Alexander Kuprin short stories for children. Lesson plan for reading (grade 4) on the topic: “The world of animals in the works of A

Stories by A. Kuprin

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A large and strong dog named Sapsan reflects on life and what surrounds him in this life. The peregrine falcon got its name from its ancient ancestors, one of whom defeated the bear in a fight, clinging to its throat. The Peregrine Falcon thinks about the Master, condemns his bad habits, and rejoices at how he is praised when he and the Master walk. Sapsan lives in a house with the Owner, his daughter Little and a cat. They are friends with the cat, Little Peregrine protects her, doesn’t hurt anyone, and allows her things that he wouldn’t allow anyone else. Sapsan also loves bones and often gnaws them or buries them to gnaw on later, but sometimes he forgets the place. Although Sapsan is the strongest dog in the world, he does not gnaw at defenseless and weak dogs. Often Sapsan looks into the sky and knows that there is someone there who is stronger and smarter than the Boss and someday this someone will take Sapsan to eternity. Sapsan really wants the Master to be nearby at this moment, even if he is not there, Sapsan’s last thought will be about him.

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Stories by A. Kuprin

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Kuprin's story "Elephant" - interesting story about a little girl who got sick and not a single doctor could cure her. They only said that she had apathy and indifference to life, and she herself lay in bed for a whole month with a poor appetite, she was very bored. The mother and father of the sick girl were at their wit's end, trying to cure the child, but it was impossible to interest her in anything. The doctor advised her to fulfill her every whim, but she didn’t want anything. Suddenly the girl wanted an elephant. Dad immediately ran to the store and bought a beautiful wind-up elephant. But Nadya was not impressed by this toy elephant; she wanted a real live elephant, not necessarily a big one. And dad, after thinking for a while, went to the circus, where he agreed with the owner of the animals to bring the elephant home to them for the whole day at night, because during the day crowds of people would flock to the elephant. In order for the elephant to be able to enter their apartment on the 2nd floor, the doors were specially widened. And then at night the elephant was brought. The girl Nadya woke up in the morning and was very happy about him. They spent the whole day together, even had lunch at the same table. Nadya fed the elephant buns and showed him her dolls. So she fell asleep next to him. And at night she dreamed of an elephant. Waking up in the morning, Nadya did not find the elephant - he was taken away, but she gained an interest in life and recovered.

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Stories by A. Kuprin

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Barbos was short in stature, but squat and broad-chested. Thanks to his long, slightly curly hair, there was a vague resemblance to a white poodle, but only to a poodle that had never been touched by soap, a comb, or scissors. In the summer, he was constantly strewn with thorny “burrs” from head to tail, but in the fall, the tufts of fur on his legs and stomach, rolling around in the mud and then drying out, turned into hundreds of brown, dangling stalactites. Barbos' ears always bore traces of "battles", and during particularly hot periods of dog flirting they actually turned into bizarre festoons. From time immemorial and everywhere dogs like him are called Barbos. Only occasionally, and even then as an exception, are they called Friends. These dogs, if I'm not mistaken, come from simple mongrels and shepherd dogs. They are distinguished by loyalty, independent character and keen hearing.

Zhulka also belonged to a very common breed of small dogs, those thin-legged dogs with smooth black fur and yellow markings above the eyebrows and on the chest, which retired officials love so much. The main feature of her character was delicate, almost shy politeness. This does not mean that she immediately rolls over on her back, starts smiling, or humiliatingly crawls on her stomach as soon as a person speaks to her (all hypocritical, flattering and cowardly dogs do this). No, she approached a kind man with her characteristic bold trustfulness, leaned on his knee with her front paws and gently extended her muzzle, demanding affection. Her delicacy was expressed mainly in her manner of eating. She never begged; on the contrary, she always had to beg to take a bone. If another dog or people approached her while she was eating, Zhulka would modestly step aside with an expression that seemed to say: “Eat, eat, please... I’m already completely full...”

Really, at these moments there was much less of a dog in her than in other respectable human faces during a good lunch. Of course, Zhulka was unanimously recognized as a lap dog.

As for Barbos, we children very often had to defend him from the just wrath of his elders and lifelong banishment to the courtyard. Firstly, he had a very vague concept of property rights (especially when it came to food supplies), and secondly, he was not particularly neat in the toilet. It was easy for this robber to gobble up in one sitting a good half of a roasted Easter turkey, raised with special love and fed only nuts, or to lie down, having just jumped out of a deep and dirty puddle, on the festive blanket of his mother’s bed, white as snow. In the summer they treated him leniently, and he usually lay on the sill of an open window in the pose of a sleeping lion, with his muzzle buried between his outstretched front paws. However, he was not sleeping: this was noticeable by his eyebrows, which did not stop moving all the time. Barbos was waiting... As soon as a dog's figure appeared on the street opposite our house. Barbos quickly rolled out of the window, slid on his belly into the gateway and full quarry rushed towards the daring violator of territorial laws. He firmly remembered the great law of all martial arts and battles: hit first if you don’t want to be beaten, and therefore flatly refused all accepted in dog world diplomatic techniques, such as preliminary mutual sniffing, threatening growling, curling the tail in a ring, and so on. Barbos, like lightning, overtook his opponent, knocked him off his feet with his chest and began to squabble. For several minutes, two dog bodies floundered in a thick column of brown dust, intertwined in a ball. Finally, Barbos won. While the enemy took flight, tucking his tail between his legs, squealing and cowardly looking back. Barbos proudly returned to his post on the windowsill. It is true that sometimes during this triumphal procession he limped greatly, and his ears were decorated with extra festoons, but probably the sweeter the victorious laurels seemed to him. A rare harmony reigned between him and Zhulka and the most tender love.

Perhaps Zhulka secretly condemned her friend for his violent temper and bad manners, but in any case, she never explicitly expressed this. She even then restrained her displeasure when Barbos, having swallowed his breakfast in several doses, brazenly licked his lips, approached Zhulka’s bowl and stuck his wet, furry muzzle into it.

In the evening, when the sun was not so hot, both dogs loved to play and tinker in the yard. They either ran from one another, or set up ambushes, or with a feigned angry growl pretended to be fiercely squabbling among themselves. One day a mad dog ran into our yard. Barbos saw her from his windowsill, but instead of rushing into battle, as usual, he only trembled all over and squealed pitifully. The dog rushed around the yard from corner to corner, catching up with just its appearance panic horror both on people and animals. People hid behind the doors and timidly looked out from behind them. Everyone shouted, gave orders, gave stupid advice and egged each other on. Meanwhile, the mad dog had already bitten two pigs and torn apart several ducks. Suddenly everyone gasped in fear and surprise. From somewhere behind the barn, little Zhulka jumped out and, with all the speed of her thin legs, rushed across the mad dog. The distance between them decreased with amazing speed. Then they collided...
It all happened so quickly that no one even had time to call Zhulka back. From a strong push she fell and rolled on the ground, and the mad dog immediately turned towards the gate and jumped out into the street. When Zhulka was examined, not a single trace of teeth was found on her. The dog probably didn’t even have time to bite her. But the tension of the heroic impulse and the horror of the moments experienced were not in vain for poor Zhulka... Something strange, inexplicable happened to her.
If dogs had the ability to go crazy, I would say she was crazy. One day she lost weight beyond recognition; sometimes she would lie for hours at a time in some dark corner; Then she rushed around the yard, spinning and jumping. She refused food and did not turn around when her name was called. On the third day she became so weak that she could not get up from the ground. Her eyes, as bright and intelligent as before, expressed deep inner torment. By order of her father, she was carried to an empty woodshed so that she could die there in peace. (After all, it is known that only man arranges his death so solemnly. But all animals, sensing the approach of this disgusting act, seek solitude.)
An hour after Zhulka was locked up, Barbos came running to the barn. He was very excited and began to squeal and then howl, raising his head up. Sometimes he would stop for a minute to sniff, with an anxious look and alert ears, the crack of the barn door, and then again he would howl protractedly and pitifully. They tried to call him away from the barn, but it didn’t help. He was chased and even hit with a rope several times; he ran away, but immediately stubbornly returned to his place and continued to howl. Since children are generally much closer to animals than adults think, we were the first to guess what Barbos wanted.
- Dad, let Barbos into the barn. He wants to say goodbye to Zhulka. Please let me in, dad,” we pestered my father. At first he said: “Nonsense!” But we came at him so much and whined so much that he had to give in.
And we were right. As soon as the barn door was opened, Barbos rushed headlong to Zhulka, who was lying helplessly on the ground, sniffed her and, with a quiet squeal, began to lick her in the eyes, in the muzzle, in the ears. Zhulka weakly waved her tail and tried to raise her head, but she failed. There was something touching about the dogs saying goodbye. Even the servants, who were gawking at this scene, seemed touched. When Barbos was called, he obeyed and, leaving the barn, lay down on the ground near the door. He no longer worried or howled, but only occasionally raised his head and seemed to be listening to what was happening in the barn. About two hours later he howled again, but so loudly and so expressively that the coachman had to take out the keys and open the doors. Zhulka lay motionless on her side. She died...
1897

Sapsan's thoughts about people, animals, objects and events

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, according to knowledgeable people, is blue. 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, walking 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 tiger mastiff 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 are seven and many times more subtle than people in terms of nervous sensitivity. 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. Many years of 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 do people say that dogs can't stand it? human view. 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, “Little” is closest to my dog’s heart - that’s 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.

Starlings

It was mid-March. Spring this year turned out to be smooth and friendly. Occasionally there were heavy but short rains. We have already driven on wheels on roads covered with thick mud. The snow still lay in drifts in deep forests and in shady ravines, but in the fields it settled, became loose and dark, and from under it, in some places, black, greasy soil steaming in the sun appeared in large bald patches. The birch buds are swollen. The lambs on the willows turned from white to yellow, fluffy and huge. The willow blossomed. The bees flew out of the hives for the first bribe. The first snowdrops timidly appeared in the forest clearings.

We were looking forward to seeing old friends fly into our garden again - starlings, these cute, cheerful, sociable birds, the first migratory guests, the joyful messengers of spring. They need to fly many hundreds of miles from their winter camps, from the south of Europe, from Asia Minor, from the northern regions of Africa. Others will have to travel more than three thousand miles. Many will fly over the seas: Mediterranean or Black.

There are so many adventures and dangers along the way: rains, storms, dense fogs, hail clouds, birds of prey, shots from greedy hunters. How much incredible effort must a small creature, weighing about twenty to twenty-five spools, have to use for such a flight. Really, the shooters who destroy a bird during the hard way when, obeying the mighty call of nature, she strives to the place where she first hatched from the egg and saw sunlight and greens.

Animals have a lot of their own wisdom, incomprehensible to people. Birds are especially sensitive to weather changes and predict them long ago, but it often happens that migratory wanderers in the middle of a vast sea are suddenly overtaken by a sudden hurricane, often with snow. It is far from the shores, the strength is weakened by the long flight... Then the entire flock dies, with the exception of a small part of the strongest. Happiness for the birds if they encounter a sea vessel in these terrible moments. In a whole cloud they descend on the deck, on the wheelhouse, on the rigging, on the sides, as if entrusting their little lives in danger to the eternal enemy - man. And stern sailors will never offend them, will not offend their reverent gullibility. A beautiful sea legend even says that inevitable misfortune threatens the ship on which the bird that asked for shelter was killed.

Coastal lighthouses can sometimes be disastrous. Lighthouse keepers sometimes find in the mornings, after foggy nights, hundreds and even thousands of bird corpses in the galleries surrounding the lantern and on the ground around the building. Exhausted by the flight, heavy from the sea moisture, the birds, having reached the shore in the evening, unconsciously rush to where they are deceptively attracted by light and warmth, and in their fast flight they smash their chests against thick glass, iron and stone. But an experienced, old leader will always save his flock from this disaster by taking a different direction in advance. Birds also hit telegraph wires if for some reason they fly low, especially at night and in fog.

Having made a dangerous crossing across the sea plain, starlings rest all day and always in a certain, favorite place from year to year. I once saw one such place in Odessa, in the spring. This is a house on the corner of Preobrazhenskaya Street and Cathedral Square, opposite the cathedral garden. This house was then completely black and seemed to be all stirring from the great multitude of starlings that settled everywhere: on the roof, on the balconies, cornices, window sills, trim, window visors and on the moldings. And the sagging telegraph and telephone wires were closely strung with them, like large black rosaries. My God, there was so much deafening screaming, squeaking, whistling, chattering, chirping and all sorts of bustle, chatter and quarrel. Despite their recent fatigue, they certainly could not sit still for a minute. Every now and then they pushed each other, falling up and down, circling, flying away and returning again. Only old, experienced, wise starlings sat in important solitude and sedately cleaned their feathers with their beaks. The entire sidewalk along the house turned white, and if a careless pedestrian happened to gape, then trouble threatened his coat and hat. Starlings make their flights very quickly, sometimes making up to eighty miles per hour. They will fly to a familiar place early in the evening, feed themselves, take a short nap at night, and in the morning - before dawn - light breakfast, and again on the road, with two or three stops in the middle of the day.

So, we waited for the starlings. We fixed old birdhouses that had become warped from the winter winds and hung new ones. Three years ago we had only two of them, last year five, and now twelve. It was a little annoying that the sparrows imagined that this courtesy was being done for them, and immediately, at the first warmth, the birdhouses took over. This sparrow is an amazing bird, and everywhere it is the same - in the north of Norway and on the Azores: nimble, rogue, thief, bully, brawler, gossip and the most impudent one. He will spend the whole winter, ruffled under a fence or in the depths of a dense spruce, eating what he finds on the road, and when spring comes, he climbs into someone else’s nest, which is closer to home - into a birdhouse or a swallow. And they will kick him out, as if nothing had happened... He flutters, jumps, sparkles with his little eyes and shouts to the whole universe: “Alive, alive, alive! Alive, alive, alive!

Please tell me what good news for the world!

Finally, on the nineteenth, in the evening (it was still light), someone shouted: “Look - starlings!”

Indeed, they sat high on the branches of poplars and, after the sparrows, seemed unusually large and too black. We began to count them: one, two, five, ten, fifteen... And next to the neighbors, among the transparent spring-like trees, these dark motionless lumps easily swayed on flexible branches. That evening there was no noise or fuss among the starlings. This always happens when you return home after a long, difficult journey. On the road you fuss, hurry, worry, but when you arrive, you’re suddenly all softened from the same fatigue: you sit and don’t want to move.

For two days the starlings seemed to be gaining strength and kept visiting and inspecting last year’s familiar places. And then the eviction of sparrows began. I did not notice any particularly violent clashes between starlings and sparrows. Usually, starlings sit in twos high above the birdhouses and, apparently, chatter carelessly about something among themselves, while they themselves gaze downwards with one eye, sideways. It's scary and difficult for the sparrow. No, no - he sticks his sharp, cunning nose out of the round hole - and back. Finally, hunger, frivolity, and perhaps timidity make themselves felt. “I’m flying off,” he thinks, “for a minute and right back.” Maybe I'll outwit you. Maybe they won’t notice.” And as soon as it has time to fly away a fathom, the starling drops like a stone and is already at home. And now the sparrow’s temporary economy has come to an end. Starlings guard the nest one by one: one sits while the other flies on business. Sparrows would never think of such a trick: they are a flighty, empty, frivolous bird. And so, out of chagrin, great battles begin between the sparrows, during which fluff and feathers fly into the air.

And the starlings sit high in the trees and even tease: “Hey, black-headed one. You won’t be able to overcome that yellow-chested one forever and ever.” - "How? To me? Yes, I’ll take him now!” - “Come on, come on...” And there will be a landfill. However, in the spring all the animals and birds and even the boys fight much more than in the winter. Having settled in the nest, the starling begins to carry all kinds of construction nonsense there: moss, cotton wool, feathers, fluff, rags, straw, dry blades of grass. He makes the nest very deep, so that a cat does not crawl in with its paw or a raven sticks its long predatory beak through it. They cannot penetrate further: the entrance hole is quite small, no more than five centimeters in diameter. And then soon the ground dried up and the fragrant birch buds blossomed. Fields are plowed, vegetable gardens are dug up and loosened. How many different worms, caterpillars, slugs, bugs and larvae crawl into the light of day! It's such an expanse! In the spring, a starling never looks for its food, either in the air in flight, like swallows, or on a tree, like a nuthatch or woodpecker. Its food is on the ground and in the ground. And do you know how many insects it destroys during the summer, if you count it by weight? A thousand times its own weight! But he spends his whole day in continuous movement.

It is interesting to watch when he, walking between the beds or along the path, hunts for his prey. His gait is very fast and slightly clumsy, with a sway from side to side. Suddenly he stops, turns to one side, then to the other, bows his head first to the left, then to the right. It will quickly bite and run on. And again, and again... His black back shimmers in the sun with a metallic green or purple color, his chest is speckled with brown, and during this business there is so much in him of something businesslike, fussy and funny that you look at him for a long time and involuntarily smile .

It is best to observe the starling early in the morning, before sunrise, and for this you need to get up early. However, an old clever saying says: “He who gets up early doesn’t lose.” If you sit quietly in the morning, every day, without sudden movements somewhere in the garden or vegetable garden, then the starlings will soon get used to you and will come very close. Try throwing worms or bread crumbs to the bird, first from afar, then decreasing the distance. You will achieve the fact that after a while the starling will take food from your hands and sit on your shoulder. And when he arrives next year, he will very soon resume and conclude his former friendship with you. Just don't betray his trust. The only difference between both of you is that he is small and you are big. The bird is a very smart, observant creature: it is extremely memorable and grateful for all kindness.

And the real song of the starling should be listened to only in the early morning, when the first pink light of dawn colors the trees and with them the birdhouses, which are always located with an opening to the east. The air warmed up a little, and the starlings had already scattered on high branches and began their concert. I don’t know, really, whether the starling has his own motives, but you will hear enough of anything alien in his song. There are pieces of nightingale trills, and the sharp meow of an oriole, and the sweet voice of a robin, and the musical babbling of a warbler, and the thin whistling of a titmouse, and among these melodies such sounds are suddenly heard that, sitting alone, you can’t help but laugh: a hen cackles on a tree , the sharpener's knife will hiss, the door will creak, the children's military trumpet will blow. And, having made this unexpected musical retreat, the starling, as if nothing had happened, without a break, continues his cheerful, sweet, humorous song. One of my acquaintances is a starling (and only one, because I always heard it in certain place) amazingly faithfully imitated the stork. I just imagined this venerable white black-tailed bird, when it stands on one leg on the edge of its round nest, on the roof of a Little Russian hut, and beats out a ringing shot with its long red beak. Other starlings did not know how to do this thing.

In mid-May, the mother starling lays four to five small, bluish, glossy eggs and sits on them. Now the father starling has a new duty - to entertain the female in the mornings and evenings with his singing throughout the incubation period, which lasts about two weeks. And, I must say, during this period he no longer mocks or teases anyone. Now his song is gentle, simple and extremely melodic. Maybe this is the real, only starling song?

By the beginning of June, the chicks had already hatched. The starling chick is a true monster, which consists entirely of the head, but the head only consists of a huge, yellow-edged, unusually voracious mouth. The most troublesome time has come for caring parents. No matter how much you feed the little ones, they are always hungry. And then there’s the constant fear of cats and jackdaws; It’s scary to be far from the birdhouse.

But starlings are good companions. As soon as jackdaws or crows get into the habit of circling around the nest, a watchman is immediately appointed. The starling on duty sits on the top of the tallest tree and, whistling quietly, vigilantly looks in all directions. As soon as the predators appear close, the watchman gives a signal, and the entire starling tribe flocks to protect the younger generation.

I once saw how all the starlings who were visiting me chased three jackdaws at least a mile away. What a vicious persecution this was! The starlings soared easily and quickly over the jackdaws, fell on them from a height, scattered to the sides, closed again and, catching up with the jackdaws, climbed up again for a new blow. The jackdaws seemed cowardly, clumsy, rude and helpless in their heavy flight, and the starlings were like some kind of sparkling, transparent spindles flashing in the air. But it’s already the end of July. One day you go out into the garden and listen. No starlings. You didn’t even notice how the little ones grew up and how they learned to fly. Now they have left their native homes and are leading new life in forests, in winter fields, near distant swamps. There they gather in small flocks and learn to fly for a long time, preparing for the autumn migration. Soon the young people will face their first, great exam, from which some will not come out alive. Occasionally, however, starlings return for a moment to their abandoned father's homes. They will fly in, circle in the air, sit on a branch near the birdhouses, frivolously whistle some newly picked up motif and fly away, sparkling with their light wings.

But the first cold weather has already set in. It's time to go. By some mysterious order of mighty nature, unknown to us, the leader gives a sign one morning, and the air cavalry, squadron after squadron, soars into the air and rapidly rushes south. Goodbye, dear starlings! Come in the spring. The nests are waiting for you...

Elephant

The little girl is unwell. Doctor Mikhail Petrovich, whom she has known for a long, long time, visits her every day. And sometimes he brings with him two more doctors, strangers. They turn the girl over on her back and stomach, listen to something, putting her ear to her body, pull her eyelids down and look. At the same time, they snort somehow importantly, their faces are stern, and they speak to each other in an incomprehensible language.

Then they move from the nursery to the living room, where their mother is waiting for them. The most important doctor - tall, gray-haired, wearing gold glasses - tells her about something seriously and at length. The door is not closed, and the girl can see and hear everything from her bed. There is a lot she doesn’t understand, but she knows that this is about her. Mom looks at the doctor with big, tired, tear-stained eyes.

Saying goodbye, the chief doctor says loudly:

The main thing is not to let her get bored. Fulfill all her whims.

Ah, doctor, but she doesn’t want anything!

Well, I don’t know... remember what she liked before, before her illness. Toys... some treats. ..

No, doctor, she doesn't want anything...

Well, try to entertain her somehow... Well, at least with something... I give you my word of honor that if you manage to make her laugh, cheer her up, it will be the best medicine. Understand that your daughter is sick with indifference to life, and nothing else. Goodbye, madam!

“Dear Nadya, my dear girl,” says my mother, “would you like anything?”

No, mom, I don’t want anything.

Do you want me to put all your dolls on your bed? We will supply an armchair, a sofa, a table and a tea set. The dolls will drink tea and talk about the weather and the health of their children.

Thank you, mom... I don't feel like it... I'm bored...

Okay, my girl, no need for dolls. Or maybe I should invite Katya or Zhenechka to come to you? You love them so much.

No need, mom. Really, it's not necessary. I don't want anything, nothing. I am so bored!

Would you like me to bring you some chocolate?

But the girl does not answer and looks at the ceiling with motionless, sad eyes. She doesn't have any pain and doesn't even have a fever. But she is losing weight and weakening every day. No matter what they do to her, she doesn’t care, and she doesn’t need anything. She lies like that all days and whole nights, quiet, sad. Sometimes she dozes off for half an hour, but even in her dreams she sees something gray, long, boring, like autumn rain.

When the door to the living room is open from the nursery, and from the living room further into the office, the girl sees her dad. Dad walks quickly from corner to corner and smokes and smokes. Sometimes he comes to the nursery, sits on the edge of the bed and quietly strokes Nadya’s legs. Then he suddenly gets up and goes to the window. He whistles something, looking down at the street, but his shoulders are shaking. Then he hastily applies a handkerchief to one eye, then to the other, and, as if angry, goes to his office. Then he again runs from corner to corner and smokes, smokes, smokes... And the office becomes all blue from tobacco smoke.

But one morning the girl wakes up a little more cheerful than usual. She saw something in a dream, but she can’t remember what exactly, and looks long and carefully into her mother’s eyes.

Do you need something? - asks mom.

But the girl suddenly remembers her dream and says in a whisper, as if in secret:

Mom... can I have... an elephant? Just not the one drawn in the picture... Is it possible?

Of course, my girl, of course you can.

She goes to the office and tells dad that the girl wants an elephant. Dad immediately puts on his coat and hat and leaves somewhere. Half an hour later he returns with an expensive, beautiful toy. This is a large gray elephant, which itself shakes its head and wags its tail; there is a red saddle on the elephant, and on the saddle there is a golden tent, and three little men are sitting in it. But the girl looks at the toy as indifferently as she looks at the ceiling and walls, and says listlessly:

No, that's not it at all. I wanted a real, living elephant, but this one is dead.

Just look, Nadya,” says dad. “We’ll start him up now, and he’ll be just like alive.”

The elephant is wound with a key, and he, shaking his head and wagging his tail, begins to step with his feet and slowly walks along the table. The girl is not at all interested in this and is even bored, but in order not to upset her father, she whispers meekly:

I thank you very, very much, dear dad. I don't think anyone has one like this interesting toy... Just... remember... you promised for a long time to take me to the menagerie, to look at a real elephant... And you never took me.

But listen, my dear girl, understand that this is impossible. The elephant is very big, it reaches the ceiling, it won’t fit in our rooms... And then, where can I get it?

Dad, I don’t need such a big one... Bring me at least a small one, just a living one. Well, at least something like this... At least a baby elephant.

Dear girl, I am glad to do everything for you, but I cannot do this. After all, it’s the same as if you suddenly told me: Dad, get me the sun from the sky.

The girl smiles sadly:

How stupid you are, dad. Don't I know that you can't reach the sun because it burns! And the moon is also not allowed. But, I would like an elephant... a real one.

And she quietly closes her eyes and whispers:

I'm tired... Excuse me, dad...

Dad grabs his hair and runs into the office. There he flashes from corner to corner for some time. Then he resolutely throws the half-smoked cigarette on the floor (for which he always gets it from his mother) and shouts loudly to the maid:

Olga! Coat and hat!

The wife comes out into the hall.

Where are you going, Sasha? - she asks.

He breathes heavily, buttoning his coat buttons.

I myself, Mashenka, don’t know where... Only, it seems that by this evening I will actually bring a real elephant here, to us.

His wife looks at him worriedly.

Honey, are you okay? Do you have a headache? Maybe you didn't sleep well today?

“I didn’t sleep at all,” he replies angrily. - I see you want to ask if I'm crazy. Not yet. Goodbye! In the evening everything will be visible.

And he disappears, loudly slamming the front door.

Two hours later, he sits in the menagerie, in the first row, and watches how the learned animals, on the orders of the owner, make various things. Smart dogs jump, tumble, dance, sing to music, and form words from large cardboard letters. Monkeys - some in red skirts, others in blue pants - walk on a tightrope and ride on a large poodle. Huge red lions jump through burning hoops.

A clumsy seal shoots from a pistol. At the end the elephants are brought out. There are three of them: one big, two very small, dwarfs, but still much taller than a horse. It’s strange to watch how these huge animals, so clumsy and heavy in appearance, perform the most difficult tricks that even a very dexterous person cannot do. The largest elephant is especially distinctive. He first stands on hind legs, sits down, stands on his head, feet up, walks on wooden bottles, walks on a rolling barrel, turns over the pages of a large cardboard book with his trunk and, finally, sits down at the table and, tied with a napkin, has dinner, just like a well-bred boy.

The show ends. The spectators disperse. Nadya's father approaches the fat German, the owner of the menagerie. The owner stands behind a plank partition and holds a large black cigar in his mouth.

Excuse me, please,” Nadya’s father says. - Can you let your elephant go to my house for a while?

The German opens his eyes and even his mouth wide in surprise, causing the cigar to fall to the ground. Groaning, he bends down, picks up the cigar, puts it back in his mouth and only then says:

Let go? An elephant? Home? I do not understand.

It is clear from the German’s eyes that he also wants to ask if Nadya’s father has a headache... But the father hastily explains what the matter is: his only daughter Nadya is sick with some strange disease, which even the doctors do not understand properly. She has been lying in her crib for a month now, losing weight, getting weaker every day, not interested in anything, bored and slowly fading away. The doctors tell her to entertain her, but she doesn't like anything; They tell her to fulfill all her wishes, but she has no desires. Today she wanted to see a live elephant. Is it really impossible to do this?

Well, here... I, of course, hope that my girl will recover. But... but... what if her illness ends badly... what if the girl dies?.. Just think: all my life I will be tormented by the thought that I did not fulfill her last, very last wish!..

The German frowns and scratches his left eyebrow with his little finger in thought. Finally he asks:

Hm... How old is your girl?

Six.

Hm... My Lisa is also six. But, you know, it will cost you dearly. You will have to bring the elephant at night and only take it back the next night. During the day you can't. The public will gather and there will be a scandal... Thus, it turns out that I am losing the whole day, and you must return the loss to me.

Oh, of course, of course... don't worry about it...

Then: will the police allow one elephant into one house?

I'll arrange it. Will allow.

One more question: will the owner of your house allow one elephant into his house?

Will allow. I am the owner of this house myself.

Yeah! This is even better. And then one more question: what floor do you live on?

In the second.

Hmm... This is not so good... Do you have a wide staircase, a high ceiling, a large room, wide doors and a very strong floor in your house? Because my Tommy is three arshins and four inches high, and five and a half arshins long*. In addition, it weighs one hundred and twelve pounds.

Nadya's father thinks for a minute.

Do you know what? - he says. - Let's go to my place now and look at everything on the spot. If necessary, I will order the passage in the walls to be widened.

Very good! - the owner of the menagerie agrees.

At night, an elephant is taken to visit a sick girl. Wearing a white blanket, he strides importantly down the very middle of the street, shaking his head and curling and then developing his trunk. There is a large crowd around him, despite the late hour. But the elephant does not pay attention to her: every day he sees hundreds of people in the menagerie. Only once did he get a little angry. Some street boy ran up to his very feet and began to make faces for the amusement of onlookers.

Then the elephant calmly took off his hat with its trunk and threw it over a nearby fence studded with nails. The policeman walks among the crowd and persuades her:

Gentlemen, please leave. And what do you find so unusual here? I'm surprised! It’s as if we’ve never seen a live elephant on the street.

They approach the house. On the stairs, as well as along the entire path of the elephant, all the way to the dining room, all the doors were wide open, for which it was necessary to beat off the door latches with a hammer.

But in front of the stairs the elephant stops and becomes stubborn in anxiety.

We need to give him some treat... - says the German. - Some sweet bun or something... But... Tommy! Wow... Tommy!

Nadine's father runs to a nearby bakery and buys a large round pistachio cake. The elephant discovers a desire to swallow it whole along with the cardboard box, but the German only gives him a quarter. Tommy likes the cake and reaches out with his trunk for a second slice. However, the German turns out to be more cunning. Holding a delicacy in his hand, he rises up from step to step, and the elephant, with an outstretched trunk and outstretched ears, inevitably follows him. On the set, Tommy gets his second piece.

Thus, he is brought to the dining room, from where all the furniture has been removed in advance, and the floor is thickly covered with straw... The elephant is tied by the leg to a ring screwed into the floor. Fresh carrots, cabbage and turnips are placed in front of him. The German is located nearby, on the sofa. The lights are turned off and everyone goes to bed.

V

The next day the girl wakes up at dawn and first of all asks:

What about the elephant? He came?

“I’ve come,” my mother answers. - But only he ordered Nadya to wash herself first, and then eat a soft-boiled egg and drink hot milk.

Is he kind?

He is kind. Eat up, girl. Now we will go to him.

Is he funny?

A little bit. Put on a warm blouse.

The egg was eaten and the milk was drunk. Nadya is put in the same stroller in which she rode when she was still so small that she could not walk at all. And they take us to the dining room.

The elephant turns out to be much larger than Nadya thought when she looked at it in the picture. He is only slightly taller than the door, and in length he occupies half the dining room. His skin is rough, with heavy folds. The legs are thick, like pillars. A long tail with something like a broom at the end. The head is full of big bumps. The ears are large, like mugs, and hang down. The eyes are very tiny, but smart and kind. The fangs are trimmed. The trunk is like a long snake and ends in two nostrils, and between them a movable, flexible finger. If the elephant had stretched out its trunk to its full length, it would probably have reached the window.

The girl is not scared at all. She is only a little amazed by the enormous size of the animal. But the nanny, sixteen-year-old Polya, begins to squeal in fear.

The owner of the elephant, a German, comes up to the stroller and says:

Good morning, young lady! Please don't be afraid. Tommy is very kind and loves children.

The girl extends her small, pale hand to the German.

Hello. How are you? - she answers. - I'm not at all afraid. And what is his name?

Tommy.

“Hello, Tommy,” the girl says and bows her head. Because the elephant is so big, she does not dare to speak to him on a first name basis. - How did you sleep last night?

She extends her hand to him too. The elephant carefully takes and shakes her thin fingers with his mobile strong finger and does it much more tenderly than Doctor Mikhail Petrovich. At the same time, the elephant shakes its head, and its small eyes are completely narrowed, as if laughing.

Surely he understands everything? - the girl asks the German.

Oh, absolutely everything, young lady.

But he's the only one who doesn't speak?

Yes, but he doesn't speak. You know, I also have one daughter, just as small as you. Her name is Liza. Tommy is a great, great friend of hers.

Have you, Tommy, already had tea? - asks the girl.

The elephant again stretches out its trunk and blows warm, strong breath right into the girl’s face, causing the light hair on the girl’s head to fly in all directions.

Nadya laughs and claps her hands. The German laughs loudly.

He himself is as big, fat and good-natured as an elephant, and Nadya thinks that they both look alike. Maybe they are related?

No, he didn't drink tea, young lady. But he happily drinks sugar water. He also loves buns very much.

They bring a tray of bread rolls. A girl treats an elephant. He deftly grabs the bun with his finger and, bending his trunk into a ring, hides it somewhere down under his head, where his funny, triangular, furry lower lip moves. You can hear the roll rustling against dry skin. Tommy does the same with another bun, and with a third, and with a fourth, and with a fifth, and nods his head in gratitude, and his small eyes narrow even more with pleasure. And the girl laughs joyfully.

When all the buns are eaten, Nadya introduces the elephant to her dolls:

Look, Tommy, this elegant doll is Sonya. She is very kind child, but she’s a little capricious and doesn’t want to eat soup. And this is Natasha, Sonya’s daughter. She is already starting to learn and knows almost all the letters. And this is Matryoshka. This is my very first doll. You see, she has no nose, and her head is glued on, and there is no more hair. But still, you can’t kick the old lady out of the house. Really, Tommy? She used to be Sonya’s mother, and now she serves as our cook. Well, let's play, Tommy: you will be the dad, and I will be the mom, and these will be our children.

Tommy agrees. He laughs and takes Matryoshka by the neck and drags it into his mouth. But this is just a joke. After lightly chewing the doll, he again places it on the girl’s lap, albeit a little wet and dented.

Then Nadya shows him a large book with pictures and explains:

This is a horse, this is a canary, this is a gun... Here is a cage with a bird, here is a bucket, a mirror, a stove, a shovel, a crow... And this, look, this is an elephant! It really doesn't look like it at all? Are elephants really that small, Tommy?

Tommy finds that there are never such small elephants in the world. In general, he doesn’t like this picture. He grabs the edge of the page with his finger and turns it over.

It's time for lunch, but the girl can't be torn away from the elephant. A German comes to the rescue:

Let me arrange everything. They will have lunch together.

He orders the elephant to sit down. The elephant obediently sits down, causing the floor in the entire apartment to shake, dishes rattling in the cupboard, and plaster falling from the ceiling of the lower residents. A girl sits opposite him. A table is placed between them. A tablecloth is tied around the elephant's neck, and the new friends begin to dine. The girl eats chicken soup and cutlet, and the elephant eats various vegetables and salad. The girl is given a tiny glass of sherry, and the elephant is given warm water with a glass of rum, and he happily pulls this drink out of the bowl with his trunk. Then they get sweets: the girl gets a cup of cocoa, and the elephant gets half a cake, this time a nut one. At this time, the German is sitting with his dad in the living room and drinking beer with the same pleasure as an elephant, only in larger quantities.

After dinner, some of my dad's friends come; Even in the hall they are warned about the elephant so that they do not get scared. At first they don’t believe it, and then, seeing Tommy, they crowd towards the door.

Don't be afraid, he is kind! - the girl calms them down.

But the acquaintances hastily go into the living room and, without sitting for even five minutes, leave.

Evening is coming. Late. It's time for the girl to go to bed. However, it is impossible to pull her away from the elephant. She falls asleep next to him, and she, already sleepy, is taken to the nursery. She doesn't even hear how they undress her.

That night Nadya dreams that she married Tommy and they have many children, little cheerful elephants. The elephant, which was taken to the menagerie at night, also sees a sweet, affectionate girl in a dream. In addition, he dreams of large cakes, walnut and pistachio, the size of gates...

In the morning the girl wakes up cheerful, fresh and, as in the old days, when she was still healthy, shouts to the whole house, loudly and impatiently:

Mo-loch-ka!

Hearing this cry, mom hurries joyfully. But the girl immediately remembers yesterday and asks:

And the elephant?

They explain to her that the elephant went home on business, that he has children who cannot be left alone, that he asked to bow to Nadya and that he is waiting for her to visit him when she is healthy. The girl smiles slyly and says: “Tell Tommy that I’m already completely healthy!”
1907

Kuprin A.I. - famous Russian writer. The heroes of his works - ordinary people who, despite social order and injustice, do not lose faith in goodness. For those who want to introduce their child to the writer’s work, below is a list of Kuprin’s works for children with a brief description.

Anathema

The story “Anathema” reveals the theme of the opposition of the church against Leo Tolstoy. At the end of his life he often wrote on the topic of religion. The church ministers did not like what Tolstoy expounded, and they decided to anathematize the writer. The case was entrusted to Protodeacon Olympius. But the protodeacon was a fan of Lev Nikolaevich’s work. The day before, he read the author’s story, and was so delighted with it that he even cried. As a result, instead of anathema, Olympius wished Tolstoy “Many years!”

White poodle

In the story "White Poodle" the author describes the story of a traveling troupe. The old organ grinder, along with the boy Seryozha and the poodle Artaud, earned money by performing numbers in front of the public. After a whole day of unsuccessful walking around local dachas, luck finally smiled on them: in the last house there were spectators who wanted to see the performance. It was the spoiled and capricious boy Trilly. Seeing the dog, he wished it for himself. However, his mother received a categorical refusal, because friends are not sold. Then she stole the dog with the help of a janitor. That same night Seryozha returned his friend.

Swamp

Kuprin’s work “Swamp” tells how land surveyor Zhmakin and his student assistant returned after surveying. Since the way home is long, they had to go to spend the night with the forester, Stepan. During the road, student Nikolai Nikolaevich entertained Zhmakin with a conversation, which only irritated the old man. When they had to walk through the swamp, both were afraid of the quagmire. If it weren’t for Stepan, it’s unknown whether they would have gotten out. Stopping at his place for the night, the student saw the meager life of a forester.

The story “In the Circus” tells about the cruel fate of the circus strongman - Arbuzov. He will have a fight in the arena with an American. Reber is perhaps inferior to him in strength and agility. But today Arbuzov is not able to show all his dexterity and skill. He is seriously ill and cannot fight on equal terms. Unfortunately, this is noticed only by the doctor, who considered the wrestler’s appearance on stage dangerous to the athlete’s health. The rest just want spectacle. As a result, Arbuzov is defeated.

Inquiry

“Inquiry” is one of the author’s first stories. It tells about the investigation of a theft for which a Tatar soldier is accused. The investigation is conducted by Second Lieutenant Kozlovsky. There was no serious evidence against the thief. Therefore, Kozlovsky decides to get a confession from the suspect with a cordial attitude. The method was successful, and the Tatar confessed to the theft. However, the second lieutenant began to doubt the fairness of his action in relation to the accused. On this basis, Kozlovsky had a quarrel with another officer.

Emerald

The work “Emerald” talks about human cruelty. Main character- a four-year-old stallion participating in horse racing, whose feelings and emotions are described in the story. The reader knows what he is thinking about, what experiences he is experiencing. In the stable where he is kept, there is no harmony between his brothers. Emerald's already difficult life worsens when he wins a race. People accuse horse owners of cheating. And after long examinations and investigations, Emerald is simply poisoned to death.

Lilac bush

In the story “The Lilac Bush” the author describes the relationship married couple. Husband - Nikolai Evgrafovich Almazov, studies at the Academy of the General Staff. While drawing up a map of the area, he made a mark, which he covered up, depicting bushes in that place. Since in reality there was no vegetation there, the professor did not believe Almazov and rejected the work. His wife Vera not only reassured her husband, but also corrected the situation. She did not spare her jewelry, paying with it for the purchase and planting of a lilac bush in that same ill-fated place.

Lenochka

The work “Lenochka” is a story about a meeting of old acquaintances. Colonel Voznitsyn, heading to Crimea on a ship, met a woman whom he knew in his youth. Then her name was Lenochka, and Voznitsyn had tender feelings for her. They were swirled in a whirlpool of memories of youth, reckless actions and a kiss at the gate. Having met many years later, they hardly recognized each other. Seeing Elena’s daughter, who was very similar to her young self, Voznitsyn felt sad.

Moonlit night

“On a Moonlit Night” is a work that tells about one event. On a warm June night, two acquaintances were returning from visiting as usual. One of them is the narrator of the story, the other is a certain Gamow. Returning home after attending an evening at Elena Alexandrovna's dacha, the heroes walked along the road. The usually silent Gamow was surprisingly talkative on this warm June night. He told about the murder of the girl. His interlocutor realized that Gamow himself was the culprit of the incident.

Moloch

The hero of the work “Moloch” is steel mill engineer Andrei Ilyich Bobrov. He was disgusted with his job. Because of this, he began taking morphine, as a result of which he suffered from insomnia. The only bright moment in his life was Nina, one of the daughters of the warehouse manager at the factory. However, all his attempts to get closer to the girl ended in nothing. And after the owner of the plant, Kvashin, arrived in the city, Nina was matched with someone else. Svezhevsky became the girl’s fiancé and the new manager.

Olesya

The hero of the work “Olesya” is a young man who talks about his stay in the village of Perebrod. There is not much entertainment in such a remote area. In order not to get bored at all, the hero goes hunting with his servant Yarmola. One day they got lost and found a hut. An old witch lived in it, about whom Yarmola had previously spoken. A romance breaks out between the hero and the old woman's daughter Olesya. However, hostility local residents separates the heroes.

Duel

In the story "Duel" we're talking about about second lieutenant Romashov and his affair with Raisa Alexandrovna Peterson. He soon decided to end his relationship with the married woman. The offended lady promised to take revenge on the second lieutenant. It is unknown from whom, but the deceived husband learned about his wife’s affair with Romashov. Over time, a scandal broke out between the second lieutenant and Nikolaev, with whom he visited, which resulted in a duel. As a result of the fight, Romashov dies.

Elephant

The work “Elephant” tells the story of a girl, Nadya. One day she fell ill, and a doctor, Mikhail Petrovich, was called to see her. After examining the girl, the doctor said that Nadya had “indifference to life.” To heal the child, the doctor advised to cheer her up. Therefore, when Nadya asked to bring an elephant, her father did everything possible to fulfill her wish. After the girl and the elephant had tea together, she went to bed, and the next morning she got up completely healthy.

Wonderful doctor

The story “The Wonderful Doctor” is about the Mertsalov family, who began to be haunted by troubles. First, my father got sick and lost his job. All the family's savings were spent on treatment. Because of this, they had to move to a damp basement. After which the children began to get sick. One girl died. My father's attempts to find funds led nowhere until he met Dr. Pirogov. Thanks to him, the lives of the remaining children were saved.

Pit

The story "The Pit" about life women lung behavior. All of them are kept in an institution run by Anna Markovna. One of the visitors, Lichonin, decides to take one of the girls under his guardianship. In this way he wanted to save the unfortunate Lyuba. However, this decision led to many problems. As a result, Lyubka returned to the establishment. When Anna Markovna was replaced by Emma Eduardovna, a series of troubles began. Finally, the establishment was looted by soldiers.

On wood grouse

In the work “On the Wood Grouse” the narration is told in the first person. Panych tells how he went on a wood grouse hunt. He took as his companion a government forester, Trofim Shcherbaty, who knows the forest well. The hunters spent the first day on the road, and in the evening they stopped. The next morning, before dawn, Trofimych led the master through the forest in search of wood grouse. Only with the help of the forester and his knowledge of the habits of birds did the main character manage to shoot a capercaillie.

Overnight

The main character of the work “Overnight” is Lieutenant Avilov. He and the regiment went on big maneuvers. On the way, he felt bored and indulged in daydreams. At the halt, he was given overnight accommodation in the clerk's house. While falling asleep, Avilov witnessed a conversation between the owner and his wife. It was clear that even in her youth the girl was dishonored by a young man. Because of this, the owner beats his wife every evening. When Avilov realizes that it was he who ruined a woman’s life, he becomes ashamed.

Autumn flowers

The story “Autumn Flowers” ​​is a letter from a woman to ex-lover. They were once happy together. They were connected by tender feelings. Having met again many years later, the lovers realized that their love had died. After the man suggested visiting his ex-lover, she decided to leave. So as not to be influenced by sensuality and not to discredit past memories. So she wrote a letter and got on the train.

Pirate

The work “Pirate” is named after a dog who was a friend to a poor old man. Together they gave performances in taverns, which is how they earned their living. Sometimes the “artists” left with nothing and remained hungry. One day a merchant, having seen the performance, wanted to buy the Pirate. Starkey resisted for a long time, but could not resist and sold his friend for 13 rubles. After that, he was sad for a long time, tried to steal the dog and eventually hanged himself out of grief.

River of life

The story “River of Life” describes the way of life in furnished rooms. The author tells about the owner of the establishment, Anna Fridrikhovna, her fiance and children. One day, in this “kingdom of vulgarity,” an emergency occurs. An unfamiliar student rents a room and locks himself there to write a letter. Being a participant in the revolutionary movement, he is interrogated. The student chickened out and betrayed his comrades. Because of this, he could no longer live and committed suicide.

The work “Starlings” tells the story of migratory birds that are the first to return to their native lands after winter. It tells about the difficulties encountered on the way of wanderers. For the birds' return to Russia, people prepare birdhouses for them, which are quickly occupied by sparrows. Therefore, upon arrival, starlings have to evict uninvited guests. After which new residents move in. After living for a certain period of time, the birds fly south again.

Nightingale

The narration in the work “The Nightingale” is told in the first person. After finding an old photo, memories came flooding back to the hero. Then he lived in Salzo Maggiorre, a resort located in Northern Italy. One evening he dined with a table d'hote company. Among them were four Italian singers. When a nightingale sang not far from the company, they admired its sound. At the end, the company got so excited that everyone started singing a song.

From the street

The work “From the Street” is a confession of a criminal about how he turned into what he is now. His parents drank heavily and beat the boy. The apprentice Yushka was involved in raising the former criminal. Under his influence, the hero learned to drink, smoke, gamble and steal. He failed to graduate from high school, and he went to serve as a soldier. There he reveled and walked. After the hero seduced the wife of the lieutenant colonel, Marya Nikolaevna, he was kicked out of the regiment. At the end, the hero tells how he and his friend killed a man and surrendered to the police.

Garnet bracelet

The work “Garnet Bracelet” describes the secret love of a certain Zheltkov for a married woman. One day he gives Vera Nikolaevna a garnet bracelet for her birthday. Her husband and brother visit the star-crossed lover. After an unexpected visit, Zhelkov commits suicide, since his life consisted only of the woman he loved. Vera Nikolaevna understands that such a feeling is very rare.

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, without any civilian profession, but feeling 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 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 an 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. Kuprin sets up a 10-bed infirmary in his house, his wife Elizaveta Moritsovna, ex-sister 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 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 turn my head and scratch 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.” 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?”

“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 in question. For my part, I just changed the names of some characters this touching story Yes, he gave the oral story a written form.

- Grisha, oh Grisha! 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; huge smoked and pickled fish stretched out on the dishes, ugly gaping mouths and bulging eyes; 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 ago gotten used to these smoky walls, crying from 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 laundry 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 eyes were wide open sparkling eyes looked intently and aimlessly. Next to the bed, in a cradle suspended from the ceiling, a baby was screaming, wincing, straining and choking. 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? 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?

- So what? What did you say to 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, all that could be heard was the frantic cry of the baby and Mashutka’s short, rapid breathing, more like continuous monotonous moans. 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). - Yes, on the way I couldn’t resist, I made a circle to go through the garden: it’s very nice here.

Mertsalov was generally a meek and shy person, but at the last words of the stranger he 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.

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, without any civilian profession, but feeling 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 turn my head and scratch 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?”