Russia Rus' bird troika Gogol Russia Rus Ptitsa Troika Gogol
Russia Rus' Bird Troika. Rus', where are you rushing? Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol Dead soul poem rare video rare video video HD Plays a wonderful actor of the Russian theater and cinema Leonid Dyachkov Leonid Diachkov
Rus RussiaPtitsaTroika. Rus’ Kuda Nesioshsia Ty?! Russian writer Nickolai Gogol "Miortvye Dushi" the end of the 11th Chapter. rare video rare video video HD
high cultural heritage Russian people.
Beautiful methodical material for classes at school, lyceum or university on the topic
Russian literature of the 19th century, history of Russia, patriotism, love for the motherland, ideals of man in Russian culture, freedom, will, expanse of the country, the future of Russia. Preparation for the exam EGE . Preparation for admission to the university, to the university.
Russia Rus' Bird Troika Gogol Dead Souls Rachmaninov 3rd concert
Russia Rus' Bird troika Gogol Dead souls Rachmaninov 3 concertaudio audio mp 3 An excerpt from a wonderful audio book based on the poem in prose by Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol "Dead Souls".
Unfortunately, the annotation erroneously indicates the name of the reader (allegedly Mikhail Ulyanov, but this is not Ulyanov). If someone recognizes the name of the reader, and also musical composition and its performer, which is at the end of the audio performance, please write who it is. Let the names of these wonderful performers be known.
Before the beginning of the reading and as a musical paraphrase between the parts, a melody sounds, an excerpt from the Third Piano Concerto by Sergei Rachmaninoff. Piano-genius pianist Vladimir Gorvits. It was one of the best performances of Sergei Rachmaninov's Concerto 3 in history.
"Rus! Rus! .. What incomprehensible secret force attracts you?! Why is your melancholy song, rushing along your entire length and width, from sea to sea, heard and heard incessantly in your ears? What is in it, in this song? What calls, and sobs, and grabs the heart?! .. Russia! .. What incomprehensible connection lurks between us? .. "
N. V. Gogol . Dead Souls. Volume OneChapter Eleven (where to look in the text - this is an excerpt - part of the penultimate paragraph and the last paragraph of the 11th chapter)
“... Chichikov only smiled, slightly flying up on his leather pillow, for he loved fast driving.
And what Russian does not like to drive fast? Is it his soul, seeking to spin, take a walk, sometimes say: “Damn it all!” Is it possible for his soul not to love her? Is it possible not to love her when something wonderful and wary is heard in her?
It seems that an unknown force has taken you on its wing to itself, and you yourself are flying, and everything is flying: miles are flying, merchants are flying towards them on the framing of their wagons, a forest is flying on both sides with dark formations of firs and pines, with a clumsy knock and a crow's cry, flying the whole road, God knows where, into the vanishing distance, and something terrible is contained in this quick flickering, where the vanishing object does not have time to appear - only the sky above the head, and light clouds, and the moon trudging through, alone seem to be motionless.
Eh, trio! bird troika, who invented you? to know that you could only be born to a lively people, in that land that does not like to joke, but spread out halfway around the world, and go and count the miles until it fills your eyes. And not a cunning, it seems, road projectile, not captured by an iron screw, but hastily, alive with one ax and a chisel, an efficient Yaroslavl peasant equipped and assembled you. The coachman is not in German boots: a beard and mittens, and the devil knows what he sits on; but he got up, and swung, and sang a song - the horses whirlwind, the spokes in the wheels mixed into one smooth circle, only the road trembled, and the pedestrian who stopped screamed in fright - and there she rushed, rushed, rushed! .. And you can already see in the distance, as something dusts and drills the air.
Isn't it true that you too, Rus, that a brisk, unbeatable troika are rushing about? The road smokes under you, the bridges rumble, everything lags behind and is left behind. The contemplative, amazed by God's miracle, stopped: is it not lightning thrown from the sky? what does it mean terrifying movement? and what kind of unknown power lies in these horses unknown to the light?
Oh, horses, horses, what horses! Are whirlwinds sitting in your manes? Does a sensitive ear burn in every vein of yours? They heard a familiar song from above, together and at once strained their copper breasts and, almost without touching the ground with their hooves, turned into only elongated lines flying through the air, and everything inspired by God rushes! ..
Nothing, however, happened as Chichikov expected. Firstly, he woke up later than he thought - this was the first trouble. Getting up, he sent the same hour to find out if the britzka was laid and everything was ready; but they reported that the britzka had not yet been laid and that nothing was ready. This was the second trouble. He became angry, even prepared to throw something like a scuffle at our friend Selifan, and only waited impatiently for what reason he would give in justification. Soon Selifan appeared at the door, and the master had the pleasure of hearing the same speeches that are usually heard from servants in such a case when it is necessary to leave quickly. “Why, Pavel Ivanovich, horses will need to be shod. - Oh, you're a bitch! chump! Why didn't you say this before? Wasn't there time? - Yes, there was time ... Yes, the wheel, too, Pavel Ivanovich, the tire will need to be completely tightened, because now the road is bumpy, such a bump has gone everywhere ... Yes, if you allow me to report: the front of the britzka has completely loosened, so it may not even make two stations. - You scoundrel! cried Chichikov, clasping his hands, and went up to him so close that Selifan, out of fear that he might not receive a gift from the master, stepped back a little and stood aside. "Are you going to kill me?" A? do you want to kill me? On high road I was about to be slaughtered, robber, you damned ingot, sea monster! A? A? Three weeks of sitting still, huh? If only he had given a hint, the dissolute one, but now to last hour and brought! when you are almost on the alert: to sit down and go, huh? and you messed up here, didn't you? A? Did you know this before? you knew that, didn't you? A? Answer. Did you know? A? “I knew,” answered Selifan, bowing his head. “Well, then why didn’t you say so then?” Selifan did not answer this question, but, bowing his head, seemed to be saying to himself: “You see, how strangely it happened: and he knew, but he didn’t tell!” “Now go and fetch the blacksmith, so that everything will be done in two o’clock.” Do you hear? by all means at two o’clock, and if it doesn’t happen, then I will ... bend you into a horn and tie a knot! Our hero was very angry. Selifan turned to the door in order to go to fulfill the order, but he stopped and said: “And besides, sir, a dappled horse, really, at least sell it, because he, Pavel Ivanovich, is a complete scoundrel; he is such a horse, just God forbid, only a hindrance. - Yes! I'll go and run to the market to sell! “Honest to God, Pavel Ivanovich, he just looks smart, but in fact the most crafty horse; such a horse nowhere ... - Fool! When I want to sell, I will sell. Still indulging in controversy! I'll see: if you don't bring me the blacksmiths right now and everything isn't ready at two o'clock, then I'll give you such a scuffle ... you won't see your own face! Let's go! go! Selifan left. Chichikov became completely out of sorts and threw the saber on the floor, which had traveled with him on the road in order to instill proper fear in anyone who should. For about a quarter of an hour or more he fussed with the blacksmiths, for the time being he got it right, because the blacksmiths, as usual, were notorious scoundrels and, realizing that the work was needed in a hurry, broke down exactly six times. No matter how excited he was, he called them swindlers, robbers, robbers of travelers, he even hinted at the Last Judgment, but the blacksmiths did not get through with anything: they completely withstood their temper - not only did not back down from the price, but even carried at work instead of two hours as much as five and a half . During this time, he had the pleasure of experiencing the pleasant moments known to every traveler, when everything is packed in a suitcase and only strings, pieces of paper and various rubbish are lying around in the room, when a person does not belong either to the road or to the seat in place, sees people passing by from the window. trudging people, talking about their hryvnias and raising their eyes with some stupid curiosity, so that, after looking at him, they again continue on their way, which further irritates the disposition of the spirit of the poor traveler who is not traveling. Everything that is, everything that he sees: both the shop opposite his windows, and the head of the old woman who lives in the opposite house, coming up to the window with short curtains - everything is disgusting to him, but he does not leave the window. He stands, now forgetting, now paying again some kind of blunted attention to everything that moves and does not move in front of him, and suffocates with annoyance some fly, which at that time buzzes and beats against the glass under his finger. But everything comes to an end, and the desired moment has come: everything was ready, the front of the britzka was properly adjusted, the wheel was covered with a new tire, the horses were brought from the watering place, and the blacksmith robbers set off, counting the rubles received and wishing well-being. Finally, the britzka was laid, and two hot rolls, just bought, were put there, and Selifan had already stuffed something for himself into the pocket that the coachmen had, and the hero himself, finally, while waving the frock coat, in the presence of tavern and other people's lackeys and coachmen, who were about to yawn, as a strange master leaves, and under all other circumstances that accompany the departure, got into the carriage - and the britzka in which bachelors ride, which has stagnated in the city for so long and so, maybe perhaps tired the reader, finally drove out of the gates of the hotel. "Glory to Thee, Lord!" thought Chichikov and crossed himself. Selifan lashed out with his whip; Petrushka, who at first hung on the footboard for some time, sat down next to him, and our hero, having sat better on the Georgian rug, laid a leather pillow behind his back, squeezed two hot rolls, and the carriage again went dancing and swaying thanks to the pavement, which, as you know, had a tossing up strength. With some kind of indefinite feeling, he looked at the houses, the walls, the fence and the streets, which also from their side, as if jumping up, were slowly receding and which, God knows, whether fate judged him to see again in the course of his life. When turning into one of the streets, the britzka had to stop, because an endless funeral procession passed along its entire length. Chichikov, leaning out, told Petrushka to ask who they were burying, and found out that they were burying the prosecutor. Filled with unpleasant sensations, he immediately hid in a corner, covered himself with skin and drew the curtains. At this time, when the carriage was thus stopped, Selifan and Petrushka, devoutly taking off their hats, considered who, how, in what and on what was riding, counting by number how many were all on foot and those who were riding, and the master, ordering them not to to confess and not to bow to any of the familiar lackeys, he also began to look timidly through the glass, which were in leather curtains: all the officials were walking behind the coffin, taking off their hats. He began to be afraid that his crew would not be recognized, but they were not up to it. They did not even engage in various everyday conversations, which are usually carried on by those who see off the deceased. All their thoughts were concentrated at that time in themselves: they thought what the new governor-general would be like, how he would take up the matter and how he would accept them. The officials on foot were followed by carriages, from which ladies in mourning caps looked out. It was evident from the movements of their lips and hands that they were engaged in a lively conversation; perhaps they, too, were talking about the arrival of the new governor-general and speculated about the balls he would give, and fussed about their eternal festoons and stripes. Finally, several empty droshkys followed the carriages, stretched out in single file, and finally there was nothing left, and our hero could go. Opening the leather curtains, he sighed, saying from the bottom of his heart: “Here, prosecutor! lived, lived, and then died! And now they will print in the newspapers that he died, to the regret of his subordinates and all mankind, a respectable citizen, a rare father, an exemplary husband, and they will write a lot of all sorts of things; perhaps they will add that he was accompanied by the weeping of widows and orphans; but if you take a good look at the matter, then in fact you only had thick eyebrows. Here he ordered Selifan to go as quickly as possible, and meanwhile he thought to himself: “It is, however, good that the funeral took place; they say it means happiness if you meet a dead person. Meanwhile the chaise turned into more deserted streets; soon there were only long wooden fences, heralding the end of the city. Now the pavement is over, and the barrier, and the city is behind, and there is nothing, and again on the road. And again, versts, stationmasters, wells, carts, gray villages with samovars, women and a brisk bearded owner running from the inn with oats in his hand, a pedestrian in worn bast shoes trudging eight hundred versts, towns , lined up alive, with wooden shops, flour barrels, bast shoes, kalachs and other small things, pockmarked barriers, bridges being repaired, boundless fields both on the other side and on the other, landowner's trunks, a soldier on horseback, carrying a green box with lead peas and a signature : such and such an artillery battery, green, yellow and freshly dug black stripes flickering across the steppes, a song drawn out in the distance, pine tops in the fog, bell ringing disappearing far away, crows like flies and an endless horizon ... Russia! Rus! I see you, from my wonderful, beautiful far away I see you: poor, scattered and uncomfortable in you; daring divas of nature, crowned with daring divas of art, will not amuse, will not frighten the eyes, cities with many-windowed high palaces, grown into cliffs, picture trees and ivy, grown into houses, in noise and in the eternal dust of waterfalls; the head will not tip back to look at the stone blocks piled up endlessly above it and in the heights; they will not flash through the dark arches thrown over one another, entangled in vine branches, ivy and countless millions of wild roses, the eternal lines of shining mountains rushing into the silvery clear skies will not flash through them in the distance. Openly deserted and exactly everything in you; like dots, like badges, your low cities imperceptibly stick out among the plains; nothing will seduce or charm the eye. But what incomprehensible, secret force attracts you? Why is your melancholy song, rushing along your entire length and width, from sea to sea, heard and heard incessantly in your ears? What's in it, in this song? What calls, and sobs, and grabs by the heart? What sounds painfully kiss, and strive to the soul, and curl around my heart? Rus! what do you want from me? what incomprehensible bond lurks between us? Why do you look like that, and why did everything that is in you turn eyes full of expectation on me? space. What does this vast expanse prophesy? Is it not here, in you, that an infinite thought is born, when you yourself are without end? Is it not possible for a hero to be here when there is a place where he can turn around and walk around? And menacingly embraces me mighty space, with terrible power reflected in my depths; my eyes lit up with an unnatural power: wow! what a sparkling, wonderful, unfamiliar distance to the earth! Rus!.. - Hold on, hold on, fool! Chichikov shouted to Selifan. - Here I am with a broadsword! shouted a courier with a arshin mustache galloping towards them. “Don’t you see, goblin tear your soul: state-owned carriage!” - And, like a ghost, the troika disappeared with thunder and dust. How strange, and alluring, and bearing, and wonderful in the word: road! and how wonderful she herself is, this road: a clear day, autumn leaves, cold air ... tighter in a travel overcoat, a hat on our ears, we will snuggle closer and more comfortably to the corner! IN last time a trembling ran through the limbs, and has already been replaced by pleasant warmth. The horses rush ... how seductively drowsiness creeps and eyes close, and already through the dream one can hear “The snows are not white”, and the glanders of the horses, and the noise of the wheels, and already you are snoring, pressing your neighbor to the corner. Woke up: five stations ran back; the moon, an unknown city, churches with ancient wooden domes and blackening peaks, dark log and white stone houses. The radiance of the moon here and there: as if white linen scarves hung on the walls, along the pavement, along the streets; shadows black as coal cross them in shoals; Like gleaming metal, the illuminated wooden roofs glisten at an angle, and there is not a soul anywhere—everything is asleep. Alone, is there a light glimmering somewhere in the window: is the tradesman sharpening his pair of boots, is the baker fiddling in the stove - what's up with them? And the night! Heavenly powers! what a night is made in the sky! And the air, and the sky, distant, high, there, in its inaccessible depths, spread so immensely, sonorously and clearly! .. But the cold night breath breathes freshly into your very eyes and lulls you, and now you are already dozing and forgetting, and snoring, and tossing and turning angrily, feeling heavy on himself, the poor neighbor squeezed into the corner. I woke up - and already again before you are fields and steppes, nowhere is nothing - everywhere is a wasteland, everything is open. A verst with a number flies into your eyes; engaged in the morning; on the whitened cold sky a golden pale stripe; the wind becomes fresher and harsher: tighter in a warm overcoat! .. what a glorious cold! what a wonderful dream that embraces you again! Push - and woke up again. The sun is at the top of the sky. “Easy! easier!" - a voice is heard, the cart descends from the steep: below the dam is wide and a wide clear pond, shining like a copper bottom before the sun; the village, the huts scattered on the slope; like a star, the cross of the country church shines aside; chatter of men and unbearable appetite in the stomach ... God! how good you are sometimes, distant, distant road! How many times, like a perishing and drowning man, have I clutched at you, and every time you generously endured me and saved me! And how many wonderful ideas, poetic dreams were born in you, how many wondrous impressions were felt! .. But our friend Chichikov also felt not at all prosaic dreams at that time. Let's see how he felt. At first he did not feel anything and looked only back, wanting to make sure that he had definitely left the city; but when he saw that the city had long since disappeared, neither the forges, nor the mills, nor everything that was around the cities, could be seen, and even the white tops of the stone churches had long gone into the ground, he took up only one road, looked only to the right and to the left , and the city of N did not seem to be in his memory, as if he had passed it a long time ago, in childhood. Finally, the road ceased to interest him, and he began to slightly close his eyes and bow his head to the pillow. The author, he admits, is even glad of this, thus finding an opportunity to talk about his hero; for hitherto, as the reader has seen, he was constantly disturbed by either Nozdryov, or balls, or ladies, or city gossip, or, finally, thousands of those trifles that seem only trifles when they are included in the book, but meanwhile turn in the light, are revered as very important things. But now let's put everything aside and get down to business. It is very doubtful that the hero chosen by us will be liked by the readers. The ladies will not like him, this can be said in the affirmative, because the ladies demand that the hero be a decisive perfection, and if there is any mental or bodily speck, then trouble! No matter how deeply the author looks into his soul, even though the mirror reflects his image more clearly, he will not be given any price. The very fullness and middle years of Chichikov will hurt him a lot: fullness will in no case be forgiven for the hero, and quite a few ladies, turning away, will say: “Fie, so ugly!” Alas! All this is known to the author, and for all that he cannot take a virtuous person as a hero, but... perhaps in the very same story one will sense other strings that have not yet been scolded, the incalculable wealth of the Russian spirit will appear, a husband will pass, gifted with divine valor, or a wonderful Russian girl, which cannot be found anywhere in the world, with all the wondrous beauty female soul, all of generous aspiration and selflessness. And all the virtuous people of other tribes will appear dead before them, just as a book is dead before the living word! Russian movements will rise up... and they will see how deep into Slavic nature that which slipped only through the nature of other peoples... But why and why talk about what lies ahead? It is indecent for the author, who has long been a husband, brought up by a harsh inner life and the refreshing sobriety of solitude, to be forgotten like a youth. Everything has its turn, and place, and time! A virtuous person is still not taken as a hero. You can even say why not taken. Because it is time to finally give rest to the poor virtuous person, because the word “virtuous person” is idly revolving on the lips; because they turned a virtuous person into a horse, and there is no writer who would not ride him, urging him with a whip and everything else; because they have exhausted a virtuous person to the point that now there is not even a shadow of virtue on him, but only ribs and skin instead of a body remain; because they hypocritically call for a virtuous person; because they do not respect a virtuous person. No, it's time to finally hide the scoundrel. So let's harness the scoundrel! The origin of our hero is dark and modest. Parents were nobles, but pillar or personal - God knows; his face did not resemble them: at least a relative who was at his birth, a short, short woman, who are usually called pigalits, took the child in her arms and cried out: “He didn’t turn out at all like I thought! He should have gone to the grandmother from the mother's side, which would have been better, but he was born simply, as the proverb says: neither mother nor father, but a passing young man. At the beginning, life looked at him somehow sourly and uncomfortably, through some kind of cloudy, snow-covered window: no friend, no comrade in childhood! A little gorenka with small windows that did not open either in winter or in summer, a father, a sick man, in a long frock coat on lambskins and in knitted lappets worn on bare foot , constantly sighing, walking around the room, and spitting into the sandbox standing in the corner, the eternal seat on the bench, with a pen in his hands, ink on his fingers and even on his lips, the eternal inscription before his eyes: “do not lie, obey your elders and carry virtue in your heart »; the eternal shuffling and slapping around the room of the clappers, the familiar but always stern voice: “God stupid again!”, which echoed at a time when the child, bored with the monotony of work, attached some kind of quotation mark or tail to the letter; and the ever-familiar, always unpleasant feeling, when, following these words, the edge of his ear twisted very painfully with the nails of long fingers stretched out behind: here is a poor picture of his initial childhood, of which he barely retained a pale memory. But in life everything changes quickly and vividly: and on one day, with the first spring sun and overflowing streams, the father, taking his son, rode out with him on a cart, which was dragged by a mukhorty piebald horse, known among horse dealers under the name of a magpie; it was ruled by a coachman, a little hunchback, the ancestor of the only serf family that belonged to Chichikov's father, who occupied almost all positions in the house. On a magpie they trudged for more than a day and a half; they spent the night on the road, crossed the river, ate a cold pie and roast lamb, and only on the third day in the morning they reached the city. The streets of the city flashed with unexpected splendor before the boy, forcing him to open his mouth for several minutes. Then the magpie flopped along with the cart into the pit, which began a narrow alley, which was all striving down and choked with mud; for a long time she worked there with all her might and kneaded with her legs, instigated by both the hunchback and the master himself, and finally dragged them into a small courtyard, which stood on a slope with two blossoming apple trees in front of an old house and a garden behind it, low, small, consisting only of mountain ash, elderberry and hiding in the depths of her wooden booth, covered with shrapnel, with a narrow frosted window. Here lived a relative of theirs, a flabby old woman who still went to the market every morning and then dried her stockings at the samovar, who patted the boy on the cheek and admired his fullness. Here he was supposed to stay and go daily to the classes of the city school. Father, having spent the night, got out on the road the next day. At parting, no tears were shed from parental eyes; was given half a copper for consumption and goodies, and, more importantly, a clever instruction: “Look, Pavlusha, study, don’t be a fool and don’t hang out, but most of all please teachers and bosses. If you please your boss, then, although you won’t succeed in science and God didn’t give you talent, you will go all out and get ahead of everyone. Don't hang out with your comrades, they won't teach you good things; and if it comes to that, then hang out with those who are richer, so that on occasion they can be useful to you. Do not treat or treat anyone, but behave better in such a way that you are treated, and most of all, take care and save a penny: this thing is more reliable than anything in the world. A comrade or friend will cheat you and in trouble will be the first to betray you, but a penny will not betray you, no matter what trouble you are in. You will do everything and break everything in the world with a penny. Having given such instruction, the father parted from his son and dragged himself home again on his magpie, and since then he never saw him again, but the words and instructions were sunk deep into his soul. Pavlusha from another day began to go to classes. He did not have any special abilities for any science; he distinguished himself more by diligence and neatness; but on the other hand, he turned out to have a great mind on the other side, on the practical side. He suddenly realized and understood the matter and behaved in relation to his comrades in exactly such a way that they treated him, and he not only never, but even sometimes, hiding the received treat, then sold them to them. Even as a child, he already knew how to deny himself everything. Of the fifty dollars given by his father, he did not spend a penny, on the contrary, in the same year he already made increments to it, showing almost extraordinary resourcefulness: he molded a bullfinch from wax, painted it and sold it very profitably. Then, for some time, he embarked on other speculations, namely these: having bought food at the market, he would sit in the class next to those who were richer, and as soon as he noticed that a comrade was beginning to feel sick - a sign of approaching hunger - he would stick out his under the bench, as if by chance, a corner of a gingerbread or a roll, and, having provoked him, took money, considering his appetite. For two months he fussed in his apartment without rest near a mouse, which he planted in a small wooden cage, and finally achieved the point that the mouse stood on its hind legs, lay down and got up on orders, and then sold it also very profitably. When he accumulated money up to five rubles, he sewed up the bag and began to save in another. In relation to the authorities, he behaved even smarter. No one could sit on a bench so quietly. It should be noted that the teacher was a great lover of silence and good behavior and could not stand smart and sharp boys; it seemed to him that they must certainly laugh at him. It was enough for the one who came to the remark from the side of wit, it was enough for him only to move or somehow inadvertently wink his eyebrow, in order to suddenly fall into anger. He persecuted him and punished him mercilessly. “I, brother, will drive out of you arrogance and disobedience! he said. “I know you through and through, just as you don’t know yourself. Here you are on my knees! you will starve me!” And the poor boy, not knowing why, rubbed his knees and starved for days. “Abilities and talents? it's all nonsense,” he used to say, “I only look at behavior. I will give full points in all sciences to those who do not know a thing, but behave commendably; and in whom I see a bad spirit and mockery, I am zero to him, although he plugs Solon into his belt! So said the teacher, who did not love Krylov to death because he said: “For me, it’s better to drink, but understand the matter,” and always told with pleasure in his face and eyes, as in the school where he taught before, there was such silence that one could hear a fly flying; that not a single student coughed or blew his nose in class all year round, and that until the bell rang it was impossible to know whether anyone was there or not. Chichikov suddenly grasped the spirit of the boss and what behavior should consist of. He did not move an eye or an eyebrow during the whole class, no matter how they pinched him from behind; as soon as the bell rang, he rushed headlong and gave the teacher the first three (the teacher went around in three); giving three, he left the class first and tried to catch him three times on the road, constantly taking off his hat. The case was a complete success. Throughout his stay at the school, he was in excellent standing and upon graduation he received a full honor in all sciences, a certificate and a book with golden letters. for exemplary diligence and trustworthy behavior. When he left the school, he found himself already a young man of rather attractive appearance, with a chin that required a razor. At this time his father died. The inheritance included four irretrievably worn jerseys, two old coats lined with lambskin, and a small amount of money. Father, apparently, was versed only in the advice to save a penny, while he himself saved up a little. Chichikov immediately sold a dilapidated courtyard with an insignificant piece of land for a thousand rubles, and transferred a family of people to the city, settling down in it and doing service. At the same time, a poor teacher, a lover of silence and commendable behavior, was expelled from the school for stupidity or other guilt. The teacher, in grief, began to drink; finally, he had nothing to drink; sick, without a piece of bread and help, he disappeared somewhere in an unheated, forgotten kennel. His former students, wise men and wits, in whom he constantly imagined rebelliousness and arrogant behavior, having learned about his miserable situation, immediately collected money for him, even selling a lot of things he needed; only Pavlusha Chichikov dissuaded himself by lack of availability and gave him some nickel of silver, which his comrades immediately threw to him, saying: “Oh, you lived!” The poor teacher covered his face with his hands when he heard about such an act. former students their own; tears flowed like hail from fading eyes, like those of a powerless child. “At death, on a bed, God made me cry,” he said in a weak voice and sighed heavily when he heard about Chichikov, adding immediately: “Oh, Pavlusha! that's how a person changes! after all, what a well-behaved, nothing violent, silk! Inflated, strongly inflated ... " It cannot, however, be said that the nature of our hero was so severe and callous, and that his feelings were so dulled that he knew neither pity nor compassion; he felt both, he would even want to help, but only so that it does not consist in a significant amount, so as not to touch the money that was supposed to be left alone; in a word, the father's admonition: take care and save a penny - it went for the future. But in him there was no attachment to money proper for money's sake; they were not possessed by stinginess and stinginess. No, they did not move him: he imagined ahead of him life in all contentment, with all sorts of prosperity; carriages, house, perfectly arranged, delicious lunches- that's what was constantly rushing through his head. In order to finally, later, in time, taste all this without fail, that's why the penny was spared, sparingly refusing for the time being both to oneself and to another. When a rich man rushed past him on a flying beautiful droshky, on trotters in a rich harness, he stopped in his tracks, and then, waking up, as after long sleep, said: “But there was a clerk, he wore his hair in a circle!” And everything that did not respond with wealth and contentment made an impression on him, incomprehensible to himself. Having left the school, he did not even want to rest: he had such a strong desire to get down to work and service as soon as possible. However, despite the commendable certificates, with great difficulty he decided to go to the Treasury. And in the distant backwoods, protection is needed! He got an insignificant place, a salary of thirty or forty rubles a year. But he decided to take up the service passionately, to conquer and overcome everything. And indeed, self-sacrifice, patience and limitation of needs, he showed unheard of. From early morning until late at night, without getting tired of either mental or bodily strength, he wrote, mired all in stationery, did not go home, slept in the office rooms on the tables, sometimes dined with the watchmen, and for all that he knew how to keep neatness, to dress decently. , tell the person nice expression and even something noble in the movements. It must be said that the chamber officials were especially notable for their homeliness and ugliness. Others had faces like badly baked bread: their cheeks were swollen in one direction, their chins slanted in the other, their upper lip was raised in a bubble, which, in addition to that, also cracked; in other words, it's not pretty at all. They all spoke somehow sternly, in such a voice, as if they were going to beat someone; they made frequent sacrifices to Bacchus, thus showing that in Slavic nature there are still many remnants of paganism; sometimes they even came into the presence, as they say, drunk, which is why it was not good in the presence and the air was not at all aromatic. Among such officials, Chichikov could not help but be noticed and distinguished, representing in everything the perfect opposite, both in the presence of a face, and in the friendliness of his voice, and in the complete non-use of any strong drinks. But for all that, his path was difficult; he fell under the command of an already aged priest, who was an image of some kind of stone insensitivity and unshakability: always the same, impregnable, never in his life showing a smile on his face, never greeting anyone even with a request for health. No one saw that he was at least once not what he always was, even on the street, even at home; at least once he showed his participation in something, at least he got drunk drunk and laughed in drunkenness; even if he indulged in the wild merriment that a robber indulges in when he is drunk, there was not even a shadow in him. There was nothing exactly in him: neither villainous nor good, and something terrible appeared in this absence of everything. His callous-marble face, without any sharp irregularity, did not hint at any resemblance; in severe proportion among themselves were his features. Only the frequent mountain ash and potholes that gouged them ranked him among those faces on whom, according to popular expression, the devil came at night to thresh peas. It seemed that there was no human strength to get close to such a person and attract his favor, but Chichikov tried. At first he began to please in all sorts of inconspicuous trifles: he carefully examined the feathers with which he wrote, and having prepared several according to their model, put them under his arm every time; he blew and swept sand and tobacco from his table; got a new rag for his inkwell; I found somewhere his hat, the worst hat that ever existed in the world, and every time I put it near him a minute before the end of the presence; I cleaned his back if he stained it with chalk against the wall - but all this was decidedly left without any remark, as if nothing of this had been done. Finally, he sniffed out his home, family life, found out that he had a mature daughter, with a face that also looked like it was threshing peas at night. From this side he came up with the idea of inducing an attack. He found out what church she came to on Sundays, stood opposite her every time, cleanly dressed, heavily starched on his shirt-front - and the matter was a success: the stern priest staggered and invited him for tea! And in the office they didn’t have time to look back, how things turned out in such a way that Chichikov moved into his house, became a necessary and necessary person, bought both flour and sugar, treated his daughter like a bride, called the clerk papa and kissed him on the hand; everyone put in the ward that there would be a wedding at the end of February before Lent. The stern assistant even began to fuss with the authorities for him, and after a while Chichikov himself sat down as an assistant to one vacant position that had opened up. This, it seemed, was the main purpose of his ties with the old associate, because he immediately sent his chest secretly home and the next day found himself in another apartment. Povytchik ceased to be called papa and no longer kissed his hand, and the matter of the wedding was so hushed up, as if nothing had happened at all. However, every time he met him, he affectionately shook his hand and invited him to tea, so that the old priest, despite his eternal immobility and callous indifference, shook his head every time and said under his breath: !" It was the most difficult threshold he had crossed. Since then, things have gotten easier and more successful. He became a prominent person. Everything turned out to be in him that is needed for this world: both pleasantness in turns and actions, and glibness in business affairs. With such means, he got in a short time what is called a grain place, and took advantage of it in an excellent way. You need to know that at the same time the most severe prosecution of all bribes began; he was not afraid of persecution and turned them at once to his own advantage, thus showing directly Russian ingenuity, which appears only during pressure. The matter was arranged as follows: as soon as the petitioner came and put his hand in his pocket in order to pull out the well-known letters of recommendation signed by Prince Khovansky, as we say in Rus': “No, no,” he said with a smile, holding his hands, “you think that I ... no, no. This is our duty, our duty, without any retribution we must do! On this side, be calm: tomorrow everything will be done. Let me know your apartment, you don’t need to take care of yourself, everything will be brought to your house. The enchanted petitioner returned home almost in awe, thinking: “Here is finally a man, who needs more, this is just a precious diamond!” But the petitioner waits for a day, another, they do not bring the case to the house, on the third too. He is in the office, the case has not begun; he to the precious diamond. “Ah, sorry! Chichikov said very courteously, grabbing him by both hands, "we had so much to do; but tomorrow everything will be done, tomorrow without fail, really, I’m even ashamed!” And all this was accompanied by charming movements. If at the same time the hem of the dressing-gown somehow flung open, then the hand at the same moment tried to straighten things out and hold the hem. But neither tomorrow, nor the day after tomorrow, nor on the third day, do they carry things home. The petitioner takes up his mind: yes, that's enough, is there anything? inquires; they say, you need to give it to the clerks. “Why not give? I'm ready for a quarter, another." - "No, not a quarter, but white." - "According to the little white clerks!" the petitioner cries out. “Why are you so excited? - they answer him, - it will come out that way, the clerks will get a quarter each, and the rest will go to the authorities. The slow-witted petitioner beats himself on the forehead and scolds what the world stands on new order belongings, prosecution of bribes and polite, ennobled treatment of officials. Previously, at least you knew what to do: you brought a red one to the ruler of affairs, and it’s all in the hat, but now you need a white one, and you’ll be fussing for another week, until you guess; the devil would take disinterestedness and bureaucratic nobility! The petitioner, of course, is right, but now there are no bribe-takers: all the rulers of affairs are the most honest and noblest people, secretaries only yes clerks swindlers. Soon Chichikov saw a much more spacious field: a commission was formed to build some kind of state-owned, very capital structure. He also joined this commission, and turned out to be one of the most active members. The commission got down to business immediately. She fumbled around the building for six years; but the climate, or something, interfered with it, or the material was already like that, only the government building could not go higher than the foundation. Meanwhile, in other parts of the city, each of the members found themselves in a beautiful house of civil architecture: it was clear that the soil of the earth was better there. Members were already beginning to prosper and began to start a family. It was only here and now that Chichikov began to gradually extricate himself from the harsh laws of abstinence and his inexorable self-sacrifice. Only here the long-term fast was finally softened, and it turned out that he was always not a stranger to various pleasures, from which he knew how to resist in the summers of ardent youth, when not a single person has any power over himself. There were some excesses: he got a pretty good cook, thin Dutch shirts. He already bought cloth for himself such as the whole province did not wear, and from that time on he began to stick to more brown and reddish colors with a spark; he had already acquired an excellent pair and himself held one rein, forcing the harness to curl in a ring; he had already started the custom of drying himself with a sponge soaked in water mixed with cologne; he already bought some kind of soap for making his skin smooth, already. But suddenly a new boss was sent in place of the former mattress, a military man, strict, an enemy of bribe-takers and everything that is called untruth. The very next day he frightened everyone to one, demanded reports, saw shortcomings, missing sums at every step, noticed at the same moment houses of beautiful civil architecture, and a bulkhead began. Officials were removed from office; houses of civil architecture went to the treasury and were turned to various charitable institutions and schools for cantonists, everything was fluffed up, and Chichikov more than others. His face suddenly, despite the pleasantness, did not like the chief, why, God knows - sometimes there is simply no reason for it - and he hated him to death. And the inexorable boss was very formidable for everyone. But since he was still a military man, and therefore did not know all the intricacies of civil tricks, after a while, by means of a truthful appearance and the ability to fake everything, other officials rubbed into his favor, and the general soon found himself in the hands of even greater swindlers whom he did not at all regard as such; he was even pleased that at last he had chosen people properly, and he boasted in earnest of his subtle ability to distinguish between abilities. Officials suddenly comprehended his spirit and character. Everything that was under his command became terrible persecutors of injustice; everywhere, in all cases, they pursued her, as a spear fisherman pursues some fleshy beluga, and they pursued her with such success that soon everyone found themselves with several thousand capital. At this time, many of the former officials turned to the path of truth and were again taken to the service. But Chichikov could in no way infiltrate himself, no matter how hard he tried and stood up for him, instigated by the letters of Prince Khovansky, the first general secretary, who completely comprehended the control of the general's nose, but here he decisively could not do anything. The general was the kind of person who, although they were led by the nose (however, without his knowledge), but on the other hand, if any thought got into his head, then it was there just like an iron nail: nothing could have pulled it out of there. . All that the clever secretary could do was to destroy the soiled track record, and for that he already moved the boss only with compassion, depicting to him in vivid colors the touching fate of the unfortunate Chichikov family, which, fortunately, he did not have. "Well! - said Chichikov, - hooked - dragged, broke - do not ask. Crying grief does not help, you need to do the job. And so he decided to start his career anew, to arm himself with patience again, to limit himself again in everything, no matter how freely and well he had turned around before. It was necessary to move to another city, there is still to bring himself to fame. Everything somehow did not stick. He had to change two or three posts into the most a short time. The positions were somehow dirty, base. You need to know that Chichikov was the most decent person that ever existed in the world. Although at first he had to rub himself in a dirty society, he always kept clean in his soul, he liked to have lacquered wood tables in the offices and everything would be noble. He never allowed himself an indecent word in his speech and was always offended if he saw in the words of others a lack of proper respect for rank or title. The reader, I think, will be pleased to know that every two days he changed his underwear, and even every day during hot summers: any somewhat unpleasant smell already offended him. For this reason, whenever Petrushka came to undress him and take off his boots, he put a carnation in his nose, and in many cases his nerves were ticklish, like a girl's; and therefore it was hard for him to find himself again in those ranks, where everything reeked of foam and indecency in actions. No matter how strong his spirit, he nevertheless lost weight and even turned green during such adversity. He was already beginning to grow stout and come into those round and decent forms in which the reader found him when making acquaintance with him, and more than once, looking in the mirror, he thought of many pleasant things: about a woman, about a child, and a smile followed him. such thoughts; but now, when he somehow inadvertently looked at himself in the mirror, he could not help crying out: “You are my Most Holy Mother! how ugly I've become!" And after a long time did not want to look. But our hero endured everything, endured strongly, patiently endured, and - finally moved to the customs service. It must be said that this service has long been a secret subject of his thoughts. He saw what smart foreign gizmos the customs officials got excited about, what porcelain and cambric they sent to gossips, aunts and sisters. More than once, for a long time, he had already said with a sigh: “I wish I could move somewhere: the border is close, and enlightened people, and what thin Dutch shirts you can get!” It must be added that at the same time he was also thinking about a special kind of French soap, which imparted an unusual whiteness to the skin and freshness to the cheeks; what it was called, God knows, but, according to his assumptions, it was certainly on the border. So, he would have wanted to go to customs for a long time, but the current various benefits on construction commission, and he rightly reasoned that the customs, be that as it may, was still no more than a pie in the sky, and the commission was already a tit in its hands. Now he decided to get to the customs at all costs, and got there. He took up his service with unusual zeal. It seemed that fate itself had determined him to be a customs official. Such promptness, perspicacity and perspicacity were not only not seen, but not even heard of. In three or four weeks, he had already got his hand in customs that he knew absolutely everything: he didn’t even weigh, didn’t measure, but by the texture he found out how many arshins of cloth or other matter were in a piece; taking the bundle in his hand, he could suddenly tell how many pounds it contained. As for the searches, here, as even the comrades themselves expressed it, he simply had a canine instinct: it was impossible not to be amazed, seeing how he had so much patience to feel every button, and all this was carried out with deadly composure, polite to incredible. And at the time when those being searched were furious, lost their temper and felt a malicious impulse to beat up his pleasant appearance with clicks, he, without changing either in face or in polite actions, would say only: “Wouldn’t you like to worry a little and get up?” Or: “Would you like, madam, to go to another room? there the wife of one of our officials will explain to you.” Or: “Let me, I’ll cut the lining of your overcoat a little with a knife” - and, saying this, he pulled out shawls, scarves, coolly, as if from his own chest. Even the authorities explained that it was a devil, and not a man: he looked for in wheels, drawbars, horse ears and in God knows what places, wherever it occurred to any author to climb and where only one customs officials were allowed to climb. So the poor traveler, who had crossed the frontier, still could not come to his senses for several minutes, and, wiping the sweat that had come out in a small rash all over his body, only made the sign of the cross and kept saying: “Well, well!” His position was very similar to that of a schoolboy who ran out of a secret room, where the chief called him in order to give some instruction, but instead whipped him in a completely unexpected way. For a short time there was no life from him for smugglers. This was a thunderstorm and despair of all Polish Jews. His honesty and incorruptibility were irresistible, almost unnatural. He did not even make himself a small capital out of various confiscated goods and selected some gizmos that did not enter the treasury in order to avoid unnecessary correspondence. Such zealous and disinterested service could not but become the subject of general astonishment and finally reach the attention of the authorities. He received a rank and a promotion, and after that he presented a project to catch all the smugglers, asking only for the means to carry it out himself. The same hour he was given a command and an unlimited right to conduct all sorts of searches. This was just what he wanted. At that time, a strong society of smugglers was formed in a deliberately correct way; the audacious enterprise promised profits in the millions. He had long had information about him and even refused to bribe those sent, saying dryly: "It's not time yet." Having received everything at his disposal, at that very moment he let the society know, saying: "Now is the time." The calculation was too correct. Here in one year he could receive what he would not have won in twenty years of the most zealous service. Before, he did not want to enter into any relations with them, because he was nothing more than a mere pawn, therefore, he would have received little; but now ... now it's a completely different matter: he could offer any conditions. To make things go smoothly, he persuaded another official, his comrade, who could not resist the temptation, despite the fact that his hair was gray. The terms were agreed and the society began to act. The action began brilliantly: the reader, no doubt, has heard the so often repeated story about the witty journey of Spanish rams, who, having crossed the border in double sheepskin coats, carried a million Brabant laces under their sheepskin coats. This incident happened exactly when Chichikov served at the customs. If he himself had not participated in this enterprise, no Jews in the world would have been able to carry out such a deed. After three or four sheep's marches across the border, both officials ended up with four hundred thousand capital each. Chichikov's, they say, even exceeded five hundred, because he was a bit happier. God knows to what a huge figure the blessed sums would not have increased, if some difficult beast had not run across everything. The devil confused both officials: the officials, to put it simply, went berserk and quarreled for nothing. Somehow, in a heated conversation, or maybe after drinking a little, Chichikov called another official a priest, and the latter, although he really was a priest, for some unknown reason, was offended cruelly and immediately answered him strongly and unusually sharply, just like this: “No, you’re lying, I’m a state councilor, not a priest, but you’re such a priest!” And then he added to him in defiance for greater annoyance: “Yes, they say, what!” Although he thus shaved it all around, turning on him the name given to him, and although the expression "that's what, they say!" could be strong, but, dissatisfied with this, he sent a secret denunciation to him. However, they say that they already had a quarrel over some kind of wench, fresh and strong, like a vigorous turnip, in the words of customs officials; that people were even bribed to beat our hero in the evening in a dark alley; but that both officials were fools and some staff captain Shamsharev took advantage of the woman. As it was in fact, God knows them; better let the reader-hunter compose himself. The main thing is that secret relations with smugglers have become clear. The State Councilor, although he himself disappeared, still killed his comrade. The officials were taken to court, confiscated, described everything they had, and all this was suddenly resolved like a thunderbolt over their heads. How after a daze they came to their senses and saw with horror what they had done. The state councilor, according to Russian custom, took to drink with grief, but the collegiate resisted. He knew how to hold back part of the money, no matter how sensitive the sense of smell of the authorities who came to the investigation was. He used all the subtle tricks of the mind, already too experienced, knowing people too well: where he acted with pleasant turns, where with touching speech, where he smoked with flattery, in no case spoiling the case, where he slipped in a little money - in a word, he handled the matter at least in such a way that he was dismissed not with such disgrace as his comrade, and dodged from under the criminal court. But no capital, no various foreign gizmos, nothing left him; for all this there were other hunters. He kept a thousand tens hidden about a rainy day, and two dozen Dutch shirts, and a small britzka, in which bachelors ride, and two serfs, the coachman Selifan and the lackey Petrushka, and the customs officials, driven by kindness of heart, left him five or six bars of soap to preserve the freshness of the cheeks - that's all. So, this is the position in which our hero found himself again! What a great calamity befell him! He called it: to suffer in the service for the truth. Now we can conclude that after such storms, trials, vicissitudes of fate and life grief he will retire with the remaining ten thousand dollars in hard-earned money to some peaceful backwoods of a county town and there he will shut up forever in a cotton dressing gown at the window of a low house, sorting out on Sundays a fight between peasants that arose in front of the windows, or, for refreshment, going into the chicken coop to personally feel the chicken assigned to soup, and thus spend a quiet, but in its own way, also useful age. But that didn't happen. We must do justice to the irresistible force of his character. After all that would be enough, if not to kill, then to cool and pacify a person forever, an incomprehensible passion did not go out in him. He was in grief, in annoyance, murmuring to the whole world, angry at the injustice of fate, indignant at the injustice of people, and yet he could not refuse new attempts. In a word, he showed patience, before which the wooden patience of a German, already contained in the slow, lazy circulation of his blood, is nothing. Chichikov's blood, on the contrary, played strongly, and a lot of reasonable will to throw a bridle on everything that would like to jump out and take a walk in freedom. He reasoned, and in his reasoning a certain side of justice was visible: “Why me? why did I get in trouble? Who is yawning now in office? - everybody buys. I did not make anyone unhappy: I did not rob a widow, I did not let anyone into the world, I used from the excess, I took where anyone would take; If I didn't use it, others would. Why do others prosper, and why should I be a worm? And what am I now? Where do I fit? With what eyes will I now look into the eyes of every venerable father of a family? How can I not feel remorse, knowing that I am burdening the earth for nothing, and what will my children say later? Here, they will say, the father, the beast, did not leave us any fortune! It is already known that Chichikov took great care of his descendants. Such a sensitive subject! Another, perhaps, would not have sunk his hand so deeply if it were not for the question that, for some unknown reason, comes by itself: what will the children say? And now the future ancestor, like a cautious cat, squinting with only one eye to the side, whether the owner is looking from where, hastily grabs everything that is closer to him: is it worth soap, is it candles, is it lard, is the canary caught under its paw - in a word, does not miss anything . This is how our hero complained and wept, but meanwhile activity did not die in his head; there everything wanted to build something and waited only for the plan. Again he shrank, again began to lead a difficult life, again limited himself in everything, again from purity and decent position he sank into dirt and low life. And in anticipation of a better one, I was even forced to take up the title of attorney, a title that had not yet acquired citizenship from us, pushed from all sides, poorly respected by petty clerks and even by the trustees themselves, condemned to crouching in front, rudeness, etc., but the need forced me to decide on All. Of the orders he got, by the way, one thing: to petition for the placement of several hundred peasants in the Board of Trustees. The estate was ruined to the last degree. It was upset by bestial cases, rogue clerks, crop failures, epidemic diseases that destroyed the best workers, and, finally, the stupidity of the landowner himself, who cleaned his house in Moscow in the last taste and killed his entire fortune to the last penny for this cleaning, so that he no longer what was there. For this reason, it was finally necessary to mortgage the last remaining estate. Mortgage to the treasury was then still a new matter, which was decided not without fear. Chichikov as an attorney, having first arranged everyone (without a preliminary arrangement, as you know, even a simple certificate or correction cannot be taken, nevertheless, at least a bottle of Madeira will have to be poured into every throat), - so, having located everyone who should be, he explained that, by the way, this is a circumstance: half of the peasants died out, so that there would be no bindings later ... - Why, they are listed in the revision tale? the secretary said. "They are," answered Chichikov. “Well, why are you shy?” - said the secretary, - one has died, another will be born, and everything is good for business. The secretary evidently knew how to speak in rhyme. And meanwhile our hero was struck by the most inspiring thought that ever came into human head. “Oh, I’m Akim-simplicity,” he said to himself, “I’m looking for mittens, and both are in my belt! Yes, if I buy all these who have died out before they have yet filed new revision tales, get them, let's say, a thousand, yes, let's say, the board of trustees will give two hundred rubles per capita: that's two hundred thousand capital! And now the time is convenient, there was an epidemic recently, a lot of people died, thank God. The landowners played cards, got drunk and squandered themselves as they should; everyone climbed into Petersburg to serve; the estates are abandoned, they are managed no matter what, the taxes are paid every year more difficultly, so everyone will gladly give them up to me just because they don’t have to pay head-to-head money for them; maybe next time it will happen that from another time I will even get a penny for it. Of course, it’s difficult, troublesome, scary, so that somehow it doesn’t get any more, so as not to lead stories out of this. Well, after all, the mind is given to a person for something. And most importantly, it’s good that the object will seem incredible to everyone, no one will believe it. True, without land it is impossible to buy or mortgage. Why, I'll buy on withdrawal, on withdrawal; now the land in the Tauride and Kherson provinces are given away for free, just populate. I will send them all there! in Kherson them! let them live there! And resettlement can be done legally, as follows from the courts. If they want to examine the peasants: perhaps I’m not averse to this either, why not? I will also present a certificate signed by the police captain in his own hand. The village can be called Chichikov Slobidka or by the name given at baptism: the village of Pavlovskoye. And in this way, this strange plot was formed in the head of our hero, for which, I don’t know whether readers will be grateful to him, and it’s hard to express how grateful the author is. For, whatever you say, if this thought had not occurred to Chichikov, this poem would not have come into being. Crossing himself according to Russian custom, he began to perform. Under the guise of choosing a place to live and under other pretexts, he undertook to look into those and other corners of our state, and mainly into those that suffered more than others from accidents, crop failures, deaths, and other things, and other things - in a word, wherever possible more conveniently and cheaper to buy the needed people. He did not randomly turn to every landowner, but chose people more to his liking or those with whom it would be possible to make similar deals with less difficulty, trying first to get to know each other, to win over him, so that, if possible, by friendship, and not by purchase, he could acquire men. So, readers should not be indignant at the author, if the faces that have hitherto appeared have not come to his taste; this is Chichikov's fault, he is the complete master here, and wherever he pleases, we must drag ourselves there. For our part, if, for sure, the accusation for the pallor and homeliness of faces and characters falls, we will only say that at the beginning one can never see the whole broad course and volume of the case. The entrance to any city, even to the capital, is always somehow pale; at first everything is gray and monotonous: endless factories and factories, sooty with smoke, stretch out, and then the corners of six-story houses, shops, signboards, huge prospects of streets, all in bell towers, columns, statues, towers, with urban brilliance, noise and thunder and everything that the hand and thought of man miraculously produced. How the first purchases were made, the reader has already seen; how things go further, what successes and failures the hero will have, how he will have to resolve and overcome more difficult obstacles, how colossal images will appear, how the innermost levers of a broad story will move, its horizon will be heard in the distance and all of it will take on a majestic lyrical current, he will see later. There is still a long way to go for the entire marching carriage, consisting of a middle-aged gentleman, a britzka in which bachelors ride, Petrushka the footman, Selifan the coachman and three horses, already known by name from the Assessor to the black-haired scoundrel. So, here is our hero, what he is! But they will demand, perhaps, a final definition in one line: who is he in relation to moral qualities? That he is not a hero, full of perfection and virtue, is evident. Who is he? so a scoundrel? Why is a scoundrel, why be so strict with others? Now there are no scoundrels among us, there are well-meaning, pleasant people, and those who would put their physiognomy under a public slap in the face to general disgrace, only two or three people can be found, and even they are now talking about virtue. It is most fair to call him: the owner, the acquirer. Acquisition is the fault of everything; because of him the works were done, to which the light gives a name not very clean. True, there is already something repulsive in such a character, and the same reader who, on his life path, will be friends with such a person, will take bread and salt with him and spend pleasant time, will look askance at him if he turns out to be a hero. dramas or poems. But wise is he who does not shun any character, but, fixing him with a searching look, examines him to the original causes. Everything quickly turns into a person; before you have time to look back, a terrible worm has already grown inside, autocratically turning all the vital juices to itself. And more than once, not only a broad passion, but an insignificant passion for something petty grew in one born for the best deeds, made him forget great and holy duties and see the great and holy in insignificant trinkets. Countless, like the sands of the sea, are human passions, and all are not alike one another, and all of them, low and beautiful, are at first submissive to man and then already become his terrible rulers. Blessed is he who has chosen for himself the most beautiful passion of all; his immeasurable bliss grows and tenfolds every hour and minute, and he enters deeper and deeper into the infinite paradise of his soul. But there are passions whose choice is not from man. They were already born with him at the moment of his birth into the world, and he was not given the strength to deviate from them. They are guided by the highest inscriptions, and there is in them something eternally calling, unceasing throughout life. They are destined to complete the earthly great field: it doesn’t matter whether in a gloomy image, or to rush through as a bright phenomenon that rejoices the world, they are equally called for the good unknown to man. And, perhaps, in this same Chichikov, the passion that attracts him is no longer from him, and in his cold existence lies something that will later plunge a person to dust and knees before the wisdom of heaven. And another mystery is why this image appeared in the poem that is now being born. But it’s not so hard that they will be dissatisfied with the hero, it’s hard that there lives in the soul an irresistible confidence that the readers would be satisfied with the same hero, the same Chichikov. Do not look deeper into his soul, do not stir at the bottom of it what escapes and hides from the light, do not reveal the most secret thoughts that a person does not entrust to anyone else, but show him as he seemed to the whole city, Manilov and other people, and everyone would be welcome and take him for an interesting person. There is no need that neither the face nor the whole image of him would rush about as if alive before his eyes; on the other hand, at the end of the reading, the soul is not alarmed by anything, and one can turn again to the card table that amuses all of Russia. Yes, my good readers, you would hate to see human poverty exposed. Why, you say, what is it for? Don't we ourselves know that there are many despicable and stupid things in life? And without that, it often happens to us to see something that is not at all comforting. Better present to us the beautiful, the fascinating. Let us better forget! “Why are you telling me, brother, that things are going badly on the farm? says the landowner to the clerk. “I, brother, know this without you, but don’t you have other speeches, or what?” You let me forget it, not know it, then I'm happy. And so the money that would somehow improve the matter goes to various means to bring oneself into oblivion. The mind sleeps, perhaps having found a sudden spring of great means; and there the estate bukh from the auction, and the landowner went to forget himself in the world with a soul, from extremes ready for baseness, which he himself would have been horrified before. The author will still be accused by the so-called patriots, who sit quietly in their corners and are engaged in completely extraneous affairs, accumulate capital for themselves, arranging their fate at the expense of others; but as soon as something happens, in their opinion, offensive to the fatherland, some book appears, in which sometimes the bitter truth is revealed, they will run out from all corners, like spiders who see that a fly is entangled in a web, and suddenly raise screams : “Is it good to bring it to light, to proclaim it? After all, this is all that is not described here, this is all ours - is it good? What will foreigners say? Is it fun to hear a bad opinion about yourself? Think it doesn't hurt? Do they think we are not patriots?” To such wise remarks, especially about the opinion of foreigners, I confess, nothing can be tidied up in response. But perhaps this: two inhabitants lived in one remote corner of Russia. One was the father of the family, named Kifa Mokievich, a man of meek disposition, who spent his life in a negligent manner. He did not take care of his family; his existence was turned more speculatively and occupied with the following, as he called it, philosophical question: “Here, for example, the beast,” he said, walking around the room, “the beast will be born naked. Why exactly naked? Why not like a bird, why doesn't it hatch from an egg? How, really, that: you won’t understand nature at all, as you go deeper into it! This is how the inhabitant of Kifa Mokievich thought. But this is not the main point. Another inhabitant was Mokiy Kifovich, his own son. He was what they call in Rus' a hero, and at the time when his father was engaged in the birth of the beast, his twenty-year-old broad-shouldered nature was in a rush to turn around. He never knew how to lightly grasp anything: either someone's hand cracks, or a blister pops up on someone's nose. Everyone in the house and in the neighborhood, from the yard girl to the yard dog, ran away, seeing him; he even broke his own bed in the bedroom into pieces. Such was Mokiy Kifovich, but by the way, he was kind soul . But this is not the main point. And the main thing is this: “Have mercy, father, gentleman, Kifa Mokievich,” both his own and other people’s household said to his father, “what kind of Mokiy Kifovich do you have? No one has peace from him, such a corner!” “Yes, playful, playful,” my father usually said to this, “but what can I do: it’s too late to fight him, and everyone will accuse me of cruelty; but he is an ambitious man, reproach him with a friend or a third, he will calm down, but after all, publicity is the trouble! the city will know, call him a complete dog. What, really, they think, doesn't it hurt me? am I not a father? That I do philosophy and sometimes I don’t have time, so I’m not a father? but no, father! father, damn them, father! I have Moky Kifovich sitting right here, in my heart! - Here Kifa Mokievich beat himself very hard on the chest with his fist and went into complete excitement. “If he remains a dog, then let them not find out about it from me, let it not be me who betrayed him.” And, having shown such a fatherly feeling, he left Mokiy Kifovich to continue his heroic deeds, and he himself turned again to his favorite subject, suddenly asking himself some similar question: “Well, if an elephant was born in an egg, after all, the shell, tea, would be strong she was fat, you can’t break through with a cannon; you need to invent some new firearms." This is how two inhabitants of a peaceful corner spent their lives, who unexpectedly, as if from a window, looked out at the end of our poem, looked out in order to modestly answer the accusation from some ardent patriots, who until the time calmly engaged in some kind of philosophy or increments at the expense of sums tenderly. their beloved fatherland, thinking not about not doing bad things, but about not saying that they are doing bad things. But no, not patriotism and not the first feeling are the reasons for the accusations, something else is hidden under them. Why hide a word? Who, if not the author, should tell the holy truth? You are afraid of a deeply fixed gaze, you yourself are afraid of directing a deep gaze at something, you love to glimpse everything with unthinking eyes. You will even laugh heartily at Chichikov, maybe even praise the author, say: “However, he deftly noticed something, a person must be of a cheerful disposition!” And after such words, with redoubled pride, turn to yourself, a self-satisfied smile will appear on your face, and you will add: “But you must agree, people in some provinces are strange and ridiculous, and scoundrels, moreover, no small!” And which of you, full of Christian humility, not publicly, but in silence, alone, in moments of solitary conversations with himself, will deepen this heavy inquiry into his own soul: “Isn’t there some part of Chichikov in me too? "Yes, no matter how! But if at that time some acquaintance of his, who has a rank neither too high nor too small, passes by at that moment, he will immediately push his neighbor by the arm and say to him, almost snorting with laughter: “Look, look, Get out Chichikov, Chichikov has gone!” And then, like a child, forgetting all decency due to rank and years, he will run after him, teasing him from behind and saying: “Chichikov! Chichikov! Chichikov! But we began to speak quite loudly, forgetting that our hero, who had been sleeping during the whole story of his story, had already woken up and could easily hear his surname so often repeated. He is a touchy person and is dissatisfied if people speak disrespectfully about him. The reader will be pleased whether Chichikov will be angry with him or not, but as for the author, he should in no case quarrel with his hero: there is still a long way and the road they will have to go together hand in hand; two large parts in front - this is not a trifle. — Ehe-he! what are you? Chichikov said to Selifan, "you?" - What? Selifan said in a slow voice. - Like what? Goose you! how do you eat! Come on, touch it! And in fact, Selifan had long been riding with his eyes shut, occasionally only wakingly shaking the reins on the sides of the horses, which were also dozing; and Petrushka's cap had long since fallen off in some place, and he himself, tipping over backwards, buried his head in Chichikov's knee, so that he had to give it a click. Selifan cheered up and, slapping the dapple-haired man several times on the back; after which he set off at a trot, and, waving his whip from above at everyone, said in a thin melodious voice: “Do not be afraid!” The horses stirred and carried, like fluff, a light britzka. Selifan only waved and shouted: “Eh! eh! eh!” - smoothly jumping on the goats, as the troika either took off up the hillock, then rushed in spirit from the hillock, with which the entire high road was strewn, striving with a slightly noticeable roll down. Chichikov only smiled, slightly flying up on his leather cushion, for he liked fast driving. And what Russian does not like to drive fast? Is it his soul, seeking to spin, take a walk, sometimes say: “Damn it all!” Is it possible for his soul not to love her? Is it possible not to love her when something wonderful and wary is heard in her? It seems that an unknown force has taken you on its wing to itself, and you yourself are flying, and everything is flying: miles are flying, merchants are flying towards them on the framing of their wagons, a forest is flying on both sides with dark formations of firs and pines, with a clumsy knock and a crow's cry, flying the whole road, God knows where, into the vanishing distance, and something terrible is contained in this quick flickering, where the vanishing object does not have time to appear - only the sky above the head, and light clouds, and the moon trudging through, alone seem to be motionless. Eh, trio! bird troika, who invented you? to know that you could only be born to a lively people, in that land that does not like to joke, but spread out halfway around the world, and go and count the miles until it fills your eyes. And not a cunning, it seems, road projectile, not captured by an iron screw, but hastily, alive with one ax and a chisel, an efficient Yaroslavl peasant equipped and assembled you. The coachman is not in German boots: a beard and mittens, and the devil knows what he sits on; but he got up, and swung, and sang a song - the horses whirlwind, the spokes in the wheels mixed into one smooth circle, only the road trembled, and the pedestrian who stopped screamed in fright - and there she rushed, rushed, rushed! .. And you can already see in the distance, as something dusts and drills the air. Isn't it true that you too, Rus, that a brisk, unbeatable troika are rushing about? The road smokes under you, the bridges rumble, everything lags behind and is left behind. The contemplative, amazed by God's miracle, stopped: is it not lightning thrown from the sky? what does this terrifying movement mean? and what kind of unknown power lies in these horses unknown to the light? Oh, horses, horses, what horses! Are whirlwinds sitting in your manes? Does a sensitive ear burn in every vein of yours? They heard a familiar song from above, together and at once strained their copper breasts and, almost without touching the ground with their hooves, turned into only elongated lines flying through the air, and all inspired by God rushes! .. Rus', where are you rushing to? Give an answer. Doesn't give an answer. A bell is filled with a wonderful ringing; the air torn to pieces rumbles and becomes the wind; everything that is on earth flies by, and, looking sideways, step aside and give it way to other peoples and states.Russia Rus' bird troika Gogol Russia Rus Ptitsa Troika Gogol
Russia Rus' Bird Troika. Rus', where are you rushing? Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol Dead souls poem rare video rare video video HD Plays a wonderful actor of Russian theater and cinema Leonid Dyachkov Leonid Diachkov
Rus RussiaPtitsaTroika. Rus’ Kuda Nesioshsia Ty?! Russian writer Nickolai Gogol "Miortvye Dushi" the end of the 11th Chapter. rare video rare video video HD
The high cultural heritage of the Russian people.
Excellent methodological material for classes at school, lyceum or university on the topic
Russian literature of the 19th century, history of Russia, patriotism, love for the motherland, ideals of man in Russian culture, freedom, will, expanse of the country, the future of Russia. Preparation for the exam EGE . Preparation for admission to the university, to the university.
Russia Rus' Bird Troika Gogol Dead Souls Rachmaninov 3rd concert
Russia Rus' Bird troika Gogol Dead souls Rachmaninov 3 concertaudio audio mp 3 An excerpt from a wonderful audio book based on the poem in prose by Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol "Dead Souls".
Unfortunately, the annotation erroneously indicates the name of the reader (allegedly Mikhail Ulyanov, but this is not Ulyanov). If someone recognizes the name of the reader, as well as the piece of music and its performer that plays at the end of the audio performance, please write who it is. Let the names of these wonderful performers be known.
Before the beginning of the reading and as a musical paraphrase between the parts, a melody sounds, an excerpt from the Third Piano Concerto by Sergei Rachmaninoff. Piano-genius pianist Vladimir Gorvits. It was one of the best performances of Sergei Rachmaninov's Concerto 3 in history.
"Rus! Rus! .. What incomprehensible secret force attracts you?! Why is your melancholy song, rushing along your entire length and width, from sea to sea, heard and heard incessantly in your ears? What is in it, in this song? What calls, and sobs, and grabs the heart?! .. Russia! .. What incomprehensible connection lurks between us? .. "
N. V. Gogol . Dead Souls. Volume OneChapter Eleven (where to look in the text - this is an excerpt - part of the penultimate paragraph and the last paragraph of the 11th chapter)
“... Chichikov only smiled, slightly flying up on his leather pillow, for he loved fast driving.
And what Russian does not like to drive fast? Is it his soul, seeking to spin, take a walk, sometimes say: “Damn it all!” Is it possible for his soul not to love her? Is it possible not to love her when something wonderful and wary is heard in her?
It seems that an unknown force has taken you on its wing to itself, and you yourself are flying, and everything is flying: miles are flying, merchants are flying towards them on the framing of their wagons, a forest is flying on both sides with dark formations of firs and pines, with a clumsy knock and a crow's cry, flying the whole road, God knows where, into the vanishing distance, and something terrible is contained in this quick flickering, where the vanishing object does not have time to appear - only the sky above the head, and light clouds, and the moon trudging through, alone seem to be motionless.
Eh, trio! bird troika, who invented you? to know that you could only be born to a lively people, in that land that does not like to joke, but spread out halfway around the world, and go and count the miles until it fills your eyes. And not a cunning, it seems, road projectile, not captured by an iron screw, but hastily, alive with one ax and a chisel, an efficient Yaroslavl peasant equipped and assembled you. The coachman is not in German boots: a beard and mittens, and the devil knows what he sits on; but he got up, and swung, and sang a song - the horses whirlwind, the spokes in the wheels mixed into one smooth circle, only the road trembled, and the pedestrian who stopped screamed in fright - and there she rushed, rushed, rushed! .. And you can already see in the distance, as something dusts and drills the air.
Isn't it true that you too, Rus, that a brisk, unbeatable troika are rushing about? The road smokes under you, the bridges rumble, everything lags behind and is left behind. The contemplative, amazed by God's miracle, stopped: is it not lightning thrown from the sky? what does this terrifying movement mean? and what kind of unknown power lies in these horses unknown to the light?
Oh, horses, horses, what horses! Are whirlwinds sitting in your manes? Does a sensitive ear burn in every vein of yours? They heard a familiar song from above, together and at once strained their copper breasts and, almost without touching the ground with their hooves, turned into only elongated lines flying through the air, and everything inspired by God rushes! ..
Read the excerpts from the sixth chapter of the first volume given in the appendix. "Dead Souls" by N.V. Gogol and answer questions.
1. What elements of the composition are found in these passages? On what basis did you identify them?
2. Compare the descriptions of the village, the manor house, the room and appearance of Plyushkin. To what extent do these descriptions correspond to each other? Highlight in these descriptions the main and secondary features of the described objects.
3. Plyushkin's appearance through the eyes of the protagonist is described twice. What is it connected with? What epithets and comparisons does the author resort to, depicting appearance Plushkin? Does this help the reader understand the character of this character?
4. Compare two portrait characteristics of Plyushkin - in old age and youth. How has the hero changed? What internal traits of the hero and external circumstances contributed to his change? Could this hero, in other circumstances, retain those qualities that were inherent in him from a young age? What do you think it would take him to develop these qualities for the better?
5. How true, in your opinion, are the author's reasoning about old age in the last paragraph of the passage? How does this reasoning resonate with the lyrical digression at the beginning of the passage? On what basis can such reasoning be based? Why are they presented in the chapter devoted to Plushkin? To what extent can they be accepted as generalizing and extended to a wider circle of people?
6. Do you know examples (from literary works, your relatives and friends) of noble old age, when a person not only retains all the best qualities that he had in his youth and mature years, but also multiplies them? What do you think contributed to this?
7. Find examples obsolete words and expressions. Write out archaisms and historicisms in a notebook, explain their meanings. Are there words among historicisms that have been revived in modern Russian? What words and expressions in the text indicate the time, place of action, the social status of the characters?
8. Irony is a constant companion of N.V. Gogol. Give examples of irony in these passages. What linguistic means does the writer use to create irony? To what extent does irony help the author to depict the described situation and reveal the character of both characters?
9. Explain the meaning of the adjective vulgar in the text. What is its origin? What did it signify? How has its meaning changed? When answering this question, use " Dictionary living Great Russian language" by Vladimir Ivanovich Dahl.
10. Pluralize a noun year. What form used by N.V. Gogol, corresponds to this modern form? Can we say that in the modern Russian literary language in the plural there are two forms for the word year?
11. How words differ small village And small town from words village And city? What kind of words village, town? What in the text indicates the gender of these nouns?
12. Find words in the text imprinted, led, intervening, silent, for the time being, to speak out, in place, to examine, and replace them with cognates that are more common in modern speech than those used by the author.
13. What do phrases mean state house, tail of the tongue, flow in a vast amount(about the economy), swear words, cotton paper. Is it possible to replace these phrases with modern ones?
14. From what words words are formed petty-bourgeois, landowner, what words do they come from? How have the original meanings of these words changed?
15. Explain the meaning of the sentence County official, pass by - I was already wondering where he was going. What is unusual in the expression of the predicate in the first simple sentence this complex sentence?
16. What comparisons does N.V. Gogol use? What do these comparisons give the reader?
17. What is common in the use of words log And vegetable in sentences Log the huts were dark and old; Storerooms, barns and dryers were cluttered with dried fish and all kinds ofvegetable ?
18. Find a word in the text the Bureau. What is unusual for the modern reader in use given word? What do the words have in common coat, movie, bureau, chimpanzee in modern Russian?
19. What is the meaning of the word apartment?
20. How an adjective is formed friendly? Give as an example an adjective formed in the same way using the same morphemes.
21. What nouns used in the text, except for the word decanter, refer to diminutive derivatives?
22. Write down the words used in the text denoting kinship. Such words are called kinship terms. Are terms of kinship words husband, wife? What terms of kinship, other than those used by the author in this text, You know?
24. Write down all the names of clothes found in the text. Are there old words among them?
25. What are the morphological and syntactic signs of lyrical digressions encountered in the passage you read.
subject.
26. The main character did not immediately recognize in Plyushkin not only a gentleman, but also a man. What signs (appearance, behavior) misled Chichikov? What features, in your opinion, should the main character have an idea of the landowner?
27. Are the contents of the concepts "master" and "landowner" the same? How has the content and scope of the concept of "master" changed in the modern language? Are there any other words in the texts you have read with a changed content and scope of the concept?
28. About the character of a person, his behavior, attitude towards other people, a lot can be said about his habitat and the objects surrounding him. These are also signs on the basis of which we develop (in any case, the first
initial) impression of a person. To what extent do you think these signs are significant? By what we make a more complete picture of a person. Remember proverb about this theme. Try to characterize Plyushkin based on the description of his house and the room where he received Chichikov.
29. In the read text, the names of residential and service buildings are given. What is the content of the relevant concepts? On what grounds are they opposed to each other?
30. Write out from the text verbs denoting movements. Compare their meanings and name the signs by which these verbs differ.
How do verbs differ in pairs? go - walk, run - run, fly - fly, carry - wear, lead - carry, carry - carry, roll - roll, crawl - crawl?
31. With a capital or small letter, you should write the names of literary characters, used in the plural (And now the Chichikovs and Plushkin)?
N.V. Gogol. Dead Souls (excerpt)
Before, long ago, in the summers of my youth, in the summers of my irretrievably flashed childhood, it was fun for me to drive up to an unfamiliar place for the first time: it doesn’t matter whether it was a village, a poor county town, a village, a suburb - I discovered a lot of curious things in it childish curiosity. Every structure, everything that bore only the imprint of some noticeable feature, everything stopped and amazed me. Is it a stone state-owned house, of well-known architecture with half false windows, sticking out all alone among a hewn log heap of one-story philistine houses, is it a regular dome, all upholstered with sheet white iron, elevated above a new church whitened like snow, is it a market, is it a dandy county, caught in the middle of the city - nothing escaped the fresh, subtle attention, and, sticking my nose out of my traveling cart, I looked at the cut of some frock coat that had never been seen before, and at wooden boxes with nails, with gray, yellowing in the distance, with raisins and soap, flickering from the doors of a vegetable shop along with cans of dried Moscow sweets, he looked at an infantry officer walking aside, brought in God knows what province to county boredom, and at a merchant who flickered in a Siberian on a racing droshky, and mentally carried away them into their poor life. District official, pass by - I was already wondering where he was going, whether to the evening to some of his brother,
or straight to your house, so that, after sitting for half an hour on the porch, while twilight has not yet deepened, sit down for an early supper with your mother, with your wife, with your wife's sister and the whole family, and about what they will talk about at that time, when a yard girl in monists or a boy in a thick jacket brings a tallow candle in a long-lasting home candlestick after the soup.
Approaching the village of some landowner, I looked curiously at a tall narrow wooden bell tower or a wide dark wooden old church. The red roof and white chimneys of the landowner's house flashed enticingly to me from a distance through the greenery of the trees, and I waited impatiently until the gardens that protected it would part on both sides and he would show himself all with his own, then, alas! not at all a vulgar appearance, and from it I tried to guess who the landowner himself was, whether he was fat, and whether he had sons, or as many as six daughters with ringing girlish laughter, games and the eternal beauty of the little sister, and whether they were black-eyed, and a merry fellow whether he himself, or gloomy, like September in the last days, looks at the calendar and talks about rye and wheat, boring for youth.
Now I indifferently drive up to any unfamiliar village and look indifferently at its vulgar appearance; my chilled gaze is uncomfortable, it’s not funny to me, and what in former years would have awakened a lively movement in the face, laughter and incessant speeches, now slips by, and my motionless lips keep an indifferent silence. O my youth! oh my freshness!
While Chichikov was thinking and inwardly laughing at the nickname bestowed by the peasants on Plyushkin, he did not notice how he drove into the middle of a vast village with many huts and streets. Soon, however, he noticed this remarkable jolt, produced by a log pavement, in front of which the city stone was nothing. These logs, like piano keys, rose up and down, and the unguarded rider acquired either a bump on the back of his head, or a blue spot on his forehead, or it happened with his own teeth to bite off painfully the tail of his own tongue. He noticed some special dilapidation on all the village buildings: the log on the huts was dark and old; many roofs blew through like a sieve; on others, there was only a ridge on top and poles on the sides in the form of ribs. It seems that the owners themselves took down the rags and hemp from them, arguing, and, of course, it’s fair that they don’t cover the hut in the rain, and they don’t drop into the bucket themselves, but there’s no need to fumble in it when there is room both in the tavern and on the big road, in a word, wherever you want. The windows in the huts were without glass, others were plugged with a rag or zipun; balconies under roofs with railings, for unknown reasons, made in other Russian huts, squinted and turned black, not even picturesquely. Behind the huts in many places stretched rows of huge stacks of bread, which, apparently, had stagnated for a long time; they looked like old, poorly baked bricks in color, all sorts of rubbish grew on their top, and even bushes clung to the side. The bread, apparently, was master's. From behind grain hoards and dilapidated roofs, two rural churches rose up and flickered in the clear air, now to the right, then to the left, as the britzka made turns, one next to the other: an empty wooden one and a stone one, with yellowish walls, stained, cracked. In parts, the master's house began to show itself, and finally looked all in the place where the chain of huts broke off and instead of them there was a wasteland of a vegetable garden or a bush, surrounded by a low, in some places broken city. This strange castle looked like some kind of decrepit invalid, long, unreasonably long. In some places it was one story, in other places it was two; on the dark roof, which did not reliably protect his old age everywhere, two belvederes stuck out, one opposite the other, both already tottering, deprived of the paint that once covered them. The walls of the house slitted bare stucco grating in places and, apparently, suffered a lot from all sorts of bad weather, rains, whirlwinds and autumn changes. Of the windows, only two were open; the rest were shuttered or even boarded up. These two windows, for their part, were also half-sighted; on one of them a pasted triangle of
blue sugar paper. [...]
Having made one or two turns, our hero finally found himself in front of the house, which now seemed even sadder. Green mold has already covered the decayed wood on the fence and gate. A crowd of buildings: human buildings, barns, cellars, apparently dilapidated, filled the yard; near them, to the right and to the left, gates to other courtyards were visible. Everything said that farming had once flown here on a vast scale, and everything looked cloudy now. Nothing was noticeable to enliven the picture: no doors opening, no people coming out from somewhere, no living troubles and worries at home! Only the main gates were open, and that was because a peasant drove in with a loaded cart covered with matting, appearing, as if on purpose, to revive this extinct place; at other times, they were also locked tightly, for a giant lock hung in an iron loop. At one of the buildings, Chichikov soon noticed some figure who began to quarrel with a peasant who had arrived in a cart. For a long time he could not recognize what gender the figure was: a woman or a man. Her dress was completely indefinite, very similar to a woman's hood, on her head was a cap, which village yard women wear, only one voice seemed to him somewhat hoarse for a woman. "Oh, woman!" he thought to himself, and immediately added: "Oh, no!" - "Of course, woman!" he finally said, looking at
closer. The figure, for its part, looked at him intently, too. It seemed that the guest was a novelty for her, because she examined not only him, but also Selifan and the horses, from tail to muzzle. From the keys hanging from her belt and from the fact that she scolded the peasant with rather obnoxious words, Chichikov concluded that this must be the housekeeper.
Listen, mother, - he said, leaving the britzka, - what about Barin? ..
Not at home, - the housekeeper interrupted, without waiting for the end of the question, and then, after a minute, she added: - What do you need?
There is a thing!
Go to the rooms! - said the housekeeper, turning away and showing him her back, stained with flour, with a large hole below.
He stepped into the dark wide passage, from which a cold breeze blew, as from a cellar. From the passage he got into a room, also dark, slightly illuminated by light coming out from under a wide crack at the bottom of the door. Opening this door, he finally found himself in the light and was struck by the disorder that presented itself. It seemed as if the floors were being washed in the house and all the furniture had been piled up here for a while. On one table there was even a broken chair, and next to it was a clock with a stopped pendulum, to which a spider had already attached a web. Right there, leaning sideways against the wall, was a cupboard containing antique silver, decanters, and Chinese porcelain. On the bure, lined with mother-of-pearl mosaics, which had already fallen out in places and left behind only yellowish grooves filled with glue, lay a lot of all sorts of things: a bunch of finely written papers covered with a greenish marble press with an egg on top, some old book bound in leather with red cut, a lemon, all dried up, not more than a hazelnut, a broken armchair, a glass with some liquid and three flies, covered with a letter, a piece of sealing wax, a piece of a rag raised somewhere, two feathers stained with ink, dried up, as in consumption, a toothpick, completely yellowed, with which the owner, perhaps, picked his teeth even before the French invasion of Moscow.[...]
It would have been impossible to say that a living creature lived in this room, if the old, worn cap, lying on the table, did not herald his presence. While he was examining all the strange decoration, a side door opened, and the same housekeeper, whom he had met in the yard, entered. But then he saw that it was more of a housekeeper than a housekeeper: at least the housekeeper does not shave his beard, but this one, on the contrary, shaved, and it seemed quite rarely, because his entire chin with the lower part of the cheek looked like a comber from iron wire, which is used to clean horses in the stable. Chichikov, putting on an inquiring expression on his face, waited impatiently for what the housekeeper wanted to tell him. The key keeper, for his part, also expected what Chichikov wanted to tell him. Finally, the last, surprised ta-
With strange bewilderment, he decided to ask:
What is the barin? at home, right?
The owner is here, - said the keykeeper.
Where? Chichikov repeated.
What, father, are they blind, or what? - said the key. - Ehwa! And I'm the owner!
Here our hero involuntarily stepped back and looked at him intently. He happened to see many different kinds of people, even such as the reader and I may never have to see; but he had never seen anything like it. His face was nothing special; it was almost the same as that of many thin old men, only one chin protruded very far forward, so that he had to cover it with a handkerchief every time so as not to spit; little eyes had not yet gone out and were running from under high-grown eyebrows, like mice, when, sticking out their pointed muzzles from dark holes, pricking up their ears and blinking their mustaches, they look out for a cat or a naughty boy hiding somewhere, and suspiciously smell the very air. Much more remarkable was his attire: no means and efforts could have got to the bottom of what his dressing gown was concocted from: the sleeves and upper floors were so greasy and shiny that they looked like yuft, which is used for boots; behind, instead of two, four floors dangled, from which cotton paper climbed in flakes. He also had something tied around his neck that could not be made out: whether it was a stocking, a garter, or an underbelly, but not a tie. In a word, if Chichikov had met him, dressed up like that, somewhere at the church doors, he would probably have given him a copper penny. For to the honor of our hero, it must be said that his heart was compassionate and he could not resist in any way not to give the poor man a copper penny. But before him stood not a beggar, before him stood a landowner. This landowner had more than a thousand souls, and who would have tried to find from anyone else so much bread, grain, flour and just in the luggage, who would have pantries, barns and dryers cluttered with such a multitude of canvases, cloths, dressed sheepskins and rawhide, dried fish and any vegetable, or gubin. If someone had looked into his working yard, where it was prepared for a supply of all kinds of wood and utensils that had never been used, it would have seemed to him that he had somehow ended up in Moscow on a wood chip yard, where quick mothers-in-law and mother-in-law, with cooks behind, to make their household supplies and where every tree whitens like mountains - sewn, chiseled, laid and wicker: barrels, crossed, tubs, lagoons, jugs with stigmas and without stigmas, brothers, baskets, mykolniki, where the women put their lobes and other squabbles, boxes made of thin bent aspen, beetroots made of wicker birch bark, and a lot of everything that goes to the needs of rich and poor Russia. Why would Plyushkin, it seemed, need such a destruction of such products? in his whole life he would not have had to use them even on two such estates as he had - but even this seemed to him not enough. Not content with this, he still walked every day through the streets of his village, looked under the bridges, under the crossbars and everything that came across to him: an old sole, a woman's rag, an iron nail, a clay shard - he dragged everything to himself and put it in the pile that Chichikov noticed in the corner of the room. "There already the fisherman went hunting!" - the peasants said when they saw him going to prey. And in fact, after him there was no need to sweep the street: a passing officer happened to lose his spur, this spur immediately went into a known heap; if a woman, somehow gaping at the well, forgot the bucket, he dragged the bucket away. however, when the peasant who noticed him caught him right there, he did not argue and handed over the stolen thing; but as soon as it got into a pile, then it was all over: he swore that the thing was his, bought by him then, from someone, or inherited from his grandfather. In his room, he picked up everything he saw from the floor: sealing wax, a piece of paper, a feather, and put it all on a bureau or on a window.
But there was a time when he was only a thrifty owner! He was married and a family man, and a neighbor came to dine with him, listen to him and learn from him housekeeping and wise avarice. Everything flowed vividly and took place at a measured pace: mills, felters were moving, cloth factories, carpentry machines, spinning mills were working; everywhere the keen glance of the owner entered into everything and, like an industrious spider, he ran troublesomely, but quickly, along all ends of his economic web. Too strong feelings were not reflected in his features, but intelligence was visible in his eyes; his speech was permeated with experience and knowledge of the world, and it was pleasant for the guest to listen to him; the friendly and talkative hostess was famous for her hospitality; two pretty daughters came out to meet them, both blond and fresh as roses; the son ran out, a broken boy, and kissed everyone, paying little attention to whether the guest was happy or not happy about this. All the windows in the house were open, the mezzanine was occupied by the apartment of a French teacher, who had a nice shave and was a great shooter: he always brought black grouse and ducks for dinner, and sometimes only sparrow eggs, from which he ordered scrambled eggs, because no one else in the house did not eat. His compatriot, the mentor of two girls, also lived on the mezzanine. The owner himself appeared at the table in a frock coat, although somewhat worn, but neat, the elbows were in order: there was no patch anywhere. But the good mistress died; part of the keys, and with them minor worries, passed to him. Plyushkin became more restless and, like all widowers, more suspicious and stingy. He could not rely on his eldest daughter Alexandra Stepanovna in everything, and he was right, because Alexandra Stepanovna soon ran away with the staff captain, God knows what cavalry regiment, and married him somewhere hastily in the village church, knowing that her father does not like officers due to a strange prejudice, as if all military gamblers and motishki. Her father sent a curse to her on the road, but did not care to pursue. The house became even more empty. In the owner, stinginess became more noticeable, his gray hair sparkling in his coarse hair, her faithful friend, helped her to develop even more; the French teacher was released because it was time for his son to serve; Madame was driven away, because she turned out to be not without sin in the abduction of Alexandra Stepanovna; the son, being sent to a provincial town in order to find out in the ward, in the opinion of his father, an essential service, decided instead to join the regiment and wrote to his father already in his own definition, asking for money for uniforms; it is quite natural that he received for this what is called shish in the common people. Finally, the last daughter who remained with him in the house died, and the old man found himself alone the watchman, keeper and owner of his wealth. A solitary life has given nourishment to avarice, which, as you know, has a ravenous hunger, and the more it devours, the more insatiable it becomes; human feelings, which were already not deep in him, grew shallow every minute, and every day something was lost in this worn-out ruin. If it happened at such a moment, as if on purpose to confirm his opinion about the military, that his son lost at cards; he sent him his father's curse from the bottom of his heart and was never interested in knowing whether he existed in the world or not. Every year the windows in his house were pretended to be, finally only two remained, of which one, as the reader has already seen, was sealed with paper; every year more and more of the main parts of the household went out of sight, and his petty glance turned to the pieces of paper and feathers that he collected in his room; he became more uncompromising to the buyers who came to take away his household works; the buyers bargained and bargained and finally abandoned him altogether, saying that he was a demon and not a man; hay and bread rotted, stacks and haystacks turned into clean carts, even plant cabbage on them, flour in the cellars turned into stone, and it was necessary to chop it, it was terrible to touch the cloth, canvas and household materials: they turned into dust. He himself had already forgotten how much he had, and he only remembered where in his closet there was a decanter with the rest of some kind of tincture, on which he himself made a mark so that no one thieves would drink it, and where the feather lay or wax. Meanwhile, income was collected on the farm as before: the peasant had to bring the same amount of quitrent, every woman had to pay the same amount of nuts, the weaver had to weave the same amount of linen - all this fell into the storerooms, and everything became rotten and torn , and he himself turned at last into some kind of tear in humanity. [...]
And so, what kind of landowner stood before Chichikov! It must be said that such a phenomenon rarely comes across in Rus', where everything likes to unfold rather than shrink, and it is all the more striking that right there in the neighborhood a landowner will turn up, reveling in the full breadth of Russian prowess and nobility, burning, as they say, through life . [...]
And a person could descend to such insignificance, pettiness, disgust! could have changed! And does it look like it's true? Everything seems to be true, everything can happen to a person. The current fiery young man would jump back in horror if they showed him his own portrait in old age. Take with you on your journey, emerging from your soft youthful years into a stern, hardening courage, take with you all human movements, do not leave them on the road, do not pick them up later! Terrible, terrible is the coming old age ahead, and gives nothing back and back! The grave is more merciful than her, on the grave it will be written: "A man is buried here!" - but nothing can be read in the cold, insensitive features of inhuman old age.
Glossary
Mezzanine, pl. - The top floor of the house.
bang, nesov. - To bask.
Gazebo, m. - A small structure towering above the roof.
Beetroot, m. - A box of birch bark.
squabble, m. - Small items; trash.
Zipun, m. - Peasant working caftan.
Apartment, and. - Housing, place of residence.
compatriot, and. - Compatriot.
madam, and. - A French governess.
lobe, and. - Thread, fiber, yarn.
Mykolnik, m. - Lukoshko.
crossed, m. - A barrel sawn in half.
twin brother, g - Large foot, a vessel for drinking.
Siberia, and. - A kind of short caftan.
frock coat, m. - Men's top double-breasted clothing at the waist in long floors.
Staff captain, m. - Officer rank in the pre-revolutionary Russian army, as well as
face in this rank.
Chip yard.- A market where they sold wooden carved, turning utensils.
Yuft, and. - Bull or cow leather dressed with tar.
