Don't we see coffins every day,
Gray hair of the decrepit universe?
Derzhavin
The last belongings of the undertaker Adrian Prokhorov were loaded onto the funeral cart, and the skinny couple trudged from Basmannaya to Nikitskaya for the fourth time, where the undertaker was moving his entire household. Having locked the shop, he nailed a notice to the gate that the house was for sale and for rent, and went on foot to the housewarming party. Approaching the yellow house, which had so long seduced his imagination and which he had finally bought for a considerable sum, the old undertaker felt with surprise that his heart was not rejoicing. Having crossed an unfamiliar threshold and finding turmoil in his new home, he sighed about the dilapidated shack, where for eighteen years everything had been instituted in the strictest order; began to scold both his daughters and the worker for their slowness and began to help them himself. Order was soon established; an ark with images, a cupboard with dishes, a table, a sofa and a bed occupied certain corners in the back room; the kitchen and living room contained the owner's wares: coffins of all colors and sizes, as well as cabinets with mourning hats, robes and torches. Above the gate stood a sign depicting a portly Cupid with an overturned torch in his hand, with the caption: “Here, simple and painted coffins are sold and upholstered, old ones are also rented and repaired.” The girls went to their little room. Adrian walked around his home, sat down by the window and ordered the samovar to be prepared. The enlightened reader knows that Shakespeare and Walter Scott both presented their grave-diggers as cheerful and playful people, in order to strike our imagination more strongly by this contrast. Out of respect for the truth, we cannot follow their example and are forced to admit that the disposition of our undertaker was completely consistent with his gloomy craft. Adrian Prokhorov was usually gloomy and thoughtful. He allowed silence only to scold his daughters when he caught them idly staring out the window at passers-by, or to ask an exaggerated price for his works from those who had the misfortune (and sometimes the pleasure) of needing them. So, Adrian, sitting under the window and drinking his seventh cup of tea, was, as usual, immersed in sad thoughts. He thought about the pouring rain that, a week ago, met the funeral of a retired brigadier at the very outpost. Many robes became narrower as a result, many hats became warped. He foresaw inevitable expenses, because his long-standing supply of coffin outfits was falling into a pitiful state. He hoped to recoup the loss on the old merchant's wife Tryukhina, who had been dying for about a year. But Tryukhina was dying on Razgulay, and Prokhorov was afraid that her heirs, despite their promise, would not be too lazy to send for him to such a distance and would not make a deal with the nearest contractor. These reflections were unexpectedly interrupted by three Freemasonic knocks on the door. "Who's there?" - asked the undertaker. The door opened, and a man, who at first glance could be recognized as a German artisan, entered the room and approached the undertaker with a cheerful look. “Sorry, dear neighbor,” he said in that Russian dialect that we still cannot hear without laughing, “I’m sorry that I disturbed you... I wanted to get to know you as soon as possible. I am a shoemaker, my name is Gottlieb Schultz, and I live across the street from you, in this house opposite your windows. Tomorrow I celebrate my silver wedding, and I ask you and your daughters to dine with me as friends.” The invitation was favorably accepted. The undertaker asked the shoemaker to sit down and have a cup of tea, and, thanks to the open disposition of Gottlieb Schultz, they soon began to talk amicably. “What is your worship selling?” “asked Adrian. “Eh-heh-heh,” answered Schultz, “this way and that.” I can't complain. Although, of course, my product is not the same as yours: a living person can do without boots, but a dead person cannot live without a coffin.” “It’s true,” Adrian remarked; - however, if a living person has nothing to buy a boot with, then, don’t be angry, he walks barefoot; and the dead beggar takes his coffin for free.” Thus, their conversation continued for some time; Finally the shoemaker stood up and took leave of the undertaker, renewing his invitation. The next day, at exactly twelve o'clock, the undertaker and his daughters left the gate of the newly purchased house and went to their neighbor. I will not describe either the Russian caftan of Adrian Prokhorov, or the European outfit of Akulina and Daria, deviating in this case from the custom adopted by modern novelists. I think, however, it is not superfluous to note that both girls put on yellow hats and red shoes, which they only wore on special occasions. The shoemaker's cramped apartment was filled with guests, mostly German artisans, with their wives and apprentices. Among the Russian officials there was one guard, the Chukhonian Yurko, who knew how to acquire, despite his humble rank, the special favor of his master. For twenty-five years he served in this rank with faith and truth, as Pogorelsky’s postman. The fire of the twelfth year, having destroyed the capital, also destroyed his yellow booth. But immediately, after the enemy was expelled, a new one appeared in her place, gray with white columns of the Doric order, and Yurko began to walk around her again with an ax and in homespun armor. He was familiar to most of the Germans living near the Nikitsky Gate: some of them even happened to spend the night with Yurka from Sunday to Monday. Adrian immediately became acquainted with him as a person whom sooner or later he might need, and when the guests went to the table, they sat down together. Mr. and Mrs. Schultz and their daughter, seventeen-year-old Lotchen, while dining with the guests, all treated them together and helped the cook serve. The beer was flowing. Yurko ate for four; Adrian was not inferior to him; his daughters were repairing; conversation on German hour by hour it became noisier. Suddenly the owner demanded attention and, uncorking the tarred bottle, said loudly in Russian: “For the health of my good Louise!” The half-champagne began to foam. The owner tenderly kissed the fresh face of his forty-year-old friend, and the guests noisily drank good Louise's health. “For the health of my dear guests!” - the owner proclaimed, uncorking the second bottle - and the guests thanked him, draining their glasses again. Here health began to follow one after another: they drank the health of each guest in particular, they drank the health of Moscow and a whole dozen German towns, they drank the health of all workshops in general and each one in particular, they drank the health of masters and apprentices. Adrian drank diligently and was so amused that he himself proposed some kind of humorous toast. Suddenly one of the guests, a fat baker, raised his glass and exclaimed: “To the health of those for whom we work, unserer Kundleute!” The proposal, like everything else, was accepted joyfully and unanimously. The guests began to bow to each other, the tailor to the shoemaker, the shoemaker to the tailor, the baker to both of them, everyone to the baker, and so on. Yurko, in the midst of these mutual bows, shouted, turning to his neighbor: “What? Drink, father, to the health of your dead.” Everyone laughed, but the undertaker considered himself offended and frowned. No one noticed, the guests continued to drink, and were already announcing Vespers when they got up from the table. The guests left late, and mostly tipsy. A fat baker and bookbinder whose face
It seemed bound in red morocco,
They took Yurka by the hand to his booth, observing in this case the Russian proverb: debt is worth paying. The undertaker came home drunk and angry. “What is it, really,” he reasoned out loud, “what makes my craft more dishonest than others? Is the undertaker the brother of the executioner? Why are the Basurmans laughing? Is the undertaker a yuletide guy? I would like to invite them to a housewarming party, give them a huge feast: but that won’t happen! And I will call together those for whom I work: the Orthodox dead.” “What are you saying, father?” said the worker who was taking off his shoes at the time, “why are you making such a fuss?” Cross yourself! Call the dead to a housewarming party! What passion!” “By God, I’ll convene,” Adrian continued, “and for tomorrow. You are welcome, my benefactors, to feast with me tomorrow evening; I’ll treat you with what God sent.” With this word the undertaker went to bed and soon began to snore.
It was still dark outside when Adrian was woken up. The merchant's wife Tryukhina died that very night, and a messenger from her clerk rode to Adrian on horseback with this news. The undertaker gave him a ten-kopeck piece for vodka, got dressed quickly, took a cab and went to Razgulay. The police were already standing at the gate of the deceased and merchants were walking around like crows, sensing the dead body. The deceased lay on the table, yellow as wax, but not yet disfigured by decay. Relatives, neighbors and household members crowded around her. All the windows were open; the candles were burning; priests read prayers. Adrian approached Tryukhina's nephew, a young merchant in a fashionable frock coat, announcing to him that the coffin, candles, shroud and other funeral accessories would immediately be delivered to him in all repairs. The heir thanked him absentmindedly, saying that he did not bargain about the price, but relied on his conscience in everything. The undertaker, as usual, swore that he would not take too much; exchanged a significant glance with the clerk and went to work. I spent the whole day driving around from Razgulyaya to Nikitsky Gate and back; By evening he had settled everything and went home on foot, dismissing his cab driver. The night was moonlit. The undertaker safely reached the Nikitsky Gate. At Ascension, our acquaintance Yurko called out to him and, recognizing the undertaker, wished him Good night . It was late. The undertaker was already approaching his house, when suddenly it seemed to him that someone had approached his gate, opened the gate and disappeared through it. “What would that mean? - thought Adrian. “Who cares about me again?” Could it be that a thief has broken into my place? Don't lovers go to my fools? What good!” And the undertaker was already thinking of calling his friend Yurka to help him. At that moment someone else approached the gate and was about to enter, but, seeing the owner running, he stopped and took off his three-cornered hat. Adrian thought his face was familiar, but in his haste he did not have time to take a good look at him. “You came to me,” said Adrian, out of breath, “come in, do me a favor.” “Don’t stand on ceremony, father,” he answered dully, “go ahead; show your guests the way!” Adrian had no time to stand on ceremony. The gate was unlocked, he went up the stairs, and he followed him. It seemed to Adrian that people were walking around his rooms. “What kind of devilry!” he thought and hurried to enter... then his legs gave way. The room was full of dead people. The moon through the windows illuminated their yellow and blue faces, sunken mouths, dull, half-closed eyes and protruding noses... Adrian recognized with horror in them the people buried through his efforts, and in the guest who entered with him, the foreman buried during the torrential rain. All of them, ladies and men, surrounded the undertaker with bows and greetings, except for one poor man, recently buried for nothing, who, ashamed and ashamed of his rags, did not approach and stood humbly in the corner. The rest were all dressed decently: the dead women in caps and ribbons, the dead officials in uniforms but with unshaven beards, the merchants in festive caftans. “You see, Prokhorov,” said the foreman on behalf of the entire honest company, “we all rose at your invitation; Only those who couldn’t stand it anymore, who had completely fallen apart, and who were left with only bones without skin, remained at home, but even here one couldn’t resist - he so wanted to visit you...” At that moment, a small skeleton made his way through the crowd and approached Adrian. His skull smiled affectionately at the undertaker. Pieces of light green and red cloth and old linen hung here and there on him, as if on a pole, and the bones of his legs beat in large boots, like pestles in mortars. “You didn’t recognize me, Prokhorov,” said the skeleton. “Do you remember retired guard sergeant Pyotr Petrovich Kurilkin, the same one to whom, in 1799, you sold your first coffin - and also a pine one for an oak one?” With this word, the dead man extended his bone embrace to him - but Adrian, gathering his strength, screamed and pushed him away. Pyotr Petrovich staggered, fell and crumbled all over. A murmur of indignation arose among the dead; everyone stood up for the honor of their comrade, pestered Adrian with abuse and threats, and the poor owner, deafened by their scream and almost crushed, lost his presence of mind, he himself fell on the bones of the retired sergeant of the guard and lost consciousness. The sun had long been illuminating the bed on which the undertaker lay. Finally he opened his eyes and saw a worker in front of him, inflating the samovar. With horror, Adrian remembered all yesterday's incidents. Tryukhina, the brigadier and sergeant Kurilkin vaguely appeared in his imagination. He silently waited for the worker to start a conversation with him and announce the consequences of the night's adventures. “How did you sleep, father, Adrian Prokhorovich,” said Aksinya, handing him a robe. “A neighbor, a tailor, came to see you, and the local watchman ran in to announce that today is a private birthday party, but you deigned to rest, and we didn’t want to wake you up.” - Did they come to me from the deceased Tryukhina? - Deceased women? Did she really die? - What a fool! Wasn’t it you who helped me arrange her funeral yesterday? - What are you doing, father? Are you crazy, or are you still drunk from yesterday? What was the funeral like yesterday? You feasted with the German all day, came back drunk, fell into bed, and slept until this hour, when mass was announced. - Oh! - said the delighted undertaker. “That’s true,” answered the worker. “Well, if that’s the case, let’s have some tea quickly and call your daughters.”The story "The Undertaker" is the third in the cycle of "Belkin's Tales". It was written in Boldin in 1830. Let's try to consider the plot and composition of the story.
The entire narrative is clearly divided into three parts: reality, dream and return to real world. This is the so-called ring composition. The action begins in the yellow house on Nikitskaya, and ends there. Moreover, the parts of the story are different in volume: the first part (the undertaker's move, his visit to his neighbor) makes up more than half of the entire work. A slightly smaller volume is occupied by the description of the events of Adrian’s dream. And the third part (the awakening of the undertaker) is the smallest in the story, occupying approximately 1/12 of the entire text.
It is characteristic that the boundaries of the transition from reality to sleep and back are not verbally indicated in the text. Only the remark of Aksinya, the undertaker’s worker, about Adrian’s sound, long sleep brings the reader up to date: all the events that took place turn out to be nothing more than a nightmare.
The story begins with a description of the hero's housewarming. The description of the undertaker's move to a new home and the story of Adrian's character and his craft constitute an exposition. Here in Pushkin, as N. Petrunina notes, there is a combination of opposite concepts: housewarming, life, with its worries and vanity, and “funeral road”, death, detachment from everyday worries. “The last belongings of the undertaker Adrian Prokhorov were loaded onto the funeral cart, and the skinny couple for the fourth time trudged from Basmannaya to Nikitskaya, where the undertaker was moving his entire household.”
And immediately the author sets the motive for the unpredictability of the hero, a certain spiritual complexity of him, necessary for the realistic style. The complexity of Adrian’s worldview is evidenced by the lack of joy after receiving what he wanted. “Approaching the yellow house, which had so long seduced his imagination and which he had finally bought for a considerable sum, the old undertaker felt with surprise that his heart was not rejoicing.”
Adrian seems to listen to his feelings and cannot understand himself. The motives for this sadness can be different. But Pushkin notices in passing; “...he sighed about the dilapidated shack, where for eighteen years everything had been instituted in the strictest order...” It turns out that nostalgic feelings are not at all alien to Adrian; in his heart there are attachments, the existence of which the reader would have difficulty guessing.
However, it seems that the memory of his former home is only a superficial reason for the hero’s gloom. This is what his consciousness, not accustomed to introspection, sees most clearly and distinctly. The main reason for Adrian’s “incomprehensible” feelings is something else. Its roots go deep into the undertaker's former life, into his professional ethics, into his human honesty.
The visit of the undertaker by his neighbor, the shoemaker Gottlieb Schultz, and the subsequent invitation to the celebration represent the beginning of the plot action. It is characteristic that already here a subtle motive for a future quarrel arises. “My product is not the same as yours; a living person can do without boots, but a dead person cannot live without a coffin,” notes the shoemaker. Thus, already here Prokhorov’s neighbor is trying to separate the undertaker’s craft from other crafts.
Further, the intensity of the action increases. At a festive dinner in the shoemaker's cramped apartment, Adrian's profession causes everyone to laugh: the artisans, who toasted the health of their clients, offer the undertaker a drink to the health of their dead. Adrian feels offended: “... why is my craft more dishonest than others? Is the undertaker the brother of the executioner? Why are the Basurmans laughing? Is the undertaker a yuletide guy?” And offended, angry, Prokhorov decides not to invite his neighbors to his housewarming party, but to call the “Orthodox dead” there.
What follows is the undertaker's dream, which is roughly divided into two parts. The first part of Adrian's dream includes the hero's efforts at the funeral of the merchant Tryukhina. “I spent the whole day driving around with Razgulyan to the Nikitsky Gate and back...” and only “in the evening I got it all sorted out.” And already in this part there is a hint of Adrian’s penchant for cheating: in response to the heir’s gullibility, the undertaker “swore that he would not take too much; exchanged a significant glance with the clerk and went to work.”
The second part of the dream is a visit to Prokhorov by the dead, who happily come to his housewarming party. But one of them suddenly hints at the undertaker’s dishonesty, at his professional dishonesty: “You didn’t recognize me, Prokhorov,” said the skeleton. “Do you remember retired guard sergeant Pyotr Petrovich Kurilkin, the same one to whom you sold your first coffin - and also a pine one for an oak one?”
The hugs of Sergeant Kurilkin, the curses and threats of the dead are the culmination of the undertaker's dream, which is at the same time the culmination of the entire story.
Thus, here we see an explanation of Adrian’s “incomprehensible” feelings associated with the housewarming. And with what money did he buy that same yellow house? He probably had to cheat more than once, to “deceive” the dead who could not “stand up for themselves.” Adrian is oppressed by an incomprehensible feeling, but this is nothing more than the awakening of his conscience. It is known that a dream expresses a person’s secret fears. Pushkin's undertaker is not just afraid of the “dead people” as such (this fear is normal for a living person), he is afraid of meeting the people he deceived.
This scene, like some previous moments in the narrative (the description of the undertaker's gloomy disposition, his attachment to the old, dilapidated shack), testifies to the complexity inner world hero. In Prokhorov’s dream, according to the remark of S. G. Bocharov, “his repressed conscience” seems to awaken. However, the researcher believes that changes in the moral character of the undertaker are unlikely: the “self-awareness” of Pushkin’s undertaker in the denouement “wastes.” But let's not rule out this possibility.
The denouement of the story is Prokhorov’s happy awakening, his conversation with the worker. It is characteristic that after a nightmare the hero was freed from the feelings that oppressed him, from resentment and no longer holds a grudge against his neighbors. And, I think, we can even assume the possibility of some changes in the moral character of the hero, in his professional activity.
Thus, the composition is circular: the hero seems to be walking along a certain circle of his life, but returns to the starting point as a different, changed person. In the subtext of the story one can discern the idea of a person’s responsibility for his actions, of retribution for the evil committed.
Stories of the late Ivan Petrovich Belkin
Don't we see coffins every day,
Gray hair of the decrepit universe?
Derzhavin
The last belongings of the undertaker Adrian Prokhorov were loaded onto the funeral cart, and the skinny couple trudged for the fourth time from Basmannaya to Nikitskaya, where the undertaker was moving his entire household. Having locked the shop, he nailed a notice to the gate that the house was for sale and rented, and went on foot to the housewarming party. Approaching the yellow house, which had seduced his imagination for so long and which he had finally bought for a considerable sum, the old undertaker felt with surprise that his heart was not rejoicing. Having crossed the unfamiliar threshold and finding turmoil in his new home, he sighed about the dilapidated shack, where for eighteen years everything had been instituted in the strictest order; began to scold both his daughters and the worker for their slowness and began to help them himself. Order was soon established; an ark with images, a cupboard with dishes, a table, a sofa and a bed occupied certain corners in the back room; the kitchen and living room contained the owner's wares: coffins of all colors and sizes, as well as cabinets with mourning hats, robes and torches. Above the gate stood a sign depicting a portly Cupid with an overturned torch in his hand, with the caption: “Here, simple and painted coffins are sold and upholstered, old ones are also rented and repaired.” The girls went to their little room. Adrian walked around his home, sat down by the window and ordered the samovar to be prepared.
The enlightened reader knows that Shakespeare and Walter Scott both presented their gravediggers as cheerful and playful people, in order to more strongly strike our imagination by this contrast. Out of respect for the truth, we cannot follow their example and are forced to admit that the disposition of our undertaker was completely consistent with his gloomy craft. Adrian Prokhorov was usually gloomy and thoughtful. He allowed silence only to scold his daughters when he caught them idly staring out the window at passers-by, or to ask an exaggerated price for his works from those who had the misfortune (and sometimes the pleasure) of needing them. So, Adrian, sitting under the window and drinking his seventh cup of tea, was, as usual, immersed in sad thoughts. He thought about the pouring rain that, a week ago, met the funeral of a retired brigadier at the very outpost. Many robes became narrower as a result, many hats became warped. He foresaw inevitable expenses, because his long-standing supply of coffin outfits was falling into a pitiful state. He hoped to recoup the loss on the old merchant's wife Tryukhina, who had been dying for about a year. But Tryukhina was dying on Razgulay, and Prokhorov was afraid that her heirs, despite their promise, would not be too lazy to send for him to such a distance and would not make a deal with the nearest contractor.
These reflections were unexpectedly interrupted by three Freemasonic knocks on the door. "Who's there?" - asked the undertaker. The door opened, and a man, who at first glance could be recognized as a German artisan, entered the room and approached the undertaker with a cheerful look. “Sorry, dear neighbor,” he said in that Russian dialect that we still cannot hear without laughing, “I’m sorry that I disturbed you... I wanted to get to know you as soon as possible. I am a shoemaker, my name is Gotlio Schultz, and I live across the street from you, in this house opposite your windows. Tomorrow I celebrate my silver wedding, and I ask you and your daughters to dine with me as friends.” The invitation was favorably accepted. The undertaker asked the shoemaker to sit down and have a cup of tea, and, thanks to the open disposition of Gottlieb Schultz, they soon began to talk amicably. “What is your worship selling?” - asked Adrian. “Eh-heh-heh,” answered Schultz, “and so and so. I can't complain. Although, of course, my product is not the same as yours: a living person can do without boots, but a dead person cannot live without a coffin.” “It’s true,” Adrian noted, “however, if a living person has nothing to buy a boot with, then don’t be angry , he walks barefoot; and the dead beggar takes his coffin for free.” Thus, their conversation continued for some more time; Finally the shoemaker stood up and took leave of the undertaker, renewing his invitation.
The next day, at exactly twelve o'clock, the undertaker and his daughters left the gate of the newly purchased house and went to their neighbor. I will not describe either the Russian caftan of Adrian Prokhorov, or the European outfit of Akulina and Daria, deviating in this case from the custom adopted by modern novelists. I think, however, it is not superfluous to note that both girls put on yellow hats and red shoes, which they only wore on special occasions.
The shoemaker's cramped apartment was filled with guests, mostly German artisans, with their wives and apprentices. Among the Russian officials there was one guard, the Chukhonian Yurko, who knew how to acquire, despite his humble rank, the special favor of his master. For twenty-five years he served in this rank with faith and truth, as a postman of Pogorelsky. The fire of the twelfth year, having destroyed the capital, also destroyed his yellow booth. But immediately, after the enemy was expelled, a new one appeared in her place, gray with white columns of the Doric order, and Yurko began to walk around her again with an ax and in homespun armor. He was familiar to most of the Germans living near the Nikitsky Gate; some of them even happened to spend the night with Yurka from Sunday to Monday. Adrian immediately became acquainted with him as a person whom sooner or later he might need, and when the guests went to the table, they sat down together. Mr. and Mrs. Schultz and their daughter, seventeen-year-old Lotchen, while dining with the guests, treated everyone together and helped the cook serve. The beer was flowing. Yurko ate for four; Adrian was not inferior to him; his daughters were repairing; the conversation in German became noisier hour by hour. Suddenly the owner demanded attention and, uncorking the tarred bottle, said loudly in Russian: “For the health of my good Louise!” The half-champagne began to foam. The owner tenderly kissed the fresh face of his forty-year-old friend, and the guests noisily drank good Louise's health. “For the health of my dear guests!” - the owner proclaimed, uncorking the second bottle - and the guests thanked him, draining their glasses again. Here health began to follow one after another: they drank the health of each guest in particular, they drank the health of Moscow and a whole dozen German towns, they drank the health of all workshops in general and each one in particular, they drank the health of masters and apprentices. Adrian drank diligently and was so amused that he himself proposed some kind of humorous toast. Suddenly one of the guests, a fat baker, raised his glass and exclaimed: “To the health of those for whom we work, unserer Kundleute!” The proposal, like everything else, was accepted joyfully and unanimously. The guests began to bow to each other, the tailor to the shoemaker, the shoemaker to the tailor, the baker to both of them, everyone to the baker, and so on. Yurko, in the midst of these mutual bows, shouted, turning to his neighbor: “What? Drink, father, to the health of your dead.” Everyone laughed, but the undertaker considered himself offended and frowned. No one noticed, the guests continued to drink, and were already announcing Vespers when they got up from the table.
The guests left late, and mostly tipsy. The fat baker and bookbinder, whose face seemed to be in a red morocco binding, took Yurka by the hand to his booth, observing in this case the Russian proverb: debt is worth paying. The undertaker came home drunk and angry. “What is it, really,” he reasoned out loud, “what makes my craft more dishonest than others? Is the undertaker the brother of the executioner? Why are the Basurmans laughing? Is the undertaker a yuletide guy? I wanted to invite them to a housewarming party, give them a huge feast: but that won’t happen! And I will call together those for whom I work: the Orthodox dead.” - “What are you doing, father? - said the worker, who at that time was taking off his shoes, - why are you making such a fuss? Cross yourself! Invite the dead to a housewarming party! What passion!” “By God, I’ll convene,” Adrian continued, “and for tomorrow. You are welcome, my benefactors, to feast with me tomorrow evening; I’ll treat you with what God sent.” With this word the undertaker went to bed and soon began to snore.
It was still dark outside when Adrian was woken up. The merchant's wife Tryukhin died that very night, and a messenger from her clerk rode to Adrian on horseback with this news. The undertaker gave him a ten-kopeck piece for vodka, got dressed quickly, took a cab and went to Razgulay. The police were already standing at the gate of the deceased and merchants were walking around like crows, sensing the dead body. The deceased lay on the table, yellow as wax, but not yet disfigured by decay. Relatives, neighbors and household members crowded around her. All the windows were open; the candles were burning; priests read prayers. Adrian approached Tryukhina's nephew, a young merchant in a fashionable frock coat, announcing to him that the coffin, candles, shroud and other funeral accessories would immediately be delivered to him in all repairs. The heir thanked him absentmindedly, saying that he did not bargain about the price, but relied on his conscience in everything. The undertaker, as usual, swore that he would not take too much; exchanged a significant glance with the clerk and went to work. I spent the whole day driving from Razgulay to the Nikitsky Gate and back; By evening he had settled everything and went home on foot, dismissing his cab driver. The night was moonlit. The undertaker safely reached the Nikitsky Gate. At Ascension, our acquaintance Yurko called out to him and, recognizing the undertaker, wished him good night. It was late. The undertaker was already approaching his house, when suddenly it seemed to him that someone had approached his gate, opened the gate and disappeared through it. “What would that mean? - thought Adrian. - Who cares about me again? Could it be that a thief has broken into my place? Don't lovers go to my fools? What good!” And the undertaker was already thinking of calling his friend Yurka to help him. At that moment, someone else approached the gate and was about to enter, but, seeing the owner running, he stopped and took off his three-cornered hat. Adrian thought his face was familiar, but in his haste he did not have time to take a good look at him. “You came to me,” said Adrian, out of breath, “come in, do a favor.” “Don’t stand on ceremony, father,” he answered dully, “go forward; show your guests the way!” Adrian had no time to stand on ceremony. The gate was unlocked, he went up the stairs, and he followed him. It seemed to Adrian that people were walking around his rooms. “What the hell!” - he thought and hurried to enter... then his legs gave way. The room was full of dead people. The moon through the windows illuminated their yellow and blue faces, sunken mouths, dull, half-closed eyes and protruding noses... Adrian recognized with horror the people buried by his efforts, and the guest who entered with him, the foreman buried during the pouring rain. All of them, ladies and men, surrounded the undertaker with bows and greetings, except for one poor man, recently buried for nothing, who, ashamed and ashamed of his rags, did not approach and stood humbly in the corner. The rest were all dressed decently: the dead women in caps and ribbons, the dead officials in uniforms but with unshaven beards, the merchants in festive caftans. “You see, Prokhorov,” said the foreman on behalf of the entire honest company, “we all rose to your invitation; Only those who couldn’t stand it anymore, who had completely fallen apart, and who were left with only bones without skin, remained at home, but even here one couldn’t resist - he so wanted to visit you...” At that moment, a small skeleton made his way through the crowd and approached Adrian. His skull smiled affectionately at the undertaker. Pieces of light green and red cloth and old canvas hung here and there on him, as if on a pole, and the bones of his legs beat in large boots, like pestles in mortars, “You didn’t recognize me, Prokhorov,” said the skeleton. “Do you remember the retired Guard Sergeant Pyotr Petrovich Kurilkin, the same one to whom, in 1799, you sold your first coffin - and also a pine one for an oak one? With this word, the dead man extended his bone embrace to him - but Adrian, gathering his strength, screamed and pushed him away. Pyotr Petrovich staggered, fell and crumbled all over. A murmur of indignation arose among the dead; everyone stood up for the honor of their comrade, pestered Adrian with abuse and threats, and the poor owner, deafened by their scream and almost crushed, lost his presence of mind, fell on the bones of a retired guard sergeant and lost consciousness.
The sun had long been illuminating the bed on which the undertaker lay. Finally he opened his eyes and saw a worker in front of him, inflating the samovar. With horror, Adrian remembered all yesterday's incidents. Tryukhina, the brigadier and sergeant Kurilkin vaguely appeared in his imagination. He silently waited for the worker to start a conversation with him and announce the consequences of the night's adventures.
“How did you sleep, father, Adrian Prokhorovich,” Aksinya said, handing him a robe. “A neighbor, a tailor, came to see you, and the local watchman ran in with an announcement that today is a private birthday, but you deigned to rest, and we didn’t want to wake you up.”
Did they come to me from the deceased Tryukhina?
Deceased? Did she really die?
What a fool! Wasn’t it you who helped me arrange her funeral yesterday?
What are you doing, father? Are you crazy, or are you still drunk from yesterday? What was the funeral like yesterday? You feasted with the German all day, came back drunk, fell into bed, and slept until this hour, when mass was announced.
“Oh!” said the delighted undertaker.
“We know so,” answered the worker.
Well, if that’s the case, hurry up and have some tea and call your daughters.
...as postman Pogorelsky...- The hero of A. Pogorelsky’s story “Lasfertovskaya Poppy”, who served at the Moscow Post Office for twenty years.
...with an ax and in homespun armor...- A verse from A. Izmailov’s fairy tale “Fool Pakhomovna.”
…unserer Kundleute!- our clients (German).
Don't we see coffins every day,
Gray hair of the decrepit universe?
Derzhavin
The last belongings of the undertaker Adrian Prokhorov were loaded onto the funeral cart, and the skinny couple trudged from Basmannaya to Nikitskaya for the fourth time, where the undertaker was moving his entire household. Having locked the shop, he nailed a notice to the gate that the house was for sale and for rent, and went on foot to the housewarming party. Approaching the yellow house, which had so long seduced his imagination and which he had finally bought for a considerable sum, the old undertaker felt with surprise that his heart was not rejoicing. Having crossed the unfamiliar threshold and finding turmoil in his new home, he sighed about the dilapidated shack, where for eighteen years everything had been instituted in the strictest order; began to scold both his daughters and the worker for their slowness and began to help them himself. Order was soon established; an ark with images, a cupboard with dishes, a table, a sofa and a bed occupied certain corners in the back room; The kitchen and living room contained the owner's wares: coffins of all colors and sizes, as well as cabinets with mourning hats, robes and torches. Above the gate stood a sign depicting a portly Cupid with an overturned torch in his hand, with the caption: “Here, simple and painted coffins are sold and upholstered, old ones are also rented and repaired.” The girls went to their little room. Adrian walked around his home, sat down by the window and ordered the samovar to be prepared.
The enlightened reader knows that Shakespeare and Walter Scott both presented their grave-diggers as cheerful and playful people, in order to strike our imagination more strongly by this contrast. Out of respect for the truth, we cannot follow their example and are forced to admit that the disposition of our undertaker was completely consistent with his gloomy craft. Adrian Prokhorov was usually gloomy and thoughtful. He allowed silence only to scold his daughters when he caught them idly staring out the window at passers-by, or to ask an exaggerated price for his works from those who had the misfortune (and sometimes the pleasure) of needing them. So, Adrian, sitting under the window and drinking his seventh cup of tea, was, as usual, immersed in sad thoughts. He thought about the pouring rain that, a week ago, met the funeral of a retired brigadier at the very outpost. Many robes became narrower as a result, many hats became warped. He foresaw inevitable expenses, because his long-standing supply of coffin outfits was falling into a pitiful state. He hoped to recoup the loss on the old merchant's wife Tryukhina, who had been dying for about a year. But Tryukhina was dying on Razgulay, and Prokhorov was afraid that her heirs, despite their promise, would not be too lazy to send for him to such a distance and would not make a deal with the nearest contractor. These reflections were unexpectedly interrupted by three Freemasonic knocks on the door. "Who's there?" - asked the undertaker. The door opened, and a man, who at first glance could be recognized as a German artisan, entered the room and approached the undertaker with a cheerful look. “Sorry, dear neighbor,” he said in that Russian dialect that we still cannot hear without laughing, “I’m sorry that I disturbed you... I wanted to get to know you as soon as possible. I am a shoemaker, my name is Gottlieb Schultz, and I live across the street from you, in this house opposite your windows. Tomorrow I celebrate my silver wedding, and I ask you and your daughters to dine with me as friends.” The invitation was favorably accepted.
The undertaker asked the shoemaker to sit down and have a cup of tea, and thanks to the open disposition of Gottlieb Schultz, they soon began to talk amicably. “What is your worship selling?” – asked Adrian. “Eh-heh-heh,” answered Schultz, “and so and so. I can't complain. Although, of course, my product is not the same as yours: a living person can do without boots, but a dead person cannot live without a coffin.” “It’s true,” Adrian noted, “however, if a living person has nothing to buy a boot with, then, don’t be angry, he walks barefoot; and the dead beggar takes his coffin for free.” Thus, their conversation continued for some time; Finally the shoemaker stood up and took leave of the undertaker, renewing his invitation.
The next day, at exactly twelve o'clock, the undertaker and his daughters left the gate of the newly purchased house and went to their neighbor. I will not describe either the Russian caftan of Adrian Prokhorov, or the European outfit of Akulina and Daria, deviating in this case from the custom adopted by modern novelists. I think, however, it is not superfluous to note that both girls put on yellow hats and red shoes, which they only wore on special occasions.
The shoemaker's cramped apartment was filled with guests, mostly German artisans, with their wives and apprentices. Among the Russian officials there was one guard, the Chukhonian Yurko, who knew how to acquire, despite his humble rank, the special favor of his master. For twenty-five years he served in this rank with faith and truth, as Pogorelsky’s postman. The fire of the twelfth year, having destroyed the capital, also destroyed his yellow booth. But immediately, after the enemy was expelled, a new one appeared in her place, a gray one with white columns of the Doric order, and Yurko again began to walk around her with an ax and in homespun armor. He was familiar to most of the Germans living near the Nikitsky Gate: some of them even happened to spend the night with Yurka from Sunday to Monday. Adrian immediately became acquainted with him as a person whom sooner or later he might need, and when the guests went to the table, they sat down together. Mr. and Mrs. Schultz and their daughter, seventeen-year-old Lotchen, while dining with the guests, all treated them together and helped the cook serve. The beer was flowing. Yurko ate for four; Adrian was not inferior to him; his daughters were repairing; the conversation in German became noisier hour by hour. Suddenly the owner demanded attention and, uncorking the tarred bottle, said loudly in Russian: “For the health of my good Louise!” The half-champagne began to foam. The owner tenderly kissed the fresh face of his forty-year-old friend, and the guests noisily drank good Louise's health. “For the health of my dear guests!” - the owner proclaimed, uncorking the second bottle, - and the guests thanked him, draining their glasses again. Here health began to follow one after another: they drank the health of each guest in particular, they drank the health of Moscow and a whole dozen German towns, they drank the health of all workshops in general and each one in particular, they drank the health of masters and apprentices. Adrian drank diligently and was so amused that he himself proposed some kind of humorous toast. Suddenly one of the guests, a fat baker, raised his glass and exclaimed: “For the health of those for whom we work, unserer Kundleute! [our clients (German).]” The proposal, like everything else, was accepted joyfully and unanimously. The guests began to bow to each other, the tailor to the shoemaker, the shoemaker to the tailor, the baker to both of them, everyone to the baker, and so on. Yurko, in the midst of these mutual bows, shouted, turn to his neighbor: “What? Drink, father, to the health of your dead.” Everyone laughed, but the undertaker considered himself offended and frowned. No one noticed, the guests continued to drink, and were already announcing Vespers when they got up from the table.
The guests left late, and mostly tipsy. The fat baker and the bookbinder, whose face seemed to be in a red morocco binding, took Yurka by the arms to his booth, observing in this case the Russian proverb: a debt is worth the price of payment. The undertaker came home drunk and angry. “What is it, really,” he reasoned out loud, “what makes my craft more dishonest than others? Is the undertaker the brother of the executioner? Why are the Basurmans laughing? Is the undertaker a yuletide guy? I wanted to invite them to a housewarming party, give them a huge feast: but that won’t happen! And I will call together those for whom I work: the Orthodox dead.” - “What are you doing, father? - said the worker, who at that time was taking off his shoes, - why are you making such a fuss? Cross yourself! Call the dead to a housewarming party! What passion!” “By God, I’ll convene,” Adrian continued, “and for tomorrow. You are welcome, my benefactors, to feast with me tomorrow evening; I’ll treat you with what God sent.” With this word the undertaker went to bed and soon began to snore.
A. S. Pushkin “The Undertaker”. Audiobook
It was still dark outside when Adrian was woken up. The merchant's wife Tryukhina died that very night, and a messenger from her clerk rode to Adrian on horseback with this news. The undertaker gave him a ten-kopeck piece for vodka, got dressed quickly, took a cab and went to Razgulay. The police were already standing at the gate of the deceased, and merchants were pacing like crows, sensing the dead body. The deceased lay on the table, yellow as wax, but not yet disfigured by decay. Relatives, neighbors and household members crowded around her. All the windows were open; the candles were burning; priests read prayers. Adrian approached Tryukhina's nephew, a young merchant in a fashionable frock coat, announcing to him that the coffin, candles, shroud and other funeral accessories would immediately be delivered to him in all repairs. The heir thanked him absentmindedly, saying that he did not bargain about the price, but relied on his conscience in everything. The undertaker, as usual, swore that he would not take too much; exchanged a significant glance with the clerk and went to work. I spent the whole day driving from Razgulay to the Nikitsky Gate and back; In the evening he settled everything and went home on foot, dismissing his cab driver. The night was moonlit. The undertaker safely reached the Nikitsky Gate. At Ascension, our acquaintance Yurko called out to him and, recognizing the undertaker, wished him good night. It was late. The undertaker was already approaching his house, when suddenly it seemed to him that someone had approached his gate, opened the gate and disappeared through it. “What would that mean? – thought Adrian. – Who cares about me again? Could it be that a thief has broken into my place? Don't lovers go to my fools? What good!” And the undertaker was already thinking of calling his friend Yurka to help him. At that moment someone else approached the gate and was about to enter, but, seeing the owner running, he stopped and took off his three-cornered hat. Adrian thought his face was familiar, but in his haste he did not have time to take a good look at him. “You came to me,” said Adrian, out of breath, “come in and do a favor.” “Don’t stand on ceremony, father,” he answered dully, “go ahead; show your guests the way!” Adrian had no time to stand on ceremony. The gate was unlocked, he went up the stairs, and he followed him. It seemed to Adrian that people were walking around his rooms. “What the hell!” - he thought and hurried to enter... then his legs gave way. The room was full of dead people. The moon through the windows illuminated their yellow and blue faces, sunken mouths, dull, half-closed eyes and protruding noses... Adrian recognized with horror in them the people buried through his efforts, and in the guest who entered with him, the foreman buried during the pouring rain. All of them, ladies and men, surrounded the undertaker with bows and greetings, except for one poor man, recently buried for nothing, who, ashamed and ashamed of his rags, did not approach and stood humbly in the corner. The rest were all dressed decently: the dead women in caps and ribbons, the dead officials in uniforms but with unshaven beards, the merchants in festive caftans. “You see, Prokhorov,” said the foreman on behalf of the entire honest company, “we all rose at your invitation; Only those who couldn’t stand it anymore, who had completely fallen apart and who were left with only bones without skin, remained at home, but even here one couldn’t resist - he so wanted to visit you...” At that moment, a small skeleton made his way through the crowd and approached Adrian. His skull smiled affectionately at the undertaker. Pieces of light green and red cloth and old linen hung here and there on him, as if on a pole, and the bones of his legs beat in large boots, like pestles in mortars. “You didn’t recognize me, Prokhorov,” said the skeleton. “Do you remember retired guard sergeant Pyotr Petrovich Kurilkin, the same one to whom, in 1799, you sold your first coffin - and also a pine one for an oak one?” With these words, the dead man extended his bone embrace to him - but Adrian, gathering his strength, screamed and pushed him away. Pyotr Petrovich staggered, fell and crumbled all over. A murmur of indignation arose among the dead; everyone stood up for the honor of their comrade, pestered Adrian with abuse and threats, and the poor owner, deafened by their scream and almost crushed, lost his presence of mind, he himself fell on the bones of the retired sergeant of the guard and lost consciousness.
The sun had long been illuminating the bed on which the undertaker lay. Finally he opened his eyes and saw his worker in front of him, inflating the samovar. With horror, Adrian remembered all yesterday's incidents. Tryukhina, the brigadier and sergeant Kurilkin vaguely appeared in his imagination. He silently waited for the worker to start a conversation with him and announce the consequences of the night's adventures.
“How did you sleep, father, Adrian Prokhorovich,” Aksinya said, handing him a robe. - Your neighbor, a tailor, came to see you and the local security guard ran in with an announcement that today was a private [private bailiff, police officer, head of a “unit”] birthday, but you deigned to rest, and we didn’t want to wake you up.
– Did they come to me from the deceased Tryukhina?
- Deceased women? Did she really die?
- What a fool! Wasn’t it you who helped me arrange her funeral yesterday?
- What are you doing, father? Are you crazy, or are you still drunk from yesterday? What was the funeral like yesterday? You feasted with the German all day - you came back drunk, fell into bed, and slept until this hour, when mass was announced.
- Oh! - said the delighted undertaker.
“That’s true,” answered the worker.
“Well, if that’s the case, let’s have some tea quickly and call your daughters.”
N.A. Petrova
"THE UNDERTAKER" - PROSE OF THE POET
When it comes to “poet’s prose,” we usually mean the prose of twentieth-century poets. “Russian classical literature does not know the poet’s prose in the modern sense of the word.<.. .>The turning point begins at the turn of the century, when, thanks to the advent of Russian symbolism, the initiative begins to again pass into the hands of poetry."1 Between the time of the formation of Russian prose, the “aesthetic perception” of which “proved to be possible only against the background of poetic culture”2, and the time of the return to the poetic dominant, there were certain convergences of chiasmatic outlines. Contrasting Pushkin’s prose with the “poetic prose” of Marlinsky or Gogol, B. Eikhenbaum comes to a paradoxical conclusion: “Pushkin created his prose on the basis of his own verse<...>further prose develops on the ruins of verse, while in Pushkin it is still born
from the verse itself, from the balance of all its elements."
The difference between the language of prose and poetry is carried out according to various
parameters: rhythmic organization; the relationship between meaning and sound, words and things6, etc. Prose, according to I. Brodsky, “learns” from poetry “the dependence of the specific weight of words on the context. omission of the self-evident” - “purely linguistic oversaturation”, which determines the “poetic technology” of construction 7.
Literary studies at the beginning of the century, based on the experience of Russian classical literature, considered prose and poetry as “closed semantic categories.” Research last decades demonstrate the ability to read narratives works of the XIX century in ways generated by the specifics of the “poet’s prose” and poetic texts, retrospectively addressed to the time of the birth of prose. Is-
The study of how “the language of poetry infiltrates into the language of prose and vice versa”9 was most consistently carried out by W. Schmid. “Poetic reading” of “Belkin’s Tales” involves identifying “intratextual equivalences and paradigms,” allusions, the implementation of phraseological units and tropes - what “symbolists, and after them formalists, designated as “verbal art”10. The emphasis shifts from the organization of the text to its perception, and the discovered features of the narrative structure are interpreted as “ poetic devices in prose storytelling."
The main difference between Pushkin’s stories and the poet’s “prose” is that they tell a story that involves following a certain plot, the basis of its components. "Prose of a poet" of the twentieth century
is a “free form”11 autobiographical or memoir
ary type, devoid of “plot in the old sense of the word”, “fragmentary”, built on the “principle of collage or montage”13, excluding the possibility of an unambiguous genre definition, which can be replaced by the designation of the language of the narrative (“Fourth Prose”). The poet’s prose,” “densely saturated with thought and content”14, - “the best Russian prose of the 20th century”15 - “cannot be conceived in prose and written in verse, cannot be translated into verse”16. IN early XIX century, only the established boundary between prose and verse had not yet acquired such rigidity: Pushkin drew up prose plans for his poetic works.
ny and “transformed” other people’s prose into poetry. The story “The Undertaker” is related to the experience of L. Tolstoy, who discovered that Pushkin’s “fable” cannot be retold18.
The impossibility of an adequate retelling of “The Undertaker” indicates that the principle of linearity, which by definition is fundamental for prose speech, is not observed in the narrative. Everyone who writes about “The Undertaker” notes this feature of his plot. “Pushkin detain-
runs through the novel, making you feel its every step. With a simple plot
the result is a complex plot structure”19. "Undertaker" is different from
the rest of the stories, where “the plot goes straight to its denouement.” Regarding another plot “prose of the poet”, “The Egyptian Mark” by O. Mandelstam,
N. Berkovsky noted that in it “the method of images goes against this
zhetu. The “everlasting” image cannot and does not want to “unfold.”
“The Undertaker,” as befits a prose narrative, has a linear plot, but as a “poet’s prose” it is constructed “according to the law of reversibility of poetic matter,” reminiscent of a “waltzing figure”22 or an “echo” - “a natural multiple, with all the details,
development of what followed the initial one." In the “poet’s prose”, each subsequent step does not so much build up the plot as it brings the narrative back and awakens new meanings in what has already been said.
In the story “The Undertaker,” which occupies six and a half standard pages, most of the text space is given over to richly detailed descriptions of phenomena and events, not motivated by the logic of plot development. The plot action itself, which has no time gaps, can be reduced to two events - the hero’s move and his visit. Pushkin’s famous statement about the need for “precision and brevity” is in no way applicable to “The Undertaker”: the “intricacy” (A.V. Druzhinin) of its narrative has long been noticed, and neither the number of characters introduced nor the methods of their characterization are consistent with brevity.
From a plot point of view, it is not necessary to mention the undertaker’s daughters three times, their names, the names of the shoemaker’s wife and daughter, and the name of the worker. An excursion into the history of the booth is not justified by the development of the action, and the figure of the watchman itself is by no means caused by necessity - a shoemaker or any of the artisans could provoke the undertaker. The abundance of characters not involved in the action justifies the prosaic dis-
well. It is noteworthy that in subsequent stories Pushkin reduces
number of characters; so, in terms of " Stationmaster“there was a loving clerk present, mediating between the daughter and father.
The plot of "The Undertaker" is doubled by a dream, also filled with details, characters, names that are not directly related to the action. In this doubled state, it develops linearly: the undertaker settles in a new place and begins to inhabit it, the dream ends with a successful awakening. Numerous plot layers are added to the plot. One of them is connected with the hero’s internal rebirth and is motivated by the mention of his daughters, whom he first “scold” and then called to drink tea. The other is with an understanding of the paradox of life and death, their existence at the expense of each other. The third is with the formation of a metatext that substitutes the author for the role of the hero25. The fourth - with literary polemics and the formation of a new type of prose storytelling. This series may not be complete. All these plots are revealed, first of all, at the lexical level, but not all of them develop linearly, as befits a prose narrative. Moreover, some plot moves can be oriented towards both linear and “reversible” development.
The easiest plot to identify and lend itself to lexical design is the one centered on the image of the undertaker. His character is described first according to the principle of a mechanical shifter: all grave diggers presented in previous literature are cheerful, but this one is not. That is why he is not a “grave digger”, but a “undertaker”, who, falling out of type, acquires character, and, therefore, the opportunity to become the hero of the story. The dream returns the hero to the typical fold, relieving him of the burdens of reflection. Lexically, this plot is designated as not joy (sullenness) - joy (cheerfulness).
Playing with the hero's names also belongs to the linear, prosaic series. He is called Adrian Prokhorov twice, twenty-two times -
a trader, twenty-one - Adrian, two - Prokhorov, one - Adrian Prokhorovich. The hero is called Adrian Prokhorov when he is first introduced to the reader (the undertaker Adrian Prokhorov) and when his character is described (“Adrian Prokhorov was usually gloomy and thoughtful”26). Further, it is difficult to explain the change of names by a simple desire to avoid repetition. It is logical to assume that the hero will be Adrian in the family and
trader in professional activities. Indeed, the hero sitting under the window drinking tea is called by name, but the undertaker responds to the knock on the door (“Who’s there?” asked the undertaker”). When it comes to family matters, artisans talk among themselves (“The undertaker asked the shoemaker.”), when two private people talk about the craft (“Adrian asked” - “Schultz answered), professionals disagree again (“the shoemaker stood up and said goodbye to the undertaker” ). The duality is parodied in the attitude towards Yurko, whom Adrian meets “as a person whom sooner or later he may need.” In the society of artisans, the eating and drinking hero is persistently called Adrian, but a drunken and angry undertaker comes home, talking about his craft. Adriyan is going to invite the dead to visit, Adriyan falls asleep and it seems that he was woken up, Adriyan, he takes care of the funeral as an undertaker (he is called that four times in a row), and receives his own guests as Adriyan (ten times in a row). The dead address the owner by his last name, but in the end, from the lips of the no longer nameless worker, Adriyan receives the new title of Adriyan Prokhorovich. The change of names from Adriyan Prokhorov to Adriyan Prokhorovich is linear and works for the plot of spiritual rebirth; it is no coincidence that the awakened hero is announced that he is a “private birthday boy”28, and the “despair” that appeared in the “seventh cup of tea” is replaced by “despair” - expectation. But reflection on the inadequacy of one’s own state of mind well-being of the moment, is attributed to the undertaker (“the old undertaker felt with surprise
niya...") - the change of name and professional designation goes beyond linearity and plays on the initially stated pun "the undertaker moved his entire house" in different plot layers. Other names may also be connected to this game: the name of the dying Tryukhina contains a phonetic association with rot and a corpse29, then “the deceased Tryukhina” is a tautology.
The layers of the plot associated with the paradox of life-death and metatext are not linear, but “reversible”, as evidenced by the complex language game that does not form clear oppositions and linear lexical chains.
The anecdotal core of the story, reduced to the proverb “a dead man cannot live without a coffin,” becomes the basis of a variable theme development,
inherent to the plot poetic work. Its lexical design is carried out through a play on the names of the lifetime and posthumous dwellings.
This dwelling is designated “home” (in this name - “own” and “new”) five times, and in three cases the context does not contain implied stability (“moved with my whole house”, “house for sale”, “newly purchased house” ) and in two - it reveals a paradoxical subtext: the hero “came home” to fill it with the dead (“Call the dead for a housewarming party!”), but “those who are no longer able to, who have completely fallen apart” did not come - “stayed at home” .
New house Adriyan, “bought by him for a considerable sum,” is quite spacious (living room, light room, back room, kitchen), but is called a house, the shoemaker’s has a “cramped apartment,” Yurko’s has a “booth.” The motif of “crampedness” awakens in the “house” the meaning of “household”, reinforced by an indication of color (“yellow house”, yellow, and then “new, gray” booth - “coffins of all colors”, “coffins simple and painted”), mention “housewarming”, fees, repair and rental opportunities. Difference from lexical
In the Chinese series, the joy-sullenness here lies in the absence of plot motivation for the change of meanings. Their polysemy is captured by the opening sentence of the story (“The last belongings of the undertaker Adriyan Prokhorov were loaded onto the funeral cart, and for the fourth time the skinny couple dragged themselves from Basmannaya to Nikitskaya, where the undertaker was moving his entire household”), and each time, in order to understand the play of meanings, we have to turn back to the text you have already read. Thus, the “decrepit canvas” that covers the skeleton sends us back to the “decrepit shack,” the old house about which Adrian sighs.
The theme of the coffin house is complicated by the fact that the house, unlike the coffin, is not a uniformly enclosed space. Between him and outside world There are places of transition: “unfamiliar threshold”, “door”, “gate”, “gate”, “window” (“windows”).
Adrian is in the house, if not in bed, then “at the window” or “under the window.” The window is the border between the world of life and the world of death: in the house of the deceased Tryukhina, “all the windows... are open”, in the dream “The Moon through the windows” looks at the dead people filling the house, the undertaker’s daughters are forbidden to “gaze” at the window.
The next fence-border is the gate (mentioned 5 times) and the wicket (4). The undertaker, as a guide to the kingdom of death, naturally moves to the “Nikitsky Gate”, his sign is fixed above the gate, the house of the deceased is not mentioned, but is indicated by an open gate (“at the gate of the deceased”). The gate from which the undertaker and his daughters came out on their way to the wedding turns out to be also unlocked by the dead guests who arrived. And finally, the whole city, like a closed space, is separated from the cemetery by an “outpost”.
The worlds of the living and the dead in the story constantly replace each other: now coffins and “funeral accessories” take up residence in the house, now the dead come to a housewarming party, now the skeleton, like a living one, extends its arms and
dies again, crumbling into bones. Even their vertical distribution (“we all went up at your invitation”) ceases to be significant when the dead guest goes “up the stairs,” followed by Adrian.
The development of the plot associated with the hero is driven by the process of his awareness of the peculiarity of his own profession, which places him in an intermediate state between the dead and the living. But in a system of nonlinear, reversible connections, he is not alone in this function. As an intermediary
Yurko-Moscow Hermes plays the role of Nika, but in this role he is not much inferior to Gotlieb Schultz. The shoemaker's house is “across the street,” opposite Adrian's windows, so that the undertaker can see it or the shoemaker can look into the house, like the moon that looks at the dead. The appearance of the shoemaker, who is as cheerful as a grave digger should be in W. Scott and Shakespeare, is preceded by “three Freemasonic knocks” on the door, which is opened by the unexpected “neighbor” himself. The arrival of the fantastic Stone Guest is described by Pushkin as an ordinary phenomenon (“What’s that knocking?”), the arrival of a neighbor is voiced as a phenomenon of fate, and the hero’s adventure begins with a conversation with him.
Intertextual echoes transfer the narrative to the level of metatext, built entirely on reversible associations. Thus, the definition of “one’s own works” in relation to coffins returns us to “the owner’s products”, clarifying the paradox of “misfortune” - “pleasure”. The color of the house and the booth with their obvious reference to madness, echoing in the color of the coffins (“of all colors”), hats and the deceased Tryukhina, has
meaning only in a biographical context, and “bone embraces” - in the context of Pushkin’s poems33. In addition, the undertaker is endowed with “imagination.” Together with its inherent “sullenness”, which ultimately gives way to “joy”, an association with “wild” is established
and a stern" poet.
In “The Undertaker” - the only one of the stories - there seems to be no love theme, except for the mention of the silver wedding and the hypothetical lovers of daughters. But the dream - a “terrible vision” - is not without a love connotation. According to the observation of M. Gershenzon, “Pushkin often calls love a dream”35, in the “dream of the imagination” the dead are first mistaken for lovers, the skeleton extends its arms, and all together returns us to “burly Cupid with an overturned torch.” Adriyan’s love for “clients” falls into the category of “fatal passions.”
Thus, even functionally plot elements in “The Undertaker” are switched to a “reversible” poetic plane; for this it is enough that a meeting of artisans takes place on the occasion of a silver wedding; “linear (analytical) development” is replaced by “crystalline (synthetic) growth”36. It is significant that Pushkin captures Baratynsky’s reaction to the story (“he fought and neighed”) at the quotation level in the words of Petrarch.
"The Undertaker" is the first story written and the first completed prose work Pushkin - “depicts. the most prosaic reality and at the same time reveals the most clearly expressed poetic structure"37. “The Undertaker” is more likely not a story, but a short story38, which could be told in the genre of a short story poem, or, taking into account the fantastic, “horrible component” and the way of telling with fixation of the present tense, in the genre of a ballad. At the level of the plot layer, it reveals a “reduced presentation of Derzhavin’s ode”, which served as the source of the epigraph39, at the level of metatext - elegiac motifs40. The characteristic Pushkin periphrasis (“All this meant, friends.”) is carried out here in the reverse order: prose is paraphrased by poetry. "The Undertaker", whose motives unfold in potential storylines other stories ( secret lovers, an unfinished duel of shop comrades, in “The Undertaker” -
verbal), in the destinies of heroes with “imagination”, moving from “gloom” to “gaiety”, in the roll call of names (“is the undertaker the brother of the executioner?” - Samson, the Parisian executioner, whose notes were announced in 1830), becomes their hidden poetic "castle".
1 Orlitsky Yu.B. Verse and prose in Russian literature: Essays on history and theory. Voronezh, 1991. P. 69.
2 Lotman Yu.M. Lectures on structural poetics // Yu.M. Lotman and the Tartu-Moscow semiotic school. M., 1994. P. 83.
3 Eikhenbaum B. Through literature: Sat. Art. L., 1924. S. 162, 16, 168.
4 Bely A. About artistic prose, 1919; Tomashevsky B. About poetry. L. 1929, Girshman M. Rhythm literary prose. M., 1982, etc.
5 Tynyanov Yu.N. Poetics. History of literature. Movie. M., 1977. P. 52.
6 Jacobson R. Works on poetics. M., 1987, pp. 324-338.
7 Brodsky I. Works: In 4 vols. T. 4. St. Petersburg, 1995. P. 65, 71.
8 Tynyanov Yu. Decree. Op. P. 55.
9 Veselovsky A.N. Historical poetics. L., 1940. P. 380.
10 Schmid V. Pushkin’s prose in poetic reading. "Belkin's Tales". St. Petersburg, 1996. S. 41, 39.
11 Saakyants A. Biography of the soul of the creator // Tsvetaeva M. Prose. M., 1989. P. 4.
12 Filippov B.A. Prose of Mandelstam // Mandelstam O.E. Collection Op.: In 4 vols. T. 2.
M., 1991. P. IX.
13 Volkov S. Dialogues with Joseph Brodsky. M., 1998. P. 269.
14 Mirsky D.S. O.E. Mandelstam. The noise of time // Literary review. 1991. No.
15 Volkov S. Decree. Op. P. 268. A. Chekhov wrote about classical literature: “all great Russian poets do an excellent job with prose” (Russians writers XIX centuries about Pushkin. L., 1938. P. 374).
16 Tsvetaeva M.I. About poetry and prose // Zvezda. 1992. No. 10. P. 4.
17 Gershenzon M.O. Articles about Pushkin. M., 1926. P. 19.
Russian writers of the 19th century about Pushkin. L., 1938. P. 378. Tolstoy appreciated Pushkin’s “Gypsies” “with special strength” in P. Merimee’s prosaic retelling.
19 Eikhenbaum B. Decree. Op. pp. 165-166.
20 Bocharov S.G. ABOUT art worlds. M. 1985. P. 41.
Berkovsky N. The world created by literature. M., 1989. P. 300.
22 Mandelstam O. Collection. cit.: In 4 vols. T. 3. M., 1991. S. 237, 241.
23 Brodsky I. Decree. Op. P. 71.
24 "A Narrative of More Than Three characters resists almost every poetic form, with the exception of the epic." Brodsky I. Decree. Op. P. 65.
25 Turbin V.N. Prologue to the restored but unpublished author's manuscript of the book “Pushkin. Gogol. Lermontov" (1993) // Questions of literature. 1997. No. 1. P. 58-102.
26 The text of “The Undertaker” is quoted from the publication: Pushkin A.S. Complete collection works: In 6 volumes. T. IV. M., 1949. P. 80-86.
27 The fact that “The Undertaker” is a story about professions was noted by V.S. Uzin (About “Tales of Belkin”. Ptb., 1924. P. 31).
28 “Good birthday boy until three days or three days” (Dal V. Dictionary of the living Great Russian language: In 4 volumes. T. 2. M., 1981. P. 43). The action in the story takes three days.
Dal V. Explanatory dictionary of the living Great Russian language: In 4 volumes. T. 4. M., 1981. P. 438; VasmerM. Etymological dictionary Russian language: In 4 vols. M., 1986-1987. T. 4. P. 111.
Tomashevsky B.V. Theory of literature. M.; L. 1930. P. 181.
31 Schmid V. Decree. Op. pp. 282-284.
32 “We need to put him in the yellow house: otherwise this mad tomboy will eat us all, us and our fathers,” wrote P. Vyazemsky to A. Turgenev (Russian writers of the 19th century about Pushkin. L., 1938. P. 19).
33 “In tears, he embraced me with a trembling hand and predicted happiness for me, unknown to me” (“To Zhukovsky”), the happiness known to the skeleton is death.
34 “Sullenness” will resonate with Blok (“Oh, I want to live madly.”).
35 Gershenzon M.O. Decree. Op. P. 64.
36 Brodsky I. Decree. Op. P. 66.
37 Schmid V. Decree. Op. P. 259. The semantics of prosaic and poetic in Schmidt retains the nature of the opposition between the “prose of reality” (P. Vyazemsky) and its metaphysical understanding.
38 On the genre nature of “The Shot”, see: Sokolyansky M.G. And there is no end to it. Articles about Pushkin. Odessa, 1999. pp. 84-95.
Ronkin V. Plot quintessence of prose [Electronic resource]. Electronic data. [M.], 2005. Access mode: http://ronkin.narod.ru.hb.htm, free. Title from the screen. Data corresponds to 01/31/2006.
40 Uzin V.S. Decree. Op. P. 50.