Gogol old world landowners read online. Gogol N

As part of the project "Gogol. 200 years"RIA Newspresents a brief summary of the work “Old World Landowners” by Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol - a story that Pushkin called his favorite of all Gogol’s stories.

Old men Afanasy Ivanovich Tovstogub and his wife Pulcheria Ivanovna live alone in one of the remote villages, called old-world villages in Little Russia. Their life is so quiet that to a guest who accidentally drops by at a low manor house, immersed in the greenery of a garden, the passions and anxious worries of the outside world seem not to exist at all. The small rooms of the house are filled with all sorts of things, the doors sing in different tunes, the storerooms are filled with supplies, the preparation of which is constantly occupied by the servants under the direction of Pulcheria Ivanovna. Despite the fact that the farm is robbed by the clerk and lackeys, the blessed land produces such quantities that Afanasy Ivanovich and Pulcheria Ivanovna do not notice the thefts at all.

Old people love to eat themselves - and from early morning until late evening you can hear Pulcheria Ivanovna guessing her husband’s wishes, offering first one dish or another in a gentle voice. Sometimes Afanasy Ivanovich likes to make fun of Pulcheria Ivanovna and will suddenly start talking about a fire or a war, causing his wife to be seriously frightened and cross herself, so that her husband’s words could never come true.

But after a minute, the unpleasant thoughts are forgotten, the old people decide that it’s time to have a snack, and suddenly a tablecloth and those dishes that Afanasy Ivanovich chooses at the prompting of his wife appear on the table. And quietly, calmly, in extraordinary harmony of two loving hearts, days go by.

A sad event changes the life of this peaceful corner forever. Pulcheria Ivanovna's beloved cat, who usually lay at her feet, disappears in the large forest behind the garden, where wild cats lure her. Three days later, having lost her feet in search of a cat, Pulcheria Ivanovna meets her favorite in the garden, emerging from the weeds with a pitiful meow. Pulcheria Ivanovna feeds the feral and thin fugitive, wants to pet her, but the ungrateful creature throws herself out the window and disappears forever. From that day on, the old woman becomes thoughtful, bored and suddenly announces to Afanasy Ivanovich that it was death that came for her and they were soon destined to meet in the next world. The only thing the old woman regrets is that there will be no one to look after her husband. She asks the housekeeper Yavdokha to look after Afanasy Ivanovich, threatening her entire family with God's punishment if she does not fulfill the lady's order.

Pulcheria Ivanovna dies. At the funeral, Afanasy Ivanovich looks strange, as if he does not understand all the savagery of what happened. When he returns to his house and sees how empty his room has become, he sobs heavily and inconsolably, and tears flow like a river from his dull eyes.

Five years have passed since then. The house is decaying without its owner, Afanasy Ivanovich is weakening and is bent twice as much as before. But his melancholy does not weaken with time. In all the objects surrounding him, he sees a deceased woman, he tries to pronounce her name, but halfway through the word, convulsions distort his face, and the cry of a child escapes from his already cooling heart.

“Place me near Pulcheria Ivanovna” - that’s all he says before his death. His wish was fulfilled. The manor's house was empty, the goods were taken away by the peasants and finally thrown to the wind by the visiting distant relative-heir.

Material provided by the internet portal briefly.ru, compiled by V. M. Sotnikov

IN BRIEF:

The old people never had children, and all their affection was focused on themselves. It is impossible to look without sympathy at their mutual love, when with extraordinary care in their voices they address each other as “you,” forestalling every desire and even an affectionate word that has not yet been spoken. They love to treat - and if it were not for the special properties of the Little Russian air, which helps digestion, then the guest, without a doubt, would find himself lying on the table after dinner instead of a bed. Old people love to eat themselves - and from early morning until late evening you can hear Pulcheria Ivanovna guessing her husband’s wishes, offering first one dish or another in a gentle voice. Sometimes Afanasy Ivanovich likes to make fun of Pulcheria Ivanovna and will suddenly start talking about a fire or a war, causing his wife to be seriously frightened and cross herself, so that her husband’s words could never come true. But after a minute, the unpleasant thoughts are forgotten, the old people decide that it’s time to have a snack, and suddenly a tablecloth and those dishes that Afanasy Ivanovich chooses at the prompting of his wife appear on the table. And quietly, calmly, in extraordinary harmony of two loving hearts, days go by.

It’s strange, but the circumstances of Afanasy Ivanovich’s death are similar to the death of his beloved wife. As he slowly walks along the garden path, he suddenly hears someone behind him saying in a clear voice: “Afanasy Ivanovich!” For a minute his face perks up, and he says: “It’s Pulcheria Ivanovna calling me!” He submits to this conviction with the will of an obedient child. “Place me near Pulcheria Ivanovna” - that’s all he says before his death. His wish was fulfilled. The manor's house was empty, the goods were taken away by the peasants and finally thrown to the wind by the visiting distant relative-heir.

N.V. Gogol is a master of mystical literature, following his famous romantic collection “Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka” he creates and publishes another cycle of his fantastic stories. His new collection includes four stories, including the story “Old World Landowners,” which the author placed in the first part. In this work, N. Gogol gave complete realistic pictures of the life of old-world landowners who were already living out their days. The writer portrays his characters with satire, exposing their unhealthy existence.

The history of the story

Pushkin's influence on Nikolai Gogol was so high that the writer entered a creative period when he created a lot, many creative ideas were born in his head. From 1832 to 1836, the author visited St. Petersburg, where he made new acquaintances, and he tried to put all this life experience on paper.

The impressionable Gogol found new images for his works on trains. When reading the collection “Mirgorod”, you can notice what feelings Gogol himself experiences, who is serious and thoughtful, trying well and deeply to understand this life.

The plot of the work

Afanasy Ivanovich is the main character of the story, who always wore a sheepskin sheepskin coat and was distinguished by his sweet smile. But his wife Pulcheria Ivanovna almost never laughed or smiled, but her face and eyes radiated a lot of kindness. These landowners lived secludedly in a distant village, where old-world orders still reigned. Their manor house, low and calm, was rarely visited by guests. Therefore, they lived calmly and indifferently. They were not at all worried or worried about the events that were happening in the world. They had their own cozy world, devoid of feelings.

There was so much in all the rooms of the landowner’s house! Various things that no one needed, a lot of old and creaky doors, even more storerooms that contained so many supplies that they could feed the whole world. After all, almost all the courtiers, who were led by the main character, were constantly preparing them all day long. The main characters did not have any deprivation, so they diligently did not notice how the clerk, and simply the lackeys, robbed them.

They never had children, so they gave all their affection and love to each other. Affectionately calling each other “you,” they tried to take care of each other and fulfill any desire for their other half. But they especially loved to treat anyone who happened to drop by as a guest. But they themselves did not deny themselves the desire to eat. From morning to evening, the wife offers Afanasy Ivanovich various dishes, trying to predict his desires. But sudden and completely unexpected events will forever change the life of this calm and peaceful old-world corner.

The owner's cat, whom the elderly woman loved so much, most likely disappears in the garden, having run away after the cats. For three days the heroine searched for her, and when this emaciated creature is found, after feeding she does not allow her to be petted, but runs away again, jumping out the window. This incident makes the poor old woman think, who had been walking for a long time with a thoughtful and boring look, and then suddenly unexpectedly informs her husband that it was death itself that was coming for her and that she was destined to die soon.

The old woman dies, and Afanasy Ivanovich cannot understand and realize for a long time what happened. And only after feeling the loneliness of his home does the hero begin to sob. Five years later, the narrator again visits the house of a lonely landowner, but the estate has changed and has become more dilapidated. The hero himself has also changed, he yearns for his wife all the time. He is bent over and cries often, especially when he tries to say her name. Afanasy Ivanovich also dies after a while. As he walks through the garden, he hears the voice of his late wife. And after this incident he dies. His death is somewhat reminiscent of the death of his wife. Before his death, he asks to be buried next to Pulcherei Ivanovna. Since then, the house has been empty and the property has been stolen.

Characters of the story

★Old-world landowner Afanasy Ivanovich Tovstogub
★The landowner's wife is Pulcheria Ivanovna Tovstogubikha.

Based on the text of the plot, the reader will very soon notice that the heroes of this story are simple and very modest people. These gentle creatures made caring for each other the meaning of their lives. They are very welcoming and always sincerely rejoice at their guests. It seemed that now they lived only for guests. The table was immediately set, as if they knew about the visit, and all the best that was in the house was placed on this table. But the author contrasts them with other people who live differently:

Housekeeper Yavdokha.
Clerk Nichipor.
Yard girls.
Room boy.
Pulcheria Ivanovna's favorite cat.

But most of the rest of Russia is opposed to these old people, who are simple-minded and indifferent. “Low little Little Russians” are sneaky, greedy, and rip off the last penny from their own fellow countrymen. According to the author, this is how they make money for themselves. Therefore, against the background of these people striving for profit and power, the idyll of the old landowners seems ironic and funny.

But the further this story continues to develop, the more interesting Gogol’s psychological characteristics become. For example, in the main character at the very beginning of the story, he notes his smile, which was always on his face. But closer to time, remembering the same smile, he says this about Afanasy Ivanovich:

“He always listened to the guests with a pleasant smile.”

This is how the kind landowner tried to influence his interlocutors and guests, showing that everything would soon come to its senses and would be good and wonderful.

But the heroes themselves do not develop, and their existence is centered around plants. They only worry about a good harvest, they are not interested in anything else. And every day is like yesterday for them. That is why they welcome guests with such cordiality, who bring variety to their lives. And then they can demonstrate all the products that are in the kitchen. The idyll of these two people drawn by the author is dim and lifeless, because there are no disturbances of the soul in it, and it does not contain any emotions.

Prototypes of the main characters

Researchers of Gogol’s work consider Vasilyevka, where the estate of the writer’s family was located, as the setting for the events from the story “Old World Landowners.” The future mystical writer spent his entire childhood and youth in this place. But even then Nikolai Gogol did not forget this place and often came to his father’s house to visit his close people: sisters and parents. But not only the location of the plot is known to writers. The main characters have prototypes. Gogol knew the story of the landowners Gogol-Yanovsky, who were the writer’s grandfather and grandmother. My grandmother's maiden name was Lizogub.

So, the prototype of Pulcheria Ivanovna turns out to be Tatyana Semyonovna, the writer’s grandmother. The writer copied the image of Afanasy Ivanovich from his grandfather, Afanasy Demyanovich. The story of the marriage of these two people is known, as well as their further life together, which is very similar to the story that Nikolai Gogol told his readers. They got married, violating the will of their parents. It happened like this: Afanasy Demyanovich was studying in Kyiv at the Theological Academy at that time. Having fallen in love with Tatyana Semyonovna, he secretly takes away his beloved.

Literary scholars who study the life of the writer’s ancestors believe that their life was not as calm and peaceful as that of the heroes of the story. And although the spouses had a warm relationship, like the heroes of Gogol’s work, they did not live to old age together.

Analysis of the story

Critics and writers of that time assessed Nikolai Gogol's new story differently. Pushkin laughed at its plot heartily, considering it humorous and touching. And so as not to create the impression of an earthly paradise in the estate of the main characters, the narrator himself strives to show that this life is like a dream. The story also has a parallel with mythology. Thus, the main characters, whom the gods rewarded for their love, are compared with Philemon and Baucis. But in Gogol the idyll is destroyed by time itself.

There is another paradox in Gogol’s work: the Ukrainian estate, where, according to the author’s description, an earthly paradise appeared, created by the main characters of the story, also becomes a mystical place. In the garden, incomprehensible things happen to the main character: fear seizes him, a voice is heard, and here silence announces death. This silence frightens not only the main character, but even the narrator. So the landowners' estate, which at the beginning of the story appears as an earthly paradise, turns into the kingdom of death.

But you can read this Gogol’s work in another way, where this estate turns into a kind of shrine. And the garden is already a paradise into which no one else can be allowed in. But this holiness is very subtle and vulnerable, since the main character was a great housewife who collected everything without even knowing how she would use it. And then I remember Plyushkin and his features. But Pulcheria Ivanovna had not yet reached this stage. Creaking doors, flies and jam that is cooked in large quantities in the garden are not signs of holiness. The author shows in his story how the patriarchal life of landowners gradually disintegrates.

And yet, this story is about love, great and imperceptible, which turns out to be above everything, even above passion. And here the story about a young man who wanted to kill himself because of the death of his beloved attracts attention in Gogol’s story. But a year later he was happy and married. But for the main characters, when the reader meets them, love is a habit, so it is both strong and long-lasting. In his story, Gogol talks philosophically about the essence of love. This habit of love not only caused different assessments among critics, but also led to numerous disputes about the moral position of the author in the story.

I very much love the modest life of those solitary rulers of remote villages, which in Little Russia are usually called old-world, which, like decrepit picturesque houses, are beautiful in their diversity and complete contrast with the new, sleek building, whose walls have not yet been washed by the rain, the roofs have not yet been covered with green mold and deprived The cheeky porch does not show its red bricks. I sometimes like to descend for a moment into the sphere of this unusually solitary life, where not a single desire flies beyond the paling fence surrounding the small courtyard, beyond the fence of the garden filled with apple and plum trees, beyond the village huts that surround it, leaning to one side, overshadowed by willows and elderberries. and pears. The life of their humble owners is so quiet, so quiet that you forget for a minute and think that the passions, desires and restless creatures of the evil spirit that disturb the world do not exist at all and you saw them only in a brilliant, sparkling dream. From here I can see a low house with a gallery of small blackened wooden posts going around the entire house so that during thunder and hail the window shutters could be closed without getting wet by the rain. Behind it are fragrant bird cherry trees, whole rows of low fruit trees, sunken crimson cherries and a sea of yellow plums covered with a lead mat; a spreading maple tree, in the shade of which a carpet is spread out for relaxation; in front of the house there is a spacious courtyard with short, fresh grass, with a well-trodden path from the barn to the kitchen and from the kitchen to the master's chambers; a long-necked goose drinking water with young, soft-as-down goslings; a picket fence hung with bunches of dried pears and apples and airy carpets; a cart of melons standing near the barn; an unharnessed ox lazily lying next to him - all this has an inexplicable charm for me, perhaps because I no longer see them and that everything that we are separated from is sweet to us. Be that as it may, even then, when my chaise drove up to the porch of this house, my soul assumed a surprisingly pleasant and calm state; the horses rolled up cheerfully under the porch, the coachman calmly got off the box and filled his pipe, as if he were arriving at his own home; The very barking that the phlegmatic watchdogs, eyebrows and bugs raised was pleasant to my ears. But most of all I liked the very owners of these modest corners, the old men and women who carefully came out to meet me. Their faces appear to me even now sometimes in the noise and crowd among fashionable tailcoats, and then suddenly half-asleep comes over me and I imagine the past. There is always such kindness written on their faces, such cordiality and sincerity that you involuntarily give up, although at least for a short time, all your daring dreams and imperceptibly pass with all your feelings into a base bucolic life.

I still cannot forget two old men of the last century, who, alas! now no longer, but my soul is still full of pity, and my feelings are strangely compressed when I imagine that in time I will come again to their former, now empty home and see a bunch of collapsed huts, a dead pond, an overgrown ditch in that place , where there was a low house - and nothing more. Sad! I'm sad in advance! But let's turn to the story.

Afanasy Ivanovich Tovstogub and his wife Pulcheria Ivanovna Tovstogubikha, as the local peasants put it, were the old men I began to talk about. If I were a painter and wanted to depict Philemon and Baucis on canvas, I would never choose another original than theirs. Afanasy Ivanovich was sixty years old, Pulcheria Ivanovna fifty-five. Afanasy Ivanovich was tall, always wore a sheepskin coat covered with a camelot, sat bent over and always almost smiled, even if he was talking or just listening. Pulcheria Ivanovna was somewhat stern and almost never laughed; but there was so much kindness written on her face and in her eyes, so much readiness to treat you to everything they had best, that you would probably have found the smile too sweet for her kind face. The light wrinkles on their faces were arranged with such pleasantness that the artist would surely have stolen them. From them one could, it seemed, read their whole lives, the clear, calm life that was led by old national, simple-hearted and at the same time rich families, always the opposite of those low Little Russians who tear themselves out of the tar, traders, fill the chambers and officials like locusts. places, extract the last penny from their own fellow countrymen, flood St. Petersburg with sneakers, finally make capital and solemnly add to their last name, ending in o, the syllable v. No, they were not like these despicable and pathetic creations, just like all the Little Russian old and indigenous families.

It was impossible to look at their mutual love without sympathy. They never said you to each other, but always you; you, Afanasy Ivanovich; you, Pulcheria Ivanovna. “Did you push the chair, Afanasy Ivanovich?” - “Nothing, don’t be angry, Pulcheria Ivanovna: it’s me.” They never had children, and therefore all their affection was focused on themselves. Once upon a time, in his youth, Afanasy Ivanovich served in the company, and was later a major, but that was a very long time ago, it had already passed, Afanasy Ivanovich himself almost never remembered it. Afanasy Ivanovich married at the age of thirty, when he was a young man and wore an embroidered camisole; he even took away quite cleverly Pulcheria Ivanovna, whom her relatives did not want to give for him; but even about this he remembered very little, or at least he never spoke about it.

All these long-standing, extraordinary incidents were replaced by a calm and solitary life, those dormant and at the same time some kind of harmonious dreams that you feel sitting on a village balcony facing the garden, when the beautiful rain makes a luxurious noise, clapping on tree leaves, flowing down in murmuring streams and casting slumber on your limbs, and meanwhile a rainbow sneaks out from behind the trees and, in the form of a dilapidated vault, shines with matte seven colors in the sky. Or when a stroller rocks you, diving between green bushes, and a steppe quail thunders and fragrant grass, along with ears of grain and wildflowers, climbs into the stroller doors, pleasantly hitting you on the hands and face.

He always listened with a pleasant smile to the guests who came to him, sometimes he himself spoke, but mostly he asked questions. He was not one of those old men who bore you with eternal praises of the old times or censures of the new. On the contrary, while questioning you, he showed great curiosity and concern for the circumstances of your own life, successes and failures, in which all good old people are usually interested, although it is somewhat similar to the curiosity of a child who, while talking to you, is examining your signet. hours. Then his face, one might say, breathed kindness.

Afanasy Ivanovich Tovstogub and his wife Pulcheria Ivanovna Tovstogubikha, as the local peasants put it, were the old men I began to talk about. If I were a painter and wanted to depict Philemon and Baucis on canvas, I would never choose another original than theirs. Afanasy Ivanovich was sixty years old, Pulcheria Ivanovna fifty-five. Afanasy Ivanovich was tall, always wore a sheepskin coat covered with a camelot, sat bent over and always almost smiled, even if he was talking or just listening. Pulcheria Ivanovna was somewhat stern and almost never laughed; but there was so much kindness written on her face and in her eyes, so much readiness to treat you to everything they had best, that you would probably have found the smile too sweet for her kind face. The light wrinkles on their faces were arranged with such pleasantness that the artist would surely have stolen them. From them one could, it seemed, read their whole lives, the clear, calm life that was led by old national, simple-hearted and at the same time rich families, always the opposite of those low Little Russians who tear themselves out of the tar, traders, fill the chambers and officials like locusts. places, extract the last penny from their own fellow countrymen, flood St. Petersburg with sneakers, finally make capital and solemnly add to their surname ending in O, syllable in. No, they were not like these despicable and pathetic creations, just like all the Little Russian old and indigenous families.

It was impossible to look at their mutual love without sympathy. They never told each other You, but always You; you, Afanasy Ivanovich; you, Pulcheria Ivanovna. “Did you push the chair, Afanasy Ivanovich?” - “Nothing, don’t be angry, Pulcheria Ivanovna: it’s me.” They never had children, and therefore all their affection was focused on themselves. Once upon a time, in his youth, Afanasy Ivanovich served in the company, and was later a major, but that was a very long time ago, it had already passed, Afanasy Ivanovich himself almost never remembered it. Afanasy Ivanovich married at the age of thirty, when he was a young man and wore an embroidered camisole; he even took away quite cleverly Pulcheria Ivanovna, whom her relatives did not want to give for him; but even about this he remembered very little, or at least he never spoke about it.

The rooms of the house in which our old people lived were small, low, such as are usually found among old-world people. Each room had a huge stove, occupying almost a third of it. These rooms were terribly warm, because both Afanasy Ivanovich and Pulcheria Ivanovna loved warmth very much. Their fireboxes were all located in the canopy, always filled almost to the ceiling with straw, which is usually used in Little Russia instead of firewood. The crackling of this burning straw and the lighting make the entryway extremely pleasant on a winter evening, when ardent youth, tired of chasing some dark-skinned woman, runs into them, clapping their hands. The walls of the rooms were decorated with several paintings and pictures in old narrow frames. I am sure that the owners themselves had long forgotten their contents, and if some of them had been carried away, they probably would not have noticed it. There were two large portraits, painted in oil paints. One represented some bishop, the other Peter III. The Duchess of La Vallière, covered in flies, looked out from the narrow frames. Around the windows and above the doors there were many small pictures that you somehow get used to thinking of as spots on the wall and therefore don’t look at them at all. The floor in almost all the rooms was clay, but it was so cleanly smeared and kept with such neatness, with which, probably, not a single parquet floor in a rich house is kept, lazily swept by a sleep-deprived gentleman in livery.