Stationmaster. Analysis of “The Station Warden” by Pushkin When was the work The Station Warden written?

Reading the introduction to A. S. Pushkin’s story “The Station Agent,” the reader cannot help but feel delighted at how vividly and aptly the service of the “dictator” of the postal station is described. True, in our time there are no yam stations or caretakers, and people move around cities and regions by trains and planes. But human characters have hardly changed. This introduction begins the story about the stationmaster.

“The Station Agent” is the fourth story by Ivan Petrovich Belkin. In the papers to which Pushkin refers, it was mentioned that Belkin heard this story from the titular adviser A.G.N.

One day, in May 1816, the author found himself at the N station. The station was neat. The author drew attention to the pictures hanging on the wall on the theme of the return of the prodigal son. The author stopped at the station, where he was served tea, and he treated the old caretaker to punch. They sat at the table and had a warm, friendly conversation while the coachmen were preparing the horses. The caretaker loved his daughter dearly and was proud of her. The caretaker's fourteen-year-old daughter made an indelible impression on the author with her beauty. The father said that everyone passing by pays attention to her. Some even specially turn into the station to see it once again. With her charm and attractiveness, she pacifies wayward and angry gentlemen.

The next time he passed through this station was several years later. He remembered the beautiful girl, and in his heart he hoped to see her again. But Dunya was not at the station. He saw the caretaker, aged and taciturn. He asked about Duna, but the old caretaker pretended that he had not heard the question.

The little trick that the author used did the trick. He treated the caretaker to punch. The alcohol loosened the tongue of the old caretaker, and he said that his daughter was taken to St. Petersburg by cunning by a young hussar. The caretaker said that one day he went to St. Petersburg on foot. He decided that if the hussar left her, he would take his daughter with him. The old man found Dunya in a large house, where she lived in a separate apartment. He learned that the hussar's name was Minsky, and he served with the rank of captain. The father met with the hussar. Minsky rented a room for her and promised that he would never offend Dunya. But the officer did not allow me to meet with my daughter. True, the old man did see his daughter. She became prettier, blossomed, and it was noticeable that she was happy in love.

The old man then returned home and continued his service at the station. But it was clear that he missed his daughter and was worried about how her fate would turn out in the capital.

Some more time passed. The author again passed through that province. The station had already been destroyed, but the author decided to visit a familiar caretaker and went to the village where the station was. The brewer's family lived in the caretaker's house. The fat woman said that the caretaker died and was buried in the local cemetery. A red-haired boy, the son of a brewer, took the author to the cemetery. On the way, the boy said that one day a luxurious lady “with barchat” came to the caretaker’s grave. She lay on the grave and cried bitterly. Then I talked to the priest and gave him money. And she gave the red-haired boy a silver penny. It is clear that the beautiful lady was Dunya, the caretaker’s daughter. And judging by the fact that she came with children and a wet nurse, she married Captain Minsky.

Date of: 1830 Genre: story

Main characters: Samson Vyrin and his daughter Dunya

The story tells about the station superintendent Samson Vyrin and his daughter Duna. Dunya was very beautiful. All the guests noticed this. And one day a handsome hussar took her away with him. The father went to look for her, but the daughter did not want to communicate with him. Out of grief, he drank himself to death and died. And Dunya came to his grave a few years later.

The story teaches the fact that even if you want to completely change your life, you must not forget and turn away from your parents. One day you may regret it, but it will be too late.

At the beginning of the story, the author talks about the difficult work of station guards in Russia. All travelers demand a change of horses, which are often not available. They yell at the caretaker, threaten them, write complaints. The author ended up at one of these stations. He asked for a change of horses and tea. While I was waiting, I looked at the caretaker’s home, where he, having become a widower, lived with his fourteen-year-old daughter Dunya.

The house was poor, but well-kept, even with flowers on the windows. The author was struck by Dunya’s extraordinary beauty. She was not shy, but on the contrary, a flirt. She looked directly at the author with her huge blue eyes. She sat down to drink tea with her father and guest and easily carried on a conversation. When the guest was leaving, he asked Dunya for a kiss, and she did not refuse. A few years later, the author again found himself in the same area, on a familiar road. All this time he remembered Dunya and wanted to see her again.

He entered the caretaker's house and was surprised at the desolation that reigned there. And in three years the caretaker himself turned from a strong man into a decrepit old man. Dunya was nowhere to be seen. Then the old man started talking and told his sad story. He said that Dunya had a magical effect on all visitors. With her, they stopped making trouble and threatening, and gave her small gifts: handkerchiefs or earrings. One day, a young hussar, Minsky, arrived at the station and began to rudely demand horses, even swinging a whip at the caretaker. When Dunya came out from behind the curtain, he immediately calmed down and even ordered lunch.

After lunch he became very ill. The caretaker had to give up his bed to the hussar, and Dunya looked after him as best she could. Meanwhile, the guest was getting worse. We decided to send for a doctor to the city. A German doctor came from the city, examined the patient and said that he needed rest, saying that he was very ill, but the hussar and the doctor ordered lunch and both ate it with appetite.

The hussar paid the doctor twenty-five rubles, and he went back. All this time Dunya did not leave the patient. Three days later, the hussar felt better, and he got ready to move on. And Dunya was going to church for a service that day. The military man offered to give the girl a ride, but she doubted it. Then the father said that she could easily go with the guest. They left. After a while, the caretaker became worried. The daughter did not return, and he went to the church to look for her. When he arrived, the temple was already closed. The priest told the caretaker that he had not seen Dunya at the service today.

By nightfall, one of the coachmen from the neighboring station told the caretaker that he had seen Dunya leave with a visiting hussar. The coachman claimed that the girl was crying, but was driving of her own free will. From such grief, Vyrin became very ill, and the doctor who examined the hussar came to treat him. The doctor admitted to Vyrin that the hussar’s illness was a hoax, and he lied because Minsky threatened him.

The caretaker recovered and decided to find his daughter. He remembered that the hussar was on his way to St. Petersburg. Then Samson Vyrin took a vacation and went to the capital in search of his daughter. He managed to find out where the hussar lived. Vyrin came to him and began to ask about his daughter. He said that I’m kind of sorry that this happened, but I’ll make your daughter happy, she loves me and has already gotten used to a different life, and you go away, and he sent out the caretaker. Already on the street, the caretaker discovered an envelope with money in his pocket. In anger, he threw the banknotes into the snow, trampled them with his heel and walked away. One clever fellow picked up the money and quickly disappeared in a cab.

In the evening of the same day, he managed to follow the hussar and find out where Dunya lived. He entered this house under the pretext of delivering a letter. Dunya looked great and was expensively dressed in the latest fashion. She was sitting in the company of a hussar. When Dunya saw her father, she fainted. The hussar shouted at him and kicked him out of the house. A friend advised Vyrin to fight for his daughter, but he went home and began his usual work. This is the story told by a sad old man. He said that he had not heard from his daughter since then and did not know where she was. Out of grief, the old man became addicted to alcohol and became depressed.

After some time, the author again found himself on the same route and learned that the station no longer existed, and the caretaker finally drank himself to death and died. The author went to his grave. The boy who accompanied him to the cemetery said that a young beautiful lady came to this grave with her children in a luxurious carriage. He recalled: the lady lay on the grave for a long time and cried, and then went to the local priest.

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Stationmaster (original)

(quoted from www.rvb.ru)

Collegiate 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? 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 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 thoroughly, 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.

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, Another thing 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. “My 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 the 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.

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.

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 many kisses since I’ve 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 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 foreboding.

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. 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. It used to be that 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 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 ruling 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, had a headache, 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. In front of the caretaker, the patient groaned and said 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; whistled songs, talked

with travelers, wrote down their travel documents 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 for him: Dunya, in the frivolity of her young years, decided, perhaps, 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,” the caretaker thought, “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 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 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, Niona, 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 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, “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 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, 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 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 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 excited by the punch I would draw

n 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 could 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.

“A beautiful lady,” answered the boy; - she rode in a carriage of six horses, with three little barchats 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,” Vanka answered, “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 most Russian season of the year is winter. Not a fast summer with green spaces, annoying mosquitoes and flies. Not a thoughtful autumn in gold at first, slushy-gray and smoky-cold later. An unfriendly spring with the lively polyphony of birds and the stuffy aromas of wildflowers. Namely, winter: endlessly white, endless snow, a echoing emptiness, which the Russian soul, cramped in the body, strives to break; strong frost, inciting the heart and dulling fear. Blizzards, blizzards, blizzards are allies of unimaginable feats. Winter. Patroness of the desperate and adversary of the desperate.

Director Sergei Solovyov treated the film adaptation of the story by Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin very carefully. The text is reproduced verbatim, the little man is really small, and his face is even too kind: the visualized tragedy of the father, who did not wait for the return of the prodigal daughter, potentially plays on an incomparably larger number of instruments. However, it would be strange if the director did not see the story in his own way. All that remained of the image of the station superintendent Samson Vyrin’s daughter, a “little coquette,” was “big blue eyes.” Solovyovskaya's Dunya is as beautiful as she is silent: not a single line is spoken throughout the entire film. She has become more than a thing, a thing that cannot call itself one. However, Dunyasha didn’t speak at Pushkin’s either, but she did talk and “answered without any timidity.” Behind the descriptive vividness one could see a person, a girl, a daughter. No matter how blasphemous it may sound, there is nothing to love Dunya, performed by Marianna Kushnirova, in a fatherly way (only blindly, of course), like a man, it’s not so difficult, unusual. Beauty has always attracted and will attract, but in this case it is not enough. Naturally, the center of the narrative is noticeably shifting towards male characters. Samson Vyrin is a copy of Pushkin, and Captain Minsky, who took away his father’s only daughter, does not seem like that archetypal rake, vulgar and “making fun.” Mikhalkov, in essence, will play Paratov in the same way later, but at higher speeds and in general as a businessman. Minsky is an adventurer, a rogue, but it was not possible to portray him as an evil, real antagonist of Vyrin. How can anyone be blamed for appropriating something that seems to belong to no one?

The most Russian music romances. Melodic, lyrical, hysterical. They can save, destroy, explain everything in the world. It was a good idea to include them in the film. The bored landowner Ivan Pavlovich Belkin, the narrator, travels to the sounds of romances. He tells the story of the unfortunate caretaker in the tone of a tired collector of not too sophisticated tales. “Not her first, not her last, was lured away by a passing rake,” says Vyrin about his daughter. The meaning of this phrase is very accurately expressed in the mood of the film: although it manages to diversify and even improve the original with visible and audible advantages, in general the picture looks too dull. The most full-colored episode is the episode of the snowball game between Dunya and Minsky. This is where there was lively Russian fun, drawn characters and spontaneity of display, and not the look of a bored film artist. Solovyov completely ignored reproductions of the parable of the prodigal son. And this can be regarded as the fact that the director did not want to invest much, but only wanted to quote Pushkin and thicken the colors of Russian road melancholy. Perhaps the most Russian of all.

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 take 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 himself 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.