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History of creation

The story “Gooseberry” was first published in the August issue of the magazine “Russian Thought” in 1898. The stories “Gooseberry” and “About Love”, which continued the “little trilogy” begun by the story “A Man in a Case”, were created by Chekhov in Melikhov in July 1898.

Characters

• Ivan Ivanovich Chimsha-Himalayan   - protagonist of the work, storyteller
• Nikolay Ivanovich   - the younger brother of Ivan Ivanovich. Nikolai worked in the state chamber.
• Alekhine   - the poor landowner, to whom Ivan Ivanovich looks
• Burkin   - friend and interlocutor of Ivan Ivanovich.

Plot

Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin walk along the field near the village of Mironositskoye and decide to go to a friend-landowner Pavel Konstantinich Alekhin, whose estate is located nearby in the village of Sofino. Alekhine, "a man in his forties, tall, full with long hair, looking more like a professor or an artist than a landowner," meets guests on the threshold of a barn in which the winnowers rustle. His clothes are dirty and his face is black with dust. He is pleased with the guests and invites them to go to the bathhouse. After washing and changing their clothes, Ivan Ivanovich, Burkin and Alekhine go to the house, where, over a cup of tea with jam, Ivan Ivanovich tells the story of his brother Nikolai Ivanovich.

The brothers spent their childhood in the wild, in the estate of their father, who served as an officer and left the children a hereditary nobility. After the death of their father, they seized the estate for debts. From the age of nineteen, Nikolai was sitting in the breech chamber and dreamed of buying a small manor for himself and simply could not think of anything else. All the time he imagined the future estate, where gooseberries had to grow. Nikolai saved money, was malnourished, married without love to an ugly, but rich widow. He kept his wife starving, and put her money in his name in the bank. The wife could not bear such a life and died, and Nikolai bought a estate, wrote out twenty bushes of gooseberries, planted them and healed them as a landowner. When Ivan Ivanovich came to visit his brother, he was unpleasantly amazed at how he sank, grew old and flabby. He became a real gentleman, ate a lot, sued neighboring plants. Nicholas regaled his brother with gooseberries, and it was evident from him that he was pleased with his fate and himself.

At the sight of this happy man, Ivan Ivanovitch “possessed a feeling close to despair”. All night he spent in the estate, he thought about how many people in the world are suffering, losing his mind, drinking, how many children die from malnutrition. And how many other people live “happily,” “eats during the day, sleeps at night, says his nonsense, marries, grows old, graciously drags his dead to the cemetery.” He thought that behind the door of every happy person there should be “someone with a hammer” and remind him with a knock that there are unfortunates, that sooner or later trouble will come up with him, and “no one will see him or hear him now sees and does not hear others. " Ivan Ivanovich, ending his story, says that there is no happiness, and if life makes sense, then he is not in happiness, but in “doing good”.

Neither Burkin nor Alekhin are satisfied with the story of Ivan Ivanovich. Alekhine does not delve into whether his words are true. It was not about cereals, not about hay, but about something that did not have a direct relationship to his life. But he is happy and wants the guests to continue the conversation. However, the time is later, the owner and guests go to bed.

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Notes

Excerpt from Gooseberry (short story)

- Careful in what? I asked.
  “You were born ...” was the answer.
  His tall figure began to hesitate. Glade spun. And when I opened my eyes, to my great regret, my strange stranger was nowhere to be found. One of the boys, Romas, stood opposite me and watched my "awakening." He asked what I was doing here and if I was going to pick mushrooms ... When I asked him what time it was, he looked at me in surprise and I realized that everything that happened to me took only a few minutes! ..
  I got up (it turned out that I was sitting on the ground), shook myself off and was about to go, when I suddenly drew attention to a very strange detail - the whole meadow around us was green !!! As amazingly green as if we found it in early spring! And what was our general surprise when we suddenly noticed that even beautiful spring flowers appeared from somewhere on it! It was absolutely amazing and, unfortunately, completely inexplicable. Most likely, it was some kind of “side” phenomenon after the arrival of my strange guest. But, unfortunately, I could not yet explain or at least understand this.
  - What have you done? Asked Romas.
  “It's not me,” I muttered guiltily.
  “Well then, let's go,” he agreed.
Romas was one of those rare friends of the time who was not afraid of my “tricks” and was not surprised at anything that constantly happened to me. He just believed me. And therefore, I should never have explained anything to him, which was a very rare and valuable exception for me. When we returned from the forest, a chill shook me, but I thought that, as usual, I had a cold and decided not to bother my mother until there was something more serious. The next morning everything went away, and I was very pleased that this fully confirmed my "version" of the common cold. But, unfortunately, I did not have to rejoice for long ...

In the morning, as usual, I went to have breakfast. I did not have time to reach out to the cup of milk, when the same heavy glass cup moved sharply in my direction, spilling part of the milk on the table ... I felt a little uneasy. I tried again - the cup moved again. Then I thought about bread ... Two pieces lying nearby jumped and fell to the floor. Honestly, my hair moved ... Not because I was scared. At that time I was not afraid of almost anything, but it was something very “earthly” and concrete, it was nearby and I absolutely did not know how to control it ...
  I tried to calm down, took a deep breath and tried again. Only this time I did not try to touch anything, but decided to just think about what I want - for example, to get the cup in my hand. Of course, this did not happen, she again just simply abruptly moved. But I rejoiced !!! All my gut just squealed with delight, for I already realized that it was sharp or not, but this happened only at the request of my thought! And it was absolutely amazing! Of course, I immediately wanted to try the “novelty” on all the living and non-living “objects” surrounding me ...
  The first one that came to my arm was my grandmother, who at that moment was quietly preparing her next culinary “work” in the kitchen. It was very quiet, my grandmother was humming to herself, when suddenly a heavy cast-iron frying pan jumped on the stove with a bird and crashed to the floor with terrible noise ... My grandmother jumped out of surprise no worse than the same pan ... But I must give her credit, right away pulled herself together and said:
  - Stop doing that!
  I felt a little bit offended, because, whatever happens, out of habit, they always blamed me for everything (although at the moment this, of course, was absolutely true).
  - Why do you think it's me? I asked, pouting.
  “Well, we don’t seem to have ghosts yet,” my grandmother calmly said.
I loved her very much for her equanimity and unwavering calm. It seemed that nothing in this world could truly "unsettle her." Although, of course, there were things that upset her, surprised her or made her sad, but she perceived all this with surprising calmness. And so I always felt very comfortable and protected with her. Somehow, I suddenly felt that my grandmother’s latest "trick" interested me ... I literally felt "in my gut" that she was watching me and waiting for something else. Well and naturally, I did not keep myself waiting long ... After a few seconds, all the "spoons and cooks" hanging above the stove flew down with a noisy crash behind the same pan ...
  “Well, well ... Breaking down - not building, would do something useful,” my grandmother calmly said.
  I already suffocated from indignation! Well, please tell me how she can relate to this "incredible event" so calmly ?! After all, this is ... SUCH !!! I could not even explain which, but I certainly knew, that it was impossible to relate to what was happening so calmly. Unfortunately, my grandmother did not make the slightest impression on my grandmother, and she again calmly said:
  - You should not spend so much effort on what can be done with your hands. Better go read it.
  My indignation knew no bounds! I could not understand why what seemed to me so amazing did not cause her any delight ?! Unfortunately, I was still too young a child to understand that all these impressive “external effects” really do not give anything but the same “external effects” ... And the essence of all this is just intoxicating with “mysticism of the inexplicable” trusting and impressionable people, whom my grandmother naturally did not appear to be ... But since I had not yet matured to such an understanding, at that moment I was only incredibly interested in what else I could move. Therefore, without regret, I left my “grandmother” who did not understand me and moved on in search of a new object for my “experiments” ...
At that time, we lived with my dad's favorite, a beautiful gray cat - Grishka. I found him sleeping sweetly on a warm stove and decided that this was just a very good moment to try my new “art” on him. I thought it would be better if he sat on the window. Nothing happened. Then I concentrated and thought harder ... Poor Grishka flew wildly from the stove and slammed his head on the windowsill ... I felt so sorry for him and so ashamed that I, all guilty, rushed to pick him up. But for some reason the unfortunate cat suddenly stood on end and he, meowing loudly, rushed away from me, as if scalded with boiling water.

On our site you can read a summary of the story “Gooseberries”. Links to texts and summaries of other works of A.P. Chekhov - see below in the block "More on the topic ..."

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

“The last time we were in the barn near the headman Prokofy,” said Burkin, “you were going to tell some kind of story.”

- Yes, I wanted to talk about my brother then.

Ivan Ivanovich took a long breath and lit a pipe to start telling, but just at that time it started to rain. And after five minutes it poured heavy rain, heavy, and it was hard to predict when it would end. Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin stopped in thought; the dogs, already wet, stood with their tails folded and looked at them with emotion.

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

- Come on.

They turned to the side and walked all along the sloping field, now straight, then picking up to the right, until they went out onto the road. Soon poplars appeared, a garden, then the red roofs of the barns; the river shone, and a view of a wide reach with a mill and a white bathhouse opened. It was Sofino, where Alekhine lived.

Chekhov. "Gooseberry". Read by D. Zhuravlev

The mill worked, drowning out the sound of rain; the dam trembled. Here, near the carts, wet horses stood with their heads bowed, and people walked, covering themselves with bags. It was damp, dirty, uncomfortable, and the view of the reach was cold, angry. Ivan Ivanitch and Burkin already felt a sense of sputum, impurity, inconvenience throughout the body, their legs were heavy with dirt, and when, passing the dam, they went up to the master’s barns, they were silent, as if angry at each other. In one of the barns a fan was noisy; the door was open and dust was pouring out of it. Alekhine himself stood on the threshold, a man in his forties, tall, full, with long hair, looking more like a professor or artist than a landowner. He wore a white shirt that had not been washed for a long time with a rope belt, instead of pants, pants, and dirt and straw also stuck on his boots. The nose and eyes were black with dust. He recognized Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin and, apparently, was very happy.

“Come, gentlemen, to the house,” he said, smiling. “I am right now, right now.”

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

“You cannot imagine how glad I am to see you, gentlemen,” said Alekhine, entering the front hall behind them. - I didn’t expect it! Pelagia, ”he turned to the maid,“ let the guests change into something. ” Yes, by the way, and I'll change clothes. You just have to go wash first, otherwise I don’t seem to have washed since spring. Do you want, gentlemen, to go to the bathhouse, and here they’ll cook it for now.

The beautiful Pelagia, so delicate and so soft in appearance, brought sheets and soap, and Alekhine and his guests went to the bathhouse.

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

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

“Yes, I confess ...” Ivan Ivanovitch said significantly, looking at his head.

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

Ivan Ivanitch went outside, threw himself into the water with a noise and swam in the rain, waving his arms wide, and waves came from him, and white lilies swayed on the waves; he swam to the very middle of the reach and dived, and a minute later he appeared elsewhere, and swam further, and all dived, trying to get the bottom. “Ah, my goodness ...” he repeated, enjoying. “Ah, my goodness ...” I swam to the mill, talked with peasants about something and turned back, and in the middle of the reach lay down, exposing his face in the rain. Burkin and Alekhine were already dressed and were about to leave, but he kept swimming and diving.

“Ah, my goodness ...” he said. - Oh, God have mercy!

- Will be for you! Burkin shouted to him.

Returned to the house. And only when a lamp was lit upstairs in a large living room, and Burkin and Ivan Ivanovich, dressed in silk robes and warm shoes, sat in armchairs, while Alekhine himself, washed, combed, in a new frock coat, walked around the living room, apparently with pleasure feeling warmth, cleanliness, dry dress, light shoes, and when beautiful Pelagia, silently walking on the carpet and smiling softly, served tea with jam on a tray, only then Ivan Ivanovich started the story, and it seemed that it was not only Burkin and Alekhin who listened to him, but also old and young ladies and military, calmly and strictly lyadevshie of gold frames.

“We are two brothers,” he began, “I, Ivan Ivanitch, and the other, Nikolai Ivanitch, are two years younger.” I went to the scientific part, became a veterinarian, and Nikolai was already in the state chamber from the age of nineteen. Our father, Chimsha-Himalayan, was one of the Cantonists, but after serving as an officer, he left us a hereditary nobility and little name. After his death, our little name was delayed for debts, but, be that as it may, we spent our childhood in the countryside in the wild. We, like peasant children, spent days and nights in the field, in the woods, guarded horses, basted bast, fished and so on ... And you know, who at least once in your life caught a ruff or saw migratory thrushes in the autumn, like they on clear, cool days they rush in packs over the village, he is no longer a city dweller, and he will be dragged to his will until his death. My brother missed the bureaucracy. Years passed, and he all sat in one place, wrote all the same papers and thought all about the same thing, as if to a village. And this longing from him gradually turned into a certain desire, in a dream to buy a small manor somewhere on the banks of a river or lake.

He was a kind, gentle man, I loved him, but I never sympathized with this desire to lock myself for life on my own estate. It is customary to say that a person needs only three arshins of land. But after all, three arshins are needed by the corpse, and not by man. And they also say now that if our intelligentsia has a tendency towards the earth and strives for estates, then this is good. But after all, these estates are the same three arshins of land. Leaving the city, from the struggle, from everyday noise, leaving and hiding in one’s homestead is not life, it’s egoism, laziness, it’s a kind of monasticism, but monasticism is without a feat. A man needs not three arshins of earth, not a manor, but the whole globe, all nature, where in the open he could show all the properties and characteristics of his free spirit.

My brother Nikolai, sitting in his office, dreamed of how he would eat his own cabbage soup, from which there is such a delicious smell throughout the yard, eat on the green grass, sleep in the sun, sit for hours on end outside the gates on a bench and look at the field and forest. Agricultural books and all these tips on the calendars made up his joy, beloved spiritual food; he liked to read newspapers, but he read only announcements in them that so many acres of arable land and meadows with a manor, river, garden, mill, and flowing ponds were sold. And paths in the garden were drawn in his head, flowers, fruits, birdhouses, crucian carp in ponds and, you know, all this stuff. These imaginary paintings were different, looking at the ads that came across to him, but for some reason, each of them certainly had gooseberries. He could not have imagined a single estate, not a single poetic angle without the gooseberry being there.

“Village life has its amenities,” he used to say. “You sit on the balcony, drink tea, and on the pond your ducks swim, it smells so good, and ... and the gooseberry grows.”

He drew a plan of his estate, and each time the same thing appeared on his plan: a) a manor house, b) a house for people, c) a garden, d) gooseberries. He lived sparingly: he was malnourished, drowning, dressed, God knows how, like a beggar, he saved and put everything in a bank. He was terribly greedy. It hurt me to look at him, and I gave him something and sent him on holidays, but he hid it too. If a person has given himself an idea, there is nothing to be done.

Years passed, he was transferred to another province, forty years have passed, and he read all the ads in newspapers and saved up. Then, I hear, got married. All for the same purpose, in order to buy a estate with gooseberries, he married an old, ugly widow, without any feeling, but only because she had a lot of money. He also lived sparingly with her, kept her starving, and put her money in the bank in his own name. She used to be a postmaster and got used to pies and liquors with him, but she did not see enough for her second husband and black bread; I began to languish from such a life, and after three years I took and gave my soul to God. And, of course, my brother did not think for a minute that he was to blame for her death. Money, like vodka, makes a person an eccentric. A merchant was dying in our city. Before his death, he ordered a plate of honey to be served to himself and ate all his money and winning tickets along with honey so that no one would get it. Once at the station, I examined the herds, and at that time one of the young lad fell under the locomotive, and his leg was cut off. We are carrying him to an emergency room, blood is pouring - it’s a terrible thing, and he asks everyone to find his leg, and everyone is worried: twenty rubles are in his boot on his severed leg, as if they were missing.

“You are from another opera,” said Burkin.

“After the death of my wife,” Ivan Ivanovitch went on, having thought for half a minute, “my brother began to look for his estate.” Of course, look out for at least five years, but still in the end you will be mistaken and you will not buy at all what you dreamed about. Brother Nicholas, through a commission agent, with a transfer of debt, bought one hundred and twelve acres with a manor house, with a mansion, with a park, but not an orchard, no gooseberries, or ponds with ducks; there was a river, but the water in it was the color of coffee, because on one side of the estate there was a brick factory, and on the other it was kostopalny. But my Nikolai Ivanovich did not grieve much; he wrote out twenty gooseberry bushes for himself, planted and healed the landowner.

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

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

“Well, how are you doing here?” I asked.

- Nothing, thank God, I live well.

This was not the former timid poor official, but a real landowner, master. He settled down here, got used to it and got a taste; I ate a lot, washed in the bathhouse, grew fat, already sued the company and with both plants, and was very offended when the men did not call it “your high nobility”. And he cared for his soul solidly, in a noble manner, and he did good deeds not just, but with importance. What good deeds? He treated men from all diseases with soda and castor oil and on their name day served a prayer of thanks among the village, and then put half a bucket, thought it was necessary. Ah, those terrible half a bucket! Today, a fat landowner drags men to the zemstvo boss for poison, and tomorrow, on a solemn day, sets them half a bucket, and they drink and shout “cheers” and, drunk, bow to his feet. A change of life for the better, satiety, idleness develop in the Russian man conceit, the most arrogant. Nikolai Ivanovich, who once was afraid even for himself personally to have his own views in the state chamber, now spoke only truths, and in that tone, like a minister: “Education is necessary, but it’s premature for the people”, “Corporal punishment is generally harmful, but in some cases they are useful and indispensable. "

“I know the people and know how to handle them,” he said. - People love me. All I have to do is move my finger, and for me people will do whatever I want.

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

But the matter is not in him, but in myself. I want to tell you what a change has occurred in me in these few hours, while I was in his estate. In the evening, when we were drinking tea, the cook handed a full plate of gooseberries to the table. It was not bought, but its own gooseberry, collected for the first time since the bushes were planted. Nikolai Ivanovitch laughed and looked at the gooseberry in silence for a minute, with tears - he could not speak with excitement, then he put one berry in his mouth, looked at me with the triumph of a child who finally got his favorite toy, and said:

- So tasty!

And he ate greedily and repeated everything:

- Ah, how delicious! You try!

It was tough and sour, but, as Pushkin said, "the darkness of truths is dearer to us than exalting deception." I saw a happy man whose cherished dream came true so obviously, who achieved the goal in life, got what he wanted, who was pleased with his fate, himself. For some reason, something sad always mixed in with my thoughts about human happiness, but now, at the sight of a happy person, I was overcome by a heavy feeling, close to despair. It was especially hard at night. They sent me a bed in the room next to my brother’s bedroom, and I could hear how he did not sleep and how he got up and went up to a plate with gooseberries and picked up a berry. I thought: how, in essence, there are so many happy, happy people! What an overwhelming force! You take a look at this life: arrogance and idleness of the strong, ignorance and bestiality of the weak, poverty is impossible around, crowding, degeneration, drunkenness, hypocrisy, lies ... Meanwhile, in all houses and on the streets there is silence, peace; of the fifty thousand living in the city, not one who would cry out loudly outraged. We see those who go to the market for food, eat during the day, sleep at night, speak their nonsense, get married, grow old, graciously drag their dead to the cemetery; but we do not see and do not hear those who suffer, and that which is frightening in life happens somewhere behind the curtains. Everything is quiet, calm, and only dumb statistics are protesting: so much has gone crazy, so many buckets have been drunk, so many children have died from malnutrition ... And this order is obviously needed; obviously, a happy one feels well only because the unfortunate bear their burden in silence, and without this silence happiness would not be possible. This is common hypnosis. It is necessary that behind the door of every happy, happy person someone stand with a hammer and constantly remind with a knock that there are unfortunates, that no matter how happy he is, life will show him its claws sooner or later, misfortune shakes - illness, poverty , losses, and no one will see and hear him, as now he does not see and does not hear others. But there is no man with a hammer, a happy one lives for himself, and petty everyday worries excite him slightly, like an aspen wind, and everything is well.

“That night it became clear to me how pleased and happy I was,” Ivan Ivanovitch continued, getting up. - I also taught at lunch and on hunting how to live, how to believe, how to rule the people. I also said that learning is light, that education is necessary, but for ordinary people so far only one letter is enough. Freedom is good, I said, without it it is impossible, as without air, but we must wait. Yes, I said that, and now I ask: in the name of what to expect? Asked Ivan Ivanovich, looking angrily at Burkina. - In the name of what to expect, I ask you? For what reasons? They tell me that not all at once, every idea is realized in life gradually, in due time. But who says that? Where is the evidence that this is fair? You refer to the natural order of things, to the legality of phenomena, but is there a order and legality in the fact that I, a living, thinking person, stand above the moat and wait when he grows up on his own or pulls it in silt, while maybe Could I jump over it or build a bridge over it? And again, in the name of what to expect? Wait when there is no energy to live, but meanwhile you need to live and want to live!

Then I left my brother early in the morning, and since then it has become unbearable for me to be in the city. I am oppressed by silence and calm, I am afraid to look at the windows, because now for me there is no heavier sight, like a happy family sitting around the table and drinking tea. I am already old and not fit for a fight, I am not even able to hate. I only grieve sincerely, get annoyed, annoyed, at night my head burns from an influx of thoughts, and I can’t sleep ... Ah, if I were young!

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

- If I was young!

He suddenly approached Alekhine and began to shake him one hand, then the other.

- Pavel Konstantinich! He said in an imploring voice, “do not calm down, do not let us put ourselves to sleep!” While young, strong, vigorous, do not tire of doing good! There is no happiness, and it should not be, and if there is a purpose and purpose in life, then this purpose and purpose is not at all in our happiness, but in something more reasonable and great. Do good!

And Ivan Ivanovich spoke all this with a miserable, begging smile, as if he had personally requested it.

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

Alekhine was very sleepy; he got up early in the house at three in the morning, and now his eyes were sticking together, but he was afraid that the guests would not have to say something interesting without him, and would not leave. Is it clever, was it fair that what Ivan Ivanitch had just said, he did not delve into; the guests spoke not about cereals, not about hay, not about tar, but about something that was not directly related to his life, and he was glad and wanted them to continue ...

“However, it's time to sleep,” said Burkin, rising. - Let me wish you good night.

Alekhine said goodbye and went downstairs, while the guests remained upstairs. They were both given a large room for the night, where there were two old wooden beds with carved decorations and in the corner there was an ivory crucifix; from their beds, wide, cool, which the beautiful Pelagia spread, pleasantly smelled of fresh linen.

Ivan Ivanitch silently undressed and lay down.

- Lord, forgive us sinners! He said and took cover with his head.

His pipe lying on the table smelled strongly of tobacco fumes, and Burkin did not sleep for a long time and still could not understand where this heavy smell came from.

Rain pounded on the windows all night.

"," Gooseberry "," On Love. " The story tells about a man who subordinated his whole life to a material idea - the desire to have a manor with gooseberry bushes.

Gooseberry
Genre	story
Author	Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
Original language	russian
Date of writing	1898
Date of first publication	1898
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History of creation

The story “Gooseberry” was first published in the August issue of the magazine “Russian Thought” in 1898. The stories “Gooseberry” and “About Love”, which continued the “little trilogy” begun by the story “A Man in a Case”, were created by Chekhov in Melikhov in July 1898.

“Gooseberry” was highly praised by some critics, Nemirovich-Danchenko found that it has very good thoughts. In a letter to Chekhov, he noted: “Despite the work before stupid and nervous shortness of breath, I have time to read. Now he closed the book on the story "About Love". Gooseberry is good. It’s good, because there is a flavor inherent in you, both in the general tone and background, and in the language, and also because there are very good thoughts. ”

Natalia Dushina wrote to the author: “When I read Gooseberry, I felt terribly sorry for him, infinitely sorry for the poor, lonely, callous soul of a man. “Love” I also experienced, along with those who were so close in soul to each other, and in appearance should have seemed alien. And it’s scary that all the same it was necessary to live and life went on as usual and even separation was experienced, and I had to live on, the same activities went on, the same little things, and the consciousness that there was no loved one filled the soul, and it seemed You can’t live, but lived. ”

NN Gusev sent excerpts from the story “Gooseberry” from Leo Tolstoy’s exile: “There is no happiness and there shouldn’t be, and if life has a purpose and purpose, then this purpose and goal is not at all our happiness, but something more reasonable and greater. " Tolstoy wrote in a letter to Gusev: “How good is your extract from Chekhov! She asks for the Reading Circle. ”

During the life of Chekhov, the story was translated into Bulgarian, German and Serbo-Croatian.

Characters

• Ivan Ivanovich Chimsha-Himalayan   - narrator
• Nikolay Ivanovich Chimsha-Himalayan   - the protagonist of the work, the younger brother of Ivan Ivanovich, served in the state chamber.
• Pavel Konstantinovich Alyokhin   - the poor landowner, to whom Ivan Ivanovich looks
• Burkin   - friend and interlocutor of Ivan Ivanovich.

Plot

Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin walk along the field near the village of Mironositskoye and decide to go to a friend-landowner Pavel Konstantinich Alekhin, whose estate is located nearby in the village of Sofino. Alekhine, "a man in his forties, tall, full with long hair, looking more like a professor or an artist than a landowner," meets guests on the threshold of a barn in which the winnowers rustle. His clothes are dirty and his face is black with dust. He is pleased with the guests and invites them to go to the bathhouse. After washing and changing their clothes, Ivan Ivanovich, Burkin and Alekhine go to the house, where, over a cup of tea with jam, Ivan Ivanovich tells the story of his brother Nikolai Ivanovich.

The brothers spent their childhood in the wild, in the estate of their father, who served as an officer and left the children a hereditary nobility. After the death of their father, they seized the estate for debts. From the age of nineteen, Nikolai was sitting in the breech chamber and dreamed of buying a small manor for himself and simply could not think of anything else. All the time he imagined the future estate, where gooseberries had to grow. Nikolai saved money, was malnourished, married without love to an ugly, but rich widow. He kept his wife starving, and put her money in his name in the bank. The wife could not bear such a life and died, and Nikolai bought a estate, wrote out twenty bushes of gooseberries, planted them and healed them as a landowner. When Ivan Ivanovich came to visit his brother, he was unpleasantly amazed at how he sank, grew old and flabby. He became a real gentleman, ate a lot, sued neighboring plants. Nicholas regaled his brother with gooseberries, and it was evident from him that he was pleased with his fate and himself.

At the sight of this happy man, Ivan Ivanovitch “possessed a feeling close to despair”. All night he spent in the estate, he thought about how many people in the world are suffering, losing his mind, drinking, how many children die from malnutrition. And how many other people live “happily,” “eats during the day, sleeps at night, says his nonsense, marries, grows old, graciously drags his dead to the cemetery.” He thought that behind the door of every happy person there should be “someone with a hammer” and remind him with a knock that there are unfortunates, that sooner or later trouble will come up with him, and “no one will see him or hear him now sees and does not hear others. " Ivan Ivanovich, ending his story, says that there is no happiness, and if life makes sense, then he is not in happiness, but in “doing good”.

From early morning, rain clouds covered the whole sky; It was quiet, not hot and boring, as it happens on gray cloudy days, when clouds had been hanging over the field for a long time, you were waiting for rain, but it wasn’t. Veterinarian Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin gymnasium teacher were already tired of walking, and the field seemed to them endless. Far ahead, the windmills of the village of Mironositsky were barely visible, stretched to the right and then disappeared far behind the village a number of hills, and they both knew that it was a river bank, there are meadows, green willows, estates, and if you stand on one of the hills, you can see from there the same huge field, telegraph and train, which from a distance looks like a crawling caterpillar, and in clear weather even the city can be seen from there. Now, in calm weather, when all nature seemed meek and thoughtful, Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were imbued with love for this field, and both thought about how great, how beautiful this country is. “The last time we were in the barn near the headman Prokofy,” said Burkin, “you were going to tell some kind of story.” - Yes, I wanted to talk about my brother then. Ivan Ivanovich took a long breath and lit a pipe to start telling, but just at that time it started to rain. And after five minutes it poured heavy rain, heavy, and it was hard to predict when it would end. Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin stopped in thought; the dogs, already wet, stood with their tails folded and looked at them with emotion. “We need to hide somewhere,” Burkin said. - Let's go to Alekhine. It's close here. - Come on. They turned to the side and walked all along the sloping field, now straight, then picking up to the right, until they went out onto the road. Soon poplars appeared, a garden, then the red roofs of the barns; the river shone, and a view of a wide reach with a mill and a white bathhouse opened. It was Sofino, where Alekhine lived. The mill worked, drowning out the sound of rain; the dam trembled. Here, near the carts, wet horses stood with their heads bowed, and people walked, covering themselves with bags. It was damp, dirty, uncomfortable, and the view of the reach was cold, angry. Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin already felt a sense of sputum, impurity, inconvenience throughout the body, their legs were heavy with dirt, and when, passing the dam, they went up to the master’s barns, they were silent, as if angry at each other. In one of the barns a fan was noisy; the door was open and dust was pouring out of it. Alekhine himself stood on the threshold, a man in his forties, tall, full, with long hair, looking more like a professor or artist than a landowner. He wore a white shirt that had not been washed for a long time with a rope belt, instead of pants, pants, and dirt and straw also stuck on his boots. The nose and eyes were black with dust. He recognized Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin and, apparently, was very happy. “Come, gentlemen, to the house,” he said, smiling. “I am right now, right now.” The house was large, two-story. Alekhine lived below, in two rooms with vaults and with small windows, where the clerks once lived; there was a simple atmosphere, and smelled of rye bread, cheap vodka and harness. Upstairs, in the front rooms, he rarely visited, only when guests arrived. Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were met in the house by a maid, a young woman, so beautiful that they both stopped and looked at each other at once. “You cannot imagine how glad I am to see you, gentlemen,” said Alekhine, entering the front hall behind them. - I didn’t expect it! Pelagia, ”he turned to the maid,“ let the guests change into something. ” By the way, and I’ll change clothes. You just have to go wash first, otherwise I don’t seem to have washed since spring. Do you want, gentlemen, to go to the bathhouse, and here they’ll cook it for now. The beautiful Pelagia, so delicate and so soft in appearance, brought sheets and soap, and Alekhine and his guests went to the bathhouse. “Yes, I haven’t washed for a long time,” he said, undressing. - As you see, my bathhouse is good, my father was still building, but somehow there was no time to wash everything. He sat down on the step and soaped his long hair and neck, and the water around him turned brown. “Yes, I confess ...” Ivan Ivanovich said, looking significantly at his head. “I haven’t washed for a long time ...” Alekhine repeated embarrassingly and again soaped, and the water around him turned dark blue like ink. Ivan Ivanitch went outside, threw himself into the water with a noise and swam in the rain, waving his arms wide, and waves came from him, and white lilies swayed on the waves; he swam to the very middle of the reach and dived, and a minute later he appeared elsewhere and swam further, and all dived, trying to get the bottom. “Ah, my goodness ...” he repeated, enjoying. “Ah, goodness ...” He swam up to the mill, talked about something with the men there and turned back, and lay down in the middle of the reach, exposing his face in the rain . Burkin and Alekhine got dressed and were about to leave, but he kept swimming and diving. “Ah, my goodness ...” he said. - Oh, God have mercy. - Will be for you! Burkin shouted to him. Returned to the house. And only when a lamp was lit upstairs in a large living room, and Burkin and Ivan Ivanovich, dressed in silk robes and warm shoes, sat in armchairs, while Alekhine himself, washed, combed, in a new frock coat, walked around the living room, apparently with pleasure feeling warmth, cleanliness, dry dress, light shoes, and when beautiful Pelagia, silently walking on the carpet and smiling softly, served tea with jam on a tray, only then Ivan Ivanovich started the story, and it seemed that it was not only Burkin and Alekhin who listened to him, but also old and young ladies and military, calmly and strictly lyadevshie of gold frames. “We are two brothers,” he began, “I, Ivan Ivanitch, and the other, Nikolai Ivanitch, are two years younger.” I went to the scientific part, became a veterinarian, and Nikolai was already in the state chamber from the age of nineteen. Our father, Chimsha-Himalayan, was one of the Cantonists, but after serving as an officer, he left us a hereditary nobility and little name. After his death, our little name was delayed for debts, but, be that as it may, we spent our childhood in the countryside in the wild. We, like peasant children, spent days and nights in the field, in the woods, guarded horses, basted bast, fished and so on ... And you know, who at least once in your life caught a ruff or saw migratory thrushes in the fall, as they rush in flocks over clear villages on clear, cool days, he is no longer a city dweller, and will be dragged to his will until his death. My brother missed the bureaucracy. Years passed, and he all sat in one place, wrote all the same papers and thought all about the same thing as in the village. And this longing from him gradually turned into a certain desire, in a dream to buy a small manor somewhere on the banks of a river or lake. He was a kind, gentle man, I loved him, but I never sympathized with this desire to lock myself for life on my own estate. It is customary to say that a person needs only three arshins of land. But after all, three arshins are needed by the corpse, and not by man. And they also say now that if our intelligentsia has a tendency towards the earth and strives for estates, then this is good. But after all, these estates are the same three arshins of land. Leaving the city, from the struggle, from everyday noise, leaving and hiding in one’s homestead is not life, it’s egoism, laziness, it’s a kind of monasticism, but monasticism is without a feat. A man needs three arshins of earth, not a manor, but the whole globe, all nature, where in the open he could show all the properties and characteristics of a free spirit. My brother Nikolai, sitting in his office, dreamed of how he would eat his own cabbage soup, from which there is such a delicious smell throughout the yard, eat on the green grass, sleep in the sun, sit for hours on end outside the gates on a bench and look at the field and forest. Agricultural books and all these tips on the calendars made up his joy, beloved spiritual food; he liked to read newspapers, but he read only announcements in them that so many acres of arable land and meadows with a manor, a garden, a mill, and flowing ponds were sold. And paths in the garden, flowers, fruits, birdhouses, crucian carp in ponds and, you know, all this stuff were drawn in his head. These imaginary paintings were different, looking at the ads that came across to him, but for some reason, each of them certainly had gooseberries. He could not have imagined a single estate, not a single poetic angle without the gooseberry being there. “Village life has its amenities,” he used to say. “You sit on the balcony, drink tea, and on the pond your ducks swim, it smells so good, and ... and the gooseberry grows.” He drew a plan of his estate, and each time the same thing appeared on his plan: a) a manor house, b) a man’s house, c) a vegetable garden, d) gooseberry. He lived sparingly: he was malnourished, drowning, dressed, God knows how, like a beggar, he saved and put everything in a bank. He was terribly greedy. It hurt me to look at him, and I gave him something and sent him on holidays, but he hid it too. If a person has given himself an idea, there is nothing to be done. Years passed, he was transferred to another province, forty years have passed, and he read all the ads in newspapers and saved up. Then, I hear, got married. All for the same purpose, to buy a manor with gooseberries, he married an old, ugly widow, without any feeling, but only because she had a lot of money. He also lived sparingly with her, kept her starving, and put her money in the bank in his own name. She used to be a postmaster and got used to pies and liquors with him, but she did not see enough for her second husband and black bread; she began to languish from such a life, and after three years she took and gave her soul to God. And, of course, my brother did not think for a minute that he was to blame for her death. Money, like vodka, makes a person an eccentric. A merchant was dying in our city. Before his death, he ordered a plate of honey to be served to himself and ate all his money and winning tickets along with honey so that no one would get it. Once, at the station, I examined the herds, and at that time one young lady fell under the locomotive, and his leg was cut off. We are taking him to an emergency room, blood is pouring - it’s a terrible thing, and he asks everyone to find his leg, and everyone is worried: there are twenty rubles in the boot on his severed leg, as if they were missing. “You are from another opera,” said Burkin. “After the death of my wife,” Ivan Ivanovitch went on, having thought for half a minute, “my brother began to look for his estate.” Of course, look out for at least five years, but still in the end you will be mistaken and you will not buy at all what you dreamed about. Brother Nicholas, through a commission agent, with a transfer of debt, bought one hundred and twelve acres with a manor house, with a mansion, with a park, but not an orchard, no gooseberries, or ponds with ducks; there was a river, but the water in it was the color of coffee, because on one side of the estate there was a brick factory, and on the other it was bone-mill. But my Nikolai Ivanovich did not grieve much; he wrote out twenty gooseberry bushes for himself, planted and healed the landowner. Last year I went to visit him. I’ll go, I think, I’ll see how and what is there. In his letters, his brother called his estate as follows: Chumbaroklova wasteland, Himalayan identity. I arrived in the "Himalayan identity" in the afternoon. It was hot. Near the ditch, fences, hedges, trees are planted in rows - and you don’t know how to get into the yard, where to put the horse. I’m going to the house, and towards me a red-haired dog, fat, like a pig. She wants to bark, but laziness. A cook came out of the kitchen, bare-footed, fat, also looking like a pig, and said that the master rested after dinner. I go to my brother, he is sitting in bed, his knees are covered with a blanket; aged, plump, flabby; cheeks, nose and lips stretch forward - and look, grunts in a blanket. We hugged and burst into tears of joy and the sad thought that we were once young, and now both are gray-haired, and it's time to die. He dressed and led me to show his estate. “Well, how are you doing here?” I asked. - Yes, nothing, thank God, I live well. This was not the former timid poor official, but a real landowner, master. He settled down here, got used to it and got a taste; I ate a lot, washed in the bathhouse, grew fat, already sued the company and with both plants and was very offended when the peasants did not call it "your high nobility." And he cared for his soul in a solid, gentle manner, and he did good deeds not just, but with importance. What good deeds? He treated men from all diseases with soda and castor oil and on their name day served a prayer of thanks among the village, and then put half a bucket, thought it was necessary. Ah, those terrible half a bucket! Today, a fat landowner drags men to the Zemstvo’s chief for damage, and tomorrow, on a solemn day, sets half a bucket for them, and they drink and shout “cheers,” and the drunken bow to his feet. A change of life for the better, satiety, idleness develop in the Russian man conceit, the most arrogant. Nikolai Ivanovich, who once in the state chamber was afraid even for himself personally to have his own views, now spoke only truths, and in that tone, like a minister: “Education is necessary, but it’s premature for the people,” “corporal punishment is generally harmful, but in some cases, they are useful and indispensable. " “I know the people and know how to handle them,” he said. - People love me. All I have to do is move my finger, and for me people will do whatever I want. And all this, mind you, was said with a smart, kind smile. He repeated twenty times: “we are nobles”, “I am like a nobleman”; obviously, he no longer remembered that our grandfather was a man, and our father was a soldier. Even our surname Chimsha-Himalayan is essentially inconsistent, it seemed to him now sonorous, noble and very pleasant. But the matter is not in him, but in myself. I want to tell you what a change has occurred in me in these few hours, while I was in his estate. In the evening, when we were drinking tea, the cook handed a full plate of gooseberries to the table. It was not bought, but its own gooseberry, collected for the first time since the bushes were planted. Nikolai Ivanitch laughed and looked at the gooseberry in silence for a minute with tears - he could not speak with excitement, then he put one berry in his mouth, looked at me with the triumph of a child who finally got his favorite toy, and said: “How delicious! And he ate greedily and repeated everything: “Ah, how delicious!” You try! It was tough and sour, but, as Pushkin said, "the darkness of truths is dearer to us than exalting deception." I saw a happy man whose cherished dream came true so obviously, who achieved the goal in life, got what he wanted, who was pleased with his fate, himself. For some reason, something sad always mixed in with my thoughts about human happiness, but now, at the sight of a happy person, I was overcome by a heavy feeling, close to despair. It was especially hard at night. They sent me a bed in the room next to my brother’s bedroom, and I could hear how he did not sleep and how he got up and went up to a plate with gooseberries and picked up a berry. I thought: how, in essence, there are so many happy, happy people! What an overwhelming force! You take a look at this life: arrogance and idleness of the strong, ignorance and bestiality of the weak, poverty is impossible everywhere, crowding, degeneration, drunkenness, hypocrisy, lies ... Meanwhile, in all houses and on the streets there is silence, peace; of the fifty thousand living in the city, not one who would cry out loudly outraged. We see those who go to the market for food, eat during the day, sleep at night, speak their nonsense, get married, grow old, graciously drag their dead to the cemetery; but we do not see and do not hear those who suffer, and that which is frightening in life happens somewhere behind the curtains. Everything is quiet, calm, and only dumb statistics are protesting: so much has gone crazy, so many buckets have been drunk, so many children have died from malnutrition ... And this order is obviously needed; obviously, a happy one feels well only because the unfortunate bear their burden in silence, and without this silence happiness would not be possible. This is common hypnosis. It is necessary that behind the door of every happy, happy person someone stand with a hammer and constantly remind with a knock that there are unfortunates, that no matter how happy he is, life will show him its claws sooner or later, misfortune shakes - illness, poverty , losses, and no one will see and hear him, as now he does not see and does not hear others. But there is no man with a hammer, a happy one lives for himself, and petty everyday worries excite him slightly, like an aspen wind, and everything is well. “That night it became clear to me how pleased and happy I was,” Ivan Ivanovitch continued, getting up. - I also taught at lunch and on hunting how to live, how to believe, how to rule the people. I also said that learning is light, that education is necessary, but for ordinary people so far only one letter is enough. Freedom is good, I said, without it it is impossible, as without air, but we must wait. Yes, I said that, and now I ask: in the name of what to expect? asked Ivan Ivanovich, looking angrily at Burkina. - In the name of what to expect, I ask you? For what reasons? They tell me that not all at once, every idea is realized in life gradually, in due time. But who says that? Where is the evidence that this is fair? You refer to the natural order of things, to the legality of phenomena, but is there a order and legality in the fact that I, a living, thinking person, stand above the moat and wait for it to grow itself or to become silt, while maybe could I jump over it or build a bridge over it? And again, in the name of what to expect? Wait when there is no energy to live, but meanwhile you need to live and want to live! Then I left my brother early in the morning, and since then it has become unbearable for me to be in the city. I am oppressed by silence and calm, I am afraid to look at the windows, because now for me there is no heavier sight, like a happy family sitting around the table and drinking tea. I am already old and not fit for a fight, I am unable to even hate. I only grieve sincerely, get annoyed, annoyed, at night my head burns from an influx of thoughts, and I can’t sleep ... Ah, if I were young! Ivan Ivanitch walked in agitation from corner to corner and repeated: - If I were young! He suddenly approached Alekhine and began to shake him one hand, then the other. - Pavel Konstantinich! he said in an imploring voice. - Do not calm down, do not let lull yourself! While young, strong, vigorous, do not tire of doing good! There is no happiness and it should not be, and if life has a purpose and purpose, then this purpose and purpose is not at all in our happiness, but in something more reasonable and great. Do good! And Ivan Ivanovich spoke all this with a miserable, begging smile, as if he had personally requested it. Then all three sat in armchairs, at the opposite ends of the living room, and were silent. The story of Ivan Ivanovich did not satisfy either Burkin or Alekhine. When generals and ladies who looked alive at dusk looked out from the golden frames, it was boring to listen to the story about the poor official who ate gooseberries. For some reason I wanted to talk and listen about graceful people, about women. And the fact that they were sitting in the living room, where everything - and a chandelier in a case, and armchairs, and carpets underfoot - said that here these people who were now looking out of frames, walked, drank tea, and the fact that the beautiful Pelagia walked silently here now — it was better than any stories. Alekhine was very sleepy; he got up early in the house at three in the morning, and now his eyes were sticking together, but he was afraid that the guests would not have to say something interesting without him, and would not leave. Is it clever, was it fair that what Ivan Ivanitch had just said, he did not delve into; the guests spoke not about cereals, not about hay, not about tar, but about something that was not directly related to his life, and he was glad and wanted them to continue ... “However, it's time to sleep,” Burkin said by rising. - Let me wish you good night. Alekhine said goodbye and went downstairs, while the guests remained upstairs. They were both given a large room for the night, where there were two old wooden beds with carved decorations and in the corner there was an ivory crucifix; from their beds, wide, cool, which the beautiful Pelagia spread, pleasantly smelled of fresh linen. Ivan ivanych silently undressed and lay down. - Lord, forgive us sinners! he said and took cover with his head. His pipe lying on the table smelled strongly of tobacco fumes, and Burkin did not sleep for a long time and still could not understand where this heavy smell came from. Rain pounded on the windows all night.

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

Burkin and Ivan Ivanovich Chimsha-Himalayan pace the field. The village of Mironositsky is visible in the distance. Suddenly it starts to rain, and so they decide to go to Pavel Konstantinich Alekhine, a friend of the landowner, whose estate is located in the village of Sofino, nearby. Alekhine is described as a tall man of about 40 years old, full, looking more like an artist or professor than a landowner, with long hair. He meets travelers at the barn. This person's face is black with dust, his clothes are dirty. He is glad to unexpected guests, invites those to go to the bathhouse. Having changed clothes and washed, Burkin, Ivan Ivanovich Chimsha-Himalayan and Alekhin go to the house where Ivan Ivanich tells the story of Nikolai Ivanovich, his brother, over tea and jam.

Ivan Ivanovich begins his story

The brothers spent their childhood in the estate of their father, in the wild. Their parent himself was from the Cantonists, but left the hereditary nobility to the children, having served as an officer. The estate after his death was sued by the family for debts. From the age of nineteen, Nikolai sat behind the papers in the state chamber, but he missed him terribly and dreamed of acquiring a small manor. Ivan Ivanitch, however, never sympathized with the desire of his relative to lock himself in the estate for life. And Nikolai could not think of anything else, all the time imagining a large estate, where gooseberries were bound to grow.

Nikolai Ivanovich makes his dream a reality

Ivan Ivanovitch’s brother was saving up money, he was malnourished, and in the end he married not for love to a rich, ugly widow. He kept his wife starving, and put her money in his name in the bank. The spouse could not endure this life and died soon, and Nikolai, not repenting at all, acquired the desired estate, planted 20 gooseberry bushes and healed for his pleasure as a landowner.

Ivan Ivanovich visits his brother

We continue to describe the story that Chekhov created - "Gooseberry". A summary of further events is as follows. When Ivan Ivanich came to visit Nicholas, he was amazed at how much he sank, his flabbiness, and his brother grew old. Barin turned into a real tyrant, ate a lot, constantly sued the factories and spoke in the tone of a minister. Nikolay was treated with Ivan the gooseberry, and it was evident from it that he was pleased with his fate as well as with himself.

Ivan Ivanovitch reflects on the happiness and meaning of life

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

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

How did Alekhine and Burkin take the story?

Neither Alekhine nor Burkin are satisfied with this story. Alekhine does not delve into whether Ivan Ivanovich’s words are true, since it was not about hay, not about cereals, but about something that was not directly related to his life. However, he is very pleased with the guests and wants them to continue the conversation. But the time is already late, the guests and the owner go to bed.

"Gooseberry" in the works of Chekhov

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

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

Characteristics of Nikolai Ivanovich

Chekhov describes to us the Chimsh-Himalayan - an official who serves in the same chamber and dreams of having his own estate. this person - to become a landowner.

Chekhov emphasizes how far behind this character this character is, because at the time described, people did not pursue a meaningless title, many nobles dreamed of becoming capitalists, it was considered fashionable and progressive.

The hero of Anton Pavlovich marries favorably, after which he takes the money he needs from his wife and finally acquires the desired estate. The hero fulfills another dream, planting gooseberries in the estate. And his wife, meanwhile, is dying of hunger ...

Chekhov's “gooseberry” was built using the “story in a story” - a special story of the landowner described, we learn from the mouth of his brother. However, the eyes of Ivan Ivanovich are the eyes of the author himself, he thus shows the reader his attitude towards people like the Chimsh-Himalayan.

Attitude to the brother of Ivan Ivanovich

The brother of the protagonist of the story “Gooseberry” by Chekhov is amazed at the spiritual scarcity of Nikolai Ivanovich, his idleness and satiety of his relative are terrifying, and his dream and its fulfillment seem to this peak of laziness and selfishness.

During the time spent in the estate, Nikolai Ivanovich becomes dizzy and aging, he is proud of his belonging to the nobles, not realizing that this estate is already dying off, and a more just and free life form is replacing, the social patterns are gradually changing.

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

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

The thought of Chekhov

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