The life and work of Kuprin present an extremely complex and motley picture. It is difficult to summarize them briefly. All life experience taught him to call for humanity. All Kuprin's stories and stories have the same meaning - love for a person.

Childhood

In 1870 in the dull and waterless town of Narovchat, Penza province.

Orphaned very early. When he was one year old, his father, a small clerk, died. There was nothing remarkable in the city, except for the artisans who made sieves and barrels. The baby’s life went on without joy, but there were plenty of grievances. He and his mother visited acquaintances and obsequiously begged for at least a cup of tea. And the “benefactors” stuck their hand in for a kiss.

Wanderings and studies

Three years later, in 1873, the mother and her son left for Moscow. She was taken to a widow's house, and her son from the age of 6, in 1876, to an orphanage. Kuprin would later describe these establishments in the stories “The Runaways” (1917), “Holy Lies,” and “At Rest.” These are all stories about people whom life has mercilessly thrown out. This is how the story about the life and work of Kuprin begins. It's difficult to talk about this briefly.

Service

When the boy grew up, he was able to be placed first in a military gymnasium (1880), then in a cadet corps and, finally, in a cadet school (1888). The training was free, but painful.

So the long and joyless 14 war years dragged on with their senseless drills and humiliations. The continuation was adult service in the regiment, which was stationed in small towns near Podolsk (1890-1894). The first story that A. I. Kuprin published, opening the military theme, was “Inquiry” (1894), then “Lilac Bush” (1894), “Night Shift” (1899), “Duel” (1904-1905) and others .

Years of wandering

In 1894, Kuprin decisively and dramatically changed his life. He retires and lives very meagerly. Alexander Ivanovich settled in Kyiv and began writing feuilletons for newspapers, in which he depicts the life of the city with colorful strokes. But knowledge of life was lacking. What did he see other than military service? He was interested in everything. And Balaklava fishermen, and Donetsk factories, and the nature of Polesie, and unloading watermelons, and a hot air balloon flight, and circus performers. He thoroughly studied the life and way of life of the people who made up the backbone of society. Their language, jargons and customs. It is almost impossible to briefly convey Kuprin’s life and work, rich in impressions.

Literary activity

It was during these years (1895) that Kuprin became a professional writer, constantly publishing his works in various newspapers. He meets Chekhov (1901) and everyone around him. And earlier he became friends with I. Bunin (1897) and then with M. Gorky (1902). One after another, stories come out that make society shudder. “Moloch” (1896) is about the severity of capitalist oppression and the lack of rights of workers. "The Duel" (1905), which is impossible to read without anger and shame for the officers.

The writer chastely touches on the theme of nature and love. “Olesya” (1898), “Shulamith” (1908), “Garnet Bracelet” (1911) is known throughout the world. He also knows the life of animals: “Emerald” (1911), “Starlings”. Around these years, Kuprin can already support his family on literary earnings and gets married. His daughter is born. Then he gets divorced, and in his second marriage he also has a daughter. In 1909, Kuprin was awarded the Pushkin Prize. Kuprin's life and work, briefly described, can hardly fit into a few paragraphs.

Emigration and return to homeland

Kuprin did not accept the October Revolution with the instinct and heart of an artist. He is leaving the country. But, publishing abroad, he yearns for his homeland. Age and illness fail. Finally, he finally returned to his beloved Moscow. But, after living here for a year and a half, he, seriously ill, died in 1938 at the age of 67 in Leningrad. This is how Kuprin’s life and work end. The summary and description do not convey the bright and rich impressions of his life, reflected on the pages of the books.

About the writer's prose and biography

The essay briefly presented in our article suggests that everyone is the master of their own destiny. When a person is born, he is caught up in the flow of life. It carries some people into a stagnant swamp and leaves them there, some flounder, trying to somehow cope with the current, and some simply float with the flow - wherever it takes them. But there are people, like Alexander Ivanovich Kuprin, who stubbornly row against the tide all their lives.

Born in a provincial, unremarkable town, he will love it forever and will return to this simple, dusty world of harsh childhood. He will love the bourgeois and meager Narovchat inexplicably.

Maybe for the carved frames and geraniums on the windows, maybe for the vast fields, or maybe for the smell of dusty earth washed down by the rain. And maybe this poverty will draw him in his youth, after the army drill that he experienced for 14 years, to recognize Rus' in all the fullness of its colors and dialects. Wherever his paths will take him. And to the Polesie forests, and to Odessa, and to metallurgical plants, and to the circus, and to the skies on an airplane, and to unload bricks and watermelons. Everything is learned by a person full of inexhaustible love for people, for their way of life, and he will reflect all his impressions in novels and stories that will be read by his contemporaries and that are not outdated even now, a hundred years after they were written.

How can the young and beautiful Shulamith, the beloved of King Solomon, become old, how can the forest witch Olesya stop loving the timid townsman, how can Sashka the musician from “Gambrinus” (1907) stop playing. And Artaud (1904) is still devoted to his owners, who love him endlessly. The writer saw all this with his own eyes and left us on the pages of his books, so that we could be horrified by the heavy tread of capitalism in “Moloch”, the nightmarish life of young women in “The Pit” (1909-1915), the terrible death of the beautiful and innocent Emerald .

Kuprin was a dreamer who loved life. And all the stories passed through his attentive gaze and sensitive, intelligent heart. While maintaining friendship with writers, Kuprin never forgot workers, fishermen, or sailors, that is, those who are called ordinary people. They were united by inner intelligence, which is given not by education and knowledge, but by the depth of human communication, the ability to sympathize, and natural delicacy. He had a hard time emigrating. In one of his letters he wrote: “The more talented a person is, the more difficult it is for him without Russia.” Without considering himself a genius, he simply missed his homeland and, upon returning, died after a serious illness in Leningrad.

Based on the presented essay and chronology, you can write a short essay “The Life and Work of Kuprin (briefly).”

This story by Kuprin is elegant in French. Here the author reveals the history of the dessert, which he himself admits that he could “accidentally” come up with.

At the very beginning, the author addresses the reader with a question about this dessert: dried fruits (raisins, figs) and nuts (almonds, hazelnuts). He moves on to the peculiarities of modern life - everything very quickly. The French seem to be especially in a hurry, because they don’t even finish the words. They also shortened the name of the dessert.

The story tells the story of King Henry. He was still very young then and loved hunting. One day he fought off a “tuple” of rangers, got lost in the forest, and also twisted his ankle. But, fortunately, he came out into the light of the fire. There were beggars there. Not recognizing him as the king, and he introduced himself simply as a royal huntsman, they helped him: they gave him something to drink, fed, and bandaged him. They communicated boldly and calmly, for example, in response to his “royal” demand to introduce himself to them, they laughed and demanded that he first identify himself. By the way, they scolded the king, who issued an overly strict decree - to persecute the beggars. Henry thought their water was better than wine, the dressing immediately made him feel better, and the dessert was beyond praise. The king was just tired and hungry, happy with simple things. And the beggars collected this dessert - everyone had something in reserve. One was given raisins, another stole figs, a third collected nuts from the forest, and a fourth from his almond tree. Grateful Henry invited the beggars to his place - “to the king’s servant” one day.

One day they came, but the servants did not let them in, because no one understood who they were talking about. And so the king himself heard the noise, received the beggars, treated them, helped them. And in their honor, this dessert set began to be served at court. And then - throughout France.

The story teaches, mainly, a kind attitude towards all people, despite all their merits or, conversely, shortcomings.

Picture or drawing Four beggars

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On a fabulous frosty evening with lilac frost in the gardens, the reckless driver Kasatkin rushed Glebov on a tall, narrow sled down Tverskaya to the Patchwork Hotel - they stopped by Eliseev’s for fruit and wine. It was still light over Moscow, the clear and transparent sky was green to the west, the tops of the bell towers were thinly visible through the spans, but below, in the gray frosty haze, it was already dark and the lights of the newly lit lanterns shone motionless and tenderly.

At the entrance to Loskutnaya, throwing back the wolf cavity, Glebov ordered Kasatkin, covered with snow dust, to come for him in an hour:

- Take me to Brestsky.

“I’m listening, sir,” answered Kasatkin. – So you’re going abroad.

- Abroad.

Turning the tall old trotter sharply, scraping his undercuts, Kasatkin shook his hat disapprovingly:

- Hunting is worse than bondage!

A large and somewhat neglected lobby, a spacious elevator and the motley-eyed, rusty-freckled boy Vasya, who stood politely in his uniform while the elevator slowly went up - suddenly it became a pity to leave all this, long-familiar, familiar. “Really, why am I going?” He looked at himself in the mirror: young, cheerful, dry-bred, sparkling eyes, frost on his beautiful mustache, well and lightly dressed... Nice is wonderful now, Heinrich is an excellent comrade... and most importantly, it always seems that somewhere... then there will be something especially happy there, some kind of meeting... you will stop somewhere along the way - who lived here before you, what hung and lay in this wardrobe, whose women's stilettos were forgotten in the night table? Once again there will be the smell of gas, coffee and beer at the Vienna train station, the labels on bottles of Austrian and Italian wines on the tables in the sunny dining car in the snows of Semmering, the faces and clothes of European men and women filling this car for breakfast... Then night, Italy ... In the morning, on the road along the sea to Nice, there were passages in the thundering and smoking darkness of tunnels and faintly burning lights on the ceiling of the compartment, then stops and something gently and continuously ringing at small stations in blooming roses, near the melting sun in the hot sun, like an alloy precious stones, bay... And he quickly walked along the carpets of the warm corridors of Patchwork.

The room was also warm and pleasant. The evening dawn and the transparent concave sky were still shining through the windows. Everything was tidied up, suitcases were ready. And again I felt a little sad - it was a pity to leave my familiar room and the whole Moscow winter life, and Nadya, and Lee...

Nadya was about to run in to say goodbye. He hastily hid the wine and fruit in his suitcase, threw his coat and hat on the sofa behind round table and immediately heard a quick knock on the door. Before he had time to open the door, she came in and hugged him, all cold and softly scented, in a squirrel fur coat, in a squirrel hat, in all the freshness of her sixteen years, frost, flushed face and bright green eyes.

- I’m on my way, Nadyusha...

She sighed and fell into a chair, unbuttoning her fur coat.

– You know, thank God, I got sick last night... Oh, how I would like to take you to the station! Why don't you let me?

- Nadyusha, you yourself know that this is impossible, I will be accompanied by people completely unfamiliar to you, you will feel superfluous, lonely...

“And I think I would give my life to go with you!”

- And I? But you know that this is impossible...

He sat closely in her chair, kissing her warm neck, and felt her tears on his cheek.

- Nadyusha, what is this?

She raised her face and smiled forcefully:

- No, no, I won’t... I don’t want to constrain you like a woman, you are a poet, you need freedom.

“You’re smart,” he said, touched by her seriousness and her childish profile—the purity, tenderness and hot flush of her cheeks, the triangular cut of her half-open lips, the inquiring innocence of her raised eyelash in tears. – You are not like other women, you are a poetess yourself.

She stomped on the floor:

– Don’t you dare talk to me about other women!

And with dying eyes she whispered in his ear, caressing him with her fur and breath:

- Just a minute... Nowadays it’s still possible...

The entrance to the Brest station shone in the blue darkness of the frosty night. Entering the echoing station following a hurrying porter, he immediately saw Li: thin, long, in a straight, oily black astrakhan fur coat and a large black velvet beret, from under which black curls hung in long curls along her cheeks, holding her hands in a large astrakhan muff, she looked at him angrily with her black eyes, terrible in their splendor.

“You’re leaving after all, scoundrel,” she said indifferently, taking his arm and hurrying along with him with her high gray boots after the porter. “Wait, you’ll regret it, you won’t get another one like this, you’ll stay with your stupid poetess.”

“This fool is still just a child, Lee, it’s not a sin for you to think God knows what.”

- Shut up. I'm not a fool. And if the truth is, God knows what, I’ll pour sulfuric acid on you.

From under the finished train, illuminated from above by matte electric balls, hot hissing gray steam, smelling of rubber, poured out. The international carriage stood out with its yellowish wood paneling. Inside, in it narrow corridor under the red carpet, in the motley shine of walls upholstered in embossed leather, and thick, grainy door glass, there was already a foreign country. The Pole conductor in a uniform brown jacket opened the door to small coupe, very hot, with a tight, ready-made bed, softly lit by a table lamp under a silk red lampshade.

- How happy you are! – Lee said. “You even have your own outhouse here.” Who's nearby? Maybe some kind of bitch companion?

And she tried the door to the next compartment:

- No, it's locked here. Well, happy is your God! Kiss me quickly, now there will be a third call...

She took out a hand from her muff, bluish-pale, exquisitely thin, with long, sharp nails, and, wriggling, impulsively hugged him, immoderately sparkling her eyes, kissing and biting first on the lips, then on the cheeks and whispering:

“I adore you, I adore you, you scoundrel!”

Behind the black window, large orange sparks rushed back like a fiery witch, white snow slopes and black thickets of a pine forest flashed illuminated by the train, mysterious and gloomy in their stillness, in the mystery of their winter night life. He closed the hot firebox under the table, lowered the thick curtain over the cold glass and knocked on the door near the washbasin that connected it to the next compartment. The door opened from there, and Heinrich entered, laughing, very tall, in a gray dress, with a Greek hairstyle of red-lemon hair, with delicate facial features like an Englishwoman’s, with lively amber-brown eyes.

- Well, did you say goodbye? I heard everything. What I liked most was how she broke into me and treated me like a bitch.

– Are you starting to be jealous, Heinrich?

– I don’t start, but I continue. If she weren't so dangerous, I would have demanded her complete resignation long ago.

- That’s the point, it’s dangerous, try to put this one aside right away! And then, after all, I can bear your Austrian and the fact that the day after tomorrow you will spend the night with him.

- No, I won’t spend the night with him. You know very well that I am going primarily to get rid of him.

– I could do it in writing. And it would be great if she could ride right with me.

She sighed and sat up, smoothing her hair with her shiny fingers, touching it softly, crossing her legs in gray suede shoes with silver buckles:

- No, my friend, I want to part with him so that I can continue to work for him. He is a prudent man and will agree to a peaceful break. Who will he find who could, like me, supply his magazine with all the theatrical, literary, artistic scandals of Moscow and St. Petersburg? Who will translate and arrange his brilliant short stories? Today is the fifteenth. That means you will be in Nice on the eighteenth, and I will be no later than the twentieth or twenty-first. And enough about this, we are with you first of all good friends and comrades.

“Comrades...” he said, looking joyfully at her. thin face in scarlet transparent spots on the cheeks. - Of course, I will never have a better comrade than you, Heinrich. Only with you alone is it always easy for me, free, I can talk about everything really like with a friend, but, you know, what’s the problem? I'm falling more and more in love with you.

-Where were you last night?

- In the evening? At home.

- And with whom? Well, God be with you. And at night you were seen in Strelna, you were in some kind of big company in a separate office, with the gypsies. This is already bad form - Steps, Pears, their fatal eyes...

– And the Viennese drunkards, like Przybyszewski?

“They, my friend, are an accident and not at all my thing.” Is she really as good as they say, this Masha?

– Gypsyism is also not my thing, Heinrich. And Masha...

- Well, well, describe her to me.

- No, you are positively becoming jealous, Elena Genrikhovna. What’s there to describe here, haven’t you seen any gypsies? She is very thin and not even pretty - flat tar hair, a rather rough coffee-colored face, senseless bluish whites, horse collarbones in some kind of large yellow necklace, flat stomach... this, however, is very good together with a long silk dress of golden color onion peel. And you know - how he picks up a shawl made of heavy old silk and goes under the tambourines, small shoes flashing from under the hem, dangling long silver earrings - just misfortune! But let's go have lunch.

She stood up, smiling lightly:

- Let's go. You are incorrigible, my friend. But let us be content with what God gives. Look how good we are. Two wonderful rooms!

- And one is completely unnecessary...

She threw a knitted Orenburg scarf over her hair, he put on a traveling cap, and they, swaying, walked along endless tunnels carriages, crossing the iron clanging bridges in the cold, draughty and snow-sprinkling harmonics between the carriages.

He returned alone, sitting in a restaurant, smoking, and she went ahead. When I returned, I felt the happiness of a completely family night in the warm compartment. She threw back the corner of the blanket and sheets on the bed, took out his nightwear, put wine on the table, put a box of pears wicker from shingles and stood with hairpins in her lips, raising her bare hands to her hair and holding out full breasts, in front of the mirror above the washbasin, already in only a shirt and on bare feet in night shoes trimmed with arctic fox. Her waist was thin, her hips were plump, her ankles were light and chiseled. He kissed her standing for a long time, then they sat on the bed and began to drink Rhine wine, again kissing with lips cold from the wine.

- And Lee? - she said. - And Masha?

At night, lying next to her in the dark, he said with playful sadness:

“Ah, Heinrich, how I love such carriage nights, this darkness in the swinging carriage, the station lights flashing behind the curtain – and you, you, “the wives of men, the network of man’s seduction”! This “network” is something truly inexplicable, Divine and devilish, and when I write about it, try to express it, I am reproached for shamelessness, for low motives... Vile souls! It is well said in one ancient book: “The writer has the same full right to be bold in his verbal depictions of love and its faces, which at all times was granted in this case to painters and sculptors: only vile souls see vileness even in the beautiful or terrible.”

“And Lee,” asked Heinrich, “are, of course, sharp, small, sticking out in different directions?” A sure sign of hysterics.

– Is she stupid?

- No... However, I don’t know. Sometimes she seems to be very smart, reasonable, simple, easy and cheerful, she grasps everything from the first word, and sometimes she speaks such pompous, vulgar or angry, passionate nonsense that I sit and listen to her with the tension and stupidity of an idiot, like a deaf-mute... But I'm tired of you and Lee.

“I’m tired of it because I don’t want to be your friend anymore.”

“And I don’t want this anymore.” And I say again: write to this Viennese scoundrel that you will see him on the way back, but now you are unwell and need to rest after the influenza in Nice. And we will go, without parting, and not to Nice, but somewhere in Italy...

- Why not to Nice?

- Don't know. Suddenly, for some reason, I didn’t feel like it. The main thing is to go together!

- Honey, we already talked about this. And why Italy? You assured me that you hated Italy.

- Yes its true. I'm angry at her because of our aesthetic fools. “I love only the trecento in Florence...” And he himself was born in Belev and was in Florence for only one week in his entire life. Trecento, Quattrocento... And I hated all these Fra Angelico, Ghirlandaio, Trecento, Quattrocento and even Beatrice and dry-faced Dante in a woman's hat and laurel wreath... Well, if not to Italy, then we'll go somewhere to Tyrol, to Switzerland, in general, to the mountains, some stone village among these granite devils, mottled with snow, sticking out in the sky... Just imagine: the sharp, damp air, these wild stone huts, steep roofs, piled up near the humpbacked stone bridge, under there is the rapid noise of a milky green river, the jangling of bells of a closely moving flock of sheep, there is a pharmacy and a store with alpenstocks, a terribly warm little hotel with branched deer antlers above the door, as if deliberately carved from pumice... in a word, the bottom of the gorge, where a thousand This mountain wildness, alien to the whole world, lives for years, gives birth, crowns, buries, and for centuries of centuries some eternally white mountain looks high from behind the granites above it, like a gigantic dead angel... And what girls there are, Henry! Tight, red-cheeked, in black bodices, red woolen stockings...

- Oh, these poets are for me! - she said with a gentle yawn. - And again girls, girls... No, it’s cold in the village, dear. And I don't want any more girls...

In Warsaw, in the evening, when we were moving to the Vienna station, a wet wind was blowing towards us with rare and heavy cold rain, a wrinkled cab driver, sitting on the box of a spacious carriage and angrily driving a couple of horses, had a Lithuanian mustache flapping and dripping from his leather cap, the streets seemed provincial .

At dawn, lifting the curtain, he saw a plain pale with liquid snow, on which here and there reddened brick houses. Immediately after that they stopped and stood for quite a long time at a large station, where, after Russia, everything seemed very small - carriages on the tracks, narrow rails, iron poles of lamps - and everywhere there were black heaps of coal; a small soldier with a rifle, in a high cap, a truncated cone, and in a short mouse-blue overcoat, walked across the tracks from the locomotive depot; A lanky, mustachioed man in a checkered jacket with a hare-fur collar and a green Tyrolean hat with a motley feather at the back was walking along the wooden flooring under the windows. Heinrich woke up and asked in a whisper to lower the curtain. He lowered and lay down in her warmth, under the blanket. She laid her head on his shoulder and cried.

- Heinrich, what are you doing? - he said.

“I don’t know, honey,” she answered quietly. – I often cry at dawn. You will wake up, and suddenly you will feel sorry for yourself... In a few hours you will leave, and I will be left alone, I will go to the cafe to wait for my Austrian... And in the evening again the cafe and the Hungarian orchestra, these violins cutting the soul...

- Yes, yes, and piercing cymbals... So I say: let's go to hell with the Austrian and let's move on.

- No, honey, you can’t. How will I live after quarreling with him? But I swear to you, nothing will happen to me with him. You know, in last time When I left Vienna, he and I were already sorting things out, as they say, at night, on the street, under a gas lamp. And you cannot imagine the hatred in his face! The face from gas and anger is pale green, olive, pistachio... But, most importantly, how can I now, after you, after this coupe, which has made us so close...

- Listen, really?

She pulled him close and began to kiss him so hard that it took his breath away.

- Heinrich, I don’t recognize you.

- And I myself. But come, come to me.

- Wait a minute...

- No, no, this minute!

– Just one word: tell me exactly when you will leave Vienna?

- This evening, this evening!

The train was already moving, the border guards’ spurs were walking softly past the door and ringing on the carpet.

And there was the Vienna station, and the smell of gas, coffee and beer, and Heinrich left, smartly dressed, smiling sadly, on a nervous, delicate European nag, in an open landau with a red-nosed cabman in a cape and a lacquered top hat on high sawhorses, who took the blanket off this nag and the long whip hooted and clapped as she kicked her aristocratic, long, broken legs and ran askance with her short-cropped tail after the yellow tram. There was Semmering and all the foreign festivity of a mountain afternoon, the hot left window in the dining car, a bouquet of flowers, Apollinaris and red wine “Veslau” on a dazzling white table near the window and the dazzling white midday shine of the snowy peaks rising in their solemnly joyful attire into the heavenly indigo sky, just a stone's throw from the train, meandering along the cliffs above a narrow abyss, where the winter shadow, still morning, shone coldly blue. It was a frosty, pristinely immaculate, clean evening, deathly red and blue at night, on some pass, drowning with all its green spruce trees in a great abundance of fresh, plump snow. Then there was a long stop in a dark gorge, near the Italian border, among the black Dantean hell of the mountains, and some kind of inflamed red, smoking fire at the entrance to the smoky mouth of the tunnel. Then everything was completely different, unlike anything before: the old, shabby pink Italian station and the pride and rooster feathers on the helmets of short-legged station soldiers, and instead of a buffet at the station - a lonely boy, lazily rolling a cart past the train, on which there were only oranges and fiascoes. And then the free, ever-accelerating run of the train down, down, and ever softer, ever warmer, the wind of the Lombard Plain, dotted in the distance with the gentle lights of sweet Italy, beats from the darkness into the open windows. And before the evening of the next, completely summer day - the Nice train station, the seasonal crowds on its platforms...

In the blue twilight, when countless coastal lights stretched like a curved diamond chain all the way to the Antibes Cape, an ashen ghost melting in the west, he stood in only a tailcoat on the balcony of his room in a hotel on the embankment, thinking that it was now twenty degrees below zero in Moscow, and expected that they would now knock on his door and hand him a telegram from Heinrich. Having lunch in the hotel dining room, under sparkling chandeliers, in the crowd of tailcoats and women's evening dresses, he again expected that a boy in a blue uniform jacket to the waist and white knitted gloves would respectfully present him a telegram on a tray; absentmindedly ate thin soup with roots, drank red burgundy and waited; drank coffee, smoked in the lobby and waited again, more and more worried and surprised: what is wrong with me, I haven’t experienced anything like this since my early youth! But there was still no telegram. Shining, flashing, the elevators slid up and down, boys ran back and forth, carrying cigarettes, cigars and evening newspapers, a string orchestra struck from the stage - there was still no telegram, and it was already eleven o’clock, and the train from Vienna was supposed to bring it to twelve. He drank five glasses of cognac with coffee and, tired, disgusted, rode in the elevator to his place, looking angrily at the boy in uniform: “Oh, what a scoundrel will grow out of this cunning, helpful, already thoroughly depraved boy! And who invents some stupid hats and jackets for all these boys, sometimes blue, sometimes brown, with shoulder straps and piping!”

There was no telegram in the morning either. He called, a young footman in a tailcoat, a handsome Italian with gazelle eyes, brought him coffee: “Pas de lettres, monsieur, pas de telegrammes.” He stood in his pajamas near the open door to the balcony, squinting from the sun and the sea dancing with golden needles, looking at the embankment, at the dense crowd of people walking, listening to Italian singing coming from below, from under the balcony, exhausted with happiness, and thought with pleasure:

“Well, to hell with her. All clear".

He went to Monte Carlo, played for a long time, lost two hundred francs, went back to kill time in a cab - he drove for almost three hours: clomp, clomp, hoo! and a sharp shot of a whip in the air... The receptionist grinned joyfully:

– Pas de telegrammes, monsieur!

He stupidly dressed for dinner, thinking the same thing.

“If now there was suddenly a knock on the door and she suddenly came in, hurrying, worrying, explaining as she went why she didn’t telegraph, why she didn’t come yesterday, I think I would die of happiness! I would tell her that never in my life have I loved anyone in the world as much as I love her, that God will forgive me a lot for such love, will even forgive Nadya - take all of me, all of me, Heinrich! Yes, and Heinrich is now having lunch with his Austrian friend. Wow, what a delight it would be to give her the most brutal slap in the face and break his head with a bottle of champagne, which they are drinking together now!”

After dinner, he walked in a dense crowd through the streets, in the warm air, in the sweet stench of cheap Italian cigars, went out to the embankment, to the tar blackness of the sea, looked at the precious necklace of his black curve, sadly disappearing in the distance to the right, went into bars and drank everything, then cognac, then gin, then whiskey. Returning to the hotel, he, white as chalk, in a white tie, in a white vest, in a top hat, walked up to the receptionist importantly and casually, muttering with deathly lips:

– Pas de telegrammes?

And the receptionist, pretending not to notice anything, answered with joyful readiness:

- Pas de telegrammes, monsieur!

He was so drunk that he fell asleep, throwing off only his top hat, coat and tails - he fell backward and immediately flew dizzily into the bottomless darkness, dotted with fiery stars.

On the third day he fell fast asleep after breakfast and, waking up, suddenly looked at all his pitiful and shameful behavior soberly and firmly. He demanded tea in his room and began putting things away from his wardrobe into his suitcases, trying not to think about her anymore and not to regret his meaningless, ruined trip. Before evening, I went down to the lobby, ordered the bill to be prepared, calmly walked to Cook and took a ticket to Moscow via Venice on the evening train: I’ll stay in Venice for a day and at three in the morning straight, without stops, home to Loskutnaya... What is he like, this Austrian? According to the portraits and stories of Heinrich, he was tall, wiry, with a gloomy and determined - of course, feigned - look of his face slanted from under a wide-brimmed hat... But what to think about him! And you never know what else will happen in life! Tomorrow Venice. Again the singing and guitars of street singers on the embankment under the hotel - the sharp and indifferent voice of a black, bare-haired woman with a shawl on her shoulders stands out, echoing the flowing short-legged, dwarf-like tenor in a beggar's hat... an old man in rags, helping to enter the gondola – last year I helped to enter with a fire-eyed Sicilian woman in crystal swinging earrings, with a yellow brush of blooming mimosa in her olive-colored hair... the smell of rotting canal water, a funereal varnished gondola inside with a jagged, predatory ax on the bow, its swaying and a young man standing high in the stern a rower with a thin waist belted with a red scarf, leaning forward monotonously, leaning on a long oar, classically set aside left leg back...

It was getting dark, the pale evening sea lay calm and flat, a greenish alloy with an opal gloss, the seagulls were angrily and pitifully straining over it, sensing bad weather for tomorrow, the smoky gray west behind the Cape Antibes was cloudy, the disk of a small sun, orange-red, stood and faded in it. king. He looked at him for a long time, suppressed by an even hopeless melancholy, then he came to his senses and cheerfully walked towards his hotel. “Journaux etrangers!” - shouted a newspaperman running towards him and as he ran handed him “Novoe Vremya”. He sat down on a bench and, in the fading light of dawn, began to absentmindedly unfold and look through the still fresh pages of the newspaper. And suddenly he jumped up, stunned and blinded as if by an explosion of magnesium:

"Vein. December 17. Today, in the “Franzensring” restaurant, the famous Austrian writer Arthur Spiegler killed a Russian journalist and translator of many contemporary Austrian and German novelists, working under the pseudonym “Henry”, with a revolver shot.”

Kuprin A., fairy tale "Four Beggars"

Genre: literary fairy tale

The main characters of the fairy tale "Four Beggars" and their characteristics

1. Henry the Fourth, king. Easy to use, not proud, a passionate hunter, a persistent, stubborn, noble person.
2. Four beggars sheltered the king around the fire and treated him to dinner.

Plan for retelling the fairy tale "Four Beggars"

1. Beggars' dessert
2. The Temper of King Henri
3. Henri on the hunt
4. Dislocation and night in the forest
5. Bonfire
6. Four beggars
7. Dessert
8. King's invitation
9. King's Gratitude

The shortest summary of the fairy tale "Four Beggars" for reader's diary in 6 sentences

1. In any cafe in Paris you can ask beggars and the waiter will immediately serve you dessert.
2. A long time ago, King Henri of Navarre fell behind his retinue in the forest.
3. He went out to the fire where four beggars were sitting.
4. The beggars treated him to meat and water, and for dessert they gave him raisins, nuts and figs.
5. Henry invited the beggars to the palace and fed them, giving them the same snacks for dessert.
6. Since then, the “four beggars” dessert has become popular in every cafe.

The main idea of ​​the fairy tale "Four Beggars"
If someone helped you in difficult times, do not forget to thank him.

What does the fairy tale "Four Beggars" teach?
The fairy tale teaches you to be grateful, teaches you to remember the good. Teaches you to use any incident to your advantage. Teaches that people willingly imitate those whom they consider worthy of imitation. Teaches you to be simple in communication and manners.

Review of the fairy tale "Four Beggars"
I liked this story in which King Henry behaved in such a simple way. He did not disdain to accept help from beggars, which speaks of his fairness and lack of prejudice. The main thing here is that the king did not forget the service rendered to him and returned the same service. Well, the king’s practicality makes me smile.

Proverbs for the fairy tale "Four Beggars"
Who soon helped, he helped twice.
Road help on time.
The giving hand will not ache, the taking hand will not wither.
What is poorer is more generous.
They pay for good with good, and for bad with evil.

Read summary, a short retelling of the fairy tale "Four Beggars"
If in any restaurant in Paris you ask the garçon to give you beggars, he will immediately lay out dried figs, hazelnuts, raisins and almonds for a hundred. That's how the name of these beloved snacks came about.
King Henry the Fourth at that time was still simply Henri Bourbon and ruled in small and poor Navarre. The king had a simple disposition, was accessible to his subjects, and more than anything in the world loved to look after beautiful women and hunting in the mountains.
And during one of the hunts, while chasing the beast, King Henri quietly moved away from his retinue. It got dark and Heinrich realized that he was lost and would have to spend the night in the forest. In addition, he sprained his leg and felt sharp pain with every step.
The stubborn king made his way through the forest, hoping to find at least some hut, when he suddenly caught the smell of smoke and soon made his way to the fire, around which people were sitting.
They asked who was coming and the king said that he was a simple Christian who had sprained his foot and was asking permission to warm himself by the fire. He was invited to join the company.
And it was a strange company - one was armless, the second was legless, the third was blind, and the fourth was constantly making faces, his words were tormented by the dance of St. Vitus.
Henry said that he was the king's huntsman, and the owners said that they were just beggars, and they regretted that the king had banned begging.
Henry asked for something to eat, and offered the beggars a small gold piece - all he had.
The blind man said that they would treat the king with cheese and goat meat, drove his companion to fetch spring water, and offered to bandage the king’s leg because he had a sprain.
The king gratefully accepted all the treats and was about to get up when the blind man turned to him again and asked him to wait. He said that even beggars cannot do without dessert, and began to ask his comrades what they had.
The one-armed man said that the shopkeeper gave him some raisins.
The one-legged man admitted that he had taken four figs, and the Dancer said that he had collected hazelnuts. Well, the blind man himself, as it turned out, had a small garden and brought almond nuts from his only tree.
After eating, the king and the beggars went to bed, and in the morning, parting with the beggars, Henri told them to come to the king’s palace at any time and ask the old hunter there. And he added that he always has a bottle of wine and a piece of cheese for his friends.
After some time, the beggars actually came to the palace and began to ask the hunter Henri. The gatekeeper did not know any hunter and did not want to let the beggars in. There was a noise and then the king himself looked out the window. He ordered the beggars to come, immediately recognizing them as old acquaintances.
The blind man asked the gatekeeper who this man was, and he explained to the beggars that the king himself would treat them.
And Henri really did a great job of treating the beggars, and at the end he brought out dessert - the very fruits that the beggars treated him to.
Since then, the beggars' dessert has become extremely popular in Navarre, and then throughout France. And Henry canceled the decree on the persecution of the poor, but as a practical man, he imposed a tax on them.

Drawings and illustrations for the fairy tale "Four Beggars"

Kuprin Alexander

Four beggars

Alexander Ivanovich Kuprin

Four beggars

In all the zucchini and restaurants in Paris you can ask for hazelnuts, almonds, raisins and dried figs for dessert. You just need to tell the garçon: give me “beggars”, and they will give you a neat paper box containing all these four types of snacks, once so beloved here, in the former rich commercial thousand-domed Moscow.

Paris, in its rush and fussiness, impatiently shortens words and phrases: metro - metro, boulevard St. Michel - Boulevard Miche, steak a la Chateaubriand chateau, calvados - calva. So instead of the old “dessert des quatresе mendiants,” he briefly throws in “mendiants!” However, about nine years ago I still saw a full inscription on the boxes containing this simple and tasty delicacy. Now you won't see her again.

I no longer know whether I heard it somewhere, or saw it in a dream, or accidentally myself. came up with a cute legend about the origin of this strange name.

The most beloved of French kings and heroes (except for the mythical ones) was not yet Henry the Fourth and the powerful king of France, but only Henri Bourbon, the little ruler of little Navarre. True, at his birth, the famous astrologer Nostradamus predicted a great future for him from the stars: glory shining in all centuries, and inexhaustible popular love.

But at the time in question, the young Gascon king - this cheerful and kind skeptic - had not yet thought about his shining star, or, perhaps, due to his characteristic cautious secrecy, pretended not to think. He ran carefree not only for beautiful ladies his tiny courtyard, but also for all the pretty women of Auch, Tarbes, Miradny, Pau and Agen, not leaving his kind attention also to the wives of farmers and the daughters of innkeepers. He valued a sharp word spoken at the right time, and it was not in vain that his other jokes and aphorisms became treasures of people's memory. And he also loved good red wine with a cheerful, friendly conversation.

He was poor, simple with the people, fair in his judgments and very accessible; therefore, the Gascons, the Navarrese, and the Béarnians were sincerely devoted to him, finding in him the sweet features of the kind, legendary King Dagobert.

His great passion and favorite pastime was hunting. At that time, many animals were found in the lower and upper Pyrenees: wolves and bears, lynxes, wild boars, mountain goats and hares. The poor King Henri was also an expert in falconry.

One day, while hunting in the vicinity of Pau, in a dense pine forest that stretched for many dozens of leagues, King Henry fell on the trail of a beautiful mountain goat and, pursuing it, gradually separated from his hunting retinue by very long distance. Annoyed by the smell of the beast, his dogs were so carried away by the chase that soon even their barking could not be heard. Meanwhile, evening imperceptibly thickened and night fell. Then the king realized that he was lost. From a distance the calling sounds of hunting horns could be heard, but - strangely - the further he walked toward them, the weaker the horns sounded. With annoyance, Henry remembered how confused and capricious all the loud sounds in mountain forests were and what a treacherous mocker the mountain echo was. But it was already too late. We had to spend the night in the forest. However, the king, like a true Gascon, was decisive and persistent. Fatigue overcame him, hunger tormented his insides, thirst tormented him; In addition, the awkwardly twisted leg experienced sharp pain in the foot with every step; The king, nevertheless, limping and stumbling, with difficulty made his way through the thicket, hoping to find a road or a forest hut.

Suddenly a faint, faint smell of smoke touched his nostrils (the king generally had an amazing sense of smell). Then a small light flashed through the thicket. King Henri walked straight towards him and soon saw that a small fire had been lit in a mountain clearing and four black figures were sitting around it. A hoarse voice called out:

Who goes?

“A good man and a good Christian,” Henri answered. - I got lost and sprained my right foot. Let me sit with you until the morning.

Go and sit down.

The king did so. A strange company sat in the middle of the forest by the fire; dressed in rags, dirty and gloomy people. One was armless, another was legless, the third was blind, the fourth was grimacing, obsessed with the dance of St. Vitus.

Who you are? - asked the king.

First, the guest introduces himself to the hosts, and then asks.

That’s right,” Heinrich agreed. - You are right. I am a hunter from the royal hunt, which, however, can be seen from my costume. I accidentally got separated from my comrades and, as you can see, lost my way...

I suppose I don’t see anything, but still, be our guest. We are glad to see you. We are all from the wandering guild of free beggars, although it is a pity that your good master, King Henri - may his glorious name be blessed - issued such a cruel decree on the persecution of our class. How can we serve you?

O guts of Saint Gregory! - cried the king. - I am hungry like a dog and thirsty like a camel in the desert. Besides, maybe someone can bandage my leg. Here's a small gold one, that's all I have with me.

“Excellent,” said the blind man, who apparently was the leader of the company. - We will offer you bread and goat cheese for dinner. We also have the most excellent wine, which, perhaps, is not even in the royal cellar, and in unlimited quantities. Hey you, dancer! Run quickly to the spring and fill a flask of water. And you, hunter, give me your sore leg, I will take off your boot and bandage your instep and ankle. This is not a dislocation: you just stretched a vein.

Soon the king drank plenty of cold spring water, which to him, an excellent connoisseur of drinks, seemed tastier than the most precious wine. He ate a simple dinner with extraordinary appetite, and his tightly and deftly bandaged leg immediately felt relief. He thanked the beggars heartily.

Wait, said the blind man. “Do you really think that we Gascons can do without dessert?” Come on, you one-armed one!

The shopkeeper handed me a bag of raisins.

You one-legged one!

And while he was talking to the shopkeeper, I pulled off handfuls of four figs.

You dancer!

I picked up a load of hazelnuts along the way.

Well, I,” said the blind elder, “I’ll add a bundle of almonds.” This, my friends, is from my own little garden, from my only almond tree.

Having finished dinner, the king and four beggars went to bed and slept sweetly until early dawn. In the morning, the beggars showed the king the way to the nearest village, where Henri could find a horse or donkey in order to get to Po by the shortest route.

Saying goodbye to them and thanking them from the bottom of his heart, Henry said:

When you come to Pau, don't forget to stop by the palace. You will have no need to look for the king, you just ask the hunter Henri, the hunter with a pointy beard, and you will be led to me. I don’t live richly, but I always have a bottle of wine and a piece of cheese, and sometimes, maybe even chicken, for my friends.