There is nothing better than Nevsky Prospekt, at least in St. Petersburg; for him he is everything. What does not shine this street - the beauty of our capital! I know that none of its pale and bureaucratic inhabitants would exchange for all the benefits of Nevsky Prospekt. Not only someone who is twenty-five years old, has a beautiful mustache and a wonderfully tailored frock coat, but even someone who has white hair popping up on his chin and a head as smooth as a silver dish, and he is delighted with Nevsky Prospekt. And ladies! Oh, Nevsky Prospekt is even more pleasant for ladies. And who doesn't like it? As soon as you ascend Nevsky Prospekt, it already smells of one festivities. Even if you have some necessary, necessary business, but, having ascended it, you will surely forget about every business. Here is the only place where people are shown not out of necessity, where their need and mercantile interest, embracing the whole of St. Petersburg, have not driven them. It seems that the person you meet on Nevsky Prospekt is less selfish than on Morskaya, Gorokhovaya, Liteinaya, Meshchanskaya and other streets, where greed and self-interest and need are expressed in people walking and flying in carriages and droshkys. Nevsky Prospekt is the general communication of St. Petersburg. Here, a resident of the Petersburg or Vyborg part, who for several years has not been to his friend at Sands or at the Moscow outpost, can be sure that he will certainly meet him. No address-calendar and reference place will deliver such true news as Nevsky Prospekt. Almighty Nevsky Prospekt! The only entertainment of the poor in the festivities of St. Petersburg! How cleanly its sidewalks are swept, and, God, how many feet have left their footprints on it! And the clumsy, dirty boot of a retired soldier, under the weight of which, it seems, the very granite is cracking, and the miniature, light as smoke, slipper of a young lady, turning her head to the shiny windows of the store, like a sunflower to the sun, and the rattling saber of a hopeful ensign, seeing a sharp scratch on it—everything takes out on it the power of strength or the power of weakness. What a quick phantasmagoria takes place on it in just one day! How many changes he will endure in one day! Let's start from the very early morning, when the whole of Petersburg smells of hot, freshly baked bread and is filled with old women in tattered dresses and coats, making their raids on churches and on compassionate passers-by. Then Nevsky Prospekt is empty: the dense shopkeepers and their commies are still sleeping in their Dutch shirts or lathering their noble cheeks and drinking coffee; the beggars gather at the doors of the pastry shops, where the sleepy Ganymede, flying like a fly yesterday with chocolate, crawls out, with a broom in his hand, without a tie, and throws them stale pies and leftovers. The right people trudge through the streets: sometimes Russian peasants, hurrying to work, in boots stained with lime, which even the Catherine Canal, known for its cleanliness, would not be able to wash, cross it, hurrying to work. At this time, it is usually indecent for ladies to go around, because the Russian people love to express themselves in such harsh expressions, which they probably will not hear even in the theater. Sometimes a sleepy official will weave through with a briefcase under his arm if the road to the department lies through Nevsky Prospekt. It can be said decisively that at this time, that is, before twelve o'clock, Nevsky Prospekt does not constitute an end for anyone, it serves only as a means: it is gradually filled with people who have their own occupations, their own worries, their annoyances, but who do not think about him at all. . A Russian peasant talks about a hryvnia or about seven pennies of copper, old men and women wave their arms or talk to themselves, sometimes with rather striking gestures, but no one listens to them and does not laugh at them, except perhaps for boys in colorful dressing gowns, with empty shtofs or ready-made boots in their hands, running like lightning along Nevsky Prospekt. At this time, no matter what you put on, even if instead of a hat you have a cap on your head, even if the collars stick out too far from your tie, no one will notice it.
At twelve o'clock tutors of all nations raid Nevsky Prospekt with their pupils in cambric collars. The English Joneses and the French Cokes go hand in hand with the pets entrusted to their parental care and with decent solidity explain to them that the signboards above the shops are made in order to be able to find out through them what is in the shops themselves. Governesses, pale misses and rosy Slavs, walk majestically behind their light, fidgety girls, ordering them to raise their shoulders a little higher and keep straighter; in short, at this time Nevsky Prospekt - pedagogical Nevsky Prospekt. But the closer it is to two o'clock, the smaller the number of tutors, teachers and children: they are finally forced out by their tender parents, walking arm in arm with their motley, multi-colored, faint-hearted girlfriends. Little by little, everyone joins their company who have completed quite important homework, such as: having talked with their doctor about the weather and about a small pimple that jumped up on their nose, learned about the health of their horses and their children, however, showing great talents, read the poster and an important article in the papers about the arrivals and departures who finally had a cup of coffee and tea; they are joined by those whom an enviable fate has endowed with the blessed title of officials on special assignments. They are joined by those who serve in a foreign college and are distinguished by the nobility of their studies and habits. God, what wonderful positions and services there are! how they uplift and delight the soul! but alas! I do not serve and am deprived of the pleasure of seeing the subtle treatment of my superiors. Everything you see on Nevsky Prospekt is dignified: men in long frock coats with their hands in their pockets, ladies in pink, white, and pale blue satin coats and hats. Here you will meet the only sideburns, passed with unusual and amazing art under a tie, velvet, satin sideburns, black, like sable or coal, but, alas, belonging to only one foreign collegium. Employees in other departments have been denied black sideburns by Providence; they must, to their greatest annoyance, wear red. Here you will meet a wonderful mustache, which no pen, no brush can depict; a mustache to which the better half of life is devoted is the subject of long vigils during the day and night, a mustache on which the most delicious perfumes and aromas have poured out and which have been anointed with all the most precious and rare varieties of lipsticks, a mustache that is wrapped at night with thin vellum paper, a mustache, to who breathe the most touching affection of their possessors and who are envied by those passing by. Thousands of varieties of hats, dresses, scarves - colorful, light, to which their owners sometimes remain attached for two whole days, will blind anyone on Nevsky Prospekt. It seems as if a whole sea of moths has suddenly risen from the stems and is agitated in a brilliant cloud over the male black beetles. Here you will meet such waists that you have never even dreamed of: thin, narrow waists, no thicker than a bottle neck, when you meet them, you will respectfully step aside so as not to inadvertently push with an impolite elbow; timidity and fear will take possession of your heart, so that somehow, from even your careless breathing, the most charming work of nature and art will not break. And what women's sleeves you will meet on Nevsky Prospekt! Ah, what a delight! They are somewhat like two balloons, so that the lady would suddenly rise into the air if the man did not support her; because it is as easy and pleasant to lift a lady into the air as a glass filled with champagne is brought to the mouth. Nowhere at a mutual meeting do they bow so nobly and naturally as on Nevsky Prospekt. Here you will meet a unique smile, a smile of the height of art, sometimes such that you can melt with pleasure, sometimes such that you suddenly see yourself below the grass and lower your head, sometimes such that you feel yourself higher than the Admiralty Spitz and lift it up. Here you will meet people talking about a concert or about the weather with extraordinary nobility and self-respect. Here you will meet a thousand incomprehensible characters and phenomena. Creator! what strange characters one encounters on Nevsky Prospekt! There are many such people who, when they meet you, will certainly look at your boots, and if you pass, they will turn back to look at your tails. I still can't figure out why this happens. At first I thought that they were shoemakers, but, however, it didn’t happen at all: they mostly serve in different departments, many of them can write an excellent way from one official place to another; or people who take walks, read newspapers in pastry shops - in a word, for the most part, all decent people. At this blessed time of two to three in the afternoon, which can be called the moving capital of Nevsky Prospekt, there is a major exhibition of all the best works of man. One shows a dainty frock coat with the best beaver, the other a beautiful Greek nose, the third wears excellent sideburns, the fourth a pair of pretty eyes and a wonderful hat, the fifth a ring with a talisman on a dandy little finger, the sixth a leg in a charming shoe, the seventh a tie that arouses surprise , the eighth - a mustache, plunging into amazement. But three o'clock strikes, and the exhibition ends, the crowd thins out... At three o'clock, another change. Spring suddenly sets in on Nevsky Prospekt: it is covered all over by officials in green uniforms. Hungry titular, court and other advisers are trying with all their might to speed up their progress. Young collegiate registrars, provincial and collegiate secretaries are still in a hurry to take advantage of the time and walk along Nevsky Prospekt with a posture showing that they did not at all sit for six hours in the presence. But the old collegiate secretaries, titular and court councilors walk quickly, with their heads bowed: they have no time to be engaged in examining passers-by; they are not yet completely torn from their cares; in their head there is a jumble and a whole archive of started and unfinished cases; for a long time, instead of a signboard, they are shown a cardboard box with papers or the full face of the ruler of the office.
From four o'clock Nevsky Prospekt is empty, and it is unlikely that you will meet at least one official on it. Some seamstress from a store will run across Nevsky Prospekt with a box in her hands, some miserable prey of a philanthropic clerk, let loose around the world in a frieze overcoat, some visiting eccentric to whom all hours are equal, some long tall English woman with a purse and book in hand, some artel worker, a Russian man in a denim frock coat with a waist on his back, with a narrow beard, living all his life on a living thread, in which everything moves: back, and arms, and legs, and head, when he politely passes along the pavement, sometimes a low craftsman; you will not meet anyone else on Nevsky Prospekt.
But as soon as twilight falls on the houses and streets, and the watchman, covered with matting, climbs the stairs to light a lantern, and those prints that dare not appear in the middle of the day look out from the low windows of the shops, then Nevsky Prospekt comes to life again and begins to stir. Then comes that mysterious time when the lamps give everything some kind of tempting, wonderful light. You will meet a lot of young people, mostly single, in warm frock coats and overcoats. At this time, some kind of goal is felt, or, better, something similar to a goal, something extremely unconscious; everyone's steps accelerate and become generally very uneven. Long shadows flicker along the walls and the pavement and almost reach the heads of the Police Bridge. Young collegiate registrars, provincial and collegiate secretaries walk around for a very long time; but the old collegiate registrars, titular and court councillors, for the most part sit at home, either because they are married people, or because the German cooks who live in their homes prepare food very well for them. Here you will meet respectable old men who, with such dignity and with such amazing nobility, walked along Nevsky Prospekt at two o'clock. You will see them running just like young collegiate registrars, in order to look under the hat from afar envied by the lady, whose thick lips and cheeks, tickled with rouge, are so liked by many strollers, and most of all by inmates, artel workers, merchants, always in German frock coats. walking in a crowd and usually arm in arm.
- Stop! Lieutenant Pirogov shouted at that moment, tugging at a young man in a tailcoat and cloak who was walking with him. - Saw?
- I saw, wonderful, completely Peruginova Bianca.
— Who are you talking about?
“About her, the one with the dark hair. And what eyes! God, what eyes! All the position, and the contour, and the salary of the face are miracles!
“I'm telling you about the blonde who followed her that way. Why don't you go after the brunette when you like her so much?
— Oh, how can you! exclaimed a young man in evening dress, blushing. - As if she were one of those who walk in the evening along Nevsky Prospekt; she must be a very distinguished lady,” he continued with a sigh, “one cloak on her costs eighty rubles!
— Simpleton! Pirogov shouted, forcibly pushing him in the direction where her bright cloak fluttered. “Go on, you fool, you’ll miss!” and I'll go for the blonde.
Both friends parted ways.
“We know all of you,” Pirogov thought to himself with a self-satisfied and presumptuous smile, convinced that there was no beauty that could resist him.
A young man in a tailcoat and cloak walked with a timid and tremulous step in the direction where a motley cloak fluttered in the distance, now turning into a bright brilliance as it approached the light of a lantern, then instantly covered with darkness at a distance from it. His heart was beating, and he involuntarily quickened his pace. He did not even dare to think about getting any right to the attention of a beauty flying away in the distance, much less to allow such a black thought as Lieutenant Pirogov hinted to him; but he only wanted to see the house, to notice where this charming creature had a dwelling, which, it seemed, had flown from the sky directly onto Nevsky Prospekt and, no doubt, would fly away to no one knows where. He flew so fast that he constantly pushed respectable gentlemen with gray whiskers off the sidewalk. This young man belonged to that class which constitutes a rather strange phenomenon among us, and belongs as much to the citizens of Petersburg as the person who appears to us in a dream belongs to the essential world. This exclusive class is very unusual in a city where everyone is either officials, or merchants, or German artisans. It was the artist. Isn't it a strange phenomenon? Petersburg artist! an artist in the land of snows, an artist in the country of the Finns, where everything is wet, smooth, even, pale, gray, foggy. These artists are not at all like the Italian artists, proud, ardent, like Italy and its sky; on the contrary, they are for the most part a kind, meek people, shy, careless, quietly loving their art, drinking tea with two of their friends in a small room, modestly talking about their favorite subject and completely neglecting the superfluous. He will always call some beggar old woman to him and make her sit for six whole hours in order to translate her pitiful, insensitive face onto the canvas. He draws a perspective of his room, in which all sorts of artistic nonsense appears: plaster arms and legs turned coffee-like from time and dust, broken painting benches, an overturned palette, a friend playing the guitar, walls stained with paints, with a dissolved window through which flickers pale Neva and poor fishermen in red shirts. They always have a gray muddy color on almost everything - an indelible mark of the north. For all that, they work on their work with true pleasure. They often nurture a true talent within themselves, and if only the fresh air of Italy would blow on them, it would surely develop as freely, widely and brightly as a plant that is finally taken out of the room into clean air. In general, they are very timid: a star and a thick epaulette lead them into such confusion that they involuntarily lower the price of their works. They sometimes like to show off, but this panache always seems to them too sharp and looks a bit like a patch. On them you will sometimes meet an excellent tailcoat and a soiled cloak, an expensive velvet waistcoat and a frock coat all in colors. In the same way, as in their unfinished landscape you sometimes see a nymph painted upside down, which he, finding no other place, sketched on the soiled ground of his former work, which he once painted with pleasure. He never looks you straight in the eye; if he looks, then somehow cloudy, indefinitely; he does not pierce you with the hawk-eye of an observer or the hawk-eye of a cavalry officer. This happens because he sees at the same time both your features and the features of some plaster Hercules standing in his room, or he sees his own picture, which he still thinks to produce. From this, he often answers incoherently, sometimes out of place, and the objects interfering in his head increase his timidity even more. The young man described by us, the artist Piskarev, belonged to this kind, shy, timid, but in his soul he carried sparks of feeling, ready to turn into a flame at an opportunity. With secret trepidation he hurried after his object, which had struck him so strongly, and seemed to marvel at his own audacity. The unfamiliar creature, to which his eyes, thoughts and feelings were so attached, suddenly turned his head and looked at him. God, what divine features! Of dazzling whiteness, the most charming forehead was shaded with hair as beautiful as agate. They curled, those wonderful curls, and part of them, falling from under the hat, touched the cheek, touched by a thin fresh blush that came through from the evening cold. The lips were closed by a whole swarm of the most charming dreams. Everything that remains of the memories of childhood, that gives dreaming and quiet inspiration under a luminous lamp - all this seemed to combine, merge and be reflected in her harmonious lips. She glanced at Piskarev, and at that glance his heart fluttered; she looked sternly, a feeling of indignation appeared on her face at the sight of such impudent persecution; but on that beautiful face the very anger was charming. Overcome by shame and timidity, he stopped, lowering his eyes; but how to lose this deity and not even recognize the shrine where it descended to visit? Such thoughts came into the head of the young dreamer, and he decided to pursue. But, in order not to allow this to be noticed, he moved away to a long distance, carelessly looked around and examined the signboards, and meanwhile did not lose sight of a single step of the stranger. Passers-by began to flicker less often, the street became quieter; the beauty looked round, and it seemed to him as if a slight smile flashed on her lips. He trembled all over and could not believe his eyes. No, it was the lantern with its deceptive light that expressed on her face the semblance of a smile; no, it's his own dreams that are laughing at him. But the breath caught in his chest, everything in him turned into an indefinite trembling, all his feelings burned, and everything in front of him was thrown into some kind of fog. The pavement rushed under him, the carriages with galloping horses seemed to be motionless, the bridge stretched and broke on its arch, the house stood with its roof down, the booth fell towards him, and the sentinel's halberd, together with the golden words of the signboard and the painted scissors, seemed to shine on his very eyelashes. eye. And all this was produced by one look, one turn of a pretty head. Not hearing, not seeing, not listening, he rushed along the light traces of beautiful legs, trying himself to moderate the speed of his step, flying to the beat of his heart. Sometimes a doubt seized him: was it really the expression of her face that was so benevolent - and then he stopped for a minute, but the beating of his heart, an irresistible force and the anxiety of all his feelings impelled him forward. He did not even notice how a four-story house suddenly rose in front of him, all four rows of windows, glowing with fire, looked at him at once, and the railing at the entrance opposed him with an iron push. He saw the stranger flying up the stairs, looked back, put her finger on her lips and gave a sign to follow her. His knees were trembling; feelings, thoughts burned; a lightning bolt of joy pierced his heart like an unbearable point. No, this is no longer a dream! God! so much happiness in one moment! such a wonderful life in two minutes!
But isn't it all in a dream? could it be that she, for whose one heavenly glance he would have been ready to give his whole life, to approach whose dwelling he already considered an inexplicable bliss, was she really now so benevolent and attentive to him? He flew up the stairs. He did not feel any earthly thought; he was not warmed up by the flames of earthly passion, no, at that moment he was pure and blameless, like a virgin youth still breathing an indefinite spiritual need for love. And what would arouse bold thoughts in a depraved person, that very thing, on the contrary, sanctified them even more. This trust that a weak, beautiful creature placed in him, this trust imposed on him a vow of knightly severity, a vow to slavishly fulfill all her commands. He only wished that these decrees were as difficult and difficult to fulfill as possible, so that with great exertion of strength he could fly to overcome them. He did not doubt that some secret and at the same time important incident had forced the stranger to entrust himself to him; that considerable services would certainly be required of him, and he already felt in himself the strength and determination for everything.
The staircase twisted, and with it his quick dreams twisted. "Go more carefully!" - a voice sounded like a harp and filled all his veins with a new thrill. In the dark heights of the fourth floor, a stranger knocked on the door - it opened, and they entered together. A woman of rather good appearance met them with a candle in her hand, but she looked at Piskarev so strangely and insolently that he involuntarily lowered his eyes. They entered the room. Three female figures in different angles presented themselves to his eyes. One laid out the cards; the other sat at the piano and played with two fingers some pitiful imitation of an ancient polonaise; a third sat in front of a mirror, combing her long hair with a comb, and did not at all think of leaving her toilet at the entrance of an unfamiliar face. Some unpleasant disorder, which can only be found in a bachelor's careless room, reigned over everything. The furniture was pretty good and covered with dust; the spider covered the stucco cornice with its cobweb; through the unopened door of another room, a boot with a spur gleamed and the edging of his uniform reddened; a loud male voice and female laughter were heard without any compulsion.
God, where did he go! At first he did not want to believe and began to peer more closely at the objects that filled the room; but the bare walls and windows without curtains did not show any presence of a caring hostess; the worn-out faces of those pitiful creatures, of which one sat down almost in front of his nose and looked at him just as calmly as a stain on someone else's dress - all this assured him that he had entered that disgusting shelter where he had founded his dwelling in a miserable depravity born of tinsel. education and the terrible crowding of the capital. That shelter, where a man blasphemously suppressed and laughed at everything pure and holy that adorns life, where a woman, this beauty of the world, the crown of creation, turned into some strange, ambiguous creature, where she, along with the purity of her soul, lost everything feminine and disgustingly appropriated the slyness and insolence of a man and has already ceased to be that weak, that beautiful and so different creature from us. Piskarev measured her from head to toe with astonished eyes, as if still wanting to be sure whether she was the one who had so bewitched him and carried him off on Nevsky Prospekt. But she stood before him just as good; her hair was just as beautiful; her eyes were still heavenly. She was fresh; she was only seventeen; it was clear that a terrible debauchery had recently overtaken her; he had not yet dared to touch her cheeks; they were fresh and lightly shaded with a subtle blush—she was beautiful.
He stood motionless in front of her and was ready to forget himself just as innocently as he had forgotten before. But the beauty got bored with such a long silence and smiled significantly, looking him straight in the eyes. But this smile was full of some pitiful insolence; she was so strange and suited her face in the same way as an expression of piety suits the face of a bribe-taker or an account book suits a poet. He shuddered. She opened her pretty lips and began to say something, but it was all so stupid, so vulgar... As if, together with her purity, she left the mind of a person. He didn't want to hear anything anymore. He was extremely funny and simple as a child. Instead of taking advantage of such favor, instead of rejoicing at such an opportunity, which, no doubt, anyone else in his place would have rejoiced, he rushed with all his might, like a wild goat, and ran out into the street.
Hanging his head and lowering his arms, he sat in his room like a poor man who found a priceless pearl and immediately dropped it into the sea. “Such a beauty, such divine features - and where is it? in what place!..” That was all he could say.
In fact, pity never seizes us so strongly as at the sight of beauty, touched by the putrefactive breath of depravity. Let even ugliness be friends with him, but beauty, tender beauty ... it merges with only one purity and purity in our thoughts. The beauty who so bewitched poor Piskarev was truly a wonderful, extraordinary phenomenon. Her stay in this despicable circle seemed even more extraordinary. All her features were so purely formed, the whole expression of her beautiful face was marked by such nobility that it would be impossible to think that depravity would spread its terrible claws over her. She would have made an invaluable pearl, the whole world, the whole paradise, all the wealth of a passionate spouse; she would be a beautiful quiet star in an inconspicuous family circle and with one movement of her beautiful lips she would give sweet orders. She would have constituted a deity in a crowded hall, on a bright parquet floor, in the gleam of candles, with the silent reverence of the crowd of her admirers prostrated at her feet; but alas! by some terrible will of the infernal spirit, thirsting to destroy the harmony of life, she was thrown with laughter into its abyss.
Imbued with tearing pity, he sat in front of a burning candle. It was long past midnight, the tower bell rang half past one, and he sat motionless, without sleep, without active vigil. Drowsiness, taking advantage of his immobility, was already beginning to quietly overcome him, the room was already beginning to disappear, only the flame of a candle shone through his daydreams, when suddenly a knock at the door made him shudder and wake up. The door opened, and a footman in a rich livery entered. A rich livery had never looked into his secluded room, moreover, at such an unusual time ... He was perplexed and looked at the new footman with impatient curiosity.
“That lady,” said the footman with a courteous bow, “whom you deigned to be with us a few hours before, ordered to ask you to come to her and sent a carriage for you.
Piskarev stood in silent surprise: “Carriage, livery footman! .. No, there must be some kind of mistake here ...”
“Listen, my dear,” he said timidly, “you must have deigned to go in the wrong place. No doubt the lady sent you for someone else, and not for me.
“No, sir, I am not mistaken. After all, you deigned to escort the mistress on foot to the house in Liteiny, to the room on the fourth floor?- I.
“Well, then, please hurry up, the lady certainly wants to see you and asks you to be invited directly to their house.
Piskarev ran down the stairs. There was definitely a carriage in the yard. He got into it, the doors slammed, the stones of the pavement rattled under the wheels and hooves - and the illuminated prospect of houses with bright signs rushed past the carriage windows. Piskarev thought all the way and did not know how to resolve this adventure. His own house, a carriage, a footman in a rich livery ... - he could not agree with all this with a room on the fourth floor, dusty windows and an out-of-tune piano.
The carriage stopped in front of a brightly lit entrance, and he was struck at once: a row of carriages, the chatter of coachmen, brightly lit windows and the sound of music. A footman in a rich livery let him out of the carriage and respectfully escorted him into the vestibule with marble columns, with a doorman drenched in gold, with scattered cloaks and fur coats, with a bright lamp. An aerial staircase with shining railings, scented with fragrances, rushed upwards. He was already on it, he had already ascended into the first hall, frightened and backing away with his first step from the terrible crowd. The unusual diversity of faces led him into complete confusion; it seemed to him that some demon had crumbled the whole world into many different pieces, and all these pieces were senselessly, uselessly mixed together. Glittering ladies' shoulders and black tailcoats, chandeliers, lamps, airborne gases, ethereal tapes and a thick double bass peeping out from behind the railing of magnificent choirs - everything was brilliant for him. He saw at one time so many respectable old and half-old men with stars on tailcoats, ladies walking so easily, proudly and gracefully on the parquet or sitting in rows, he heard so many words in French and English, besides, young people in black tailcoats were filled with such nobility , with such dignity they spoke and were silent, they were so incapable of saying anything superfluous, they joked so majestically, they smiled so respectfully, they wore whiskers so skillfully, they were so skillfully able to show excellent hands, straightening their ties, the ladies were so airy, so immersed in perfect self-satisfaction and ecstasy , so charmingly lowered their eyes that ... but one already resigned look of Piskarev, leaning against the column with fear, showed that he was completely at a loss. At this time, the crowd surrounded the dancing group. They rushed, entwined with the transparent creation of Paris, in dresses woven from the very air; they casually touched the shiny legs of the parquet and were more ethereal than if they had not touched it at all. But one among them is better than all, more luxurious and more brilliantly dressed. An inexpressible, most subtle combination of taste spilled over all her attire, and for all that she did not seem to care about it at all, and it poured out involuntarily, of itself. She looked and did not look at the surrounding crowd of spectators, beautiful long eyelashes fell indifferently, and the sparkling whiteness of her face caught her eyes even more dazzlingly when a light shadow overshadowed her charming forehead as she tilted her head.
Piskarev made every effort to part the crowd and examine it; but, to the greatest annoyance, some huge head with dark curly hair constantly blocked it; moreover, the crowd pressed him so that he did not dare to lean forward, did not dare to step back, fearing in some way to push some privy councillor. But then he pushed forward and looked at his dress, wanting to recover decently. Heavenly Creator, what is it! He was wearing a frock coat and all stained with paint: in his haste to go, he even forgot to change into a decent dress. He blushed to the ears and, bowing his head, wanted to fall through, but there was absolutely nowhere to fall into: the chamber junkers in brilliant suits moved behind him like a perfect wall. He already wanted to be as far away as possible from the beauty with a beautiful forehead and eyelashes. With fear, he raised his eyes to see if she was looking at him: God! she stands in front of him... But what is it? What is this? "That's her!" he yelled almost at the top of his voice. In fact, it was she, the same one whom he met on the Nevsky and whom he led to her dwelling.
Meanwhile, she lifted her eyelashes and looked at everyone with her clear eyes. "Ai, ai, ai, how beautiful! .." - he could only utter with breathless breath. She swept her eyes around the whole circle, eager to stop her attention, but with a kind of weariness and inattention, she soon turned them away and met Piskarev's eyes. Oh what a sky! what a paradise! give strength, Creator, to transfer it! life will not contain it, it will destroy and take away the soul! She gave a sign, but not with her hand, not with a bow of her head, no, in her crushing eyes this sign was expressed in such a subtle imperceptible expression that no one could see it, but he saw it, he understood it. The dance went on for a long time; the weary music seemed to die out completely and die away, and again burst out, screeched and thundered; finally the end! She sat down, her chest heaving under the thin smoke of the gas; her hand (Creator, what a wonderful hand!) fell to her knees, squeezed her airy dress under it, and the dress under it seemed to breathe music, and its thin lilac color even more clearly signified the bright whiteness of this beautiful hand. To touch only her - and nothing more! No other desires - they are all impudent ... He stood behind her chair, not daring to speak, not daring to breathe.
- Were you bored? she said. - I also missed you. I notice that you hate me…” she added, lowering her long eyelashes…
- Hate you! to me? I…” the completely bewildered Piskarev was about to utter, and he would probably have said a bunch of the most incoherent words, but at that moment the chamberlain approached with sharp and pleasant remarks, with a beautiful crest curled on his head. He rather pleasantly showed a row of rather good teeth, and with each sharpness he drove a sharp nail into his heart. Finally, fortunately, one of the strangers turned to the chamberlain with some question.
— How insufferable! she said, raising her heavenly eyes to him. - I will sit at the other end of the hall; be there!
She slipped through the crowd and disappeared. He pushed the crowd like a madman and was already there.
Yes, it's her! she sat like a queen, the best of all, the most beautiful of all, and looked for him with her eyes.
“You are here,” she said quietly. - I'll be frank with you: you must have found the circumstances of our meeting strange. Do you really think that I can belong to that despicable class of creatures in which you met me? My actions seem strange to you, but I will reveal a secret to you: will you be able,” she said, fixing her eyes intently on him, “never to change her?
— Oh, I will! will! will!..
But at that moment a rather elderly man approached her, spoke to her in a language incomprehensible to Piskarev, and gave her his hand. She looked at Piskarev with an imploring look and gave a sign to stay in his place and wait for her arrival, but in a fit of impatience he was unable to listen to any orders even from her lips. He went after her; but the crowd divided them. He no longer saw the lilac dress; he went uneasily from room to room and mercilessly pushed everyone he met, but in all the rooms aces at whist were still sitting, immersed in dead silence. In one corner of the room, several elderly people were arguing about the advantage of military service over civilian service; in another, people in excellent tailcoats threw light remarks about the multi-volume works of the poet-worker. Piskarev felt that one elderly man with a respectable appearance grabbed the button of his coat and presented to his judgment one very fair remark of his, but he rudely pushed him away, not even noticing that he had a rather significant order around his neck. He ran into another room - and she is not there. The third one doesn't either. “Where is she? give it to me! oh, I can't live without looking at her! I want to hear what she wanted to say, ”but all searches for him remained in vain. Restless, weary, he pressed himself against the corner and looked at the crowd; but his strained eyes began to picture everything to him in some indistinct form. Finally, the walls of his room began to be clearly shown to him. He looked up; in front of him stood a candlestick with a fire almost extinguished in its depths; the whole candle has melted; fat was poured on his table.
So he slept! God, what a dream! And why did you have to wake up? why not wait one minute: she would surely come again! An unfortunate light, with its unpleasant dim radiance, looked into his windows. A room in such a grey, muddy mess... Oh, how disgusting is reality! What is she against dreams? He hastily undressed and got into bed, wrapping himself in a blanket, wishing for a moment to call on a dream that had flown away. The dream, as if, did not take long to come to him, but it did not present to him at all what he would have wished to see: either Lieutenant Pirogov appeared with a pipe, then an academic watchman, then a real state adviser, then the head of a chukhonka, with which he once painted portrait, and the like.
Until noon he lay in bed, wishing to sleep; but she didn't show up. At least for a minute she showed her beautiful features, at least for a minute her light gait rustled, at least her bare hand, bright as transcendental snow, flashed before him.
Throwing everything aside, forgetting everything, he sat with a contrite, hopeless look, full of only one dream. He did not think to touch anything; his eyes, without any participation, without any life, gazed out the window, which faced the courtyard, where a dirty water-carrier poured out water that froze in the air, and the peddler's goatish voice rattled: "Sell the old dress." The everyday and the real struck his ears strangely. He sat like that until evening, and greedily threw himself into bed. For a long time he struggled with insomnia, finally overcame it. Again some kind of dream, some vulgar, ugly dream. “God, have mercy: at least for a minute, at least for one minute, show her!” He again looked forward to the evening, again fell asleep, again he dreamed of some official, who was both an official and a bassoon; oh, it's unbearable! Finally she came! her head and curls ... she looks ... Oh, how briefly! again fog, again some kind of stupid dream.
Finally, dreams became his life, and from that time on his whole life took a strange turn: he, one might say, slept in reality and was awake in a dream. If anyone had seen him sitting silently in front of an empty table or walking along the street, then he would surely have mistaken him for a lunatic or ruined by strong drinks; his glance was completely without any significance, a natural absent-mindedness finally developed and powerfully banished all feelings, all movements from his face. He revived only at nightfall.
This condition upset his strength, and the most terrible torment for him was that at last sleep began to leave him altogether. Wishing to save this only wealth, he used every means to restore it. He heard that there is a way to restore sleep - for this you need only take opium. But where to get this opium? He remembered a Persian who ran a shawl shop and who, almost whenever he met him, asked him to draw a beauty for him. He made up his mind to go to him, assuming that he no doubt had this opium. The Persian received him while sitting on the couch and tucking his legs under him.
What do you need opium for? he asked him.
Piskarev told him about his insomnia.
"All right, I'll give you opium, just draw me a beauty." To be a good beauty! so that the eyebrows were black and the eyes were large, like olives; and I myself to lie next to her and smoke a pipe! do you hear? to be good! to be beautiful!
Piskarev promised everything. The Persian went out for a minute and returned with a jar filled with a dark liquid, carefully poured part of it into another jar and gave it to Piskarev with instructions to use no more than seven drops in water. Greedily he grabbed this precious jar, which he would not have given for a pile of gold, and ran headlong home.
Arriving home, he poured a few drops into a glass of water and, having swallowed it, fell asleep.
God, what joy! She! she again! but in a completely different way. Oh, how well she sits at the window of a bright village house! her outfit breathes with such simplicity, in which only the thought of the poet is clothed. The hairstyle on her head ... Creator, how simple this hairstyle is and how it suits her! A short kerchief was slightly draped over her slender neck; everything in her is modest, everything in her is a secret, inexplicable sense of taste. How sweet is her graceful gait! how musical is the noise of her steps and her simple dress! how beautiful her hand is, clenched in a hair bracelet! She tells him with tears in her eyes: “Do not despise me: I am not at all the one you take me for. Look at me, take a closer look and tell me: am I capable of what you think? - "ABOUT! no no! let him who dares to think, let him...” But he woke up, touched, torn to pieces, with tears in his eyes. “It would be better if you didn’t exist at all! did not live in the world, but would be the creation of an inspired artist! I would not leave the canvas, I would always look at you and kiss you. I would live and breathe you like the most beautiful dream, and then I would be happy. I would not extend any desires further. I would call upon you, as a guardian angel, before sleep and wakefulness, and I would be waiting for you when it happened to depict the divine and holy. But now... what a terrible life! What is the use of her being alive? Is the life of a madman pleasant to his relatives and friends who once loved him? God, what a life! eternal strife between dreams and materiality!” Almost such thoughts occupied him incessantly. He did not think of anything, even ate almost nothing, and impatiently, with the passion of a lover, awaited the evening and the desired vision. The incessant striving of thoughts towards one thing finally took such power over his whole being and imagination that the desired image appeared to him almost every day, always in a position opposite to reality, because his thoughts were completely pure, like the thoughts of a child. Through these dreams the object itself was somehow more pure and completely transformed.
The use of opium inflamed his thoughts still more, and if there had ever been a lover to the last degree of madness, swiftly, terribly, destructively, rebelliously, then this unfortunate one was he.
Of all the dreams, one was the most joyful for him of all: he imagined his workshop, he was so cheerful, he sat with such pleasure with a palette in his hands! And she is right there. She was already his wife. She sat beside him, leaning her lovely elbow on the back of his chair, and looked at his work. In her eyes, languid, tired, was written the burden of bliss; everything in his room breathed paradise; it was so light, so clean. Creator! she bowed her lovely head to his breast... He had never seen the best sleep. He got up after him somehow fresher and less distracted than before. Strange thoughts were born in his head. “Perhaps,” he thought, “she is involved in some involuntary terrible incident in debauchery; perhaps the movements of her soul are inclined to repentance; perhaps she would like to escape from her terrible state herself. And is it really indifferent to allow her death, and moreover, when it is only worth giving a hand to save her from drowning? His thoughts went even further. “No one knows me,” he said to himself, “besides, who cares about me, and I don’t care about them either. If she expresses pure repentance and changes her life, then I will marry her. I must marry her, and surely I will do much better than many who marry their housekeepers and often even the most contemptible creatures. But my feat will be disinterested and may even be great. I will restore to the world its finest ornament."
Having drawn up such a frivolous plan, he felt the color flashed on his face; he went up to the mirror and was frightened himself by the sunken cheeks and the pallor of his face. He carefully began to dress up; he thought better of it, smoothed his hair, put on a new tailcoat, a smart waistcoat, threw on his cloak, and went out into the street. He breathed fresh air and felt a freshness in his heart, like a convalescent who has decided to go out for the first time after a long illness. His heart beat as he approached the street where he had not set foot since the fateful meeting.
For a long time he searched for a house; it seemed his memory had betrayed him. He crossed the street twice and didn't know which one to stop in front of. Finally one seemed to him similar. He quickly ran up the stairs, knocked on the door: the door opened, and who came out to meet him? His ideal, his mysterious image, the original of dreamy pictures, the one by which he lived, lived so terribly, so passionately, so sweetly. She herself stood before him: he trembled; he could hardly keep on his feet from weakness, seized by a burst of joy. She stood before him just as beautiful, although her eyes were sleepy, although pallor crept over her face, which was no longer so fresh, but she was still beautiful.
- A! she cried, seeing Piskarev and rubbing her eyes (then it was already two o'clock). Why did you run away from us then?
He sat down in exhaustion on a chair and looked at her.
“And I just now woke up; I was brought in at seven o'clock in the morning. I was quite drunk,” she added with a smile.
Oh, it would be better if you were dumb and completely devoid of language than to make such speeches! She suddenly showed him, as in a panorama, her whole life. However, in spite of this, with a heavy heart, he decided to try whether his exhortations would not have an effect on her. Gathering up his courage, he, in a trembling and at the same time fiery voice, began to present to her her terrible situation. She listened to him with an attentive air and with that feeling of surprise that we express at the sight of something unexpected and strange. She glanced with a slight smile at her friend who was sitting in the corner, who, having left the comb to clean, also listened with attention to the new preacher.
"True, I'm poor," Piskarev said at last, after a long and instructive exhortation, "but we'll start working; we will try vying with each other, one before the other, to improve our lives. There is nothing more pleasant than being obliged in everything to yourself. I will sit at the pictures, you will, sitting near me, animate my labors, embroider or do other needlework, and we will lack nothing.
- How can you! she interrupted with an expression of some contempt. - I'm not a laundress and not a seamstress to start doing work.
God! in these words all the base, all the contemptible life was expressed - a life filled with emptiness and idleness, the faithful companions of debauchery.
- Marry me! her friend, who had hitherto been silent in the corner, picked up with an insolent look. - If I am a wife, I will sit like this!
At the same time, she made some kind of stupid mine on her pitiful face, which made the beauty extremely laugh.
Oh, this is too much! there is no way to bear it. He rushed out, having lost his feelings and thoughts. His mind was confused: stupidly, without a goal, not seeing anything, not hearing, not feeling, he wandered all day. No one could know whether he spent the night somewhere or not; Only the next day, by some stupid instinct, he went into his apartment, pale, with a terrible look, with disheveled hair, with signs of madness on his face. He locked himself in his room and did not let anyone in, did not demand anything. Four days passed, and his locked room was never opened; at last a week passed, and the room was still locked. They rushed to the door, began to call him, but there was no answer; finally they broke down the door and found his lifeless corpse with its throat slit. The bloodied razor lay on the floor. From the convulsively outstretched arms and from the terribly distorted appearance one could conclude that his hand was unfaithful and that he still suffered for a long time before his sinful soul left the body.
Thus perished, a victim of insane passion, poor Piskarev, quiet, timid, modest, childishly simple-hearted, carrying within himself a spark of talent that, perhaps with time, would have flared up widely and brightly. Nobody wept over him; there was no one to be seen near his soulless corpse, except for the ordinary figure of a district warden and the indifferent mien of the city doctor. His coffin was quietly, even without the rites of religion, taken to Okhta; walking behind him, only the guard soldier was crying, and that because he had drunk an extra damask of vodka. Even Lieutenant Pirogov did not come to look at the corpse of the unfortunate poor man, to whom he had shown his high patronage during his lifetime. However, he was not at all up to it: he was busy with an emergency. But let's turn to him.
I don't like corpses and the dead, and it's always unpleasant for me when a long funeral procession crosses my road and an invalid soldier, dressed in some kind of capuchin, sniffs tobacco with his left hand, because the right one is occupied with a torch. I always feel annoyed in my soul at the sight of a rich hearse and a velvet coffin; but my annoyance is mixed with sadness when I see how a draft cab is dragging a red, uncovered coffin of a poor man, and only one beggar, meeting at a crossroads, trudges behind him, having no other business.
We, it seems, left Lieutenant Pirogov to see how he parted from poor Piskarev and rushed after the blonde. This blonde was a light, rather interesting creature. She stopped in front of every store and looked at the sashes, scarves, earrings, gloves and other trinkets displayed in the windows, constantly turned around, stared in all directions and looked back. "You, my dear, are mine!" - Pirogov said with self-confidence, continuing his pursuit and wrapping his face in the collar of his greatcoat so as not to meet one of his acquaintances. But it does not interfere with informing readers who Lieutenant Pirogov was.
But before we say who Lieutenant Pirogov was, it does not hurt to tell something about the society to which Pirogov belonged. There are officers who make up some kind of middle class in St. Petersburg. At a party, at a dinner at a councilor of state or at a real civil servant who has earned this rank by forty years of labor, you will always find one of them. A few pale, completely colorless daughters, like Petersburg, some of whom are overripe, a tea table, a piano, home dances - all this is inseparable from a light epaulette that shines under the lamp, between a well-behaved blonde and a black tailcoat of a brother or family acquaintance. These cold-blooded girls are extremely difficult to stir up and make laugh; it requires a great deal of art, or rather, no art at all. It is necessary to speak in such a way that it is neither too smart nor too funny, so that everything has that little thing that women love. In this it is necessary to do justice to the aforesaid gentlemen. They have a special gift to make laugh and listen to these colorless beauties. Exclamations choked with laughter: “Oh, stop it! Aren't you ashamed to laugh like that!" - are often the best reward for them. In the upper class, they come across very rarely or, better to say, never. From there they are completely supplanted by what is called in this society aristocrats; however, they are considered learned and educated people. They like to talk about literature; they praise Bulgarin, Pushkin and Grech and speak with contempt and witty barbs about A. A. Orlov. They don't miss a single public lecture, whether it's about accounting or even about forestry. In the theatre, no matter what the play, you will always find one of them, except if there are already some "Filatki" being played, which greatly offend their picky taste. In the theater they are permanent. These are the most profitable people for the theater management. They are especially fond of good verses in the play, they are also very fond of calling the actors loudly; many of them, teaching in state institutions or preparing for state institutions, finally wind up with a cabriolet and a pair of horses. Then their circle becomes wider; they finally get to the point of marrying a merchant's daughter who can play the piano, with a hundred thousand or so in cash and a bunch of well-married relatives. However, they can not achieve this honor before they have served, at least to the rank of colonel. Because Russian beards, despite the fact that they still smell a little like cabbage, in no way want to see their daughters for anyone except generals, or at least colonels. These are the main features of this sort of young people. But Lieutenant Pirogov had many talents that actually belonged to him. He excellently recited verses from "Dimitriy Donskoy" and "Woe from Wit", had a special art of blowing rings of smoke from a pipe so successfully that he could suddenly string about ten of them one on top of the other. He knew how to very pleasantly tell a joke about how the cannon itself, and the unicorn itself. However, it is somewhat difficult to count all the talents that fate has awarded Pirogov. He liked to talk about the actress and the dancer, but not as harshly as the young ensign usually speaks about this subject. He was very pleased with his rank, which he had recently been promoted to, and although sometimes, lying down on the sofa, he said: “Oh, oh! vanity, all vanity! what of it, that I am a lieutenant? — but secretly he was very flattered by this new dignity; in conversation he often tried to hint about him in a blunt way, and once, when he came across some clerk in the street, who seemed to him impolite, he immediately stopped him and in a few but harsh words let him notice that a lieutenant was standing in front of him, and no other officer. All the more did he try to state it more eloquently, because at that time two very good-looking ladies were passing by him. Pirogov generally showed a passion for everything elegant and encouraged the artist Piskarev; however, this happened, perhaps, because he very much desired to see his courageous physiognomy in the portrait. But enough about the qualities of Pirogov. Man is such a wondrous creature that it is never possible to suddenly calculate all his virtues, and the more you peer into him, the more new features appear, and their description would be endless.
So, Pirogov did not cease to pursue the stranger, from time to time occupying her with questions, to which she answered sharply, abruptly and with some obscure sounds. Through the dark Kazan Gates they entered Meshchanskaya Street, a street of tobacco and petty shops, German artisans and Chukhon nymphs. The blonde ran faster and fluttered through the gates of a rather dirty house. Pirogov follows her. She ran up the narrow dark stairs and entered the door, through which Pirogov also boldly made his way. He saw himself in a large room with black walls and a sooty ceiling. A pile of iron screws, metalwork tools, shiny coffee pots and candlesticks was on the table; the floor was littered with copper and iron filings. Pirogov immediately realized that this was the artisan's apartment. The stranger fluttered further through the side door. He thought for a moment, but, following the Russian rule, he decided to go forward. He entered a room not at all like the first, but very neatly furnished, showing that the owner was a German. He was struck by an unusually strange sight.
In front of him sat Schiller—not the Schiller who wrote William Tell and the History of the Thirty Years' War, but the well-known Schiller, the tinsmith in Meshchanskaya Street. Near Schiller stood Hoffmann, not the writer Hoffmann, but a rather good shoemaker from Officerskaya Street, a great friend of Schiller's. Schiller was drunk and sat on a chair, stamping his foot and saying something with vehemence. All this would not have surprised Pirogov, but he was surprised by the extremely strange position of the pieces. Schiller sat with his rather thick nose stuck out and his head raised; and Hoffmann held it by the nose with two fingers and turned the blade of his cobbler's knife on its very surface. Both persons spoke German, and therefore Lieutenant Pirogov, who knew only “gut morgen” in German, could not understand anything from this whole story. However, Schiller's words were as follows.
“I don’t want, I don’t need a nose! he said, waving his arms. “I get three pounds of tobacco a month for one nose. And I pay to a Russian bad shop, because the German shop does not keep Russian tobacco, I pay forty kopecks to the Russian bad shop for every pound; it will be a ruble twenty kopecks; twelve times a ruble twenty kopecks - it will be fourteen rubles forty kopecks. Do you hear, my friend Hoffmann? fourteen rubles forty kopecks for one nose! Yes, on holidays I sniff brine, because I don’t want to sniff bad Russian tobacco on holidays. In a year I sniffed two pounds of brine, two rubles a pound. Six and fourteen - twenty rubles forty kopecks for one tobacco. This is robbery! I ask you, my friend Hoffmann, don't you? Hoffmann, who himself was drunk, answered in the affirmative. - Twenty rubles forty kopecks! I am a Swabian German; I have a king in Germany. I don't want a nose! cut my nose! here's my nose!
And if it were not for the sudden appearance of Lieutenant Pirogov, then, without any doubt, Hoffmann would have cut off Schiller's nose for nothing, because he had already brought his knife into such a position, as if he wanted to cut the sole.
It seemed to Schiller very vexing that suddenly an unfamiliar, uninvited face should interfere with him so inopportunely. He, despite the fact that he was in an intoxicating fumes of beer and wine, felt that it was somewhat indecent in such a form and with such an action to be in the presence of an outside witness. Meanwhile, Pirogov leaned forward slightly and said with his characteristic pleasantness:
- Excuse me...
- Go away! Schiller answered drawlingly.
This puzzled Lieutenant Pirogov. This approach was completely new to him. The smile that had flickered across his face was suddenly gone. With a sense of mortified dignity, he said:
“It’s strange to me, dear sir… you probably didn’t notice… I’m an officer…”
What is an officer! I am a Swabian German. My own (at this Schiller hit the table with his fist) will be an officer: a cadet for a year and a half, a lieutenant for two years, and tomorrow I am an officer. But I don't want to serve. I will do this with an officer: fu! - at the same time, Schiller held out his palm and fuked at her.
Lieutenant Pirogov saw that he had no choice but to leave; however, such treatment, which was not at all befitting of his rank, was unpleasant to him. He stopped several times on the stairs, as if wishing to collect his courage and think about how he could make Schiller feel his audacity. Finally he reasoned that Schiller could be excused because his head was full of beer; besides, a pretty blonde appeared to him, and he decided to consign this to oblivion. The next day, Lieutenant Pirogov showed up early in the morning at the tinsmith's workshop. A pretty blonde met him in the front room, and in a rather stern voice, which suited her little face, she asked:
— What do you want?
“Ah, hello, my dear!” you didn't recognize me? rogue, what pretty eyes! - at the same time, Lieutenant Pirogov wanted to lift her chin very nicely with his finger.
But the blonde uttered a fearful exclamation and asked with the same severity:
— What do you want?
“I don’t want to see you anymore,” Lieutenant Pirogov said, smiling rather pleasantly and stepping closer; but, noticing that the timid blonde was about to slip through the door, he added: “I need, my dear, to order spurs. Can you make spurs for me? although in order to love you, you don’t need spurs at all, but rather a bridle. What cute little hands!
Lieutenant Pirogov was always very kind in explanations of this kind.
“I’ll call my husband right now,” the German woman screamed and left, and a few minutes later Pirogov saw Schiller coming out with sleepy eyes, barely waking up from yesterday’s hangover. Glancing at the officer, he recalled, as in a vague dream, the incident of yesterday. He did not remember anything in the form in which it was, but he felt that he had done some kind of stupidity, and therefore he received the officer with a very stern look.
“I can’t take less than fifteen rubles for spurs,” he said, wanting to get rid of Pirogov, because, as an honest German, he was very ashamed to look at someone who saw him in an indecent position. Schiller liked to drink completely without witnesses, with two or three friends, and for this time even locked himself away from his employees.
- Why is it so expensive? Pirogov said affectionately.
“German work,” Schiller said coolly, stroking his chin. - A Russian will undertake to do it for two rubles.
- If you please, to prove that I love you and wish to meet you, I pay fifteen rubles.
Schiller remained in thought for a minute: as an honest German, he felt a little ashamed. Wanting to reject it himself from ordering, he announced that he could not do it before two weeks. But Pirogov, without any contradiction, expressed his complete agreement.
The German thought about it and began to think about how best to do his job so that it really cost fifteen rubles. At this time, the blonde entered the workshop and began to rummage on the table, lined with coffee pots. The lieutenant took advantage of Schiller's thoughtfulness, stepped up to her and shook the hand, which was bare to the very shoulder. Schiller did not like this very much.
- Mein Frau! he shouted.
— Are you free to zi doh? the blonde replied.
“Genzi to the kitchen!”
The blonde left.
So in two weeks? Pirogov said.
“Yes, in two weeks,” Schiller answered thoughtfully, “now I have a lot of work to do.
- Goodbye! I will come to you.
"Goodbye," answered Schiller, locking the door behind him.
Lieutenant Pirogov decided not to abandon his quest, despite the fact that the German woman had a clear rebuff. He could not understand that it was possible to resist him, especially since his courtesy and brilliant rank gave him the full right to attention. It must be said, however, that Schiller's wife, with all her prettiness, was very stupid. However, stupidity is a special charm in a pretty wife. At least I have known many husbands who are delighted with the stupidity of their wives and see in it all the signs of infantile innocence. Beauty produces perfect miracles. All spiritual flaws in a beauty, instead of producing disgust, become somehow extraordinarily attractive; vice itself breathes in them prettiness; but if she disappears, a woman needs to be twenty times smarter than a man in order to inspire, if not love, then at least respect. However, Schiller's wife, for all her stupidity, was always faithful to her duty, and therefore it was quite difficult for Pirogov to succeed in his bold enterprise; but with the victory of obstacles there is always pleasure, and the blonde became more interesting for him day by day. He began to inquire about spurs quite often, so that Schiller finally got bored with it. He made every effort to finish the spurs he had started as soon as possible; finally the spurs were ready.
- Oh, what a great job! shouted Lieutenant Pirogov, seeing the spurs. “God, how well done! Our general does not have such spurs.
A feeling of self-satisfaction blossomed in Schiller's soul. His eyes began to look rather cheerful, and he completely reconciled himself with Pirogov. "The Russian officer is a smart man," he thought to himself.
- So you, therefore, can make a frame, for example, for a dagger or other things?
"Oh, I can very well," said Schiller with a smile.
“Then make me a frame for the dagger. I will bring you; I have a very good Turkish dagger, but I would like to make a different setting for it.
Schiller was like a bomb. His forehead suddenly puckered up. "Here you go!" he thought to himself, inwardly scolding himself for calling the job himself. He considered it already dishonorable to refuse, moreover, the Russian officer praised his work. He, shaking his head somewhat, expressed his consent; but the kiss, which, as he was leaving, Pirogov impudently smacked into the very lips of the pretty blonde, plunged him into complete bewilderment.
I consider it not superfluous to introduce the reader a little more briefly to Schiller. Schiller was a perfect German, in the full sense of the word. Even from the age of twenty, from that happy time in which the Russian lives on fu-fu, Schiller already measured his whole life and, in no case, did not make an exception. He planned to get up at seven o'clock, dine at two, be precise in everything and be drunk every Sunday. He set himself to build up a capital of fifty thousand within ten years, and this was already as sure and irresistible as fate, because it is more likely that an official will forget to look into his boss's Swiss than a German will decide to change his word. In no case did he increase his expenses, and if the price of potatoes rose too much against the ordinary, he did not add a single penny, but only reduced the quantity, and although he sometimes remained somewhat hungry, he nevertheless got used to it. His accuracy extended to the point that he decided to kiss his wife no more than twice a day, and in order not to kiss him once again, he never put more than one spoonful of pepper in his soup; however, on Sunday this rule was not so strictly observed, because Schiller then drank two bottles of beer and one bottle of caraway vodka, which, however, he always scolded. He drank not at all like the Englishman who, immediately after dinner, locks the door on the hook and cuts himself alone. On the contrary, like a German, he always drank with inspiration, either with the shoemaker Hoffmann, or with the carpenter Kunz, also a German and a great drunkard. Such was the character of the noble Schiller, who at last was brought into an extremely difficult position. Although he was a phlegmatic and German, Pirogov's actions aroused in him something resembling jealousy. He racked his brains and could not figure out how to get rid of this Russian officer. Meanwhile, Pirogov, smoking a pipe in the circle of his comrades - because Providence had already arranged it so that where the officers were, there were pipes - smoking a pipe in the circle of his comrades, hinted significantly and with a pleasant smile about an affair with a pretty German woman, with whom, according to him, he was already completely short-handed and whom he actually almost lost hope of bending to his side.
One day he was walking along Meshchanskaya, glancing at the house, on which stood Schiller's sign with coffee pots and samovars; to his greatest joy, he saw the head of a blonde hanging out of the window and looking at the passers-by. He stopped, made a hand to her and said: “Gut morgen!” The blonde bowed to him like a friend.
What, is your husband at home?
“At home,” the blonde replied.
What about when he's not at home?
"He's not at home on Sundays," said the silly blonde.
“This is not bad,” Pirogov thought to himself, “this should be used.”
And the following Sunday, like snow on his head, he appeared before the blonde. Schiller was indeed not at home. The pretty mistress was frightened; but Pirogov acted rather cautiously this time, treated him very respectfully and, bowing, showed all the beauty of his flexible, constricted waist. He joked very pleasantly and courteously, but the silly German woman answered everything with monosyllabic words. Finally, coming in from all directions and seeing that nothing could occupy her, he invited her to dance. The German agreed in one minute, because Germans are always hunters for dancing. Pirogov based his hopes on this very much: firstly, it already gave her pleasure, secondly, it could show his torso and dexterity, thirdly, in dancing you can come together closest, hug a pretty German woman and lay the foundation for everything; in short, he deduced perfect success from it. He began some kind of gavotte, knowing that the Germans needed gradualness. A pretty German woman stepped into the middle of the room and raised her beautiful leg. This position delighted Pirogov so much that he rushed to kiss her. The German woman began to scream, and thereby further increased her charm in the eyes of Pirogov; he showered her with kisses. Suddenly the door opened and Schiller came in with Hoffmann and the carpenter Kunz. All these worthy artisans were drunk as shoemakers.
But I leave it to the readers themselves to judge Schiller's anger and indignation.
- Rude! he cried in the greatest indignation, “how dare you kiss my wife? You are a scoundrel, not a Russian officer. Damn it, my friend Hoffman, I'm a German, not a Russian pig!
Hoffman answered in the affirmative.
— Oh, I don't want to have horns! take it, my friend Hoffmann, by the collar, I don’t want to,” he continued, waving his arms violently, his face looking like the red cloth of his waistcoat. - I have been living in St. Petersburg for eight years, my mother is in Swabia, and my uncle is in Nuremberg; I'm German, not horned beef! get away from him everything, my friend Hoffmann! hold him by the hand and foot, my kamrat Kunz!
And the Germans grabbed Pirogov by the arms and legs. In vain did he try to fight back; these three artisans were the heaviest people of all the Petersburg Germans and treated them so rudely and impolitely that, I confess, I can’t find words to describe this sad event.
I am sure that Schiller was in a violent fever the next day, that he was trembling like a leaf, waiting from minute to minute for the arrival of the police, that God knows what he would not give, so that everything that happened yesterday was a dream. But what has already happened cannot be changed. Nothing could compare with the anger and indignation of Pirogov. The mere thought of such a terrible insult infuriated him. He considered Siberia and the lash to be the smallest punishment for Schiller. He flew home so that, having dressed, from there he would go directly to the general, to describe to him in the most striking colors the riot of German artisans. He wanted to submit a written request to the General Staff at once. If the General Staff determines that the punishment is insufficient, then directly to the State Council, and not even to the sovereign himself.
But all this somehow ended strangely: on the way he went into a pastry shop, ate two puff pastries, read something from The Northern Bee, and left in a less angry position. Moreover, a rather pleasant cool evening forced him to walk a little along Nevsky Prospekt; By nine o'clock he had calmed down and found that on Sunday it was not good to disturb the general, moreover, he was undoubtedly recalled somewhere, and therefore he went to the evening to one of the governors of the Control College, where there was a very pleasant meeting of officials and officers. He spent the evening there with pleasure and distinguished himself in the mazurka so much that he delighted not only the ladies, but even the gentlemen.
“Our light is wondrously arranged! I thought as I walked the third day along Nevsky Prospekt and recalled these two incidents. How strange, how incomprehensibly our fate plays with us! Do we ever get what we want? Are we achieving what our powers seem to be deliberately prepared for? Everything happens in reverse. Fate has given him the most beautiful horses, and he rides them indifferently, not noticing their beauty at all, while the other, whose heart burns with horse passion, goes on foot and is content only with clicking his tongue when a trotter is led past him. He has an excellent cook, but, unfortunately, such a small mouth that he cannot miss more than two pieces; the other has a mouth the size of the arch of the General Staff, but, alas! should be content with some German potato dinner. How strangely our fate plays with us!
But strangest of all are the incidents that happen on Nevsky Prospekt. Oh, don't believe this Nevsky Prospekt! I always wrap my cloak tightly around myself when I walk on it, and try not to look at all at the objects I meet. Everything is a lie, everything is a dream, everything is not what it seems! Do you think that this gentleman, who walks around in a well-tailored frock coat, is very rich? Nothing happened: he consists entirely of his frock coat. Do you imagine that these two fat men, who have stopped in front of a church under construction, are judging its architecture? Not at all: they are talking about how strangely two crows sat one against the other. Do you think that this enthusiast, waving his arms, is talking about how his wife threw a ball out of the window at an officer who was completely unknown to him? Not at all, he's talking about Lafayette. You think these ladies... but trust the ladies the least. Look less into the windows of shops: the trinkets displayed in them are beautiful, but they smell like a terrible amount of banknotes. But God forbid you look under the ladies' hats! No matter how the beauty’s cloak flutters in the distance, I will never go after her to inquire. Further, for God's sake, further from the lantern! and as soon as possible, pass by. It's still a blessing if you get off with him flooding your smart frock coat with his stinking oil. But apart from the lantern, everything breathes deceit. He lies at all times, this Nevsky Prospekt, but most of all when the night condenses on him in a condensed mass and separates the white and pale-yellow walls of houses, when the whole city turns into thunder and brilliance, myriads of carriages fall from bridges, postilions shout and jump on horses and when the demon himself lights the lamps just to show everything is not in its present form.
Analysis of the concept of beauty in the story "Nevsky Prospekt"
2.1 Petersburg as an image of beauty in the story "Nevsky Prospekt"
Petersburg has always inspired and inspired writers. Pushkin admired his beauty; "I love you Peter's creation", as well as many writers of that time. The image of St. Petersburg is ambiguous, usually it appears majestic, beautiful, but cold and sometimes cruel. It was in St. Petersburg that many outstanding figures of Russia wanted to get. Petersburg was the concentration of outstanding talents and minds.
How does Gogol relate to the city.
The story begins with a description of Nevsky Prospekt: “There is nothing better than Nevsky Prospekt, at least in St. Petersburg; for him he is everything. What does not shine this street - the beauty of our capital! I know that none of its pale and bureaucratic inhabitants would exchange for all the benefits of Nevsky Prospekt. Not only someone who is twenty-five years old, has a beautiful mustache and a wonderfully tailored frock coat, but even someone who has white hair popping up on his chin and a head as smooth as a silver dish, and he is delighted with Nevsky Prospekt. And ladies! Oh, Nevsky Prospekt is even more pleasant for ladies. And who doesn't like it? As soon as you ascend Nevsky Prospekt, it already smells of one festivities. Even if you have some necessary, necessary business, but, having ascended it, you will surely forget about every business. Here is the only place where people are shown not out of necessity, where their need and mercantile interest, embracing the whole of St. Petersburg, have not driven them. It seems that the person you meet on Nevsky Prospekt is less selfish than on Morskaya, Gorokhovaya, Liteinaya, Meshchanskaya and other streets, where greed and self-interest and need are expressed in people walking and flying in carriages and droshkys. Nevsky Prospekt is the general communication of St. Petersburg. Here, a resident of the Petersburg or Vyborg part, who for several years has not been to his friend at Sands or at the Moscow outpost, can be sure that he will certainly meet him. No address-calendar and reference place will deliver such true news as Nevsky Prospekt. Almighty Nevsky Prospekt! The only entertainment of the poor in the festivities of St. Petersburg! How cleanly its sidewalks are swept, and, God, how many feet have left their footprints on it! And the clumsy dirty boot of a retired soldier, under the weight of which, it seems, the very granite is cracking, and the miniature, light as smoke, slipper of a young lady, turning her head to the shiny windows of the store, like a sunflower to the sun, and the rattling saber of a hopeful ensign, seeing a sharp scratch on it - everything takes out on it the power of strength or the power of weakness. What a quick phantasmagoria takes place on it in just one day! How many changes he will endure in one day! [N.V. Gogol. Tales. M - 1949. S.3]
Gogol's Petersburg is not just a capital, it is a majestic metropolis with magnificent palaces and streets and the Neva.
Of course, the beauty of the city enchants, because the description of the city, and in particular Nevsky Prospekt, is the third part of the story. One can agree with Fomin O. [Fomin O. Secret symbolism in Nevsky Prospekt. Traditional study // Bronze Age electronic version. http://www.vekovka.h1.ru/bv/bv23/23fomin.htm] about the fact that "compositional articulation", the narrative fabric of "Nevsky Prospekt" is divided into three parts. The first part is actually a description of Nevsky Prospekt, the second is the story of Piskarev's unhappy love for a beautiful stranger, and, finally, the third is Lieutenant Pirogov's "drag" after a stupid German woman. Moreover, the first part, as it were, is split into a prologue and an epilogue, in which the "image of the author" and the notorious landscape are given.
Speaking of "landscape" in relation to the description of the life of Nevsky Prospekt, we still admit a certain inaccuracy. The landscape here in some way develops into a "portrait". Nevsky Prospekt for Gogol is a living creature, essentially hostile to man, but also not without a certain ambivalence. If in Goethe Mephistopheles, wishing harm to a person, brings him good (which, by the way, is partly connected with the medieval comic interpretation of the devil), then in Gogol we can observe the opposite "replacement": Nevsky Prospekt, with its frank positivity, is veiledly negative. The elements on which St. Petersburg's "cosmo-psychologos" is based are water and stone (earth)."
Yes, Petersburg is a living character, a majestic character, beautiful, but deceptive. Its beauty drives many people crazy, people who come to St. Petersburg are faced not only with its beauty, but also with its cruel essence. They had to endure humiliation and want; the city seemed to suck people into a swamp of lies, vulgarity, stupidity, ostentatious luxury, behind which extreme poverty often hid.
Thus, the beauty of St. Petersburg is deceptive, illusory. All the fuss is tinsel, everything is fake: “Thousands of varieties of hats, dresses, scarves - colorful, light, to which their owners sometimes remain attached for two whole days, will blind anyone on Nevsky Prospekt. It seems as if a whole sea of moths has suddenly risen from the stems and is agitated in a brilliant cloud over the male black beetles. Here you will meet such waists that you have never even dreamed of: thin, narrow waists, no thicker than a bottle neck, when you meet them, you will respectfully step aside so as not to inadvertently push with an impolite elbow; timidity and fear will take possession of your heart, so that somehow, from even your careless breathing, the most charming work of nature and art will not break. And what women's sleeves you will meet on Nevsky Prospekt! Ah, what a delight! They are somewhat like two balloons, so that the lady would suddenly rise into the air if the man did not support her; because it is as easy and pleasant to lift a lady into the air as a glass filled with champagne is brought to the mouth. Nowhere at a mutual meeting do they bow so nobly and naturally as on Nevsky Prospekt. Here you will meet a unique smile, a smile of the height of art, sometimes such that you can melt with pleasure, sometimes such that you suddenly see yourself below the grass and lower your head, sometimes such that you feel yourself higher than the Admiralty Spitz and lift it up. Here you will meet people talking about a concert or about the weather with extraordinary nobility and self-respect. Here you will meet a thousand incomprehensible characters and phenomena. [N.V. Gogol. Tales. M - 1949. P.4] This description sounds ironic overtones. Luxury, falsehood and vanity are shown.
The beauty of Nevsky is distorted, one can agree with Fomin, who wrote the following:
“Water vapors, fogs distort, pervert reality. The element of water, as unconditionally connected with lunar symbolism, gives rise to oneiric fantasies that keep their dead. The “new left” (in this case, by “left” we mean not so much a political orientation as an initial metaphysical attitude), philosopher Gaston Bachelard notes: “... literary suicide is imbued with amazing ease with the imagination of death. It puts in order the images of death "Water is the fatherland of the living nymphs as much as of the dead. She is the true matter of death in the 'highest degree feminine'." Water is an element that accepts and gives rise to ghosts. The most famous "ghost towns" are London and St. Petersburg. The water in Nevsky Prospekt is the "lower waters", the substance of the lower astral world, the world of a multitude of feelings and illusions, while the earth is the bearer of inertia of the rationalistically determined and boredom ("it's boring to live in the world, gentlemen!"). Nevsky Prospekt serves as a carrier of the fantastic. And the fantastic in Gogol, as a rule, is hostile to man. Later, Gogol evolves towards the removal of the carrier of the fantastic (Yu. Mann) and "Nevsky Prospekt" just captures the intermediate stage of this transition. Fantastic is evil, "illusory", nocturnal, watery and tragic. Everyday is human, "real", daytime, earthy and comical. This opposition excludes the Divine as such. Infernal forces and man are opposed.
In "Nevsky Prospekt" the illusory (for all its negative coloration) is beautiful. This stems from the original romantic setting. But the fear of the illusory and the triumph of Pirogov over Piskarev is an inoculation against romanticism, its overcoming. The euphonically similar surnames of the characters indicate their relationship. Piskarev and Pirogov are "divine twins", endlessly exchanging elements of traditional archetypal functions. This is a world where good does not exist (both in the humanistic and in the Orthodox sense of the word).” [Fomin O. Secret symbols in "Nevsky Prospekt". Traditional study // Bronze Age electronic version. http://www.vekovka.h1.ru/bv/bv23/23fomin.htm]
Beauty is deceptive, beauty is illusory, it attracts and destroys people, destroys the protagonist of the story. It turns out that only rogues, like Pirogov, can survive in this greatness. In the last lines of the story, Gogol says that one cannot trust the beauty of Nevsky: “Oh, do not believe this Nevsky Prospekt! I always wrap my cloak tightly around myself when I walk on it, and try not to look at all at the objects I meet. Everything is a lie, everything is a dream, everything is not what it seems! Do you think that this gentleman, who walks around in a well-tailored frock coat, is very rich? Nothing happened: he consists entirely of his frock coat. Do you imagine that these two fat men, who have stopped in front of a church under construction, are judging its architecture? Not at all: they are talking about how strangely two crows sat one against the other. Do you think that this enthusiast, waving his arms, is talking about how his wife threw a ball out of the window at an officer who was completely unknown to him? Not at all, he's talking about Lafayette. You think these ladies... but trust the ladies the least. Look less into the windows of shops: the trinkets displayed in them are beautiful, but they smell like a terrible amount of banknotes. But God forbid you look under the ladies' hats! No matter how the beauty’s cloak flutters in the distance, I will never go after her to inquire. Further, for God's sake, further from the lantern! and as soon as possible, pass by. It's still a blessing if you get off with him flooding your smart frock coat with his stinking oil. But apart from the lantern, everything breathes deceit. He lies at all times, this Nevsky Prospekt, but most of all when the night condenses on him in a condensed mass and separates the white and pale-yellow walls of houses, when the whole city turns into thunder and brilliance, myriads of carriages fall from bridges, postilions shout and jump on horses and when the demon himself lights the lamps only to show everything not in its present form. [N.V. Gogol. Tales. M - 1949. S.3]
Thus, we can say that the concept of beauty in the image of Nevsky Prospekt is unique. Beauty does not save, but destroys. Beauty, which should carry positive motives, carries lies and deceit. In general, Nevsky Prospekt is just a beautiful face of a strange, fantastic, half-mad city.
Composition
He lies at all times, This Nevsky Prospekt...
N. V. Gogol
Having chosen this topic, I proceeded from my personal attitude to the work of this writer, whose works attract me with unusual plots, brightness, clarity and expressiveness of the language, and the originality of the author's view of the world.
The story "Nevsky Prospekt" made a special impression on me. I believe that Gogol's concept of Petersburg, "the most premeditated city in the world," is most clearly reflected here.
“There is nothing better than Nevsky Prospekt, at least in St. Petersburg; for him, he is everything, ”this is how Gogol begins his story. Emphasized emotionally, enthusiastically, he speaks of the role that the prospectus plays in the life of every Petersburger. Nevsky turns out to be not just a street - "the beauty of our capital", he is the main character, the arbiter of human destinies. It may seem that Gogol sincerely believes in the ability of the "almighty Nevsky" to unite people ("only here a resident of the St. Petersburg or Vyborg part can meet his friend, whom he has not visited for several years"). But soon our illusions dissipate. We see that the prospect draws a clear line between the various social groups that all appear here, but only at different, strictly defined times. From the very early morning, “the right people are trudging along the street”: “Russian men hurrying to work”, “a sleepy official ... with a briefcase under his arm”.
By twelve o'clock, Nevsky Prospekt becomes "pedagogical Nevsky Prospekt": "tutors of all nations with their pets make raids here." Afternoon time is the time for walks of the aristocracy and "officials on special assignments." Nevsky connects the inhabitants of St. Petersburg, but does not unite them. Gogol paints an image of a strange community of people born of a modern city. The only thing that binds them is the desire for idleness.
That is why Nevsky Prospekt is attractive to them because it “smells like a festivity”: “At least you had some necessary, necessary business, but, having ascended it (prospect), you will surely forget about every business.” The author shows how this idol of Petersburgers emasculates the essence of people, changing their worldview. Man here is lost from sight, "drowns" in the "visible" world; “boots”, “tails” and other attributes of his success, position, wealth become the object of attention: instead of people along Nevsky Prospekt, “a dandy frock coat with the best beaver”, “a beautiful Greek nose”, “excellent sideburns”, “a pair of pretty peephole and amazing hat.
Gradually, the image of Nevsky Prospekt is filled with symbolism, becomes mysterious, half-real, half-fantastic. This happens "as soon as dusk falls on the houses and the watchman ... climbs the stairs to light the lantern." At night, “the lamps give everything some kind of alluring, wonderful light,” and in the actions of people one feels “something extremely unaccountable.” Nevsky itself "comes to life and begins to stir", is transformed, illuminated by a new, some kind of demonic light. Gogol leads the reader to an understanding of the main idea of his work, which will be directly formulated in the finale. “Oh, don’t believe this Nevsky Prospekt!” Here "everything is a lie, everything is a dream, everything is not what it seems."
A striking illustration of this statement are two stories that underlie the plot of the story. Lieutenant Pirogov becomes the protagonist of one of them, the St. Petersburg artist Piskarev becomes the other. The heroes are opposed to each other: Pirogov is full of ambition and cynicism (“We know you all”), Piskarev is modest, meek, shy. However, their stories, in which the power of Nevsky Prospekt is felt, are similar. Both that and another are deceived in the expectations connected with feeling to the woman. Here Piskarev meets a beautiful stranger. “God, what divine features! Of dazzling whiteness, the most beautiful forehead was overshadowed by hair as beautiful as agate. The lips were closed by a whole swarm of the most charming dreams. Everything that ... gives dreaming and quiet inspiration with a luminous lamp - all this seemed to merge and be reflected in her harmonious lips. What does it turn out to be. the disappointment of the hero when he discovers in this "genius of pure beauty" the traits of the dirtiest vice.
Gogol emphasizes all the absurdity, unnaturalness, incompatibility of what in some incomprehensible way turns out to be connected in reality. Madonna's smile is replaced on the beauty's face by a smile filled with “some pitiful impudence; she ... just went to her face, like an expression of piety goes to the face of a bribe-taker or an account book to a poet.
“It would be better if you didn’t exist at all,” “touched, torn to pieces, with tears in your eyes,” Piskarev thinks.
No less deceptive is the image of a blonde followed by a second character. She immediately gives the reader the impression of an empty, but "light" and "rather interesting creature." Pirogov has no doubts about success (“You, my dear!”) And suddenly, unexpectedly for himself, he receives a severe rebuff from this “senseless” creature, which is protected from all kinds of temptations by German “accuracy” in feelings and devotion to her husband - a rude and drunkard.
Nevsky Prospekt not only corrupts, it destroys everything pure, bright, breaks human destinies. Unable to withstand the "eternal discord between dreams and materiality", the artist Piskarev, who carried in his soul "sparks of feeling ready ... to turn into a flame," takes his own life. But the impulse of Pirogov, who at first set out to cruelly avenge the “terrible insult”, by itself “somehow strange” for the hero, but very logically for the reader, fades away in the confectionery: “I ate two puff pastries, read something from the “Northern Bee” and came out in a less angry position.
In the story "Nevsky Prospekt" Gogol creates a distorted, "inverted" world, asserting "inverted" values in the minds of people.
“Further, for God’s sake, further from the lantern and as soon as possible, pass by,” N.V. Gogol ends the story with such parting words, deeply worried about the fate of Russia, passionately dreaming of drawing the image of a “positively beautiful” person, but dedicating his muse to the exposure of vice, no matter what brilliant clothes he wears.
>Compositions based on the work Nevsky Prospekt
Petersburg image
N. V. Gogol spent a significant part of his life in St. Petersburg. He was only nineteen when he came to the big city to win the hearts of its inhabitants. Like any provincial, he expected real miracles from the capital, but a miracle did not happen. He worked from morning to night to earn his living, he was an artist, a writer, and a petty official. At first he idealized Petersburg, and then the hidden side of the beautiful city was revealed to him.
The little man has always had a hard time among careerists, hypocrites and sycophants. One of such timid, insecure and, as a result, unfortunate heroes was the young artist Piskarev, the hero of the story "Nevsky Prospekt". In it, the author fully depicted all the hardships and mental suffering of a romantic, amorous person. Walking along the Nevsky with his friend, the hero fell in love, and this feeling cost him his life.
In many St. Petersburg stories, Gogol turned precisely to the image of the city. As a rule, he painted him faceless, deceitful and full of lies. Society, he also painted inferior. They were fragments of phrases - hair, waist, mustaches, sideburns, thousands of hats, dresses, scarves. Such an idle and in many ways vulgar atmosphere enveloped St. Petersburg in the first half of the 19th century. Depicting Nevsky Prospekt at different times of the day, the author just wanted to emphasize the different social strata of the city.
At noon, the street turned into a "brilliant" shop window. At this time of day, the entire beau monde of St. Petersburg appeared on it in expensive dresses and uniforms. This went on until three in the afternoon. With all this, the author does not forget to warn that Nevsky Prospekt should not be trusted. Petersburg is also shown as a city of contrasts, in which some segments of the population live too idle, while others are too poor.
Throughout the work, one can catch a satirical tone that slips even in the most lyrical descriptions of the city in the evening. The image of the many-sided and changeable capital created by Gogol is original. No other writer was able to convey the capital's portraits and quirks so interestingly.
The story "Nevsky Prospekt" Gogol wrote in 1833-1834. The work was included in the cycle of the author "Petersburg Tales". As in other stories of the cycle, in Nevsky Prospekt Gogol develops the problem of the "little man", which has become one of the main ones in Russian realistic literature. The composition of the story consists of three parts: a real description of Nevsky Prospekt, the stories of Piskarev and Pirogov, and the author's depiction of a special metaphysical space, the mythological level of perception of Nevsky Prospekt.
Main characters
Piskarev- poor artist, dreamer; was fascinated by a brunette who turned out to be a prostitute.
Pirogov- the lieutenant, "had many talents", loved "everything elegant", he liked to spend time in society; courted the wife of the German Schiller.
Other characters
Schiller- “perfect German”, “tinsmith in Meshchanskaya street”, husband of a blonde.
Hoffman- "a shoemaker from Officer Street", Schiller's friend.
Blonde Schiller's wife
Brunette- a prostitute.
"There is nothing better than Nevsky Prospekt." "Nevsky Prospekt is the general communication of St. Petersburg." The street is empty early in the morning. Until 12 o'clock "is gradually filled with people who have their own occupations, their worries, their annoyances." After 12, "tutors of all nations" with pupils appear here.
Closer to 2 o'clock - parents of children, and then people who "finished quite important homework." Here you can see everything and everyone. At 3 o'clock the avenue "is covered all over by officials in green uniforms." It has been empty since 4 o'clock. "But as soon as dusk falls on the houses and streets,<…>then Nevsky Prospekt comes to life again and begins to move.
Lieutenant Pirogov and a friend are walking along Nevsky Prospekt. Pirogov liked a certain blonde, while his friend - a brunette, so the young people disperse, rushing after the ladies.
Pirogov's friend, the artist Piskarev, following the brunette, went up to a four-story house and climbed the stairs. They entered the room. Looking around, Piskarev realized that he was in a brothel. The beautiful stranger who captivated the artist was 17 years old. However, when he heard the girl talking - "so stupid, so vulgar", he fled.
After midnight, when Piskarev was about to go to bed, a footman in a rich livery unexpectedly knocked on his door. The guest said that the lady, who had visited the artist a few hours ago, had sent a carriage for him. The footman brought Piskarev to the ball. Among the luxuriously dressed people, the artist notices a beautiful stranger. She tried to tell Piskarev that she really did not belong to "that despicable class of creations", and wanted to reveal some secret, but they were interrupted. Suddenly, the artist woke up in his room and realized that it was only a dream.
From that moment on, Piskarev became obsessed with the beautiful stranger, trying to see her again and again in a dream. The young man began to take opium. The stranger dreamed of him almost every day, in a dream he saw her as his wife. Finally, the artist decided to actually marry the girl.
Piskarev "carefully dressed up" and went to a brothel. The young man was met by "his ideal, his mysterious image". Gathering his courage, Piskarev "began to present to her her terrible situation." The artist said that although he was poor, he was ready to work: he would paint pictures, she would embroider or do other needlework. The girl suddenly interrupted him, saying that she was not a washerwoman or a seamstress to do such work. Piskarev "rushed out, having lost his feelings and thoughts." The young man locked himself in his room and did not let anyone in. When they broke down the door, they found him dead - he committed suicide by cutting his throat. "So he died, a victim of insane passion, poor Piskarev."
Pirogov, chasing the blonde, followed her to Meshchanskaya Street - “the street of tobacco and petty shops, German artisans and Chukhon nymphs”, climbed the stairs and entered a large room. Locksmith tools and iron filings indicated that this was the artisan's apartment. The stranger went through the side door, Pirogov behind her. Drunk men were sitting in the room: the tinsmith Schiller and his friend the shoemaker Hoffmann. Hoffmann was going to cut off Schiller's nose, since he did not need a nose, which "goes out three pounds of tobacco a month." The sudden appearance of Pirogov interrupted this process. Outraged, Schiller drove the lieutenant away.
The next day, Pirogov went to Schiller's workshop. He was met by the same blonde. Pirogov said he wanted to order spurs. The blonde called her husband - it turned out to be Schiller himself. The German, not wanting to get involved with the lieutenant, named a high price and long terms, but Pirogov still insisted that he wanted to order from Schiller.
Pirogov began to visit the German often, ostensibly asking when the spurs would be ready, but in fact, to court Schiller's wife. When the spurs were ready, the lieutenant ordered a frame for the dagger. Pirogov's courtship of the blonde resented the phlegmatic Schiller, he tried to figure out how to get rid of the lieutenant. Pirogov, in the circle of officers, was already boasting of an affair with a pretty German woman.
Once Pirogov came to a German woman when Schiller was not at home. But as soon as the lieutenant began to kiss the woman's leg, the German returned, and with him his friends - Hoffmann and Kunz. They were all drunk and immediately attacked Pirogov. After the incident, the lieutenant wanted to immediately go complain about the Germans to the general, but went into the confectionery and "went out in a not so angry position." By 9 o'clock the lieutenant had completely calmed down and went to the evening, where he distinguished himself in the mazurka.
"Oh, don't believe this Nevsky Prospekt!" “He lies at all times, this Nevsky Prospekt, but most of all when the night in a condensed mass lies on him<…>and when the demon himself lights the lamps only to show everything not in its present form.
Conclusion
In the story "Nevsky Prospekt" Gogol uses the literary technique of duplicity, which, first of all, is used when depicting Nevsky Prospekt: it simultaneously exists in two worlds: in the real and in the unreal, romantic. The image of the two main characters - Piskarev and Pirogov, as well as the stories that happen to them, is also dual. Pirogov treats life simply, superficially, he does not tend to dream and idealize. Piskarev, on the other hand, lives in the world of his dreams, the events he dreamed become for him as if they were part of what really happened.
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