Despite the development of technology and science, our spiritual development ...
From early morning the whole sky was covered with rain clouds; it was quiet, not hot and boring, as it happens on gray, cloudy days, when clouds have long been hanging over the field, you wait for rain, but there is no rain. The veterinarian Ivan Ivanovich and the gymnasium teacher Burkin were already tired of walking, and the field seemed to them endless. Far ahead, the windmills of the village of Mironositskoye 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 a river bank, there were meadows, green willows, estates, and if you stand on one of the hills, you can see from there the same huge field, the telegraph and the train, which from a distance 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 pensive, Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were imbued with love for this field and both thought about how great, how beautiful this country was.
- Last time, when we were in the barn of the head Prokofy, - said Burkin, - you were going to tell some story.
- Yes, I wanted to tell you about my brother then.
Ivan Ivanitch took a long sigh and lit a pipe to begin his story, but just at that time it began to rain. And five minutes later it was pouring heavy rain, heavy, and it was difficult to foresee when it would end. Ivan Ivanitch and Burkin stopped in thought; the dogs, already wet, stood with their tails between their legs and looked at them with affection.
“We need to hide somewhere,” Burkin said. - Let's go to Alekhine. It's close here. - Let's go. They turned to the side and walked all along the mown field, now straight, then taking the right, until they came out onto the road. Soon the poplars, the garden appeared, then the red roofs of the barns; the river gleamed, and a view of a wide reach with a mill and a white bath opened. This was Sofyino, where Alekhine lived.
The mill worked, drowning out the sound of the rain; the dam shook. Here near the carts stood wet horses, their heads bowed, and people walked, covered with sacks. It was damp, dirty, uncomfortable, and the ples looked cold and angry. Ivan Ivanitch and Burkin were already experiencing a feeling of phlegm, uncleanness, and discomfort all over their bodies, their legs were heavy with dirt, and when, having passed the dam, they went up to the master's barns, they were silent, as though angry with each other.
In one of the barns a winnowing machine was rustling; the door was open and dust was pouring out of it. On the threshold stood Alekhine himself, a man of about forty, tall, stout, with long hair, looking more like a professor or artist than a landowner. He was wearing a white shirt, which had not been washed for a long time, with a rope belt, pants instead of trousers, and dirt and straw adhered to his boots. The nose and eyes were black with dust. He recognized Ivan Ivanitch and Burkin and, apparently, was very happy.
“Please, gentlemen, into the house,” he said, smiling. - I am now, this minute.
The house was large, two-story. Alekhine lived downstairs, in two rooms with vaults and small windows, where clerks once lived; the decor was simple, and it smelled 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 in the house by a 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,” said Alekhine, 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 too. I just need to go to wash first, otherwise I haven't bathed since spring. Would you like to go to the bathhouse, gentlemen, and then they will cook for now.
Beautiful Pelageya, so delicate and so soft in appearance, brought sheets and soap, and Alekhine and the guests went to the bathhouse.
“Yes, I haven't bathed for a long time,” he said, undressing. - As you can see, my bathhouse 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 Ivanitch said significantly, looking at his head.
“I haven't bathed for a long time ...” Alekhine repeated embarrassedly and once again lathered himself, and the water around him turned dark blue, like ink.
Ivan Ivanitch 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 in a minute he appeared in another place and swam further, and kept diving, trying to reach the bottom. “Oh my god ...” he repeated, enjoying himself. "Oh, my God ..." I swam to the mill, talked about something there with the peasants and turned back, and in the middle of the reach lay down, exposing his face to the rain. Burkin and Alekhine had already dressed and were about to leave, but he kept swimming and diving.
- Oh, my God ... - he said. - Oh, God have mercy.
- It will be for you! Burkin shouted to him.
We returned to the house. And only when a lamp was lit in the large living room upstairs, and Burkin and Ivan Ivanitch, dressed in silk robes and warm shoes, were sitting in armchairs, while Alekhine himself, washed, combed, in a new frock coat, walked around the living room, apparently feeling warmth with pleasure , cleanliness, dry dress, light shoes, and when beautiful Pelageya, noiselessly stepping on the carpet and smiling softly, was serving tea and jam on a tray, only then did Ivan Ivanitch begin his story, and it seemed that not only Burkin and Alekhine were listening to him, but also old and young ladies and military men, calmly and sternly looking out of the golden frames.
“We are two brothers,” he began, “I, Ivan Ivanovich, and the other, Nikolai Ivanovich, two years younger. I went to the scientific part, became a veterinarian, and Nikolai was already from the age of nineteen in the state ward. Our father, Chimsha-Himalayan, was a cantonist, but having served as an officer, he left us a hereditary nobility and property. After his death, the property was taken away from us 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, guarded horses, fought a bast, fished, and so on ... Do you know who at least once in his life caught a ruff or saw migratory thrush in the fall as they rush in flocks over the village on clear, cool days, he is no longer a city dweller, and he will be pulled free until his death. My brother was grieving in the treasury. Years passed, and he still sat in one place, wrote all the same papers and thought all about the same thing, as if to the village. And this melancholy in him, little by little, turned into a certain desire, into a dream of buying himself a small manor house 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 in my own estate for the rest of my life. It is said that a person needs only three arshins of land. But a corpse needs three arshins, not a man. And they also say now that if our intelligentsia has a gravitation towards the land and strives for 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 everyday life, to leave and hide in one’s estate is not life, this is selfishness, laziness, this is a kind of monasticism, but monasticism without heroic deeds. A person needs not three arshins of land, not a manor, but the whole globe, all nature, where in the open space he could display all the properties and characteristics of his free spirit.
My brother Nikolay, sitting in his office, dreamed of how he would eat his own cabbage soup, from which such a delicious smell emanated throughout the yard, eat on green grass, sleep in the sun, sit for hours at the gate on a bench and look at the field and forest. Agricultural books and all these advices in the calendars were his joy, his favorite spiritual food; he also liked to read newspapers, but he read only advertisements in them 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 he drew in his head paths in the garden, flowers, fruits, birdhouses, crucians in the ponds and, you know, all this stuff. These imaginary pictures were different, depending on the ads that came across to him, but for some reason each of them certainly had a gooseberry. He could not imagine a single estate, not a single poetic corner without the gooseberry.
“Village life has its own 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 the gooseberries grow.
He drew a plan of his estate, and every time he had the same thing on the plan: a) a manor house, b) a man's house, c) a vegetable garden, d) a gooseberry. He lived sparingly: he was undernourished, underdrinked, dressed God knows how, like a beggar, and saved everything and put it in the bank. He was terribly greedy. It hurt me to look at him, and I gave him and sent something at the holidays, but he hid it too. If a person is interested in an idea, then nothing can be done.
Years passed, they transferred him to another province, he was already forty years old, and he kept reading the advertisements in the newspapers and saving up. Then, I hear, I 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 money. He also lived sparingly with her, kept her from hand to mouth, and put her money in the bank in his own name. She used to be behind the postmaster and was used to pies and liqueurs with him, but she did not see enough black bread from her second husband; began to languish from such a life, and after three years she took and gave her soul to God. And of course my brother did not for one minute think that he was to blame for her death. Money, like vodka, makes a person an eccentric. A merchant was dying in our town. Before his death, he ordered to serve himself a plate of honey 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 dealer was run over by a locomotive and his leg was cut off. We carry him to the emergency room, blood is pouring - a terrible thing, and he keeps asking to be found his leg, and everything is worried; there were twenty rubles in a boot on a severed leg, as if not gone.
“You’re from another opera,” said Burkin.
“After the death of his wife,” Ivan Ivanovich continued, after thinking for half a minute, “my brother began to look out for his estate. Of course, look out for at least five years, but in the end you make a mistake and buy something completely different from what you dreamed of. Brother Nicholas, through a commission agent, with the transfer of the debt, bought one hundred and twelve dessiatines with a manor house, with a man'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 on one side of the estate there was a brick factory, and on the other - a bone plant. But my Nikolai Ivanitch was not very sad; he ordered himself twenty gooseberry bushes, planted and healed as a landowner.
Last year I went to see him. I'll go, think, see how and what is there. In his letters, his brother called his estate as follows: Chumbaroklov Wasteland, Himalayan identity. I arrived at the Himalayan Identity in the afternoon. It was hot. Everywhere there are ditches, fences, fences, planted with rows of Christmas trees - and you don't know how to get into the yard, where to put the horse. I was going to the house, and a red-haired dog, fat, like a pig, met me. She wants to bark, but laziness. The cook came out of the kitchen, naked, fat, also like a pig, and said that the master was resting after dinner. I go 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, he grunts into the blanket.
We hugged and cried with joy and the sad thought that once we were young, but now both are gray-haired and it's time to die. He got 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 not the former timid poor bureaucrat, but a real landowner, master. He's already settled down here, got used to it and got a taste; he ate a lot, washed in the bathhouse, got fat, 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 manner, and did good deeds not simply, but with importance. What good deeds? He treated the peasants for all diseases with soda and castor oil, and on his name day served a thanksgiving service among the village, and then set half a bucket, thought it was necessary. Ah, those awful half buckets! Today the fat landowner drags the peasants to the zemstvo chief for injury, and tomorrow, on a solemn day, he gives them half a bucket, and they drink and shout hurray, and the drunk bows at his feet. A change in life for the better, satiety, and idleness develop in a Russian person the most arrogant conceit. Nikolai Ivanovich, who once in the treasury was afraid even for himself to have his own views, now spoke only the truth, and in such a tone, as if 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 I know how to handle them,” he said. - The people love me. As soon as I lift a finger, the people will do whatever I want for me.
And all this, mind you, was said with a smart, kind smile. He repeated twenty times: "we, nobles", "I, like a nobleman"; obviously, he no longer remembered that our grandfather was a man, and our father was a soldier. Even our surname Chimsha-Himalayan, in essence incongruous, seemed to him now sonorous, noble and very pleasant.
But it’s not about him, but 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 purchased, but its own gooseberries, harvested for the first time since the bushes were planted. Nikolai Ivanitch laughed and gazed at the gooseberry for a minute, silently, with tears - he could not speak with 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 harsh and sour, but, as Pushkin said, "the darkness of truths is dearer to us than the elevating deception." I saw a happy man, whose cherished dream came true so obviously, who achieved his goal in life, got what he wanted, who was content with his fate, with himself. For some reason, for some reason, something sad was mixed with my thoughts about human happiness, but now, at the sight of a happy person, a heavy feeling, close to despair, seized me. 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 berries each. I realized: how, in essence, there are many contented, happy people! What an overwhelming power! Take a look at this life: the insolence and idleness of the strong, the ignorance and animal likeness of the weak, all around is impossible poverty, crampedness, degeneration, drunkenness, hypocrisy, lies ... Meanwhile, in all the houses and on the streets there is silence, tranquility; out of fifty thousand living in the city, not a single 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 nonsense, marry, grow old, complacently drag their dead to the cemetery, but we we do not see or hear those who suffer, and what is scary in life happens somewhere behind the scenes. Everything is quiet, calm, and only mute statistics are protesting: so many people have gone mad, so many buckets have been drunk, so many children have died of malnutrition ... And such an order is obviously needed; obviously, the happy one feels good only because the unfortunate ones carry their burden in silence, and without this silence, happiness would be impossible. This is general hypnosis. It is necessary that at the door of every contented, happy person there would be someone with a hammer and would constantly remind with a knock that there are unfortunates, that no matter how happy he is, life will sooner or later show him its claws, trouble will befall - illness, poverty, loss, and no one will see or hear him, just as now he does not see and hear others. But there is no man with a hammer, the happy one lives for himself, and the petty everyday worries excite him slightly, like the wind to an aspen - and everything is all right.
“That night it became clear to me how pleased and happy I was, too,” continued Ivan Ivanitch, getting up. - I, too, at lunch and on the hunt, taught 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. 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 Ivanitch, looking angrily at Burkin. - In the name of what to wait, I ask you? For what reasons? They tell me that not everything at once, every idea is realized in life gradually, in due time. But who says 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 order and legitimacy in the fact that I, a living, thinking person, stand over the 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, why wait? Wait when there is no strength to live, but meanwhile you need to live and want to live!
Then I left my brother early in the morning, and from then on it became unbearable for me to be in the city. I am oppressed by the silence and calmness, I am afraid to look at the windows, because for me now there is no more difficult sight, like a happy family sitting around the table and drinking tea. I am already old and not fit for the fight, I am unable even to hate. I only grieve mentally, I am annoyed, annoyed, at night my head burns from the influx of thoughts, and I cannot sleep ... Ah, if I were young!
Ivan Ivanitch walked in agitation from corner to corner and repeated:
- If I were young!
He suddenly went up to Alekhine and began to shake him first one hand, then the other.
“Pavel Konstantinitch,” he said in an imploring voice, “don’t calm down, don’t let yourself be put to sleep! While you are young, strong, vigorous, do not get tired of doing good! There is no happiness and should not be, and if life has a meaning and a goal, then this meaning and goal is not at all in our happiness, but in something more reasonable and great. Do good!
And Ivan Ivanitch spoke all this with a pitiful, pleading smile, as if he were asking for himself personally.
Then all three sat in armchairs at different ends of the living room, and were silent. Ivan Ivanitch'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, listening to the story about the poor official who ate gooseberries was boring. For some reason I wanted to talk and hear about graceful people, about women. And the fact that they were sitting in the living room, where everything - and a chandelier in a cover, and chairs, and carpets under their feet said that these same people who were now looking out of frames once walked, sat, drank tea here, that beautiful Pelageya was now walking silently here - that was better than any stories.
Alekhine was very sleepy; he got up early, at three o'clock in the morning, and now his eyes were drooping, but he was afraid that the guests might tell something interesting without him, and left. Whether it was clever, whether what Ivan Ivanitch had just said was true, 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 to sleep,” said Burkin, getting up. - Let me wish you good night.
Alekhine 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 in the corner there was an ivory crucifix; their beds, wide, cool, made by beautiful Pelageya, smelled pleasantly of fresh linen.
Ivan Ivanitch undressed in silence and lay down.
- Lord, forgive us sinners! - he said and took cover with his head.
His pipe, lying on the table, smelled strongly 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.
- You were born ... - was the answer.
His tall figure began to hesitate. The glade spun. And when I opened my eyes, to my greatest regret, my strange stranger was nowhere to be found. One of the boys, Romas, stood opposite me and watched my "awakening". He asked what I was doing here and if I was going to pick mushrooms ... When I asked him what time it was, he looked at me in surprise and answered and I realized that everything that happened to me took only a few minutes! ..
I got up (it turned out that I was sitting on the ground), dusted myself off and was about to go, when I suddenly noticed a very strange detail - the whole clearing around us was green !!! As amazingly green as if we found it in early spring! And what was our general surprise when we suddenly noticed that even beautiful spring flowers appeared on it from somewhere! It was absolutely amazing and, unfortunately, completely inexplicable. Most likely, it was some kind of "side" phenomenon after the arrival of my strange guest. But, unfortunately, I could not yet explain or at least understand this.
- What have you done? - asked Romas.
“It's not me,” I grumbled guiltily.
“Come on, then,” he agreed.
Romas was one of those rare friends of the time who were not afraid of my "antics" and were not surprised at anything that constantly happened to me. He just believed me. And so I never had to explain anything to him, which for me was a very rare and valuable exception. When we returned from the forest, I was shaking with chills, but I thought that, as usual, I had just caught a little cold and decided not to bother my mother until something more serious happened. The next morning everything went away, and I was very pleased that this fully confirmed my "version" of a cold. But, unfortunately, I didn't have to rejoice for long ...
"," Gooseberry "," About love ". The story tells about a man who subjugated his whole life to a material idea - the desire to have an estate with gooseberry bushes.
| Gooseberry | |
|---|---|
| Genre | story |
| Author | Anton Pavlovich Chekhov |
| Original language | russian |
| Date of writing | 1898 |
| Date of first publication | 1898 |
| Quotes on Wikiquote | |
History of creation
For the first time the story "Gooseberry" was published in the August issue of the magazine "Russian Thought" in 1898. The stories "Gooseberry" and "About Love", which continued the "little trilogy" begun with the story "The Man in a Case", were written by Chekhov in Melikhovo in July 1898.
"Gooseberry" was highly praised by some critics, Nemirovich-Danchenko found that he had very good thoughts. In a letter to Chekhov, he noted: “Despite my work to the point of stupor and nervous shortness of breath, I have time to read. Now I have closed the book on the story "About Love". Gooseberry is good. It's good, because there is also a flavor inherent in you, both in the general tone and background, and in the language, and also because there are very good thoughts. "
Natalia Dushina wrote to the author: “When I read Gooseberry, I felt terrible and sorry for him, endlessly sorry for the poor, lonely, callous person. “Love”, too, I experienced together with those who were so close in soul to each other, and in appearance should have seemed strangers. And the scary thing is that all the same it was necessary to live and life went on as usual, and even the separation was experienced, and I had to continue to live, the same activities went, the same trifles, and the consciousness that there was no loved one filled the soul, and it seemed, you can't live, but you lived. "
NN Gusev sent from exile to Leo Tolstoy an excerpt from the story "Gooseberry": "There is no happiness and should not be, and if there is a meaning and a goal in life, then this meaning and goal is not at all in our happiness, but in something more reasonable and great. " Tolstoy wrote to Gusev in a letter: “How good is your extract from Chekhov! She asks to the “Reading Circle”.
During Chekhov's lifetime, the story was translated into Bulgarian, German and Serbo-Croatian languages.
Characters
- Ivan Ivanovich Chimsha-Himalayan - the narrator
- Nikolay Ivanovich Chimsha-Himalayan - the main character of the work, the younger brother of Ivan Ivanovich, served in the state chamber.
- Pavel Konstantinovich Alekhin - a poor landowner, to whom Ivan Ivanovich looks
- Burkin - friend and interlocutor of Ivan Ivanovich.
Plot
Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin walk across a field near the village of Mironositskoe and decide to visit their friend-landowner Pavel Konstantinich Alyokhin, whose estate is located nearby in the village of Sofyino. Alekhin, “a man of about forty, tall, stout with long hair, looking more like a professor or artist than a landowner,” greets the guests on the threshold of the barn, in which a winnowing fan is making noise. His clothes are dirty, and his face is black with dust. He welcomes the guests and invites them to go to the bathhouse. After washing and changing their clothes, Ivan Ivanovich, Burkin and Alekhin go to the house, where, over a cup of tea and jam, Ivan Ivanovich tells the story of his brother Nikolai Ivanovich.
The brothers spent their childhood in freedom, on the estate of their father, who served as an officer and left the children a hereditary nobility. After the death of their father, they were sued for their debts. From the age of nineteen, Nikolai had been sitting in the treasury chamber and dreamed of buying himself a small estate and simply could not think of anything else. All the time he imagined a future estate, where gooseberries would certainly grow. Nikolai saved money, was malnourished, married without love to an ugly but rich widow. He kept his wife from hand to mouth, and put her money in his name in the bank. His wife could not bear such a life and died, and Nikolai bought himself an estate, ordered twenty gooseberry bushes, planted them and healed as a landowner. When Ivan Ivanovich came to visit his brother, he was unpleasantly amazed at how he sank, aged and flabby. He became a real master, ate a lot, sued neighboring factories. Nikolai regaled his brother with gooseberries, and it was evident from him that he was pleased with his fate and with himself.
At the sight of this happy man, Ivan Ivanitch "was seized by a feeling close to despair." All the night he spent at the estate, he thought about how many people in the world are suffering, going crazy, drinking, how many children are dying from malnutrition. And how many other people live “happily”, “eats during the day, sleeps at night, says his nonsense, marries, grows old, complacently drags their dead to the cemetery”. He thought that behind the door of every happy person there should be "someone with a hammer" and remind him with a knock that there are unfortunate people, that sooner or later trouble will happen to him, and "no one will see or hear him, as he is not now sees and does not hear others. " Ivan Ivanovich, ending his story, says that there is no happiness, and if there is a meaning in life, then it is not in happiness, but in "doing good."
Gooseberry
From early morning rain clouds covered the sky; it was quiet, not hot and boring, as it happens on gray, cloudy days, when clouds have long been hanging over the field, you wait for rain, but there is no rain. The veterinarian Ivan Ivanovich and the gymnasium teacher Burkin were already tired of walking, and the field seemed to them endless. Far ahead, the windmills of the village of Mironositskoye 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 a river bank, there were meadows, green willows, estates, and if you stand on one of the hills, you can see from there the same huge field, the telegraph and the train, which from a distance 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 pensive, Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were imbued with love for this field, and both thought about how great, how beautiful this country was.
- Last time, when we were in the barn of the head Prokofy, - said Burkin, - you were going to tell some story.
- Yes, I wanted to tell you about my brother then.
Ivan Ivanitch took a long sigh and lit a pipe to begin his story, but just at that time it began to rain. And five minutes later it was pouring heavy rain, heavy, and it was difficult to foresee when it would end. Ivan Ivanitch and Burkin stopped in thought; the dogs, already wet, stood with their tails between their legs and looked at them with affection.
“We need to hide somewhere,” Burkin said.
- Let's go to Alekhine. It's close here.
- Let's go.
They turned to the side and walked all along the mown field, now straight, then taking the right, until they came out onto the road. Soon the poplars, the garden appeared, then the red roofs of the barns; the river gleamed, and a view of a wide reach with a mill and a white bath was opened. This was Sofyino, where Alekhine lived.
The mill worked, drowning out the sound of the rain; the dam shook. Here near the carts stood wet horses with bowed heads, and people walked, covered with sacks. It was damp, dirty, uncomfortable, and the look of the ples was cold and angry. Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were already experiencing a feeling of phlegm, uncleanness, and inconvenience in the whole body, their legs were heavy with dirt, and when, having passed the dam, they went up to the master’s barns, they were silent, as if angry at each other.
In one of the barns a winnowing machine was rustling; the door was open and dust was pouring out of it. On the threshold stood Alekhine himself, a man of about forty, tall, stout, with long hair, more like a professor or artist than a landowner. He was wearing a white, long-uncleaned shirt with a rope belt, underpants instead of trousers, and dirt and straw also adhered to his boots. The nose and eyes were black with dust. He recognized Ivan Ivanitch and Burkin and, apparently, was very happy.
“Please, gentlemen, into the house,” he said, smiling. - I am now, this minute.
The house was large, two-story. Alekhine lived downstairs, in two vaulted rooms with small windows, where clerks had once lived; the decor was simple, and it smelled 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 in the house by a 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,” said Alekhine, 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 will change too. I just need to go to wash first, otherwise I haven't bathed since spring. Would you like to go to the bathhouse, gentlemen, and then they will cook for now.
Beautiful Pelageya, so delicate and so soft in appearance, brought sheets and soap, and Alekhine and the guests went to the bathhouse.
“Yes, I haven't bathed for a long time,” he said, undressing. - As you can see, my bathhouse 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 ... - said Ivan Ivanovich, looking significantly at his head.
“I haven't bathed for a long time…” Alekhine repeated embarrassedly and once again lathered himself, and the water around him became dark blue, like ink.
Ivan Ivanitch 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 in a minute he appeared in another place and swam further, and kept diving, trying to reach the bottom. “Oh my god…” he repeated, enjoying himself. “Oh, my God…” I swam to the mill, talked about something with the peasants there and turned back, and in the middle of the reach lay down, exposing his face to the rain. Burkin and Alekhine got dressed and got ready to leave, but he kept swimming and diving.
“Oh my god…” he said. - Oh, God have mercy.
- It will be for you! Burkin shouted 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 robes and warm shoes, were sitting in armchairs, while Alekhine himself, washed, combed, in a new frock coat, walked around the living room, apparently feeling warmth with delight, cleanliness, dry dress, light shoes, and when beautiful Pelageya, noiselessly stepping on the carpet and smiling softly, was serving tea and jam on a tray, only then did Ivan Ivanovich begin his story, and it seemed that not only Burkin and Alekhine were listening to him, but also old and young ladies and military men, calmly and sternly looking out of golden frames.
“We are two brothers,” he began, “I, Ivan Ivanovich, and the other, Nikolai Ivanovich, two years younger. I went on to the scientific part, became a veterinarian, and Nikolai was already from the age of nineteen in the state ward. Our father, Chimsha-Himalayan, was a cantonist, but having served as an officer, he left us a hereditary nobility and property. After his death, the property was taken away from us 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, guarded the horses, fought the bast, fished, and so on ... Do you know who at least once in his life caught a ruff or saw migratory thrush in the fall, as they on clear, cool days they rush in flocks over the village, he is no longer a city dweller, and until his death he will be sipped at will. My brother was grieving in the treasury. Years passed, and he still sat in one place, wrote all the same papers and thought all about the same thing, like going to 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 in my own estate for the rest of my life. It is customary to say that a person needs only three arshins of land. But a corpse needs three arshins, not a man. And they also say now that if our intelligentsia has a gravitation towards the land and strives for 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 everyday life, to leave and hide in one’s estate is not life, this is selfishness, laziness, this is a kind of monasticism, but monasticism without heroic deeds. A person needs three arshins of land, not a manor, but the entire globe, all nature, where in the open 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 such a delicious smell emanated all over the yard, eat on green grass, sleep in the sun, sit for hours behind the gate on a bench and look at the field and forest. Agricultural books and all these advices in the calendars were his joy, his favorite spiritual food; he also liked to read newspapers, but he read only 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 he drew in his head paths in the garden, flowers, fruits, birdhouses, crucians in ponds and, you know, all this stuff. These imaginary pictures were different, depending on the ads that came across to him, but for some reason, each of them certainly had a gooseberry. He could not imagine a single estate, not a single poetic corner without the gooseberry.
“Village life has its own 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 the gooseberries grow.
He drew a plan of his estate, and every time he had the same thing on the plan: a) a manor house, b) a man's house, c) a vegetable garden, d) a gooseberry. He lived sparingly: he was undernourished, underdrinked, dressed God knows how like a beggar, and saved everything and put it in the bank. He was terribly greedy. It hurt me to look at him, and I gave him something and sent him at the holidays, but he hid it too. If a man 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 the advertisements in the newspapers and saving up. Then, I hear, I got married. All with the same purpose, in order to buy himself an estate with gooseberries, he married an ugly old 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 the bank in his own name. She used to be behind the postmaster and got used to pies and liqueurs with him, but she did not see enough black bread from her second husband; began to languish from such a life, but after three years she took and gave her soul to God. And, of course, my brother did not for a single moment think that he was to blame for her death. Money, like vodka, makes a person an eccentric. A merchant was dying in our town. Before his death, he ordered to serve himself a plate of honey and ate all his money and winning tickets along with honey so that no one would get it. Once at the station I was examining the herds, and at that time one dealer was run over by a locomotive, and his leg was cut off. We carry him to the emergency room, blood is pouring - a terrible thing, but he keeps asking to be found for his leg, and everything is worried: there is twenty rubles in a boot on a severed leg, lest it disappear.
“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 his estate. Of course, look out for at least five years, but in the end you make a mistake and buy something completely different from what you dreamed of. Brother Nicholas, through a commission agent, with the transfer of the debt, bought one hundred and twelve dessiatines with a manor house, with a man'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 on one side of the estate there was a brick factory, and on the other - a bone plant. But my Nikolai Ivanitch was not very sad; he ordered himself twenty gooseberry bushes, planted and healed as a landowner.
Last year I went to see him. I'll go, think, see how and what is there. In his letters, his brother called his estate like this: Chumbaroklov Wasteland, Himalayan identity. I arrived at the Himalayan Identity in the afternoon. It was hot. Near the ditch, fences, hedges, there are rows of Christmas trees - and you don't know how to get into the yard, where to put the horse. I was going to the house, and a red-haired dog, fat, like a pig, met me. She wants to bark, but laziness. The cook came out of the kitchen, naked, fat, also like a pig, and said that the master was resting after dinner. I go 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, he grunts into the blanket.
We hugged and cried with joy and the sad thought that we were once young, but now both are gray-haired, and it's time to die. He got 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 not the former timid poor bureaucrat, but a real landowner, master. He has already settled down here, got used to it and got a taste; he ate a lot, washed in the bathhouse, got fat, was already in litigation with society and with 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 manner, and did good deeds not simply, but with importance. What good deeds? He treated the peasants for all diseases with soda and castor oil, and on his birthday he served a thanksgiving prayer service among the village, and then set half a bucket, thought it was necessary. Ah, those awful half buckets! Today the fat landowner drags the peasants to the zemstvo chief for injury, and tomorrow, on a solemn day, he gives them half a bucket, and they drink and shout "Hurray", and the drunk bows at his feet. A change in life for the better, satiety, and idleness develop in the Russian person the most arrogant conceit. Nikolai Ivanovich, who once in the treasury was afraid even for himself personally to have his own views, 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 I know how to handle them,” he said. - The people love me. As soon as I lift a finger, the people will do whatever they want for me.
And all this, mind you, was said with a smart, kind smile. He repeated twenty times: "we are nobles", "I am like a nobleman"; apparently, he no longer remembered that our grandfather was a man and our father was a soldier. Even our surname Chimsha-Himalayan, in essence, was incongruous, seemed to him now sonorous, noble and very pleasant.
But it’s not about him, but 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 purchased, but its own gooseberry, harvested for the first time since the bushes were planted. Nikolai Ivanitch laughed and for a minute looked at the gooseberry in silence, with tears - he could not speak with excitement, then he put one berry in his mouth, looked at me with triumph as a child who had finally received his favorite toy, and said:
- So tasty!
And he ate greedily and kept repeating:
- Oh, how delicious! You try!
It was harsh and sour, but, as Pushkin said, "the darkness of truths is dearer to us than the elevating deception." I saw a happy person, whose cherished dream came true so obviously, who achieved his goal in life, got what he wanted, who was content 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, a heavy feeling, close to despair, seized me. 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 him awake and how he got up and went to a plate of gooseberries and took berries each. I realized: how, in essence, there are many contented, happy people! What an overwhelming power! Take a look at this life: the insolence and idleness of the strong, the ignorance and bestialness of the weak, all around is impossibility, crampedness, degeneration, drunkenness, hypocrisy, lies ... Meanwhile, in all the houses and on the streets there is silence, calm; out of the fifty thousand living in the city, not a single one who cried out was 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 is happening somewhere behind the scenes. Everything is quiet, calm, and only mute statistics are protesting: so many people have gone mad, so many buckets have been drunk, so many children have died from malnutrition ... And such a procedure is obviously needed; obviously, the happy one feels good only because the unfortunate ones carry their burden in silence, and without this silence, happiness would be impossible. This is general hypnosis. It is necessary that at the door of every contented, happy person there should be someone with a hammer and would constantly remind with a knock that there are unfortunate people, that, no matter how happy he is, life will sooner or later show him its claws, trouble will befall - illness, poverty , loss, and no one will see or hear him, as now he does not see and hear others. But there is no man with a hammer, a happy one lives for himself, and petty everyday worries excite him a little like the wind as an aspen - and everything is all right.
“That night it became clear to me how pleased and happy I was, too,” continued Ivan Ivanitch, getting up. - I, too, at lunch and on the hunt, taught 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. 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 Ivanitch, 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 says 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 order and legitimacy in the fact that I, a living, thinking person, stand over the moat and wait for it to overgrow itself or to cover it with silt, while, perhaps, could I jump over it or build a bridge over it? And again, why wait? Wait when there is no strength to live, but meanwhile you need to live and want to live!
Then I left my brother early in the morning, and from then on it became unbearable for me to be in the city. I am oppressed by the silence and calmness, I am afraid to look at the windows, because for me now there is no more difficult sight, like a happy family sitting around the table and drinking tea. I am already old and not fit for the fight, I am unable even to hate. I only grieve mentally, I am annoyed, annoyed, at night my head burns from the influx of thoughts, and I cannot sleep ... Oh, if I were young!
Ivan Ivanitch walked in agitation from corner to corner and repeated:
- If I were young!
He suddenly went up to Alekhine and began to shake him first one hand, then the other.
- Pavel Konstantinitch! He said in a pleading voice. - Do not calm down, do not let yourself be lulled! While you are young, strong, vigorous, do not get tired of doing good! There is no happiness and should not be, and if there is a meaning and a goal in life, then this meaning and goal is not at all in our happiness, but in something more reasonable and great. Do good!
And Ivan Ivanitch said all this with a pitiful, pleading smile, as if he were asking for himself personally.
Then all three sat in armchairs at different ends of the living room, and were silent. Ivan Ivanitch'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, listening to the story about the poor official who ate gooseberries was boring. For some reason I wanted to talk and hear about graceful people, about women. And the fact that they were sitting in the living room, where everything - and the chandelier in a cover, and chairs, and carpets under their feet - said that these same people who were now looking out of frames once walked, sat, drank tea here, and the fact that beautiful Pelageya was now walking silently here was better than any stories.
Alekhine was very sleepy; he got up early, at three o'clock in the morning, and now his eyes were drooping, but he was afraid that the guests might tell something interesting without him, and left. Whether it was clever, whether what Ivan Ivanitch had just said was true, 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 to sleep,” said Burkin, getting up. - Let me wish you good night.
Alekhine 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 in the corner there was an ivory crucifix; their beds, wide, cool, made by beautiful Pelageya, smelled pleasantly of fresh linen.
Ivan Ivanitch silently undressed and lay down.
- Lord, forgive us sinners! - he said and took cover with his head.
His pipe, lying on the table, smelled strongly of tobacco fume, 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.
History of creation
For the first time the story "Gooseberry" was published in the August issue of the magazine "Russian Thought" in 1898. The stories "Gooseberry" and "About Love", which continued the "little trilogy" begun with the story "The Man in a Case", were written by Chekhov in Melikhovo in July 1898.
Characters
- Ivan Ivanovich Chimsha-Himalayan - the main character of the work, the narrator
- Nikolay Ivanovich - the younger brother of Ivan Ivanovich. Nikolai worked in the treasury chamber.
- Alekhin - a poor landowner, to whom Ivan Ivanovich looks
- Burkin - friend and interlocutor of Ivan Ivanovich.
Plot
Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin walk across a field near the village of Mironositskoe and decide to visit their friend-landowner Pavel Konstantinich Alyokhin, whose estate is located nearby in the village of Sofyino. Alekhin, “a man of about forty, tall, stout with long hair, looking more like a professor or artist than a landowner,” greets the guests on the threshold of the barn, in which a winnowing fan is making noise. His clothes are dirty, and his face is black with dust. He welcomes the guests and invites them to go to the bathhouse. After washing and changing their clothes, Ivan Ivanovich, Burkin and Alekhin go to the house, where, over a cup of tea and jam, Ivan Ivanovich tells the story of his brother Nikolai Ivanovich.
The brothers spent their childhood in freedom, on the estate of their father, who served as an officer and left the children a hereditary nobility. After the death of their father, they were sued for their debts. From the age of nineteen, Nikolai had been sitting in the treasury chamber and dreamed of buying himself a small estate and simply could not think of anything else. All the time he imagined a future estate, where gooseberries would certainly grow. Nikolai saved money, was malnourished, married without love to an ugly but rich widow. He kept his wife from hand to mouth, and put her money in his name in the bank. His wife could not bear such a life and died, and Nikolai bought himself an estate, ordered twenty gooseberry bushes, planted them and healed as a landowner. When Ivan Ivanovich came to visit his brother, he was unpleasantly amazed at how he sank, aged and flabby. He became a real master, ate a lot, sued neighboring factories. Nikolai regaled his brother with gooseberries, and it was evident from him that he was pleased with his fate and with himself.
At the sight of this happy man, Ivan Ivanitch "was seized by a feeling close to despair." All the night he spent at the estate, he thought about how many people in the world are suffering, going crazy, drinking, how many children are dying from malnutrition. And how many other people live “happily”, “eats during the day, sleeps at night, says his nonsense, marries, grows old, complacently drags their dead to the cemetery”. He thought that behind the door of every happy person there should be "someone with a hammer" and remind him with a knock that there are unfortunate people, that sooner or later trouble will happen to him, and "no one will see or hear him, as he is not now sees and does not hear others. " Ivan Ivanovich, ending his story, says that there is no happiness, and if there is a meaning in life, then it is not in happiness, but in "doing good."
Neither Burkin nor Alekhin are satisfied with the story of Ivan Ivanovich. Alekhine does not delve into whether his words are true. It was not about cereals, not about hay, but about something that had no direct relation to his life. But he is happy and wants the guests to continue the conversation. However, it's late, the host and guests go to bed.
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Notes
Excerpt from Gooseberry (short story)
- Careful about what? I asked.- You were born ... - was the answer.
His tall figure began to hesitate. The glade spun. And when I opened my eyes, to my greatest regret, my strange stranger was nowhere to be found. One of the boys, Romas, stood opposite me and watched my "awakening". He asked what I was doing here and if I was going to pick mushrooms ... When I asked him what time it was, he looked at me in surprise and answered and I realized that everything that happened to me took only a few minutes! ..
I got up (it turned out that I was sitting on the ground), dusted myself off and was about to go, when I suddenly noticed a very strange detail - the whole clearing around us was green !!! As amazingly green as if we found it in early spring! And what was our general surprise when we suddenly noticed that even beautiful spring flowers appeared on it from somewhere! It was absolutely amazing and, unfortunately, completely inexplicable. Most likely, it was some kind of "side" phenomenon after the arrival of my strange guest. But, unfortunately, I could not yet explain or at least understand this.
- What have you done? - asked Romas.
“It's not me,” I grumbled guiltily.
“Come on, then,” he agreed.
Romas was one of those rare friends of the time who were not afraid of my "antics" and were not surprised at anything that constantly happened to me. He just believed me. And so I never had to explain anything to him, which for me was a very rare and valuable exception. When we returned from the forest, I was shaking with chills, but I thought that, as usual, I had just caught a little cold and decided not to bother my mother until something more serious happened. The next morning everything went away, and I was very pleased that this fully confirmed my "version" of a cold. But, unfortunately, I didn't have to rejoice for long ...
In the morning, as usual, I went to breakfast. Before I had time to reach out for the cup of milk, the same heavy glass cup moved abruptly in my direction, spilling some of the milk on the table ... I felt a little uneasy. I tried again - the cup moved again. Then I thought about bread ... Two pieces lying next to each other jumped and fell to the floor. To be honest, my hair began to move ... Not because I was scared. At that time I was not afraid of almost anything, but it was something very "earthly" and concrete, it was close by and I absolutely did not know how to control it ...
I tried to calm down, took a deep breath, and tried again. Only this time I didn't try to touch anything, but decided to just think about what I want - for example, to have the cup in my hand. Of course, this did not happen, she again just simply moved sharply. But I was jubilant !!! All my insides just screeched with delight, because I already realized that it was harsh or not, but it happened only at the request of my thought! And it was absolutely amazing! Of course, I immediately wanted to try the "novelty" on all the living and inanimate "objects" around me ...
My grandmother was the first to come across my arm, at that moment calmly preparing her next culinary "work" in the kitchen. It was very quiet, grandmother was humming something to herself, when suddenly a heavy cast-iron frying pan jumped like a bird on the stove and crashed to the floor with a terrible noise ... Grandmother jumped from surprise no worse than the same frying pan ... But, we must give her credit, right away pulled herself together, and said:
- Stop doing that!
I felt a little offended, because no matter what happened, out of habit, they always accused me of everything (although at the moment this, of course, was absolutely true).
- Why do you think it's me? - I asked pouting.
“Well, we don't seem to have ghosts yet,” Grandma said calmly.
I loved her very much for this equanimity and unshakable calmness. It seemed that nothing in this world could really "unsettle her." Although, of course, there were things that upset her, surprised or made her sad, but she perceived all this with amazing calmness. And so I always felt very comfortable and protected with her. Somehow, I suddenly felt that my last "trick" was interested in my grandmother ... I literally "felt in my gut" that she was watching me and was waiting for something else. And of course, I did not keep myself waiting long ... After a few seconds, all the "spoons and cooks" hanging over the stove, with a noisy roar, flew down for the same frying pan ...
- Well, well ... To break - not to build, would do something useful, - said the grandmother calmly.
I gasped with indignation! Well, please tell me, how can she treat this “incredible event” so coldly ?! After all, it is ... SO !!! I could not even explain - which one, but I certainly knew that one shouldn't treat what was happening so calmly. Unfortunately, my indignation did not make the slightest impression on my grandmother, and she again calmly said:
- You shouldn't spend so much effort on what you can do with your hands. Better go read it.
My indignation knew no bounds! I could not understand why something that seemed so amazing to me did not cause any delight in her ?! Unfortunately, at that time I was still too young to understand that all these impressive "external effects" really do not give anything but the same "external effects" ... And the essence of all this is just intoxicating with the "mysticism of the inexplicable" gullible and impressionable people, which my grandmother, of course, was not ... But since I had not yet grown to such an understanding, at that moment I was only incredibly interested in what else I could move. That is why, without regret, I left my grandmother who “did not understand” me and moved on in search of a new object for my “experiments” ...
At that time, our father's favorite lived with us, a beautiful gray cat - Grishka. I found him sleeping sweetly on a warm stove and decided that this was just a very good moment to try my new "art" on him. I thought it would be better if he sat by the window. Nothing has happened. Then I concentrated and thought harder ... Poor Grishka flew off the stove with a wild cry and banged his head against the windowsill ... I felt so sorry for him and so ashamed that I, guilty all around, rushed to pick him up. But for some reason the unfortunate cat's fur all of a sudden stood on end and, meowing loudly, he rushed away from me, as if scalded with boiling water.
"," Gooseberry "," About love ". The story tells about a man who subjugated his whole life to a material idea - the desire to have an estate with gooseberry bushes.
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Friends, if you do not have the opportunity to read the story of Anton Chekhov "Gooseberry", watch this video. This is a story about a man who wanted to have a farm with gooseberry bushes. Chekhov wrote the story in 1898. Events take place in the same period. So ... From the very morning the sky was covered with rain clouds. Veterinarian Ivan Ivanovich and gymnasium teacher Burkin walked across the field. Burkin says that Ivan Ivanovich wanted to tell him some story. - Exactly. About your little brother. And just as he wanted to start his story, it started to rain. We decided to go to the familiar landowner Alekhin, who lived nearby. When they came to his estate, they were already wet and dirty. Alekhin himself, a man of about forty, worked in one of the barns. - Oh, guys! Come into the house. I am now, - he invited them. When the owner entered the house, he suggested that the guys first go to the bathhouse to wash. When we washed ourselves, we sat down to drink tea. And then Ivan Ivanovich began his story. (Farther from the first person). - There were two brothers: me and Nikolai. He is two years younger. I went to the scientific part - became a veterinarian, and Nikolai from the age of 19 worked in government agencies. After my father's death, our estate was taken away for debts. But we still remembered our childhood. It took place free - in the village: in the fields, forests. That is why my brother yearned for his sedentary position. Years passed, and he was doing the same thing - writing papers. And all the time I thought about the village. He began to dream of a small manor house on the banks of a lake or river. In general, I wanted to buy. I didn't understand him. He believed that you should not lock yourself in the estate. My brother dreamed of eating outdoors, sleeping in the sun, looking at the field and forest. He constantly looked through newspapers with ads for the sale of estates. And he definitely wanted his gooseberries to grow. Nikolai saved money. He himself was malnourished, he walked in rags, but he carried the money to the bank. The years went by. My brother was transferred to another province. He is already 40 years old. And he kept reading the ads and saving money. And then he suddenly got married. On an ugly old widow. Because of her great love for her money. He kept his wife from hand to mouth, and put her money in the bank in his name. The wife began to languish from such a life and three years later she died to the delight of Nikolai. After her death, her brother began to look at the estates. And finally I bought it. By the river, as I wanted. I bought 20 gooseberry bushes and planted it. Lived as a landowner. Last year I went to see him. And he grew old, became fat. He showed me his estate. He was no longer a timid petty official, but a real landowner, a master. Already called himself a nobleman. I probably forgot that our grandfather was a man, and his father was a soldier. And, of course, gooseberries were served to us for tea. I saw that my brother was happy when he ate. He achieved what he strove for all his life. And at night I lay in bed and thought how many unfortunate people live on earth. And you never know when misfortune may suddenly knock on you. Ivan Ivanovich approached Alekhin and asked him to continue doing good to people. “The meaning of life is to do good,” he said. This story did not satisfy either Burkin or Alekhine. The owner wanted to sleep, because he was very tired during the day. But he continued to sit with the boys. Finally Burkin also wanted to sleep. The guys went to their rooms. The rain continued to fall outside the window. Here's a story, friends!
History of creation
For the first time the story "Gooseberry" was published in the August issue of the magazine "Russian Thought" in 1898. The stories "Gooseberry" and "About Love", which continued the "little trilogy" begun with the story "The Man in a Case", were written by Chekhov in Melikhovo in July 1898.
"Gooseberry" was highly praised by some critics, Nemirovich-Danchenko found that he had very good thoughts.
Characters
- Ivan Ivanovich Chimsha-Himalayan - the main character of the work, the narrator
- Nikolay Ivanovich - the younger brother of Ivan Ivanovich. Nikolai worked in the treasury chamber.
- Alekhin - a poor landowner, to whom Ivan Ivanovich looks
- Burkin - friend and interlocutor of Ivan Ivanovich.
Plot
Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin walk across a field near the village of Mironositskoe and decide to visit their friend-landowner Pavel Konstantinich Alyokhin, whose estate is located nearby in the village of Sofyino. Alekhin, “a man of about forty, tall, stout with long hair, looking more like a professor or artist than a landowner,” greets the guests on the threshold of the barn, in which a winnowing fan is making noise. His clothes are dirty, and his face is black with dust. He welcomes the guests and invites them to go to the bathhouse. After washing and changing their clothes, Ivan Ivanovich, Burkin and Alekhin go to the house, where, over a cup of tea and jam, Ivan Ivanovich tells the story of his brother Nikolai Ivanovich.
The brothers spent their childhood in freedom, on the estate of their father, who served as an officer and left the children a hereditary nobility. After the death of their father, they were sued for their debts. From the age of nineteen, Nikolai had been sitting in the treasury chamber and dreamed of buying himself a small estate and simply could not think of anything else. All the time he imagined a future estate, where gooseberries would certainly grow. Nikolai saved money, was malnourished, married without love to an ugly but rich widow. He kept his wife from hand to mouth, and put her money in his name in the bank. His wife could not bear such a life and died, and Nikolai bought himself an estate, ordered twenty gooseberry bushes, planted them and healed as a landowner. When Ivan Ivanovich came to visit his brother, he was unpleasantly amazed at how he sank, aged and flabby. He became a real master, ate a lot, sued neighboring factories. Nikolai regaled his brother with gooseberries, and it was evident from him that he was pleased with his fate and with himself.
At the sight of this happy man, Ivan Ivanitch "was seized by a feeling close to despair." All the night he spent at the estate, he thought about how many people in the world are suffering, going crazy, drinking, how many children are dying from malnutrition. And how many other people live “happily”, “eats during the day, sleeps at night, says his nonsense, marries, grows old, complacently drags their dead to the cemetery”. He thought that behind the door of every happy person there should be "someone with a hammer" and remind him with a knock that there are unfortunate people, that sooner or later trouble will happen to him, and "no one will see or hear him, as he is not now sees and does not hear others. " Ivan Ivanovich, ending his story, says that there is no happiness, and if there is a meaning in life, then it is not in happiness, but in "doing good."
Neither Burkin nor Alekhin are satisfied with the story of Ivan Ivanovich. Alekhine does not delve into whether his words are true. It was not about cereals, not about hay, but about something that had no direct relation to his life. But he is happy and wants the guests to continue the conversation. However, it's late, the host and guests go to bed.
