I don’t think that all the fortune tellers and soothsayers together managed to milk even a drop of luck out of you. But the lines on Danny's hand really point to you, and I'll help him squeeze the luck out of you until he's sure he can't squeeze anything out of you.

Here the lanky man suddenly began to laugh. He leaned against the corner of the house and knew he was laughing. Then he pats us on the back, me and Tobin, and takes both of us by the arms.

“My, my miss,” he says. “But did I dare to hope that such a wonderful and wonderful thing would suddenly fall on me? I almost missed it, I almost missed it. There's a cafe near here, he says, it's cozy and just right for having fun with eccentricities. Let's go over there, have a drink while we discuss the lack of unconditional.

So while talking, he led us, Tobin and me, into the back room of the saloon, ordered drinks, and laid the money on the table. He looks at me and Tobin like his own brothers and treats us to cigars.

“I must tell you,” this messenger of fate says, “that my profession is called literature. I roam the nights, looking for eccentricities in people and truth in the heavens. When you approached me, I observed the connection of the elevated road with the main night luminary. The rapid movement of the elevated train is poetry and art. And the moon is a boring, lifeless body, spinning senselessly. But this is my personal opinion, because in literature everything is not so, everything is topsy-turvy. I hope to write a book in which I want to reveal the strange things that I noticed in life.

"You'll put me in a book," Tobin says in disgust. Will you put me in your book?

“No,” says the literary type, “the cover won't hold up. Not yet, early. So far, I can only enjoy myself, because the time has not yet arrived to lift the restrictions on printing. You will look incredible, fantastic. I alone, alone with myself, must drink this cup of pleasure. Thank you guys, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

“Your talk,” says Tobin, breathing noisily through his moustache, and pounding his fist on the table, “your talk is about to break my patience.” I was promised good luck through your hooked nose, but I see benefits from it, like from a goat's milk. You and your chatter about books are like the wind that blows through the crack. I would have thought that the palm of my hand had lied, if everything else had not come out according to a fortune-teller - and the negritos, and the blonde, and ...

“Well, well,” says this hook-nosed big man. “Is physiognomy capable of misleading you?” My nose will do everything in its power. Let's fill the glasses again, eccentricities are good to keep moist, in a dry moral atmosphere they can be spoiled.

In my opinion, this guy does the right thing - he pays for everything and does it cheerfully, willingly - after all, our capital, Tobin's and mine, disappeared according to the prophecy. But Tobin, offended, drinks silently, and his eyes are filled with blood.

Soon we went out, it was already eleven o'clock, we stood a little on the sidewalk. And then the hook-nosed one says that it's time for him to go home. And invites me and Tobin to his place. After a couple of blocks, we come to a side street lined with brick houses, each with a high porch and iron railings. The lanky one comes up to one such house, looks at the windows of the upper floor, sees that they are dark.

“Here is my humble abode,” he says. - And according to some signs, I conclude that my wife has already gone to bed. So I dare to offer you hospitality. I want you to come downstairs to the kitchen and have a little refreshment. There is also excellent cold chicken, and cheese, and a couple of bottles of beer. I am indebted to you for the pleasure you gave me.

Both Tobin's appetites and mood suited this plan, although it was a shock to Danny: it was hard for him to think that a few glasses of drink and a cold supper meant good luck and happiness, promised by the palm of his hand.

“Go down to the back door,” says the hook-nosed one, “and I will come in here and let you in.” I'll ask our new servant to make you some coffee - for a girl who's only been in New York for three months, Cathy Mahorner makes excellent coffee. Come in,” he says, “I’ll send her to you right away.”

Cosmopolitan in a cafe
(Translated by L. Kanevsky)

By midnight, the café was packed with customers. By a lucky chance, my small table did not attract the attention of those who entered, and two empty chairs with corrupt hospitality extended their armrests towards the stream pouring into the cafe, where their future owners could be found.

But then some cosmopolitan sat down on one chair, and I was terribly happy about this, because I never shared the theory that since the time of Adam there has not been a real citizen of the world on earth. We only hear about them, we see foreign stickers on their suitcases, but still they are not cosmopolitans at all, but simple travelers.

I ask you to pay attention to the setting - tables with marble tops, a row of leather-covered seats along the wall, ladies in beautiful semi-social dresses, an almost visibly perceptible chorus of refined phrases, about fine taste, about economics, about wealth or art, zealous, loving generous tip garcons , music that satisfies every taste from attacks on the compositions of various musicians, conversations interrupted by laughter, and to top it off, a würburger in a tall conical glass that clings to your lips, and an aged cherry flows down the slope to the beak-like nose of a chatty robber. One sculptor from Mouch Chunk told me that it was a typical Parisian atmosphere.

My cosmopolitan was named E. Rushmore Coghlan and will be heard from next week in Coney Island. There he is going to open a new "attraction", which, as he promised me, will provide everyone with entertainment worthy of a king. Now his conversation turned to earthly longitudes and latitudes. He imagined that he held this whole huge globe in his hands, and treated him, one might say, very familiarly, even contemptuously, although he was not at all larger than the stone he had fished out of the Cherry Maraschino, or the grapefruit on the table d'hôte for boarders. He spoke of the equator without any respect, flew from one continent to another, mocked some places angrily, and blotted the ocean with his napkin. Waving his hand casually, he was talking about some bazaar in Hyderabad.

Ah, how great! Here you are skiing with him in Lapland. Whack! Here you are riding high waves with Kanaks in Kilaikaiki. Goplya! Here he drags you on an oak pole through a swamp in Arkansas, lets you dry off a little on the salt flats of his Idaho ranch, and tosses you into the refined society of Viennese archdukes.

He will tell you about the bad cold he caught in the wind of a cold lake in Chicago, and how he was cured in Buenos Aires by the old woman Escamila with a hot poultice of chuchula seaweed. If you want to write to him, then write the following address on the envelope: “E. Rushmore to Coghlan, Esq., Earth, Solar System, Universe," send it boldly by mail and you can be calm - it will certainly reach the addressee.

I was sure that at last I had managed to find a real cosmopolitan since the time of Adam, and I listened to his speech embracing the whole world, fearing to hear in it a banal note of a person simply traveling the world. Nothing like this! The unbending firmness of his opinions could not be shaken even by his desire to flatter or please something - no, he was absolutely impartial to all cities, countries and continents, as impartial as the wind or gravity.

And as E. Rushmore Coghlan continued to babble on about this little planet, I thought with admiration of the almost great cosmopolitan who wrote for the whole world and who devoted himself to Bombay. In his poem, he claims that pride and rivalry reign between cities on earth and that “those people who have tasted their mother’s milk in them travel all over the world, but still cling to these cities, like a toddler to the hem of a mother’s dress.” And when they “wander through unfamiliar streets,” they remember their hometown, “keep their loyalty to it, their stupid love,” and only “the pronounced name of it becomes for them another debt obligation added to others.” And my delight reached its limit when I noticed that Mr. Kipling was resting. Here before me is a man not made of dust, who does not brag about his place of birth or his country as if blinkered, a man who, if he wants to brag, will do it in relation to the entire globe in order to annoy the Martians or the inhabitants of the Moon.

Expressions of this kind flew out of the mouth of E. Rushmore Coghlan and flew to the farthest corner. As Coghlan was describing the topography of the area along the Great Siberian Railway to me, the orchestra played a medley. The final part was the Dixieland "Southern States"; when the merry, exciting melody resounded through the café, the loud applause of nearly all those seated at the tables drowned it out.

It is worth noting in passing that such wonderful scenes can be observed every evening in the numerous cafes of New York. Tons of beer and other drinks were drunk while discussing theories that could explain this phenomenon. Some have suggested, somewhat prematurely, that the southerners who live in the city rush to the cafes at nightfall. Applause applause rebellious "southern atmosphere in this northern city" is somewhat puzzling. But there is nothing mysterious about this. The war with Spain, the large harvests of mint and watermelon for several years in a row, several brilliant victories won in New Orleans at the races, the magnificent banquets given by the Indiana and Kansas residents of the Society of Friends of North Carolina, really turned the South into a Manhattan craze. Your manicure will tell her that your index finger on your left hand reminds her so much of a gentleman from Richmond, Virginia.

As the band played "Southern States" a young black-haired man jumped out of nowhere and, with a wild Mosby howl, frantically waved his brimmed soft hat. Then, pushing his way through the veil of smoke, he flopped down into an empty chair at our table and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

The evening was approaching the stage when restraint is melting more and more noticeably. One of us ordered three Wurzburgers for the waiter; the black-haired man expressed his appreciation for his share of the order with a smile and a nod of his head. I hurried to ask him a question, because I really wanted to confirm the correctness of my theory.

"Would you mind telling us where you're from," I began.

E. Rushmore Coghlan's heavy fist landed on the table with a thud, and I shut up.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but I don't like it when people ask questions like that. What difference does it make where the person is from? Is it possible to judge a person by the address written on the envelope of his letter? For example, I saw Kentuckians who hated whiskey, Virginians who never descended from Pocohontas, Indians who never wrote a single novel, Mexicans who did not wear corduroy trousers with silver dollars sewn into their seams, funny Englishmen, misers Yankees, cold-blooded Southerners, narrow-minded Westerners, and New Yorkers who were in a hurry somewhere and could not afford to stand on the street for a solid hour to watch a one-armed clerk in a grocery store put cranberries into paper bags. Let a person be a person, that's all, and there is no point in putting him in an awkward position, sticking some kind of label on him.

“I beg your pardon,” I said, “but my curiosity is not so empty. I know the South, and when a jazz band plays the Southern States, I like to watch what is happening around. I have the strong impression that if a person claps his hands with all his might to greet this tune, and thus demonstrates his partiality, then he is either a native of Secaucus, New Jersey, or the area between Murray Hill Lyceam and Harlem River in this city. I only wanted to confirm the correctness of my observation by asking this gentleman when you interrupted me with your own theory, much more extensive, it is true, than mine, I must admit.

Now the black-haired man spoke to me, and it became clear to me that his thought flows along very intricate convolutions.

“I would like to be a periwinkle,” he said with some mysterious air, “to grow up on the top of the valley and sing “tu-ralu-ra-lu ...”.

It was very vague, and I turned to Coghlan again.

“I have traveled the globe twelve times,” he said. “I know an Eskimo in Apernavia who sends orders for ties to Cincinnati, I saw a rancher in Uruguay who won a prize in a competition to guess the food a Greek warrior eats at breakfast. I pay for the rooms I rent, one in Cairo, Egypt, and one in Yokohama, I pay all year round, and my slippers are waiting for me in a tea house in Shanghai, and I don't need to explain in Rio de Janeiro or Seattle, How do I cook eggs. Ours is such a small, such an old world. Why brag about being from the North, or the South, from an old mansion in the valley, or living on Euclid Avenue, in Cleveland, or on the peak of a mountain range, or in Fax County, Virginia, or in Hooligan Flats in general, anywhere? When will we finally stop this nonsense and not go crazy over some small town or ten acres of wetlands just because we were lucky enough to be born there?

“To all appearances, you are an ordinary cosmopolitan,” I said admiringly, “but it seems that you openly condemn patriotism.

“A relic from the Stone Age,” Coghlan said mildly. “We are all brothers—the Chinese, the English, the Zulus, the Patagonians, those people who live in the bend of the Cau River. One day all this pride in our cities, states, districts, sections or countries will be eradicated, and we will all become citizens of the world, as we should be.

“But when you wander through foreign lands,” I continued to push my own, “do not you return in your thoughts to some place so dear and ...

- What a place! E. R. Coghlan interrupted me sharply. “The terrestrial spherical planetary mass, slightly flattened at the poles, known as the Earth, is my home. Abroad, I met many citizens of this country, strongly attached to their native places. I heard Chicagoans bragging about their drainage canal as they rode a gondola through moonlit Venice at night. I saw a southerner who, when he was introduced to the English king, without blinking an eye, told him such valuable information - that his maternal great-grandmother was a relative by marriage of the Perkys of Charleston. I knew a New Yorker who was captured by Afghan bandits and ransomed. His relatives raised the money and he returned to Kabul with an agent. Can you tell me about Afghanistan? they asked him at home. “I don’t know what to tell… and instead of what happened to him, he began to talk about some taxi driver from Sixth Avenue and Broadway. No, such ideas do not interest me. I am not attached to anything less than eight thousand miles in diameter. Just call me E. Rushmore Coghlan, citizen of the globe.

My cosmopolitan ceremoniously said goodbye to me, as it seemed to him that he saw his acquaintance in this hubbub through the dense curtain of cigarette smoke. Thus, I was left alone with a possible periwinkle, which a glass of "Witzberger" deprived of the desire to spread further about his desire to hang comfortably on some peak in the valley. I sat thinking about my so convincing, flamboyant cosmopolitan, and honestly wondered how any poet had overlooked it.

He was my discovery, and I believed in him. Like this? "Those people who have tasted mother's milk in their cities travel all over the world, but still cling to these cities, like a toddler to the hem of their mother's dress." No, E. R. Coghlan is not like that. He has the whole world at his disposal...

Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by some kind of roar and scandal that arose in another corner of the cafe. Over the heads of those seated at the tables, I saw E. Rushmore Coghlan start a terrible fight with a stranger. They fought between the tables like titans, and the glasses fell to the floor and broke loudly, they knocked down the men, and they caught the hats flying off their heads; some brunette squealed wildly, the blonde began to hum "How seductive it all is."

My cosmopolitan bravely defended his pride and the reputation of the Earth. The waiters went with the famous "wedge" on the fighting and began to push them, but they still desperately resisted.

I called McCarthy, one of the French "garcons", and asked him what was the cause of the conflict.

— The man with the red tie (it was my cosmopolitan) was very angry because his interlocutor spoke badly about the idlers staggering on the sidewalks and about the poor water supply of the city in which he was born.

“It can't be,” I said in surprise. - After all, he is an inveterate cosmopolitan, a citizen of the world. He…

“He was born in Mattawamkegi, Maine,” McCarthy went on, “and he couldn't bear the insulting remarks about his hometown!
..............................
Copyright: stories about Henry

The novel The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry, written in 1905 in a New York tavern, is a classic example of a Christmas story. We recommend reading the summary of The Gift of the Magi, which will be useful both for the reader's diary and for preparing for the literature lesson. A distinctive feature of the book is the ease of style, conciseness, wit and unexpected denouement.

The main characters of the novel

Main characters:

• Jim Dillingham Jung is a young man, a caring, loving husband.
• Della Jung is a young, spontaneous girl who loves her husband immensely.

Other characters

• The owner of the salon is the owner of the salon for the manufacture of wigs, who bought Della's hair.

O. Henry "The Gift of the Magi" in abbreviation

O. Henry "Gifts of the Magi" summary for the reader's diary:

Della came home sad and wept. She wanted to give a gift to her beloved husband, but she did not have enough money. They rented an apartment and lived in poverty. They had two treasures - a gold pocket watch that Jim inherited from his grandfather, and Della's luxurious hair.

She decided to sell her hair. With the money she received, she bought a chain for her husband's watch. In excitement, she waited for him. Finally, the husband came and looked in shock at his trimmed wife. The girl assured him that the hair would grow quickly.

Jim said that his reaction was due to his gift for her - these are tortoiseshell combs with stones that she had long dreamed of. Della showed her gift and asked for a watch, but Jim sold it to buy her scallops.

The love and joy of a loved one is more important than material values. This story shows that love is an act of giving, selflessness and caring. Each of the spouses did not regret the only expensive thing to please the second. It is positive emotions, warmth and attention that remain with us forever, and physical categories are transient and short-term.

Read also "The Decameron" - a collection of one hundred short stories by the Italian writer Giovanni Boccaccio, written approximately in 1352-1354. On our website you can read. This book is one of the most famous collections of the early Italian Renaissance. Most of the short stories are devoted to the theme of love, ranging from its erotic to tragic aspects.

Condensed retelling of "The Gift of the Magi"

"Gifts of the Magi" by O. Henry summary:

Bargaining with a greengrocer, a grocer and a butcher so that his ears burned, Della collected only a dollar and eighty-five cents. With these pennies, she must buy a Christmas present for her husband Jim.

Jim and Della rent a furnished apartment, the furnishings of which are not that blatant poverty, but rather eloquent poverty. This family has two treasures: Della's luxurious hair, before which all the jewels of the Queen of Sheba herself would fade, and Jim's gold watch, which King Solomon himself would envy.

Della stopped at a sign that read "Hair Products of All Kinds." For twenty dollars, she sold her treasure and used the proceeds to buy Jim a platinum chain for his watch. While preparing dinner for her husband, she prayed that he would not dislike the short haircut.

When Jim came home, frozen without gloves, either with surprise, or with horror, or with anger, he examined his wife. No amount of haircut, haircut, or other reason could make Jim stop loving his wife, but he couldn't quite grasp the fact that Della no longer had braids.

Finally, Jim pulled out a package that contained a set of tortoiseshell combs with precious stones - the object of Della's secret desires. In response, she presented her husband with a chain. But her gift, like Jim's, had to be hidden for the time being: Jim pawned the watch to buy combs for his wife.

The Magi, those who started the fashion to make Christmas gifts, were wise people, therefore their gifts were with the agreed right of exchange in case of unsuitability. These two were the wisest, as they sacrificed their greatest treasures for each other.

The plot of the novel "Gifts of the Magi" with quotes

Bargaining zealously with the butcher, the grocer, and the greengrocer, Della was only able to save a dollar and eighty-seven cents. All that was left for her - is to slam on an old couch and cry". Tomorrow is Christmas, and with these saved pennies you need to buy a gift for your beloved husband Jim.

The couple rented a modest furnished apartment, in which " eloquently silent poverty". Jim's income was reduced, and now Della had to save literally on everything, but this did not affect her attitude towards her husband, whom she loved with all her heart.

Having calmed down, Della began to look dejectedly out the window, and suddenly her eyes sparkled with joy, illuminated by a saving idea. The girl loosened her luxurious hair, which "crumbled, shining and shimmering, like the jets of a chestnut waterfall."

By the way, the Jungs had two jewels - Della's beautiful curls and Jim's gold watch, " belonging to his father and grandfather».

So Della looked at her hair, that " descended below the knees”, she cried a little and resolutely went to the salon M‑me Sophronie, whose owner was engaged in the manufacture of wigs and hairpieces.

For twenty dollars, the girl sold her treasure, and immediately went in search of a suitable gift for Jim. She chose a platinum chain for his watch.

While preparing dinner, Della was worried about only one thing - to please her husband with short, like a boy's hair. At the sight of the cropped wife Jim " froze at the door, like a setter smelling a quail". This was soon explained - he pawned a gold watch to buy his wife a set of tortoiseshell combs, which she had long dreamed of.

Jim smiled and suggested that Della hide the gifts until better times. The Magi, who made it a tradition to give gifts at Christmas, were wise people. These two were the wisest of them, because they sacrificed for each other the most precious thing they had ...

Conclusion

Love, generosity and sacrifice - these are the qualities that the main characters of the novel have. Despite poverty and deprivation, they are able to rejoice in the fact that they have a true treasure - love for each other.

It appeared quite a long time ago. Initially, it is associated with the biblical story of the Magi who brought incense as a gift to the newly born Jesus. Seeing a star appearing in the sky, they realized that the savior of mankind had appeared in the world, and they came to worship him.

What a person can sacrifice in order to bring true joy to a loved one is discussed in the story of O. Henry "Gifts of the Magi", a summary of which is given below.

Exposure. Getting to know the characters

Already from the first sentences of the work it becomes clear how hard it is for the married couple Dillingham Jung. They rent an apartment for which they have to pay $8 every week. “Silent poverty” can be seen in the whole setting. does not work. And the slot in the mailbox is so narrow that there is no way a letter could be put in there. And the sign on the door with the name of the owner, which appeared when he earned $ 30, now seemed tarnished. Since the family's income dropped by ten dollars, the couple had to save on everything. But each evening upon returning home, Mr. James was invariably awaited by the joyful voice of his wife and "tender hugs."

Della

The summary of the story "Gifts of the Magi" should be continued with a description of the mistress of the house. On Christmas Eve, she dejectedly counted the money she had saved up over several months, saving wherever she could. She remembered scenes of humiliating bargaining with a grocer, a butcher, a greengrocer for every cent. But the expenses were still very high, so in the end they managed to collect only a dollar and eighty-seven cents. They were to buy a gift for her husband, whom she loved very much.

First, Della threw herself on the couch and burst into tears. However, something had to be done. She went to the window, then suddenly went to the dressing table standing in the wall. Her eyes sparkled and her face turned pale.

The only wealth of the heroes of the story "Gifts of the Magi"

The young woman, going to the mirror, freed her curls from the hairpins ... They scattered over her shoulders and covered her entire figure below the knees. They shone and shimmered, resembling a chestnut waterfall. But Della immediately began to collect them. At that moment, two or three tears rolled down from her eyes. The decision was ripe instantly - after all, she could not leave her dear James without a gift. Moreover, his magnificent watch, inherited from his grandfather and father, needed a chain. It will replace the old leather strap. Then the beloved will be able to proudly take out his watch to see the time.

twenty dollars for a gift

Della quickly dressed and rushed out into the street - this is how the plot of the story "Gifts of the Magi" develops, a summary of which is offered to the reader. She ran up to the second floor of the building, where Madame Sophronie was stationed, buying up her hair. A few minutes - and Della received twenty dollars and went shopping in search of a gift. And after another couple of hours, she hurried home with the remaining eighty-seven cents and the purchased platinum watch chain.

The return of the husband

First of all, Della curled her hair - she hoped that James would not be very upset when he saw her with a new hairstyle, and even more so would not stop loving her. She made coffee, prepared a frying pan for cutlets. Then, clutching the chain in her hand, she crouched closer to the door and waited.

Entered Mr. Dillingham Jung, seeing his wife, froze in an incomprehensible stupor ... Something like this continues O. Henry "Gifts of the Magi". The summary of the story does not allow describing the scene that arose at that moment. One thing is important - James still could not believe that his Della no longer had her luxurious hair.

Gift exchange

Pretty soon his behavior will become clear to the reader. James took out a roll of paper and handed it to his wife. Della unfolded it - and combs appeared before her eyes. The very ones that she had long dreamed of: tortoiseshell, with pebbles around the edges. They matched the color of her hair so well. Involuntarily shed tears and moans of despair help to understand the condition of the woman. And this episode can be called the culmination of the story "Gifts of the Magi". A summary of the conversation that followed between the spouses is as follows. Della tried to convince her husband that her hair would grow back very soon. But she also bought him a magnificent gift. She opened her hand, and the precious metal sparkled on it. But James, seeing the chain, lay down on the couch and smiled. He sold his watch to buy combs. "We'll have to hide our presents for now... they're too good for us," was his reply.

The final

In the final part of the work, O. Henry recalls the biblical story and gives it a very brief summary. The gifts of the Magi, called wise, could always be exchanged if they turned out to be unsuitable. The difference between the story told is that Delly and James were much more generous. These two, without a moment's hesitation, sacrificed the most precious thing in their lives for their loved one. And affectionately calling his heroes “stupid kids from an eight-dollar apartment,” the author notes that they are the wisest.

This is the story of the great love of two ordinary people, described in the story of O. Henry "The Gift of the Magi", a summary of which you have read.