Gogol wrote the story “Nevsky Prospekt” in 1833–1834. The work was included in the author’s “Petersburg Tales” cycle. As in other stories in the series, 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 Prospect, the stories of Piskarev and Pirogov, and the author’s depiction of a special metaphysical space, the mythological level of perception of Nevsky Prospect.

Main characters

Piskarev- poor artist, dreamer; was fascinated by a brunette who turned out to be a prostitute.

Pirogov- lieutenant, “had many talents,” loved “everything elegant,” he liked to spend time in society; courted the wife of the German Schiller.

Other characters

Schiller- “a perfect German”, “a tinsmith on Meshchanskaya Street”, the husband of a blonde.

Hoffman- “shoemaker from Ofitserskaya Street”, friend of Schiller.

Blonde- Schiller's wife.

Brunette- a prostitute.

“There is nothing better than Nevsky Prospekt.” “Nevsky Prospekt is the universal communication of St. Petersburg.” Early in the morning the avenue is empty. Until 12 o’clock “it gradually fills with people who have their own occupations, their own worries, their own annoyances.” After 12, “tutors of all nations” appear here with their students.

Closer to 2 o'clock - parents of children, and then people who have “finished quite important homework.” Here you can see everything and everyone. At 3 o’clock the avenue “is covered entirely with officials in green uniforms.” It's 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 liked a brunette, so the young people disperse, rushing after the ladies.

Pirogov’s friend, the artist Piskarev, following the brunette, approached the four-story building 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 ran away.

After midnight, when Piskarev was about to go to bed, a footman in a rich livery suddenly 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 in fact she 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 just a dream.

From that moment on, Piskarev became obsessed with the beautiful stranger, trying to see her in his dreams again and again. The young man began taking opium. He dreamed of the stranger almost every day; in his dreams he saw her as his wife. Finally, the artist decided to actually marry the girl.

Piskarev “carefully dressed up” and went to the brothel. The young man was met by “his ideal, his mysterious image.” Having gathered his courage, Piskarev “began to imagine 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 handicrafts. The girl suddenly interrupted him, saying that she was not a laundress 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 poor Piskarev died, a victim of insane passion.”

Pirogov, pursuing the blonde, followed her out onto Meshchanskaya Street - “a street of tobacco and small shops, German artisans and Chukhon nymphs,” climbed the stairs and entered a large room. Mechanic's tools and iron filings indicated that this was a craftsman's apartment. The stranger walked through the side door, Pirogov behind her. There were drunken men sitting in the room: tinsmith master Schiller and his friend the shoemaker Hoffmann. Hoffmann was going to cut off Schiller’s nose, since he did not need a nose, which “was worth three pounds of tobacco a month.” The sudden appearance of Pirogov interrupted this process. The indignant Schiller drove the lieutenant away.

The next day, Pirogov went into Schiller’s workshop. He was met by the same blonde. Pirogov said that he wants 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 frequently visit the German, 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 outraged the phlegmatic Schiller, he tried to figure out how to get rid of the lieutenant. Pirogov, among the officers, had already boasted 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 foot, the German returned, and with him his friends - Hoffmann and Kunz. They were all drunk and immediately attacked Pirogov. After what happened, the lieutenant wanted to immediately go and complain about the Germans to the general, but he went into a pastry shop and “came out in a less angry state.” 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 Prospect!” “He lies at all times, this Nevsky Prospekt, but most of all when the night falls on him in a concentrated mass<…>and when the demon himself lights the lamps only to show everything not in its real form.”

Conclusion

In the story “Nevsky Prospect”, Gogol uses the literary device of duality, which is primarily used when depicting Nevsky Prospect: it simultaneously exists in two worlds: the real and the surreal, romantic. The depiction of the two main characters, Piskarev and Pirogov, as well as the stories that happen to them, is also ambivalent. Pirogov approaches life simply, superficially; he does not tend to dream and idealize. Piskarev lives in the world of his dreams, dreamed events become for him as if they were part of what really happened.

Test on the story

Check your memorization of the summary content with the test:

Retelling rating

Average rating: 4.5. Total ratings received: 2067.

There is nothing better than Nevsky Prospekt, at least in St. Petersburg; for him he is everything. Why does this street not shine - the beauty of our capital! I know that not one of its pale and bureaucratic residents would trade Nevsky Prospect for all the benefits. Not only those who are twenty-five years old, have a beautiful mustache and a wonderfully tailored frock coat, but even those who have white hairs popping out on their chin and whose head is smooth as a silver dish, are delighted with Nevsky Prospect. And the ladies! Oh, ladies enjoy Nevsky Prospect even more. And who doesn’t like it? As soon as you step onto Nevsky Prospekt, it already smells like a festivities. Even if you had some necessary, necessary work to do, once you get to it, you will probably forget about any work. Here is the only place where people are shown not out of necessity, where they have not been driven by necessity and the mercantile interest that embraces the whole of St. Petersburg. It seems that a person met on Nevsky Prospect is less selfish than in Morskaya, Gorokhovaya, Liteinaya, Meshchanskaya and other streets, where greed and self-interest and need are expressed in those walking and flying in carriages and droshky. Nevsky Prospekt is the universal communication of St. Petersburg. Here, a resident of the St. Petersburg or Vyborg part, who has not visited his friend on Peski or at the Moscow outpost for several years, can be sure that he will certainly meet him. No address calendar or reference place will deliver such reliable news as Nevsky Prospekt. Almighty Nevsky Prospekt! The only entertainment of the poor during the St. Petersburg festivities! How clean 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 the very granite seems to crack, and the miniature, light as smoke, shoe of a young lady, turning her head towards the shining windows of the store, like a sunflower to the sun, and the rattling saber of a hopeful ensign, conducting there is a sharp scratch on it - everything takes out on it the power of strength or the power of weakness. What a rapid phantasmagoria takes place on it in just one day! How many changes will he endure in one day! Let's start from the very early morning, when all of St. Petersburg smells of hot, freshly baked bread and is filled with old women in tattered dresses and cloaks, making their raids on churches and compassionate passers-by. Then Nevsky Prospekt is empty: the stocky shopkeepers and their commis are still sleeping in their Dutch shirts or soaping their noble cheeks and drinking coffee; The beggars gather at the doors of the pastry shops, where the sleepy Ganymede, who flew like a fly yesterday with chocolate, crawls out, broom in hand, without a tie, and throws them stale pies and scraps. The right people trudge along the streets: sometimes Russian men, hurrying to work, cross the streets in boots stained with lime, which even the Catherine Canal, known for its cleanliness, would not be able to wash. At this time, it is usually indecent for ladies to go, 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 trudge along with a briefcase under his arm if his route to the department lies through Nevsky Prospekt. It can be said decisively that at this time, that is, before twelve o’clock, Nevsky Prospect does not constitute a goal for anyone, it serves only as a means: it is gradually filled with people who have their own occupations, their own worries, their own annoyances, but who do not think about it at all . A Russian peasant talks about a hryvnia or 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 or laughs at them, except perhaps the boys in colorful robes with empty damasks or ready-made boots in hands running like lightning along Nevsky Prospekt. At this time, no matter what you put on yourself, even if you had a cap on your head instead of a hat, even if your collars stuck out too far from your tie, no one will notice it. At twelve o'clock, tutors of all nations make raids on Nevsky Prospekt with their pets in cambric collars. The English Joneses and the French Cocks walk arm in arm with the pets entrusted to their parental care and with decent seriousness explain to them that the signs above the stores are made so that through them one can find out what is in the stores themselves. Governesses, pale misses and pink Slavs, walk majestically behind their light, nimble girls, ordering them to raise their shoulders a little higher and stand straighter; in short, at this time Nevsky Prospect was a pedagogical Nevsky Prospect. But the closer it gets to two o'clock, the fewer the number of tutors, teachers and children: they are finally forced out by their gentle parents, walking arm in arm with their motley, multi-colored, weak-nervous friends. Little by little, everyone joins their society, having completed quite important homework, such as: talking with their doctor about the weather and about a small pimple that has popped up on the nose, learning about the health of horses and their children, who, however, show great talents, reading the poster and an important article in the newspapers about people coming and going, finally drinking a cup of coffee and tea; They are also joined by those whom an enviable fate has endowed with the blessed title of officials on special assignments. They are also joined by those who serve on a foreign board and are distinguished by the nobility of their occupations and habits. God, what wonderful positions and services there are! how they elevate 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 meet on Nevsky Prospekt is full of decorum: men in long frock coats, with their hands in their pockets, ladies in pink, white and pale blue satin jackets and hats. Here you will find the only sideburns, worn with extraordinary and amazing art under a tie, sideburns velvet, satin, black, like sable or coal, but, alas, belonging only to one foreign board. Providence has denied employees in other departments black sideburns; they must, to their greatest discomfort, wear red ones. Here you will meet a wonderful mustache, impossible to depict with any pen or brush; a mustache to which the best half of life is dedicated, the subject of long vigils during the day and night, a mustache on which the most delicious perfumes and aromas have been poured and which have been anointed with all the most precious and rare varieties of lipsticks, a mustache that is wrapped at night in thin vellum paper, a mustache that who breathe the most touching affection of their possessors and who are the envy of those passing by. Thousands of varieties of hats, dresses, scarves - colorful, light, to which sometimes the affection of their owners remains for two whole days, will dazzle 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 black male beetles. Here you will meet such waists as you have never even dreamed of: thin, narrow waists, no thicker than the neck of a bottle, when you meet them, you will respectfully step aside, so as not to somehow carelessly push with an impolite elbow; timidity and fear will take possession of your heart, lest somehow even your careless breathing break the most beautiful work of nature and art. And what kind of ladies' sleeves you will see on Nevsky Prospekt! Oh, how lovely! They are somewhat similar to 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 your mouth. Nowhere do people bow as nobly and naturally when they meet each other as on Nevsky Prospekt. Here you will meet the only smile, a smile that is the height of art, sometimes such that you can melt with pleasure, sometimes such that you suddenly see yourself lower than the grass and lower your head, sometimes such that you feel taller than the Admiralty Spitz and raise it up. Here you will find people talking about a concert or the weather with extraordinary nobility and self-esteem. Here you will meet a thousand incomprehensible characters and phenomena. Creator! what strange characters one meets on Nevsky Prospekt! There are many such people who, having met you, will certainly look at your boots, and if you pass, they will turn back to look at your coattails. I still can't understand 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 report from one government place to another; or people who go for walks, read newspapers in pastry shops - in a word, for the most part they are all decent people. At this blessed time from two to three o'clock in the afternoon, which can be called the moving capital of Nevsky Prospect, the main exhibition of all the best works of man takes place. One shows a dandy frock coat with the best beaver, another - a beautiful Greek nose, a third has excellent sideburns, a fourth - a pair of pretty eyes and an amazing hat, a fifth - a ring with a talisman on a dandy little finger, a sixth - a foot in a charming shoe, a seventh - a tie that excites surprise , the eighth is a mustache that plunges into amazement. But three o'clock strikes, and the exhibition ends, the crowd thins out... At three o'clock there is a new change. Spring suddenly arrives on Nevsky Prospect: it is covered all over with 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 Prospect with a posture that shows that they have not at all sat for six hours in the presence. But the old collegiate secretaries, titular and court councilors walk quickly, with their heads down: they have no time to look at passers-by; they have not yet completely detached themselves from their worries; in their head there is a jumble and a whole archive of started and unfinished things; For a long time, instead of a sign, they are shown a cardboard with papers or the full face of the ruler of the chancellery. From four o'clock Nevsky Prospekt is empty, and you are unlikely to meet even one official on it. Some seamstress from a store will run across Nevsky Prospekt with a box in her hands, some pitiful prey of a philanthropic police officer, set loose around the world in a frieze overcoat, some visiting eccentric to whom all watches are equal, some long tall Englishwoman with a handbag and a book in his hands, some artel worker, a Russian man in a tartan frock coat with a waist on the back, with a thin beard, living his whole life on a living thread, in whom everything moves: his back, and his arms, and his legs, and his head, when he politely passes along the sidewalk, sometimes a low craftsman; You won’t meet anyone else on Nevsky Prospekt. But as soon as dusk falls on the houses and streets and the watchman, covered with matting, climbs onto the stairs to light the 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 Prospect comes to life again and begins to move. Then comes that mysterious time when the lamps give everything a kind of tempting, wonderful light. You will meet a lot of young people, most of them single, in warm frock coats and greatcoats. At this time, some kind of goal is felt, or, better, something similar to a goal, something extremely unconscious; Everyone’s steps speed up and generally become very uneven. Long shadows flicker along the walls and pavement and almost reach the Police Bridge with their heads. Young collegiate registrars, provincial and collegiate secretaries walk around for a very long time; but the old collegiate registrars, titular and court councilors for the most part sit at home, either because they are married people, or because the German cooks who live in their houses prepare their food very well. Here you will meet respectable old men who, with such importance and with such amazing nobility, walked for two hours along Nevsky Prospekt. You will see them running just like young collegiate registrars, in order to look under the hat of an envied lady from afar, whose thick lips and cheeks, cheeked with rouge, are so popular with many walkers, and most of all with the villagers, artel workers, merchants, always in German frock coats walking in a whole crowd and usually arm in arm. - Stop! - Lieutenant Pirogov shouted at that time, jerking the young man in a tailcoat and cloak walking with him. - Saw? - I saw, wonderful, completely Peruginova Bianca. -Who are you talking about? - About her, about the one with dark hair. And what eyes! God, what eyes! The whole position, the contours, and the setting of the face are miracles! “I’m telling you about the blonde who followed her in that direction.” Why don’t you go after the brunette when you liked her so much? - Oh, how possible! - exclaimed the young man in a tailcoat, blushing. “It’s as if she’s one of those people who walk along Nevsky Prospect in the evening; “This must be a very noble lady,” he continued, sighing, “one cloak on her costs eighty rubles!” - Simpleton! - Pirogov shouted, forcibly pushing him in the direction where her bright cloak fluttered. - Go, simpleton, you'll miss it! and I'll go after the blonde. Both friends went their separate ways. “We know you all,” Pirogov thought to himself with a smug and self-confident smile, confident 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 colorful cloak was fluttering in the distance, now turning bright as he approached the light of the lantern, now instantly becoming covered in darkness as he moved away from it. His heart was beating, and he involuntarily quickened his pace. He did not dare to think about gaining any right to the attention of the beauty flying away in the distance, much less admit such a dark thought as Lieutenant Pirogov had hinted to him; but he only wanted to see the house, to notice where this charming creature lived, which seemed to have flown from the sky straight onto Nevsky Prospekt and would probably fly away to God knows where. He flew so fast that he constantly pushed respectable gentlemen with gray sideburns off the sidewalk. This young man belonged to that class, which constitutes a rather strange phenomenon among us and belongs just as much to the citizens of St. Petersburg as the person who appears to us in a dream belongs to the essential world. This exclusive class is very unusual in that city where everyone is either officials, or merchants, or German craftsmen. It was an artist. Isn't it a strange phenomenon? St. Petersburg artist! an artist in the land of snow, an artist in the land of the Finns, where everything is wet, smooth, even, pale, gray, foggy. These artists are not at all like Italian artists, proud, ardent, like Italy and its sky; on the contrary, they are for the most part 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 unnecessary things. He will always call some poor old woman over and force her to sit for six hours in order to transfer her pitiful, emotionless 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-colored by time and dust, broken painting machines, an overturned palette, a friend playing the guitar, walls stained with paints, with an open window through which flickers pale Neva and poor fishermen in red shirts. They always have a gray muddy coloring on almost everything - the indelible stamp of the north. Despite all this, they work at their work with true pleasure. They often harbor true talent within themselves, and if only the fresh air of Italy could blow on them, it would surely develop as freely, widely and brightly as a plant that is finally taken out of the room into the clean air. They are generally very timid: a star and a thick epaulet make them so confused that they involuntarily lower the price of their works. They sometimes like to show off, but this panache always seems too harsh on them and somewhat resembles a patch. On them you will sometimes see an excellent tailcoat and a stained cloak, an expensive velvet vest and a frock coat covered in paint. In the same way as in their unfinished landscape you will sometimes see a nymph drawn upside down, which he, not finding another place, sketched on the soiled soil of his previous work, which he once painted with pleasure. He never looks you straight in the eye; if he looks, it’s somehow dim, vague; he does not pierce you with the hawk-eyed gaze of an observer or the hawk-eyed gaze of a cavalry officer. This happens because at the same time he sees both your features and the features of some plaster Hercules standing in his room, or he imagines his own picture, which he is still thinking of producing. Because of this, he often answers incoherently, sometimes out of place, and the objects that get in the way in his head further increase his timidity. The young man we described, the artist Piskarev, belonged to this kind, shy, timid, but in his soul he carried sparks of feeling, ready at the right opportunity to turn into flame. With secret trepidation he hurried after his object, which had amazed him so much, 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! The most beautiful forehead was dazzlingly white and covered with hair as beautiful as agate. They curled, these wonderful curls, and part of them, falling from under the hat, touched the cheek, touched by a thin fresh blush that appeared from the evening cold. The lips were closed with a whole swarm of the most charming dreams. Everything that remains from the memory of childhood, which gives dreaming and quiet inspiration under a glowing lamp - all this seemed to be combined, merged and reflected in her harmonious lips. She looked at Piskarev, and at this glance his heart trembled; she looked sternly, a feeling of indignation appeared on her face at the sight of such brazen persecution; but on that beautiful face even the anger itself was charming. Overtaken by shame and timidity, he stopped with his eyes downcast; but how can one lose this deity and not even recognize the shrine where it came to visit? Such thoughts came to the mind of the young dreamer, and he decided to pursue. But, in order not to let this be noticed, he moved away to a long distance, carelessly looked around and examined the signs, and meanwhile did not lose sight of a single step of the stranger. People passing by began to appear less often, the street became quieter; the beauty looked around, and it seemed to him as if a slight smile flashed on her lips. He trembled all over and couldn’t believe his eyes. No, it was the lantern with its deceptive light that expressed the semblance of a smile on her face; no, it’s his own dreams that laugh at him. But his breathing began to fill his chest, everything in him turned into an indefinite trembling, all his feelings were on fire, and everything before him was covered in some kind of fog. The sidewalk rushed under him, carriages with galloping horses seemed motionless, the bridge stretched and broke on its arch, the house stood with its roof down, the booth was falling towards him, and the sentry's halberd, along with the golden words of the sign and painted scissors, seemed to shine on his very eyelash eye. And all this was accomplished by one glance, one turn of the pretty head. Without hearing, without seeing, without heeding, he rushed along the light tracks of beautiful feet, trying to moderate the speed of his step, which flew to the beat of his heart. Sometimes he was overcome by doubt: was it really that the expression on her face was so favorable - and then he stopped for a minute, but the beating of his heart, the irresistible force and anxiety of all his feelings impelled him forward. He didn’t even notice how suddenly a four-story building rose up in front of him, all four rows of windows, glowing with fire, looked at him at once, and the railings at the entrance confronted him with their iron push. He saw the stranger fly down the stairs, look back, put a finger on her lips and signaled to follow her. His knees were shaking; feelings, thoughts were burning; a lightning bolt of joy pierced his heart with an unbearable edge. No, this is no longer a dream! God! so much happiness in one moment! such a wonderful life in two minutes! But isn't this all a dream? Could it be that she, for whose one heavenly glance he would have been willing to give his whole life, and approaching whose home he already considered an inexplicable bliss, was she really so supportive and attentive to him now? He flew up the stairs. He felt no earthly thought; he was not heated by the flame of earthly passion, no, at that moment he was pure and immaculate, like a virgin youth, still breathing the vague spiritual need of love. And that which would have aroused daring thoughts in a depraved person, on the contrary, sanctified them even more. This trust that the weak, beautiful creature placed in him, this trust imposed on him a vow of knightly severity, a vow to slavishly carry out all her commands. He only wished that these commands were as difficult and difficult to implement as possible, so that he could fly to overcome them with great effort. He had no doubt that some secret and at the same time important incident forced the stranger to trust him; that significant services would probably be required of him, and he already felt within himself the strength and determination to do anything. The staircase twisted, and his quick dreams curled along with it. “Walk carefully!” - the voice sounded like a harp and filled all his veins with new trembling. 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 impudently that he involuntarily lowered his eyes. They entered the room. Three female figures in different corners appeared to his eyes. One was laying out cards; another sat at the piano and played with two fingers some pitiful semblance of an ancient polonaise; the third was sitting in front of the 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 kind of unpleasant disorder, which can only be found in the carefree room of a bachelor, reigned throughout everything. The furniture, which was quite good, was covered with dust; the spider covered the molded cornice with its web; through the unlocked door of another room a boot with a spur shone and the edging of a uniform turned red; a loud male voice and female laughter were heard without any coercion. God, where has he gone! At first he did not want to believe and began to peer more closely at the objects that filled the room; but bare walls and windows without curtains did not show any presence of a caring housewife; the worn-out faces of these pitiful creatures, one of whom sat down almost in front of his nose and looked at him as calmly as a stain on someone else’s dress - all this assured him that he had entered that disgusting shelter where the pathetic debauchery generated by tinsel had founded his home education and the terrible crowds of the capital. That shelter where man sacrilegiously suppressed and laughed at everything pure and holy that adorns life, where 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 herself with the acumen and impudence of a man and has ceased to be that weak, that beautiful and so different from us being. Piskarev measured her from head to toe with amazed eyes, as if still wanting to be sure whether she was the one who had so bewitched and carried him away on Nevsky Prospekt. But she stood before him just as beautiful; her hair was just as beautiful; her eyes still seemed heavenly. She was fresh; she was only seventeen years old; it was clear that only recently a terrible debauchery had 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 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 filled with some kind of pitiful impudence; it 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, along with chastity, the person’s mind was also abandoned. He didn't want to hear anything anymore. He was extremely funny and simple, like a child. Instead of taking advantage of this favor, instead of rejoicing at this opportunity, which, no doubt, anyone else would have rejoiced in his place, he rushed as fast as he could, like a wild goat, and ran out into the street. Hanging his head and lowering his hands, he sat in his room, like a poor man who had found a priceless pearl and immediately dropped it into the sea. “Such a beauty, such divine features - and where? in what place!..” That's all he could say. In fact, pity never takes possession of us so strongly as at the sight of beauty touched by the corrupting breath of depravity. Let ugliness be his friend, but beauty, tender beauty... it merges only with purity and purity in our thoughts. The beauty who so bewitched poor Piskarev was truly a wonderful, extraordinary phenomenon. Her presence 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 was in no way possible to think that depravity would spread its terrible claws over her. She would constitute 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 formed a deity in a crowded hall, on a bright parquet floor, in the glare of candles, with the silent reverence of a crowd of prostrate fans at the feet of her; but, alas! She was, by some terrible will of a hellish spirit, eager to destroy the harmony of life, thrown with laughter into its abyss. Imbued with tearing pity, he sat in front of a burnt candle. Midnight had long passed, the tower bell was striking half past twelve, and he sat motionless, without sleep, without active vigil. Drowsiness, taking advantage of his immobility, had already begun to quietly overcome him, the room had already begun to disappear, only the candlelight shone through the dreams that overwhelmed him, 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, and at such an extraordinary time... He was perplexed and looked with impatient curiosity at the footman who had arrived. “That lady,” said the footman with a polite bow, “with whom you deigned to be a few hours before, ordered you to come to her and sent a carriage for you.” Piskarev stood in silent surprise: “A carriage, a footman in livery!.. No, there must be some mistake here...” “Listen, my dear,” he said timidly, “you probably deigned to go to the wrong place.” The lady, no doubt, sent you for someone else, and not for me. - No, sir, I was not mistaken. After all, you deigned to accompany the lady on foot to the house in Liteinaya, to the room on the fourth floor?- I. “Well, please hurry up, the lady certainly wants to see you and asks you to come straight to their house.” Piskarev ran down the stairs. There was definitely a carriage standing in the yard. He got into it, the doors slammed, the stones of the pavement rattled under the wheels and hooves - and the illuminated perspective 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 reconcile 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 immediately struck by: a row of carriages, the talk of coachmen, brightly lit windows and the sounds of music. A footman in a rich livery dropped 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 airy staircase with shiny railings, scented with aromas, rushed upward. He was already on it, had already entered the first hall, frightened and backing away with the first step from the terrible crowd. The extraordinary diversity of faces left him completely confused; it seemed to him that some demon had chopped up the whole world into many different pieces and mixed all these pieces together without meaning, to no avail. Sparkling ladies' shoulders and black tailcoats, chandeliers, lamps, airy flying gases, ethereal ribbons and a thick double bass peeking out from behind the railings of the magnificent choirs - everything was brilliant for him. At one time he saw so many respectable old men and semi-old men with stars on their tailcoats, ladies so easily, proudly and gracefully walking along the parquet floor or sitting in rows, he heard so many words in French and English, besides, the young people in black tailcoats were filled with such nobility , they spoke and were silent with such dignity, they were so unable to say anything superfluous, they joked so majestically, they smiled so respectfully, they wore such excellent sideburns, they were so skillfully able to show excellent hands, straightening their ties, the ladies were so airy, so immersed in complete complacency and rapture , so charmingly downcast their eyes that... but one already humble look of Piskarev, who was leaning against the column out of 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 air itself; they casually touched the parquet floor with their shiny feet and were more ethereal than if they had not touched it at all. But one of them is better than all of them, more luxuriously and brilliantly dressed than all of them. An inexpressible, most subtle combination of taste spread throughout her entire attire, and for all that she did not seem to care about it at all and it poured out involuntarily, by itself. She both looked and did not look at the surrounding crowd of spectators, her beautiful long eyelashes dropped indifferently, and the sparkling whiteness of her face caught the eye even more dazzlingly when a light shadow overshadowed her charming forehead as she bowed her head. Piskarev made every effort to part the crowd and examine it; but, to the greatest chagrin, some huge head with dark curly hair constantly obscured her; Moreover, the crowd pressed him so tightly that he did not dare to move forward, did not dare to retreat back, for fear of somehow pushing some privy councilor. But he finally made his way forward and looked at his dress, wanting to recover decently. Heavenly Creator, what is this! He was wearing a frock coat and it was all stained with paint: in his haste to go, he forgot even to change into a decent dress. He blushed to his ears and, lowering his head, wanted to fall through, but there was absolutely nowhere to fall through: the chamber cadets in a shiny suit 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 screamed almost at the top of his voice. In fact, it was she, the same one he met on Nevsky and whom he escorted to her home. Meanwhile, she raised her eyelashes and looked at everyone with her clear gaze. “Ay, ah, ah, how good she is!..” - he could only say with a caught breath. She looked around the entire circle with her eyes, which vied with each other to stop her attention, but with some kind of fatigue and inattention, she soon turned them away and met Piskarev’s eyes. Oh, what a sky! what a paradise! give me strength, Creator, to bear this! 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 lasted a long time; the tired music seemed to go out completely and freeze, and again burst out, screeching and thundering; finally - the end! She sat down, her chest heaving under the thin smoke of gas; her hand (Creator, what a wonderful hand!) fell to her knees, squeezing her airy dress under it, and the dress under her seemed to begin to breathe music, and its subtle lilac color indicated even more clearly the bright whiteness of this beautiful hand. Just touch 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 missed you too. “I notice that you hate me...” she added, lowering her long eyelashes... - I hate you! to me? “I...” the completely lost Piskarev wanted to say and would probably have uttered 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 unbearable this is! - she said, raising her heavenly eyes to him. — I’ll sit at the other end of the hall; be there! She slipped between the crowd and disappeared. He pushed the crowd aside like crazy 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 honest with you: you probably 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’ll tell you a secret: will you be able,” she said, fixing her eyes intently on his, “never cheat on her?” - Oh, I will! will! will!.. But at that time a rather elderly man came up, spoke to her in some language incomprehensible to Piskarev and offered her his hand. She looked at Piskarev with a pleading 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 separated them. He no longer saw the lilac dress; He walked anxiously from room to room and pushed without mercy everyone he met, but in all the rooms the aces were still sitting playing whist, immersed in dead silence. In one corner of the room several elderly people were arguing about the advantage of military service over civil service; in another, people in excellent tailcoats made light remarks about the multi-volume works of the working poet. Piskarev felt that one elderly man with a respectable appearance grabbed the button of his tailcoat and presented one very fair remark to his judgment, but he rudely pushed him away, not even noticing that he had a rather significant order on his neck. He ran to another room - and she was not there. In the third - no. “Where is she? give it to me! oh, I can’t live without looking at her! I want to listen to what she wanted to say,” but all his searches remained in vain. Restless, tired, he pressed himself to the corner and looked at the crowd; but his tense eyes began to present everything to him in some unclear form. Finally, the walls of his room began to appear clearly to him. He looked up; in front of him stood a candlestick with a fire almost extinguished in its depths; the whole candle melted away; lard was poured on his table. So he was sleeping! God, what a dream! And why did you need to wake up? Why not wait one minute: she would surely have appeared again! The annoying light, with its unpleasant dim radiance, looked into his windows. The room is in such gray, such muddy chaos... Oh, how disgusting reality is! Why is she against dreams? He undressed hastily and went to bed, wrapped in a blanket, wanting to momentarily recall the dream that had flown away. The dream, of course, was not slow in coming to him, but what it presented to him was not at all what he wanted to see: first Lieutenant Pirogov appeared with a pipe, then an academic guard, then an actual state councilor, then the head of a Chukhonka woman with whom he had once painted portrait, and similar nonsense. Until midday he lay in bed, wanting 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 naked hand, bright as the snow above the clouds, flashed in front of him. Throwing everything away, forgetting everything, he sat with a contrite, hopeless look, full of only one dream. He didn’t think of touching anything; his eyes, without any participation, without any life, looked out the window facing the courtyard, where a dirty water tank poured water that froze in the air, and the goatish voice of the peddler rattled: “Sell old dress.” The everyday and the real struck his ears strangely. He sat there until the evening and greedily threw himself into bed. He struggled with insomnia for a long time, and finally overcame it. Again some kind of dream, some vulgar, nasty dream. “God, have mercy: at least for a minute, at least for one minute, show her!” He again waited for the evening, again fell asleep, again dreamed of some official who was both an official and a bassoon; oh, this is unbearable! Finally she came! her head and curls... she looks... Oh, how not for long! again fog, again some stupid dream. Finally, dreams became his life, and from that time his whole life took a strange turn: he, one might say, slept in reality and was awake in his sleep. If anyone had seen him sitting silently in front of an empty table or walking down the street, he would probably have taken him for a sleepwalker or destroyed by strong drinks; his gaze was completely without any meaning, natural absent-mindedness finally developed and powerfully banished all feelings, all movements from his face. He only perked up when night fell. This state frustrated his strength, and the most terrible torment for him was that finally sleep began to leave him completely. Wanting to save this only wealth of his, he used every means to restore it. He heard that there was a way to restore sleep - all you need to do is take opium. But where to get this opium? He remembered about one Persian who ran a shawl shop, who, almost whenever he met him, asked him to draw him a beauty. He decided to go to him, assuming that he, without a doubt, had this opium. The Persian accepted it while sitting on the sofa with his legs tucked under him. -What do you need opium for? - he asked him. Piskarev told him about his insomnia. “Okay, I’ll give you opium, just draw me a beauty.” May she be a good beauty! so that the eyebrows are black and the eyes are as big as olives; and I should lie next to her and smoke a pipe! do you hear? so that it’s good! to be a beauty! Piskarev promised everything. The Persian went out for a minute and returned with a jar filled with 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 traded for a pile of gold, and ran home headlong. Arriving home, he poured a few drops into a glass of water and, after swallowing, went to bed. God, what joy! She! she again! but in a completely different form. Oh, how well she sits by the window of a bright village house! her outfit breathes with such simplicity as only the poet’s thought can be clothed in. The hairstyle on her head... Creator, how simple this hairstyle is and how it suits her! A short scarf was draped lightly over her slender neck; everything about her is modest, everything about her is a secret, inexplicable sense of taste. How sweet is her graceful gait! how musical is the sound of her steps and simple dress! how beautiful is her hand, clutched in a hair bracelet! She tells him with tears in her eyes: “Don’t despise me: I’m not at all what you take me for. Look at me, look more closely and say: am I capable of what you think?” - "ABOUT! no no! let the one who dares to think, let him...” But he woke up, touched, torn, 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 forever 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 on you as a guardian angel before sleep and vigil, and I would be waiting for you when it happens to depict the divine and holy. But now... what a terrible life! What's the use of her living? Is the life of a madman pleasant to his relatives and friends who once loved him? God, what a life ours is! the eternal conflict between dreams and reality! Almost such thoughts occupied him incessantly. He thought about nothing, 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 entire 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 somehow became more pure and was completely transformed. The opium sessions inflamed his thoughts even more, and if ever there was a man in love to the last degree of madness, swiftly, terribly, destructively, rebelliously, then this unfortunate man was he. Of all the dreams, one was the most joyful for him: he imagined his workshop, he was so cheerful, he sat with such pleasure with a palette in his hands! And she's right there. She was already his wife. She sat next to him, leaning her lovely elbow on the back of his chair, and looked at his work. In her eyes, languid, tired, the burden of bliss was written; everything in his room breathed heaven; it was so bright, so decorated. Creator! she bowed her lovely head on his chest... He had never seen a better dream. He got up after it somehow fresher and less distracted than before. Strange thoughts were born in his head. “Perhaps,” he thought, “she is involved in debauchery by some involuntary, terrible incident; perhaps the movements of her soul are inclined towards repentance; perhaps she would like to break out of 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 extended even further. “Nobody knows me,” he said to himself, “and 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 even often the most despicable creatures. But my feat will be selfless and maybe even great. I will return to the world its most beautiful adornment.” Having made such a frivolous plan, he felt the color flare up on his face; He went up to the mirror and was frightened by his sunken cheeks and the pallor of his face. He carefully began to dress up; He washed himself, smoothed his hair, put on a new tailcoat, a smart waistcoat, threw on a cloak and went out into the street. He breathed in the fresh air and felt freshness in his heart, like a convalescent who decided to go out for the first time after a long illness. His heart was beating as he approached the street where he had not set foot since the fatal meeting. He looked for a house for a long time; it seemed that his memory had failed him. He walked down the street twice and didn’t know which one to stop in front of. Finally one seemed similar to him. 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 with whom he lived, lived so terribly, so painfully, so sweetly. She herself stood before him: he trembled; he could hardly stand on his feet from weakness, seized by a gust of joy. She stood before him just as beautiful, although her eyes were sleepy, although pallor crept onto her face, which was no longer so fresh, but she was still beautiful. - A! - she cried out, seeing Piskarev and rubbing her eyes (it was already two o’clock by then). - Why did you run away from us then? Exhausted, he sat down on a chair and looked at her. - And I just woke up; I was brought in at seven o'clock in the morning. “I was completely drunk,” she added with a smile. Oh, it would be better if you were dumb and completely speechless than to utter such speeches! She suddenly showed him, as in a panorama, her whole life. However, despite this, with a strong heart, he decided to try to see if his admonitions would have any effect on her. Having gathered his courage, he began to imagine her terrible situation in a trembling and at the same time fiery voice. She listened to him with an attentive look and with that feeling of surprise that we express at the sight of something unexpected and strange. She glanced, smiling lightly, at her friend sitting in the corner, who, having left her to clean the comb, was also listening with attention to the new preacher. “It’s true, I’m poor,” Piskarev finally said after a long and instructive admonition, “but we will work; We will try to compete, one before the other, to improve our lives. There is nothing more pleasant than being obliged to do everything to yourself. I will sit at the paintings, you, sitting next to me, will animate my works, embroider or do other handicrafts, and we will not lack anything. - How can you! - she interrupted her speech with an expression of some kind of contempt. “I’m not a laundress or a seamstress, so I should start doing work.” God! These words expressed all the low, all the despicable life - a life filled with emptiness and idleness, the faithful companions of depravity. - Marry me! - picked up her friend, who had been silent until then in the corner, with an insolent look. “If I’m going to be a wife, I’ll sit like this!” At the same time, she made some kind of stupid face on her pitiful face, which made the beauty laugh extremely. Oh, this is too much! I have no strength to bear this. He rushed out, having lost his feelings and thoughts. His mind became clouded: stupidly, aimlessly, not seeing anything, not hearing, not feeling, he wandered all day. No one could know whether he spent the night somewhere or not; just the next day, by some stupid instinct, he walked 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 didn’t let anyone in, didn’t demand anything. Four days passed, and his locked room was never opened; Finally a week passed and the room was still locked. They rushed to the door and began to call him, but there was no answer; Finally they broke down the door and found his lifeless corpse with his throat cut. A bloody razor lay on the floor. From his convulsively outstretched arms and from his terribly distorted appearance, one could conclude that his hand was unfaithful and that he suffered for a long time before his sinful soul left his body. Thus perished, a victim of insane passion, poor Piskarev, quiet, timid, modest, childishly simple-minded, who carried within himself a spark of talent that, perhaps, would have flared up widely and brightly over time. No one cried over him; no one was visible near his soulless corpse, except for the ordinary figure of the neighborhood overseer and the indifferent face of the city doctor. His coffin was taken quietly, even without religious rites, to Okhta; As he followed him, only the guard soldier cried, and that was because he drank an extra glass of vodka. Even Lieutenant Pirogov did not come to look at the corpse of the unfortunate poor man, to whom he had provided his high patronage during his lifetime. However, he had no time for that at all: he was busy with the emergency. But let's turn to him. I don’t like corpses and the dead, and I always feel unpleasant when a long funeral procession crosses my road and an invalid soldier, dressed as some kind of Capuchin, sniffs tobacco with his left hand, because his right hand is occupied by a torch. I always feel vexed in my soul at the sight of a rich hearse and a velvet coffin; but my annoyance is mixed with sadness when I see a dray driver dragging the red, uncovered coffin of a poor man, and only one beggar, having met at a crossroads, trails behind him, having nothing else to do. It seems that we left Lieutenant Pirogov at the moment when he parted with poor Piskarev and rushed after the blonde. This blonde was a light, rather interesting creature. She stopped in front of each store and looked at the sashes, scarves, earrings, gloves and other trinkets displayed in the windows, constantly spinning, looking in all directions and looking back. “You, my dear, are mine!” - Pirogov spoke with self-confidence, continuing his pursuit and covering his face with the collar of his overcoat so as not to meet anyone he knew. But it doesn’t hurt to inform the readers who Lieutenant Pirogov was. But before we say who Lieutenant Pirogov was, it doesn’t hurt to tell something about the society to which Pirogov belonged. There are officers who make up some kind of middle class of society in St. Petersburg. At an evening, at a dinner with a state councilor or an actual civil servant who has earned this rank with forty years of work, you will always find one of them. Several pale daughters, completely colorless, like St. Petersburg, some of whom are overripe, a tea table, a piano, home dances - all this happens inseparably with a light epaulette that sparkles in the lamp, between a well-behaved blonde and the black tailcoat of a brother or a household acquaintance. These cold-blooded girls are extremely difficult to rouse and make laugh; this requires great art, or, better said, no art at all. You need 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 we must give justice to the said gentlemen. They have a special gift of making these colorless beauties laugh and listen. Exclamations, stifled by laughter: “Oh, stop it! Aren’t you ashamed to make me laugh like that!” - are often their best reward. In the upper class they are found very rarely, or, better yet, never. From there they are completely supplanted by what are called in this society aristocrats; however, they are considered learned and educated people. They love to talk about literature; they praise Bulgarin, Pushkin and Grech and speak with contempt and witty barbs about A. A. Orlov. They do not miss a single public lecture, be it about accounting or even forestry. In the theater, no matter what the play, you will always find one of them, except if some “Philatki” are already being played, which greatly offend their discriminating taste. They are always in the theater. These are the most profitable people for theater management. They especially love good poetry in a play, and they also love to call out the actors loudly; many of them, teaching in government institutions or preparing for government institutions, finally own a convertible and a couple of horses. Then their circle becomes wider; They finally reach the point where they marry a merchant’s daughter who can play the piano, with a hundred thousand or so in cash and a bunch of big-haired relatives. However, they cannot achieve this honor until they have served at least to the rank of colonel. Because Russian beards, despite the fact that they still smell somewhat like cabbage, in no way want to see their daughters married to anyone other than generals or, at least, colonels. These are the main characteristics of this type of young people. But Lieutenant Pirogov had many talents that actually belonged to him. He excellently recited verses from “Dimitri Donskoy” and “Woe from Wit,” and had the special art of blowing smoke rings from his pipe so successfully that he could suddenly string about ten of them on top of each other. He was able to tell a very pleasant joke about how the cannon is on its own, and the unicorn is on its own. However, it is somewhat difficult to count all the talents with which fate awarded Pirogov. He loved to talk about the actress and dancer, but not as sharply as the young ensign usually spoke about this subject. He was very pleased with his rank, to which he had recently been promoted, and although sometimes, lying down on the sofa, he said: “Oh, oh! vanity, everything is vanity! What does it matter if I’m a lieutenant?” - but secretly he was very flattered by this new dignity; In conversation, he often tried to hint about him indirectly, and once, when he came across some clerk on the street who seemed impolite to him, he immediately stopped him and in a few, but sharp words, let him notice that a lieutenant was standing in front of him, and not any other officer. He tried all the more to express this more eloquently because two very good-looking ladies were passing by at the time. Pirogov generally showed a passion for everything elegant and encouraged the artist Piskarev; however, this happened, perhaps, because he really wanted to see his courageous face in the portrait. But enough about Pirogov’s qualities. Man is such a wondrous creature that it is never possible to suddenly calculate all his merits, and the more you look at 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 entertaining her with questions, to which she answered sharply, abruptly and with some unclear sounds. They entered the dark Kazan Gate into Meshchanskaya Street, a street of tobacco and small 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, into which Pirogov also boldly made his way. He saw himself in a large room with black walls and a smoke-stained ceiling. A heap 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 apartment of a craftsman. The stranger fluttered further through the side door. He thought for a moment, but, following the Russian rule, decided to go forward. He entered a room that was not at all similar to the first one, decorated very neatly, showing that the owner was German. He was struck by the unusually strange appearance. Sitting in front of him was Schiller—not the same Schiller who wrote “William Tell” and “The History of the Thirty Years’ War,” but the famous Schiller, a tinsmith on Meshchanskaya Street. Standing next to Schiller was Hoffmann - not the writer Hoffmann, but a rather good shoemaker from Officers Street, a great friend of Schiller. Schiller was drunk and sat on a chair, stamping his foot and saying something heatedly. All this would not have surprised Pirogov, but what surprised him was the extremely strange position of the figures. Schiller sat with his rather thick nose sticking out and his head raised up; and Hoffmann held it by the nose with two fingers and spun the blade of his shoemaker’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 from one nose.” And I pay to the Russian bad store, because the German store does not stock Russian tobacco, I pay to the Russian bad store forty kopecks for every pound; it will be a ruble twenty kopecks; twelve times a ruble twenty kopecks - that will be fourteen rubles forty kopecks. Do you hear, my friend Hoffmann? for one nose fourteen rubles and forty kopecks! Yes, on holidays I sniff rapé, because I don’t want to sniff bad Russian tobacco on holidays. I sniffed two pounds of rapé a year, two rubles a pound. Six and fourteen - twenty rubles and forty kopecks for one tobacco. This is robbery! I'm asking you, my friend Hoffmann, isn't it? - Hoffmann, who was drunk himself, answered in the affirmative. - Twenty rubles and 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 not for the sudden appearance of Lieutenant Pirogov, then, without any doubt, Hoffmann would have cut off Schiller’s nose for no reason, because he had already brought his knife to the position where he wanted to cut the sole. Schiller seemed very annoyed that suddenly an unfamiliar, uninvited face should interfere with him so inopportunely. He, despite the fact that he was in the intoxicating haze 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 over slightly and said with his characteristic pleasantness: - Excuse me... - Go away! - answered Schiller drawlingly. This puzzled Lieutenant Pirogov. This kind of treatment was completely new to him. The smile that had appeared slightly on his face suddenly disappeared. With a feeling of distressed 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. Myself (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’ll be an officer now. But I don't want to serve. Me and the officer will do this: ugh! - At the same time, Schiller put his palm up and huffed 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 wanting to gather his courage and think about how to make Schiller feel his insolence. Finally he decided that Schiller could be excused because his head was filled with beer; Moreover, a pretty blonde introduced herself to him, and he decided to consign it to oblivion. The next day, Lieutenant Pirogov appeared early in the morning at the master's tinsmith's workshop. A pretty blonde met him in the front room and asked in a rather stern voice that suited her face: -What do you want? - Oh, hello, my dear! you didn't recognize me? rogue, what pretty eyes! - At the same time, Lieutenant Pirogov wanted to very sweetly lift her chin with his finger. But the blonde uttered a timid exclamation and asked with the same severity: -What do you want? “I don’t want anything more to see you,” said Lieutenant Pirogov, smiling rather pleasantly and stepping closer; but, noticing that the timid blonde wanted to slip through the door, he added: “I need, my dear, to order some spurs.” Can you make me some spurs? although in order to love you, one does not 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 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. Looking at the officer, he remembered, as in a vague dream, the incident of yesterday. He did not remember anything as it was, but he felt that he had done something stupid, and therefore received the officer with a very stern expression. “I can’t take less than fifteen rubles for the spurs,” he said, wanting to get rid of Pirogov, because he, as an honest German, was very ashamed to look at someone who saw him in an indecent position. Schiller loved to drink completely without witnesses, with two or three friends, and during this time he locked himself away even 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 want to get to know you, I’m paying fifteen rubles.” Schiller remained thoughtful for a minute: as an honest German, he felt a little ashamed. Wanting to reject the order himself, he announced that he could not do it before two weeks. But Pirogov, without any contradiction, expressed complete agreement. The German thought and began to think about how best to do his work so that it would actually cost fifteen rubles. At this time, the blonde entered the workshop and began rummaging around on the table covered with coffee pots. The lieutenant took advantage of Schiller's thoughtfulness, walked up to her and shook her hand, which was bare right up to the shoulder. Schiller did not like this very much. - Mein Frau! - he shouted. -Are you welcome? - answered the blonde. - Genzi to the kitchen! The blonde walked away. - So in two weeks? - said Pirogov. “Yes, in two weeks,” Schiller answered thoughtfully, “I now have a lot of work.” - Goodbye! I'll come see you. “Goodbye,” answered Schiller, locking the door behind him. Lieutenant Pirogov decided not to give up his quest, despite the fact that the German woman showed obvious resistance. He could not understand that it was possible to resist him, especially since his courtesy and brilliant rank gave him every right to attention. It must, however, also be said that Schiller’s wife, for 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 her all the signs of infantile innocence. Beauty produces perfect miracles. All mental flaws in a beauty, instead of producing disgust, become somehow unusually attractive; even vice breathes sweetness in them; but if she disappeared, a woman would need to be twenty times smarter than a man in order to inspire, if not love, then at least respect. However, Schiller’s wife, despite all her stupidity, was always faithful to her duty, and therefore it was quite difficult for Pirogov to succeed in his bold undertaking; but the victory of obstacles is always accompanied by pleasure, and the blonde became more interesting to 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 quickly as possible; Finally the spurs were ready. - Oh, what a great job! - Lieutenant Pirogov shouted when he saw the spurs. - Lord, 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 quite cheerful, and he completely reconciled with Pirogov. “The Russian officer is a smart man,” he thought to himself. - So you can also make a frame, for example, for a dagger or other things? “Oh, I very much can,” said Schiller with a smile. “Then make me a frame for the dagger.” I'll bring it to you; I have a very good Turkish dagger, but I would like to make a different frame for it. It hit Schiller like a bomb. His forehead suddenly wrinkled. “Here you go!” - he thought to himself, internally scolding himself for inviting the work himself. He considered it dishonorable to refuse, and besides, the Russian officer praised his work. He shook his head somewhat and expressed his consent; but the kiss that Pirogov impudently planted on the very lips of the pretty blonde as he left plunged him into complete bewilderment. I think it would not be superfluous to introduce the reader somewhat briefly to Schiller. Schiller was a perfect German, in the full sense of the word. From the age of twenty, from that happy time in which a Russian lives on fufu, Schiller already measured out his entire life and did not make any exceptions in any case. He decided to get up at seven o'clock, have dinner at two, be precise in everything and be drunk every Sunday. He set himself a capital of fifty thousand within ten years, and this was already as sure and irresistible as fate, because an official would sooner forget to look into his boss’s office than a German would decide to change his word. In no case did he increase his costs, and if the price of potatoes rose too much compared to usual, 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 neatness extended to the point that he decided to kiss his wife no more than twice a day, and in order to somehow avoid kissing him an extra time, 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 with a hook and cuts himself alone. On the contrary, he, like a German, always drank with inspiration, either with the shoemaker Hoffmann, or with the carpenter Kunz, also a German and a big drunkard. Such was the character of the noble Schiller, who was finally brought into an extremely difficult position. Although he was phlegmatic and German, Pirogov’s actions aroused in him something akin to jealousy. He racked his brains and couldn’t 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 that where there are officers, there are 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-circuited and which, in fact, he had almost lost hope of winning over to his side. One day he was walking along Meshchanskaya, looking at the house on which there was a Schiller sign with coffee pots and samovars; to his greatest joy, he saw the blonde’s head hanging out the window and looking at passers-by. He stopped, made a gesture at her and said: “Gut morgen!” The blonde bowed to him as if he were an acquaintance. - What, is your husband at home? “At home,” answered the blonde. - And when is he not at home? “He’s not at home on Sundays,” said the stupid blonde. “This is not bad,” Pirogov thought to himself, “we need to take advantage of it.” And the next Sunday, out of the blue, he appeared before the blonde. Schiller was indeed not at home. The pretty housewife was frightened; but Pirogov acted quite carefully this time, treated him very respectfully and, bowing, showed all the beauty of his flexible, drawn-out figure. He joked very pleasantly and courteously, but the stupid German woman answered everything in monosyllables. Finally, coming from all sides and seeing that nothing could occupy her, he invited her to dance. The German woman agreed in a minute, because German women are always eager to dance. Pirogov based a lot of his hope on this: firstly, it already gave her pleasure, secondly, it could show his turn and dexterity, thirdly, in dancing one can get closer together, hug a pretty German woman and lay the beginning for everything; in short, he deduced from this complete success. He started some kind of gavotte, knowing that German women needed gradualness. The 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 this further increased her charm in Pirogov’s eyes; he covered her with kisses. Suddenly the door opened and Schiller entered with Hoffmann and the carpenter Kunz. All these worthy artisans were drunk as shoemakers. But I leave it to the readers to judge Schiller's anger and indignation. - Rude! - he shouted in the greatest indignation, “how dare you kiss my wife?” You are a scoundrel, not a Russian officer. Damn it, my friend Hoffmann, I am a German, not a Russian pig! Hoffman answered in the affirmative. - Oh, I don't want to have horns! take him, my friend Hoffmann, by the collar, I don’t want to,” he continued, waving his arms wildly, and his face looked like the red cloth of his vest. - 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 rid of it all, my friend Hoffmann! hold him by the hand and foot, my comrade Kunz! And the Germans grabbed Pirogov by the arms and legs. It was in vain that he tried to fight back; These three artisans were the sturdiest people of all the St. Petersburg Germans and treated him 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 severe fever the next day, that he was shaking like a leaf, expecting the police to arrive any minute, that God knows what he wouldn’t give for everything that happened yesterday to be in a dream. But what has already happened cannot be changed. Nothing could compare with Pirogov's anger and indignation. The very thought of such a terrible insult infuriated him. He considered Siberia and whips to be the least punishment for Schiller. He flew home so that, after getting dressed, he could go straight to the general and describe to him in the most striking colors the riot of German artisans. He immediately wanted to submit a written request to the General Staff. If the General Staff determines that the punishment is insufficient, then directly to the State Council, and not to the sovereign himself. But it all ended somehow 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 state. Moreover, the rather pleasant cool evening forced him to take a short walk along Nevsky Prospect; by nine o'clock he had calmed down and found that it was not good to disturb the general on Sunday, moreover, he was, without a doubt, recalled somewhere, and therefore he went for the evening to one of the rulers of the Control Board, where there was a very pleasant meeting of officials and officers. There he spent the evening with pleasure and distinguished himself so much in the mazurka that he delighted not only the ladies, but even the gentlemen. “Our light is wonderfully constructed! - I thought, walking along Nevsky Prospekt the previous day and bringing to mind 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 deliberately prepared for? Everything happens the other way around. For one, fate has given the most beautiful horses, and he indifferently rides them, not noticing their beauty at all, while the other, whose heart is burning with horse passion, walks and is content only with clicking his tongue when a trotter is led past him. He has an excellent cook, but, unfortunately, his mouth is so small that he can’t miss more than two pieces; the other has a mouth the size of the arch of the General Staff building, but, alas! must be content with some German potato dinner. How strangely our fate plays with us!” But the strangest of all are the incidents that happen on Nevsky Prospekt. Oh, don't believe this Nevsky Prospekt! I always wrap myself tightly in my cloak when I walk along it, and try not to look at all the objects I meet. Everything is a deception, 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, stopping in front of a church under construction, are judging its architecture? Not at all: they talk about how strangely two crows sat opposite each 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 completely unfamiliar to him? Not at all, he's talking about Lafayette. You think that these ladies... but trust the ladies least of all. Look less into store windows: the trinkets displayed in them are beautiful, but they smell like an awful lot 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 follow her to be curious. Further, for God's sake, further from the lantern! and quickly, as quickly as possible, pass by. It will be a blessing if you get away with him pouring his stinking oil all over your smart frock coat. But except for the lantern, everything breathes deception. He lies at all times, this Nevsky Prospekt, but most of all when the night falls like a condensed mass on him and separates the white and fawn walls of the houses, when the whole city turns into thunder and brilliance, myriads of carriages fall from the bridges, postilions scream and jump on horses and when the demon himself lights the lamps just to show everything not in its real form.

There is nothing better than Nevsky Prospekt, at least in St. Petersburg; for him he is everything. Why does this street not shine - the beauty of our capital! I know that not one of its pale and bureaucratic residents would trade Nevsky Prospect for all the benefits. Not only those who are twenty-five years old, have a beautiful mustache and a wonderfully tailored frock coat, but even those who have white hairs popping out on their chin and whose head is smooth as a silver dish, are delighted with Nevsky Prospect. And the ladies! – Oh, ladies like Nevsky Prospect even more. And who doesn’t like it? As soon as you step onto Nevsky Prospekt, it already smells like a festivities. Even if you had some necessary, necessary work to do, once you get to it, you will probably forget about any work. Here is the only place where people are shown not out of necessity, where they have not been driven by necessity and the mercantile interest that embraces the whole of St. Petersburg. It seems that a person met on Nevsky Prospect is less selfish than in Morskaya, Gorokhovaya, Liteinaya, Meshchanskaya and other streets, where greed, self-interest, and need are expressed in those walking and flying in carriages and droshky. Nevsky Prospekt is the universal communication of St. Petersburg. Here, a resident of the St. Petersburg or Vyborg part, who has not visited his friend on Peski or at the Moscow outpost for several years, can be sure that he will certainly meet him. No address calendar or reference place will deliver such reliable news as Nevsky Prospekt. Almighty Nevsky Prospekt! The only entertainment of the poor during the St. Petersburg festivities! How clean 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 the very granite seems to crack, and the miniature, light as smoke, shoe 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, conducting there is a sharp scratch on it - everything takes out on it the power of strength or the power of weakness. What a rapid phantasmagoria takes place on it in just one day! How many changes will he endure in one day! Let's start from the very early morning, when all of St. Petersburg smells of hot, freshly baked bread and is filled with old women in tattered dresses and cloaks, making their raids on churches and compassionate passers-by. Then Nevsky Prospekt is empty: the stout shopkeepers and their commis are still sleeping in their Dutch shirts, or soaping their noble cheeks and drinking coffee; the beggars gather at the doors of the pastry shops, where the sleepy Ganymede, who flew yesterday like a fly with chocolate, crawls out with a broom in his hand without a tie and throws them stale pies and scraps. The right people trudge along the streets: sometimes Russian men, hurrying to work, cross the streets in boots stained with lime, which even the Catherine Canal, known for its cleanliness, would not be able to wash. At this time, it is usually indecent for ladies to go, 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 trudge along with a briefcase under his arm if his route to the department lies through Nevsky Prospekt. It can be said decisively that at this time, that is, before 12 o’clock, Nevsky Prospect does not constitute a goal for anyone, it serves only as a means: it is gradually filled with people who have their own occupations, their own worries, their own annoyances, but who do not think about it 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 or laughs at them, except perhaps the boys in motley robes with empty damasks , or ready-made boots in hands, running like lightning along Nevsky Prospekt. At this time, no matter what you put on yourself, even if you had a cap on your head instead of a hat, even if your collars stuck out too far from your tie, no one will notice it.

At 12 o'clock, tutors of all nations make raids on Nevsky Prospekt with their pets in cambric collars. The English Joneses and the French Cocks walk arm in arm with the pets entrusted to their parental care and with decent seriousness explain to them that the signs above the stores are made so that through them one can find out what is in the stores themselves. Governesses, pale misses and pink Slavs, walk majestically behind their light, nimble girls, ordering them to raise their shoulders a little higher and stand straighter; in short, at this time Nevsky Prospect was a pedagogical Nevsky Prospect. But the closer it gets to two o'clock, the fewer the number of tutors, teachers and children: they are finally forced out by their gentle parents, walking arm in arm with their motley, multi-colored, weak-nervous friends. Little by little, everyone joins their company, having completed quite important homework, having somehow talked with their doctor about the weather and about a small pimple that had popped up on the nose, having learned about the health of horses and their children, who, however, showed great talents, having read the poster and an important article in the newspapers about people coming and going, finally drinking a cup of coffee and tea; They are also joined by those whom an enviable fate has endowed with the blessed title of officials on special assignments. They are also joined by those who serve on a foreign board and are distinguished by the nobility of their occupations and habits. God, what wonderful positions and services there are! how they elevate 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 meet on Nevsky Prospekt is full of decorum: men in long frock coats with their hands in their pockets, ladies in pink, white and pale blue satin jackets and hats. Here you will find the only sideburns, worn with extraordinary and amazing art under a tie, velvet sideburns, satin sideburns, black as sable or coal, but, alas, belonging only to one foreign board. Providence has denied employees in other departments black sideburns; they must, to their greatest discomfort, wear red ones. Here you will meet a wonderful mustache, impossible to depict with any pen or brush; the mustache, to which the best half of life is dedicated, is the subject of long vigils during the day and night, the mustache, on which the most delicious perfumes and aromas have been poured and which have been anointed with all the most precious and rare varieties of lipsticks, the mustache, which is wrapped at night in thin vellum paper, the mustache, to who breathe the most touching affection of their possessors and who are the envy of those passing by. Thousands of varieties of hats, dresses, colorful scarves, light ones, to which sometimes the affection of their owners remains for two whole days, will dazzle 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 black male beetles. Here you will meet such waists as you have never even dreamed of: thin, narrow waists no thicker than the neck of a bottle, when you meet them you will respectfully step aside, so as not to somehow carelessly push with an impolite elbow; timidity and fear will take possession of your heart, lest somehow even your careless breathing break the most beautiful work of nature and art. And what kind of ladies' sleeves you will see on Nevsky Prospekt! Oh, how lovely! They are somewhat similar to 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 your mouth. Nowhere do people bow as nobly and naturally when they meet each other as on Nevsky Prospekt. Here you will meet the only smile, a smile that is the height of art, sometimes such that you can melt with pleasure, sometimes such that you suddenly see yourself lower than the grass and lower your head, sometimes such that you feel taller than the Admiralty Spitz and raise it up. Here you will find people talking about a concert or the weather with extraordinary nobility and self-esteem. Here you will meet a thousand incomprehensible characters and phenomena. Creator! what strange characters one meets on Nevsky Prospekt! There are many such people who, having met you, will certainly look at your boots, and if you pass, they will turn back to look at your coattails. I still can't understand why this happens. At first I thought that they were shoemakers, but this was not the case at all: they mostly serve in different departments, many of them are excellent at writing statements from one government place to another; or people who go for walks, read newspapers, or go to the pastry shop; in a word, for the most part, they are all decent people. At this blessed time from 2 to 3 o'clock in the afternoon, which can be called the moving capital of Nevsky Prospect, the main exhibition of all the best works of man takes place. One shows a dandy frock coat with the best beaver, another - a beautiful Greek nose, a third has excellent sideburns, a fourth - a pair of pretty eyes and an amazing hat, a fifth - a ring with a talisman on a dandy little finger, a sixth - a foot in a charming shoe, a seventh - a tie that excites surprise , the eighth is a mustache that plunges into amazement. But three o'clock strikes, and the exhibition ends, the crowd thins out … At three o'clock there is a new change. Spring suddenly arrives on Nevsky Prospect: it is covered all over with officials in green vice 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 Prospect with a posture showing that they did not sit for 6 hours in the presence. But the old collegiate secretaries, titular and court councilors walk quickly, with their heads down: they have no time to look at passers-by; they have not yet completely detached themselves from their worries; in their head there is a jumble and a whole archive of started and unfinished things; For a long time, instead of a sign, they are shown a cardboard with papers, or the full face of the ruler of the chancellery.

Tatyana Alekseevna KALGANOVA (1941) - Candidate of Pedagogical Sciences, Associate Professor at the Institute for Advanced Training and Retraining of Public Education Workers of the Moscow Region; author of many works on methods of teaching literature at school.

Study of the story by N.V. Gogol's "Nevsky Prospekt" in 10th grade

Work materials for teachers

From the history of the creation of the story

“Nevsky Prospekt” was first published in the collection “Arabesques” (1835), which was highly appreciated by V.G. Belinsky. Gogol began working on the story during the creation of “Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka” (around 1831). His notebook contains sketches of “Nevsky Prospekt” along with rough notes of “The Night Before Christmas” and “Portrait”.

Gogol's stories "Nevsky Prospekt", "Notes of a Madman", "Portrait" (1835), "The Nose" (1836), "The Overcoat" (1842) belong to the cycle of St. Petersburg stories. The writer himself did not combine them into a special cycle. All of them were written at different times, do not have a common narrator or fictional publisher, but entered Russian literature and culture as an artistic whole, as a cycle. This happened because the stories are united by a common theme (the life of St. Petersburg), problems (reflection of social contradictions), the similarity of the main character (“little man”), and the integrity of the author’s position (satirical exposure of the vices of people and society).

Subject of the story

The main theme of the story is the life of St. Petersburg and the fate of the “little man” in the big city with its social contrasts, causing a discord between ideas about the ideal and reality. Along with the main theme, the themes of people's indifference, the replacement of spirituality with mercantile interests, the corruption of love, and the harmful effects of drugs on humans are revealed.

Plot and composition of the story

They become clear during the conversation. Sample questions.

What role does the description of Nevsky Prospect play at the beginning of the story?

What moment is the beginning of the action?

What is the fate of Piskarev?

What is the fate of Pirogov?

What role does the description of Nevsky Prospect play in the ending of the story?

Gogol combines in the story the image of general, typical aspects of life in a big city with the fate of individual heroes. The general picture of life in St. Petersburg is revealed in the description of Nevsky Prospect, as well as in the author’s generalizations throughout the narrative. Thus, the fate of the hero is given in the general movement of the life of the city.

The description of Nevsky Prospect at the beginning of the story is an exposition. The unexpected exclamation of Lieutenant Pirogov addressed to Piskarev, their dialogue and following the beautiful strangers is the beginning of the action with two contrasting endings. The story also ends with a description of Nevsky Prospekt and the author’s reasoning about it, which is a compositional device that contains both a generalization and a conclusion that reveals the idea of ​​the story.

Description of Nevsky Prospekt

Considered during the conversation. Sample questions.

What role does Nevsky Prospekt play in the life of the city, and how does the author feel about it?

How are the social contrasts and disunity of the city residents shown?

How is the discrepancy between the ostentatious side of the life of the noble class and its true essence revealed? What qualities of people does the author ridicule?

How does the demon motif arise in the description of the evening Nevsky Prospect at the beginning of the story? How is it continued in the subsequent narrative?

How are the descriptions of Nevsky Prospekt at the beginning of the story and at the end connected?

The author begins the story with solemnly upbeat phrases about Nevsky Prospekt and notes that this is “the universal communication of St. Petersburg,” a place where you can get “true news” better than in the address calendar or in the information service, this is a place for walking, this is an “exhibition all the best works of man." At the same time, Nevsky Prospect is a mirror of the capital, which reflects its life, it is the personification of the whole of St. Petersburg with its striking contrasts.

Literary scholars believe that the description of Nevsky Prospekt at the beginning of the story represents a kind of “physiological” sketch of St. Petersburg. Its depiction at different times of the day allows the author to characterize the social structure of the city. First of all, he singles out ordinary working people, on whom all life rests, and for them Nevsky Prospekt is not a goal, “it serves only as a means.”

Ordinary people are opposed to the nobility, for whom Nevsky Prospect is the goal - this is a place where one can show oneself. The story about the “pedagogical” Nevsky Prospekt with “tutors of all nations” and their students, as well as about nobles and officials walking along the avenue, is permeated with irony.

Showing the falsehood of Nevsky Prospect, the seamy side of life hidden behind its ceremonial appearance, its tragic side, exposing the emptiness of the inner world of those walking along it, their hypocrisy, the author uses ironic pathos. This is emphasized by the fact that instead of people, the details of their appearance or clothing act: “Here you will meet a wonderful mustache, impossible to depict with any pen or brush.”<...>Thousands of varieties of hats, dresses, scarves<...>Here you will find such waists as you have never even dreamed of.<...>And what kind of long sleeves you will find.”

The description of the avenue is given in a realistic manner, at the same time, the story about the changes on Nevsky is preceded by the phrase: “What a fast phantasmagoria is happening on it in just one day.” The illusory, deceptive nature of the evening Nevsky Prospect is explained not only by twilight, the bizarre light of lanterns and lamps, but also by the action of an unconscious, mysterious force influencing a person: “At this time, some kind of goal is felt, or, better, something similar to a goal that something extremely unaccountable; Everyone’s steps speed up and generally become very uneven. Long shadows flicker along the walls of the pavement and almost reach the Police Bridge with their heads.” Thus, fantasy and the demon motif are included in the description of Nevsky Prospect.

The hero’s experiences and actions are explained, it would seem, by his psychological state, but they can also be perceived as the actions of a demon: “...The beauty looked around, and it seemed to him as if a light smile flashed on her lips. He trembled all over and couldn’t believe his eyes<...>The sidewalk rushed under him, carriages with galloping horses seemed motionless, the bridge stretched and broke on its arch, the house stood with its roof down, the booth was falling towards him, and the sentry's halberd, along with the golden words of the sign and painted scissors, seemed to shine on his very eyelash eye. And all this was accomplished by one glance, one turn of the pretty head. Without hearing, without seeing, without heeding, he rushed along the light tracks of beautiful legs...”

Piskarev’s fantastic dream can also be explained in two ways: “The extraordinary diversity of faces led him into complete confusion; it seemed to him that some demon had chopped up the whole world into many different pieces and mixed all these pieces together without meaning, to no avail.”

At the end of the story, the motive of the demon is revealed openly: the source of lies and falsehood of the incomprehensible game with the destinies of people, according to the author, is the demon: “Oh, don’t believe this Nevsky Prospect!<...>Everything is a deception, everything is a dream, everything is not what it seems!<...>He lies at all times, this Nevsky Prospekt, but most of all, when the night falls like a condensed mass on him and separates the white and fawn walls of the houses, when the whole city turns into thunder and brilliance, myriads of carriages fall from the bridges, postilions shout and jump on horses and when the demon himself lights the lamps only to show everything in an unreal form.”

Artist Piskarev

Sample questions for conversation.

Why did Piskarev follow the girl? How does the author convey his feeling?

Who was the girl? Why did Piskarev escape from the “disgusting shelter”?

How does a girl's appearance change?

Why did Piskarev choose real life over illusions? Could illusions replace real life for him?

How did Piskarev die, why was he wrong in his crazy act?

Piskarev is a young man, an artist, belongs to people of art, and this is his unusualness. The author says that he belongs to the “class” of artists, to a “strange class,” thereby emphasizing the typicality of the hero.

Like other young artists of St. Petersburg, the author characterizes Piskarev as a poor man, living in a small room, content with what he has, but striving for wealth. This is a “quiet, timid, modest, childishly simple-minded person who carried within himself a spark of talent, which, perhaps, over time flared up widely and brightly,” a person. The hero's surname emphasizes his ordinariness and recalls the type of “little man” in literature.

Piskarev believes in the harmony of goodness and beauty, pure, sincere love, and lofty ideals. He followed the stranger only because he saw in her the ideal of beauty and purity; she reminded him of Perugin’s Bianca. But the beautiful stranger turned out to be a prostitute, and Piskarev tragically experiences the collapse of his ideals. The charm of beauty and innocence turned out to be a deception. Ruthless reality destroyed his dreams, and the artist fled from the disgusting shelter where he was brought by a seventeen-year-old beauty, whose beauty, which had not had time to fade from debauchery, was not combined with a smile filled with “some kind of pathetic impudence,” all she said was “ stupid and vulgar<...>It’s as if the person’s mind leaves along with his integrity.”

The author, sharing Piskarev’s shocked feeling, writes with bitterness: “...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 to herself the grasp and impudence of a man and has already ceased to be that weak, that beautiful and so different from us being.”

Piskarev is unable to bear the fact that the beauty of a woman who gives the world new life can be an object of trade, because this is a desecration of beauty, love and humanity. He was overcome by a feeling of “tearing pity,” the author notes and explains: “In fact, pity never takes possession of us so strongly as at the sight of beauty touched by the corrupting breath of depravity. Even if ugliness were friends with him, but beauty, tender beauty... it merges only with purity and purity in our thoughts.”

Being under strong psychological stress, Piskarev has a dream in which his beauty appears as a society lady, trying to explain her visit to the shelter with her secret. The dream inspired Piskarev with hope, which was destroyed by the cruel and vulgar side of life: “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.” Therefore, he tries artificially, by taking the drug, to go into the world of dreams and illusions. However, dreams and illusions cannot replace real life.

The dream of quiet happiness in a village house, of a modest life provided for by one’s own labor, is rejected by the fallen beauty. “How can you! - she interrupted her speech with an expression of some kind of contempt. “I’m not a laundress or a seamstress to do the work.” Assessing the situation, the author says: “These words expressed the entire low, despicable life, a life filled with emptiness and idleness, faithful companions of depravity.” And further, in the author’s thoughts about the beauty, the demon’s motif again arises: “... She was thrown with laughter into its abyss by some terrible will of a hellish spirit, eager to destroy the harmony of life.” During the time that the artist did not see the girl, she changed for the worse - sleepless nights of debauchery and drunkenness were reflected on her face.

The poor artist could not survive, as the author puts it, “the eternal conflict between dreams and reality.” He could not stand the confrontation with harsh reality; the drug completely destroyed his psyche, depriving him of the opportunity to do work and resist fate. Piskarev commits suicide. He is wrong in this crazy act: the Christian religion considers life the greatest good, and suicide a great sin. Also, from the point of view of secular morality, taking one’s life is unacceptable - this is a passive form of resolving life’s contradictions, for an active person can always find a way out of the most difficult, seemingly insoluble situations.

Lieutenant Pirogov

Sample questions for conversation.

Why did Pirogov follow the blonde?

Where did Pirogov end up after the beauty, who did she turn out to be?

Why is Pirogov courting a married lady?

What is ridiculed in the image of Schiller?

How does Pirogov's story end?

What is being ridiculed in the image of Pirogov, and how does the author do it?

What is the meaning of comparing the images of Piskarev and Pirogov?

The author says about Lieutenant Pirogov that officers like him constitute “some kind of middle class of society in St. Petersburg,” thereby emphasizing the typical character of the hero. Talking about these officers, the author, of course, characterizes Pirogov.

In their circle they are considered educated people because they know how to entertain women, they like to talk about literature: “they praise Bulgarin, Pushkin and Grech and speak with contempt and witty barbs about A.A. Orlov,” that is, they put Pushkin and Bulgarin on a par, the author ironically notes. They go to the theater to show themselves. Their life goal is to “earn the rank of colonel” and achieve a wealthy position. They usually “marry a merchant’s daughter who can play the piano, with a hundred thousand or so in cash and a bunch of big-haired relatives.”

Characterizing Pirogov, the author talks about his talents, in fact, reveals such of his traits as careerism, narrow-mindedness, arrogance, self-confident vulgarity, and the desire to imitate what is in fashion among a select public.

For Pirogov, love is just an interesting adventure, an “affair” that you can brag about to your friends. The lieutenant, not at all embarrassed, rather vulgarly looks after the wife of the artisan Schiller and is sure that “his courtesy and brilliant rank give him full right to her attention.” He does not bother himself at all with thoughts about life's problems, he strives for pleasure.

The test of Pirogov’s honor and dignity was the “section” to which Schiller subjected him. Quickly forgetting his insult, he discovered a complete lack of human dignity: “he spent the evening with pleasure and distinguished himself so much in the mazurka that he delighted not only the ladies, but even the gentlemen.”

The images of Pirogov and Piskarev are associated with opposing moral principles in the characters’ characters. The comic image of Pirogov is contrasted with the tragic image of Piskarev. “Piskarev and Pirogov - what a contrast! Both of them began on the same day, at the same hour, the pursuit of their beauties, and how different were the consequences of these pursuits for both of them! Oh, what meaning is hidden in this contrast! And what an effect this contrast produces!” - wrote V.G. Belinsky.

Schiller, tinsmith

Images of German craftsmen - tinsmith master Schiller, shoemaker Hoffmann, carpenter Kunz - complement the social picture of St. Petersburg. Schiller is the embodiment of commercialism. Accumulating money is the goal of this artisan’s life, therefore strict calculation, limiting himself in everything, suppressing sincere human feelings determine his behavior. At the same time, jealousy awakens a sense of dignity in Schiller, and he, while drunk, not thinking about the consequences at that moment, together with his friends, flogged Pirogov.

In the draft version, the hero's surname was Palitrin.

This refers to a painting by the artist Perugino (1446–1524), Raphael’s teacher.

The article was published with the support of the online store MSK-MODA.ru. By following the link http://msk-moda.ru/woman/platya, you will get acquainted with a truly amazing (more than 200 models) assortment of evening dresses. The site's convenient search engine will help you choose stylish clothes or shoes according to your sizes and preferences. Follow fashion trends with the website MSK-MODA.ru!

The first of the St. Petersburg stories opens with the theme of Nevsky Prospect. Its pages dedicated to the main street of the city act as a prologue to the entire cycle. N.V. Gogol affectionately calls this avenue the beauty of the capital. But this beauty is very deceptive and brought happiness to few people. Here we see a kind of ironic hymn to Nevsky Prospekt, which is simply an exhibition of human prosperity in life, where “it smells like a party,” where “greed and self-interest” flourish and a quick “phantasmagoria occurs in just one day.” The capital of noble Russia, of which Nevsky Prospect is a reflection, from the outside is an exhibition of luxury, fashionable splendor and pomp, dazzling a poor dreamer like Piskarev. But behind the shiny façade of the noble monarchy lies a deep social decline. The brilliance and beauty, the captivating intoxication and bustle of metropolitan life is a deception, under the cover of which lies the perversion of all human values, passions and concepts - this is the final conclusion of the satirical author.

It is no coincidence that the story opens with a description of Nevsky Prospect and the entire motley line of people of different ages and conditions that change along it. The panorama of Nevsky Prospekt, pictures of his life at different hours - from morning to evening - allow N.V. Gogol to give a kind of physiological “cross-section” of St. Petersburg. The handsome prospect amazes the imagination with thousands of varieties of “hats, dresses, scarves”, thousands of “incomprehensible characters”. The multicolored colors of a walking or hurrying crowd reflect, as in a mirror, the life of the entire huge city. However, the beauty of the noisy avenue is illusory and deceptive. In the morning there “smells of hot bread” and “beggars gather at the doors of the pastry shops.” A dray driver drags the “poor man’s red coffin.” In the evening, “the watchman... climbs... to light the lantern” and the houses begin to “flicker with a deceptive light.” If daylight dims the character of the avenue, if the people flashing along it during the day overshadow the city’s own appearance, then in the evening it is on its own: “it comes to life and begins to move.” People are not so noticeable at dusk and at night - their shadows are more visible: “long shadows flicker along the walls and pavement and almost reach the Police Bridge with their heads.”

N.V. Gogol presents the image of St. Petersburg through the eyes of local artists: “land of snow”, “everything is wet, smooth, smooth, gray, foggy”, “quiet art”, “small room”, “bare walls”, “beggar old woman” , “dust”, “walls stained with paints, with an open window through which the pale Neva and poor fishermen in red shirts flash,” “grey, muddy coloring”...

And the artists themselves are not like the Italian ones, who are proud and ardent, like Italy itself. These are St. Petersburg painters - meek, shy. For Piskarev there is no magical light of the night Nevsky Prospect. His path is illuminated by the deceptive light of a lonely street lamp. N.V. Gogol characterizes the room where Piskarev ends up as “a disgusting shelter, where pathetic debauchery, generated by the tawdry education and terrible crowdedness of the capital, founded his home.” There is an “unpleasant disorder, ... bare walls and windows” covered with gray cobwebs. The inhabitants of this dwelling amaze with the “wear and tear” of their faces.

The city itself turns into mystical visions in his experiences, which confirms the absurdity of the world, which has lost its meaning, which has lost the spiritual vertical that organizes it. “The sidewalk rushed under him, the carriages with galloping horses seemed motionless, the bridge stretched and broke on its arch, the house stood with its roof down, the booth was falling towards it...” The city seemed to be alive. It is as if he is gradually absorbing an artist who is losing touch with a real, measured, dreamless life.

“Oh, don’t believe this Nevsky Prospect! I always wrap myself tightly in my cloak and try not to look at all the objects I meet. Everything is a deception, everything is a dream, everything is not what it seems!.. everything breathes deception. He lies at any time, this Nevsky Prospekt, but most of all when the night falls like a condensed mass on him and separates the white and fawn walls of the houses, when the whole city turns into thunder and shine, myriads of carriages fall from the bridges, postilions scream and jump on horses, and when the demon himself lights the lamps just to show everything not in its real form,” exclaims N.V. Gogol. This phrase can be considered the leitmotif of all St. Petersburg stories. The picture of everyday life on Nevsky Prospekt is not only the place where the story of Piskarev and Pirogov developed. It serves as a kind of introduction to all the stories and allows the writer from the very beginning to highlight the central theme of St. Petersburg for the entire cycle, which is closely related to the theme of the present and future of Russia. V. Belinsky wrote: “Piskarev and Pirogov - what a contrast!.. Oh, what meaning is hidden in this contrast! And what an effect this contrast produces! Piskarev and Pirogov, one in the grave, the other satisfied and happy, even after unsuccessful red tape and terrible beatings! Such is Petersburg, the city of “crosses and stars”: the best perish, the vulgar and limited prosper.

The heroes here exist on the border of the real and the fantastic: life with a strong dream - and death in the end; inability to fight for a dream - and a calm continuation of later life; life with an idea - or without it; desired – and actual.

Both Piskarev and Pirogov are trying to make different in purpose, but essentially identical flights to what they want and fall - from a greater or lesser height. But from above - “everything is not what it seems”: the one who was mistaken for an ideal beauty turned out to be a girl of easy virtue, the one about whom one immediately thought badly turned out to be an ordinary woman.

The idea of ​​the story “Nevsky Prospekt” lies in the eternal conflict between dreams and reality. It's amazing how incomprehensibly fate plays with people.

Nevsky Prospekt is not just a place where the action takes place, it is a hero who changes his appearance at different times of the day. A comparison of the initial and final parts of the story “Nevsky Prospekt” makes you think about this: if the “beautiful street” of the capital, which “makes up everything” for St. Petersburg, “lies at all times,” what then is the whole city? The time of twilight plays a special role in the writer’s St. Petersburg works. It is in the uncertain and tempting light of the lamps that everything is somehow distorted or, conversely, acquires its true qualities. When defining Gogol's city with adjectives, the ones most often used are those associated with its mirage: mysterious, unstable, variable, changing, doubling, unsteady, deceptive, and so on. This demonic image personifies the spirit of St. Petersburg by N.V. Gogol.