Anton Chekhov - gooseberry. Online reading of the book Stories; Tales; Plays Gooseberry Composition and plot of the work

Gooseberry

From early morning the whole sky was overlaid with rain clouds; it was quiet, not hot and dull, as happens on gray overcast days, when clouds have long hung over the field, you are waiting for rain, but it is not. The veterinarian Ivan Ivanovich and the teacher of the gymnasium Burkin were already tired of walking, and the field seemed endless to them. Far ahead, the windmills of the village of Mironositsky were barely visible, on the right a row of hills stretched and then disappeared far beyond the village, and both of them knew that this was the bank of the river, there were meadows, green willows, estates, and if you stand on one of the hills, you can see from there the same vast field, the telegraph office and the train, which from afar looks like a crawling caterpillar, and in clear weather even the city can be seen from there. Now, in calm weather, when all nature seemed meek and thoughtful, Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were imbued with love for this field, and both thought about how great, how beautiful this country is.
“Last time, when we were in Prokofy's shed,” Burkin said, “you were going to tell a story.
Yes, I wanted to tell you about my brother then.
Ivan Ivanovich sighed and lit his pipe to begin his story, but just at that time it began to rain. And in about five minutes it was already pouring heavily, heavy rain, and it was difficult to foresee when it would end. Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin stopped in thought; the dogs, already wet, stood with their tails between their legs and looked at them with emotion.
“We need to hide somewhere,” Burkin said.
- Let's go to Alekhine. It's close here.
- Let's go.
They turned aside and walked all over the mowed field, now straight, then turning to the right, until they came to the road. Soon the poplars, the garden, then the red roofs of the barns appeared; the river shone, and a view of a wide stretch with a mill and a white bath opened up. It was Sofyino, where Alekhine lived.
The mill worked, drowning out the sound of the rain; the dam shook. Here, near the carts, wet horses stood with bowed heads, and people walked around, covered with sacks. It was damp, dirty, uncomfortable, and the view of the reach was cold and angry. Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were already experiencing a feeling of sputum, uncleanness, discomfort all over their bodies, their legs were heavy with mud, and when, having passed the dam, they went up to the master's barns, they were silent, as if angry with each other.
In one of the barns a winnowing machine was noisy; The door was open and dust was pouring out of it. Alekhin himself stood on the threshold, a man of about forty, tall, plump, with long hair, looking more like a professor or an artist than a landowner. He was wearing a white shirt with a rope belt that had not been washed for a long time, underpants instead of trousers, and mud and straw had also stuck to his boots. The nose and eyes were black with dust. He recognized Ivan Ivanitch and Burkin and, apparently, was very glad.
“Come, gentlemen, into the house,” he said, smiling. “I am now, this minute.
The house was large, two stories high. Alekhine lived downstairs, in two rooms with vaults and small windows, where clerks had once lived; the atmosphere here was simple, and there was a smell of rye bread, cheap vodka, and harness. Upstairs, in the front rooms, he rarely visited, only when guests arrived. Ivan Ivanitch and Burkin were met at the house by the maid, a young woman so beautiful that they both stopped at once and looked at each other.
"You can't imagine how glad I am to see you, gentlemen," said Alekhin, following them into the hall. - I didn't expect it! Pelageya,” he turned to the maid, “let the guests change into something. By the way, I'll change my clothes. Only I must first go to wash, otherwise I seem to have not washed since spring. Would you like to go to the bath, gentlemen, and then they will cook it.
Beautiful Pelageya, so delicate and seemingly so soft, brought sheets and soap, and Alekhin and the guests went to the bath.
“Yes, I haven’t washed in a long time,” he said, undressing. - As you can see, my bath is good, my father was still building it, but somehow there is no time to wash.
He sat down on the step and lathered his long hair and neck, and the water around him turned brown.
"Yes, I confess..." Ivan Ivanovich said, looking significantly at his head.
“It’s been a long time since I washed…” Alekhin repeated embarrassingly and soaped himself again, and the water around him turned dark blue, like ink.
Ivan Ivanovich went outside, threw himself into the water with a noise and swam in the rain, waving his arms widely, and waves came from him, and white lilies swayed on the waves; he swam to the very middle of the reach and dived, and a minute later he appeared in another place and swam further, and kept diving, trying to reach the bottom. “Oh, my God…” he repeated, enjoying himself. “Ah, my God…” He swam to the mill, talked about something with the peasants there and turned back, and lay down in the middle of the stretch, exposing his face to the rain. Burkin and Alekhin got dressed and got ready to leave, while he kept swimming and diving.
“Oh, my God…” he said. “Ah, Lord have mercy.
- You will! Burkin called to him.
We returned to the house. And only when a lamp was lit in the large living room upstairs, and Burkin and Ivan Ivanovich, dressed in silk dressing gowns and warm shoes, sat in armchairs, and Alekhin himself, washed, combed, in a new frock coat, walked around the drawing room, apparently feeling the warmth with pleasure, cleanliness, dry dress, light shoes, and when the beautiful Pelageya, silently stepping on the carpet and smiling softly, served tea and jam on a tray, only then did Ivan Ivanovich begin the story, and it seemed that not only Burkin and Alekhin were listening to him, but also old and young ladies and military men, looking calmly and sternly from their golden frames.
“We are two brothers,” he began, “I, Ivan Ivanovich, and the other, Nikolai Ivanovich, is two years younger. I went to the scientific department, became a veterinarian, and Nikolai had been sitting in the state chamber since the age of nineteen. Our father Chimsha-Himalayan was from the cantonists, but, having served the rank of officer, he left us a hereditary nobility and a small estate. After his death, our little estate was taken away for debts, but, be that as it may, we spent our childhood in the countryside in the wild. We, all the same, like peasant children, spent days and nights in the field, in the forest, guarding the horses, flaying the bast, catching fish, and so on ... Do you know who at least once in their life caught a ruff or saw migratory thrushes in autumn, how they on clear, cool days they rush in flocks over the village, he is no longer a city dweller, and will be sipped at will until his death. My brother yearned in the Treasury. Years passed, and he still sat in one place, wrote all the same papers and thought about the same thing, as in the village. And this melancholy in him little by little turned into a certain desire, into a dream of buying himself a small estate somewhere on the banks of a river or lake.
He was a kind, meek man, I loved him, but I never sympathized with this desire to lock myself up for the rest of my life in my own estate. It is customary to say that a person needs only three arshins of earth. But a corpse needs three arshins, not a man. And they also say now that if our intelligentsia has a gravitation towards the earth and aspires to estates, then this is good. But these estates are the same three arshins of land. To leave the city, from the struggle, from the noise of life, to leave and hide in one's estate - this is not life, this is selfishness, laziness, this is a kind of monasticism, but monasticism without achievement. A person needs three arshins of land, not a farmstead, but the whole globe, all nature, where in the open space he could manifest all the properties and characteristics of a free spirit.
My brother Nikolai, sitting in his office, dreamed of how he would eat his own cabbage soup, from which there is such a delicious smell throughout the yard, eat on green grass, sleep in the sun, sit for hours outside the gate on a bench and look at the field and forest. Agricultural books and all these advices in calendars were his joy, his favorite spiritual food; he also liked to read newspapers, but he only read advertisements in them that so many acres of arable land and meadows with an estate, a garden, a mill, and flowing ponds were being sold. And paths in the garden were drawn in his head, flowers, fruits, birdhouses, crucian carp in the ponds, and, you know, all this stuff. These imaginary pictures were different, depending on the advertisements that came across to him, but for some reason in each of them there was always a gooseberry. He could not imagine a single estate, a single poetic corner without gooseberries.
“Country life has its conveniences,” he used to say. - You sit on the balcony, drink tea, and your ducks swim on the pond, it smells so good, and ... and gooseberries grow.
He drew a plan of his estate, and every time he got the same thing on the plan: a) a manor's house, b) a man's house, c) a garden, d) a gooseberry. He lived sparingly: he did not eat, did not drink enough, dressed God knows how, like a beggar, and saved everything and put it in the bank. Terribly thirsty. It hurt me to look at him, and I gave him something and sent it on holidays, but he hid that too. If a person has an idea, then nothing can be done.
Years passed, he was transferred to another province, he was already forty years old, and he kept reading advertisements in newspapers and saving up. Then, I hear, he got married. All with the same purpose, in order to buy himself an estate with gooseberries, he married an old, ugly widow, without any feeling, but only because she had some money. He also lived sparingly with her, kept her from hand to mouth, and put her money in a bank in his name. She used to go to the postmaster and got used to pies and liqueurs with him, but she didn’t see enough black bread with her second husband; she began to wither away from such a life, but after three years she took and gave her soul to God. And, of course, my brother did not think for a single minute that he was to blame for her death. Money, like vodka, makes a person weird. A merchant was dying in our city. Before his death, he ordered a plate of honey to be served to him and ate all his money and winning tickets along with honey so that no one would get it. Once at the station I was inspecting the herds, and at that time one horse-dealer fell under a locomotive, and his leg was cut off. We carry him to the emergency room, the blood is pouring - a terrible thing, but he keeps asking for his leg to be found, and everyone is worried: there are twenty rubles in the boot on the cut off leg, as if they were not lost.
"You're from another opera," said Burkin.
“After the death of his wife,” continued Ivan Ivanovich, after thinking for half a minute, “my brother began to look out for an estate. Of course, look out for at least five years, but in the end you will make a mistake and buy something completely different from what you dreamed about. Brother Nikolai, through a commission agent, with the transfer of a debt, bought one hundred and twelve acres with a manor house, with a people's house, with a park, but no orchard, no gooseberries, no ponds with ducks; there was a river, but the water in it was the color of coffee, because there was a brick factory on one side of the estate, and a bone factory on the other. But my Nikolai Ivanovich did not grieve a little; he ordered twenty gooseberry bushes for himself, planted and lived as a landowner.
Last year I went to visit him. I'll go, I think, I'll see how and what's there. In his letters, the brother called his estate like this: Chumbaroklova wasteland, Himalayan identity. I arrived at Himalayan Identity in the afternoon. It was hot. Near the ditch, fences, hedges, lined with Christmas trees - and you don't know how to get into the yard, where to put the horse. I go to the house, and towards me is a red dog, fat, like a pig. She wants to bark, but laziness. The cook came out of the kitchen, bare-legged, fat, also like a pig, and said that the master was resting after dinner. I go in to my brother, he is sitting in bed, his knees are covered with a blanket; aged, stout, flabby; cheeks, nose and lips stretch forward - just look, grunts into the blanket.
We hugged and wept for joy and for the sad thought that once we were young, and now both are gray-haired, and it's time to die. He dressed and took me to show his estate.
- Well, how are you doing here? I asked.
- Yes, nothing, thank God, I live well.
This was no longer the former timid poor official, but a real landowner, a gentleman. He had already settled down here, got used to it and got a taste for it; he ate a lot, washed in the bathhouse, grew stout, was already suing society and both factories, and was very offended when the peasants did not call him "your honor." And he took care of his soul solidly, in a lordly way, and did good deeds not simply, but with importance. What are good deeds? He treated the peasants for all diseases with soda and castor oil, and on the day of his name day he served a thanksgiving service among the village, and then put half a bucket, he thought that it was necessary. Ah, those awful half-buckets! Today the fat landowner drags the peasants to the zemstvo chief for poisoning, and tomorrow, on a solemn day, he gives them half a bucket, and they drink and shout "Hurrah", and the drunks bow at his feet. A change of life for the better, satiety, idleness develop in a Russian person self-conceit, the most arrogant. Nikolai Ivanovich, who at one time in the Treasury was afraid to have his own views even for himself personally, now spoke nothing but the truth, and in such a tone, like a minister: “Education is necessary, but for the people it is premature”, “corporal punishment is generally harmful, but in some cases they are useful and irreplaceable.”
“I know the people and know how to deal with them,” he said. “People love me. I have only to lift a finger, and for me the people will do whatever they want.
And all this, mind you, was said with a clever, kind smile. He repeated twenty times: “we are noblemen”, “I am like a nobleman”; obviously, he no longer remembered that our grandfather was a peasant, and his father was a soldier. Even our surname Chimsha-Himalayan is in essence inconsistent, it now seemed to him sonorous, noble and very pleasant.
But it's not about him, it's about me. I want to tell you what a change took place in me during those few hours while I was at his estate. In the evening, when we were drinking tea, the cook brought a plate full of gooseberries to the table. It was not bought, but his own gooseberries, harvested for the first time since the bushes had been planted. Nikolai Ivanovich laughed and for a minute looked at the gooseberries in silence, with tears - he could not speak for excitement, then he put one berry in his mouth, looked at me with the triumph of a child who has finally received his favorite toy, and said:
- So tasty!
And he ate greedily and kept repeating:
- Oh, how delicious! You try!
It was tough and sour, but, as Pushkin said, "the darkness of truth is dearer to us than the uplifting deceit." I saw a happy man, whose cherished dream came true so obviously, who achieved the goal in life, got what he wanted, who was satisfied with his fate, with himself. For some reason, something sad was always mixed with my thoughts about human happiness, but now, at the sight of a happy person, I was seized by a heavy feeling, close to despair. It was especially hard at night. They made a bed for me in the room next to my brother's bedroom, and I could hear how he did not sleep and how he got up and went to a plate of gooseberries and took a berry. I thought: how, in fact, there are many satisfied, happy people! What an overwhelming power! Look at this life: the arrogance and idleness of the strong, the ignorance and bestiality of the weak, impossible poverty all around, cramped conditions, degeneration, drunkenness, hypocrisy, lies... Meanwhile, in all the houses and on the streets there is silence, calmness; out of fifty thousand living in the city, not one who would have cried out, loudly indignant. We see those who go to the market for provisions, eat during the day, sleep at night, who talk their nonsense, marry, grow old, complacently drag their dead to the cemetery; but we do not see or hear those who suffer, and what is terrible in life happens somewhere behind the scenes. Everything is quiet, calm, and only mute statistics protest: so many went crazy, so many buckets were drunk, so many children died from malnutrition ... And such an order is obviously needed; Obviously, the happy one feels good only because the unfortunate bear their burden in silence, and without this silence, happiness would be impossible. This is general hypnosis. It is necessary that behind the door of every contented, happy person someone stands with a hammer and constantly reminds by knocking that there are unfortunate people, that, no matter how happy he is, sooner or later life will show him its claws, trouble will strike - illness, poverty. , losses, and no one will see or hear him, just as now he does not see or hear others. But there is no man with a hammer, the happy one lives for himself, and the petty cares of life excite him slightly, like the wind does the aspen - and everything is going well.
“That night it became clear to me how pleased and happy I was, too,” continued Ivan Ivanovich, getting up. - I also taught at dinner and on the hunt how to live, how to believe, how to rule the people. I also said that learning is light, that education is necessary, but for ordinary people one letter is enough for the time being. Freedom is a blessing, I said, it is impossible without it, as without air, but we must wait. Yes, I said so, and now I ask: in the name of what to wait? Ivan Ivanovich asked, looking angrily at Burkin. What are you waiting for, I ask you? For what reasons? I am told that not all at once, every idea is realized in life gradually, in due time. But who is saying this? Where is the evidence that this is true? You are referring to the natural order of things, to the legitimacy of phenomena, but is there any order and legitimacy in the fact that I, a living, thinking person, stand over a moat and wait for it to overgrow itself or become covered in silt, while, perhaps, could I jump over it or build a bridge over it? And again, in the name of what to wait? Wait when there is no strength to live, but meanwhile you need to live and want to live!
I then left my brother early in the morning, and since then it has become unbearable for me to be in the city. Silence and tranquility oppress me, I am afraid to look at the windows, because now there is no more difficult sight for me than a happy family sitting around the table and drinking tea. I am already old and not fit to fight, I am unable even to hate. I only grieve sincerely, I get irritated, annoyed, at night my head burns from the influx of thoughts, and I cannot sleep ... Oh, if only I were young!
Ivan Ivanitch paced from corner to corner in agitation and repeated:
- If only I were young!
He suddenly went up to Alekhine and began to shake him first one hand, then the other.
- Pavel Konstantinovich! he said in a pleading voice. "Don't calm down, don't let yourself be put to sleep!" While you are young, strong, cheerful, do not get tired of doing good! Happiness does not and should not exist, and if there is a meaning and purpose in life, then this meaning and purpose is not at all in our happiness, but in something more reasonable and greater. Do good!
And Ivan Ivanovich said all this with a pitiful, begging smile, as if asking for it personally.
Then all three sat in armchairs at different ends of the living room, and were silent. Ivan Ivanovich's story did not satisfy either Burkin or Alekhine. When the generals and ladies looked out of the golden frames, who seemed alive in the twilight, it was boring to listen to the story about the poor official who ate gooseberries. For some reason, I wanted to talk and listen about elegant people, about women. And the fact that they were sitting in the living room, where everything - the chandelier in the case, and the armchairs, and the carpets underfoot - said that they once walked here, sat, drank tea, these same people who now looked out of the frames, and the fact that beautiful Pelageya was now walking silently here was better than any stories.
Alekhine was very sleepy; he got up early to do chores, at three o'clock in the morning, and now his eyes were closed, but he was afraid that the guests would not begin to tell something interesting without him, and did not leave. Whether it was clever, whether what Ivan Ivanovich had just said was fair, he did not delve into it; the guests were not talking about cereals, not about hay, not about tar, but about something that had no direct relation to his life, and he was glad and wanted them to continue ...
"But it's time for bed," said Burkin, getting up. “Let me wish you good night.
Alekhin said goodbye and went downstairs to his room, while the guests remained upstairs. They were both given a large room for the night, where there were two old wooden beds with carved decorations and an ivory crucifix in the corner; from their beds, wide, cool, which were made by the beautiful Pelageya, there was a pleasant smell of fresh linen.
Ivan Ivanovich silently undressed and lay down.
Lord, forgive us sinners! he said and covered his head.
From his pipe, which lay on the table, there was a strong smell of tobacco fumes, and Burkin did not sleep for a long time and still could not understand where this heavy smell came from.
The rain pounded on the windows all night.

The end of the 19th century was a time marked by a period of stagnation in the social and political life of Russia. In these difficult days for our Fatherland, the famous writer A.P. Chekhov is trying to convey good ideas to thinking people. So, in the story "Gooseberry" he asks the reader questions about the meaning of life and true happiness, exposing the conflict between material and spiritual wealth.

Included in the "little trilogy" is the story of A.P. Chekhov's "Gooseberry" was published by the publishers of "Russian Thought" in 1898. It was created by a writer in the village of Melikhovo, Moscow region. This story is a continuation of the work "The Man in the Case", which also tells about a dead human soul with a distorted concept of happiness.

It is believed that Chekhov took the story that the famous lawyer Anatoly Koni told the writer L.N. Tolstoy. This story tells about one official who, like N.I. Chimshe-Himalayan, saved his savings all his life for the sake of fulfilling his dream. The official believed that a dress uniform with gold embroidery would bring him honor and respect, make him happy. But during his lifetime, the “happy” thing was not useful to him. Moreover, the uniform, tarnished from mothballs, was put on the poor fellow only at his own funeral.

Genre and direction

The work "Gooseberry" is written in the genre of a story and belongs to such a direction in literary work as realism. A laconic prose form allows the author to express his thoughts as briefly as possible, and as a result, to attract the attention of the reader, to reach his heart.

As you know, the story is distinguished from other genres by the presence of only one storyline, the presence of one or two main characters, a small number of minor characters and a small volume. We observe all these signs in the Gooseberry.

About what?

The veterinarian Ivan Ivanovich Chimsha-Gimalaysky and the teacher of the gymnasium Burkin were caught in the rain in the field. The heroes wait out the bad weather in the estate of Alekhine, a friend of Ivan Ivanovich. Then the doctor shares with his companions the story of his brother, whose fate was sad.

From childhood, the brothers learned one simple truth - you have to pay for pleasure. They came from a poor family, tried to provide for themselves.

The youngest of the brothers, Nikolai Ivanovich, was especially eager to enrich himself. The limit of all his dreams was a manor and a garden in which ripe and fragrant gooseberries would grow. In order to achieve his goal, Chimsha-Gimala even killed his wife, albeit not on purpose. He saved on everything, seemed to notice nothing around, except for the advertisements for the sale of "acres of arable land and a meadow with an estate." In the end, he still managed to acquire the coveted plot. On the one hand, the main character is happy, he eats his gooseberries with pleasure, pretends to be a stern but fair gentleman ... But on the other hand, the current situation of Nikolai Ivanovich does not please his brother, who came to visit. Ivan Ivanovich understands that there are things whose value is much more significant than the pleasure of eating your own gooseberries. It is at this moment that the conflict between the material and the spiritual reaches its apogee.

Composition

The plot of "Gooseberry" is built on the principle of "story within a story". Non-linear narration helps the author to deepen the meaning of the work.

In addition to the story of the main character of the story, Nikolai Ivanovich Chimshi-Himalayan, there is another reality in which Ivan Ivanovich, Alekhin and Burkin live. The last two give their assessment of what happened to Nikolai Ivanovich. Their ideas about life are the most common version of the existence of people. It is important to pay attention to the exposition of the story, which contains a detailed description of nature. The landscape in the estate of Nikolai Ivanovich confirms the spiritual poverty of the newly minted master.

Main characters and their characteristics

1. Chimsha-Himalaisky Ivan Ivanovich- a representative of the nobility, who serves in the medical field - treats animals. He is also a character in the stories "The Man in the Case" and "About Love". This hero performs important functions in the story "Gooseberry". Firstly, he is a narrator, and secondly, a reasoning hero, since from his lips the reader can hear the author's message, his main thoughts. For example, the words of Ivan Ivanych about the transience of life, the need to act and live here and now.
2. Chimsha-Gimalaysky Nikolai Ivanych- a representative of the nobility, a petty official, and then a landowner. He is two years younger than his brother, "a kind, meek man." The character sought to return to the village - to lead a quiet life of a landowner. He dreamed about how he would feed the ducks on the pond, walk in the garden, bathing in the rays of the warm sun, pick ripe gooseberries from the branches still wet from the morning dew. For the sake of a dream, he denied himself everything: he saved, he married not for love. After the death of his wife, he was finally able to buy the estate of his dreams: he settled down, began to gain weight and put on airs, talk about his noble origin, and asked the peasants to address himself as “Your Honor”.

Themes

This work deals with themes of happiness, dreams, the search for the meaning of life. All three themes are closely related to each other. The dream of his own estate with gooseberries led Nikolai Ivanych to his happiness. He not only ate gooseberries with pleasure, but also spoke with an intelligent air about public education, sincerely believed that thanks to him every simple peasant could become a full-fledged member of society. Only now the happiness of the protagonist is false: it's just peace, idleness, which lead him to stagnation. Time around him literally stopped: he does not need to bother himself, try and deny himself anything, because now he is a gentleman. Previously, Nikolai Ivanovich was firmly convinced that happiness must be won, deserved. Now, in his opinion, happiness is a gift from God, and only a chosen one like him can live in paradise on earth. That is, his dubious achievement has become only fertile ground for selfishness. A man lives only for himself. Having become rich, he became impoverished spiritually.

It is possible to single out such a topic as indifference and responsiveness. The narrator, discussing this topic, notes that neither Alekhine nor Burkin fully understood his ideas, they showed passivity to a very instructive story about the meaning of life. Ivan Ivanovich Chimsha-Himalayan himself urges everyone to seek happiness throughout their lives, to remember people, and not just themselves.

And thus, the hero admits, the meaning of life lies not in the satisfaction of carnal desires, but in more sublime things, for example, helping others.

Problems

1. Greed and vanity. The main problem in the story "Gooseberry" is a person's delusions that true happiness is material wealth. So, Nikolai Ivanovich worked all his life for the sake of money, lived in the name of them. As a result, his ideas turned out to be erroneous, which is why he ate sour gooseberries, smiling and saying: “Oh, how delicious!”. In his view, only money gives a person significance: being a gentleman, he himself began to exalt himself, as if without an estate
2. An equally important issue is selfishness. The protagonist, like many people on earth, forgot or did not want to remember the misfortunes of others. He followed this rule: I feel good, but the rest do not care.

Meaning

The main idea of ​​A.P. Chekhov is expressed in the phrase of Ivan Ivanovich that one cannot rejoice when others feel bad. You can not close your eyes to other people's problems, it is important to remember that trouble can knock on any house. It is important to be able to respond to requests for help in time, so that they can help you in difficult times. Thus, the author expresses his contempt for the constant peace and stagnation in human life. Happiness, according to Chekhov, is a movement, an action aimed at doing good and just deeds.

The same idea can be traced in all parts of the trilogy.

Criticism

Positively rated the story "Gooseberry" V. I. Nemirovich-Danchenko:

Well, because there is a color inherent in you, both in the general tone and background, and in the language, and also because very good thoughts ...

But not only critics and literary critics spoke about what they read. Ordinary people actively wrote letters to Anton Pavlovich. For example, once a writer received a letter from Natalia Dushina, a student at a technical school. Here is her quote:

When I read something of yours, I always feel that I lived with these people, that I want to say the same thing about them that you said, and I am not alone in feeling this, and this is because you write only the truth and everything that is said not as you said will be a lie ...

The most detailed description of Chekhov's creative manner of describing the realities of Russian life was given by B. Eichenbaum in his article in the magazine "Star" :

Over the years, Chekhov's artistic diagnoses were refined and deepened. The sickness of Russian life took on sharper and brighter outlines under his pen.<…>From diagnoses, Chekhov began to move on to issues of treatment. This came out with particular force in the story "The Gooseberry".<…>Chekhov never composed - he heard these words in his life and was delighted with them, because he himself was this man with a hammer. He knocked at the very heart of Russia - and got through.

He spoke especially emotionally about the story G.P. Berdnikov, declaring that "it's a shame to be happy" in the reality that Chekhov describes. :

Drama ... is revealed to us in the story "Gooseberry".<…>However, under the pen of Chekhov, the dream-passion that seized the official absorbs him so much that in the end he completely deprives him of a human appearance and likeness.

Interesting? Save it on your wall!

Gooseberry

From early morning the whole sky was overlaid with rain clouds; it was quiet, not hot and dull, as happens on gray overcast days, when clouds have long hung over the field, you are waiting for rain, but it is not. The veterinarian Ivan Ivanovich and the teacher of the gymnasium Burkin were already tired of walking, and the field seemed endless to them. Far ahead, the windmills of the village of Mironositsky were barely visible, on the right a row of hills stretched and then disappeared far beyond the village, and both of them knew that this was the bank of the river, there were meadows, green willows, estates, and if you stand on one of the hills, you can see from there the same vast field, the telegraph office and the train, which from afar looks like a crawling caterpillar, and in clear weather even the city can be seen from there. Now, in calm weather, when all nature seemed meek and thoughtful, Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were imbued with love for this field, and both thought about how great, how beautiful this country is.

“Last time, when we were in Prokofy's shed,” Burkin said, “you were going to tell a story.

Yes, I wanted to tell you about my brother then.

Ivan Ivanovich sighed and lit his pipe to begin his story, but just at that time it began to rain. And in about five minutes it was already pouring heavily, heavy rain, and it was difficult to foresee when it would end. Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin stopped in thought; the dogs, already wet, stood with their tails between their legs, I looked at them with emotion.

“We need to hide somewhere,” Burkin said. - Let's go to Alekhine. It's close here.

- Let's go.

They turned aside and walked all over the sloping field, now straight ahead, now turning to the right, until they came to the road. Soon the poplars, the garden, then the red roofs of the barns appeared; the river shone, and a view of a wide stretch with a mill and a white bath opened up. It was Sofyino, where Alekhine lived.

The mill worked, drowning out the sound of the rain; the dam shook. Here, near the carts, wet horses stood with bowed heads, and people walked around, covered with sacks. It was damp, dirty, uncomfortable, and the view of the reach was cold and angry. Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were already experiencing a feeling of sputum, uncleanness, discomfort all over their bodies, their legs were heavy with mud, and when, having passed the dam, they went up to the master's barns, they were silent, as if angry with each other.

In one of the barns a winnowing machine was noisy; the door was open and dust was pouring out of it. Alekhin himself stood on the threshold, a man of about forty, tall, plump, with long hair, looking more like a professor or an artist than a landowner. He was wearing a white shirt with a rope belt that had not been washed for a long time, underpants instead of trousers, and mud and straw had also stuck to his boots. The nose and eyes were black with dust. He recognized Ivan Ivanitch and Burkin and, apparently, was very glad.

“Come, gentlemen, into the house,” he said, smiling. - I'm right now, this minute.

The house was large, two stories high. Alekhine lived downstairs, in two rooms with vaults and small windows, where clerks had once lived; the atmosphere here was simple, and there was a smell of rye bread, cheap vodka, and harness. Upstairs, in the front rooms, he rarely visited, only when guests arrived. Ivan Ivanitch and Burkin were met at the house by the maid, a young woman so beautiful that they both stopped at once and looked at each other.

“You cannot imagine how glad I am to see you, gentlemen,” Alekhin said, following them into the hall. - I didn't expect it! Pelageya, - he turned to the maid, - let the guests change into something. By the way, I'll change my clothes. Only I must first go to wash, otherwise I seem to have not washed since spring. Would you like to go to the bath, gentlemen, and then they will cook it.

Beautiful Pelageya, so delicate and seemingly so soft, brought sheets and soap, and Alekhin and the guests went to the bath.

“Yes, I haven’t washed in a long time,” he said, undressing. - As you can see, my bath is good, my father was still building it, but somehow there is no time to wash.

He sat down on the step and lathered his long hair and neck, and the water around him turned brown.

"Yes, I confess..." Ivan Ivanovich said significantly, looking at his head.

“I haven’t washed in a long time…” Alekhine repeated embarrassingly and soaped himself again, and the water around him turned dark blue, like ink.

Ivan Ivanovich went outside, threw himself into the water with a noise and swam in the rain, waving his arms widely, and waves came from him, and white lilies swayed on the waves; he swam to the very middle of the reach and dived, and a minute later he appeared in another place and swam further, and kept diving, trying to reach the bottom. “Oh, my God…” he repeated, enjoying himself. “Ah, my God…” He swam to the mill, talked about something with the peasants there and turned back, and lay down in the middle of the stretch, exposing his face to the rain. Burkin and Alekhin had already dressed and were about to leave, but he kept swimming and diving.

“Oh, my God…” he said. “Ah, Lord have mercy.

- You will! Burkin called to him.

We returned to the house. And only when a lamp was lit in the large living room upstairs, and Burkin and Ivan Ivanovich, dressed in silk dressing gowns and warm shoes, sat in armchairs, and Alekhine himself, washed, combed, in a new frock coat, walked around the living room, apparently feeling the warmth with pleasure cleanliness, dry dress, light shoes, and when the beautiful Pelageya, silently stepping on the carpet and smiling softly, served tea and jam on a tray, only then did Ivan Ivanovich begin the story, and it seemed that not only Burkin and Alekhin were listening to him, but also old and young ladies and soldiers, looking calmly and sternly out of golden frames.

“We are two brothers,” he began, “I, Ivan Ivanovich, and the other, Nikolai Ivanovich, is two years younger. I went to the scientific department, became a veterinarian, and Nikolai had been sitting in the state chamber since the age of nineteen. Our father Chimsha-Himalayan was from the cantonists, but, having served the rank of officer, he left us a hereditary nobility and a small estate. After his death, our little estate was taken away for debts, but, be that as it may, we spent our childhood in the countryside in the wild. We, all the same as peasant children, spent days and nights in the field, in the forest, guarding the horses, flaying the bast, catching fish, and so on ... Do you know who at least once in his life caught a ruff or saw migratory thrushes in autumn, like on clear, cool days they rush in flocks over the village, he is no longer a city dweller, and will be sipped at will until his death. My brother yearned in the Treasury. Years passed, and he still sat in one place, wrote all the same papers and thought about the same thing, as if in a village. And this melancholy in him little by little turned into a certain desire, into a dream of buying himself a small estate somewhere on the banks of a river or lake.

He was a kind, meek man, I loved him, but I never sympathized with this desire to lock myself up for the rest of my life in my own estate. It is customary to say that a person needs only three arshins of earth. But a corpse needs three arshins, not a man. And they also say now that if our intelligentsia has a gravitation towards the earth and aspires to estates, then this is good. But these estates are the same three arshins of land. To leave the city, from the struggle, from the noise of life, to leave and hide in one's estate - this is not life, this is selfishness, laziness, this is a kind of monasticism, but monasticism without a feat. A person needs not three arshins of land, not a farmstead, but the whole globe, all nature, where in the open space he could manifest all the properties and characteristics of his free spirit.

The end of the 19th century in the history of Russia was marked by a period of stagnation, as the new emperor Nicholas 2 made it clear to liberal-minded circles that he would continue the policy begun by his father. This meant that reforms could be forgotten.

The works of the writer A.P. Chekhov, already quite famous at that time, became a response to the relations that had developed in the socio-political sphere. Thus, he tried to reach out to thinking people who could intervene in the current course of events. This also applies to the trilogy published in 1898, which included the small-scale works "The Man in the Case", "On Love" and "Gooseberry".

Chekhov's story (this was his favorite genre) is an attempt to briefly characterize the phenomena that took place in society and draw attention to human vices and inherently false ideas about the meaning of life.

The history of writing the work "Gooseberry"

Once the writer was told about a St. Petersburg official who kept dreaming of a uniform embroidered with gold. When he finally got him, it turned out that there was nowhere to go in a new outfit: no ceremonial receptions were foreseen in the near future. As a result, the uniform could not be put on: the gilding on it faded over time, the official himself died six months later. This story served as the basis for creating the story, only the dream of a petty official becomes a gooseberry. Chekhov's story draws the reader's attention to how petty and meaningless a person's life can become in the pursuit of selfish happiness.

Composition and plot of the work

"Gooseberry" is built on the principle of "story within a story." The story about the protagonist is preceded by an exposition containing a description of nature - rich, generous, majestic. The landscape emphasizes the spiritual impoverishment of a petty official, which will be discussed further. Then the reader sees characters familiar from the first part of the trilogy: the workaholic landowner Alekhin, the teacher Burkin and the veterinarian Ivan Ivanych. And then the theme of the “case” life comes to mind - Chekhov outlined it in the first story. "Gooseberry" - its content is rather uncomplicated - develops it, showing how destructive a habitual existence can be.

The main character, N. I. Chimsha-Gimalaysky, is introduced to his interlocutors and readers by his brother, Ivan Ivanovich. He also gives an assessment of what happens to a person who lives only for the sake of satisfying his own desires.

Nikolai Ivanovich grew up in a village where everything seemed to him beautiful and amazing. Once in the city, he did not stop thinking about how he would certainly acquire an estate and live a quiet life there (which Ivan Ivanovich never approved of). Soon, a passionate desire to grow on his estate was added to his dream - this is emphasized by A.P. Chekhov - gooseberries. Chimsha-Himalaisky relentlessly pursued his goal: he regularly looked through newspapers with advertisements for the sale of estates, more and more limited himself in everything and saved money in the bank, then married - without love - an aged but wealthy widow. Finally, he had the opportunity to buy a small estate: dirty, unfurnished, but his own. True, there were no gooseberries, but he immediately planted several bushes. And he lived a quiet life, happy and content with himself.

Degradation of the main character

The analysis of Chekhov's "Gooseberry" is an attempt to understand why Nikolai Ivanovich's soul gradually, in parallel with achieving the goal, became stale. He was not at all tormented by remorse for the death of his wife - he practically starved her to death. The hero lived a closed, useless life and was very proud of his noble rank - for example, he was very offended when the peasants, addressing him, missed "your honor." Showing his lordly grace, once a year, on his name day, he ordered "to take out half a bucket" and was sure that it must certainly have been so. He did not notice that everything around was running, the dog looked more like a pig. Yes, and Chimsha-Himalayan himself became stout, flabby, aged and, it seems, lost his human appearance.

Here it is - the desired berry

The analysis of Chekhov's "Gooseberry" is a reflection on how a person, through self-deception, tries to attach special significance to what is really empty.

Ivan Ivanovich, who visited his brother and found him in such an unattractive state, was extremely saddened. He could not believe that a person in his egoistic striving could reach such a state. It became especially unpleasant for him when Nikolai Ivanovich was brought a plate with the first harvest. Chimsha-Himalayan took one berry and ate it with pleasure, despite the fact that it was "hard and sour." His happiness was so great that he could not sleep at night and kept coming to the coveted plate. An analysis of Chekhov's "Gooseberry" is also a lot of disappointing conclusions, the main of which: Nikolai Ivanovich forgot about his own dignity, and the estate and the long-awaited berry became for him that "case" with which he fenced himself off from the problems and worries of the outside world.

What does a person need for a happy life?

The meeting with his brother made Ivan Ivanych take a fresh look at how he lives and the people around him. And also to admit that he sometimes had similar desires that ruined the soul. It is on this that A.P. Chekhov focuses his attention.
The gooseberry in his story takes on a new meaning - it becomes a symbol of a limited existence. And while one enjoys happiness, many people around him suffer and die in poverty and heartlessness. Ivan Ivanovich, and the author along with him, sees salvation from universal spiritual death in a certain force that, at the right time, will, like a hammer, remind a happy person that not everything is so beautiful in the world and at any moment a moment may come when you need it. help. But there will be no one to give it to and you will have only yourself to blame. A.P. Chekhov brings readers to such not very cheerful, but rather important thoughts.

"Gooseberry": heroes and their attitude to the world

The analyzed story is one with the other two included in the trilogy. And they are united not only by Alekhin, Burkin and Ivan Ivanovich, who alternately act as storytellers and listeners. The main thing is different - the subject of the image in the works is power, property and the family, and it is on them that the entire socio-political life of the country rests. The heroes of the works, unfortunately, are not yet ready enough to completely change their lives, to get away from the "case". Nevertheless, the analysis of Chekhov's "Gooseberry" makes progressive people, like Ivan Ivanovich, think about what is worth living for.

The story "Gooseberry" by Chekhov: a summary. Analysis of the story "Gooseberries" by Chekhov

In this article we will introduce you to Chekhov's Gooseberry. Anton Pavlovich, as you probably already know, is a Russian writer and playwright. The years of his life are 1860-1904. We will describe the brief content of this story, its analysis will be carried out. "Gooseberry" Chekhov wrote in 1898, that is, already in the late period of his work.

Burkin and Ivan Ivanovich Chimsha-Himalayan are walking across the field. The village of Mironositskoye can be seen in the distance. Suddenly it starts to rain, and so they decide to go to Pavel Konstantinych Alekhin, a landowner friend, whose estate is located in the village of Sofyino, nearby. Alekhine is described as a tall man, about 40 years old, stout, looking more like an artist or a professor than a landowner, with long hair. He meets travelers at the barn. The face of this man is black with dust, his clothes are dirty. He is glad to unexpected guests, invites those to go to the bath. Having changed and washed, Burkin, Ivan Ivanovich Chimsha-Gimalaysky and Alekhin go to the house where Ivan Ivanovich tells the story of Nikolai Ivanovich, his brother, over tea with jam.

Ivan Ivanovich begins his story

The brothers spent their childhood on the estate of their father, in the wild. Their parent himself was from the cantonists, but left the hereditary nobility to the children, having served the rank of officer. After his death, the estate was sued from the family for debts. From the age of nineteen, Nikolai sat behind papers in the state chamber, but terribly missed there and dreamed of acquiring a small estate. Ivan Ivanovich, on the other hand, never sympathized with the desire of his relative to lock himself up in the estate for the rest of his life. And Nikolai could not think of anything else, all the time imagining a large estate where gooseberries were bound to grow.

Nikolai Ivanovich makes his dream come true

Ivan Ivanych's brother saved up money, was malnourished, and in the end married not out of love to a rich, ugly widow. He kept his wife from hand to mouth, and put her money in his name in the bank. The wife could not bear this life and died soon, and Nikolai, without remorse, acquired the coveted estate for himself, planted 20 gooseberry bushes and lived for his own pleasure as a landowner.

Ivan Ivanovich visits his brother

We continue to describe the story that Chekhov created - "Gooseberry". A summary of what happened next is as follows. When Ivan Ivanovich came to visit Nikolai, he was amazed at how much his brother had sunk, flabby and aged. The master turned into a real tyrant, ate a lot, constantly sued the factories and spoke in the tone of a minister. Nikolai regaled Ivan Ivanovich with gooseberries, and it was clear from him that he was as pleased with his fate as he was with himself.

Ivan Ivanovich reflects on happiness and the meaning of life

The following further events are conveyed to us by the story "Gooseberry" (Chekhov). Brother Nikolai, at the sight of his relative, was seized by a feeling close to despair. He thought, after spending the night in the estate, about how many people in the world go crazy, suffer, drink, how many children die from malnutrition. And others, meanwhile, live happily, sleep at night, eat during the day, talk nonsense. It occurred to Ivan Ivanovich that there must certainly be someone “with a hammer” behind the door of a happy person and knocking to remind him that there are unfortunate people on earth, that someday disaster will happen to him, and no one will hear or see him, just like now he does not hear or notice others.

Finishing the story, Ivan Ivanovich says that there is no happiness, and if there is a meaning in life, then it is not in it, but in doing good on earth.

How did Alekhin and Burkin perceive the story?

Neither Alekhin nor Burkin are satisfied with this story. Alekhin does not delve into whether the words of Ivan Ivanovich are true, since it was not about hay, not about cereals, but about something that has no direct relation to his life. However, he is very glad to the guests and wants them to continue the conversation. But the time is already late, the guests and the owner go to bed.

"Gooseberry" in the work of Chekhov

To a large extent, the work of Anton Pavlovich is devoted to "little people" and the life of a case. The story that Chekhov created, "Gooseberry", does not tell about love. In it, as in many other works of this author, people and society are denounced as philistinism, soullessness and vulgarity.

In 1898, the story "Gooseberries" by Chekhov was born. It should be noted that the time when the work was created was the period of the reign of Nicholas II, who continued the policy of his father, not wanting to implement the liberal reforms necessary at that time.

Characteristics of Nikolai Ivanovich

Chekhov describes to us Chimsha-Gimalaysky, an official who serves in one chamber and dreams of having his own estate. The cherished desire of this person is to become a landowner.

Chekhov emphasizes how far behind his time this character is, because in the time described, people were no longer chasing a meaningless title, many nobles dreamed of becoming capitalists, it was considered fashionable, advanced.

The hero of Anton Pavlovich marries favorably, after which he takes the money he needs from his wife and finally acquires the desired estate. Another dream of his is fulfilled by the hero, planting gooseberries in the estate. Meanwhile, his wife is dying of hunger.

Chekhov's "Gooseberry" is built using a "story within a story" - a special literary device. We learn the story of the described landowner from the lips of his brother. However, Ivan Ivanovich's eyes are the eyes of the author himself; in this way he shows the reader his attitude towards people like Chimsha-Himalayan.

Attitude to the brother of Ivan Ivanovich

The brother of the protagonist of the story "Gooseberries" by Chekhov is amazed at the spiritual scarcity of Nikolai Ivanovich, he is horrified by the idleness and satiety of his relative, and the dream as such and its fulfillment seem to this person the pinnacle of laziness and selfishness.

During the time spent in the estate, Nikolai Ivanovich grows stupefied and ages, he is proud of his belonging to the nobility, without realizing that this estate is already dying off, and a more just and free form of life is coming to replace it, social principles are gradually changing.

However, the narrator is most struck by the moment when Nikolai Ivanovich is served the first harvest of gooseberries. Immediately he forgets about the fashionable things of the time and the importance of the nobility. This landowner, in the sweetness of gooseberries, acquires the illusion of happiness, he finds a reason to admire and rejoice, and this circumstance strikes Ivan Ivanovich, who thinks that people prefer to deceive themselves, just to believe in their well-being. At the same time, he criticizes himself, finding such shortcomings as a desire to teach and complacency.

Ivan Ivanovich thinks about the moral and ethical crisis of the individual and society, he is worried about the moral state of his contemporary society.

Chekhov's thought

Ivan Ivanovich talks about how he is tormented by the trap that people create for themselves, and asks him to do only good in the future and try to eradicate evil. But in fact, Chekhov himself speaks through his character. A person (“Gooseberry” is addressed to each of us!) Should understand that the goal in life is good deeds, and not a feeling of happiness. According to the author, everyone who has achieved success should have a “man with a hammer” behind the door, reminding him that it is necessary to do good - to help orphans, widows, the destitute. After all, one day trouble can happen even with the wealthiest person.

The story "Gooseberry" by Chekhov was written in 1898 and is considered one of the best works of Russian classical literature of the 19th century. He entered the "Little Trilogy" of the author, which also includes the stories "The Man in the Case" and "About Love".

In The Gooseberry, Chekhov develops the theme of "case", limitedness, revealing it through the image of the landowner Nikolai Ivanych. The composition of the work is built on the “story within a story” technique - the story of Nikolai Ivanych is told to his friends by his brother, Ivan Ivanych.

main characters

Ivan Ivanovich- veterinarian, elder brother of Nikolai Ivanych.

Nikolai Ivanovich- landowner, younger brother of Ivan Ivanovich.

Burkin- Gymnasium teacher, friend of Ivan Ivanovich.

Alekhin Pavel Konstantinovich- a poor landowner, "a man of about forty", with whom Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin stayed.

Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin walked across the field. The village of Mironositskoye was visible ahead. Burkin asked the companion to tell the previously promised story. However, it suddenly began to rain, and the men decided to take shelter from the weather at Alekhine in Sofyino. The owner met them on the threshold of one of the barns at work - the man was covered in dust, in dirty clothes. Alekhin was very happy with the guests and invited them to the house.

Having gone to the bath, the guests and the host settled down in armchairs. The maid served tea with jam, and Ivan Ivanovich began the promised story.

Ivan Ivanovich had a younger brother, Nikolai Ivanovich, "two years younger." The father, Chimsha-Himalayan, left them "hereditary nobility", as well as the estate, which was taken away for debts shortly after his death.

The boys spent all their childhood in the countryside. Serving from the age of nineteen "in the state chamber", Nikolai Ivanovich missed his will. He had a dream to buy a small estate, where gooseberries would certainly grow. The man constantly read "household books", advertisements for the sale of land, dreamed about how he would spend time in the village.

Ivan Ivanovich, although he loved his brother, did not share his desire. “It is customary to say that a person needs only three arshins of earth. But after all, a corpse needs three arshins, not a person.

Trying to save as much money as possible, Nikolai "undernourished, did not drink enough", dressed "like a beggar". When he was forty years old, the man married an old, ugly widow with money, all for the same purpose - to buy a manor with gooseberries. He put her money in the bank in his name, and the woman herself "kept starving". The wife began to languish and died three years later.

Nikolai Ivanovich, not blaming himself for the death of his wife, soon bought “one hundred and twelve acres with a manor house, with a people's house, with a park, but no orchard, no gooseberries, no ponds with ducks; there was a river, but the water in it was the color of coffee, ”because there were factories nearby. However, Nikolai Ivanovich was not saddened: “he ordered twenty gooseberry bushes for himself, planted and lived as a landowner.”

Last year Ivan Ivanovich went to visit his brother. Nikolai Ivanovich "aged, put on weight, flabby." “This was no longer the former timid poor official, but a real landowner, gentleman.” Nikolai Ivanovich had already sued society and factories, forced the peasants to call themselves "your honor." He developed an "arrogant" conceit, he began to say "only the truth", like a minister: "Education is necessary, but for the people it is premature." Moreover, he called himself a nobleman, as if he had forgotten that their grandfather was a peasant, and his father was a soldier.

In the evening, gooseberries were served, "harvested for the first time since the bushes were planted." Nikolai Ivanovich, shedding tears, ate a berry with excitement, delighted with how delicious it was, although in fact the gooseberries were hard and sour. Ivan Ivanovich saw in front of him a “happy man”, “who has achieved his goal in life”, he was “seized by a heavy feeling”, close to despair. All night Ivan Ivanovich heard Nikolai Ivanovich getting up and taking a gooseberry.

Ivan Ivanovich reflected on the fact that we constantly see happy people, but we know nothing about those who are suffering. "Obviously, the happy only feel good because the unfortunate bear their burden in silence." Happy people live as if in "hypnosis", not noticing much around them. “It is necessary that someone with a hammer stands behind the door of every happy, happy person and constantly reminds by knocking” that sooner or later trouble will strike. Ivan Ivanovich realized that he, too, had lived happily ever after. He spoke the same words as his brother, taught "how to live, how to believe, how to rule the people", but he is no longer at the age to change anything.

Ivan Ivanovich suddenly got up and went up to Alekhine. He began to shake hands with the owner, asking him not to calm down, to continue doing good, because the meaning of life is precisely in this, and not in personal happiness.

Then everyone sat in silence. Alekhine wanted to sleep, but he was interested in the guests. He did not delve into what Ivan Ivanovich said - the words of the doctor had nothing to do with his life.

Finally, the guests went to bed. "The rain was pounding on the windows all night".

Conclusion

In The Gooseberry, Burkin and Alekhin do not understand what idea Ivan Ivanovich was trying to convey to them with his story. The men took the story of Nikolai Ivanych as an ordinary everyday incident, without taking any morality out of it. The indifferent silence on the part of Ivan Ivanych's interlocutors confirms his thoughts that happy people live as if in "hypnosis", in a kind of "case" of achieving their own happiness.

The retelling of the "Gooseberry" will be of interest to schoolchildren, as well as to everyone who is interested in the work of A.P. Chekhov and Russian literature.

Story test

Check the memorization of the summary with the test:

Analysis of Chekhov's story "Gooseberry"

The end of the 19th century was a time marked by a period of stagnation in the social and political life of Russia. In these difficult days for our Fatherland, the famous writer A.P. Chekhov is trying to convey good ideas to thinking people. So, in the story "Gooseberry" he asks the reader questions about the meaning of life and true happiness, exposing the conflict between material and spiritual wealth.

History of creation

Included in the "little trilogy" is the story of A.P. Chekhov's "Gooseberry" was published by the publishers of "Russian Thought" in 1898. It was created by a writer in the village of Melikhovo, Moscow region. This story is a continuation of the work "The Man in the Case", which also tells about a dead human soul with a distorted concept of happiness.

It is believed that Chekhov took the story that the famous lawyer Anatoly Koni told the writer L.N. Tolstoy. This story tells about one official who, like N.I. Chimshe-Himalayan, saved his savings all his life for the sake of fulfilling his dream. The official believed that a dress uniform with gold embroidery would bring him honor and respect, make him happy. But during his lifetime, the “happy” thing was not useful to him. Moreover, the uniform, tarnished from mothballs, was put on the poor fellow only at his own funeral.

Genre and direction

The work "Gooseberry" is written in the genre of a story and belongs to such a direction in literary work as realism. A laconic prose form allows the author to express his thoughts as briefly as possible, and as a result, to attract the attention of the reader, to reach his heart.

As you know, the story is distinguished from other genres by the presence of only one storyline, the presence of one or two main characters, a small number of minor characters and a small volume. We observe all these signs in the Gooseberry.

The veterinarian Ivan Ivanovich Chimsha-Gimalaysky and the teacher of the gymnasium Burkin were caught in the rain in the field. The heroes wait out the bad weather in the estate of Alekhine, a friend of Ivan Ivanovich. Then the doctor shares with his companions the story of his brother, whose fate was sad.

From childhood, the brothers learned one simple truth - you have to pay for pleasure. They came from a poor family, tried to provide for themselves.

The youngest of the brothers, Nikolai Ivanovich, was especially eager to enrich himself. The limit of all his dreams was a manor and a garden in which ripe and fragrant gooseberries would grow. In order to achieve his goal, Chimsha-Gimala even killed his wife, albeit not on purpose. He saved on everything, seemed to notice nothing around, except for the advertisements for the sale of "acres of arable land and a meadow with an estate." In the end, he still managed to acquire the coveted plot. On the one hand, the main character is happy, he eats his gooseberries with pleasure, pretends to be a stern but fair gentleman ... But on the other hand, the current situation of Nikolai Ivanovich does not please his brother, who came to visit. Ivan Ivanovich understands that there are things whose value is much more significant than the pleasure of eating your own gooseberries. It is at this moment that the conflict between the material and the spiritual reaches its apogee.

Composition

The plot of "Gooseberry" is built on the principle of "story within a story". Non-linear narration helps the author to deepen the meaning of the work.

In addition to the story of the main character of the story, Nikolai Ivanovich Chimshi-Himalayan, there is another reality in which Ivan Ivanovich, Alekhin and Burkin live. The last two give their assessment of what happened to Nikolai Ivanovich. Their ideas about life are the most common version of the existence of people. It is important to pay attention to the exposition of the story, which contains a detailed description of nature. The landscape in the estate of Nikolai Ivanovich confirms the spiritual poverty of the newly minted master.

Main characters and their characteristics

Chimsha-Himalaisky Ivan Ivanovich- a representative of the nobility, who serves in the medical field - treats animals. He is also a character in the stories "The Man in the Case" and "About Love". This hero performs important functions in the story "Gooseberry". Firstly, he is a narrator, and secondly, a reasoning hero, since from his lips the reader can hear the author's appeal, his main thoughts. For example, the words of Ivan Ivanych about the transience of life, the need to act and live here and now.

Chimsha-Gimalaysky Nikolai Ivanych- a representative of the nobility, a petty official, and then a landowner. He is two years younger than his brother, "a kind, meek man." The character sought to return to the village - to lead a quiet life of a landowner. He dreamed about how he would feed the ducks on the pond, walk in the garden, bathing in the rays of the warm sun, pick ripe gooseberries from the branches still wet from the morning dew. For the sake of a dream, he denied himself everything: he saved, he married not for love. After the death of his wife, he was finally able to buy the estate of his dreams: he settled down, began to gain weight and put on airs, talk about his noble origin, and asked the peasants to address himself as “Your Honor”.

This work deals with themes of happiness, dreams, the search for the meaning of life. All three themes are closely related to each other. The dream of his own estate with gooseberries led Nikolai Ivanych to his happiness. He not only ate gooseberries with pleasure, but also spoke with an intelligent air about public education, sincerely believed that thanks to him every simple peasant could become a full-fledged member of society. Only now the happiness of the protagonist is false: it's just peace, idleness, which lead him to stagnation. Time around him literally stopped: he does not need to bother himself, try and deny himself anything, because now he is a master. Previously, Nikolai Ivanovich was firmly convinced that happiness must be won, deserved. Now, in his opinion, happiness is a gift from God, and only a chosen one like him can live in paradise on earth. That is, his dubious achievement has become only fertile ground for selfishness. A man lives only for himself. Having become rich, he became impoverished spiritually.

It is possible to single out such a topic as indifference and responsiveness. The narrator, discussing this topic, notes that neither Alekhine nor Burkin fully understood his ideas, they showed passivity to a very instructive story about the meaning of life. Ivan Ivanovich Chimsha-Himalayan himself urges everyone to seek happiness throughout their lives, to remember people, and not just themselves.

And thus, the hero admits, the meaning of life lies not in the satisfaction of carnal desires, but in more sublime things, for example, helping others.

1. Greed and vanity. The main problem in the story "Gooseberry" is a person's delusions that true happiness is material wealth. So, Nikolai Ivanovich worked all his life for the sake of money, lived in the name of them. As a result, his ideas turned out to be erroneous, which is why he ate sour gooseberries, smiling and saying: “Oh, how delicious!”. In his view, only money gives a person significance: being a gentleman, he himself began to exalt himself, as if without an estate
2. An equally important issue is selfishness. The protagonist, like many people on earth, forgot or did not want to remember the misfortunes of others. He followed this rule: I feel good, but the rest do not care.

The main idea of ​​A.P. Chekhov is expressed in the phrase of Ivan Ivanovich that one cannot rejoice when others feel bad. You can not close your eyes to other people's problems, it is important to remember that trouble can knock on any house. It is important to be able to respond to requests for help in time, so that they can help you in difficult times. Thus, the author expresses his contempt for the constant peace and stagnation in human life. Happiness, according to Chekhov, is a movement, an action aimed at doing good and just deeds.

The same idea can be traced in all parts of the trilogy.

Positively rated the story "Gooseberry" V. I. Nemirovich-Danchenko:

Well, because there is a color inherent in you, both in the general tone and background, and in the language, and also because very good thoughts ...

But not only critics and literary critics spoke about what they read. Ordinary people actively wrote letters to Anton Pavlovich. For example, once a writer received a letter from Natalia Dushina, a student at a technical school. Here is her quote:

When I read something of yours, I always feel that I lived with these people, that I want to say the same thing about them that you said, and I am not alone in feeling this, and this is because you write only the truth and everything that is said not as you said will be a lie ...

The most detailed description of Chekhov's creative manner of describing the realities of Russian life was given by B. Eichenbaum in his article in the magazine "Star" :

Over the years, Chekhov's artistic diagnoses were refined and deepened. The sickness of Russian life took on sharper and brighter outlines under his pen. From diagnoses, Chekhov began to move on to issues of treatment. This came out with particular force in the story "The Gooseberry". Chekhov never composed - he heard these words in his life and was delighted with them, because he himself was this man with a hammer. He knocked at the very heart of Russia - and got through.

He spoke especially emotionally about the story G.P. Berdnikov, declaring that "it's a shame to be happy" in the reality that Chekhov describes. :

Drama ... is revealed to us in the story "Gooseberry". However, under the pen of Chekhov, the dream-passion that seized the official absorbs him so much that in the end he completely deprives him of a human appearance and likeness.

From early morning the whole sky was overlaid with rain clouds; it was quiet, not hot and dull, as happens on gray overcast days, when clouds have long hung over the field, you are waiting for rain, but it is not. The veterinarian Ivan Ivanovich and the teacher of the gymnasium Burkin were already tired of walking, and the field seemed endless to them. Far ahead, the windmills of the village of Mironositsky were barely visible, on the right a row of hills stretched and then disappeared far beyond the village, and both of them knew that this was the bank of the river, there were meadows, green willows, estates, and if you stand on one of the hills, you can see from there the same vast field, the telegraph office and the train, which from afar looks like a crawling caterpillar, and in clear weather even the city can be seen from there. Now, in calm weather, when all nature seemed meek and thoughtful, Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were imbued with love for this field, and both thought about how great, how beautiful this country is.

“Last time, when we were in Prokofy's shed,” Burkin said, “you were going to tell a story.

Yes, I wanted to tell you about my brother then.

Ivan Ivanovich sighed and lit his pipe to begin his story, but just at that time it began to rain. And in about five minutes it was already pouring heavily, heavy rain, and it was difficult to foresee when it would end. Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin stopped in thought; the dogs, already wet, stood with their tails between their legs and looked at them with emotion.

“We need to hide somewhere,” Burkin said. - Let's go to Alekhine. It's close here.

They turned aside and walked all over the sloping field, now straight ahead, now turning to the right, until they came to the road. Soon the poplars, the garden, then the red roofs of the barns appeared; the river shone, and a view of a wide stretch with a mill and a white bath opened up. It was Sofyino, where Alekhine lived.

Chekhov. "Gooseberry". Read by D. Zhuravlev

The mill worked, drowning out the sound of the rain; the dam shook. Here, near the carts, wet horses stood with bowed heads, and people walked around, covered with sacks. It was damp, dirty, uncomfortable, and the view of the reach was cold and angry. Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were already experiencing a feeling of sputum, uncleanness, discomfort all over their bodies, their legs were heavy with mud, and when, having passed the dam, they went up to the master's barns, they were silent, as if angry with each other. In one of the barns a winnowing machine was noisy; the door was open and dust was pouring out of it. Alekhin himself stood on the threshold, a man of about forty, tall, plump, with long hair, looking more like a professor or an artist than a landowner. He was wearing a white shirt with a rope belt that had not been washed for a long time, underpants instead of trousers, and mud and straw had also stuck to his boots. The nose and eyes were black with dust. He recognized Ivan Ivanitch and Burkin and, apparently, was very glad.

“Come, gentlemen, into the house,” he said, smiling. - I'm right now, this minute.

The house was large, two stories high. Alekhine lived downstairs, in two rooms with vaults and small windows, where clerks had once lived; the atmosphere here was simple, and there was a smell of rye bread, cheap vodka, and harness. Upstairs, in the front rooms, he rarely visited, only when guests arrived. Ivan Ivanitch and Burkin were met at the house by the maid, a young woman so beautiful that they both stopped at once and looked at each other.

“You cannot imagine how glad I am to see you, gentlemen,” Alekhin said, following them into the hall. - I didn't expect it! Pelageya, - he turned to the maid, - let the guests change into something. By the way, I'll change my clothes too. Only I must first go to wash, otherwise I seem to have not washed since spring. Would you like to go to the bath, gentlemen, and then they will cook it.

Beautiful Pelageya, so delicate and seemingly so soft, brought sheets and soap, and Alekhin and the guests went to the bath.

“Yes, I haven’t washed in a long time,” he said, undressing. - As you can see, my bath is good, my father was still building it, but somehow there is no time to wash.

He sat down on the step and lathered his long hair and neck, and the water around him turned brown.

"Yes, I confess..." Ivan Ivanovich said significantly, looking at his head.

“I haven’t washed in a long time…” Alekhine repeated embarrassingly and soaped himself again, and the water around him turned dark blue, like ink.

Ivan Ivanovich went outside, threw himself into the water with a noise and swam in the rain, waving his arms widely, and waves came from him, and white lilies swayed on the waves; he swam to the very middle of the reach and dived, and a minute later appeared in another place, and swam further, and kept diving, trying to reach the bottom. “Oh, my God…” he repeated, enjoying himself. “Ah, my God…” He swam to the mill, talked about something with the peasants there and turned back, and lay down in the middle of the stretch, exposing his face to the rain. Burkin and Alekhine had already dressed and got ready to leave, but he kept swimming and diving.

“Oh, my God…” he said. – Oh, Lord have mercy!

- You will! Burkin called to him.

We returned to the house. And only when a lamp was lit in the large living room upstairs, and Burkin and Ivan Ivanovich, dressed in silk dressing gowns and warm shoes, sat in armchairs, and Alekhin himself, washed, combed, in a new frock coat, walked around the drawing room, apparently feeling the warmth with pleasure, cleanliness, dry dress, light shoes, and when the beautiful Pelageya, silently stepping on the carpet and smiling softly, served tea and jam on a tray, only then did Ivan Ivanovich begin the story, and it seemed that not only Burkin and Alekhin were listening to him, but also old and young ladies and military men, looking calmly and sternly from their golden frames.

“We are two brothers,” he began, “I, Ivan Ivanovich, and the other, Nikolai Ivanovich, is two years younger. I went to the scientific department, became a veterinarian, and Nikolai had been sitting in the state chamber since the age of nineteen. Our father Chimsha-Himalayan was from the cantonists, but, having served the rank of officer, he left us a hereditary nobility and a small estate. After his death, our little estate was taken away for debts, but, be that as it may, we spent our childhood in the countryside in the wild. We, all the same, like peasant children, spent days and nights in the field, in the forest, guarding the horses, flaying the bast, catching fish, and so on ... Do you know who at least once in their life caught a ruff or saw migratory thrushes in autumn, how they on clear, cool days they rush in flocks over the village, he is no longer a city dweller, and will be sipped at will until his death. My brother yearned in the Treasury. Years passed, and he still sat in one place, wrote all the same papers and thought about the same thing, as if in a village. And this melancholy in him little by little turned into a certain desire, into a dream of buying himself a small estate somewhere on the banks of a river or lake.

He was a kind, meek man, I loved him, but I never sympathized with this desire to lock myself up for the rest of my life in my own estate. It is customary to say that a person needs only three arshins of earth. But a corpse needs three arshins, not a man. And they also say now that if our intelligentsia has a gravitation towards the earth and aspires to estates, then this is good. But these estates are the same three arshins of land. To leave the city, from the struggle, from the noise of life, to leave and hide in one's estate - this is not life, this is selfishness, laziness, this is a kind of monasticism, but monasticism without a feat. A person needs not three arshins of land, not a farmstead, but the whole globe, all nature, where in the open space he could manifest all the properties and characteristics of his free spirit.

My brother Nikolai, sitting in his office, dreamed of how he would eat his own cabbage soup, from which there is such a delicious smell throughout the yard, eat on green grass, sleep in the sun, sit for hours outside the gate on a bench and look at the field and forest. Agricultural books and all these advices in calendars were his joy, his favorite spiritual food; he also liked to read the newspapers, but in them he only read advertisements that so many acres of arable land and meadows with an estate, a river, a garden, a mill, and flowing ponds were being sold. And paths in the garden were drawn in his head, flowers, fruits, birdhouses, crucian carp in the ponds, and, you know, all this stuff. These imaginary pictures were different, depending on the advertisements that came across to him, but for some reason in each of them there was always a gooseberry. He could not imagine a single estate, a single poetic corner without gooseberries.

“Country life has its conveniences,” he used to say. - You sit on the balcony, drink tea, and your ducks swim on the pond, it smells so good, and ... and gooseberries grow.

He drew a plan of his estate, and every time he got the same thing on the plan: a) a manor's house, b) a man's house, c) a garden, d) a gooseberry. He lived sparingly: he did not eat, did not drink enough, dressed God knows how, like a beggar, and saved everything and put it in the bank. Terribly thirsty. It hurt me to look at him, and I gave him something and sent it on holidays, but he hid that too. If a person has given himself an idea, then nothing can be done.

Years passed, he was transferred to another province, he was already forty years old, and he kept reading advertisements in newspapers and saving up. Then, I hear, he got married. All with the same purpose, in order to buy himself an estate with gooseberries, he married an old, ugly widow, without any feeling, but only because she had some money. He also lived sparingly with her, kept her from hand to mouth, and put her money in a bank in his name. She used to go to the postmaster and got used to pies and liqueurs with him, but she didn’t see enough black bread with her second husband; she began to wither away from such a life, and after three years she took and gave her soul to God. And, of course, my brother did not think for a single minute that he was to blame for her death. Money, like vodka, makes a person weird. A merchant was dying in our city. Before his death, he ordered a plate of honey to be served to him and ate all his money and winning tickets along with honey so that no one would get it. Once at the station I was inspecting the herds, and at that time one horse-dealer fell under a locomotive, and his leg was cut off. We carry him to the emergency room, the blood is pouring - a terrible thing, but he keeps asking for his leg to be found, and everyone is worried: there are twenty rubles in the boot on the cut off leg, as if they were not lost.

“You are from another opera,” said Burkin.

“After the death of his wife,” continued Ivan Ivanovich, after thinking for half a minute, “my brother began to look out for an estate. Of course, look out for at least five years, but in the end you will make a mistake and buy something completely different from what you dreamed about. Brother Nikolai, through a commission agent, with the transfer of a debt, bought one hundred and twelve acres with a manor house, with a people's house, with a park, but no orchard, no gooseberries, no ponds with ducks; there was a river, but the water in it was the color of coffee, because there was a brick factory on one side of the estate, and a bone factory on the other. But my Nikolai Ivanovich did not grieve a little; he ordered twenty gooseberry bushes for himself, planted and lived as a landowner.

Last year I went to visit him. I'll go, I think, I'll see how and what's there. In his letters, the brother called his estate like this: Chumbaroklova wasteland, Himalayan identity. I arrived at Himalayan Identity in the afternoon. It was hot. Everywhere there are ditches, fences, hedges, planted with rows of Christmas trees - and you don’t know how to get into the yard, where to put the horse. I go to the house, and towards me is a red dog, fat, like a pig. She wants to bark, but laziness. The cook came out of the kitchen, bare-legged, fat, also like a pig, and said that the master was resting after dinner. I go in to my brother, he is sitting in bed, his knees are covered with a blanket; aged, stout, flabby; cheeks, nose and lips stretch forward - just look, grunts into the blanket.

We hugged and wept for joy and for the sad thought that once we were young, and now both are gray-haired, and it's time to die. He dressed and took me to show his estate.

- Well, how are you doing here? I asked.

- Nothing, thank God, I live well.

This was no longer the former timid poor official, but a real landowner, a gentleman. He had already settled down here, got used to it and got a taste for it; he ate a lot, washed in the bathhouse, grew stout, was already suing society and both factories, and was very offended when the peasants did not call him "your honor." And he took care of his soul solidly, in a lordly way, and did good deeds not simply, but with importance. What are good deeds? He treated the peasants for all diseases with soda and castor oil, and on the day of his name day he served a thanksgiving service among the village, and then put half a bucket, he thought that it was necessary. Ah, those awful half-buckets! Today the fat landowner drags the muzhiks to the zemstvo chief for poisoning, and tomorrow, on a solemn day, he gives them half a bucket, and they drink and shout "Hurrah" and, drunk, bow at his feet. A change of life for the better, satiety, idleness develop in a Russian person self-conceit, the most arrogant. Nikolai Ivanovich, who at one time in the Treasury Chamber was afraid to have his own views even for himself personally, now spoke only the truth, and in such a tone, like a minister: “Education is necessary, but for the people it is premature”, “Corporal punishment is generally harmful, but in some cases they are useful and irreplaceable.”

“I know the people and know how to deal with them,” he said. “People love me. I have only to lift a finger, and for me the people will do whatever they want.

And all this, mind you, was said with a clever, kind smile. He repeated twenty times: “we, the nobles”, “I am like a nobleman”; obviously, he no longer remembered that our grandfather was a peasant, and his father was a soldier. Even our surname Chimsha-Himalayan, in essence incongruous, now seemed to him sonorous, noble and very pleasant.

But it's not about him, it's about me. I want to tell you what a change took place in me during those few hours while I was at his estate. In the evening, when we were drinking tea, the cook brought a plate full of gooseberries to the table. It was not bought, but his own gooseberries, harvested for the first time since the bushes had been planted. Nikolai Ivanovich laughed and for a minute looked at the gooseberries in silence, with tears - he could not speak for excitement, then he put one berry in his mouth, looked at me with the triumph of a child who has finally received his favorite toy, and said:

And he ate greedily and kept repeating:

- Oh, how delicious! You try!

It was tough and sour, but, as Pushkin said, "the darkness of truth is dearer to us than the uplifting deceit." I saw a happy man, whose cherished dream came true so obviously, who achieved the goal in life, got what he wanted, who was satisfied with his fate, with himself. For some reason, something sad was always mixed with my thoughts about human happiness, but now, at the sight of a happy person, I was seized by a heavy feeling, close to despair. It was especially hard at night. They made a bed for me in the room next to my brother's bedroom, and I could hear how he did not sleep and how he got up and went to a plate of gooseberries and took a berry. I thought: how, in fact, there are many satisfied, happy people! What an overwhelming power! Look at this life: the arrogance and idleness of the strong, the ignorance and bestiality of the weak, impossible poverty all around, cramped conditions, degeneration, drunkenness, hypocrisy, lies... Meanwhile, in all the houses and on the streets there is silence, calmness; out of fifty thousand living in the city, not one who would have cried out, loudly indignant. We see those who go to the market for provisions, eat during the day, sleep at night, who talk their nonsense, marry, grow old, complacently drag their dead to the cemetery; but we do not see or hear those who suffer, and what is terrible in life happens somewhere behind the scenes. Everything is quiet, calm, and only mute statistics protest: so many went crazy, so many buckets were drunk, so many children died from malnutrition ... And such an order is obviously needed; Obviously, the happy one feels good only because the unfortunate bear their burden in silence, and without this silence, happiness would be impossible. This is general hypnosis. It is necessary that behind the door of every contented, happy person someone stands with a hammer and constantly reminds by knocking that there are unfortunate people, that, no matter how happy he is, sooner or later life will show him its claws, trouble will strike - illness, poverty. , losses, and no one will see or hear him, just as now he does not see or hear others. But there is no man with a hammer, the happy one lives for himself, and petty worldly worries excite him slightly, like the wind does aspen - and everything is going well.

“That night it became clear to me how satisfied and happy I was, too,” Ivan Ivanovich continued, getting up. - I also taught at dinner and on the hunt how to live, how to believe, how to rule the people. I also said that learning is light, that education is necessary, but for ordinary people one letter is enough for the time being. Freedom is a blessing, I said, it is impossible without it, as without air, but we must wait. Yes, I said so, and now I ask: in the name of what to wait? asked Ivan Ivanovich, looking angrily at Burkin. - In the name of what to wait, I ask you? For what reasons? I am told that not all at once, every idea is realized in life gradually, in due time. But who is saying this? Where is the evidence that this is true? You are referring to the natural order of things, to the legitimacy of phenomena, but is there any order and legitimacy in the fact that I, a living, thinking person, stand over a moat and wait for it to overgrow itself or cover it with silt, while, perhaps, , could I jump over it or build a bridge over it? And again, in the name of what to wait? Wait when there is no strength to live, but meanwhile you need to live and want to live!

I then left my brother early in the morning, and since then it has become unbearable for me to be in the city. Silence and tranquility oppress me, I am afraid to look at the windows, because now there is no more difficult sight for me than a happy family sitting around the table and drinking tea. I am already old and not fit to fight, I am not even capable of hating. I only grieve sincerely, I get irritated, annoyed, at night my head burns from the influx of thoughts, and I cannot sleep ... Oh, if only I were young!

Ivan Ivanitch paced from corner to corner in agitation and repeated:

- If only I were young!

He suddenly went up to Alekhine and began to shake him first one hand, then the other.

- Pavel Konstantinovich! he said in an imploring voice, “do not calm down, do not let yourself be put to sleep!” While you are young, strong, cheerful, do not get tired of doing good! There is no happiness, and there should not be, and if there is a meaning and purpose in life, then this meaning and purpose is not at all in our happiness, but in something more reasonable and greater. Do good!

And Ivan Ivanovich said all this with a pitiful, begging smile, as if asking for it personally.

Then all three sat in armchairs at different ends of the living room, and were silent. Ivan Ivanovich's story did not satisfy either Burkin or Alekhine. When the generals and ladies looked out of the golden frames, who seemed alive in the twilight, it was boring to listen to the story about the poor official who ate gooseberries. For some reason, I wanted to talk and listen about elegant people, about women. And the fact that they were sitting in the living room, where everything - a chandelier in a case, and armchairs, and carpets under their feet, said that they once walked here, sat, drank tea, these same people who now looked out of the frames, and then that beautiful Pelageya was now walking silently here - it was better than any stories.

Alekhine was very sleepy; he got up early to do chores, at three o'clock in the morning, and now his eyes were closed, but he was afraid that the guests would not begin to tell something interesting without him, and did not leave. Whether it was clever, whether what Ivan Ivanovich had just said was fair, he did not delve into it; the guests were not talking about cereals, not about hay, not about tar, but about something that had no direct relation to his life, and he was glad and wanted them to continue ...

"But it's time for bed," Burkin said, getting up. - Let me wish you good night.

Alekhin said goodbye and went downstairs to his room, while the guests remained upstairs. They were both given a large room for the night, where there were two old wooden beds with carved decorations and an ivory crucifix in the corner; from their beds, wide, cool, which were made by the beautiful Pelageya, there was a pleasant smell of fresh linen.

Ivan Ivanovich silently undressed and lay down.

- Lord, forgive us sinners! he said and covered his head.

From his pipe, which lay on the table, there was a strong smell of tobacco fumes, and Burkin did not sleep for a long time and still could not understand where this heavy smell came from.

From early morning the whole sky was overlaid with rain clouds; it was quiet, not hot and dull, as happens on gray overcast days, when clouds have long hung over the field, you are waiting for rain, but it is not. The veterinarian Ivan Ivanovich and the teacher of the gymnasium Burkin were already tired of walking, and the field seemed endless to them. Far ahead, the windmills of the village of Mironositsky were barely visible, on the right a row of hills stretched and then disappeared far beyond the village, and both of them knew that this was the bank of the river, there were meadows, green willows, estates, and if you stand on one of the hills, you can see from there the same vast field, the telegraph office and the train, which from afar looks like a crawling caterpillar, and in clear weather even the city can be seen from there. Now, in calm weather, when all nature seemed meek and thoughtful, Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were imbued with love for this field, and both thought about how great, how beautiful this country is. “Last time, when we were in Prokofy's shed,” Burkin said, “you were going to tell a story. Yes, I wanted to tell you about my brother then. Ivan Ivanovich sighed and lit his pipe to begin his story, but just at that time it began to rain. And in about five minutes it was already pouring heavily, heavy rain, and it was difficult to foresee when it would end. Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin stopped in thought; the dogs, already wet, stood with their tails between their legs and looked at them with emotion. “We need to hide somewhere,” Burkin said. - Let's go to Alekhine. It's close here.- Let's go. They turned aside and walked all over the sloping field, now straight ahead, now turning to the right, until they came to the road. Soon the poplars, the garden, then the red roofs of the barns appeared; the river shone, and a view of a wide stretch with a mill and a white bath opened up. It was Sofyino, where Alekhine lived. The mill worked, drowning out the sound of the rain; the dam shook. Here, near the carts, wet horses stood with bowed heads, and people walked around, covered with sacks. It was damp, dirty, uncomfortable, and the view of the reach was cold and angry. Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were already experiencing a feeling of sputum, uncleanness, discomfort all over their bodies, their legs were heavy with mud, and when, having passed the dam, they went up to the master's barns, they were silent, as if angry with each other. In one of the barns a winnowing machine was noisy; the door was open and dust was pouring out of it. Alekhin himself stood on the threshold, a man of about forty, tall, plump, with long hair, looking more like a professor or an artist than a landowner. He was wearing a white shirt with a rope belt that had not been washed for a long time, underpants instead of trousers, and mud and straw had also stuck to his boots. The nose and eyes were black with dust. He recognized Ivan Ivanitch and Burkin and, apparently, was very glad. “Come, gentlemen, into the house,” he said, smiling. “I am now, this minute. The house was large, two stories high. Alekhine lived downstairs, in two rooms with vaults and small windows, where clerks had once lived; the atmosphere here was simple, and there was a smell of rye bread, cheap vodka, and harness. Upstairs, in the front rooms, he rarely visited, only when guests arrived. Ivan Ivanitch and Burkin were met at the house by the maid, a young woman so beautiful that they both stopped at once and looked at each other. "You can't imagine how glad I am to see you, gentlemen," said Alekhin, following them into the hall. - I didn't expect it! Pelageya,” he turned to the maid, “let the guests change into something. By the way, I'll change my clothes. Only I must first go to wash, otherwise I seem to have not washed since spring. Would you like to go to the bath, gentlemen, and then they will cook it. Beautiful Pelageya, so delicate and seemingly so soft, brought sheets and soap, and Alekhin and the guests went to the bath. “Yes, I haven’t washed in a long time,” he said, undressing. - My bath, as you can see, is good, my father was still building, but somehow there is no time to wash. He sat down on the step and lathered his long hair and neck, and the water around him turned brown. "Yes, I confess..." Ivan Ivanovich said significantly, looking at his head. "I haven't washed in a long time..." Alekhine repeated embarrassingly and lathered himself again, and the water around him turned dark blue, like ink. Ivan Ivanovich went outside, threw himself into the water with a noise and swam in the rain, waving his arms widely, and waves came from him, and white lilies swayed on the waves; he swam to the very middle of the reach and dived, and a minute later he appeared in another place and swam further, and kept diving, trying to reach the bottom. “Oh, my God…” he repeated, enjoying himself. “Ah, my God...” He swam to the mill, talked about something with the peasants there and turned back, and lay down in the middle of the stretch, exposing his face to the rain. Burkin and Alekhin had already dressed and were about to leave, but he kept swimming and diving. “Oh, my God…” he said. “Ah, Lord have mercy. - You will! Burkin called to him. We returned to the house. And only when a lamp was lit in the large living room upstairs, and Burkin and Ivan Ivanovich, dressed in silk dressing gowns and warm shoes, sat in armchairs, and Alekhine himself, washed, combed, in a new frock coat, walked around the living room, apparently feeling the warmth with pleasure cleanliness, dry dress, light shoes, and when the beautiful Pelageya, silently stepping on the carpet and smiling softly, served tea and jam on a tray, only then did Ivan Ivanovich begin the story, and it seemed that not only Burkin and Alekhin were listening to him, but also old and young ladies and soldiers, looking calmly and sternly out of golden frames. “We are two brothers,” he began, “I, Ivan Ivanovich, and the other, Nikolai Ivanovich, is two years younger. I went to the scientific department, became a veterinarian, and Nikolai had been sitting in the state chamber since the age of nineteen. Our father Chimsha-Himalayan was from the cantonists, but, having served the rank of officer, he left us a hereditary nobility and a small estate. After his death, our little estate was taken away for debts, but, be that as it may, we spent our childhood in the countryside in the wild. We, all the same, like peasant children, spent days and nights in the field, in the forest, guarding the horses, fighting the bast, catching fish, and so on ... Do you know who at least once in their life caught a ruff or saw migratory thrushes in the fall how on clear, cool days they rush in flocks over the village, he is no longer a city dweller, and will be sipped at will until his death. My brother yearned in the Treasury. Years passed, and he still sat in one place, wrote all the same papers and thought about the same thing, as if in a village. And this melancholy in him little by little turned into a certain desire, into a dream of buying himself a small estate somewhere on the banks of a river or lake. He was a kind, meek man, I loved him, but I never sympathized with this desire to lock myself up for the rest of my life in my own estate. It is customary to say that a person needs only three arshins of earth. But a corpse needs three arshins, not a man. And they also say now that if our intelligentsia has a gravitation towards the earth and aspires to estates, then this is good. But these estates are the same three arshins of land. To leave the city, from the struggle, from the noise of life, to leave and hide in one's estate - this is not life, this is selfishness, laziness, this is a kind of monasticism, but monasticism without achievement. A person needs not three arshins of land, not a farmstead, but the whole globe, all nature, where in the open space he could manifest all the properties and characteristics of his free spirit. My brother Nikolai, sitting in his office, dreamed of how he would eat his own cabbage soup, from which there is such a delicious smell throughout the yard, eat on green grass, sleep in the sun, sit for hours outside the gate on a bench and look at the field and forest. Agricultural books and all these advices in calendars were his joy, his favorite spiritual food; he also liked to read the newspapers, but in them he only read advertisements that so many acres of arable land and meadows with an estate, a river, a garden, a mill, and flowing ponds were being sold. And paths in the garden were drawn in his head, flowers, fruits, birdhouses, crucian carp in the ponds, and, you know, all this stuff. These imaginary pictures were different, depending on the advertisements that came across to him, but for some reason in each of them there was always a gooseberry. He could not imagine a single estate, a single poetic corner without gooseberries. “Country life has its conveniences,” he used to say. - You sit on the balcony, drink tea, and your ducks swim on the pond, it smells so good and ... and gooseberries grow. He drew a plan of his estate, and every time he got the same thing on the plan: a) a manor's house, b) a man's house, c) a vegetable garden, d) a gooseberry. He lived sparingly: he did not eat, did not drink enough, dressed God knows how, like a beggar, and saved everything and put it in the bank. Terribly thirsty. It hurt me to look at him, and I gave him something and sent it on holidays, but he hid that too. If a person has given himself an idea, then nothing can be done. Years passed, he was transferred to another province, he was already forty years old, and he kept reading advertisements in newspapers and saving up. Then, I hear, he got married. All with the same purpose, in order to buy himself a manor with gooseberries, he married an old, ugly widow, without any feeling, but only because she had some money. He also lived sparingly with her, kept her from hand to mouth, and put her money in a bank in his name. She used to go to the postmaster and got used to pies and liqueurs with him, but she didn’t see enough black bread with her second husband; she began to wither away from such a life, and after three years she took and gave her soul to God. And of course my brother did not think for a single minute that he was to blame for her death. Money, like vodka, makes a person weird. A merchant was dying in our city. Before his death, he ordered a plate of honey to be served to him and ate all his money and winning tickets along with honey so that no one would get it. Once at the station I was inspecting the herds, and at that time one horse-dealer fell under a locomotive and his leg was cut off. We carry him to the emergency room, the blood is pouring - a terrible thing, but he keeps asking for his leg to be found, and everything is worried; in a boot on a cut off leg twenty rubles, no matter how lost. "You're from another opera," said Burkin. “After the death of his wife,” continued Ivan Ivanovich, after thinking for half a minute, “my brother began to look out for an estate. Of course, look out for at least five years, but in the end you will make a mistake and buy something completely different from what you dreamed about. Brother Nikolai, through a commission agent, with the transfer of a debt, bought one hundred and twelve acres with a manor house, with a people's house, with a park, but no orchard, no gooseberries, no ponds with ducks; there was a river, but the water in it was the color of coffee, because there was a brick factory on one side of the estate, and a bone factory on the other. But my Nikolai Ivanovich did not grieve a little; he ordered twenty gooseberry bushes for himself, planted and lived as a landowner. Last year I went to visit him. I'll go, I think, I'll see how and what's there. In his letters, the brother called his estate like this: Chumbaroklova Wasteland, Himalayan identity. I arrived at Himalayan Identity in the afternoon. It was hot. Everywhere there are ditches, fences, hedges, planted with rows of Christmas trees - and you don’t know how to get into the yard, where to put the horse. I go to the house, and towards me is a red dog, fat, like a pig. She wants to bark, but laziness. The cook came out of the kitchen, bare-legged, fat, also like a pig, and said that the master was resting after dinner. I go in to my brother, he is sitting in bed, his knees are covered with a blanket; aged, stout, flabby; cheeks, nose and lips stretch forward - just look, grunts into the blanket. We embraced and wept with joy and with the sad thought that we were once young, and now both are gray-haired and it's time to die. He dressed and took me to show his estate. - Well, how are you doing here? I asked. - Nothing, thank God, I live well. This was no longer the former timid poor official, but a real landowner, a gentleman. He had already settled down here, got used to it and got a taste for it; he ate a lot, washed in the bathhouse, grew stout, was already suing society and both factories, and was very offended when the peasants did not call him "your honor." And he took care of his soul solidly, in a lordly way, and did good deeds not simply, but with importance. What are good deeds? He treated the peasants for all diseases with soda and castor oil, and on the day of his name day he served a thanksgiving service among the village, and then put half a bucket, he thought that it was necessary. Ah, those awful half-buckets! Today the fat landowner drags the peasants to the zemstvo chief for poisoning, and tomorrow, on a solemn day, he gives them half a bucket, and they drink and shout hurray, and the drunks bow at his feet. A change of life for the better, satiety, idleness develop in a Russian person self-conceit, the most arrogant. Nikolai Ivanovich, who at one time in the Treasury was afraid to have his own views even for himself personally, now spoke nothing but the truth, and in such a tone, like a minister: “Education is necessary, but for the people it is premature”, “corporal punishment is generally harmful, but in some cases they are useful and irreplaceable.” “I know the people and know how to deal with them,” he said. “People love me. I have only to lift a finger, and for me the people will do whatever they want. And all this, mind you, was said with a clever, kind smile. He repeated twenty times: "we, the nobles", "I, like a nobleman"; obviously, he no longer remembered that our grandfather was a peasant, and his father was a soldier. Even our surname Chimsha-Himalayan, in essence incongruous, now seemed to him sonorous, noble and very pleasant. But it's not about him, it's about me. I want to tell you what a change took place in me during those few hours while I was at his estate. In the evening, when we were drinking tea, the cook brought a plate full of gooseberries to the table. It was not bought, but his own gooseberries, harvested for the first time since the bushes had been planted. Nikolai Ivanovich laughed and looked at the gooseberries for a minute, silently, with tears - he could not speak for excitement, then he put one berry in his mouth, looked at me with the triumph of a child who had finally received his favorite toy, and said:— How delicious! And he ate greedily and kept repeating: - Oh, how delicious! You try! It was tough and sour, but, as Pushkin said, "the darkness of truth is dearer to us than the uplifting deceit." I saw a happy man, whose cherished dream came true so obviously, who achieved the goal in life, got what he wanted, who was satisfied with his fate, with himself. For some reason, something sad was always mixed with my thoughts about human happiness, but now, at the sight of a happy person, I was seized by a heavy feeling, close to despair. It was especially hard at night. They made a bed for me in the room next to my brother's bedroom, and I could hear how he did not sleep and how he got up and went to a plate of gooseberries and took a berry. I thought: how, in fact, there are many satisfied, happy people! What an overwhelming power! Look at this life: the impudence and idleness of the strong, the ignorance and bestiality of the weak, impossible poverty all around, cramped conditions, degeneration, drunkenness, hypocrisy, lies... Meanwhile, in all the houses and on the streets, there is silence and calmness; out of fifty thousand people living in the city, not one who would cry out, loudly indignant. We see those who go to the market for provisions, eat during the day, sleep at night, who talk their nonsense, get married, grow old, complacently drag their dead to the cemetery, but we we do not see and do not hear those who suffer, and what is terrible in life happens somewhere behind the scenes. Everything is quiet, calm, and only dumb statistics protest: so many went crazy, so many buckets were drunk, so many children died from malnutrition ... And such an order is obviously needed; Obviously, the happy one feels good only because the unfortunate bear their burden in silence, and without this silence, happiness would be impossible. This is general hypnosis. It is necessary that behind the door of every contented, happy person someone stands with a hammer and constantly reminds by knocking that there are unfortunate people, that no matter how happy he is, sooner or later life will show him its claws, trouble will strike - illness, poverty, loss, and no one will see or hear him, just as now he does not see or hear others. But there is no man with a hammer, the happy one lives for himself, and the petty cares of life excite him slightly, like the wind does the aspen - and everything is going well. “That night it became clear to me how satisfied and happy I was, too,” continued Ivan Ivanovich, getting up. - I also taught at dinner and on the hunt how to live, how to believe, how to rule the people. I also said that learning is light, that education is necessary, but for ordinary people one letter is enough for the time being. Freedom is a blessing, I said, it is impossible without it, as without air, but we must wait. Yes, I said so, and now I ask: in the name of what to wait? Ivan Ivanovich asked, looking angrily at Burkin. What are you waiting for, I ask you? For what reasons? I am told that it is not all at once, every idea is realized in life gradually, in due time. But who is saying this? Where is the evidence that this is true? You are referring to the natural order of things, to the legitimacy of phenomena, but is there any order and legitimacy in the fact that I, a living, thinking person, stand over a moat and wait for it to overgrow itself or cover it with silt, while, perhaps, , could I jump over it or build a bridge over it? And again, in the name of what to wait? Wait when there is no strength to live, but meanwhile you need to live and want to live! I then left my brother early in the morning, and since then it has become unbearable for me to be in the city. Silence and tranquility oppress me, I am afraid to look at the windows, because now there is no more difficult sight for me than a happy family sitting around the table and drinking tea. I am already old and not fit to fight, I am unable even to hate. I only grieve sincerely, I get irritated, annoyed, at night my head burns from the influx of thoughts, and I cannot sleep ... Ah, if only I were young! Ivan Ivanitch paced from corner to corner in agitation and repeated: - If only I were young! He suddenly went up to Alekhine and began to shake him first one hand, then the other. "Pavel Konstantinovich," he said in an imploring voice, "don't calm down, don't let yourself be put to sleep!" While you are young, strong, cheerful, do not get tired of doing good! Happiness does not and should not exist, and if there is a meaning and purpose in life, then this meaning and purpose is not at all in our happiness, but in something more reasonable and greater. Do good! And Ivan Ivanovich said all this with a pitiful, imploring smile, as if asking for it personally. Then all three sat in armchairs at different ends of the living room, and were silent. Ivan Ivanovich's story did not satisfy either Burkin or Alekhine. When the generals and ladies looked out of the golden frames, who seemed alive in the twilight, it was boring to listen to the story about the poor official who ate gooseberries. For some reason, I wanted to talk and listen about elegant people, about women. And the fact that they were sitting in the living room, where everything - a chandelier in a case, and armchairs, and carpets under their feet, said that they once walked here, sat, drank tea, these same people who now looked out of the frames, and then that the beautiful Pelageya was now walking silently here - it was better than any stories. Alekhine was very sleepy; he got up early to do chores, at three o'clock in the morning, and now his eyes were closed, but he was afraid that the guests would not begin to tell something interesting without him, and did not leave. Whether it was clever, whether what Ivan Ivanovich had just said was fair, he did not delve into it; the guests were not talking about cereals, not about hay, not about tar, but about something that had no direct relation to his life, and he was glad and wanted them to continue ... "But it's time for bed," said Burkin, getting up. “Let me wish you good night. Alekhin said goodbye and went downstairs to his room, while the guests remained upstairs. They were both given a large room for the night, where there were two old wooden beds with carved decorations and an ivory crucifix in the corner; from their beds, wide, cool, which were made by the beautiful Pelageya, there was a pleasant smell of fresh linen. Ivan Ivanovich silently undressed and lay down. Lord, forgive us sinners! he said and covered his head. From his pipe, lying on the table, there was a strong smell of tobacco smoke, and Burkin did not sleep for a long time and still could not understand where this heavy smell came from. The rain pounded on the windows all night.