Science fiction brothers Strugatsky: Strugatsky: Comments. Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol

Happy is the traveler who, after a long, boring road with its cold, slush, dirt, sleep-deprived station guards, jangling bells, repairs, squabbles, coachmen, blacksmiths and all sorts of road scoundrels, finally sees a familiar roof with lights rushing towards him, and familiar people appear before him rooms, the joyful cry of people running out to meet them, the noise and running of children and soothing quiet speeches, interrupted by flaming kisses, powerful to destroy everything sad from memory. Happy is the family man who has such a corner, but woe to the bachelor!

Happy is the writer who, past boring, disgusting characters, striking with their sad reality, approaches characters that demonstrate the high dignity of a person who, from the great pool of daily rotating images, has chosen only a few exceptions, who has never changed the sublime structure of his lyre, has not descended from the top to his poor, insignificant brothers, and, without touching the ground, he plunged entirely into his own exalted and far removed images. His wonderful destiny is doubly enviable: he is among them, as in his own family; and yet his glory spreads far and loudly. He smoked people's eyes with intoxicating smoke; he wonderfully flattered them, hiding the sad things in life, showing them a wonderful person. Everyone rushes after him, applauding, and rushes after his solemn chariot. They call him a great world poet, soaring high above all other geniuses of the world, like an eagle soaring above other high-flying ones. At his very name, young, ardent hearts are already filled with trembling, reciprocal tears sparkle in everyone’s eyes... He has no equal in strength - he is a god! But this is not the fate, and the fate of the writer is different, who dared to call out everything that is every minute before the eyes and what indifferent eyes do not see - all the terrible, stunning mud of little things that entangle our lives, all the depth of the cold, fragmented, everyday characters with which ours teems. an earthly, sometimes bitter and boring road, and with the strong power of an inexorable chisel, who dared to expose them prominently and brightly to the eyes of the people! He cannot gather popular applause, he cannot bear the grateful tears and unanimous delight of the souls excited by him; a sixteen-year-old girl with a dizzy head and heroic enthusiasm will not fly towards him; he will not forget himself in the sweet charm of the sounds he emitted; he cannot, finally, escape from the modern court, the hypocritically insensitive modern court, which will call the creatures he cherished insignificant and base, will assign him a despicable corner among the writers who insult humanity, will give him the qualities of the heroes he depicted, will take away his heart, both the soul and the divine flame of talent. For the modern court does not recognize that glass that looks at the sun and conveys the movements of unnoticed insects is equally wonderful; for it is not: the modern court recognizes that a lot of spiritual depth is needed in order to illuminate a picture taken from a despicable life and elevate it to the pearl of creation; for the modern court does not recognize that high, enthusiastic laughter is worthy to stand next to high lyrical movement and that there is a whole abyss between it and the antics of a buffoon! The modern court does not recognize this and will turn everything into reproach and reproach for the unrecognized writer; without division, without answer, without participation, like a familyless traveler, he will remain alone in the middle of the road. His field is harsh, and he will bitterly feel his loneliness.

"Dead Souls. 07 Volume 1 - Chapter VII"

Happy is the traveler who, after a long, boring road, with its cold, slush, dirt, sleep-deprived station keepers, jangling bells, repairs, squabbles, coachmen, blacksmiths and all sorts of road scoundrels, finally sees a familiar roof with lights rushing towards him, and will appear before familiar rooms to them, the joyful cry of people running out to meet them, the noise and running of children and soothing quiet speeches, interrupted by flaming kisses, powerful to destroy everything sad from memory. Happy is the family man who has such a corner, but woe to the bachelor!

Happy is the writer who, past boring, disgusting characters, striking with their sad reality, approaches characters that demonstrate the high dignity of a person who, from the great pool of daily rotating images, has chosen only a few exceptions, who has never changed the sublime structure of his lyre, has not descended from the top to his poor, insignificant brothers and, without touching the ground, plunged entirely into his own images, far removed from it and exalted. His wonderful destiny is doubly enviable: he is among them, as in his own family; and yet his glory spreads far and loudly. He smoked people's eyes with intoxicating smoke; he wonderfully flattered them, hiding the sad things in life, showing them a wonderful person. Everyone, clapping their hands, rushes after him and rushes after his solemn chariot. They call him a great world poet, soaring high above all other geniuses of the world, like an eagle soaring above other high-flyers. At his very name, young, ardent hearts are already filled with trembling, reciprocal tears sparkle in everyone’s eyes... He has no equal in strength - he is a god! But this is not the fate, and the fate of the writer is different, who dared to call out everything that is every minute before the eyes and what indifferent eyes do not see, all the terrible, stunning mud of little things that entangle our lives, all the depth of the cold, fragmented, everyday characters with which our earthly life is teeming. , sometimes a bitter and boring road, and with the strong force of an inexorable chisel, who dared to expose them prominently and brightly to the eyes of the people! He cannot gather popular applause, he cannot bear the grateful tears and unanimous delight of the souls excited by him; a sixteen-year-old girl with a dizzy head and heroic enthusiasm will not fly towards him; he will not forget himself in the sweet charm of the sounds he emitted; he cannot finally escape from the modern court, the hypocritically insensitive modern court, which will call the creatures he cherished insignificant and base, will assign him a despicable corner among the writers who insult humanity, will give him the qualities of the heroes he depicted, will take away both his heart and soul , and the divine flame of talent. For the modern court does not recognize that glass that looks at the sun and conveys the movements of unnoticed insects is equally wonderful; for the modern court does not recognize that a lot of spiritual depth is needed in order to illuminate a picture taken from a despicable life and elevate it to the pearl of creation; for the modern court does not recognize that high, enthusiastic laughter is worthy to stand next to high lyrical movement and that there is a whole abyss between it and the antics of a buffoon! The modern court does not recognize this and will turn everything into reproach and reproach for the unrecognized writer; without division, without answer, without participation, like a familyless traveler, he will remain alone in the middle of the road. His field is harsh, and he will bitterly feel his loneliness.

And for a long time it is determined for me by the wonderful power to walk hand in hand with my strange heroes, to look around at the whole enormous rushing life, to look at it through laughter visible to the world and invisible, unknown to it tears! And the time is still far off when, in another key, a menacing blizzard of inspiration will rise from the head, clothed in holy horror and splendor, and in confused trepidation they will sense the majestic thunder of other speeches...

On the road! on the road! away the wrinkle that has appeared on the forehead and the stern gloom of the face! Let's suddenly plunge into life, with all its silent chatter and bells, and see what Chichikov is doing.

Chichikov woke up, stretched his arms and legs and felt that he had slept well. After lying on his back for about two minutes, he snapped his hand and remembered with a beaming face that he now had nearly four hundred souls. He immediately jumped out of bed, did not even look at his face, which he sincerely loved and in which, it seems, he found the chin most attractive, for he very often boasted of it to one of his friends, especially if this happened while shaving. “Look,” he usually said, stroking it with his hand, “what a chin I have: completely round!” But now he did not look at his chin or his face, but directly, as he was, put on morocco boots with carved displays of all sorts of colors, which the city of Torzhok smartly sells, thanks to the negligent motives of Russian nature, and, in Scottish style, in one wearing a short shirt, forgetting his sedateness and decent middle age, he made two leaps around the room, smacking himself very deftly with the heel of his foot. Then, at that very moment, he got down to business: in front of the box he rubbed his hands with the same pleasure as an incorruptible zemstvo court that had come out for an investigation rubs them when approaching a snack, and at the same hour he took the papers out of it. He wanted to finish everything as quickly as possible, without putting it off for a long time. He himself decided to compose fortresses, write and rewrite, so as not to pay anything to the clerks. The formal order was completely known to him; He boldly wrote in large letters: one thousand eight hundred of such and such a year, then after that in small letters: I, landowner such and such, and everything that follows. At two o'clock everything was ready. When he then looked at these leaves, at the men who, for sure, had once been men, worked, plowed, drank, drove, cheated the bar, and maybe were just good men, then something strange, incomprehensible to him the feeling itself took possession of him. Each of the notes seemed to have some special character, and through this it was as if the men themselves received their own character. The men who belonged to Korobochka almost all had appendages and nicknames. Plyushkin's note was distinguished by its brevity in syllable: often only the initial words of names and patronymics were included, and then two periods. Sobakevich’s register was striking in its extraordinary completeness and thoroughness: not a single one of the peasant’s commendable qualities was omitted: one was said to be “a good carpenter”, to another it was added “he understands and does not take drunken drinks.” It was also indicated in detail who the father and who the mother were, and what behavior both had; Only one Fedotov had it written: “The father is unknown, but was born from a courtyard girl, Capitolina, but of good character and not a thief.” All these details gave a special kind of freshness: it seemed as if the men were alive just yesterday. Looking at their names for a long time, he was touched in spirit and, sighing, said: “My fathers, how many of you are crammed here! What have you, my dear ones, done in your lifetime? How have you survived?” And his eyes involuntarily stopped at one name, it was the famous Pyotr Savelyev Neuvazhai-trough, which once belonged to the landowner Korobochka. Again he could not resist saying: “Oh, what a long man, he went all over the place! Were you a craftsman or just a peasant, and what kind of death took you away? Was it in a tavern or in the middle of the road that a sleepy, clumsy convoy ran over you? Traffic jam Stepan, the carpenter, exemplary sobriety. Ah! here he is, Stepan Probka, here is that hero who would be fit for the guard! Tea, all the provinces went with an ax in his belt and boots on his shoulders, ate a penny of bread and two dried fish, and in his purse, tea , dragged home a hundred rubles each time, and maybe even sewed the state’s money into canvas trousers or tucked it into a boot, - where did you tidy up? Did you climb up under the church dome for a big profit, and maybe you dragged yourself to the cross and, slipping from there from the crossbar, fell to the ground, and only some Uncle Mikhey standing next to you, scratching the back of his head with his hand, said: “Eh, Vanya, what a blessing for you!”, and he, tying himself with a rope, climbed into your place. Maxim Telyatnikov, shoemaker. Hey, a shoemaker, drunk as a shoemaker, says the proverb. I know, I know you, my dear; if you want, I’ll tell you your whole story: you studied with a German who fed you all together, beat you on the back with a belt for being careless and didn’t let you out into the street to hang out, and you were a miracle, not a shoemaker, and the German didn’t boast about you when he and his wife were in trouble or with a comrade. And how did your apprenticeship end: “Now I’ll start my own little house,” you said, “but not like a German, who spends a penny on a penny, but suddenly I’ll get rich.” And so, having given the master a decent rent, you opened a shop, collected a bunch of orders, and went to work. I got about three cheap pieces of rotten leather and won, exactly, double on every boot, but two weeks later your boots were torn apart and they scolded you in the meanest way. And so your little shop was deserted, and you went to drink and wallow in the streets, saying: “No, it’s bad in the world! There is no life for a Russian man: the Germans are always in the way.” What kind of guy is this: Elizaveta Sparrow? Fucking abyss: woman! How did she get here? Sobakevich is a scoundrel, and he cheated here too!" Chichikov was right: it was definitely a woman. How she got there is unknown, but she was so skillfully written that from a distance one could mistake her for a man, and even her name ended with a letter? , that is, not Elizabeth, but Elizabeth. However, he did not take it into account and immediately crossed it out. "Grigory You won't get there! What kind of person were you? Did you work as a driver and, having got a troika and a matting wagon, renounced your home forever, your native den, and went to trudge with the merchants to the fair. On the road, did you give your soul to God, or your friends left you for some fat and red-cheeked soldier, or a forest tramp took a closer look at your belted mittens and three squat but strong skates, or maybe you yourself, lying on the floor, thought and thought, but for no reason , out of nowhere, he turned into a tavern, and then straight into an ice hole, and remember what his name was. Eh, the Russian people! They don’t like to die a natural death! What about you, my darlings? " he continued, turning his eyes to the piece of paper where Plyushkin’s fugitive souls were marked: “Even though you’re still alive, what’s the use of you! The same as the dead, and somewhere now your fast legs are carrying you? Are you feeling bad?” was it at Plyushkin's, or do you simply walk through the forests of your own accord and beat up passers-by? Do you sit in prisons or stick to other gentlemen and plow the land? Eremey Karyakin, Nikita Volokita, his son Anton Volokita - these, and by their nickname it is clear that they are good runners. Popov, a yard man, should be literate: I didn’t pick up a knife, I didn’t pick up tea, but stole in a noble manner. But now you, without a passport, were caught by the police captain. You stand cheerfully in the confrontation. “Whose are you?” says the police captain, having given you some strong words at this sure opportunity. “Such and such a landowner,” you answer smartly. “Why are you here?” says the police captain. “Released on quitrent,” you answer. you don't hesitate." "Where is your passport?" - "The owner, tradesman Pimenov." - "Call Pimenov! Are you Pimenov?” - “I’m Pimenov.” - “Did he give you his passport?” - “No, he didn’t give me any passport.” - “Why are you lying?” says the police captain, adding some strong words “That’s right,” you answer smartly: “I didn’t give it to him because I came home late, but I gave it to Antipa Prokhorov, the bell-ringer, to keep.” - “Call the bell-ringer!” Did he give you a passport?" - “No, I didn’t receive a passport from him.” - “Why are you lying again!” says the police captain, sealing his speech with some strong words. “Where is your passport?” - “He “I had it,” you say quickly: “yes, maybe, apparently, somehow on the way he dropped it.” - “And the soldier’s overcoat,” says the police captain, again nailing you with some strong words in addition: “why?” stole? and the priest also has a chest with copper money? " - “No way,” you say, without moving: “I’ve never been involved in thieves before.” - “Why was the overcoat found on you?” - “I can’t know: it’s true that someone else brought it.” - “Oh, you beast, beast!” says the police captain, shaking his head and holding his sides. “Put stocks on his feet and take him to prison.” - “If you please! “It’s my pleasure,” you answer. And so, taking a snuff box out of your pocket, you amiably treat some two disabled people who are putting the stocks on you, and ask them how long they have been retired and what war they were in. And so you live for yourself. in prison, while your case is being processed in court. And the court writes: to transport you from Tsarevokokshaisk to the prison of such and such a city, and that court writes again: to transport you to some Vesyegonsk, and you move from prison to prison and say, looking around the new abode: “No, the Vesegonsk prison will be cleaner: even though there are money there, there is room, and there is more society!” - “Abakum Fyrov! what are you doing, brother? where, in what places do you hang around? Did you get carried away to the Volga, and did you fall in love with a free life, sticking with the barge haulers?.. "Here Chichikov stopped and thought a little. What was he thinking about? Did he think about the fate of Abakum Fyrov or did he think about it, on his own, as every Russian thinks, no matter what age, rank and condition, when he plans on the revelry of a wide life. And in fact, where is Fyrov now? Walking noisily and cheerfully on the grain pier, having dressed up with the merchants. Flowers and ribbons on his hat, the whole gang of barge haulers is having fun, saying goodbye with mistresses and wives, tall, slender, in monists and ribbons; round dances, songs, the whole square is in full swing, and meanwhile the porters, with shouts, curses and urging, hooking nine pounds on their backs with a hook, noisily pour peas and wheat into the deep ships are dumping coolies with oats and cereals, and in the distance one can see across the entire area heaps of sacks piled up in a pyramid, like cannonballs, and the entire grain arsenal looks out enormously until it is all loaded into deep marmot ships and the goose rushes off with the endless spring ice fleet. That's where you'll work hard, barge haulers! and together, as before they walked and raged, you will set to work and sweat, dragging the strap under one endless song, like Rus'.

"Ehe, heh! Twelve o'clock!" Chichikov finally said, looking at his watch. “Why am I so buried? And even if I had done the job, otherwise, for no reason at all, I first blocked the nonsense, and then began to think. What a fool I really am!” Having said this, he changed his Scottish suit to a European one, buckled his full belly tighter, sprinkled himself with cologne, picked up a warm cap and, with papers under his arm, went to the civil chamber to make a deed of sale. He was in a hurry not because he was afraid of being late, he was not afraid of being late, because the chairman was a familiar man and could extend and shorten his presence at his request, like the ancient Zeus of Homer, who extended the days and sent quick nights when it was necessary to stop the abuse of heroes dear to him or give them a means to fight; but he himself felt a desire to bring things to an end as quickly as possible; until then everything seemed restless and awkward to him; Still, the thought came: that souls are not entirely real and that in such cases such a burden always needs to be lifted off one’s shoulders as quickly as possible. Before he had time to go out into the street, thinking about all this and at the same time dragging on his shoulders a bear covered with brown cloth, when at the very turn into the alley he ran into a gentleman, also wearing bears, covered with brown cloth, and in a warm cap with ears. The gentleman screamed, it was Manilov. They immediately embraced each other and remained on the street in this position for about five minutes. The kisses on both sides were so strong that both of their front teeth almost hurt all day. Manilov's joy left only his nose and lips on his face, his eyes completely disappeared. For a quarter of an hour he held Chichikov’s hand with both hands and heated it terribly. In the most subtle and pleasant turns of phrase, he told how he flew to hug Pavel Ivanovich; the speech was concluded with such a compliment as is only appropriate for a girl with whom they are going to dance. Chichikov opened his mouth, not yet knowing how to thank him, when suddenly Manilov took out from under his fur coat a piece of paper, rolled into a tube and tied with a pink ribbon, and held it out very deftly with two fingers.

"What's this?"

"Men."

"A!" He immediately unfolded it, ran his eyes through it and marveled at the purity and beauty of the handwriting: “It’s beautifully written,” he said, “there’s no need to rewrite it. There’s also a border around it! Who made the border so skillfully?”

“Well, don’t ask,” said Manilov.

“Oh my God! I’m really ashamed that I caused so much trouble.”

“There are no difficulties for Pavel Ivanovich.”

Chichikov bowed gratefully. Having learned that he was going to the chamber to complete the deed of sale, Manilov expressed his readiness to accompany him. The friends joined hands and walked together. At every slight elevation, or hill, or step, Manilov supported Chichikov and almost lifted him with his hand, adding with a pleasant smile that he would not allow Pavel Ivanovich to hurt his legs. Chichikov was ashamed, not knowing how to thank him, for he felt that he was a little heavy. In similar mutual favors, they finally reached the square where the government offices were located; a large three-story stone house, all white as chalk, probably to depict the purity of the souls of the positions housed in it; the other buildings on the square did not match the enormity of the stone house. These were: a guardhouse, at which stood a soldier with a gun, two or three cab exchanges, and finally long fences with the famous fence inscriptions and drawings scratched with charcoal and chalk; there was nothing else on this secluded, or, as we say, beautiful square. The incorruptible heads of the priests of Themis sometimes stuck out from the windows of the second and third floors and at that very moment hid again: probably at that time the chief entered the room. The friends did not climb up, but ran up the stairs, because Chichikov, trying to avoid being supported by the arms from Manilov, accelerated his pace, and Manilov, for his part, also flew forward, trying not to let Chichikov get tired, and therefore both were very out of breath when entered a dark corridor. Neither in the corridors nor in the rooms was their gaze struck by the cleanliness. They didn't care about her then; and what was dirty remained dirty, not taking on an attractive appearance. Themis simply received guests as she was, in a negligee and robe. It would be worth describing the office rooms through which our heroes passed, but the author has a strong shyness towards all official places. If he happened to pass through them, even in a brilliant and ennobled state, with varnished floors and tables, he tried to run through them as quickly as possible, humbly lowering his eyes to the ground, and therefore does not know at all how everything is prospering and thriving there. Our heroes saw a lot of paper, both rough and white, bowed heads, wide napes, tailcoats, coats of provincial cut, and even just some kind of light gray jacket, separated very sharply, which, turning its head to the side and placing it almost on the very paper, wrote smartly and some kind of neat protocol about the acquisition of land or the inventory of an estate seized by some peaceful landowner, quietly living out his life under court, having amassed children and grandchildren under his protection, and short expressions were heard in fits and starts, uttered in a hoarse voice: “Lend me, Fedosey Fedoseevich, business for No. 368! “You always drag the stopper from the government inkwell somewhere!” Sometimes a more stately voice, no doubt from one of the bosses, rang out imperatively: “Here, rewrite it!” otherwise they will take off your boots and you will sit with me for six days without eating.” The noise from the feathers was great and sounded as if several carts with brushwood were passing through a forest littered with a quarter of an arshin of withered leaves.

Chichikov and Manilov approached the first table, where two officials of still young years were sitting, and asked: “Let me know, where are the affairs of the fortresses?”

"What do you need?" said both officials, turning around.

“And I need to make a request.”

“What did you buy?”

“I would like to know first where the fortress table is, here or in another place?”

“Tell me first what you bought and at what price, then we’ll tell you where, otherwise it’s impossible to know.”

Chichikov immediately saw that the officials were simply curious, like all young officials, and wanted to give more weight and meaning to themselves and their activities.

“Listen, my dears,” he said, “I know very well that all the affairs of the fortresses, whatever the price, are in one place, and therefore I ask you to show us the table, and if you don’t know what you have is done, so we’ll ask others.” The officials did not answer this; one of them only pointed his finger at the corner of the room, where an old man was sitting at a table, marking up some papers. Chichikov and Manilov walked between the tables straight towards him. The old man studied very carefully.

“Let me find out,” said Chichikov with a bow, “are things going on here regarding the fortresses?”

The old man raised his eyes and said deliberately: “There is no work on the fortresses here.”

"Where is it?"

"This is on a fortress expedition."

“Where is the fortress expedition?”

"This is Ivan Antonovich's."

"Where is Ivan Antonovich?"

The old man pointed his finger to the other corner of the room. Chichikov and Manilov went to Ivan Antonovich. Ivan Antonovich had already turned one eye back and looked sideways at them, but at that very moment he plunged even more attentively into the writing.

“Let me find out,” said Chichikov with a bow: “is there a fortress table here?”

Ivan Antonovich seemed not to have heard and plunged completely into the papers, not answering anything. It was suddenly clear that he was already a man of reasonable years, not like a young talker and helipad. Ivan Antonovich seemed to be well over forty years old; His hair was black and thick; the whole middle of his face protruded forward and went into his nose, in a word, it was the face that in the hostel is called a pitcher's snout.

“Let me ask, is there a fortress expedition here?” said Chichikov.

“Here,” said Ivan Antonovich, turned his jug snout and began to write again.

“And my business is this: I bought peasants from various owners of the local district for withdrawal: I have a deed of sale, all that remains is to complete it.”

“Are there any sellers?”

“Some are here, and others have power of attorney.”

“Did you bring your request?”

“I also brought a request. I would like... I need to hurry... so is it possible, for example, to finish the matter today?”

“Yes, today! Today is not possible,” said Ivan Antonovich. “We need to make further inquiries to see if there are any other prohibitions.” “However, as far as speeding things up, Ivan Grigoryevich, the chairman, is a great friend of mine...”

“But Ivan Grigorievich is not alone; there are others,” said Ivan Antonovich sternly.

Chichikov understood the trick that Ivan Antonovich had wrapped up and said: “Others won’t be offended either, I served myself, I know the matter...”

“Go to Ivan Grigorievich,” said Ivan Antonovich in a somewhat gentler voice: “let him give the order to whomever he should, and let the matter not rest with us.”

Chichikov, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket, placed it in front of Ivan Antonovich, which he did not notice at all and immediately covered it with a book. Chichikov wanted to show it to him, but Ivan Antonovich with a movement of his head made it clear that there was no need to show it.

“Here, he will lead you into the presence!” said Ivan Antonovich, nodding his head, and one of the priests who were right there, who made sacrifices to Themis with such zeal that both sleeves burst at the elbows and the lining had long been peeling off from there, for which he received a collegiate registrar at one time, served our friends as Virgil once served Dante, and led them into the presence room, where there were only wide armchairs, and in them, in front of the table, behind a mirror and two thick books, sat the chairman alone, like the sun. In this place, the new Virgil felt such awe that he did not dare to put his foot there and turned back, showing his back, wiped like a matting, with a chicken feather stuck somewhere. Entering the presence hall, they saw that the chairman was not alone; Sobakevich was sitting next to him, completely obscured by the mirror. The arrival of the guests caused an exclamation, and the government chairs were pushed back noisily. Sobakevich also stood up from his chair and became visible from all sides with his long sleeves. The chairman took Chichikov into his arms, and the room was filled with kisses; asked each other about health; It turned out that both of them had lower back pain, which was immediately attributed to sedentary life. The chairman, it seemed, had already been notified by Sobakevich about the purchase, because he began to congratulate him, which at first made our hero somewhat confused, especially when he saw that Sobakevich and Manilov, both sellers, with whom the matter had been settled privately, were now standing together, facing each other to friend. However, he thanked the chairman and, turning immediately to Sobakevich, asked:

“How’s your health?”

“Thank God, I won’t complain,” Sobakevich said. And indeed, there was nothing to complain about: it was more likely that iron could catch a cold and cough than this wonderfully formed landowner.

“Yes, you have always been famous for your health,” said the chairman, “and your late father was also a strong man.”

“Yes, I went after a bear,” answered Sobakevich.

“It seems to me, however,” said the chairman, “you, too, would have knocked down the bear if you wanted to go against him.”

“No, I won’t knock you down,” answered Sobakevich: “the dead man was stronger than me.” And, sighing, he continued: “No, these are not the same people now; this is my life, what kind of life? It’s just like that...”

“Why is your life not bright?” said the chairman.

“Not good, not good,” said Sobakevich, shaking his head. “Just judge, Ivan Grigorievich: I’ve been living for five decades, I’ve never been sick; even if I had a sore throat, a sore throat or a boil... No, it’s not good! Someday I’ll have to pay for it.” Here Sobakevich plunged into melancholy.

"Eck him!" Both Chichikov and the chairman thought at the same time: “What are you thinking of blaming!”

“I have a letter for you,” said Chichikov, taking Plyushkin’s letter from his pocket.

"From whom?" said the chairman and, having printed it, exclaimed: “Ah! from Plyushkin. He is still vegetating in the world. What fate! After all, what a smartest, richest man he was! And now...”

“Dog,” said Sobakevich, “a swindler, he starved all the people to death.”

“If you please, if you please,” said the chairman, having read the letter: “I am ready to be an attorney. When do you want to make a deed of sale, now or later?”

“Now,” said Chichikov, “I will even ask you, if possible, today; because tomorrow I would like to leave the city: I brought both the fortress and the request.”

“All this is good, but whatever you want, we won’t let you out so early. The fortress will be completed today, but you will still live with you. Now I’ll give the order,” he said and opened the door to the office room, all filled with officials , who were like hardworking bees scattered among the honeycombs, if only the honeycombs can be likened to office work. "Ivan Antonovich here?"

"Call him here!"

Already known to readers, Ivan Antonovich, the jug's snout, appeared in the presence hall and bowed respectfully.

“Take this, Ivan Antonovich, all these fortresses...”

“Don’t forget, Ivan Grigorievich,” Sobakevich picked up: “there will be a need for witnesses, although two on each side. Send now to the prosecutor, he is an idle man and, probably, sits at home: the lawyer Zolotukha, the biggest grabber in the world, does everything for him.” world. An inspector of the medical board, he is also an idle man and, probably, at home, if he has not gone somewhere to play cards; and there are also many here who are closer: Trukhachevsky, Begushkin - they all burden the earth for nothing! "

"Exactly, exactly!" said the chairman and immediately sent a clerical officer after them all.

“I will also ask you,” said Chichikov: “send for the attorney of one landowner with whom I also made a deal - the son of the archpriest Father Kiril; he serves with you.”

“Well, we’ll send for him too!” said the chairman. “Everything will be done, but don’t give anything to the officials, that’s what I ask you to do. My friends shouldn’t have to pay.” Having said this, he immediately gave some order to Ivan Antonovich, which, apparently, he did not like. The fortresses seemed to have a good effect on the chairman, especially when he saw that all purchases amounted to almost a hundred thousand rubles. For several minutes he looked into Chichikov’s eyes with an expression of great pleasure and finally said: “So that’s how it is! That’s how it is, Pavel Ivanovich! That’s how you got it.”

“I got it,” answered Chichikov.

"A good deed! Really, a good deed!"

“Yes, I see for myself that I could not have undertaken a more good deed. Be that as it may, a person’s goal is still not determined if he has not finally placed his feet firmly on a solid foundation, and not on some free-thinking chimera of youth.” Here he very opportunely scolded all young people for liberalism, and rightly so. But it’s remarkable that there was still some kind of unsteadiness in his words, as if he immediately said to himself: “Eh, brother, you’re lying, and a big one at that!” He didn’t even look at Sobakevich and Manilov, for fear of seeing something on their faces. But he was afraid in vain: Sobakevich’s face did not move, and Manilov, enchanted by the phrase, only shook his head approvingly with pleasure, plunging into the position in which a music lover finds himself when the singer has outdone the very violin and squeaked such a thin note that he could not poop and bird's throat.

“Why don’t you tell Ivan Grigorievich,” responded Sobakevich: “what exactly? You acquired this; and you, Ivan Grigorievich, why don’t you ask what acquisition they made? After all, what kind of people! Just gold. After all, I sold them and carriage maker Mikheev."

“No, as if Mikheev was sold too?” said the chairman. “I know the carriage maker Mikheev: a glorious master; he remade my droshky. Just excuse me, how... After all, you told me that he died...”

"Who, Mikheev died?" said Sobakevich, not at all confused. “It was his brother who died, and he is still alive and healthier than before. The other day he set up such a chaise that couldn’t be done in Moscow. He can only really work for one sovereign.”

“Yes, Mikheev is a glorious master,” said the chairman, “and I even wonder how you could part with him.”

“It’s like there’s only Mikheev! And Cork Stepan, the carpenter, Milushkin, the brickmaker, Telyatnikov Maxim, the shoemaker - after all, they all went, they sold everyone!” And when the chairman asked why they went, being people necessary for the house and artisans, Sobakevich answered, waving his hand: “Ah! I just found stupidity: give it, I say, I’ll sell it, and I sold it foolishly!” Then he hung his head as if he himself repented of this matter, and added: “Here is a gray-haired man, but he still hasn’t gained his mind.”

“But excuse me, Pavel Ivanovich,” said the chairman: “how do you buy peasants without land? Is it for withdrawal?”

"To conclusion."

“Well, the conclusion is a different matter. And what places?”

"To places... to the Kherson province."

“Oh, there are excellent lands there, it’s just not inhabited,” said the chairman and responded with great praise about the growth of the grass there. “Is there enough land?”

“Enough, as much as is needed for the purchased peasants.”

"River or pond?"

"A river. However, there is also a pond." Having said this, Chichikov inadvertently glanced at Sobakevich, and although Sobakevich was still motionless, it seemed to him as if it was written on his face: “Oh, you’re lying! There’s hardly a river and a pond, and the whole earth!”

While the conversations continued, witnesses began to appear little by little: the Morgun prosecutor familiar to the reader, the inspector of the medical board, Trukhachevsky, Begushkin and others, according to Sobakevich, who were burdening the land for nothing. Many of them were completely unfamiliar to Chichikov: the missing and extra ones were recruited right there from the chamber officials. They also brought not only the son of the archpriest Father Kiril, but even the archpriest himself. Each of the witnesses placed himself with all his virtues and ranks, some in reverse font, some in jambs, some simply almost upside down, placing letters that had never even been seen in the Russian alphabet. The famous Ivan Antonovich managed it very quickly, the fortresses were recorded, marked, entered in the book and where it should be, with the acceptance of half a percent and for printing in the Vedomosti, and Chichikov had to pay very little. Even the chairman gave an order to take only half of the duty money from him, and the other, unknown in some way, was assigned to the account of some other petitioner.

“So,” said the chairman, when it was all over, “all that remains now is to spray the purchase.”

“I’m ready,” said Chichikov. “It’s only up to you to set the time. It would be a sin on my part if, for such a pleasant company, I didn’t uncork another or third bottle of sparkling wine.”

“No, you didn’t take things that way: we’ll supply the fizzybrew ourselves,” said the chairman: “this is our duty, our duty. You are our guest: we should be treated to a treat. You know what, gentlemen! For now, this is what we’ll do: "Let's all go, as we are, to the police chief; he is our miracle worker: he only has to blink when passing a fish row or a cellar, and you know, we'll have a bite! And at this opportunity, we'll blow the whistle."

No one could refuse such an offer. Witnesses already felt an appetite at the very name of the fish row; They all took up their caps and hats that same hour, and the presence ended. When they passed the office, Ivan Antonovich the jug's snout, bowing politely, quietly said to Chichikov: "They bought the peasants for a hundred thousand, but for their labor they gave only one little white one."

“But what kind of peasants,” Chichikov answered him, also in a whisper: “a very empty and insignificant people, not even worth half of them.” Ivan Antonovich realized that the visitor was of a strong character and would not give any more.

“And how much did you buy the soul from Plyushkin?” Sobakevich whispered in his other ear.

“Why was Sparrow assigned?” Chichikov told him in response to this.

"Which Sparrow?" Sobakevich said.

“Yes, the woman, Elisaveta Sparrow, they also put a letter at the end.”

“No, I didn’t attribute any Sparrow,” said Sobakevich and went away to the other guests.

The guests finally arrived in a crowd at the police chief's house. The police chief was definitely a miracle worker: as soon as he heard what was happening, at that very moment he called to the policeman, a lively fellow in patent leather boots, and, it seems, he whispered only two words in his ear, and only added: “You understand!” and there in another room, while the guests were playing whist, beluga, sturgeon, salmon, pressed caviar, freshly salted caviar, herrings, stellate sturgeon, cheeses, smoked tongues and balyks appeared on the table, it was all from the fishery side row. Then there were additions from the owner's side, kitchen products: a pie with head meat, which included the cartilage and cheeks of a 9-pound sturgeon, another pie with milk mushrooms, yarn, butter, and boiled milk. The police chief was in some way a father and benefactor in the city. He was among the citizens just like in his own family, and he visited the shops and the guest courtyard as if he were visiting his own pantry. In general, he sat, as they say, in his place and understood his position to perfection. It was even difficult to decide whether he was created for the place or the place for him. The matter was handled so cleverly that he received twice as much income as all his predecessors, and meanwhile earned the love of the entire city. The first merchants loved him very much, precisely because he was not proud; and indeed, he baptized their children, worshiped them, and although sometimes he tore them hard, but somehow extremely deftly: he would pat them on the shoulder, and laugh, and give them tea, promise to come and play checkers himself, and ask about everything : how are you doing, what and how. If he finds out that the cub is somehow ill, he will recommend medicine; in a word, well done! He’ll ride in a droshky, give order, and meanwhile say a word to one or the other: “What, Mikheich! You and I should finish playing uphill someday.” “Yes, Alexey Ivanovich,” he answered, taking off his hat: “it would be necessary.” “Well, brother, Ilya Paramonych, come to me to look at the trotter: he’ll go overtaking with yours, and put yours in the races; we’ll try.” The merchant, who was obsessed with the trotter, smiled at this with special, as they say, eagerness and, stroking his beard, said: “Let’s try it, Alexey Ivanovich!” Even all the inmates, who usually took off their hats at this time, looked at each other with pleasure and seemed to want to say: “Alexey Ivanovich is a good man!” In a word, he managed to acquire a complete nationality, and the opinion of the merchants was that Alexey Ivanovich “even though it will take you, it will certainly not give you away.”

Noticing that the appetizer was ready, the police chief invited the guests to finish whist after breakfast, and everyone went into the room from where the wafting smell had long begun to pleasantly tickle the nostrils of the guests and where Sobakevich had long been peering through the door, noticing from afar a sturgeon lying aside on a large dish. The guests, having drunk a glass of dark, olive-colored vodka, which can only be found on Siberian transparent stones from which seals are cut in Russia, approached the table from all sides with forks and began to discover, as they say, each of his own character and inclinations, leaning on each caviar, some for salmon, some for cheese. Sobakevich, leaving all these little things without any attention, settled down with the sturgeon, and while they were drinking, talking and eating, he reached the whole thing in a little over a quarter of an hour, so that when the police chief remembered him and said: “And how do you feel?” “, gentlemen, will this work of nature appear?”, he approached him with a fork along with others, then he saw that only one tail remained of the work of nature; and Sobakevich hissed as if it were not him, and, going up to the plate, which was further away from the others, poked with a fork at some dried small fish. Having finished the sturgeon, Sobakevich sat down in a chair and no longer ate or drank, but only squinted and blinked his eyes. The police chief, it seems, did not like to spare wine; there was no shortage of toasts. The first toast was drunk, as readers may have guessed for themselves, to the health of the new Kherson landowner, then to the prosperity of his peasants and their happy resettlement, then to the health of his future wife, a beauty, which brought a pleasant smile from the lips of our hero. They approached him from all sides and began to convincingly beg him to stay at least for two weeks in the city: “No, Pavel Ivanovich! As you want, it’s working out, just to cool the hut: on the threshold, and back! No, you spend time with us ! Here we are marrying you: aren’t we, Ivan Grigorievich, marrying him?”

"Getting married, getting married!" the chairman picked up. “No matter how you resist with your hands and feet, we will marry you! No, father, we got here, so don’t complain. We don’t like to joke.”

“Well? Why resist with your hands and feet,” Chichikov said, grinning: “marriage is not such a thing that there would be a bride.”

“There will be a bride, how could there not be? Everything will be, everything you want!..”

"What if..."

"Bravo, it remains!" Everyone shouted: “Vivat, hurray, Pavel Ivanovich! Hurray!” And everyone came up to him to clink glasses with glasses in their hands. Chichikov clinked glasses with everyone. "No, no, not yet!" those who were more playful spoke and clinked glasses again; then they went to clink glasses a third time, and clinked glasses a third time. In a short time everyone felt incredibly happy. The chairman, who was a very nice man, when he was having fun, hugged Chichikov several times, saying in an outpouring of heart: “You are my soul! a kind of Kamarinsky guy." After the champagne, the Hungarian wine was uncorked, which added even more spirit and cheered up the company. They completely forgot about whist; they argued, shouted, talked about everything, about politics, even about military affairs, expressed free thoughts for which in another time they themselves would have flogged their children. Many of the most difficult issues were resolved immediately. Chichikov had never felt in such a cheerful mood, imagined himself to be a real Kherson landowner, talked about various improvements: about a three-field economy, about the happiness and bliss of two souls, and began to read to Sobakevich a message in Werther’s verses to Charlotte, to which he only batted his eyes , sitting in an armchair, because after the sturgeon I felt a great urge to sleep. Chichikov himself realized that he was beginning to get too loose, asked for a carriage and took advantage of the prosecutor's droshky. The prosecutor's coachman, as it turned out on the road, was a little experienced, because he drove with only one hand, and, putting the other back, held the master with it. Thus, already on the prosecutor's droshky, he arrived at his hotel, where for a long time all sorts of nonsense was on the tip of his tongue: a blond bride with a blush and a dimple on her right cheek, Kherson villages, capital. Selifan was even given some economic orders to gather all the newly resettled men in order to make a personal roll call of everyone. Selifan listened in silence for a very long time and then left the room, saying to Petrushka: “Go undress the master!” Petrushka began to take off his boots and almost pulled the master himself down to the floor with them. But finally the boots were taken off, the master undressed properly and, after tossing and turning for a while on the bed, which creaked mercilessly, he fell asleep like a Kherson landowner. Meanwhile, Petrushka brought out into the corridor trousers and a lingonberry-colored tailcoat with a sparkle, which, spread out on a wooden hanger, began to beat with a whip and a brush, spreading dust throughout the entire corridor. Just getting ready to take them off, he looked down from the gallery and saw Selifan returning from the stables. They met their gazes and instinctively understood each other: the master had fallen asleep, they could look somewhere. That same hour, having carried his tailcoat and trousers into the room, Petrushka went downstairs, and both walked together, not telling each other anything about the purpose of the trip and joking about completely unrelated things on the way. They didn’t walk far: they just crossed to the other side of the street, to the house that was opposite the hotel, and entered a low, glass, smoky door that led almost to the basement, where a lot of people were already sitting at wooden tables: both those who shaved and those who didn’t. beards, and in sheepskin coats, and just in a shirt, and some in a frieze overcoat. What Petrushka and Selifan were doing there, God knows, but they left there an hour later, holding hands, maintaining perfect silence, showing each other great attention and warning each other against any corners. Hand in hand, without letting go of each other, they climbed the stairs for a whole quarter of an hour, finally overcame it and climbed up. Petrushka stopped for a minute in front of his low bed, wondering how to lie down more decently, and lay down completely across it, so that his legs rested on the floor. Selifan himself lay down on the same bed, placing his head on Petrushka’s belly and forgetting that he should not have slept here at all, but perhaps in the servants’ quarters, if not in the stables near the horses. Both fell asleep at the same moment, raising a snore of unheard-of density, to which the master from the other room responded with a thin, nasal whistle. Soon after them everything calmed down, and the hotel fell into a deep sleep; Only in one window was light still visible, where lived some lieutenant who had arrived from Ryazan, a great lover of boots, apparently, because he had already ordered four pairs and was constantly trying on the fifth. Several times he approached the bed in order to take them off and lie down, but he could not: the boots were definitely well made, and for a long time he raised his foot and examined the smartly and wonderfully worn heel.

Nikolai Gogol - Dead Souls. 07 Volume 1 - Chapter VII, read the text

See also Gogol Nikolai - Prose (stories, poems, novels...):

Dead Souls. 08 Volume 1 - Chapter VIII
Chichikov's purchases became the subject of conversation in the city. Let's talk...

Dead Souls. 09 Volume 1 - Chapter IX
In the morning, even earlier than the time appointed in the city of N. for the vi...

Happy is the traveler who, after a long, boring road with its cold weather,

slush, dirt, sleep-deprived station guards, clanking noises

bells, repairers, squabbles, coachmen, blacksmiths and all kinds

road scoundrels finally sees a familiar roof with rushing towards

lights, and familiar rooms will appear before him, the joyful cry of those running out

towards people, the noise and running of children and soothing quiet speeches,

interrupted by flaming kisses, powerful to destroy everything sad from

memory. Happy is the family man who has such a corner, but woe to the bachelor!

Happy is the writer who ignores boring, nasty characters,

striking with their sad reality, approaches the characters,

demonstrating the high dignity of a person who, from the great pool, daily

rotating images chose only a few exceptions, which did not change any

once the lofty structure of his lyre, did not descend from his top to the poor,

to his insignificant brothers, and, without touching the ground, plunged entirely into his own

far removed from her and exalted images. Doubly enviable beautiful

his destiny: he is among them, as in his own family; and yet far and loud

his fame spreads. He smoked people's eyes with intoxicating smoke; he's wonderful

flattered them by hiding the sad things in life, showing them a wonderful person. All,

applauding, rushes after him and rushes after his solemn chariot.

They call him the great world poet, soaring high above all others

geniuses of the world, as an eagle soars above others that fly high. With one name

his young, ardent hearts are already filled with trembling, his responsive tears are shining

in all eyes... There is no equal to him in strength - he is a god! But such is not the lot, and another

the fate of the writer who dared to call out everything that is every minute before the eyes and

what indifferent eyes do not see - all the terrible, stunning mud of little things,

entangled our lives, the entire depth of the cold, fragmented, everyday

characters with which our earthly, sometimes bitter and boring road teems, and

with the strong force of the inexorable chisel, who dared to expose them convexly and brightly on

the eyes of the people! He will not receive popular applause, he will not mature

grateful tears and unanimous delight of the souls excited by him; not to him

a sixteen-year-old girl with a dizzy head will fly towards

heroic passion; he will not forget himself in the sweet charm of the

sounds; he cannot escape, finally, from modern judgment,

hypocritically insensitive modern court, which will call insignificant and

His cherished creatures will give him a despicable corner in the ranks of writers,

insulting humanity, will give it the qualities of the heroes depicted by him,

will take away from him his heart, his soul, and the divine flame of talent. Because not

the modern court will admit that the glasses that look at the suns and

transmitting movements of undetected insects; for not: recognize modern

judgment that a lot of spiritual depth is needed in order to illuminate a picture taken from

despised life, and elevate it to the pearl of creation; because modern will not recognize

judgment that high enthusiastic laughter is worthy to stand next to high lyrical

movement and that there is a whole abyss between it and the antics of a farcical buffoon!

The modern court will not recognize this and will turn everything into reproach and reproach.

to an unrecognized writer; without division, without response, without participation, as

a familyless traveler, he will be left alone in the middle of the road. His field is harsh, and

he will feel his loneliness bitterly.

And for a long time yet it was determined for me by the wonderful power to walk hand in hand with my

strange heroes, to look at all the enormously rushing life, to look at it through

laughter visible to the world and invisible, unknown to him tears! And that time is still far away

when, with another spring, a menacing blizzard of inspiration rises from the clothed in the holy

horror and in the brilliance of the heads and in confused trepidation they will sense the majestic thunder of others

On the road! on the road! away the wrinkle that has appeared on the brow and the stern dusk

faces! At once and suddenly we will plunge into life with all its silent chatter and

bells and see what Chichikov does.

Chichikov woke up, stretched his arms and legs and felt that he had gotten enough sleep

Fine. After lying on his back for about two minutes, he snapped his hand and remembered with

with a beaming face that he now has almost four hundred souls. Jumped up immediately

he got out of bed and didn’t even look at his face, which he loved sincerely and in

which, it seems, found the chin most attractive, for it was very

often boasted about it to one of his friends, especially if it was

happened while shaving. “Look,” he usually said,

stroking it with my hand, - what a chin I have: completely round! " But now

he didn’t look at his chin or his face, but put it on straight, just as he was

morocco boots with carved designs of all sorts of colors, which he sells briskly

the city of Torzhok thanks to the negligent motives of Russian nature, and,

in Scottish style, in only a short shirt, forgetting his sedateness and

decent middle-aged, made two jumps around the room, slapping himself

very deftly with the heel of the foot. Then at that very moment he got down to business: before

rubbed his hands with the box with the same pleasure as someone who has gone out on

investigation, the incorruptible zemstvo court, approaching the snack, and at the same hour took out

paper from it. He wanted to finish everything quickly, without putting it off for a long time.

box. He himself decided to compose fortresses, write and rewrite, so as not to

pay nothing to the clerks. The formal order was completely familiar to him:

he boldly wrote in large letters: “One thousand eight hundred and such and such a year,” then

followed by small ones: “landowner such and such,” and everything that follows. At two o'clock

everything was ready. When he then looked at these leaves, at the men,

who, for sure, were once men, worked, plowed, drank,

they played around, cheated the bar, or maybe they were just good men,

then some strange feeling, incomprehensible to himself, took possession of him. Each of

the notes seemed to have some special character, and through this it seemed

If only the men would get their own character. The men who belonged to

In the box, almost everyone had appendages and nicknames. Plyushkin's note

differed in brevity in the syllable: often only the initial words were exposed

names and patronymics and then two dots. Sobakevich’s registry was striking in its extraordinary

completeness and thoroughness, not a single quality of the man was missed; about

to one it was said: “a good carpenter”, to another it was attributed: “he understands the business and

does not take drunken drinks." It was also indicated in detail who the father and who the mother were,

and what behavior they both had; only some Fedotov had

it is written: “the father is unknown, but was born from the courtyard girl Capitolina, but

good character and not a thief." All these details gave something special

a look of freshness: it seemed as if the men were alive just yesterday. Looking long

at their names, he was touched in spirit and, sighing, said: “My fathers,

how many of you are crammed here! what have you, my dear ones, been doing forever?

yours? how did you interrupt?" And his eyes involuntarily stopped on one

surname: it was the famous Pyotr Savelyev Neuvazhay-Koryto, who belonged to

once to the landowner Korobochka. Again he could not resist saying: “Oh, what a

long, spread out all over the line! Were you a master, or just a man, and

what kind of death took you away? whether in a tavern or in the middle of the road he ran over you

sleepy clumsy convoy? Cork Stepan, carpenter, sobriety is approximate A! Here

he, Stepan Probka, is the hero who would be fit for the guard! Tea, everything

province with an ax in his belt and boots on his shoulders, he ate for a penny

bread and enough dried fish for two, and tea in my purse, I brought home every time

he sewed up a hundred rubles each, and maybe even a government one, into canvas trousers or

stuck it in his boot, - where did you get to? Are you ready for more profit?

under the church dome, and maybe even onto the cross, and, slipping,

from there, from the crossbar, he fell to the ground, and only someone standing near

Uncle Micah, scratching the back of your head with his hand, said: “Eh, Vanya, you managed to

you!" - and he himself, tying himself with a rope, climbed into your place. Maxim

Telyatnikov, shoemaker. Hey, shoemaker! “Drunk as a cobbler,” says the proverb.

I know, I know you, my dear; if you want, I’ll tell you your whole story: you studied

the German who fed you all together beat you on the back with a belt

sloppiness and did not let you hang out on the street, and you were a miracle, not

shoemaker, and the German did not boast about you, speaking to his wife or to his comrade. But as

your teaching is over: “Now I’ll start my own house,” you said, “

but not like a German, that a penny stretches, but suddenly I get rich" And so,

Having given the master a decent rent, you started a shop, collecting a bunch of orders, and

went to work. I got some rotten leather somewhere for a fraction of the price and won, for sure.

double on every boot, but after two weeks your boots were torn apart, and

They scolded you in the meanest way. And so your little shop was deserted, and you went

drinking and lying around the streets, saying: “No, it’s bad in the world! No

All the Germans interfere with the life of a Russian person." What kind of guy is this: Elizaveta

Sparrow. Fucking abyss: woman! How did she get here? Scoundrel, Sobakevich, and

cheated here!" Chichikov was right: it was definitely a woman. How did she get

there, unknown, but it was so skillfully written that from afar it was possible

take her for a man, and even her name ended with the letter ъ, that is, not

Elizabeth, and Elizabeth. However, he did not take this into account, and immediately

crossed out. "Grigory You won't get there! What kind of person were you? Are you a driver?

hunted for a living and, having owned a troika and a matting wagon, renounced home forever, from

native den, and went to trudge with the merchants to the fair. On the road did you give

soul to God, or your friends left you for some fat and

red-cheeked soldier, or took a closer look at the forest tramp of your belts

mittens and three squat but strong skates, or maybe he himself, lying down

in the bunk, thought, thought, but out of nowhere he turned into a tavern, and

then straight into the hole, and remember their name. Eh, Russian people! does not love

die your own death! What about you, my darlings? - he continued, translating

eyes on the piece of paper where Plyushkin's fugitive souls were marked - even though you are in

still alive, what's the use of you! the same as the dead, and they carry you somewhere

Are your feet fast now? Was it bad for you at Plyushkin’s, or simply, in your own way?

hunting, walking through the forests and beating up passers-by? Are you in prison or

have you stuck to other gentlemen and are you plowing the land? Eremey Karyakin, Nikita Volokita,

his son Anton Volokita is these, and by his nickname it is clear that they are good runners.

Popov, a yard man, must be literate: I didn’t pick up a knife, I didn’t pick up tea,

but he stole in a noble manner. But now I caught you without a passport

police captain. You stand cheerfully in the confrontation. "Whose are you?" - speaks

the police captain, having screwed you at this sure opportunity with some strong

word. “So-and-so landowner,” you answer smartly. "Why are you

here?" says the police captain. "Released on quitrent," you answer without

hesitation. "Where is your passport?" - “At the owner, tradesman Pimenov.” - "Call

Pimenova! Are you Pimenov?" - "I am Pimenov." - "Did he give you his passport?" -

“No, he didn’t give me any passport.” - “Why are you lying?” - speaks

police captain with the addition of some strong words. "Yes sir, -

you answer smartly, “I didn’t give it to him because I came home late, and

gave it to Antipa Prokhorov, the bell-ringer, to keep." - "Call the bell-ringer! He gave

do you need a passport?" - "No, I didn’t receive a passport from him." - "Why are you doing it again?

you're lying! - says the police captain, sealing his speech with some strong

in a word. “Where is your passport?” “I had it,” you say quickly, “

yes, it may be that he dropped it somehow along the way." - "And the soldier's

“overcoat,” says the police captain, nailing you again in the bargain

some strong words - why did you steal it? and the priest also has a chest with

copper money?” “No way,” you say without moving, “in

I've never been involved in thieves before." - "Why was the overcoat found at

you" - "I can't know: it's true, someone else brought it." - "Oh, you

beast, beast! - says the police captain, shaking his head and taking

under the sides. - And put stocks on his feet and take him to prison." - "If you please

“It’s my pleasure,” you answer. And so, taking the snuff box out of your pocket, you

you treat in a friendly manner some two invalids who are putting pads on you, and

you ask them how long they have been retired and what war they were in. And here you are

You live in prison while your case is being processed in court. And the court writes:

escort you from Tsarevokokshaisk to the prison of such and such a city, and that court

writes again: escort you to some Vesyegonsk, and you move

yourself from prison to prison and say, looking around your new home: “No, here

the Vseyegonsk prison will be cleaner: even though it’s a lot of money, there’s room there, and

there is more society!" Abakum Fyrov! What are you, brother? where, in what places

Are you unsteady? Did you drift to the Volga and fall in love with the free life, sticking to

barge haulers?.." Here Chichikov stopped and thought a little. What was he thinking about?

are you thinking? Did he think about the fate of Abakum Fyrov, or did he think so,

by itself, as every Russian thinks, no matter what age, rank and

state when he plans to live a wild life? And in fact, where

now Fyrov? Walks noisily and cheerfully on the grain pier, having tidied up

merchants. Flowers and ribbons on the hat, the whole gang of barge haulers is having fun, saying goodbye to

mistresses and wives, tall, slender, wearing monists and ribbons; round dances,

songs, the whole square is in full swing, and meanwhile the porters, with shouts, curses and

urging them on, hooking nine poods on their backs, noisily pouring

peas and wheat into deep vessels, coolies with oats and cereals are piled up, and further

one can see throughout the area heaps of bags piled up in a pyramid, like cannonballs, and

the entire grain arsenal peeks out enormously until it is all overloaded

deep marmot ships and the goose will not rush along with the spring ice

endless fleet. That's where you'll work hard, barge haulers! and together as before

walked and raged, set to work and sweat, dragging the strap under one endless,

like Rus', a song.

“Ehe, heh! Twelve o’clock!” Chichikov finally said, looking at his watch.

Why am I so buried? Moreover, let him do the job, otherwise for no reason

The other was first blocked by nonsense, and then thought about it. What a fool I really am

business!" Having said this, he changed his Scottish suit to a European one,

he tightened his full belly with a buckle, sprayed himself with cologne, and

hands a warm cap and papers under his arm and went to the civil ward

make a deed of sale. He was in a hurry not because he was afraid of being late - he did not

was afraid, because the chairman was a familiar person and could extend and shorten according to

his desire is the presence, like the ancient Zeus of Homer, who lasted days and

who sent quick nights when it was necessary to stop the scolding of those dear to him

heroes or give them a means to fight, but he himself felt the desire

bring things to an end as quickly as possible; until then everything seemed to him

restless and awkward; still the thought came: that souls are not entirely real

and that in such cases such a burden always needs to be lifted off one’s shoulders as quickly as possible. Did not have time

he goes outside, thinking about all this and at the same time carrying on his shoulders

a bear covered with brown cloth, as at the very turn into the alley

also encountered a gentleman in bears covered with brown cloth, and in

warm cap with ears. The gentleman screamed, it was Manilov. They concluded

immediately into each other's arms and remained on the street for about five minutes in this

position The kisses on both sides were so strong that both of them spent the whole day

My front teeth almost hurt. Manilov's joy left him with only his nose and

lips on the face, eyes completely disappeared. For a quarter of an hour he held both

Chichikov's hand with his hands and heated it terribly. In the most subtle and pleasant turns

he told how he flew to hug Pavel Ivanovich; the speech concluded like this

a compliment that is only appropriate for one girl with whom they are going

dance. Chichikov opened his mouth, not yet knowing how to thank him, when suddenly

Manilov took out from under his fur coat a piece of paper, rolled into a tube and tied with pink

ribbon, and served it very deftly with two fingers.

What's this?

Guys.

A! - He immediately unfolded it, ran his eyes and marveled at the cleanliness and

the beauty of handwriting. “It’s beautifully written,” he said, “there’s no need to rewrite it.”

There’s also a border around it! who made the border so skillfully?

Well, don’t ask,” said Manilov.

Oh my god! I’m really ashamed that I caused so much trouble.

For Pavel Ivanovich there are no difficulties.

Chichikov bowed gratefully. Having learned that he was going to the ward for

by completing the deed of sale, Manilov expressed his readiness to accompany him. Buddies

they held hands and walked together. With every slight elevation or hill,

or a step, Manilov supported Chichikov and almost lifted him with his hand,

adding with a pleasant smile that he would not allow Pavel Ivanovich to

hurt your legs. Chichikov was ashamed, not knowing how to thank him, because

I felt that I was a little heavy. In mutual favors they reached

finally to the square where the government offices were located: a large three-story

stone house, all white as chalk, probably to depict the purity of souls

positions located in it; other buildings on the square did not respond

the enormity of the stone house. These were: a guard box, at which stood

a soldier with a gun, two or three cab exchanges and, finally, long fences with

famous fence inscriptions and drawings scratched with charcoal and chalk;

there was nothing more on this solitary, or, as we say,

beautiful square. Incorruptible

the heads of the priests of Themis and at that very moment hid again: probably at that time

the boss entered the room. The friends didn’t get up, but ran up the stairs,

because Chichikov, trying to avoid holding his arms from the side

Manilov, quickened his pace, and Manilov, for his part, also flew forward, trying

not to allow Chichikov to get tired, and therefore both were quite out of breath when

entered a dark corridor. Their gaze was neither in the corridors nor in the rooms

amazed by the cleanliness. They didn't take care of her then, and what was dirty was so

and remained dirty, not appearing attractive. Themis is simple,

as she is, she received guests in a negligee and robe. It should be described

office rooms that our heroes passed through, but the author has a strong

timidity towards all public places. If he happened to pass them

even in a brilliant and refined form, with varnished floors and

tables, he tried to run as quickly as possible, humbly lowering and downcast

eyes on the ground, and therefore does not know at all how everything is prospering there and

is thriving. Our heroes saw a lot of paper, both rough and white,

bowed heads, wide necks, tailcoats, frock coats of provincial cut and

even just some light gray jacket that came off quite sharply,

who, turning her head to one side and laying it almost on the paper,

wrote out some kind of protocol about the reclaiming of land or

the inventory of an estate seized by some peaceful landowner is calm

living out their lives under judgment, having acquired children and grandchildren under it

cover, and short expressions were heard in fits and starts, uttered by a hoarse

you'll drag the stopper from the government inkwell somewhere!" Sometimes the voice is more

a stately voice, no doubt one of the bosses, rang out imperatively: “Here,

rewrite! Otherwise they’ll take off your boots and you’ll sit with me for six days without eating.”

The noise from the feathers was great and sounded like several carts with

With brushwood we drove through a forest littered with a quarter of an arshin of withered leaves.

Chichikov and Manilov approached the first table, where two officials were still sitting.

young years, and asked:

Let me know where things are going with the fortresses?

What do you need? - both officials said, turning around.

And I need to submit a request.

What did you buy?

I would like to know first where the fortress table is, here or in another

Yes, tell me first what you bought and at what price, so we will tell you then

We’ll tell you where, otherwise you can’t know.

Chichikov immediately saw that the officials were simply curious, like

all young officials, and wanted to give more weight and importance to themselves and their

classes.

Listen, dear ones,” he said, “I know very well that everything

the affairs of the fortresses, whatever the price, are in one place, and

Therefore, I ask you to show us the table, and if you don’t know what you’re doing,

so we will ask others.

The officials did not answer this, one of them just pointed his finger at

corner of the room, where an old man was sitting at a table, marking some

paper. Chichikov and Manilov walked between the tables straight towards him. Old man

worked very carefully.

Let me find out,” said Chichikov with a bow, “things are going well here.”

fortresses"

The old man raised his eyes and said deliberately:

There are no fortress matters here

Where?

This is on a fortress expedition.

Where is the fortress expedition?

This is from Ivan Antonovich

Where is Ivan Antonovich?

The old man pointed his finger to the other corner of the room. Chichikov and Manilov

went to Ivan Antonovich. Ivan Antonovich has already turned one eye back

and looked sideways at them, but at that very moment plunged even more attentively into

Let me find out,” said Chichikov with a bow, “there is a serf here.”

Ivan Antonovich seemed not to have heard and became completely absorbed in

paper without answering anything. It was suddenly clear that it was already a man

prudent years, not like the young talker and helipad. Ivan Antonovich,

seemed to be well over forty years old; His hair was black and thick; all

the middle of his face protruded forward and went into his nose - in a word, it was that

the face that is called the pitcher's snout in the dorm.

Let me ask, is there a serf expedition here? - said Chichikov.

Here,” said Ivan Antonovich, turned his jug snout and

I tried to write again.

And here’s my deal: I bought them from different owners of the local

The peasants of the county came to the conclusion: there is a bill of sale, all that remains is to complete it.

Are there any sellers?

Some are here, and others have a power of attorney.

Did you bring the request?

He also brought a request. I would like... I need to hurry... this can't be done

or, for example, finish the job today!

Yes today! Today it’s impossible,” said Ivan Antonovich. - Need to visit

More information to see if there are any other prohibitions.

However, as for speeding things up, Ivan Grigorievich,

Chairman, my great friend...

But Ivan Grigorievich is not alone; there are others,” he said sternly

Ivan Antonovich.

Chichikov understood the trick that Ivan Antonovich had wrapped up and said:

Others will not be offended either, I served myself, I know the matter...

“Go to Ivan Grigorievich,” said Ivan Antonovich in a voice somewhat

more kindly - let him give the order to whomever he should, but the matter will not be up to us.

Chichikov, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket, placed it in front of Ivan Antonovich,

which he did not notice at all and immediately covered it with a book. Chichikov wanted

was about to point it out to him, but Ivan Antonovich with a movement of his head let him know that he didn’t

needs to be shown.

Here he will lead you into the presence! - said Ivan Antonovich, nodding

head, and one of the celebrants who were right there, bringing with

with such zeal to sacrifice to Themis that both sleeves burst at the elbows and had been climbing for a long time

from there the lining, for which he received a collegiate registrar at one time,

served our friends, as Virgil once served Dante, and

led them into the presence room, where there were only wide armchairs and

one of them sat in front of the table, behind a mirror and two thick books, like

sunshine, chairman. In this place the new Virgil felt this

reverence that he did not dare to put his foot there and turned back,

showing his back, wiped like matting, with chicken stuck somewhere

pen. Entering the presence hall, they saw that the chairman was not

alone, Sobakevich sat next to him, completely obscured by the mirror. Coming

the guests made an exclamation, the government chairs were pushed back from

noise. Sobakevich also stood up from his chair and became visible from all sides

with its long sleeves. The chairman took Chichikov into his arms, and the room

presence was announced with kisses; asked each other about health; it turned out,

that both of them had lower back pain, which was immediately attributed to sedentary life.

The chairman seemed to have already been notified by Sobakevich about the purchase, because

began to congratulate, which at first somewhat confused our hero, especially

when he saw that Sobakevich and Manilov, both sellers with whom the deal

It was settled privately, now they stood together facing each other. However, he

thanked the chairman and, turning immediately to Sobakevich, asked:

How is your health?

Thank God, I won’t complain,” Sobakevich said.

And there was definitely nothing to complain about: rather, the iron could catch a cold and

cough than this wonderfully formed landowner.

“Yes, you have always been famous for your health,” said the chairman, “and the late

your father was also a strong man.

Yes, I went after a bear alone,” answered Sobakevich.

It seems to me, however,” said the chairman. - you would have fallen too

bear if they wanted to go against him.

No, I won’t knock you down,” answered Sobakevich, “the dead man was stronger than me,”

and, sighing, continued: “No, now it’s not those people: this is my life, that

for a life? so somehow...

Why is your life not wonderful? - said the chairman.

“It’s not good, it’s not good,” said Sobakevich, shaking his head. - You

Judge, Ivan Grigorievich: I’ve been living for five decades, I’ve never been sick; though

if my throat hurts, a boil or a boil pops up... No, it’s not good! some day

“Happy is the writer who, past boring, disgusting characters, striking with their sad reality, approaches characters that demonstrate the high dignity of a person who, from the great pool of daily rotating images, chose only a few exceptions, who never changed the sublime structure of his lyre, did not descend from his peak towards his poor, insignificant brothers, and, without touching the ground, he plunged entirely into his own images, far removed from it and exalted. His wonderful destiny is doubly enviable: he is among them, as in his own family; and yet his glory spreads far and loudly.

He smoked people's eyes with intoxicating smoke; he wonderfully flattered them, hiding the sad things in life, showing them a wonderful person. Everyone rushes after him, applauding, and rushes after his solemn chariot. They call him a great world poet, soaring high above all the other geniuses of the world, just as an eagle soars above other high-flying ones. At his very name, young, ardent hearts are already filled with trembling, reciprocal tears sparkle in everyone’s eyes... He has no equal in strength - he is a god!

But this is not the fate, and the fate of the writer is different, who dared to call out everything that is every minute before the eyes and what indifferent eyes do not see - all the terrible, stunning mud of little things that entangle our lives, all the depth of the cold, fragmented, everyday characters with which ours teems. an earthly, sometimes bitter and boring road, and with the strong power of an inexorable chisel, who dared to expose them prominently and brightly to the eyes of the people! He cannot gather popular applause, he cannot bear the grateful tears and unanimous delight of the souls excited by him; a sixteen-year-old girl with a dizzy head and heroic enthusiasm will not fly towards him; he will not forget himself in the sweet charm of the sounds he emitted; he cannot, finally, escape from the modern court, the hypocritically insensitive modern court, which will call the creatures he cherishes insignificant and base, will relegate him to a despicable corner among the writers who insult humanity, will give him the qualities of the heroes he depicted, will take away his heart, both the soul and the divine flame of talent. For the modern court does not recognize that glass that looks at the sun and conveys the movements of unnoticed insects is equally wonderful; for it is not: to admit the modern court that a lot of spiritual depth is needed in order to illuminate a picture taken from a despicable life and elevate it to the pearl of creation; for the modern court does not recognize that high, enthusiastic laughter is worthy to stand next to high lyrical movement and that there is a whole abyss between it and the antics of a buffoon!

If the modern court does not recognize this, everything will turn into a reproach and reproach for the unrecognized writer; without division, without answer, without participation, like a familyless traveler, he will remain alone in the middle of the road. His field is harsh, and he will feel his loneliness bitterly.”

Gogol N.V., Dead Souls / Collected Works in 6 volumes, Volume 5, M., “State Publishing House of Fiction”, 1949, p. 132-133.

Specify the term that denotes the repetition of a word or group of words at the beginning of adjacent phrases (“Happy traveler... Happy writer...”).

Read the text fragment below and complete tasks B1-B7; C1-C2.

Happy is the traveler who, after a long, boring road with its cold, slush, dirt, sleep-deprived station keepers, jangling bells, repairs, squabbles, coachmen, blacksmiths and all kinds of road scoundrels, finally sees a familiar roof with lights rushing towards him, and familiar people appear before him rooms, the joyful cry of people running out to meet them, the noise and running of children and soothing quiet speeches, interrupted by flaming kisses, powerful to destroy everything sad from memory. Happy is the family man who has such a corner, but woe to the bachelor!

Happy is the writer who, past boring, disgusting characters, striking with their sad reality, approaches characters that demonstrate the high dignity of a person who, from the great pool of daily rotating images, has chosen only a few exceptions, who has never changed the sublime structure of his lyre, has not descended from the top to his poor, insignificant brothers, and, without touching the ground, plunged entirely into his own exalted and far removed from it images. His wonderful destiny is doubly enviable: he is among them as if in his own family; and yet his glory spreads far and loudly. He smoked people's eyes with intoxicating smoke; he wonderfully flattered them, hiding the sad things in life, showing them a wonderful person. Everyone, clapping their hands, rushes after him and rushes after his solemn chariot. They call him a great world poet, soaring high above all other geniuses of the world, like an eagle soaring above other high-flying ones. At his very name, young, ardent hearts are already filled with trembling, responsive tears sparkle in everyone’s eyes... There is no one equal to him in strength - he is God! But this is not the fate, and the fate of the writer is different, who dared to call out everything that is every minute before the eyes and what indifferent eyes do not see - all the terrible, stunning mud of little things that entangle our lives, all the depth of the cold, fragmented, everyday characters with which ours teems. earthly, sometimes bitter and boring road, and with the strong force of an inexorable chisel that dared to expose them convexly and brightly on

the eyes of the people! He cannot gather popular applause, he cannot bear the grateful tears and unanimous delight of the souls excited by him; a sixteen-year-old girl with a dizzy head and heroic enthusiasm will not fly towards him; he will not forget himself in the sweet charm of the sounds he emitted; he cannot, finally, escape from the modern court, the hypocritically insensitive modern court, which will call the creatures he cherishes insignificant and base, will relegate him to a despicable corner among the writers who insult humanity, will give him the qualities of the heroes he depicted, will take away his heart, both the soul and the divine flame of talent. For the modern court does not recognize that glass that looks at the sun and conveys the movements of unnoticed insects is equally wonderful; for the modern court does not recognize that a lot of spiritual depth is needed in order to illuminate a picture taken from a despicable life and elevate it to the pearl of creation; for the modern court does not recognize that high, enthusiastic laughter is worthy to stand next to high lyrical movement and that there is a whole abyss between it and the antics of a buffoon! The modern court does not recognize this and will turn everything into a reproach and reproach for the unrecognized writer; without division, without answer, without participation, like a familyless traveler, he will remain alone in the middle of the road. His field is harsh, and he will bitterly feel his loneliness.

N.V. Gogol “Dead Souls”

Clarification.

This term is called “ana-for-ra” or “edi-no-na-cha-tie”. Let's give a definition.

Ana-for-ra or edi-no-na-cha-tie is a stylistic fi-gu-ra, consisting of the repetition of related sounds, words or groups of words at the beginning of each parallel row, that is, the repetition of the initial parts of two or more regarding independent segments of speech (semi-verse, verses, stanzas or prose passages).

Answer: ana-for-ra.

Answer: anaphora