Pushkin. Stories of the late Ivan Petrovich Belkin

The story “The Station Warden” is included in Pushkin’s cycle of stories “Belkin’s Tales”, published as a collection in 1831.

Work on the stories was carried out during the famous “Boldino autumn” - the time when Pushkin came to the Boldino family estate to quickly resolve financial issues, but stayed for the whole autumn due to the cholera epidemic that broke out in the surrounding area. It seemed to the writer that there would never be a more boring time, but suddenly inspiration appeared, and stories began to come out from his pen one after another. So, on September 9, 1830, the story “The Undertaker” was completed, on September 14, “The Station Warden” was ready, and on September 20, “The Young Lady-Peasant” was finished. Then a short creative break followed, and in the new year the stories were published. The stories were republished in 1834 under the original authorship.

Analysis of the work

Genre, theme, composition

Researchers note that “The Station Agent” was written in the genre of sentimentalism, but the story contains many moments that demonstrate the skill of Pushkin the romantic and realist. The writer deliberately chose a sentimental manner of narration (more precisely, he put sentimental notes into the voice of his hero-narrator, Ivan Belkin), in accordance with the content of the story.

Thematically, “The Station Agent” is very multifaceted, despite its small content:

the theme of romantic love (with escaping from one’s home and following one’s loved one against one’s parents’ will),
the theme of the search for happiness,
theme of fathers and sons,
The theme of the “little man” is the greatest theme for Pushkin’s followers, Russian realists.

The thematic multi-level nature of the work allows us to call it a miniature novel. The story is much more complex and more expressive in its semantic load than a typical sentimental work. There are many issues raised here, in addition to the general theme of love.

Compositionally, the story is structured in accordance with the other stories - the fictional author-narrator talks about the fate of station guards, downtrodden people and those in the lowest positions, then tells a story that happened about 10 years ago, and its continuation. The way it begins

“The Station Agent” (an opening argument in the style of a sentimental journey) indicates that the work belongs to the sentimental genre, but later at the end of the work there is the severity of realism.

Belkin reports that station employees are people of a difficult lot, who are treated impolitely, perceived as servants, complain and are rude to them. One of the caretakers, Samson Vyrin, was sympathetic to Belkin. He was a peaceful and kind man, with a sad fate - his own daughter, tired of living at the station, ran away with the hussar Minsky. The hussar, according to her father, could only make her a kept woman, and now, 3 years after the escape, he does not know what to think, for the fate of seduced young fools is terrible. Vyrin went to St. Petersburg, tried to find his daughter and return her, but could not - Minsky sent him away. The fact that the daughter lives not with Minsky, but separately, clearly indicates her status as a kept woman.

The author, who personally knew Dunya as a 14-year-old girl, empathizes with her father. He soon learns that Vyrin has died. Even later, visiting the station where the late Vyrin once worked, he learns that his daughter came home with three children. She cried for a long time at her father’s grave and left, rewarding a local boy who showed her the way to the old man’s grave.

Heroes of the work

There are two main characters in the story: father and daughter.

Samson Vyrin is a diligent worker and father who dearly loves his daughter, raising her alone.

Samson is a typical “little man” who has no illusions both about himself (he is perfectly aware of his place in this world) and about his daughter (for someone like her, neither a brilliant match nor sudden smiles of fate shine). Samson's life position is humility. His life and the life of his daughter takes place and must take place on a modest corner of the earth, a station cut off from the rest of the world. There are no handsome princes here, and if they do appear on the horizon, they promise girls only the fall from grace and danger.

When Dunya disappears, Samson cannot believe it. Although matters of honor are important to him, love for his daughter is more important, so he goes to look for her, pick her up and return her. He imagines terrible pictures of misfortunes, it seems to him that now his Dunya is sweeping the streets somewhere, and it is better to die than to drag out such a miserable existence.

Dunya

In contrast to her father, Dunya is a more decisive and persistent creature. The sudden feeling for the hussar is rather a heightened attempt to escape from the wilderness in which she was vegetating. Dunya decides to leave her father, even if this step is not easy for her (she supposedly delays the trip to church and leaves, according to witnesses, in tears). It is not entirely clear how Dunya’s life turned out, and in the end she became the wife of Minsky or someone else. Old Vyrin saw that Minsky had rented a separate apartment for Dunya, and this clearly indicated her status as a kept woman, and when she met her father, Dunya looked “significantly” and sadly at Minsky, then fainted. Minsky pushed Vyrin out, not allowing him to communicate with Dunya - apparently he was afraid that Dunya would return with her father and apparently she was ready for this. One way or another, Dunya has achieved happiness - she is rich, she has six horses, a servant and, most importantly, three “barchats”, so one can only rejoice at her successful risk. The only thing she will never forgive herself is the death of her father, who hastened his death by intense longing for his daughter. At the grave of the father, the woman comes to belated repentance.

Characteristics of the work

The story is riddled with symbolism. The very name “station warden” in Pushkin’s time had the same shade of irony and slight contempt that we put into the words “conductor” or “watchman” today. This means a small person, capable of looking like a servant in the eyes of others, working for pennies without seeing the world.

Thus, the stationmaster is a symbol of a “humiliated and insulted” person, a bug for the mercantile and powerful.

The symbolism of the story was manifested in the painting decorating the wall of the house - this is “The Return of the Prodigal Son.” The stationmaster longed for only one thing - the embodiment of the script of the biblical story, as in this picture: Dunya could return to him in any status and in any form. Her father would have forgiven her, would have reconciled himself, as he had reconciled all his life under the circumstances of fate, merciless to “little people.”

“The Station Agent” predetermined the development of domestic realism in the direction of works that defend the honor of the “humiliated and insulted.” The image of Father Vyrin is deeply realistic and amazingly capacious. This is a small man with a huge range of feelings and with every right to respect for his honor and dignity.

“The Station Agent” is one of the stories included in the famous work by A.S. Pushkin "Tales of the late Ivan Petrovich Belkin." In “The Station Warden,” the author introduces us to the difficult, joyless life of ordinary people, namely station guards, during the times of serfdom. Pushkin draws the reader’s attention to the fact that in the outwardly stupid and ingenuous performance of their duties by these people lies hard, often thankless work, full of troubles and worries.

When we first met Samson Vyrin, he looked “fresh and cheerful.” Despite the hard work and the often rude and unfair treatment of those passing by, he is not embittered and sociable.

However, how can grief change a person!...

In his story, the narrator introduced slightly modified poems by the poet’s friend Pyotr Vyazemsky “Kaluga registrar, / Postal station dictator...”. Further getting acquainted with the story, we understand that deep irony is hidden behind these words. The author encourages his reader to fill his heart with sincere compassion instead of indignation. The storyteller, who traveled many roads and knew almost all the caretakers by sight, can be trusted. The author is interested in these people with a kind heart, kindness, and amazing ability to conduct conversations, which the writer often prefers to the speeches of some sixth-grade official.

Indeed, the words of Prince Vyazemsky sound very ironic against the background of Pushkin’s ideas.

The narrator admits with pride that he has friends from the venerable class of caretakers, and the memory of one of them is especially precious to him, and this precious memory takes him back to May 1816.

The narrator, a young man of minor rank, came to the station to rest, change horses and change clothes after the rain. The traveler was struck by the beauty of the caretaker's daughter Dunya, a fourteen-year-old girl, and her big blue eyes; she exhibits the manners of a girl of noble birth. According to her father, Dunya is intelligent, agile - just like a dead mother. The narrator also notices narcissism and a desire to please the guest in Luni’s behavior; he calls the girl a little coquette.

In 1816, in the month of May, I happened to be driving through the *** province, along a highway that has now been destroyed.

I see, as now, the owner himself, a man of about fifty, fresh and cheerful, and his long green coat with three medals on faded ribbons.

Before I had time to pay my old coachman, Dunya returned with a samovar. The little coquette noticed at second glance the impression she made on me; she lowered her big blue eyes; I began to talk to her, she answered me without any timidity, like a girl who has seen the light. I offered my father her glass of punch; I served Duna a cup of tea, and the three of us began talking as if we had known each other for centuries.

Dunya even allowed him to kiss her cheek in the hallway. Undoubtedly, the narrator is a kind, sincere, attentive person, he is touched by the decor of the room where these kind people live, pots of balsam, a bed with a colorful curtain, as well as pictures on the walls depicting the story of the prodigal son. The narrator described in detail the plot of these pictures about the young man , who knew sadness and repentance and returned to his father after a long wandering. They seem to hint at the future story of the prodigal daughter - the heroine of the story, and the honorable old man in a cap and dressing gown resembles the caretaker himself.

In the story, the narrator visits the postal station three times. The first and second visits have a lot in common. The narrator sees the same post house, enters a room with pictures on the wall, the table and bed are in the same places, but this is only the external similarity of both arrivals. There is no Dunya, and therefore everything familiar is seen differently.

The caretaker slept under a sheepskin coat; my arrival woke him up; he stood up... It was definitely Samson Vyrin; but how he has aged! While he was getting ready to rewrite my travel document, I looked at his gray hair, at the deep wrinkles of his long-unshaven face, at his hunched back - and could not marvel at how three or four years could turn a vigorous man into a frail old man.

Pay attention to a very characteristic detail: “the caretaker slept under a sheepskin coat.” She emphasizes how neglected Vyrin is. The sickness and decrepitude of the caretaker is emphasized by another detail. Compare the first time: “Here he began to rewrite my travel document.” That is, he immediately began to fulfill his official duty. On the second visit:

While he was getting ready to rewrite my travel document, I looked at his gray hair, at the deep wrinkles of his long-unshaven face, at his hunched back - and could not marvel at how three or four years could turn a vigorous man into a frail old man...

The caretaker hesitates like an old man, with difficulty deciphering what is written, pronounces the words out loud in an old man’s whisper - before us is the bitter story of the extinction of one broken life.

The caretaker tells the story of Captain Minsky's appearance at the station.

When talking with the caretaker, he demanded horses rather, “he raised his voice and his whip,” and only Dunya’s affectionate address to the hussar dispelled his anger. The hussar became better, agreed to wait for the horses and even ordered dinner for himself. The captain began to talk cheerfully with the caretaker and his daughter. Minsky, wanting to stay longer at the station, called in sick and even bribed a doctor to do so.

Samson Vyrin and Dunya sincerely believe in Minsky’s illness, they did not even pay attention to the fact that the patient drank two cups of coffee and ordered lunch, drank a mug of lemonade and ate with great appetite with the doctor and also drank a bottle of wine.

Samson Vyrin is a kind and trusting little man, he is convinced of Minsky’s decency and unwittingly lets his daughter go when the hussar offers to take her to the church (Fig. 1).

Rice. 1. Illustration by M. Dobuzhinsky for “The Station Agent” ()

The hussar was given a wagon. He said goodbye to the caretaker, generously rewarding him for his stay and refreshments; He said goodbye to Dunya and volunteered to take her to the church, which was located on the edge of the village. Dunya stood in bewilderment... “What are you afraid of?” her father told her; “After all, his nobility is not a wolf and will not eat you: take a ride to the church.” Dunya sat down in the wagon next to the hussar, the servant jumped onto the handle, the coachman whistled and the horses galloped off.

The caretaker felt guilty. The poor caretaker did not understand how he could allow his Duna to ride with the hussar:

How blindness came over him, and what happened to his mind then. Less than half an hour had passed when his heart began to ache and ache, and anxiety took possession of him to such an extent that he could not stand it and went to mass himself. Approaching the church, he saw that the people were already leaving, but Dunya was neither in the fence nor on the porch. He hurriedly entered the church; the priest came out of the altar; the sexton was extinguishing the candles, two old women were still praying in the corner; but Dunya was not in the church. The poor father decided to forcefully ask the sexton whether she had attended mass. The sexton replied that she had not been. The caretaker went home neither alive nor dead. There was only one hope left to him: Dunya, in the frivolity of her young years, perhaps decided to take a ride to the next station, where her godmother lived. In painful anxiety he awaited the return of the troika on which he had let her go. The coachman did not return. Finally, in the evening, he arrived alone and drunk, with the murderous news: “Dunya from that station went further with the hussar.”

The driver who was driving him said that Dunya cried all the way, although it seemed that she was driving of her own accord.

The caretaker begins to fight for his daughter. He goes on foot in search of Dunya and hopes to bring home his lost sheep. Minsky, having met the caretaker in the hallway, does not stand on ceremony with him, explaining that Dunya will be happy with him, paid off Vyrin with money, which he later threw away. The second time, the captain’s servant explained to Vyrin that “the master doesn’t accept anyone, he pushed him out of the hall with his chest and slammed the door in his face.” When Vyrin dared to demand his daughter from Minsky for the third time, the hussar pushed him onto the stairs. Minsky truly loves Dunya: he surrounds her with attention and luxury. And Dunya loves her captor: with what tenderness she looked at Minsky, at his matte black curls (Fig. 2)!

Rice. 2. Illustration by M. Dobuzhinsky for the story by A.S. Pushkin "Station Warden" ()

Dunya became a rich lady, but this made her father’s life even more miserable. The poor man remained a poor man. But that's not the main thing. What is much worse is that his human dignity was insulted and trampled upon.

The story ends sadly. Years have passed, the narrator specially comes to the station to see the caretaker, but he has already drunk himself and died.

Is the memory of Samson Vyrin still alive among people? Yes, people remember him, they know where his grave is, the owner’s boy Vanka learned from the caretaker how to carve pipes. Samson Vyrin often played with children and gave them nuts.

The narrator learns that Duna later repented; she came to her father, but found only his grave. Yes, she became a rich lady, she has three children, but Dunya violated one of the commandments: “honor your father and mother” and suffers greatly from this. The fate of the girl makes us think about responsibility for our actions to people close to us (Fig. 3).

Rice. 3. Illustration by M.V. Dobuzhinsky to the story by A.S. Pushkin "Station Warden" ()

What are the similarities and differences between the story of Dunya and the prodigal son from the biblical parable?

The prodigal son repented and was forgiven, Dunya also repented, but it was too late: her father died, she did not receive forgiveness from him, and her fate was all the more bitter.

Read the story “The Station Warden” by Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin.

What is it about?

About deep fatherly love, about daughterly ingratitude. This story is about how it is difficult for a poor person to compete with the rich and powerful, oh little man, who retained her dignity, is about the belated repentance of the prodigal daughter, who will live with a sense of guilt before her father.

SMALL MAN is a type of literary hero in Russian literature that arose in the twenties and thirties of the nineteenth century. The first image of the “little man” was Samson Vyrin from the story “The Station Warden” by Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin. A “little man” is a person of low social status and origin, not gifted with outstanding abilities, not distinguished by strength of character, but at the same time kind, does no harm to anyone, and is harmless. A.S. Pushkin, creating the image of the “little man,” wanted to remind readers who were accustomed to admiring romantic heroes that the most ordinary person is also worthy of sympathy, attention and support.

Bibliography

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin performed by masters of artistic expression/Collection/MP3-CD. - M.: ARDIS-CONSULT, 2009.
V. Voevodin. The Tale of Pushkin. - M.: Children's literature, 1955.
Literature. 6th grade. At 2 o'clock / [V.P. Polukhina, V.Ya. Korovina, V.P. Zhuravlev, V.I. Korovin]; edited by V.Ya. Korovina. - M., 2013.
Pushkin A.S. Belkin's stories. - M.: Ripol Classic, 2010.

Librusec. A lot of books. "Everything is ours." What to read about Pushkin A.S. [Electronic resource]. - Access mode: ().
All explanatory dictionaries of the Russian language in a single rubricator. [Electronic resource]. - Access mode: ().
“Encyclopedia of Russian Painting” [Electronic resource]. - Access mode: ().
Electronic publications of the Institute of Russian Literature (Pushkin House) RAS. Pushkin's office [Electronic resource]. - Access mode: ().

Homework

Vocabulary work. In the story “The Station Agent” there are outdated words and expressions, the meaning of which must be known to understand the meaning of the work. Using an explanatory dictionary of the Russian language and comments to the work, write down the meaning of these words:
Collegiate Registrar -

Clerk -

Courier -

Podorozhnaya -

On transfer bars -

Runs -

Retell the story of Samson Vyrin (optional)

A. on behalf of Hussar Minsky;

College Registrar,

Postal station dictator.

Prince Vyazemsky.

Who hasn’t cursed the stationmasters, who hasn’t sworn at them? Who, in a moment of anger, did not demand from them a fatal book in order to write into it his useless complaint about oppression, rudeness and malfunction? Who doesn’t consider them monsters of the human race, equal to the late clerks or, at least, the Murom robbers? Let us, however, be fair, we will try to put ourselves in their position, and perhaps we will begin to judge them much more leniently. What is a stationmaster? A real martyr of the fourteenth grade, protected by his rank only from beatings, and even then not always (I refer to the conscience of my readers). What is the position of this dictator, as Prince Vyazemsky jokingly calls him? Isn't this real hard labor? I have peace neither day nor night. The traveler takes out all the frustration accumulated during a boring ride on the caretaker. The weather is unbearable, the road is bad, the driver is stubborn, the horses are not moving - and the caretaker is to blame. Entering his poor home, a passer-by looks at him as if he were an enemy; it would be good if he managed to get rid of the uninvited guest soon; but if the horses don’t happen?.. God! what curses, what threats will rain down on his head! In the rain and slush, he is forced to run around the yards; in a storm, in the Epiphany frost, he goes into the entryway, just to rest for a minute from the screams and pushes of an irritated guest. The general arrives; the trembling caretaker gives him the last two threes, including the courier one. The general leaves without saying thank you. Five minutes later - the bell rings!... and the huntsman throws his travel bag on his table!.. Let's look into all this carefully, and instead of indignation, our hearts will be filled with sincere compassion. A few more words: for twenty years in a row, I traveled Russia in all directions; I know almost all postal routes; I know several generations of coachmen; I don’t know a rare caretaker by sight, I haven’t dealt with a rare one; I hope to publish a curious stock of my travel observations in a short time; For now I will only say that the class of stationmasters is presented to the general opinion in the most false form. These much-maligned caretakers are generally peaceful people, naturally helpful, inclined towards community, modest in their claims to honor and not too money-loving. From their conversations (which are inappropriately neglected by gentlemen passing by) one can glean a lot of interesting and instructive things. As for me, I confess that I prefer their conversation to the speeches of some 6th class official traveling on official business.

You can easily guess that I have friends from the venerable class of caretakers. Indeed, the memory of one of them is precious to me. Circumstances once brought us closer together, and this is what I now intend to talk about with my dear readers.

In 1816, in the month of May, I happened to be driving through the *** province, along a highway that has now been destroyed. I was in a minor rank, rode on carriages, and paid fees for two horses. As a result of this, the caretakers did not stand on ceremony with me, and I often took in battle what, in my opinion, was rightfully due me. Being young and hot-tempered, I was indignant at the baseness and cowardice of the caretaker when this latter gave the troika he had prepared for me under the carriage of the official master. It took me just as long to get used to having a picky servant hand me a dish at the governor’s dinner. Nowadays both seem to me to be in the order of things. In fact, what would happen to us if, instead of the generally convenient rule: honor the rank of rank, something else was introduced into use, for example: honor the mind of the mind? What controversy would arise! and who would the servants start serving the food with? But I turn to my story.

The day was hot. Three miles from the station it began to drizzle, and a minute later the pouring rain soaked me to the last thread. Upon arrival at the station, the first concern was to quickly change clothes, the second was to ask myself some tea. “Hey Dunya!” the caretaker shouted, “put on the samovar and go get some cream.” At these words, a girl of about fourteen came out from behind the partition and ran into the hallway. Her beauty amazed me. “Is this your daughter?” I asked the caretaker. - “Daughter, sir,” he answered with an air of satisfied pride; “Yes, so intelligent, so agile, like a dead mother.” Then he began to copy out my travel document, and I began to look at the pictures that decorated his humble but neat abode. They depicted the story of the prodigal son: in the first, a respectable old man in a cap and dressing gown releases a restless young man, who hastily accepts his blessing and a bag of money. Another vividly depicts the depraved behavior of a young man: he sits at a table, surrounded by false friends and shameless women. Further, a squandered young man, in rags and a three-cornered hat, tends pigs and shares a meal with them; his face shows deep sadness and remorse. Finally, his return to his father is presented; a kind old man in the same cap and dressing gown runs out to meet him: the prodigal son is on his knees; in the future, the cook kills a well-fed calf, and the elder brother asks the servants about the reason for such joy. Under each picture I read decent German poetry. All this has been preserved in my memory to this day, as well as pots with balsam and a bed with a colorful curtain, and other objects that surrounded me at that time. I see, as now, the owner himself, a man of about fifty, fresh and cheerful, and his long green coat with three medals on faded ribbons.

The horses were ready a long time ago, but I still didn’t want to part with the caretaker and his daughter. Finally I said goodbye to them; my father wished me a good journey, and my daughter accompanied me to the cart. In the entryway I stopped and asked her permission to kiss her; Dunya agreed... I can count a lot of kisses,

Since I've been doing this,

but none left such a long, such a pleasant memory in me.

Several years passed, and circumstances led me to that very road, to those very places. I remembered the old caretaker's daughter and rejoiced at the thought that I would see her again. But, I thought, the old caretaker may have already been replaced; Dunya is probably already married. The thought of the death of one or the other also flashed through my mind, and I approached the *** station with a sad premonition.

The horses stopped at the post house. Entering the room, I immediately recognized the pictures depicting the story of the prodigal son; the table and bed were in the same places; but there were no longer flowers on the windows, and everything around showed disrepair and neglect. The caretaker slept under a sheepskin coat; my arrival woke him up; he stood up... It was definitely Samson Vyrin; but how he has aged! While he was getting ready to rewrite my travel document, I looked at his gray hair, at the deep wrinkles of his long-unshaven face, at his hunched back - and could not marvel at how three or four years could turn a vigorous man into a frail old man. “Did you recognize me?” I asked him; “You and I are old acquaintances.” “It may happen,” he answered gloomily; “The road here is big; many travelers visited me.” - “Is your Dunya healthy?” I continued. The old man frowned. “God knows,” he answered. - “So apparently she’s married?” I said. The old man pretended not to hear my question and continued to read my travel document in a whisper. I stopped my questions and ordered the kettle to be put on. Curiosity began to bother me, and I hoped that the punch would resolve the language of my old acquaintance.

I was not mistaken: the old man did not refuse the offered glass. I noticed that the rum cleared up his sullenness. By the second glass he became talkative; remembered or pretended to remember me, and I learned from him a story that at that time greatly interested and touched me.

“So you knew my Dunya?” he began. “Who didn’t know her? Ah, Dunya, Dunya! What a girl she was! It happened that whoever passed by, everyone would praise, no one would judge. The ladies gave it as a gift, sometimes with a handkerchief, sometimes with earrings. Gentlemen passing by deliberately stopped, as if to have lunch or dinner, but in fact only to take a closer look at her. Sometimes the master, no matter how angry he was, would calm down in her presence and talk kindly to me. Believe it, sir: the couriers and field rangers talked to her for half an hour. She kept the house going: she kept up with everything, what to clean, what to cook. And I, the old fool, can’t get enough of it; Didn’t I really love my Dunya, didn’t I cherish my child; Did she really have no life? No, you can’t avoid trouble; what is destined cannot be avoided.” Then he began to tell me in detail his grief. - Three years ago, one winter evening, when the caretaker was lining a new book, and his daughter was sewing a dress for herself behind the partition, a troika drove up, and a traveler in a Circassian hat, in a military overcoat, wrapped in a shawl, entered the room, demanding horses. The horses were all in full speed. At this news the traveler raised his voice and his whip; but Dunya, accustomed to such scenes, ran out from behind the partition and affectionately turned to the traveler with the question: would he like to have something to eat? Dunya's appearance had its usual effect. The passerby's anger passed; he agreed to wait for the horses and ordered himself dinner. Taking off his wet, shaggy hat, unraveling his shawl and pulling off his overcoat, the traveler appeared as a young, slender hussar with a black mustache. He settled down with the caretaker and began to talk cheerfully with him and his daughter. They served dinner. Meanwhile, the horses arrived, and the caretaker ordered that they immediately, without feeding, be harnessed to the traveler’s wagon; but when he returned, he found a young man almost unconscious lying on a bench: he felt sick, his head ached, it was impossible to go... What to do! the caretaker gave him his bed, and it was supposed, if the patient did not feel better, to send to S*** for a doctor the next morning.

The next day the hussar became worse. His man went on horseback to the city to get a doctor. Dunya tied a scarf soaked in vinegar around his head and sat down with her sewing by his bed. The patient groaned in front of the caretaker and did not say almost a word, but he drank two cups of coffee and, groaning, ordered himself lunch. Dunya did not leave his side. He constantly asked for a drink, and Dunya brought him a mug of lemonade she had prepared. The patient wet his lips, and each time he returned the mug, as a sign of gratitude, he shook Dunyushka’s hand with his weak hand. The doctor arrived at lunchtime. He felt the patient’s pulse, spoke to him in German, and in Russian announced that he needed only peace of mind, and that in two days he would be able to hit the road. The hussar gave him twenty-five rubles for the visit and invited him to dinner; the doctor agreed; They both ate with great appetite, drank a bottle of wine and parted very pleased with each other.

Another day passed, and the hussar completely recovered. He was extremely cheerful, joked incessantly, first with Dunya, then with the caretaker; he whistled songs, talked with passers-by, wrote down their travel information in the postal book, and became so fond of the kind caretaker that on the third morning he was sorry to part with his kind guest. The day was Sunday; Dunya was getting ready for mass. The hussar was given a wagon. He said goodbye to the caretaker, generously rewarding him for his stay and refreshments; He said goodbye to Dunya and volunteered to take her to the church, which was located on the edge of the village. Dunya stood in bewilderment... “What are you afraid of?” her father told her; “After all, his nobility is not a wolf and will not eat you: take a ride to the church.” Dunya sat down in the wagon next to the hussar, the servant jumped onto the handle, the coachman whistled and the horses galloped off.

The poor caretaker did not understand how he could allow his Duna to ride with the hussar, how blindness came over him, and what happened to his mind then. Less than half an hour had passed when his heart began to ache and ache, and anxiety took possession of him to such an extent that he could not stand it and went to mass himself. Approaching the church, he saw that the people were already leaving, but Dunya was neither in the fence nor on the porch. He hurriedly entered the church; the priest came out of the altar; the sexton was extinguishing the candles, two old women were still praying in the corner; but Dunya was not in the church. The poor father decided to forcefully ask the sexton whether she had attended mass. The sexton replied that she had not been. The caretaker went home neither alive nor dead. There was only one hope left to him: Dunya, in the frivolity of her young years, perhaps decided to take a ride to the next station, where her godmother lived. In painful anxiety he awaited the return of the troika on which he had let her go. The coachman did not return. Finally, in the evening, he arrived alone and drunk, with the murderous news: “Dunya from that station went further with the hussar.”

The old man could not bear his misfortune; he immediately went to bed in the same bed where the young deceiver had lain the day before. Now the caretaker, considering all the circumstances, guessed that the illness was feigned. The poor man fell ill with a severe fever; he was taken to S*** and someone else was assigned to his place for the time being. The same doctor who came to the hussar also treated him. He assured the caretaker that the young man was completely healthy, and that at that time he still guessed about his evil intention, but remained silent, fearing his whip. Whether the German was telling the truth or just wanting to boast of his foresight, he did not console the poor patient in the least. Having barely recovered from his illness, the caretaker asked S*** the postmaster for leave for two months, and without telling anyone a word about his intention, he set off on foot to fetch his daughter. From the road station he knew that Captain Minsky was traveling from Smolensk to St. Petersburg. The driver who was driving him said that Dunya cried all the way, although it seemed that she was driving of her own accord. “Perhaps,” thought the caretaker, “I’ll bring my lost sheep home.” With this thought in mind, he arrived in St. Petersburg, stopped at the Izmailovsky regiment, in the house of a retired non-commissioned officer, his old colleague, and began his search. He soon learned that Captain Minsky was in St. Petersburg and was living in a tavern in Demut. The caretaker decided to come to him.

Early in the morning he came to his hallway and asked him to report to his honor that the old soldier was asking to see him. The military footman, cleaning his boot on the last, announced that the master was resting and that he would not receive anyone before eleven o’clock. The caretaker left and returned at the appointed time. Minsky himself came out to him in a dressing gown and a red skufia. “What do you want, brother?” he asked him. The old man’s heart began to boil, tears welled up in his eyes, and in a trembling voice he said only: “Your Honor!.. do such a divine favor!..” Minsky looked at him quickly, flushed, took him by the hand, led him into the office and locked him behind him. door. “Your Honor!” the old man continued, “what fell from the cart was lost; at least give me my poor Dunya. After all, you were amused by her; Don’t destroy her in vain.” “What has been done cannot be undone,” said the young man in extreme confusion; “I am guilty before you, and I am glad to ask you for forgiveness; but don’t think that I could leave Dunya: she will be happy, I give you my word of honor. Why do you need it? She loves Me; she was unaccustomed to her previous state. Neither you nor she will forget what happened.” Then, putting something down his sleeve, he opened the door, and the caretaker, without remembering how, found himself on the street.

He stood motionless for a long time, and finally saw a bundle of papers behind the cuff of his sleeve; he took them out and unfolded several crumpled five- and ten-ruble banknotes. Tears welled up in his eyes again, tears of indignation! He squeezed the papers into a ball, threw them on the ground, stamped them with his heel, and walked away... After walking a few steps, he stopped, thought... and turned back... but the banknotes were no longer there. A well-dressed young man, seeing him, ran up to the cab driver, sat down hastily and shouted: “Let's go!..” The caretaker did not chase him. He decided to go home to his station, but first he wanted to see his poor Dunya at least once again. For this, two days later, he returned to Minsky; but the military footman told him sternly that the master did not accept anyone, pushed him out of the hall with his chest, and slammed the doors in his face. The caretaker stood, stood, and then went.

On this very day, in the evening, he walked along Liteinaya, having served a prayer service for All Who Sorrow. Suddenly a smart droshky raced in front of him, and the caretaker recognized Minsky. The droshky stopped in front of a three-story house, right at the entrance, and the hussar ran onto the porch. A happy thought flashed through the mind of the caretaker. He returned, and when he came level with the coachman: “Whose horse, brother?” he asked, “Isn’t it Minsky?” - “Exactly so,” answered the coachman, “what do you want?” - “Well, here’s the thing: your master ordered me to take a note to his Dunya, and I’ll forget where his Dunya lives.” - “Yes, here, on the second floor. You are late, brother, with your note; now he’s with her.” “There’s no need,” the caretaker objected with an inexplicable movement of his heart, “thank you for the advice, and I’ll do my job.” And with that word he walked up the stairs.

The doors were locked; he called, a few seconds passed; in painful anticipation. The key rattled and it was opened for him. “Is Avdotya Samsonovna standing here?” he asked. “Here,” answered the young maid; “Why do you need it?” The caretaker, without answering, entered the hall. “You can’t, you can’t!” the maid shouted after him: “Avdotya Samsonovna has guests.” But the caretaker, without listening, moved on. The first two rooms were dark, the third was on fire. He walked up to the open door and stopped. In the beautifully decorated room, Minsky sat thoughtfully. Dunya, dressed in all the luxury of fashion, sat on the arm of his chair, like a rider on her English saddle. She looked at Minsky with tenderness, wrapping his black curls around her sparkling fingers. Poor caretaker! Never had his daughter seemed so beautiful to him; he admired her involuntarily. "Who's there?" she asked without raising her head. He remained silent. Receiving no answer, Dunya raised her head... and fell onto the carpet screaming. Frightened Minsky rushed to pick her up, and suddenly seeing the old caretaker at the door, he left Dunya and approached him, trembling with anger. “What do you want?” he told him, gritting his teeth; “Why are you following me everywhere like a robber? or do you want to stab me? Go away!" and with a strong hand he grabbed the old man by the collar and pushed him onto the stairs.

The old man came to his apartment. His friend advised him to complain; but the caretaker thought, waved his hand and decided to retreat. Two days later he set out from St. Petersburg back to his station and again took up his post. “For the third year now,” he concluded, how I have lived without Dunya, and how there is neither a word nor a breath of her. Whether she is alive or not, God knows. Stuff happens. Not her first, not her last, was lured away by a passing rake, but he held her there and abandoned her. There are a lot of them in St. Petersburg, young fools, today in satin and velvet, and tomorrow, look, they are sweeping the street along with the tavern's nakedness. When you sometimes think that Dunya, perhaps, is disappearing right there, you will inevitably sin and wish for her grave...”

This was the story of my friend, the old caretaker, the story was repeatedly interrupted by tears, which he picturesquely wiped away with his lap, like the diligent Terentyich in Dmitriev’s beautiful ballad. These tears were partly aroused by the punch, of which he drew five glasses in the continuation of his story; but be that as it may, they touched my heart greatly. Having parted with him, I could not forget the old caretaker for a long time, I thought for a long time about poor Duna...

Recently, driving through the town of ***, I remembered my friend; I learned that the station over which he commanded had already been destroyed. To my question: “Is the old caretaker alive?” no one could give me a satisfactory answer. I decided to visit a familiar side, took free horses and set off for the village of N.

This happened in the fall. Gray clouds covered the sky; a cold wind blew from the reaped fields, blowing red and yellow leaves from the trees they encountered. I arrived in the village at sunset and stopped at the post office. In the entryway (where poor Dunya once kissed me) a fat woman came out and answered my questions that the old caretaker had died a year ago, that a brewer had settled in his house, and that she was the brewer’s wife. I felt sorry for my wasted trip and the seven rubles spent for nothing. “Why did he die?” I asked the brewer's wife. “I got drunk, father,” she answered. - “Where was he buried?” - “Outside the outskirts, near his late mistress.” - “Is it possible to take me to his grave?” - “Why not? Hey Vanka! You've had enough of messing around with the cat. Take the master to the cemetery and show him the caretaker’s grave.”

At these words, a ragged boy, red-haired and crooked, ran out to me and immediately led me beyond the outskirts.

“Did you know the dead man?” I asked him dear.

“How can you not know! He taught me how to carve pipes. It used to be (may he rest in heaven!) he would come out of a tavern, and we would follow him: “Grandfather, grandfather!” nuts!“ - and he gives us nuts. Everyone used to mess with us.”

“Do passers-by remember him?”

“Yes, but there are few travelers; Unless the assessor wraps it up, he has no time for the dead. In the summer, a lady passed by, and she asked about the old caretaker and went to his grave.”

“Which lady?” I asked curiously.

“Beautiful lady,” answered the boy; “she rode in a carriage of six horses, with three little chaps and a nurse, and a black pug; and when they told her that the old caretaker had died, she began to cry and said to the children: “Sit still, and I’ll go to the cemetery.” And I volunteered to bring it to her. And the lady said: “I know the way myself.” And she gave me a silver nickel - such a kind lady!..”

We came to the cemetery, a bare place, unfenced, dotted with wooden crosses, not shaded by a single tree. I have never seen such a sad cemetery in my life. “Here is the grave of the old caretaker,” the boy told me, jumping onto a pile of sand into which was buried a black cross with a copper image.

“And the lady came here?” I asked.

“She came,” answered Vanka; “I looked at her from afar. She lay down here and lay there for a long time. And there the lady went to the village and called the priest, gave him money and went, and gave me a nickel in silver - a nice lady!

And I gave the boy a penny, and no longer regretted either the trip or the seven rubles I spent.

The history of the creation of Pushkin’s work “The Station Agent”

Boldino autumn in the works of A.S. Pushkin became truly “golden”, since it was at this time that he created many of his works. Among them are “Belkin’s Tales”. In a letter to his friend P. Pletnev, Pushkin wrote: “... I wrote 5 stories in prose, from which Baratynsky laughs and fights.” The chronology of the creation of these stories is as follows: “The Undertaker” was completed on September 9, “The Station Agent” was completed on September 14, “The Young Lady-Peasant” was completed on September 20, after an almost month-long break, the last two stories were written: “The Shot” - October 14 and “Blizzard” " - The 20th of October. The cycle of Belkin's Tales was Pushkin's first completed prose creation. The five stories were united by the fictitious person of the author, whom the “publisher” spoke about in the preface. We learn that I.P. Belkin was born “from honest and noble parents in 1798 in the village of Goryukhino.” “He was of average height, had gray eyes, brown hair, a straight nose; his face was white and thin.” “He led a very moderate life, avoided all kinds of excesses; It never happened... to see him drunk..., he had a great inclination towards the female sex, but the modesty in him was truly girlish.” In the autumn of 1828, this sympathetic character “succumbed to a cold fever, which turned into a fever, and died...”.
At the end of October 1831, “Tales of the late Ivan Petrovich Belkin” were published. The preface ended with the words: “Considering it to be our duty to respect the will of our venerable friend the author, we offer him our deepest gratitude for the news he has brought us and we hope that the public will appreciate their sincerity and good nature. A.P.” The epigraph to all the stories, taken from Fonvizin’s “Minor” (Ms. Prostakova: “Then, my father, he is still a hunter of stories.” Skotinin: “Mitrofan for me”), speaks of the nationality and simplicity of Ivan Petrovich. He collected these “simple” stories, and wrote them down from different narrators (“The Caretaker” was told to him by titular adviser A.G.N., “The Shot” by Lieutenant Colonel I.P., “The Undertaker” by clerk B.V., “Blizzard” " and "Young Lady" by the girl K.I.T.), having processed them according to her own skill and discretion. Thus, Pushkin, as a real author of stories, hides behind a double chain of simple-minded narrators, and this gives him great freedom of narration, creates considerable opportunities for comedy, satire and parody and at the same time allows him to express his attitude to these stories.
With the full name of the real author, Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin, they were published in 1834. Creating in this cycle an unforgettable gallery of images living and acting in the Russian province, Pushkin talks about modern Russia with a kind smile and humor. While working on “Belkin’s Tales,” Pushkin outlined one of his main tasks: “We need to give our language more freedom (of course, in accordance with its spirit).” And when the author of the stories was asked who this Belkin was, Pushkin replied: “Whoever he is, stories must be written this way: simply, briefly and clearly.”
The analysis of the work shows that the story “The Station Agent” occupies a significant place in the work of A.S. Pushkin and is of great importance for all Russian literature. Almost for the first time, it depicts life’s hardships, pain and suffering of what is called the “little man.” This is where the theme of “the humiliated and insulted” begins in Russian literature, which will introduce you to kind, quiet, suffering heroes and allow you to see not only meekness, but also the greatness of their souls and hearts. The epigraph is taken from PA Vyazemsky’s poem “Station” (“Collegiate registrar, / Postal station dictator”). Pushkin changed the quote, calling the stationmaster a “collegiate registrar” (the lowest civilian rank in pre-revolutionary Russia), and not a “provincial registrar”, as it was in the original, since this one is of a higher rank.

Genre, genre, creative method

“The Stories of the Late Ivan Petrovich Belkin” consists of 5 stories: “The Shot”, “The Blizzard”, “The Undertaker”, “The Station Warden”, “The Young Lady-Peasant”. Each of Belkin's Tales is so small in size that one could call it a story. Pushkin calls them stories. For a realist writer reproducing life, the forms of the story and novel in prose were especially suitable. They attracted Pushkin because of their intelligibility to the widest circles of readers, which was much greater than poetry. “Stories and novels are read by everyone, everywhere,” he noted. Belkin's stories" are, in essence, the beginning of Russian highly artistic realistic prose.
Pushkin took the most typical romantic plots for the story, which may well be repeated in our time. His characters initially find themselves in situations where the word “love” is present. They are already in love or just long for this feeling, but this is where the unfolding and escalation of the plot begins. "Belkin's Tales" were conceived by the author as a parody of the genre of romantic literature. In the story “The Shot” the main character Silvio came from the bygone era of romanticism. This is a handsome, strong, brave man with a solid, passionate character and an exotic non-Russian name, reminiscent of the mysterious and fatal heroes of Byron’s romantic poems. In "Blizzard" French novels and romantic ballads of Zhukovsky are parodied. At the end of the story, a comic confusion with the suitors leads the heroine of the story to a new, hard-won happiness. In the story “The Undertaker,” in which Adrian Prokhorov invites the dead to visit him, Mozart’s opera and the terrible stories of the romantics are parodied. “The Peasant Young Lady” is a small, elegant sitcom with cross-dressing in the French style, set in a Russian noble estate. But she kindly, funny and witty parodies the famous tragedy - Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet.
In the cycle of “Belkin’s Tales” the center and peak is “The Station Agent”. The story lays the foundations of realism in Russian literature. In essence, in terms of its plot, expressiveness, complex, capacious theme and ingenious composition, in terms of the characters themselves, this is already a small, condensed novel that influenced subsequent Russian prose and gave birth to Gogol’s story “The Overcoat.” The people here are depicted as simple, and their story itself would be simple if various everyday circumstances had not interfered with it.

Theme of the work “The Station Agent”

In "Belkin's Tales", along with traditional romantic themes from the life of the nobility and estate, Pushkin reveals the theme of human happiness in its broadest sense. Worldly wisdom, rules of everyday behavior, generally accepted morality are enshrined in catechisms and prescriptions, but following them does not always lead to success. It is necessary for fate to give a person happiness, for circumstances to come together successfully. “Belkin's Tales” shows that there are no hopeless situations, one must fight for happiness, and it will be, even if it is impossible.
The story “The Station Agent” is the saddest and most complex work in the cycle. This is a story about the sad fate of Vyrin and the happy fate of his daughter. From the very beginning, the author connects the modest story of Samson Vyrin with the philosophical meaning of the entire cycle. After all, the stationmaster, who does not read books at all, has his own scheme for perceiving life. It is reflected in the pictures “with decent German poetry” that are hung on the walls of his “humble but neat abode.” The narrator describes in detail these pictures depicting the biblical legend of the prodigal son. Samson Vyrin looks at everything that happened to him and his daughter through the prism of these pictures. His life experience suggests that misfortune will happen to his daughter, she will be deceived and abandoned. He is a toy, a little man in the hands of the powerful, who have turned money into the main measure.
Pushkin stated one of the main themes of Russian literature of the 19th century - the theme of the “little man”. The significance of this theme for Pushkin lay not in exposing the downtroddenness of his hero, but in the discovery in the “little man” of a compassionate and sensitive soul, endowed with the gift of responding to someone else’s misfortune and someone else’s pain.
From now on, the theme of the “little man” will be heard constantly in Russian classical literature.

Idea of the work

“There is no idea in any of Belkin’s Tales. You read - sweetly, smoothly, smoothly; when you read - everything is forgotten, there is nothing in your memory except adventures. “Belkin’s Tales” are easy to read, because they do not make you think” (“Northern Bee”, 1834, No. 192, August 27).
“True, these stories are entertaining, they cannot be read without pleasure: this comes from the charming style, from the art of storytelling, but they are not artistic creations, but simply fairy tales and fables” (V.G. Belinsky).
“How long has it been since you re-read Pushkin’s prose? Make me a friend - read all of Belkin's Tales first. They need to be studied and studied by every writer. I did this the other day and I cannot convey to you the beneficial influence that this reading had on me” (from L.N. Tolstoy’s letter to PD Golokhvastov).
Such an ambiguous perception of Pushkin’s cycle suggests that there is some kind of secret in Belkin’s Tales. In “The Station Agent” it is contained in a small artistic detail - wall paintings telling about the prodigal son, which were in the 20-40s. a frequent part of the station environment. The description of those pictures takes the narrative from a social and everyday level to a philosophical one, allows us to comprehend its content in relation to human experience, and interprets the “eternal plot” about the prodigal son. The story is imbued with the pathos of compassion.

Nature of the conflict

An analysis of the work shows that in the story “The Station Warden” there is a humiliated and sad hero, the ending is equally mournful and happy: the death of the station warden, on the one hand, and the happy life of his daughter, on the other. The story is distinguished by the special nature of the conflict: there are no negative characters here who would be negative in everything; there is no direct evil - and at the same time, the grief of a simple person, a stationmaster, does not become any less.
A new type of hero and conflict entailed a different narrative system, the figure of the narrator - the titular adviser A.G.N. He tells a story heard from others, from Vyrin himself and from the “red-haired and crooked” boy. The removal of Dunya Vyrina by a hussar is the beginning of the drama, followed by a chain of events. From the postal station the action moves to St. Petersburg, from the caretaker’s house to a grave outside the outskirts. The caretaker is unable to influence the course of events, but before bowing to fate, he tries to turn history back, to save Dunya from what seems to the poor father to be the death of his “child”. The hero comprehends what happened and, moreover, goes to his grave from the powerless consciousness of his own guilt and the irreparability of the misfortune.
“Little man” is not only a low rank, lack of high social status, but also loss in life, fear of it, loss of interest and purpose. Pushkin was the first to draw the attention of readers to the fact that, despite his low origins, a person still remains a person and he has all the same feelings and passions as people of high society. The story “The Station Warden” teaches you to respect and love a person, teaches you the ability to sympathize, and makes you think that the world in which the station guards live is not structured in the best way.

The main characters of the analyzed work

The author-narrator speaks sympathetically about the “real martyrs of the fourteenth class,” stationmasters accused by travelers of all sins. In fact, their life is real hard labor: “The traveler takes out all the frustration accumulated during a boring ride on the caretaker. The weather is unbearable, the road is bad, the driver is stubborn, the horses are not moving - and the caretaker is to blame... You can easily guess that I have friends from the venerable class of caretakers.” This story was written in memory of one of them.
The main character in the story “The Station Agent” is Samson Vyrin, a man about 50 years old. The caretaker was born around 1766, into a peasant family. The end of the 18th century, when Vyrin was 20-25 years old, was the time of Suvorov’s wars and campaigns. As is known from history, Suvorov developed initiative among his subordinates, encouraged soldiers and non-commissioned officers, promoting them in their careers, cultivating camaraderie in them, and demanding literacy and intelligence. A peasant man under the command of Suvorov could rise to the rank of non-commissioned officer, receiving this rank for faithful service and personal bravery. Samson Vyrin could have been just such a person and most likely served in the Izmailovsky regiment. The text says that, having arrived in St. Petersburg in search of his daughter, he stops at the Izmailovsky regiment, in the house of a retired non-commissioned officer, his old colleague.
It can be assumed that around 1880 he retired and received the position of stationmaster and the rank of collegiate registrar. This position provided a small but constant salary. He got married and soon had a daughter. But the wife died, and the daughter was joy and consolation to the father.
Since childhood, she had to shoulder all women's work on her fragile shoulders. Vyrin himself, as he is presented at the beginning of the story, is “fresh and cheerful,” sociable and not embittered, despite the fact that undeserved insults rained down on his head. Just a few years later, driving along the same road, the author, stopping for the night with Samson Vyrin, did not recognize him: from “fresh and vigorous” he turned into an abandoned, flabby old man, whose only consolation was a bottle. And it’s all about the daughter: without asking for parental consent, Dunya - his life and hope, for whose benefit he lived and worked - ran away with a passing hussar. The act of his daughter broke Samson; he could not bear the fact that his dear child, his Dunya, whom he protected as best he could from all dangers, could do this to him and, what is even worse, to herself - she became not a wife, but a mistress.
Pushkin sympathizes with his hero and deeply respects him: a man of the lower class, who grew up in poverty and hard work, has not forgotten what decency, conscience and honor are. Moreover, he places these qualities above material wealth. Poverty for Samson is nothing compared to the emptiness of his soul. It is not for nothing that the author introduces such a detail into the story as pictures depicting the story of the prodigal son on the wall in Vyrin’s house. Like the father of the prodigal son, Samson was ready to forgive. But Dunya did not return. My father’s suffering was aggravated by the fact that he knew very well how such stories often end: “There are a lot of them in St. Petersburg, young fools, today in satin and velvet, and tomorrow, you’ll see, sweeping the street along with the tavern’s nakedness. When you sometimes think that Dunya, perhaps, is disappearing right away, you will inevitably sin and wish for her grave...” An attempt to find her daughter in huge St. Petersburg ended in nothing. This is where the stationmaster gave up - he completely drank and died some time later, without waiting for his daughter. Pushkin created in his Samson Vyrin an amazingly capacious, truthful image of a simple, small man and showed all his rights to the title and dignity of a person.
Dunya in the story is shown as a jack of all trades. No one could cook dinner better than her, clean the house, or serve a passer-by. And her father, looking at her agility and beauty, could not get enough of it. At the same time, this is a young coquette who knows her strength, entering into conversation with a visitor without timidity, “like a girl who has seen the light.” Belkin sees Dunya for the first time in the story when she is fourteen years old - an age at which it is too early to think about fate. Dunya knows nothing about this intention of the visiting hussar Minsky. But, breaking away from her father, she chooses her female happiness, even if it may be short-lived. She chooses another world, unknown, dangerous, but at least she will live in it. It’s hard to blame her for choosing life over vegetation; she took a risk and won. Dunya comes to her father only when everything she could only dream of has come true, although Pushkin does not say a word about her marriage. But six horses, three children, and a nurse indicate a successful ending to the story. Of course, Dunya herself considers herself to blame for her father’s death, but the reader will probably forgive her, just as Ivan Petrovich Belkin forgives.
Dunya and Minsky, the internal motives of their actions, thoughts and experiences, are described throughout the entire story by the narrator, the coachman, the father, and the red-haired boy from the outside. Maybe that’s why the images of Dunya and Minsky are given somewhat schematically. Minsky is noble and rich, he served in the Caucasus, the rank of captain is not small, and if he is in the guard, then he is already high, equal to an army lieutenant colonel. The kind and cheerful hussar fell in love with the simple-minded caretaker.
Many of the actions of the heroes of the story are incomprehensible today, but for Pushkin’s contemporaries they were natural. So, Minsky, having fallen in love with Dunya, did not marry her. He could do this not only because he was a rake and a frivolous person, but also for a number of objective reasons. Firstly, in order to get married, an officer needed permission from his commander; marriage often meant resignation. Secondly, Minsky could depend on his parents, who would hardly have liked a marriage with a dowry-free and non-noblewoman Dunya. It takes time to resolve at least these two problems. Although in the final Minsky was able to do it.

The plot and composition of the analyzed work

Russian writers have repeatedly turned to the compositional structure of Belkin's Tales, consisting of five separate stories. F. M. Dostoevsky wrote about his idea to write a novel with a similar composition in one of his letters: “The stories are completely separate from one another, so they can even be sold separately. I believe Pushkin was thinking about a similar form of the novel: five stories (the number of "Belkin's Tales"), sold separately. Pushkin’s stories are indeed separate in all respects: there is no cross-cutting character (in contrast to the five stories of Lermontov’s “Hero of Our Time”); no general content. But there is a general method of mystery, “detective”, that lies at the basis of each story. Pushkin's stories are united, firstly, by the figure of the narrator - Belkin; secondly, by the fact that they are all told. The storytelling was, I suppose, the artistic device for which the entire text was conceived. The narration as common to all stories simultaneously allowed them to be read (and sold) separately. Pushkin thought about a work that, being whole as a whole, would be whole in every part. I call this form, using the experience of subsequent Russian prose, a cycle novel.”
The stories were written by Pushkin in the same chronological order, but he arranged them not according to the time of writing, but based on compositional calculation, alternating stories with “unfavorable” and “prosperous” endings. This composition imparted to the entire cycle, despite the presence of deeply dramatic provisions in it, a general optimistic orientation.
Pushkin builds the story “The Station Agent” on the development of two destinies and characters - father and daughter. Station warden Samson Vyrin is an old, honored (three medals on faded ribbons) retired soldier, a kind and honest person, but rude and simple-minded, located at the very bottom of the table of ranks, on the lowest rung of the social ladder. He is not only a simple, but a small man, whom every passing nobleman can insult, shout, or hit, although his lower rank of 14th class still gave him the right to personal nobility. But all the guests were met, calmed down and given tea by his beautiful and lively daughter Dunya. But this family idyll could not continue forever and, at first glance, ended badly, because the caretaker and his daughter had different destinies. A passing young handsome hussar, Minsky, fell in love with Dunya, cleverly feigned illness, achieved mutual feelings and, as befits a hussar, took away a crying but not resisting girl in a troika to St. Petersburg.
The little man of the 14th grade did not reconcile himself with such insult and loss; he went to St. Petersburg to save his daughter, whom, as Vyrin, not without reason, believed, the insidious seducer would soon abandon and drive out into the street. And his very reproachful appearance was important for the further development of this story, for the fate of his Dunya. But it turned out that the story is more complicated than the caretaker imagined. The captain fell in love with his daughter and, moreover, turned out to be a conscientious, honest man; he blushed with shame at the unexpected appearance of the father he had deceived. And the beautiful Dunya responded to the kidnapper with a strong, sincere feeling. The old man gradually drank himself to death from grief, melancholy and loneliness, and despite the moralizing pictures about the prodigal son, the daughter never came to visit him, disappeared, and was not at her father’s funeral. The rural cemetery was visited by a beautiful lady with three little dogs and a black pug in a luxurious carriage. She silently lay down on her father’s grave and “lay there for a long time.” This is a folk custom of the last farewell and remembrance, the last “farewell.” This is the greatness of human suffering and repentance.

Artistic originality

In "Belkin's Tales" all the features of the poetics and stylistics of Pushkin's fiction were clearly revealed. Pushkin appears in them as an excellent short story writer, to whom a touching story, a short story with a sharp plot and twists and turns, and a realistic sketch of morals and everyday life are equally accessible. The artistic requirements for prose, which were formulated by Pushkin in the early 20s, he now implements in his own creative practice. Nothing unnecessary, only one thing necessary in the narrative, accuracy in definitions, conciseness and conciseness of style.
"Belkin's Tales" are distinguished by their extreme economy of artistic means. From the very first lines, Pushkin introduces the reader to his heroes and introduces him to the circle of events. The depiction of the characters' characters is just as sparse and no less expressive. The author hardly gives an external portrait of the heroes, and almost does not dwell on their emotional experiences. At the same time, the appearance of each of the characters emerges with remarkable relief and clarity from his actions and speeches. “A writer must continually study this treasure,” Leo Tolstoy said about “Belkin’s Tales” to a literary friend.

Meaning of the work

In the development of Russian artistic prose, a huge role belongs to Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin. Here he had almost no predecessors. Prose literary language was also at a much lower level compared to poetry. Therefore, Pushkin was faced with a particularly important and very difficult task of processing the very material of this area of verbal art. Among Belkin's Tales, The Station Warden was of exceptional importance for the further development of Russian literature. A very truthful image of a caretaker, warmed by the author’s sympathy, opens the gallery of “poor people” created by subsequent Russian writers, humiliated and insulted by the social relations of the then reality, which were most difficult for the common man.
The first writer who opened the world of “little people” to the reader was N.M. Karamzin. Karamzin’s word echoes Pushkin and Lermontov. Karamzin's story "Poor Liza" had the greatest influence on subsequent literature. The author laid the foundation for a huge series of works about “little people” and took the first step into this previously unknown topic. It was he who opened the way for such writers of the future as Gogol, Dostoevsky and others. A.S. Pushkin was the next writer whose sphere of creative attention began to include the whole of vast Russia, its open spaces, the life of villages, St. Petersburg and Moscow opened up not only from a luxurious entrance, but also through the narrow doors of poor houses. For the first time, Russian literature so poignantly and clearly showed the distortion of personality by an environment hostile to it. Pushkin's artistic discovery was aimed at the future; it paved the way for Russian literature into the still unknown.

This is interesting

In the Gatchina district of the Leningrad region in the village of Vyra there is a literary and memorial museum of the stationmaster. The museum was created based on the story “The Station Warden” by Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin and archival documents in 1972 in the preserved building of the Vyr postal station. It is the first museum of a literary hero in Russia. The postal station was opened in 1800 on the Belarusian postal route, it was the third
according to the station from St. Petersburg. In Pushkin’s time, the Belarusian large postal route passed here, which went from St. Petersburg to the western provinces of Russia. Vyra was the third station from the capital, where travelers changed horses. It was a typical postal station, which had two buildings: northern and southern, plastered and painted pink. The houses faced the road and were connected to each other by a brick fence with large gates. Through them, carriages, carriages, carts, and chaises of travelers drove into the wide paved courtyard. Inside the yard there were stables with hay barns, a barn, a shed, a fire tower, hitching posts, and in the middle of the yard there was a well.
Along the edges of the paved courtyard of the post station there were two wooden stables, sheds, a forge, and a barn, forming a closed square into which the access road led from the highway. The courtyard was in full swing with life: troikas were driving in and out, coachmen were bustling about, grooms were leading away lathered horses and bringing out fresh ones. The northern building served as the caretaker's dwelling. It retained the name “Station Master's House”.
According to legend, Samson Vyrin, one of the main characters of Pushkin’s “Tales of Belkin,” got his surname from the name of this village. It was at the modest postal station Vyra A.S. Pushkin, who traveled here from St. Petersburg to the village of Mikhailovskoye more than once (according to some sources, 13 times), heard a sad story about a little official and his daughter and wrote the story “The Station Warden.”
In these places, folk legends arose that claim that it was here that the hero of Pushkin’s story lived, from here a passing hussar took away the beautiful Dunya, and Samson Vyrin was buried in the local cemetery. Archival research also showed that a caretaker who had a daughter served at the Vyrskaya station for many years.
Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin traveled a lot. The path he traveled across Russia was 34 thousand kilometers. In the story “The Station Warden,” Pushkin speaks through the lips of his hero: “For twenty years in a row, I traveled Russia in all directions; I know almost all postal routes; I know several generations of coachmen; I didn’t know a rare caretaker by sight, I didn’t deal with a rare one.”
Slow travel along postal routes, with long “sitting” at stations, became a real event for Pushkin’s contemporaries and, of course, was reflected in literature. The theme of the road can be found in the works of P.A. Vyazemsky, F.N. Glinka, A.N. Radishcheva, N.M. Karamzina, A.S. Pushkin and M.Yu. Lermontov.
The museum was opened on October 15, 1972, the exhibition consisted of 72 items. Subsequently, their number increased to 3,500. The museum recreates the atmosphere typical of postal stations of Pushkin's time. The museum consists of two stone buildings, a stable, a barn with a tower, a well, a saddlery and a forge. There are 3 rooms in the main building: the caretaker's room, the daughter's room and the coachman's room.

Gukovsky GL. Pushkin and Russian romantics. - M., 1996.
BlagoyDD. The creative path of Pushkin (1826-1830). - M., 1967.
Lotman Yu.M. Pushkin. - St. Petersburg, 1987. Petrunina N.N. Pushkin's prose: paths of evolution. - L., 1987.
Shklovsky V.B. Notes on the prose of Russian classics. M., 1955.

College Registrar,
Postal station dictator.

Prince Vyazemsky.

Who hasn’t cursed the stationmasters, who hasn’t sworn at them? Who, in a moment of anger, did not demand from them a fatal book in order to write into it his useless complaint about oppression, rudeness and malfunction? Who does not consider them monsters of the human race, equal to the late clerks or, at least, the Murom robbers? However, let us be fair, we will try to enter into their position and, perhaps, we will begin to judge them much more leniently. What is a stationmaster? A real martyr of the fourteenth grade, protected by his rank only from beatings, and even then not always (I refer to the conscience of my readers). What is the position of this dictator, as Prince Vyazemsky jokingly calls him? Isn't this real hard labor? I have peace neither day nor night. The traveler takes out all the frustration accumulated during a boring ride on the caretaker. The weather is unbearable, the road is bad, the driver is stubborn, the horses are not moving - and the caretaker is to blame. Entering his poor home, a traveler looks at him as if he were an enemy; it would be good if he managed to get rid of the uninvited guest soon; but if the horses don’t happen?.. God! what curses, what threats will rain down on his head! In the rain and slush, he is forced to run around the yards; in a storm, in the Epiphany frost, he goes into the entryway, just to rest for a minute from the screams and pushes of an irritated guest. The general arrives; the trembling caretaker gives him the last two threes, including the courier one. The general leaves without saying thank you. Five minutes later - the bell rings!.. and the courier throws his travel document on his table!.. Let's look into all this carefully, and instead of indignation, our hearts will be filled with sincere compassion. A few more words: for twenty years in a row I traveled across Russia in all directions; I know almost all postal routes; I know several generations of coachmen; I don’t know a rare caretaker by sight, I haven’t dealt with a rare one; I hope to publish a curious stock of my travel observations in a short time; For now I will only say that the class of stationmasters is presented to the general opinion in the most false form. These much-maligned caretakers are generally peaceful people, naturally helpful, inclined towards community, modest in their claims to honor and not too money-loving. From their conversations (which are inappropriately neglected by gentlemen passing by) one can glean a lot of interesting and instructive things. As for me, I confess that I prefer their conversation to the speeches of some 6th class official traveling on official business.

In 1816, in the month of May, I happened to be driving through the *** province, along a highway that has now been destroyed. I was in a minor rank, rode on carriages and paid fees for two horses. As a result of this, the caretakers did not stand on ceremony with me, and I often took in battle what, in my opinion, was rightfully due me. Being young and hot-tempered, I was indignant at the baseness and cowardice of the caretaker when this latter gave the troika he had prepared for me under the carriage of the official master. It took me just as long to get used to having a picky servant hand me a dish at the governor’s dinner. Nowadays both seem to me to be in the order of things. In fact, what would happen to us if instead of the generally convenient rule: honor the rank of rank, something else came into use, for example, honor your mind? What controversy would arise! and who would the servants start serving the food with? But I turn to my story.

The day was hot. Three miles from the station it began to drizzle, and a minute later the pouring rain soaked me to the last thread. Upon arrival at the station, the first concern was to quickly change clothes, the second was to ask myself some tea, “Hey, Dunya! - the caretaker shouted, “put on the samovar and go get some cream.” At these words, a girl of about fourteen came out from behind the partition and ran into the hallway. Her beauty amazed me. “Is this your daughter?” - I asked the caretaker. “Daughter, sir,” he answered with an air of satisfied pride, “she’s so intelligent, so nimble, she looks like a dead mother.” Then he began to copy out my travel document, and I began to look at the pictures that decorated his humble but neat abode. They depicted the story of the prodigal son: in the first, a respectable old man in a cap and dressing gown releases a restless young man, who hastily accepts his blessing and a bag of money. Another vividly depicts the depraved behavior of a young man: he sits at a table, surrounded by false friends and shameless women. Further, a squandered young man, in rags and a three-cornered hat, tends pigs and shares a meal with them; his face shows deep sadness and remorse. Finally, his return to his father is presented; a kind old man in the same cap and dressing gown runs out to meet him: the prodigal son is on his knees; in the future, the cook kills a well-fed calf, and the elder brother asks the servants about the reason for such joy. Under each picture I read decent German poetry. All this has been preserved in my memory to this day, as well as pots with balsam, and a bed with a colorful curtain, and other objects that surrounded me at that time. I see, as now, the owner himself, a man of about fifty, fresh and cheerful, and his long green frock coat with three medals on faded ribbons.

Since I've been doing this,

But none of them left such a long, such a pleasant memory in me.

The horses stopped at the post house. Entering the room, I immediately recognized the pictures depicting the story of the prodigal son; the table and bed were in the same places; but there were no longer flowers on the windows, and everything around showed disrepair and neglect. The caretaker slept under a sheepskin coat; my arrival woke him up; he stood up... It was definitely Samson Vyrin; but how he has aged! While he was getting ready to rewrite my travel document, I looked at his gray hair, at the deep wrinkles of his long-unshaven face, at his hunched back - and could not marvel at how three or four years could turn a vigorous man into a frail old man. “Did you recognize me? — I asked him, “you and I are old acquaintances.” “It may be,” he answered gloomily, “there is a big road here; many travelers visited me.” - “Is your Dunya healthy?” - I continued. The old man frowned. “God knows,” he answered. - “So apparently she’s married?” - I said. The old man pretended not to hear my question and continued to read my travel document in a whisper. I stopped my questions and ordered the kettle to be put on. Curiosity began to bother me, and I hoped that the punch would resolve the language of my old acquaintance.

I was not mistaken: the old man did not refuse the offered glass. I noticed that the rum cleared up his sullenness. During the second glass he became talkative: he remembered or pretended to remember me, and I learned from him a story that at that time greatly interested and touched me.

“So you knew my Dunya? - he began. - Who didn’t know her? Ah, Dunya, Dunya! What a girl she was! It happened that whoever passed by, everyone would praise, no one would judge. The ladies gave it as a gift, sometimes with a handkerchief, sometimes with earrings. Gentlemen passing by deliberately stopped, as if to have lunch or dinner, but in fact only to take a closer look at her. Sometimes the master, no matter how angry he was, would calm down in her presence and talk kindly to me. Believe it, sir: couriers and couriers talked to her for half an hour. She kept the house going: she kept up with everything, what to clean, what to cook. And I, the old fool, can’t get enough of it; Didn’t I really love my Dunya, didn’t I cherish my child; Did she really have no life? No, you can’t get away from trouble; what is destined cannot be avoided.” Then he began to tell me in detail his grief. “Three years ago, one winter evening, when the caretaker was lining a new book, and his daughter was sewing a dress for herself behind the partition, a troika drove up, and a traveler in a Circassian hat, in a military overcoat, wrapped in a shawl, entered the room, demanding horses. The horses were all in full speed. At this news the traveler raised his voice and his whip; but Dunya, accustomed to such scenes, ran out from behind the partition and affectionately turned to the traveler with the question: would he like to have something to eat? Dunya's appearance had its usual effect. The passerby's anger passed; he agreed to wait for the horses and ordered himself dinner. Taking off his wet, shaggy hat, unraveling his shawl and pulling off his overcoat, the traveler appeared as a young, slender hussar with a black mustache. He settled down with the caretaker and began to talk cheerfully with him and his daughter. They served dinner. Meanwhile, the horses arrived, and the caretaker ordered that they immediately, without feeding, be harnessed to the traveler’s wagon; but when he returned, he found a young man almost unconscious lying on a bench: he felt sick, his head ached, it was impossible to go... What to do! the caretaker gave him his bed, and it was supposed, if the patient did not feel better, to send to S*** for a doctor the next morning.

The next day the hussar became worse. His man went on horseback to the city to get a doctor. Dunya tied a scarf soaked in vinegar around his head and sat down with her sewing by his bed. The patient groaned in front of the caretaker and did not say almost a word, but he drank two cups of coffee and, groaning, ordered himself lunch. Dunya did not leave his side. He constantly asked for a drink, and Dunya brought him a mug of lemonade she had prepared. The sick man wet his lips and each time he returned the mug, as a sign of gratitude, he shook Dunyushka’s hand with his weak hand. The doctor arrived at lunchtime. He felt the patient’s pulse, spoke to him in German, and announced in Russian that all he needed was peace and that in two days he would be able to hit the road. The hussar gave him twenty-five rubles for the visit and invited him to dinner; the doctor agreed; They both ate with great appetite, drank a bottle of wine and parted very pleased with each other.

Another day passed, and the hussar completely recovered. He was extremely cheerful, joked incessantly, first with Dunya, then with the caretaker; he whistled songs, talked with passers-by, wrote down their travel information in the postal book, and became so fond of the kind caretaker that on the third morning he was sorry to part with his kind guest. The day was Sunday; Dunya was getting ready for mass. The hussar was given a wagon. He said goodbye to the caretaker, generously rewarding him for his stay and refreshments; He said goodbye to Dunya and volunteered to take her to the church, which was located on the edge of the village. Dunya stood in bewilderment... “What are you afraid of? - her father said to her, “after all, his high nobility is not a wolf and will not eat you: take a ride to the church.” Dunya sat down in the wagon next to the hussar, the servant jumped onto the handle, the coachman whistled, and the horses galloped off.

The poor caretaker did not understand how he could allow his Duna to ride with the hussar, how blindness came over him, and what happened to his mind then. Less than half an hour had passed when his heart began to ache and ache, and anxiety took possession of him to such an extent that he could not resist and went to mass himself. Approaching the church, he saw that the people were already leaving, but Dunya was neither in the fence nor on the porch. He hastily entered the church: the priest was leaving the altar; the sexton was extinguishing the candles, two old women were still praying in the corner; but Dunya was not in the church. The poor father forcibly decided to ask the sexton whether she had attended mass. The sexton replied that she had not been. The caretaker went home neither alive nor dead. There was only one hope left to him: Dunya, in the frivolity of her young years, perhaps decided to take a ride to the next station, where her godmother lived. In painful anxiety he awaited the return of the troika on which he had let her go. The coachman did not return. Finally, in the evening, he arrived alone and drunk, with the murderous news: “Dunya from that station went further with the hussar.”

The old man could not bear his misfortune; he immediately went to bed in the same bed where the young deceiver had lain the day before. Now the caretaker, considering all the circumstances, guessed that the illness was feigned. The poor man fell ill with a severe fever; he was taken to S*** and someone else was assigned to his place for the time being. The same doctor who came to the hussar also treated him. He assured the caretaker that the young man was completely healthy and that at that time he still guessed about his evil intention, but remained silent, fearing his whip. Whether the German was telling the truth or just wanting to show off his foresight, he did not console the poor patient in the least. Having barely recovered from his illness, the caretaker asked S*** the postmaster for leave for two months and, without telling anyone a word about his intention, he set off on foot to fetch his daughter. From the road station he knew that Captain Minsky was traveling from Smolensk to St. Petersburg. The driver who was driving him said that Dunya cried all the way, although it seemed that she was driving of her own accord. “Perhaps,” thought the caretaker, “I’ll bring my lost sheep home.” With this thought in mind, he arrived in St. Petersburg, stopped at the Izmailovsky regiment, in the house of a retired non-commissioned officer, his old colleague, and began his search. He soon learned that Captain Minsky was in St. Petersburg and lived in the Demutov tavern. The caretaker decided to come to him.

Early in the morning he came to his hallway and asked him to report to his nobility that the old soldier was asking to see him. The military footman, cleaning his boot on the last, announced that the master was resting and that he would not receive anyone before eleven o'clock. The caretaker left and returned at the appointed time. Minsky himself came out to him in a dressing gown and a red skufia. “What do you want, brother?” - he asked him. The old man’s heart began to boil, tears welled up in his eyes, and in a trembling voice he said only: “Your Honor!.. do such a divine favor!..” Minsky looked at him quickly, flushed, took him by the hand, led him into the office and locked him behind him. door. “Your Honor! - continued the old man, - what fell from the cart is gone: at least give me my poor Dunya. After all, you were amused by her; Don’t destroy her in vain.” “What has been done cannot be undone,” said the young man in extreme confusion, “I am guilty before you and am glad to ask you for forgiveness; but don’t think that I could leave Dunya: she will be happy, I give you my word of honor. Why do you need it? She loves Me; she was unaccustomed to her previous state. Neither you nor she will forget what happened.” Then, putting something down his sleeve, he opened the door, and the caretaker, without remembering how, found himself on the street.

He stood motionless for a long time, and finally saw a bundle of papers behind the cuff of his sleeve; he took them out and unfolded several crumpled five- and ten-ruble banknotes. Tears welled up in his eyes again, tears of indignation! He squeezed the pieces of paper into a ball, threw them on the ground, stamped his heel and walked away... After walking a few steps, he stopped, thought... and turned back... but the banknotes were no longer there. A well-dressed young man, seeing him, ran up to the cab driver, sat down hastily and shouted: “Get off!..” The caretaker did not chase him. He decided to go home to his station, but first he wanted to see his poor Dunya at least once again. For this purpose, two days later he returned to Minsky; but the military footman told him sternly that the master did not accept anyone, pushed him out of the hall with his chest and slammed the doors in his face. The caretaker stood, stood, and then went.

On this very day, in the evening, he walked along Liteinaya, having served a prayer service for All Who Sorrow. Suddenly a smart droshky raced in front of him, and the caretaker recognized Minsky. The droshky stopped in front of a three-story house, right at the entrance, and the hussar ran onto the porch. A happy thought flashed through the mind of the caretaker. He returned and, drawing level with the coachman: “Whose horse, brother? — he asked, “isn’t it Minsky?” “Exactly so,” answered the coachman, “what do you want?” - “Well, here’s the thing: your master ordered me to take a note to his Dunya, and I’ll forget where his Dunya lives.” - “Yes, right here, on the second floor. You are late, brother, with your note; now he’s with her.” “There’s no need,” the caretaker objected with an inexplicable movement of his heart, “thanks for the advice, and I’ll do my job.” And with that word he walked up the stairs.

The doors were locked; he called, several seconds passed in painful anticipation. The key rattled and it was opened for him. “Is Avdotya Samsonovna standing here?” - he asked. “Here,” answered the young maid, “why do you need it?” The caretaker, without answering, entered the hall. “You can’t, you can’t! - the maid shouted after him, “Avdotya Samsonovna has guests.” But the caretaker, without listening, walked on. The first two rooms were dark, the third was on fire. He walked up to the open door and stopped. In a beautifully decorated room, Minsky sat thoughtfully. Dunya, dressed in all the luxury of fashion, sat on the arm of his chair, like a rider on her English saddle. She looked at Minsky with tenderness, wrapping his black curls around her sparkling fingers. Poor caretaker! Never had his daughter seemed so beautiful to him; he couldn't help but admire her. "Who's there?" - she asked without raising her head. He was still silent. Receiving no answer, Dunya raised her head... and fell onto the carpet screaming. Frightened Minsky rushed to pick her up and, suddenly seeing the old caretaker at the door, left Dunya and approached him, trembling with anger. “What do you want? - he said to him, gritting his teeth, - why are you sneaking after me everywhere like a robber? or do you want to stab me? Go away!" - and with a strong hand, grabbing the old man by the collar, he pushed him onto the stairs.

The old man came to his apartment. His friend advised him to complain; but the caretaker thought, waved his hand and decided to retreat. Two days later he set out from St. Petersburg back to his station and again took up his post. “For the third year now,” he concluded, “I have been living without Dunya and there is neither a rumor nor a breath of her. Whether she is alive or not, God knows. Stuff happens. Not her first, not her last, was lured away by a passing rake, but there he held her and abandoned her. There are a lot of them in St. Petersburg, young fools, today in satin and velvet, and tomorrow, look, they are sweeping the street along with the tavern's nakedness. When you sometimes think that Dunya, perhaps, is disappearing right away, you will inevitably sin and wish for her grave...”

This was the story of my friend, the old caretaker, a story repeatedly interrupted by tears, which he picturesquely wiped away with his lap, like the zealous Terentyich in Dmitriev’s beautiful ballad. These tears were partly aroused by the punch, of which he drew five glasses in the continuation of his story; but be that as it may, they touched my heart greatly. Having parted with him, I could not forget the old caretaker for a long time, I thought for a long time about poor Duna...

Recently, driving through the town of ***, I remembered my friend; I learned that the station over which he commanded had already been destroyed. To my question: “Is the old caretaker alive?” - no one could give me a satisfactory answer. I decided to visit a familiar side, took free horses and set off for the village of N.

This happened in the fall. Gray clouds covered the sky; a cold wind blew from the reaped fields, blowing red and yellow leaves from the trees they encountered. I arrived in the village at sunset and stopped at the post office. In the entryway (where poor Dunya once kissed me) a fat woman came out and answered my questions that the old caretaker had died a year ago, that a brewer had settled in his house, and that she was the brewer’s wife. I felt sorry for my wasted trip and the seven rubles spent for nothing. “Why did he die?” — I asked the brewer’s wife. “I got drunk, father,” she answered. “Where was he buried?” - “Outside the outskirts, near his late mistress.” - “Is it possible to take me to his grave?” - “Why not? Hey Vanka! You've had enough of messing around with the cat. Take the master to the cemetery and show him the caretaker’s grave.”

At these words, a ragged boy, red-haired and crooked, ran out to me and immediately led me outside the outskirts.

- Did you know the dead man? - I asked him dear.

- How can you not know! He taught me how to carve pipes. It used to be (may he rest in heaven!) he would come out of a tavern, and we would follow him: “Grandfather, grandfather! nuts!” - and he gives us nuts. Everything used to mess with us.

— Do passers-by remember him?

- Yes, but there are few travelers; Unless the assessor wraps it up, he has no time for the dead. In the summer, a lady passed by, and she asked about the old caretaker and went to his grave.

- Which lady? - I asked curiously.

“Beautiful lady,” answered the boy; - she rode in a carriage of six horses, with three little barts and a nurse, and a black pug; and when they told her that the old caretaker had died, she began to cry and said to the children: “Sit still, and I’ll go to the cemetery.” And I volunteered to bring it to her. And the lady said: “I know the way myself.” And she gave me a silver nickel - such a kind lady!..

We came to the cemetery, a bare place, unfenced, dotted with wooden crosses, not shaded by a single tree. I have never seen such a sad cemetery in my life.

“Here is the grave of the old caretaker,” the boy told me, jumping onto a pile of sand into which was buried a black cross with a copper image.

- And the lady came here? - I asked.

“She came,” answered Vanka, “I looked at her from afar.” She lay down here and lay there for a long time. And there the lady went to the village and called the priest, gave him money and went, and gave me a nickel in silver - a nice lady!

And I gave the boy a penny and no longer regretted either the trip or the seven rubles I spent.