Yevgeny Sitanov, who painted the face, hit the violent man on the head with a stool and knocked him unconscious. The Cossack sat on the ground, and they immediately pushed him down and tied him up with a towel. He tried to chew the towel off like a wild animal. Yevgeny leapt frantically on the table, with his elbows close to his waist, and made a gesture of throwing himself at the Cossacks. He was tall and strong, and when he jumped down, he would crush the sternum of Kabijiuxin. But at that instant, Larionovich, in his coat and hat, came up to him, threatened Sitanov with his fingers, and said earnestly and in a low voice to the craftsmen, "Take him to the porch and sober him up.." Pulling the Cossack out of the workshop, he set the table and chair and sat down to work again. Brief remarks were exchanged about the Cossack's strength, prophecies that one day he would be killed in a fight, and so on. "It's not easy to kill him," said Sitanov as quietly as if he were familiar with the work. I looked at Larionovich and wondered why these strong, violent men obeyed him so easily? He told everyone how to work, and even the highly skilled craftsmen listened to him. He taught Kabyukhin more than anyone else, and spoke more to him. Since you are called a painter,uns s32750 sheet, you must paint well and in Italian style. Oil painting must have the unity of warm colors, but you use too much white, making the eyes of the Virgin Mary so cold, with a chill. His cheeks were painted as red as apples, his eyes did not match it, and his position was not right. One looked at the bridge of his nose, and the other moved to his temple. As a result, the face does not feel holy and clean,uns c68700, but becomes cunning and vulgar. You don't work hard, Kabijiuxin. The Cossack listened with a crooked face, and then, with a shy smile from his womanish eyes, said in a pleasant voice, with a slight tingle in his throat because he had been drunk: "Hey, Ivan Larionovich, sir, this is not my line of work.". I was born a musician, but I became a monk. "Anything can be done well as long as you work hard." No, who am I? Tell me to be a coachman and take three horses with me. As he spoke, he highlighted his Adam's apple and began to sing with sadness and despair: "Hey, I want to put a black chestnut hair on the troika and gallop through the cold night to my lover's house.". Ivan Larionovich smiled gently, adjusted the spectacles on his grey, sad nose, uns c70600 ,a333 grade 6 pipe, and went away. At once a dozen voices joined his voice in a mighty stream that seemed to make the whole workshop float, and the well-proportioned tune made the workshop tremble: a horse knows where the girl's home is when he is familiar with the road.. Apprentice Bashka Odintsov stopped pouring the egg yolk in his hand, held the broken eggshell in both hands, and sang a beautiful child's high-pitched chorus. They were intoxicated by the song, forgot themselves, breathed together, lived in the same feeling, and looked askance at the Cossacks. When he sang, the whole workshop recognized him as their leader. Everyone was attracted by him and watched him waving his hands as if he were going to fly. I believe that if he stopped singing at this time, he would shout "destroy everything." Then all the people, even the most well-behaved craftsmen, must have smashed the workshop in a few minutes. He seldom sings, but his bold and unconstrained singing is always equally irresistible and victorious. No matter how heavy people feel, he can make them excited and burning, and all of them are energetic and hot, forming a powerful body. These songs made me feel a warm admiration for the singer himself, for the power of conducting the beauty of others, and a feeling of great excitement went into my heart, and I wanted to cry and shout to the people singing, "I love you." The yellow-faced Davydov, suffering from tuberculosis, had his hair disheveled and his mouth opened strangely, like a young bird that had just been peeled out of an eggshell. Only when the Cossacks lead the singing, they sing bold and happy songs. He usually sang sad and drawn-out songs, humming "Not Shy People", "Under the Trees" and "How Our Alexander Reviewed His Army" about the death of Alexander I.

Sometimes, Zhikharev, the most skilled face painter in the workshop, tried to sing hymns, but always failed many times. Zhikharev always used a special tune that only he knew, which hindered everyone's chorus. It was a man of forty-five or forty-six, thin and bald, with a half circle of curly black hair like a gypsy, and eyebrows as thick and black as a beard. A thick, pointed beard made his slender, blackish, unRussian face very attractive, but a bristly moustache under his high nose in the middle made his eyebrows superfluous. His two blue eyes were unusually large, and the one on the left was obviously much larger than the one on the right. Bashka. He called to my fellow artiste in a tenor voice. Take the lead in singing "Praise the Name of the Lord." Listen up, everybody. Bashka wiped his hands on the apron and began to sing: "Praise-beauty.." "…… The name of the Lord. "Several people came up, and Zhikharev shouted uneasily," Yevgeny, lower your head. Sink your voice to the bottom of your heart. "Servants of God.." Shouted Sitanov in a voice that rumbled like a barrel. No, no, no. This place should sing so loudly that the windows and doors will open by themselves. Zhikharev's whole body shook in an inexplicable excitement, and his strange eyebrows went up and down on his forehead. His voice was out of shape, and his fingers were playing invisible strings in the air. Servants of God-Do you understand? He said meaningfully. This place should penetrate the shell all the way to the center. Servants! Praise God. Why don't you understand? You are all flesh and blood. "You know, we've never been good at this place,x56 line pipe," said Sitanov politely. Then you don't have to sing. Zhikharev began to work angrily. He was the best painter, able to paint holy faces in Byzantine style, French style and Italian style of "art school". lksteelpipe.com