This cycle includes several short stories, which are interconnected by one narrator - Ivan Petrovich Belkin.
This character is fictional, as Pushkin wrote, suffering from a fever and died in 1828.
In contact with
The reader learns about the fate of the narrator when he just begins to get acquainted with the cycle of stories that can be read online. The author in his work acts as a publisher and in the "Foreword" talks about the fate of the narrator Belkin himself. This cycle of stories by Pushkin came out of print in 1831. It included the following works:
- "Undertaker".
History of the creation of the story
Alexander Pushkin worked on a work staying in 1830 in Boldino. The story was written quickly, in just a few days, and already on September 14 it was finished. It is known that some money matters brought him to the Boldin estate, but the cholera epidemic forced him to linger.
At this time, many beautiful and wonderful works were written, among which the most outstanding is The Stationmaster, a brief retelling of which can be found in this article.
The plot and composition of the story
This is a story about ordinary people who experience both moments of happiness and tragedy in their lives. The plot of the story shows that happiness is different for each person and that it is sometimes hidden in the small and ordinary.
The whole life of the protagonist is connected with the philosophical thought of the entire cycle. In the room of Samson Vyrin there are many pictures from the famous parable of the prodigal son, which help not only to understand the content of the whole story, but also its idea. He waited for his Dunya to return to him, but the girl did not return. The father was well aware that his daughter was not needed by the one who took her away from the family.
The narrative in the work comes from the perspective of a titular adviser who knew both Dunya and her father. In total, there are several main characters in the story:
- Narrator.
- Dunya.
- Samson Vyrin.
- Minsky.
The narrator passed through these places several times and drank tea in the caretaker's house, admiring his daughter. According to him, Vyrin himself told him this whole tragic story. The plot of the whole tragic story takes place at the moment when Dunya secretly runs away from home with a hussar.
The final scene of the work takes place in the cemetery, where Samson Vyrin now rests. He asks for forgiveness at this grave and Dunya, who is now deeply repentant.
The main idea of the story
Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin constantly emphasizes in his story: everything parents want their children to be happy. But Dunya is unhappy, and her sinful love brings torment and worries to her father.
The behavior of Dunya and Minsky drives Vyrin to the grave.
Samson Vyrin dies because, while continuing to love his daughter, he has lost faith that he will ever see her again.
Dunya seems to have deleted her father from her life, and this ingratitude and loss of the meaning of life, which was in her daughter, leads to such a sad ending to the story.
Brief retelling of the story
Each person met with the caretakers, setting off on the road. Usually such people cause only anger and rudeness. Few of those who are on the road revere them, considering them either robbers or monsters. But if you think about what their life is like, delve into it, then you will begin to treat them more condescendingly. For days on end they have no peace, and some irritated passers-by can even beat them, venting their annoyance and anger that they have accumulated while driving.
The dwelling of such a caretaker is poor and miserable. There is never peace in it, as guests spend time there waiting for horses. Only compassion can be evoked by such a caretaker who, regardless of the weather, is looking for horses, trying to please all those passing by. The narrator, who has been traveling for twenty years, often visits such dwellings, and he knows perfectly well how hard and thankless this hard work is.
The narrator in 1816 again went to work. At that time he was young and hot-tempered and often quarreled with the stationmasters. One rainy day, he stopped at one of the stations to rest from the road and change clothes. The tea was served by a girl who was lovely. At that time, Dunya was 14 years old. The attention of the visitor was also attracted by the pictures that adorned the walls of the caretaker's poor dwelling. These were illustrations from the parable of the prodigal son.
Samson Vyrin was fresh and cheerful, he was already fifty years old. He loved his daughter and raised her freely and freely. The three of them drank tea for a long time and chatted merrily.
A few years later, the narrator soon found himself again in the same places and decided to visit the stationmaster and his lovely daughter. But it was impossible to recognize Samson Vyrin: he had grown old, there were deep wrinkles on his unshaven face, he was hunched over.
In the conversation it turned out that three years ago one of the passers-by, seeing Dunya, acted out fainting and illness. Dunya looked after him for two days. And on Sunday he was going to leave , offering to bring the girl to the church mass. Dunya thought for a moment, but her father himself persuaded her to sit in a wagon with a young and slender hussar.
Soon Samson became agitated and went to mass, but it turned out that Dunya never appeared there. The girl did not return even in the evening, and the drunken coachman said that she had left with a young hussar. The caretaker immediately fell ill, and when he recovered, he immediately went to St. Petersburg to find Captain Minsky and bring his daughter home. Soon he was at the reception of the hussar, but he simply decided to pay him off and demanded that he never again seek meetings with his daughter and did not disturb her.
But Samson made one more attempt and made his way into the house where Dunya lived. He saw her among luxury, happy. But as soon as the girl recognized her father, she immediately fainted. Minsky demanded to expose Vyrin and never let him into this house again. After that, returning home, the stationmaster grew old and never bothered Dunya and Minsky again. This story struck the narrator and haunted for many years.
When, after a while, he again found himself in these parts, he decided to find out how Samson Vyrin was doing. But it turned out that he died a year ago and was buried in the local cemetery. And in his house housed the family of the brewer. The brewer's son accompanied the narrator to the grave. Vanka said that in the summer some lady with three children came and went to his grave. When she learned that Samson Vyrin had died, she immediately began to cry. And then she herself went to the cemetery and lay for a long time on the grave of her father.
Analysis of the story
This is a work of Alexander Pushkin the most difficult and saddest of the whole cycle. The short story tells about the tragic fate of the stationmaster and the happy fate of his daughter. Samson Vyrin, having studied the biblical parable of the prodigal son from pictures, constantly thinks that misfortune can happen to his daughter. He constantly remembers Dunya and thinks that she, too, will be deceived and one day she will be abandoned. And it worries his heart. These thoughts become disastrous for the stationmaster, who died, having lost the meaning of his life.
The work belongs to the cycle "Tales of the late Ivan Petrovich Belkin", where, in addition to "The Stationmaster", there are four more works and a foreword by the publisher. The story "The Stationmaster" is listed as the fourth in the cycle, its text was written on September 14, 1830 in Boldino. A year later, it was published as part of a series.
The story is told on behalf of the simple-minded landowner Ivan Petrovich Belkin, invented by Pushkin. The fictional Belkin recalls a half-forgotten story told to him by Samson Vyrin, a station superintendent in one of the Russian provinces.
Vyrin had a daughter, Dunya, a beautiful and coquettish girl who captivated the passing hussar Minsky with her grace. In order not to part with Dunya, Minsky pretended to be ill and for several days enjoyed the company of a young charmer who took care of him. Samson Vyrin did not suspect deception, and when the “recovered” hussar offered to take Dunya to the nearest church, he himself convinced his daughter to get into the crew of a “decent person”. Minsky took the girl to St. Petersburg and made her his kept woman. The heartbroken father went in search of his daughter. Minsky tried to pay off Vyrin with money and convince him that Dunya lives in splendor and luxury, is in love with him and does not want to return to her father's house. And so it turned out. Seeing her father on the threshold, the girl faints, and the lackeys push Samson Vyrin out into the street. Unable to cope with grief, the old man died. Many years later, a young lady with three children comes to his grave and cries inconsolably, hugging a mound overgrown with grass.
Pushkin's story "The Stationmaster" is written in the style of sentimentalism. This is one of the trends that dominated Russian literature in the first half of the 19th century.
Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin
There are no people more unfortunate than stationmasters, for travelers certainly blame the stationmasters for all their troubles and seek to take out their anger on them about bad roads, unbearable weather, bad horses, and the like. Meanwhile, the caretakers are mostly meek and unrequited people, “real martyrs of the fourteenth grade, protected by their rank only from beatings, and even then not always.” The caretaker's life is full of worries and troubles, he does not see gratitude from anyone, on the contrary, he hears threats and screams and feels the pushes of angry guests. Meanwhile, "one can learn a lot of curious and instructive things from their conversations."
In 1816, the narrator happened to pass through the *** province, and on the way he was caught in the rain. At the station he hurried to change and drink tea. The samovar was put on and the table was set by the caretaker's daughter, a girl of fourteen years old named Dunya, who struck the narrator with her beauty. While Dunya was busy, the traveler examined the decoration of the hut. On the wall he noticed pictures depicting the story of the prodigal son, geraniums on the windows, in the room there was a bed behind a colorful curtain. The traveler invited Samson Vyrin - that was the name of the caretaker - and his daughters to share a meal with him, and a relaxed atmosphere arose, conducive to sympathy. The horses had already been brought in, but the traveler still did not want to part with his new acquaintances.
Several years passed, and again he had a chance to go along this road. He looked forward to meeting old friends. "Entering the room", he recognized the former situation, but "everything around showed dilapidation and neglect." Dunya was not in the house either. The aged caretaker was gloomy and taciturn, only a glass of punch stirred him, and the traveler heard the sad story of Dunya's disappearance. It happened three years ago. A young officer arrived at the station, who was in a hurry and was angry that the horses were not being served for a long time, but when he saw Dunya, he softened and even stayed for supper. When the horses arrived, the officer suddenly felt very unwell. The doctor who arrived found a fever in him and prescribed complete rest. On the third day, the officer was already healthy and was about to leave. The day was Sunday, and he offered Dunya to take her to the church. The father allowed his daughter to go, not assuming anything bad, but nevertheless he was seized with anxiety, and he ran to the church. Mass was already over, the prayers dispersed, and from the words of the deacon, the caretaker learned that Dunya was not in the church. The coachman who returned in the evening, carrying the officer, said that Dunya had gone with him to the next station. The caretaker realized that the officer's illness was feigned, and he himself fell ill with a high fever. Having recovered, Samson begged for leave and went on foot to Petersburg, where, as he knew from the road, Captain Minsky was going. In St. Petersburg, he found Minsky and appeared to him. Minsky did not immediately recognize him, but upon learning, he began to assure Samson that he loved Dunya, would never leave her and would make her happy. He gave the caretaker money and escorted him out into the street.
Samson really wanted to see his daughter again. The case helped him. At Liteinaya, he noticed Minsky in a smart droshky, which stopped at the entrance of a three-story building. Minsky entered the house, and the caretaker learned from a conversation with the coachman that Dunya lives here, and entered the entrance. Once in the apartment, through the open door of the room he saw Minsky and his Dunya, beautifully dressed and vaguely looking at Minsky. Noticing her father, Dunya screamed and fell unconscious on the carpet. Enraged, Minsky pushed the old man onto the stairs, and he went home. And now for the third year he knows nothing about Dunya and is afraid that her fate is the same as the fate of many young fools.
After some time, the narrator again happened to pass through these places. The station no longer existed, and Samson "died a year ago." The boy, the son of a brewer who settled in Samson's hut, accompanied the narrator to Samson's grave and said that in the summer a beautiful lady with three barchats came and lay for a long time on the caretaker's grave, and the good lady gave him a nickel in silver.
The life of a caretaker is full of worries and troubles. He does not see thanks from anyone, but hears only threats and screams and feels irritation between the guests. For the most part, they are meek and unrequited people, for all responsibility falls on them.
In 1816, a traveler was driving somehow through one province, and on the way he got caught in the rain. At the nearest station, he decided to change his clothes and, warming up, drink tea.
The hostess who put the samovar on and set the table was the caretaker's daughter. The girl was only fourteen years old, and her name was Dunya. She was cute and attractive in appearance, which struck her with her appearance. While Dunyasha busied herself and prepared for the table, the traveler looked a little at the decoration of the hut. He saw a picture of the prodigal son on the wall, smelling geraniums stood on the windows, and in the corner of the room there was a bed behind a colorful cotton curtain.
Several years have passed. The traveler again had to go the same way as before. He looked forward to this meeting with great impatience. When he entered, he recognized the room, but was surprised that all the furnishings were the same, but everything looked in a dilapidated and neglected state. Dunya was not in the house. The caretaker was noticeably older and looked sullen and not talkative. A glass of punch cheered him up a little, and he told his story.
One day a young officer arrived at the station, in a hurry and angry that the horses were not being served for a long time. Seeing Dunya, he relented and stayed overnight. The next day, he offered Dunya to take him to the church, the father allowed his daughter to go, but anticipating anxiety, he went to church. Dunya was nowhere to be found. He went to Petersburg. Having learned where the officer lives, the caretaker came to his house. He saw his daughter, who, noticing her father, screamed and fell. The enraged officer pushed the old man out the door.
Three years have passed. Again the traveler had to pass by these places, but the station was gone. The old man died last year. The brewer's son, who settled in the old man's hut, accompanied the traveler to the grave. He said that in the summer a lady came with her three sons and spent a long time at the grave of the caretaker, and she gave him a nickel in silver. Good lady.
collegiate registrar,
Post station dictator.
Prince Vyazemsky
Who hasn't cursed the stationmasters, who hasn't scolded them? Who, in a moment of anger, did not demand from them a fatal book in order to write in it their useless complaint of oppression, rudeness and malfunction? Who does not consider them monsters of the human race, equal to the deceased clerks, or at least Murom robbers? Let us, however, be fair, let us try to enter into their position and, perhaps, we will begin to judge them much more condescendingly. What is a station attendant? 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 it real hard labor? Peace of day or night. All the annoyance accumulated during a boring ride, the traveler takes out on the caretaker. The weather is unbearable, the road is bad, the coachman is stubborn, the horses are not driven - and the caretaker is to blame. Entering his poor dwelling, the traveler looks at him as an enemy; well, if he manages to get rid of the uninvited guest soon; but if there are no horses? .. God! what curses, what threats will fall on his head! In rain and sleet he is forced to run around the yards; in a storm, in the Epiphany frost, he goes into the canopy, so that only for a moment can he rest from the screams and pushes of the irritated guest. The general arrives; the trembling caretaker gives him the last two triples, including the courier. The general goes without saying thank you. Five minutes later - a bell! .. and the courier throws his road trip on the table! .. Let's delve into all this carefully, and instead of indignation, our heart will be filled with sincere compassion. A few more words: for twenty years in a row I traveled all over Russia; almost all postal routes are known to me; several generations of coachmen are familiar to me; I don’t know a rare caretaker by sight, I didn’t deal with a rare one; I hope to publish a curious stock of my travel observations in a short time; for the time being, I will only say that the class of stationmasters is presented to the general opinion in the most false form. These so-slandered overseers are generally peaceful people, naturally obliging, prone to cohabitation, modest in their claims to honors and not too fond of money. From their conversations (which gentlemen passing by inappropriately neglect) one can learn a lot of curious and instructive things. As for me, I confess that I prefer their conversation to the speeches of some official of the 6th class, following on official business.
You can easily guess that I have friends from the respectable class of caretakers. Indeed, the memory of one of them is precious to me. Circumstances once brought us closer, and I now intend to talk about it with my kind readers.
In the year 1816, in the month of May, I happened to pass through the *** province, along the highway, now destroyed. I was in a small rank, rode on chaises and paid runs for two horses. As a result of this, the wardens did not stand on ceremony with me, and I often took with a fight what, in my opinion, followed me by right. Being young and quick-tempered, I was indignant at the meanness and cowardice of the superintendent when this latter gave the troika prepared for me under the carriage of the bureaucratic gentleman. It took me just as long to get used to the fact that a choosy lackey carried me a dish at the governor's dinner. Now both seem to me in the order of things. In fact, what would happen to us if, instead of the generally convenient rule: honor the rank of the rank, another was introduced, for example: respect the mind of the mind? What controversy would arise! and servants with whom would they start serving food? But back to my story.
The day was hot. Three versts from the station, *** began to drip, and a minute later the pouring rain soaked me to the last thread. Upon arrival at the station, the first concern was to change clothes as soon as possible, the second to ask for tea. "Hey Dunya! the caretaker shouted, “put the samovar on and go for cream.” At these words, a girl of fourteen years old came out from behind the partition and ran into the passage. Her beauty struck me. "Is this your daughter?" I asked the caretaker. “Daughter, sir,” he answered with an air of contented vanity, “but such a reasonable, such a nimble mother, all dead.” Here he began to rewrite my travelogue, and I busied myself with examining the pictures that adorned his humble but tidy 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. In another, the depraved behavior of a young man is depicted in vivid features: he is sitting 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; deep sadness and remorse are depicted in his face. 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 verses. All this has remained in my memory to this day, as well as pots of 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 vigorous, and his long green coat with three medals on faded ribbons.
Before I had time to pay off my old coachman, Dunya returned with a samovar. The little coquette noticed at a 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 her father a glass of punch; I gave Dunya a cup of tea, and the three of us began to talk, as if we had known each other for centuries.
The horses were ready for a long time, but I still did not want to part with the caretaker and his daughter. At last I said goodbye to them; my father wished me a good journey, and my daughter accompanied me to the cart. In the passage I stopped and asked her permission to kiss her; Dunya agreed ... I can count many kisses since I have been doing this, but not one has 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 was glad at the thought of seeing 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 presentiment.
The horses stood 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 their original places; but there were no more flowers on the windows, and everything around showed dilapidation and neglect. The caretaker slept under a sheepskin coat; my arrival woke him up; he got up… It was definitely Samson Vyrin; but how old he is! While he was about to rewrite my roadmap, I looked at his gray hair, at the deep wrinkles of his long unshaven face, at his hunched back - and could not be surprised how three or four years could turn a cheerful man into a frail old man. “Did you recognize me? I asked him, “we are old acquaintances.” “It may happen,” he answered sullenly, “there is a big road here; I have had many passers-by." - "Is your Dunya healthy?" I continued. The old man frowned. “God knows,” he replied. So, is she married? - I said. The old man pretended not to have heard my question, and continued to read my travelogue 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 proposed glass. I noticed that the rum cleared up his sullenness. At the second glass he became talkative; remembered or pretended to remember me, and I learned from him a story that at that time greatly occupied and touched me.
“So you knew my Dunya? he began. Who didn't know her? Oh, Dunya, Dunya! What a girl she was! It used to be that whoever passes by, everyone will praise, no one will condemn. The ladies gave her, the one with a handkerchief, the other with earrings. Gentlemen, the travelers stopped on purpose, as if to dine or supper, but in fact only to look at her longer. It used to happen that the master, no matter how angry he was, would calm down in her presence and talk graciously to me. Believe me, sir: couriers, couriers talked to her for half an hour. She kept the house: what to clean up, what to cook, she managed to do everything. And I, the old fool, do not look enough, it used to be, I do not get enough; did I not love my Dunya, did I not cherish my child; did she not have a life? No, you won’t get rid of trouble; what is destined, that cannot be avoided. Then he began to tell me his grief in detail. Three years ago, one winter evening, when the caretaker was lining up 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 running. At this news the traveler raised his voice and 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 eat something? Dunya's appearance had its usual effect. The wrath of the traveler has passed; he agreed to wait for the horses and ordered supper for himself. Taking off his wet, shaggy hat, untangling his shawl and pulling off his overcoat, the traveler appeared as a young, slender hussar with a black mustache. He settled down at the caretaker, began to talk cheerfully with him and with his daughter. Served dinner. In the meantime, the horses came, and the keeper ordered that immediately, without feeding, they were harnessed to the carriage of the traveler; but, returning, he found a young man lying almost unconscious on a bench: he became ill, his head ached, it was impossible to go ... What to do! the superintendent gave him his bed, and it was necessary, if the patient did not feel better, the next morning to send to S *** for a doctor.
The next day the hussar became worse. His man went on horseback to the city for a doctor. Dunya tied a handkerchief soaked with vinegar around his head and sat down with her sewing by his bed. The sick man groaned in front of the caretaker and did not say almost a word, but he drank two cups of coffee and, groaning, ordered himself dinner. Dunya did not leave him. He constantly asked for a drink, and Dunya brought him a mug of lemonade prepared by her. The sick man dipped his lips and every time he returned the mug, as a token 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 of mind and that in two days he could be on the road. The hussar gave him twenty-five rubles for the visit, invited him to dine; the doctor agreed; 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, incessantly joking with Dunya, then with the caretaker; he whistled songs, talked to the passers-by, entered their wayfarers in the post book, and so fell in love with the kind caretaker that on the third morning he was sorry to part with his kind guest. The day was Sunday; Dunya was going to dinner. The hussar was given a kibitka. He said goodbye to the caretaker, generously rewarding him for his stay and refreshments; he also said goodbye to Dunya and volunteered to take her to the church, which was located on the edge of the village. Dunya stood in perplexity ... “What are you afraid of? - her father said to her, - after all, his nobility is not a wolf and will not eat you: take a ride to the church. Dunya got into the wagon next to the hussar, the servant jumped on the pole, the coachman whistled, and the horses galloped off.
The poor caretaker did not understand how he himself could allow his Duna to ride with the hussar, how he was blinded, and what happened to his mind then. In less than half an hour, his heart began to whine, whine, and anxiety took possession of him to such an extent that he could not resist and went himself to mass. Approaching the church, he saw that the people were already dispersing, but Dunya was neither in the fence nor on the porch. He hastily entered the church: the priest was leaving the altar; the deacon 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 deacon whether she had been at Mass. The deacon replied that she had not been. The caretaker went home neither alive nor dead. There was only one hope left for him: Dunya, due to the frivolity of her young years, took it into her head, perhaps, to ride to the next station, where her godmother lived. In excruciating excitement, he expected the return of the troika, on which he let her go. The coachman did not return. Finally, in the evening, he arrived alone and tipsy, with the deadly news: "Dunya from that station went further with a hussar."
The old man did not bear his misfortune; he immediately fell into 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 strong fever; he was taken to S *** and another was appointed in his place for a while. The same doctor who came to the hussar treated him too. He assured the caretaker that the young man was quite healthy and that at that time he still guessed about his malicious intention, but was silent, fearing his whip. Whether the German was telling the truth, or just wishing to boast of far-sightedness, he did not in the least console the poor patient. Hardly recovering from his illness, the superintendent begged S*** the postmaster for a vacation of two months and, without saying a word to anyone about his intention, went on foot to fetch his daughter. He knew from the traveler that Captain Minsky was on his way from Smolensk to Petersburg. The coachman who drove him said that Dunya was crying all the way, although she seemed to be driving on her own accord. “Perhaps,” thought the caretaker, “I will bring home my lost lamb.” With this thought he arrived in Petersburg, stayed in 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 the Demutov tavern. The caretaker decided to come to him.
Early in the morning he came to his hall and asked him to report to his honor that the old soldier asked to see him. The military footman, cleaning his boot on the block, announced that the master was resting and that before eleven o'clock he did not receive anyone. The caretaker left and returned at the appointed time. Minsky himself came out to him in a dressing gown, in a red skufi. "What, brother, do you want?" he asked him. The old man’s heart boiled, tears welled up in his eyes, and he only said in a trembling voice: “Your honor! .. do such a divine favor! ..” Minsky glanced at him quickly, flushed, took his hand, led him into the office and locked him behind him door. “Your honor! - continued the old man, - what fell from the wagon is gone; give me at least my poor Dunya. After all, you have enjoyed it; don't waste it in vain." “What has been done cannot be returned,” said the young man in extreme confusion, “I am guilty before you and glad to ask your forgiveness; but do not think that I could leave Dunya: she will be happy, I give you my word of honor. Why do you want her? She loves Me; she had lost the habit of her former state. Neither you nor she - you will not forget what happened. Then, thrusting something into his sleeve, he opened the door, and the caretaker, without remembering how, found himself in the street.
For a long time he stood motionless, at last he saw a roll of papers behind the cuff of his sleeve; he took them out and unfolded several crumpled banknotes of five and ten rubles. Tears welled up again in his eyes, tears of indignation! He squeezed the papers into a ball, threw them on the ground, stamped them down with his heel, and went... Having walked a few steps, he stopped, thought... and returned... but there were no banknotes anymore. A well-dressed young man, seeing him, ran up to the cab, sat down hurriedly and shouted: "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. For this day, after two days, he returned to Minsky; but the military lackey told him sternly that the master was not receiving anyone, forced him out of the hall with his chest and slammed the door under his breath. The caretaker stood, stood, and went.
On that same day, in the evening, he walked along Liteinaya, having served a prayer service for All Who Sorrow. Suddenly a smart droshky rushed past him, and the caretaker recognized Minsky. Drozhki stopped in front of a three-story house, at the very entrance, and the hussar ran onto the porch. A happy thought flashed through the caretaker's mind. He turned back and, having caught up with the coachman: “Whose, brother, is the horse? he asked, “isn’t it Minsky?” “Exactly so,” answered the coachman, “but what about you?” “Yes, that’s what: your master ordered me to take a note to his Dunya, and I forget where Dunya lives.” “Yes, right here on the second floor. You are late, brother, with your note; now he is with her." “There is no need,” objected the caretaker with an inexplicable movement of his heart, “thanks for the thought, and I will do my job.” And with that word he went up the stairs.
The doors were locked; he called, several seconds passed in painful expectation for him. The key rattled, they opened it. “Is Avdotya Samsonovna standing here?” - he asked. “Here,” answered the young maid, “why do you need her?” The caretaker, without answering, entered the hall. “No, no! the maid shouted after him, “Avdotya Samsonovna has guests.” But the caretaker, not listening, went on. The first two rooms were dark, the third was on fire. He walked to the open door and stopped. In the room, beautifully decorated, Minsky sat in thought. Dunya, dressed in all the luxury of fashion, sat on the arm of his chair, like a rider on her English saddle. She looked tenderly at Minsky, winding his black curls around her glittering fingers. Poor caretaker! Never had his daughter seemed to him so beautiful; he reluctantly admired her. "Who's there?" she asked without raising her head. He remained silent. Receiving no answer, Dunya raised her head ... and fell on the carpet with a cry. Frightened, Minsky rushed to pick it up and, suddenly seeing the old caretaker at the door, left Dunya and went up to him, trembling with anger. “What do you need? he said to him, clenching his teeth, “why are you following me everywhere like a robber?” Or do you want to kill 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 went from Petersburg back to his station and again took up his post. “For the third year already,” he concluded, “how I live without Dunya and how there is neither a rumor nor a spirit about her. Whether she is alive or not, God knows. Anything happens. Not her first, not her last, was seduced by a passing rake, and there he held her, and left her. There are many of them in St. Petersburg, young fools, today in satin and velvet, and tomorrow, you'll see, sweeping the street along with the barn's tavern. When you sometimes think that Dunya, perhaps, immediately disappears, you willy-nilly sin and wish her a grave ... "
Such was the story of my friend, the old caretaker, a story repeatedly interrupted by tears, which he picturesquely wiped away with his coat, like the zealous Terentyich in Dmitriev's beautiful ballad. These tears were partly excited by the punch, of which he drew out five glasses in the continuation of his story; but be that as it may, they touched my heart greatly. Having parted with him, for a long time I could not forget the old caretaker, for a long time I thought about poor Dunya ...
Not long ago, while passing through a place ***, I remembered my friend; I learned that the station he commanded had already been destroyed. To my question: "Is the old caretaker still alive?" Nobody could give me a satisfactory answer. I decided to visit the familiar side, took free horses and set off for the village of N.
It happened in the fall. Greyish clouds covered the sky; a cold wind blew from the reaped fields, blowing the red and yellow leaves from the trees on the way. I arrived at the village at sunset and stopped at the post house. In the hallway (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. “Drunk, father,” she answered. "Where was he buried?" - "Beyond the outskirts, near his late mistress." "Couldn't you take me to his grave?" “Why not. Hey Vanka! it's enough for you to mess with the cat. Take the gentleman 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 not to know! He taught me how to cut pipes. It used to happen (God rest his soul!), He comes from the tavern, and we follow him: “Grandfather, grandfather! nuts! - and he gives us nuts. Everything used to be messing with us.
Do passers-by remember him?
- Yes, there are few passers-by; unless the assessor wraps up, but that is not up to the dead. Here in the summer a lady passed by, so she asked about the old caretaker and went to his grave.
- What lady? I asked with curiosity.
“A beautiful lady,” answered the boy; - she rode in a carriage with six horses, with three small barchats and with a nurse, and with a black pug; and as she was told that the old caretaker had died, she wept and said to the children: "Sit quietly, and I will go to the cemetery." And I volunteered to bring her. And the lady said: "I myself know the way." And she gave me a nickel in silver - such a kind lady! ..
We arrived at the cemetery, a bare place, unenclosed by anything, dotted with wooden crosses, not overshadowed by a single tree. Never in my life have I seen such a sad cemetery.
“Here is the grave of the old caretaker,” the boy told me, jumping onto a pile of sand, into which a black cross with a copper image was dug.
- 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 she gave me a nickel in silver - a glorious lady!
And I gave the boy a nickel and no longer regretted either the trip or the seven rubles I had spent.
1830
The story "The Stationmaster" is one of the five stories that went down in the history of literature under the name of Belkin's stories. This story was written in September 1830, that same autumn, when Pushkin, having left for property matters, was forced to stay until winter, while cholera raged in the capitals. But it was a productive autumn for the poet.
The saddest story of the five other stories is about a little man. According to Maxim Gorky, Russian realism began with this small work. The Stationmaster was first published along with other works in the name of a certain Ivan Belkin in 1831, and in 1834 they were published under the name of Pushkin himself. Leo Tolstoy believed that Belkin's Tales should be studied by every writer.
One day, an acquaintance of his came to Pushkin, and, seeing Belkin's Tales, which had come out of print, on the table, he asked: "Who is this Belkin?" To which the poet replied: “Whoever he is, you need to write stories like this: simply, briefly and clearly.”
It is also striking that, despite the past 200 years, the plot of the story "The Stationmaster" has not become outdated and has even acquired some additional relevance today. Girls from poor families still dream of breaking out of poverty by falling in love with a wealthy man.
>>From the history of the creation of "Tales of Ivan Petrovich Belkin". "Station Master"
From the history of the creation of "Tales of Ivan Petrovich Belkin"
In 1831, A. S. Pushkin published Belkin's Tale (Shot, Snowstorm, Undertaker, Stationmaster, Peasant Young Lady). The stories were attributed by Pushkin to Ivan Petrovich Belkin, as mentioned in the preface "From the Publisher". By this, Pushkin immediately gave readers the key to understanding his stories.
Declaring I. P. Belkin their author, he then clarified his idea: Belkin did not “invent”, but only wrote down some stories, or, as he put it, “jokes” from several storytellers. Readers - Pushkin's contemporaries - understood that the true writer of stories was Alexander Pushkin, jokingly hiding behind the name of "publisher D.P.", who "invented" both Belkin and the storytellers. This means that he had some kind of his own goal, his own view of the events depicted, of the heroes, of Russian life, of Russian literature. Pushkin, as it were, forced Belkin to write down not random stories of his acquaintances, but those that were deliberately selected. They were supposed to help Pushkin pose questions that worried many to readers: what explains a person’s actions, his moral convictions, and what determines his life and destiny to a greater extent?
Stationmaster
collegiate registrar,
Post station dictator.
Prince Vyazemsky
Who hasn't cursed the stationmasters, who hasn't scolded them? Who, in a moment of anger, did not demand from them a fatal book in order to write in it their useless complaint of oppression, rudeness and malfunction? Who does not revere them as monsters of the human race, the wounded dead clerks, or, at least, Murom robbers? Let us, however, be fair, let us try to enter into their position and, perhaps, we will begin to judge them much more condescendingly. What is a station attendant? 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 it real hard labor? Peace of day or night.
1 Clerk - assistant clerk, clerk.
All the annoyance accumulated during a boring ride, the traveler takes out on the caretaker. The weather is unbearable, the road is bad, the driver is stubborn, the horses are not driven - and the caretaker is to blame. Entering his poor dwelling, the traveler looks at him as an enemy; well, if he manages to get rid of the uninvited guest soon; but if there are no horses? .. God! what curses, what threats will fall on his head! In rain and sleet he is forced to run around the yards; in the storm, in the Epiphany frost, he goes into the canopy, so that only for a moment can he rest from the screams and pushes of the irritated guest.
The general arrives; the trembling caretaker gives him the last two triples, including the courier. The general goes without saying thank you. Five minutes later - the bell! - and the courier1 throws his traveler on the table! .. Let us delve into all this carefully, and instead of indignation, our heart will be filled with sincere compassion. A few more words: for twenty years in a row I traveled all over Russia in all directions; almost all postal routes are known to me; several generations of coachmen are familiar to me; I don’t know a rare caretaker by sight, I didn’t deal with a rare one; I hope to publish a curious stock of my travel observations in a short time; for the time being, I will only say that the class of stationmasters is presented to the general opinion in the most false form. These so-slandered overseers are generally peaceful people, naturally obliging, prone to cohabitation, modest in their claims to honors and not too greedy. From their conversations (which gentlemen passing by inappropriately neglect) one can learn a lot of curious and instructive things. As for me, I confess that I prefer their conversation to the speeches of some official of the 6th class, following on official business.
You can easily guess that I have friends from the respectable class of caretakers. Indeed, the memory of one of them is precious to me. Circumstances once brought us closer, and I now intend to talk about it with my kind readers.
In the year 1816, in the month of May, I happened to pass through the *** province, along the highway, now destroyed. I was in a small rank, rode on chaises and paid runs for two horses. As a result of this, the wardens did not stand on ceremony with me, and I often took from the battle what, in my opinion, followed me by right. Being young and quick-tempered, I was indignant at the meanness and cowardice of the superintendent when this latter gave the troika prepared for me under the carriage of the bureaucratic gentleman. It took me just as long to get used to the fact that a choosy lackey carried me a dish at the governor's dinner.
Now both seem to me 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, for example: honor the mind of the mind? What kind of non-controversy would have arisen! And with whom would the servants start serving food? But back to my story.
The day was hot. Three miles from the station, *** began to drip, and a minute later the pouring rain soaked me to the last thread. Upon arrival at the station, the first concern was to change clothes as soon as possible, the second was to ask for tea. "Hey Dunya! - the caretaker shouted, - put the samovar on and go for cream. At these words, a girl of fourteen years old came out from behind the partition and ran into the passage. Her beauty amazed me. "Is this your daughter?" I asked the caretaker. "Daughter, sir," he replied with an air of contented pride, "but such a reasonable, such a nimble mother, all dead." Here he began to rewrite my travelogue, and I began to examine the pictures that adorned his humble but tidy monastery. They depicted the story of the prodigal son. In the first, a venerable old man in a cap and dressing gown dismisses a restless young man, who hurriedly accepts his blessing and a bag of money. In another, the depraved behavior of a young man is depicted in vivid features: he is sitting at a table, surrounded by false friends and shameless women. Further squandered
a young man, in rags and a three-cornered hat, herds pigs and shares a meal with them; deep sadness and remorse are depicted in his face.
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 verses.
All this has been preserved in my memory to this day, as well as pots of 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 vigorous, and his long green coat with three medals on faded ribbons.
Before I had time to pay off my old coachman, Dunya returned with a samovar. The little coquette noticed at a 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 her father a glass of punch; I gave Dunya a cup of tea, and the three of us began to talk, as if we had known each other for centuries.
The horses were ready for a long time, but I still did not want to part with the caretaker and his daughter. At last I said goodbye to them; my father wished me a good journey, and my daughter accompanied me to the cart. In the passage I stopped and asked her permission to kiss her; Dunya agreed ... I can count many kisses, "since I have been doing this," but not a single one has left in me such a long, such a pleasant memory.
Several years passed, and circumstances led me to that very road, to those very places. I remembered the old caretaker's daughter and was glad at the thought of seeing 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 stood 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 their original places; but there were no more flowers on the windows, and everything around showed dilapidation and neglect. The caretaker slept under a sheepskin coat; my arrival woke him up; he got up... It was definitely Samson Vyrin; but how old he is! While he was about to rewrite my road trip, I looked at his gray hair, at the deep wrinkles of his long-unshaven face, at his hunched back - and could not be surprised how three or four years could turn a cheerful man into a frail old man. “Did you recognize me? I asked him. “We are old friends.” - “It may happen,” he answered sullenly, “there is a big road here; I have had many passers-by." - “Is your Dunya healthy?” I continued. The old man frowned. “God knows,” he replied. So, is she married? - I said. The old man pretended not to have heard my question, and continued to read my travelogue 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 proposed glass. I noticed that the rum cleared up his sullenness. At the second glass he became talkative; remembered or pretended to remember me, and I learned from him a story that at that time greatly occupied and touched me.
“So you knew my Dunya? he began. Who didn't know her? Oh, Dunya, Dunya! What a girl she was! It used to be that whoever passes by, everyone will praise, no one will condemn. The ladies gave her, the one with a handkerchief, the other with earrings. Gentlemen, the travelers stopped on purpose, as if to have lunch or supper, but in reality only to look at her longer. It used to happen that the master, no matter how angry he was, would calm down in her presence and talk graciously to me. Believe me, sir: couriers, couriers talked to her for half an hour. She kept the house: what to clean up,
what to cook, everything was in time. And I, the old fool, do not look enough, it used to be, I do not get enough; did I not love my Dunya, did I not cherish my child; did she not have a life? No, you won’t get rid of trouble; what is destined, that cannot be avoided.
Then he began to tell me his grief in detail. Three years ago, one winter evening, when the caretaker was lining up a new book, and his daughter was sewing a dress 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 running. 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 eat something? The appearance of Dunya produced its usual effect. The wrath of the traveler has passed; he agreed to wait for the horses and ordered supper for himself. Taking off his wet, shaggy hat, untangling his shawl and pulling off his overcoat,
the traveler appeared as a young, slender hussar with a black mustache.
He settled down at the caretaker, began to talk merrily with his daughter. Served dinner. In the meantime, the horses came, and the keeper ordered that they immediately, but feeding, harness them to the wagon of the traveler; but, returning, he found a young man lying almost unconscious on a bench: he became ill, his head ached, it was impossible to go ... What to do! the superintendent gave him his bed, and it was supposed to be sent to C*** for a doctor the next morning.
The next day the hussar became worse. His man went on horseback to the first city for a doctor. Dunya tied a handkerchief soaked with vinegar around his head and sat down with her sewing by his bed. The sick man groaned in front of the caretaker and did not say almost a word, but he drank two cups of coffee and, groaning, ordered himself dinner. Dunya did not leave him. He constantly asked for a drink, and Dunya brought him a mug of lemonade prepared by her.
Volnoy dipped his lips and every time he returned the mug, as a token 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 of mind and that in two days he could be on the road. The hussar gave him twenty-five rubles for the visit, invited him to dine; the doctor agreed; both ate with great appetite, drank a bottle of wine, and parted very pleased with each other.
Milashevsky. "Station Master"
What mood is imbued with this illustration for the story "The Stationmaster"?
Another day passed, and the hussar completely recovered. He was extremely cheerful, incessantly joking with Dunya, then with the caretaker; he whistled songs, talked to the passers-by, entered their wayfarers in the post book, and fell in love with the kind caretaker so much that on the third morning he was sorry to part with his kind guest. The day was Sunday; Dunya was going to dinner. The hussar was given a kibitka. He said goodbye to the caretaker, generously rewarding him for his stay and refreshments; he also said goodbye to Dunya and volunteered to take her to the church, which was located on the edge of the village. Dunya stood in perplexity ... “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 got into the wagon next to the hussar, the servant jumped on the pole, the coachman whistled, and the horses galloped off. The poor caretaker did not understand how he himself could allow his Duna to ride with the hussar, how he was blinded and what happened to his mind then.
In less than half an hour, his heart began to ache, ache, and anxiety took possession of him to such an extent that
he could not resist and went himself to mass. Approaching the church, he saw that the people were already dispersing, but Dunya was neither in the fence nor on the porch. He hastily entered the church: the priest was leaving the altar; the deacon 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 deacon whether she had been at Mass. The deacon replied that she had not been. The caretaker went home neither alive nor dead. One hope remained for him: Dunya, due to the windiness of her young years, decided, perhaps, to ride to the next station, where her godmother lived. In excruciating excitement, he expected the return of the troika, on which he let her go. The coachman did not return. Finally, in the evening, he arrived alone and tipsy, with the deadly news: "Dunya from that station went further with a hussar."
The old man did not bear his misfortune; he immediately fell into 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 strong fever; he was taken to S *** and another was appointed in his place for a while. The same doctor who came to the hussar treated him too. He assured the caretaker that the young man was quite healthy and that at that time he still guessed about his malicious intention, but was silent, fearing his whip. Was the German speaking the truth or
only wanted to boast of foresight, but he did not console the poor patient in the least. Barely recovering from his illness, the caretaker asked S*** the postmaster for a vacation of two months and, without saying a word to anyone about his intention, went on foot to fetch his daughter.
He knew from the traveler that Captain Minsky was on his way from Smolensk to Petersburg. The driver who drove him said that Dunya was crying all the way, although she seemed to be driving on her own accord. “Perhaps,” thought the caretaker, “I will bring home my lost lamb.” With this thought he arrived in Petersburg, stayed in 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 hall and asked him to report to his honor that the old soldier would beg to see him. The military footman, cleaning his boot on the block, explained that the master was resting and that he did not take
nobody. The caretaker left and returned at the appointed time. Minsky himself came to him in a dressing gown, in a red skufi. "What, brother, do you want?" he asked him. The old man's heart boiled, tears welled up in his eyes, and he only said in a trembling voice: “Your honor! Do such a divine favor!..” Minsky
He quickly glanced at him, flushed, took him by the hand, led him into the study, and locked the door behind him. “Your honor! continued the old man. - What fell from the cart is gone; give me at least my poor Dunya. After all, you have enjoyed it; don't waste it in vain*. “What has been done cannot be returned,” said the young man in extreme confusion, “I am guilty before you and glad to ask your forgiveness; but do not think that I could leave Dunya: she will be happy, I give you my word of honor. Why do you want her? She loves Me; she had lost the habit of her former state. Neither you nor she - you will not forget what happened. Then, slipping something into his sleeve, he opened the door, and the caretaker, without remembering how, found himself in the street.
For a long time he stood motionless, at last he saw a roll of papers behind the cuff of his sleeve; he took them out and unfolded several crumpled banknotes of five and ten rubles. Tears again welled up in his eyes, tears of indignation! He squeezed the papers into a ball, threw them to the ground, stamped them down with his heel, and walked away... After walking a few steps, he stopped, thought... and returned... but there were no banknotes anymore. A well-dressed young man, seeing him, ran up to the cab, sat down hurriedly and shouted: "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 more. For this day, after two days, he returned to Minsky; but the military lackey told him sternly that the master was not receiving anyone, forced him out of the hall with his chest and slammed the door under his breath. The caretaker stood, stood - and went. On that very day, in the evening, he walked along Liteinaya, having served a prayer service for All Who Sorrow. Suddenly a smart droshky rushed past him, and the caretaker recognized Minsky. Drozhki stopped in front of a three-story house, at the very entrance, and the hussar ran onto the porch. A happy thought flashed through the caretaker's mind. He turned back and, having caught up with the coachman: “Whose, brother, is the horse? - he asked, - is it Minsky? -
“Exactly so,” answered the coachman, “but what about you?” - “Yes, this is what: your master ordered me to take a note to his Dunya, and I forget where Dunya lives.” “Yes, right here on the second floor. You are late, brother, with your
note; now he is with her." - "There is no need," the caretaker objected with an inexplicable movement of his heart, "thanks for the thought, and I'll do my job." And with that, he went up the stairs. The doors were locked; he called, several seconds passed in painful expectation for him. The key rattled, they opened it. "Here
is Avdotya Samsonovna worth it? - he asked. “Here,” answered the young maid, why do you need her?
The caretaker, without answering, entered the nala. “No, no! the maid shouted after him, “Avdotya Samsonovna has guests.” But the caretaker, not listening, went on. The first two rooms were dark, the third was on fire. He walked to the open door and stopped. In the room, beautifully decorated, Minsky sat in thought.
Dunya, dressed in all the luxury of fashion, sat on the arm of his chair, like a rider on her English saddle*. She tenderly looked at Minsky, winding his black Kudrin with her sparkling fingers. Poor caretaker! Never had his daughter seemed to him so beautiful; he reluctantly admired her. "Who's there?" she asked without raising her head. He remained silent. Receiving no answer, Dunya raised her head ... and fell on the carpet with a cry. Frightened, Minsky rushed to pick it up and, suddenly seeing the old caretaker at the door, left Dunya and approached him, trembling with anger. “What do you need? he told him through gritted teeth. - Why are you sneaking around me like a robber? Or do you want to kill me? Go away!" - and, with a strong hand, seizing the old man by the collar, pushed him onto the stairs.
N. Kompanets. Illustration for the story
How does the artist convey the inner state of the father after meeting with his daughter?
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 went from Petersburg back to his station and again took up his post. “For the third year already, he concluded, how I live without Dunya and how there is not a rumor or a spirit about her. Whether she is alive or not, God knows. Anything happens. Not her first, not her last, was lured by a passing rake, but there he held it and left it. There are many of them in St. Petersburg, young fools, today in satin and velvet, and tomorrow, you'll see, sweeping the street along with the barn's tavern.
When you sometimes think that Dunya, perhaps, immediately disappears, you involuntarily sin and wish her a grave ... "
Such was the story of my friend, the old caretaker, a story repeatedly interrupted by tears, which he picturesquely wiped away with his coat, like the zealous Terentyich in Dmitrien's beautiful ballad. These tears were partly aroused by the punch, of which he drew five glasses in the course of his narration; but whatever
they really touched my heart. Having parted with him, for a long time I could not forget the old caretaker, for a long time I thought about poor Dunya ... Recently, passing through the town of ***, I remembered my friend; I learned that the station he commanded had already been destroyed. To my question: "Is the old caretaker still alive?" - nobody
could not give me a satisfactory answer. I decided to visit the familiar side, took free horses and set off for the village of N. This happened in the fall. Greyish clouds covered the sky; cold hysteria blew from the reaped fields, carrying away the red and yellow leaves from the oncoming trees. I arrived at the village at sunset and stopped at
post house. In the passage (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. “He drank himself, father,” she answered. "Where was he buried?" - "Beyond the outskirts, near his late mistress." - "Can't you take me to his grave?" - “Why not. Hey Vanka! it's enough for you to mess with the cat. Take the gentleman 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 deceased? I asked him dear.
How not to know! He taught me how to cut pipes. It happened (God rest his soul!), He came from the tavern, and we followed him: “Grandfather! grandfather! nuts! - and he gives us nuts. Everything used to be messing with us.
Do passers-by remember him?
Yes, there are few passers-by; unless the assessor wraps up, but that is not up to the dead. Here in the summer a lady passed by, so she asked about the old caretaker and went to his grave.
“Which lady?” I asked curiously.
- A beautiful lady, - answered the boy, - she rode in a carriage with six horses, with three small barchats and with a nurse, and with a black pug; and as she was told that the old caretaker had died, she wept and said to the children: "Sit quietly, and I will go to the cemetery." And I volunteered to bring her. And the lady said: "I myself know the way." And she gave me a nickel in silver - such a kind lady! ..
We came to the cemetery, a bare place, not fenced in anything, dotted with wooden crosses, not overshadowed by a single tree. Never in my life have I seen such a sad cemetery.
“Here is the grave of the old caretaker,” the boy told me, jumping onto a pile of sand, into which a black cross with a copper image was dug.
- 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 she gave me a nickel in silver - a glorious lady!
And I gave the boy a nickel and no longer regretted either the trip or the seven rubles I had spent.
Let's share our first impressions
1. What interested you in the topic of Alexander Pushkin's story "The Stationmaster"? What feelings and thoughts does it awaken in the modern reader?
2. What questions would you suggest for a class discussion of The Station Agent?
3. What parts of the story would you like to illustrate and why?
