Kuprin read short stories. Book: Alexander Kuprin “Stories about Animals”

Alexander Ivanovich Kuprin was born on August 26, 1870 in the district town of Narovchat, Penza province. His father, a collegiate registrar, died at thirty-seven from cholera. The mother, left alone with three children and practically without a livelihood, went to Moscow. There she managed to place her daughters in a boarding house “at government expense,” and her son settled with his mother in the Widow’s House on Presnya. (Widows of military and civilians who served for the good of the Fatherland for at least ten years were accepted here.) At the age of six, Sasha Kuprin was admitted to an orphan school, four years later to the Moscow Military Gymnasium, then to the Alexander Military School, and then was sent to 46th Dnieper Regiment. Thus, the writer’s early years were spent in a formal environment, with the strictest discipline and drill.

His dream of a free life came true only in 1894, when, after his resignation, he came to Kyiv. Here, having no civilian profession, but feeling a literary talent (while still a cadet, he published the story “The Last Debut”), Kuprin got a job as a reporter for several local newspapers.

The work was easy for him, he wrote, by his own admission, “on the run, on the fly.” Life, as if in compensation for the boredom and monotony of youth, now did not skimp on impressions. Over the next few years, Kuprin repeatedly changed his place of residence and occupation. Volyn, Odessa, Sumy, Taganrog, Zaraysk, Kolomna... Whatever he does: he becomes a prompter and actor in a theater troupe, a psalm-reader, a forest walker, a proofreader and an estate manager; He even studies to become a dental technician and flies an airplane.

In 1901, Kuprin moved to St. Petersburg, and here his new life began. literary life. Very soon he becomes a regular contributor to famous St. Petersburg magazines - “Russian Wealth”, “World of God”, “Magazine for Everyone”. One after another, stories and novellas are published: “Swamp”, “Horse Thieves”, “ White poodle", "Duel", "Gambrinus", "Shulamith" and the unusually subtle, lyrical work about love - " Garnet bracelet».

The story “The Garnet Bracelet” was written by Kuprin during his heyday Silver Age in Russian literature, who was distinguished by an egocentric worldview. Writers and poets wrote a lot about love then, but for them it was more a passion than a higher one. pure love. Kuprin, despite these new trends, continues the tradition of Russian literature of the 19th century century and writes a story about a completely unselfish, high and pure, true love, which does not come “directly” from person to person, but through love for God. This whole story is a wonderful illustration of the hymn of love of the Apostle Paul: “Love endures long, is kind, love does not envy, love is not arrogant, is not proud, does not act rudely, does not seek its own, is not irritated, does not think evil, does not rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth. ; covers all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails, although prophecies will cease, and tongues will be silent, and knowledge will be abolished.” What does the hero of the story Zheltkov need from his love? He does not look for anything in her, he is happy only because she exists. Kuprin himself remarked in one letter, speaking about this story: “I have never written anything more chaste.”

Kuprin’s love is generally chaste and sacrificial: the hero is more late story“Inna,” having been rejected and excommunicated from home for a reason unknown to him, does not try to take revenge, forget his beloved as quickly as possible and find solace in the arms of another woman. He continues to love her just as selflessly and humbly, and all he needs is just to see the girl, at least from afar. Even having finally received an explanation, and at the same time learning that Inna belongs to someone else, he does not fall into despair and indignation, but, on the contrary, finds peace and tranquility.

In the story “Holy Love” there is the same sublime feeling, the object of which becomes an unworthy woman, the cynical and calculating Elena. But the hero does not see her sinfulness, all his thoughts are so pure and innocent that he is simply not able to suspect evil.

Less than ten years have passed since Kuprin becomes one of the most readable authors Russia, and in 1909 received the academic Pushkin Prize. In 1912, his collected works were published in nine volumes as a supplement to the Niva magazine. Came real glory, and with it stability and confidence in tomorrow. However, this prosperity did not last long: the First world war. Kuprin sets up an infirmary with 10 beds in his house, his wife Elizaveta Moritsovna, a former sister of mercy, cares for the wounded.

Kuprin could not accept the October Revolution of 1917. He perceived the defeat of the White Army as a personal tragedy. “I... bow my head respectfully before the heroes of all volunteer armies and detachments who unselfishly and selflessly laid down their souls for their friends,” he would later say in his work “The Dome of St. Isaac of Dalmatia.” But the worst thing for him is the changes that happened to people overnight. People became brutal before our eyes and lost their human appearance. In many of his works (“The Dome of St. Isaac of Dalmatia,” “Search,” “Interrogation,” “Piebald Horses. Apocrypha,” etc.) Kuprin describes these terrible changes in human souls that took place in the post-revolutionary years.

In 1918, Kuprin met with Lenin. "For the first time and probably last time“In my entire life, I have gone to a person for the sole purpose of looking at him,” he admits in the story “Lenin. Instant photography." The one he saw was far from the image that Soviet propaganda imposed. “At night, already in bed, without fire, I again turned my memory to Lenin, evoked his image with extraordinary clarity and... I got scared. It seemed to me that for a moment I seemed to enter him, felt like him. “In essence,” I thought, “this man, so simple, polite and healthy, is much more terrible than Nero, Tiberius, Ivan the Terrible. Those, for all their mental ugliness, were still people susceptible to the whims of the day and fluctuations of character. This one is something like a stone, like a cliff, which has broken away from a mountain ridge and is rapidly rolling down, destroying everything in its path. And at the same time - think! - a stone, due to some magic, - thinking! He has no feelings, no desires, no instincts. One sharp, dry, invincible thought: when I fall, I destroy.”

Fleeing from the devastation and famine that engulfed post-revolutionary Russia, the Kuprins left for Finland. Here the writer actively works in the emigrant press. But in 1920, he and his family had to move again. “It is not my will that fate itself fills the sails of our ship with wind and drives it to Europe. The newspaper will run out soon. I have a Finnish passport until June 1, and after this period they will allow me to live only with homeopathic doses. There are three roads: Berlin, Paris and Prague... But I, an illiterate Russian knight, can’t understand it well, I’m twisting my head and scratching my head,” he wrote to Repin. Bunin’s letter from Paris helped resolve the issue of choosing a country, and in July 1920 Kuprin and his family moved to Paris.

However, neither the long-awaited peace nor prosperity comes. Here they are strangers to everyone, without housing, without work, in a word - refugees. Kuprin is engaged in literary work as a day laborer. There is a lot of work, but it is not well paid, and there is a catastrophic lack of money. He tells his old friend Zaikin: “... I was left naked and poor, like a stray dog.” But even more than the need, he is exhausted by homesickness. In 1921, he wrote to the writer Gushchik in Tallinn: “... there is not a day when I don’t remember Gatchina, why I left. It is better to starve and be cold at home than to live at the mercy of a neighbor under a bench. I want to go home...” Kuprin dreams of returning to Russia, but is afraid that he will be greeted there as a traitor to the Motherland.

Gradually, life got better, but nostalgia remained, only “it lost its sharpness and became chronic,” Kuprin wrote in his essay “Motherland.” “You live in a wonderful country, among smart and good people, among the monuments greatest culture... But everything is just make-believe, as if a cinematic film is unfolding. And all the silent, dull grief that you no longer cry in your sleep and that in your dreams you don’t see either Znamenskaya Square, or Arbat, or Povarskaya, or Moscow, or Russia, but only a black hole.” Longing for the lost happy life is heard in the story “At Trinity-Sergius”: “But what can I do with myself if the past lives in me with all the feelings, sounds, songs, screams, images, smells and tastes, and the present life stretches out before me like a daily life, never changing, boring, worn out film. And don’t we live in the past more sharply, but deeper, sadder, but sweeter than in the present?”

Animal world

A. I. Kuprina

N\kl teacher

MKOU Secondary School No. 2, Alagir

Cheldieva M.K.

The world of animals in the works of Alexander Ivanovich Kuprin is amazing, unusual and original. Rarely has any artist so perfectly recreated their morals and characters, habits and loyalty to man.

Having gone through a number of various trials in childhood, forced to adapt to the cruel environment of the Orphan School, the cadet corps, and the cadet school, Kuprin retained in his soul the ability not to cause pain, retained the ability to sympathize and sympathize.

One of the writer’s friends recalled that he had never seen Kuprin pass by a dog on the street and not stop so as not to pet him. Kuprin created a whole series of stories about dogs: “White Poodle”, “Pirate”, “Dog’s Happiness”, “Barbos and Zhulka”, “Zaviraika”, “Barry”, “Balt”, “Ralph” and others.

While in exile in France, the writer often turns to the purest and most honest creatures in this world - children and animals. A.I. Kuprin once noticed that children in general are much closer to animals than adults think. Therefore, I recommend all these sad and funny stories about animals, which are perceived by students with special interest and sympathy. Kuprin's stories about animals convey something lofty, human, and kind...

Lesson Objectives

1. Raising good and attentive attitude to the animal world.

2. Formation of skills to navigate the text, draw conclusions and generalizations.

3. Development of children’s abilities to treat artistic words carefully and thoughtfully.

Lesson equipment

1. Portrait of A.I. Kuprina.

2. Book exhibition.

3. Illustrations for the writer’s works.

4. Electronic presentation.

5. Film based on the story by A.I. Kuprin "Balt".

Preliminary preparation

1. Reading Kuprin’s stories about animals.

2. Individual task for students: oral communication about the writer.

3. Preparation of an electronic presentation.

Lesson progress:

1.Teacher's opening speech

At the beginning of the lesson, a melody from the TV show “In the Animal World” is heard.

– Why did this particular melody sound? (Children's answers)

– Alexander Ivanovich Kuprin has more than 30 stories about animals. These stories, scattered across different publications, could make up a whole book. And today in class we will talk about the uniqueness of A.I.’s stories. Kuprin, dedicated to the animal world.

2. Student’s message about the writer

Many of A. I. Kuprin’s stories are devoted to the depiction of animals (mainly domestic ones).

The world of animals in the works of Alexander Ivanovich Kuprin is amazing, unusual and original. Rarely has any artist so perfectly recreated their original morals and characters, habits and loyalty to man. The writer loved and knew well the habits of many animals. According to L.V. Krutikova, A.I. Kuprin was a great “animal lover.”

Kuprin did not invent his stories about animals. All the animals he wrote about actually lived: many of them in Kuprin’s house, others with friends, and he learned about the fate of some from newspapers. Kuprin did a lot with the animals that lived with him: he trained them, treated them if they were sick, saved them when they were in danger. mortal danger. The famous tamer Anatoly Durov even wrote in his posters dedicated to the animals:

Kuprin himself is a writer
We had a friend with us .

“All our animals - dogs, horses, cats, goats, monkeys, bears and other animals - were family members,” recalled Kuprin’s daughter. “My father followed their lives and morals with tender and close attention.” Kuprin loved animals so much that he expressed regret that word artists began to pay less attention to depicting their lives.

“In 1930,” writes O.M. Mikhailov,” the writer said with sorrow to one of the journalists: “Have you noticed that now there are almost no dogs or horses left in literature.”

As if wanting to fill the gap, Kuprin, already seriously ill, recent years life, I decided to write a whole book about animals, “Friends of Man.” But the writer did not have time to realize his plan. He created only one story from the planned cycle - “Wreck-It Ralph” (1934).

His stories about animals, scattered across various publications, could indeed form a whole book.

3. Working with illustrations drawn (selected) by children

Students take turns showing the illustrations to the whole class. It is necessary to determine what story the drawing was made for, what moment is depicted. Then confirm your assumption by quoting. If one of the children illustrates the story “Balt”, they will be able to watch an excerpt from the film “Dangerous Arctic Adventure”.

4. Ideological and artistic analysis of the story “Zaviraika”

A.I. Kuprin was convinced that animals are distinguished by their memory, ability to distinguish time, space, sounds and even colors. They, in his opinion, have attachments and aversion, love and hatred, gratitude and appreciation, anger and humility, joy and grief. It is no coincidence that next to the title of the story “Zaviraika” he gave the subtitle: “The Soul of a Dog.”

Conversation on questions:

– Tell us about the narrator's first meeting with Zaviraika. (Children's answers)

– What leading traits of his character have already been outlined? (Response to kindness, firmness, trustfulness, insight)

– What portrait detail confirms this? (Eyes: “They didn’t run, didn’t blink, didn’t hide...asked me persistently...")

– What epithets did the author use to describe the dog’s appearance? (“Brilliantly black, with thick red markings, broad-chested, etc.)

– To what evaluative epithet do the marked means of expression lead? (“Excellent hound dog”)

– What epithets serve to express a generalizing characteristic? (“Smart and courageous”)

– Is there any reason to say that the author also has human relationships in mind when he writes about a dog? (Yes. In the story “Zaviraika” Kuprin writes with delight about meekness and purity of character hunting dog, who “showed such devoted friendship, such strength of good will and such intelligence, which would have done great honor to the average person.”Kuprin believes that it was not dark instinct, but a conscious mind, that forced Zaviraika to go looking for his “friend” (who fell into Patrashka’s trap).

5. Viewing the electronic presentation “The Animal World of Kuprin”

6. Summing up

– What do the stories of Alexander Ivanovich Kuprin teach? (Alexander Ivanovich Kuprin calls for unity between man and the animal world with his stories. His works educate feelings careful attitude man to nature).

7. Homework

Essay on the topic “The story that I liked the most.”

Alexander Kuprin

Biography of Alexander Kuprin

Alexander Ivanovich Kuprin was born on September 7 (August 26, old style) 1870 in the city of Narovchat, Penza province, into the family of a minor official. The father died when his son was two years old.

In 1874, his mother, who came from an ancient family of Tatar princes Kulanchakov, moved to Moscow. From the age of five due to severe financial situation the boy was sent to the Moscow Razumovsky orphanage, famous for its harsh discipline.

In 1888, Alexander Kuprin graduated from the cadet corps, and in 1890 from the Alexander Military School with the rank of second lieutenant.

After graduating from college, he was enrolled in the 46th Dnieper Infantry Regiment and sent to serve in the city of Proskurov (now Khmelnitsky, Ukraine).

In 1893, Kuprin went to St. Petersburg to enter the Academy of the General Staff, but was not allowed to take the exams due to a scandal in Kyiv, when in a barge restaurant on the Dnieper he threw overboard a tipsy bailiff who was insulting a waitress.

In 1894, Kuprin left military service. He traveled a lot in the south of Russia and Ukraine, tried himself in various fields activities: he was a loader, a storekeeper, a forest walker, a land surveyor, a psalm-reader, a proofreader, an estate manager, and even a dentist.

The writer's first story, "The Last Debut," was published in 1889 in the Moscow "Russian Satirical Sheet."

He described army life in the stories of 1890-1900 “From the Distant Past” (“Inquiry”), “Lilac Bush”, “Overnight”, “Night Shift”, “Army Ensign”, “Hike”.

Kuprin's early essays were published in Kyiv in the collections "Kyiv Types" (1896) and "Miniatures" (1897). In 1896, the story "Moloch" was published, which brought to the young author wide fame. This was followed by "Night Shift" (1899) and a number of other stories.

During these years, Kuprin met writers Ivan Bunin, Anton Chekhov and Maxim Gorky.

In 1901, Kuprin settled in St. Petersburg. For some time he headed the fiction department of the Magazine for Everyone, then became an employee of the World of God magazine and the Znanie publishing house, which published the first two volumes of Kuprin’s works (1903, 1906).

Into history Russian literature Alexander Kuprin entered as the author of the stories and novels “Olesya” (1898), “Duel” (1905), “The Pit” (part 1 - 1909, part 2 - 1914-1915).

He is also known as a great master of storytelling. Among his works in this genre are “At the Circus”, “Swamp” (both 1902), “Coward”, “Horse Thieves” (both 1903), “Peaceful Life”, “Measles” (both 1904), “Staff Captain Rybnikov " (1906), "Gambrinus", "Emerald" (both 1907), "Shulamith" (1908), "Garnet Bracelet" (1911), "Listrigons" (1907-1911), "Black Lightning" and "Anathema" ( both 1913).

In 1912, Kuprin traveled through France and Italy, the impressions of which were reflected in the series of travel essays “Côte d'Azur”.

During this period, he actively mastered new, previously unknown types of activities - he climbed hot air balloon, made a flight in an airplane (which almost ended tragically), and went underwater in a diving suit.

In 1917, Kuprin worked as editor of the newspaper Free Russia, published by the Left Socialist Revolutionary Party. From 1918 to 1919, the writer worked at the World Literature publishing house, created by Maxim Gorky.

After the arrival of white troops in Gatchina (St. Petersburg), where he lived since 1911, he edited the newspaper "Prinevsky Krai", published by Yudenich's headquarters.

In the fall of 1919, he emigrated with his family abroad, where he spent 17 years, mainly in Paris.

During the emigrant years, Kuprin published several collections of prose: “The Dome of St. Isaac of Dolmatsky”, “Elan”, “The Wheel of Time”, the novels “Zhaneta”, “Junker”.

Living in exile, the writer lived in poverty, suffering both from lack of demand and from isolation from his native soil.

In May 1937, Kuprin returned with his wife to Russia. By this time he was already seriously ill. Soviet newspapers published interviews with the writer and his journalistic essay “Native Moscow.”

On August 25, 1938, he died in Leningrad (St. Petersburg) from esophageal cancer. He was buried on the Literary Bridge of the Volkov Cemetery.

Alexander Kuprin was married twice. In 1901, his first wife was Maria Davydova (Kuprina-Iordanskaya), adopted daughter publisher of the magazine "World of God". Subsequently, she married the editor of the magazine "Modern World" (which replaced "World of God"), publicist Nikolai Iordansky, and she herself worked in journalism. In 1960, her book of memoirs about Kuprin, “Years of Youth,” was published.

In 1907, Kuprin married sister of mercy Elizaveta Heinrich.

From his first marriage the writer had a daughter, Lydia (1903-1924), and from his second, daughters Ksenia (1908-1981) and Zinaida (1909-1912).

His daughter from his second marriage, Ksenia, lived in France in 1919-1956, was a fashion model and film actress. In 1958 she returned to the USSR and worked at the A.S. Theater. Pushkin, playing mainly in crowd scenes. She wrote a book about Kuprin "My Father". She is the founder of the Kuprin house-museum in the city of Narovchat, Penza region.

Museum of A.I. Kuprin in Narovchat, a branch of the association of State Literary and Memorial Museums (OGLMM) of the Penza region, was opened on September 6, 1981.

Monuments to the writer were erected in Narovchat and Gatchina. In May 2009, a bronze monument to Alexander Kuprin was unveiled on the Balaklava embankment in Sevastopol.

Other books on similar topics:

Preface

Alexander Ivanovich Kuprin was born on August 26, 1870 in the district town of Narovchat, Penza province. His father, a collegiate registrar, died at thirty-seven from cholera. The mother, left alone with three children and practically without a livelihood, went to Moscow. There she managed to place her daughters in a boarding house “at government expense,” and her son settled with his mother in the Widow’s House on Presnya. (Widows of military and civilians who served for the good of the Fatherland for at least ten years were accepted here.) At the age of six, Sasha Kuprin was admitted to an orphan school, four years later to the Moscow Military Gymnasium, then to the Alexander Military School, and then was sent to 46th Dnieper Regiment. Thus, the writer’s early years were spent in a formal environment, with the strictest discipline and drill.

His dream of a free life came true only in 1894, when, after his resignation, he came to Kyiv. Here, having no civilian profession, but feeling a literary talent (while still a cadet, he published the story “The Last Debut”), Kuprin got a job as a reporter for several local newspapers.

The work was easy for him, he wrote, by his own admission, “on the run, on the fly.” Life, as if in compensation for the boredom and monotony of youth, now did not skimp on impressions. Over the next few years, Kuprin repeatedly changed his place of residence and occupation. Volyn, Odessa, Sumy, Taganrog, Zaraysk, Kolomna... Whatever he does: he becomes a prompter and actor in a theater troupe, a psalm-reader, a forest walker, a proofreader and an estate manager; He even studies to become a dental technician and flies an airplane.

In 1901, Kuprin moved to St. Petersburg, and here his new literary life began. Very soon he becomes a regular contributor to famous St. Petersburg magazines - “Russian Wealth”, “World of God”, “Magazine for Everyone”. One after another, stories and tales are published: “Swamp”, “Horse Thieves”, “White Poodle”, “Duel”, “Gambrinus”, “Shulamith” and an unusually subtle, lyrical work about love - “Garnet Bracelet”.

The story “The Garnet Bracelet” was written by Kuprin during the heyday of the Silver Age in Russian literature, which was distinguished by a self-centered attitude. Writers and poets wrote a lot about love then, but for them it was more a passion than the highest pure love. Kuprin, despite these new trends, continues the tradition of Russian literature of the 19th century and writes a story about completely unselfish, high and pure, true love, which does not go “directly” from person to person, but through the love of God. This whole story is a wonderful illustration of the hymn of love of the Apostle Paul: “Love endures long, is kind, love does not envy, love is not arrogant, is not proud, does not act rudely, does not seek its own, is not irritated, does not think evil, does not rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth. ; covers all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails, although prophecies will cease, and tongues will be silent, and knowledge will be abolished.” What does the hero of the story Zheltkov need from his love? He does not look for anything in her, he is happy only because she exists. Kuprin himself remarked in one letter, speaking about this story: “I have never written anything more chaste.”

Kuprin's love is generally chaste and sacrificial: the hero of the later story "Inna", being rejected and excommunicated from home for a reason unknown to him, does not try to take revenge, forget his beloved as soon as possible and find solace in the arms of another woman. He continues to love her just as selflessly and humbly, and all he needs is just to see the girl, at least from afar. Even having finally received an explanation, and at the same time learning that Inna belongs to someone else, he does not fall into despair and indignation, but, on the contrary, finds peace and tranquility.

In the story “Holy Love” there is the same sublime feeling, the object of which becomes an unworthy woman, the cynical and calculating Elena. But the hero does not see her sinfulness, all his thoughts are so pure and innocent that he is simply not able to suspect evil.

Less than ten years pass before Kuprin becomes one of the most widely read authors in Russia, and in 1909 he receives the academic Pushkin Prize. In 1912, his collected works were published in nine volumes as a supplement to the Niva magazine. Real glory came, and with it stability and confidence in the future. However, this prosperity did not last long: the First World War began. Kuprin sets up an infirmary with 10 beds in his house, his wife Elizaveta Moritsovna, a former sister of mercy, cares for the wounded.

Kuprin could not accept the October Revolution of 1917. He perceived the defeat of the White Army as a personal tragedy. “I... bow my head respectfully before the heroes of all volunteer armies and detachments who unselfishly and selflessly laid down their souls for their friends,” he would later say in his work “The Dome of St. Isaac of Dalmatia.” But the worst thing for him is the changes that happened to people overnight. People became brutal before our eyes and lost their human appearance. In many of his works (“The Dome of St. Isaac of Dalmatia,” “Search,” “Interrogation,” “Piebald Horses. Apocrypha,” etc.) Kuprin describes these terrible changes in human souls that took place in the post-revolutionary years.

In 1918, Kuprin met with Lenin. “For the first and, probably, the last time in my entire life, I went to a person with the sole purpose of looking at him,” he admits in the story “Lenin. Instant photography." The one he saw was far from the image that Soviet propaganda imposed. “At night, already in bed, without fire, I again turned my memory to Lenin, evoked his image with extraordinary clarity and... I got scared. It seemed to me that for a moment I seemed to enter him, felt like him. “In essence,” I thought, “this man, so simple, polite and healthy, is much more terrible than Nero, Tiberius, Ivan the Terrible. Those, for all their mental ugliness, were still people susceptible to the whims of the day and fluctuations of character. This one is something like a stone, like a cliff, which has broken away from a mountain ridge and is rapidly rolling down, destroying everything in its path. And at the same time - think! - a stone, due to some magic, - thinking! He has no feelings, no desires, no instincts. One sharp, dry, invincible thought: when I fall, I destroy.”

Fleeing from the devastation and famine that engulfed post-revolutionary Russia, the Kuprins left for Finland. Here the writer actively works in the emigrant press. But in 1920, he and his family had to move again. “It is not my will that fate itself fills the sails of our ship with wind and drives it to Europe. The newspaper will run out soon. I have a Finnish passport until June 1, and after this period they will allow me to live only with homeopathic doses. There are three roads: Berlin, Paris and Prague... But I, an illiterate Russian knight, can’t understand it well, I’m twisting my head and scratching my head,” he wrote to Repin. Bunin’s letter from Paris helped resolve the issue of choosing a country, and in July 1920 Kuprin and his family moved to Paris.

However, neither the long-awaited peace nor prosperity comes. Here they are strangers to everyone, without housing, without work, in a word - refugees. Kuprin is engaged in literary work as a day laborer. There is a lot of work, but it is not well paid, and there is a catastrophic lack of money. He tells his old friend Zaikin: “... I was left naked and poor, like a stray dog.” But even more than the need, he is exhausted by homesickness. In 1921, he wrote to the writer Gushchik in Tallinn: “... there is not a day when I don’t remember Gatchina, why I left. It is better to starve and be cold at home than to live at the mercy of a neighbor under a bench. I want to go home...” Kuprin dreams of returning to Russia, but is afraid that he will be greeted there as a traitor to the Motherland.

Gradually, life got better, but nostalgia remained, only “it lost its sharpness and became chronic,” Kuprin wrote in his essay “Motherland.” “You live in a beautiful country, among smart and kind people, among the monuments of the greatest culture... But everything is as if it were make-believe, as if it were unfolding in a cinematic film. And all the silent, dull grief that you no longer cry in your sleep and that in your dreams you don’t see either Znamenskaya Square, or Arbat, or Povarskaya, or Moscow, or Russia, but only a black hole.” The longing for a lost happy life is heard in the story “At Trinity-Sergius”: “But what can I do with myself if the past lives in me with all the feelings, sounds, songs, screams, images, smells and tastes, and the present life drags on in front of me like a daily, never changing, boring, worn-out film. And don’t we live in the past more sharply, but deeper, sadder, but sweeter than in the present?”

“Emigration completely chewed me up, and the distance from my homeland flattened my spirit,” said Kuprin. In 1937, the writer received government permission to return. He returned to Russia as a terminally ill old man.

Kuprin died on August 25, 1938 in Leningrad; he was buried on the Literary Bridge of the Volkovsky Cemetery.

Tatiana Klapchuk

Christmas and Easter stories

Wonderful doctor

The following story is not the fruit of idle fiction. Everything I described actually happened in Kyiv about thirty years ago and is still sacred, down to the smallest detail, preserved in the traditions of the family about which we'll talk. For my part, I just changed the names of some characters This touching story gave the oral story a written form.

- Grish, oh Grish! Look, the little pig... He's laughing... Yes. And in his mouth!.. Look, look... there is grass in his mouth, by God, grass!.. What a thing!

And two boys, standing in front of a huge solid glass window of a grocery store, began to laugh uncontrollably, pushing each other in the side with their elbows, but involuntarily dancing from the cruel cold. They had been standing for more than five minutes in front of this magnificent exhibition, which excited their minds and stomachs in equal measure. Here, illuminated by the bright light of hanging lamps, towered whole mountains of red, strong apples and oranges; there were regular pyramids of tangerines, delicately gilded through the tissue paper enveloping them; stretched out on the dishes, with ugly gaping mouths and bulging eyes, huge smoked and pickled fish; below, surrounded by garlands of sausages, juicy cut hams with a thick layer of pinkish lard flaunted... Countless jars and boxes with salted, boiled and smoked snacks completed this spectacular picture, looking at which both boys for a moment forgot about the twelve-degree frost and about the important assignment assigned their mother, an assignment that ended so unexpectedly and so pitifully.

The eldest boy was the first to tear himself away from contemplating the enchanting spectacle. He tugged at his brother's sleeve and said sternly:

- Well, Volodya, let’s go, let’s go... There’s nothing here...

At the same time suppressing a heavy sigh (the eldest of them was only ten years old, and besides, both of them had eaten nothing since the morning except empty cabbage soup) and casting one last lovingly greedy glance at the gastronomic exhibition, the boys hurriedly ran down the street. Sometimes, through the foggy windows of some house, they saw a Christmas tree, which from a distance seemed like a huge cluster of bright, shining spots, sometimes they even heard the sounds of a cheerful polka... But they courageously drove away the tempting thought: to stop for a few seconds and press their eyes to the glass.

As the boys walked, the streets became less crowded and darker. Beautiful shops, shining Christmas trees, trotters racing under their blue and red nets, the squealing of runners, the festive excitement of the crowd, the cheerful hum of shouts and conversations, the laughing faces of elegant ladies flushed with frost - everything was left behind. There were vacant lots, crooked, narrow alleys, gloomy, unlit slopes... Finally they reached a rickety, dilapidated house that stood alone; its bottom - the basement itself - was stone, and the top was wooden. Having walked around the cramped, icy and dirty courtyard, which served as a natural cesspool for all residents, they went downstairs to the basement, walked in the darkness along a common corridor, groped for their door and opened it.

The Mertsalovs had been living in this dungeon for more than a year. Both boys had long since gotten used to these smoky walls, crying from the dampness, and to the wet scraps drying on a rope stretched across the room, and to this terrible smell of kerosene fumes, children’s dirty linen and rats - the real smell of poverty. But today, after everything they saw on the street, after this festive rejoicing that they felt everywhere, their little children’s hearts sank from acute, unchildish suffering. In the corner, on a dirty wide bed, lay a girl of about seven years old; her face was burning, her breathing was short and labored, her wide, shining eyes looked intently and aimlessly. Next to the bed, in a cradle suspended from the ceiling, he screamed, wincing, straining and choking, infant. A tall, thin woman, with a gaunt, tired face, as if blackened by grief, was kneeling next to the sick girl, straightening her pillow and at the same time not forgetting to push the rocking cradle with her elbow. When the boys entered and white clouds of frosty air quickly rushed into the basement behind them, the woman turned her worried face back.

- Well? So what? – she asked abruptly and impatiently.

The boys were silent. Only Grisha noisily wiped his nose with the sleeve of his coat, made from an old cotton robe.

– Did you take the letter?.. Grisha, I’m asking you, did you give the letter?

- Well, so what? What did you tell him?

- Yes, everything is as you taught. Here, I say, is a letter from Mertsalov, from your former manager. And he scolded us: “Get out of here, he says... You bastards...”

-Who is this? Who was talking to you?.. Speak clearly, Grisha!

- The doorman was talking... Who else? I tell him: “Uncle, take the letter, pass it on, and I’ll wait for the answer here downstairs.” And he says: “Well, he says, keep your pocket... The master also has time to read your letters...”

- Well, what about you?

“I told him everything, as you taught me: “There’s nothing to eat... Mashutka is sick... She’s dying...” I said: “As soon as dad finds a place, he’ll thank you, Savely Petrovich, by God, he’ll thank you.” Well, at this time the bell will ring as soon as it rings, and he tells us: “Get the hell out of here quickly! So that your spirit is not here!..” And he even hit Volodka on the back of the head.

“And he hit me on the back of the head,” said Volodya, who was following his brother’s story with attention, and scratched the back of his head.

The older boy suddenly began to anxiously rummage through the deep pockets of his robe. Finally pulling out the crumpled envelope, he put it on the table and said:

- Here it is, the letter...

The mother didn't ask any more questions. For a long time in the stuffy, dank room, only the frantic cry of the baby and Mashutka’s short, rapid breathing, more like continuous monotonous moans, could be heard. Suddenly the mother said, turning back:

- There is borscht there, left over from lunch... Maybe we could eat it? Only cold, there’s nothing to warm it up with...

At this time, someone’s hesitant steps and the rustling of a hand were heard in the corridor, searching for the door in the darkness. The mother and both boys - all three even turning pale from intense anticipation - turned in this direction.

Mertsalov entered. He was wearing a summer coat, a summer felt hat and no galoshes. His hands were swollen and blue from the frost, his eyes were sunken, his cheeks were stuck around his gums, like a dead man’s. He didn’t say a single word to his wife, she didn’t ask him a single question. They understood each other by the despair they read in each other's eyes.

In this terrible, fateful year, misfortune after misfortune persistently and mercilessly rained down on Mertsalov and his family. First, he himself fell ill with typhoid fever, and all their meager savings were spent on his treatment. Then, when he recovered, he learned that his place, the modest place of managing a house for twenty-five rubles a month, was already taken by someone else... A desperate, convulsive pursuit began for odd jobs, for correspondence, for an insignificant place, pledging and re-pledge of things, selling all kinds of household rags. And then the children started getting sick. Three months ago one girl died, now another lies in the heat and unconscious. Elizaveta Ivanovna had to simultaneously care for a sick girl, breastfeed a little one and go almost to the other end of the city to the house where she washed clothes every day.

All day today I was busy trying to squeeze out from somewhere at least a few kopecks for Mashutka’s medicine through superhuman efforts. For this purpose, Mertsalov ran around almost half the city, begging and humiliating himself everywhere; Elizaveta Ivanovna went to see her mistress, the children were sent with a letter to the master whose house Mertsalov used to manage... But everyone made excuses either with holiday worries or lack of money... Others, like, for example, the doorman of the former patron, simply drove the petitioners off the porch .

For ten minutes no one could utter a word. Suddenly Mertsalov quickly rose from the chest on which he had been sitting until now, and with a decisive movement pulled his tattered hat deeper onto his forehead.

-Where are you going? – Elizaveta Ivanovna asked anxiously.

Mertsalov, who had already grabbed the door handle, turned around.

“Anyway, sitting won’t help anything,” he answered hoarsely. - I’ll go again... At least I’ll try to beg.

Going out into the street, he walked forward aimlessly. He didn't look for anything, didn't hope for anything. He had long since gone through that burning time of poverty when you dream of finding a wallet with money on the street or suddenly receiving an inheritance from an unknown second cousin. Now he was overcome by an uncontrollable desire to run anywhere, to run without looking back, so as not to see the silent despair of a hungry family.

Beg for alms? He has already tried this remedy twice today. But the first time, some gentleman in a raccoon coat read him an instruction that he should work and not beg, and the second time, they promised to send him to the police.

Unnoticed by himself, Mertsalov found himself in the center of the city, near the fence of a dense public garden. Since he had to walk uphill all the time, he became out of breath and felt tired. Mechanically he turned through the gate and, passing a long alley of linden trees covered with snow, sat down on a low garden bench.

It was quiet and solemn here. The trees, wrapped in their white robes, slumbered in motionless majesty. Sometimes a piece of snow fell from the top branch, and you could hear it rustling, falling and clinging to other branches. The deep silence and great calm that guarded the garden suddenly awakened in Mertsalov’s tormented soul an unbearable thirst for the same calm, the same silence.

“I wish I could lie down and go to sleep,” he thought, “and forget about my wife, about the hungry children, about the sick Mashutka.” Putting his hand under his vest, Mertsalov felt for a rather thick rope that served as his belt. The thought of suicide became quite clear in his head. But he was not horrified by this thought, did not shudder for a moment before the darkness of the unknown.

“Rather than perish slowly, isn’t it better to choose more shortcut? He was about to get up to fulfill his terrible intention, but at that time, at the end of the alley, the creaking of steps was heard, clearly heard in the frosty air. Mertsalov turned in this direction with anger. Someone was walking along the alley. At first the light of a cigar flaring up and then going out was visible. Then Mertsalov little by little could see a small old man, wearing a warm hat, a fur coat and high galoshes. Having reached the bench, the stranger suddenly turned sharply in the direction of Mertsalov and, lightly touching his hat, asked:

-Will you allow me to sit here?

Mertsalov deliberately turned sharply away from the stranger and moved to the edge of the bench. Five minutes passed in mutual silence, during which the stranger smoked a cigar and (Mertsalov felt it) looked sideways at his neighbor.

“What a nice night,” the stranger suddenly spoke. - Frosty... quiet. What a delight - Russian winter!

“But I bought gifts for the children of my acquaintances,” continued the stranger (he had several packages in his hands). “But on the way I couldn’t resist, I made a circle to go through the garden: it’s really nice here.”

Mertsalov was generally a meek and shy person, but last words the stranger was suddenly overcome by a surge of desperate anger. He turned with a sharp movement towards the old man and shouted, absurdly waving his arms and gasping:

- Gifts!.. Gifts!.. Gifts for the children I know!.. And I... and I, dear sir, at the moment my children are dying of hunger at home... Gifts!.. And my wife’s milk has disappeared, and the baby has been nursing all day didn’t eat... Gifts!..

Mertsalov expected that after these chaotic, angry screams the old man would get up and leave, but he was mistaken. The old man brought his intelligent, serious face with gray sideburns closer to him and said in a friendly but serious tone:

- Wait... don't worry! Tell me everything in order and as briefly as possible. Maybe together we can come up with something for you.

There was something so calm and trust-inspiring in the stranger’s extraordinary face that Mertsalov immediately, without the slightest concealment, but terribly worried and in a hurry, conveyed his story. He spoke about his illness, about the loss of his place, about the death of his child, about all his misfortunes, right up to the present day. The stranger listened without interrupting him with a word, and only looked more and more inquisitively into his eyes, as if wanting to penetrate into the very depths of this painful, indignant soul. Suddenly, with a quick, completely youthful movement, he jumped up from his seat and grabbed Mertsalov by the hand. Mertsalov involuntarily also stood up.

- Let's go! - said the stranger, dragging Mertsalov by the hand. - Let's go quickly!.. You are lucky that you met with a doctor. Of course, I can’t vouch for anything, but... let’s go!

Ten minutes later Mertsalov and the doctor were already entering the basement. Elizaveta Ivanovna lay on the bed next to her sick daughter, burying her face in dirty, oily pillows. The boys were slurping borscht, sitting in the same places. Frightened by the long absence of their father and the immobility of their mother, they cried, smearing tears over their faces with dirty fists and pouring them copiously into the smoky cast iron. Entering the room, the doctor took off his coat and, remaining in an old-fashioned, rather shabby frock coat, approached Elizaveta Ivanovna. She didn't even raise her head when he approached.

“Well, that’s enough, that’s enough, my dear,” the doctor spoke, affectionately stroking the woman on the back. - Get up! Show me your patient.

And just like recently in the garden, something affectionate and convincing sounding in his voice forced Elizaveta Ivanovna to instantly get out of bed and unquestioningly do everything the doctor said. Two minutes later, Grishka was already heating the stove with firewood, for which the wonderful doctor had sent to the neighbors, Volodya was inflating the samovar with all his might, Elizaveta Ivanovna was wrapping Mashutka in a warming compress... A little later Mertsalov also appeared. With three rubles received from the doctor, during this time he managed to buy tea, sugar, rolls and get hot food at the nearest tavern. The doctor was sitting at the table and writing something on a piece of paper that he had torn from notebook. Having finished this lesson and depicting some kind of hook below instead of a signature, he stood up, covered what he had written with a tea saucer and said:

– With this piece of paper you will go to the pharmacy... give me a teaspoon in two hours. This will cause the baby to cough up... Continue the warming compress... Besides, even if your daughter feels better, in any case, invite Doctor Afrosimov tomorrow. He is an efficient doctor and a good person. I'll warn him right now. Then farewell, gentlemen! May God grant that the coming year treats you a little more leniently than this one, and most importantly, never lose heart.

Having shaken the hands of Mertsalov and Elizaveta Ivanovna, who was still reeling from amazement, and casually patting Volodya, who was open-mouthed, on the cheek, the doctor quickly put his feet into deep galoshes and put on his coat. Mertsalov came to his senses only when the doctor was already in the corridor, and rushed after him.

Since it was impossible to make out anything in the darkness, Mertsalov shouted at random:

- Doctor! Doctor, wait!.. Tell me your name, doctor! Let at least my children pray for you!

And he moved his hands in the air to catch the invisible doctor. But at this time, at the other end of the corridor, a calm, senile voice said:

- Eh! Here are some more nonsense!.. Come home quickly!

When he returned, a surprise awaited him: under the tea saucer, along with the wonderful doctor’s prescription, lay several large credit notes...

That same evening Mertsalov learned the name of his unexpected benefactor. On the pharmacy label attached to the bottle of medicine, in the clear hand of the pharmacist it was written: “According to the prescription of Professor Pirogov.”

I heard this story, more than once, from the lips of Grigory Emelyanovich Mertsalov himself - the same Grishka who, on the Christmas Eve I described, shed tears into a smoky cast iron pot with empty borscht. Now he occupies a fairly large, responsible position in one of the banks, reputed to be a model of honesty and responsiveness to the needs of poverty. And every time, finishing my story about wonderful doctor, he adds in a voice trembling from hidden tears:

“From now on, it’s like a beneficent angel descended into our family.” Everything has changed. At the beginning of January, my father found a place, Mashutka got back on her feet, and my brother and I managed to get a place in the gymnasium at public expense. This holy man performed a miracle. And we have only seen our wonderful doctor once since then - this was when he was transported dead to his own estate Vishnya. And even then they didn’t see him, because that great, powerful and sacred thing that lived and burned in the wonderful doctor during his lifetime died out irrevocably.

Pirogov Nikolai Ivanovich (1810–1881) – surgeon, anatomist and naturalist, founder of Russian military field surgery, founder of the Russian school of anesthesia.

V. P. Priklonsky

I am Sapsan, a large and strong dog of a rare breed, red sand color, four years old, and weigh about six and a half pounds. Last spring, in someone else’s huge barn, where there were a little more than seven of us dogs locked up (I can’t count further), they hung a heavy yellow cake around my neck, and everyone praised me. However, the cake did not smell of anything.

I'm a Medellian! The owner's friend assures that this name is spoiled. We should say “weeks”. In ancient times, fun was organized for the people once a week: they pitted bears against dogs. Hence the word. My great-ancestor Sapsan I, in the presence of the formidable Tsar John IV, took the bear-vulture “in place” by the throat, threw it to the ground, where he was pinned by the korytnik. In honor and memory of him, the best of my ancestors bore the name Sapsan. Few granted counts can boast of such a pedigree. What brings me closer to representatives of ancient human families is that our blood, in the opinion knowledgeable people, blue color. The name Sapsan is Kyrgyz, and it means a hawk.

The first creature in the whole world is the Master. I am not his slave at all, not even a servant or watchman, as others think, but a friend and patron. People, these naked animals that walk on their hind legs, wearing other people's skins, are ridiculously unstable, weak, awkward and defenseless, but they have some kind of incomprehensible to us, wonderful and slightly terrible power, and most of all - the Master. I love this strange power in him, and he appreciates in me strength, dexterity, courage and intelligence. This is how we live.

The owner is ambitious. When we walk side by side along the street - I’m at his right foot - we can always hear flattering remarks behind us: “What a dog... a whole lion... what a wonderful face” and so on. In no way do I let the Master know that I hear these praises and that I know to whom they apply. But I feel his funny, naive, proud joy being transmitted to me through invisible threads. Oddball. Let him amuse himself. I find him even sweeter with his little weaknesses.

I'm strong. I am stronger than all the dogs in the world. They will recognize it from afar, by my smell, by my appearance, by my gaze. From a distance I see their souls lying in front of me on their backs, with their paws raised up. The strict rules of dog fighting prevent me from the beautiful, noble joy of fighting. And how sometimes you want to!.. However, the big brindle dog from the next street completely stopped leaving the house after I taught him a lesson for impoliteness. And I, passing by the fence behind which he lived, no longer smelled him.

People are not the same. They always crush the weak. Even the Master, the kindest of people, sometimes hits so hard - not at all loudly, but cruelly - with the words of others, small and weak, that I feel ashamed and sorry. I quietly poke his hand with my nose, but he doesn’t understand and waves it away.

We, dogs, in the sense of nervous susceptibility, are seven and many times more thinner people. People need external differences, words, voice changes, glances and touches to understand each other. I know their souls simply, with one inner instinct. I feel in secret, unknown, trembling ways how their souls blush, turn pale, tremble, envy, love, hate. When the Master is not at home, I know from afar whether happiness or misfortune has befallen him. And I'm happy or sad.

They say about us: such and such a dog is good or such and such is evil. No. Only a person can be angry or kind, brave or cowardly, generous or stingy, trusting or secretive. And according to him, the dogs living with him under the same roof.

I let people pet me. But I prefer if they offer me an open hand first. I don't like paws with claws up. Perennial canine experience teaches that a stone may be hidden in it. (The Master’s youngest daughter, my favorite, does not know how to pronounce “stone”, but says “cabin”.) A stone is a thing that flies far, hits accurately and hits painfully. I've seen this on other dogs. It’s clear that no one will dare throw a stone at me!

What nonsense people say, as if dogs cannot withstand human gaze. I can look into the eyes of the Master for the whole evening without stopping. But we avert our eyes out of disgust. Most people, even young ones, have a tired, dull and angry look, like old, sick, nervous, spoiled, wheezing mozzies. But children's eyes are clean, clear and trusting. When children caress me, I can hardly restrain myself from licking one of them right on the pink face. But the Master does not allow it, and sometimes even threatens him with a whip. Why? I don't understand. Even he has his own quirks.

About the bone. Who doesn't know that this is the most fascinating thing in the world. Veins, cartilage, the inside is spongy, tasty, soaked in brain. You can happily work on this entertaining puzzle from breakfast to lunch. And I think so: a bone is always a bone, even the most used one, and therefore it’s always not too late to have fun with it. And that’s why I bury it in the ground in the garden or vegetable garden. In addition, I think: there was meat on her and there is none; why, if he does not exist, should he not exist again?

And if anyone - a person, a cat or a dog - passes by the place where she is buried, I get angry and growl. What if they figure it out? But more often I forget the place myself, and then I’m out of sorts for a long time.

The Master tells me to respect the Mistress. And I respect. But I don't like it. She has the soul of a pretender and a liar, small, small. And her face, when viewed from the side, is very similar to that of a chicken. Just as preoccupied, anxious and cruel, with a round, incredulous eye. In addition, she always smells very badly of something sharp, spicy, acrid, suffocating, sweet - seven times worse than the most fragrant flowers. When I smell it strongly, I lose the ability to understand other smells for a long time. And I keep sneezing.

Only Serge smells worse than her. The owner calls him a friend and loves him. My master, so smart, is often a big fool. I know that Serge hates the Master, fears him and envies him. And Serge is ingratiating himself with me. When he extends his hand to me from afar, I feel a sticky, hostile, cowardly trembling coming from his fingers. I will growl and turn away. I will never accept any bones or sugar from him. While the Master is not at home, and Serge and the Mistress hug each other with their front paws, I lie on the carpet and look at them, intently, without blinking. He laughs strainedly and says: “Sapsan looks at us as if he understands everything.” You're lying, I don't understand everything about human meanness. But I foresee all the sweetness of that moment when the Master’s will will push me and I will grab your fat caviar with all my teeth. Arrrrr... ghrr...

After the Master, everyone is closest to me dog's heart“Little” is what I call His daughter. I wouldn’t forgive anyone but her if they decided to drag me by the tail and ears, sit astride me or harness me to a cart. But I endure everything and squeal like a three-month-old puppy. And it makes me happy to lie motionless in the evenings when she, having run around for the day, suddenly dozes off on the carpet, her head resting on my side. And when we play, she also doesn’t get offended if I sometimes wave my tail and knock her to the floor.

Sometimes we mess with her, and she starts laughing. I love it very much, but I can’t do it myself. Then I jump up with all four paws and bark as loud as I can. And they usually drag me out into the street by my collar. Why?

In the summer there was such an incident at the dacha. The “little one” could barely walk and was very funny. The three of us were walking. She, me and the nanny. Suddenly everyone began to rush around - people and animals. In the middle of the street a dog was rushing, black with white spots, with its head down, its tail hanging, covered in dust and foam. The nanny ran away screaming. The “little one” sat down on the ground and squealed. The dog was rushing straight towards us. And this dog immediately gave me a sharp smell of madness and boundless, rabid anger. I trembled with horror, but overcame myself and blocked “Little” with my body.

This was not a single combat, but death for one of us. I curled up into a ball, waited for a short, precise moment, and with one push I knocked the motley one over to the ground. Then he lifted him up into the air by the collar and shook him. She lay down on the ground without moving, so flat and now not at all scary.

I don't like moonlit nights, and I unbearably want to howl when I look at the sky. It seems to me that someone very big is guarding from there, larger than the Master himself, the one whom the Master so incomprehensibly calls “Eternity” or something else. Then I vaguely have a presentiment that my life will someday end, just as the lives of dogs, beetles and plants end. Will the Master come to me then, before the end? - I don't know. I would really like that. But even if he doesn’t come, my last thought will still be about him.

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