Stolz was only half German, through his father: his mother was Russian; he professed the Orthodox faith; His natural speech was Russian: he learned it from his mother and from books, in the university classroom and in games with village boys, in discussions with their fathers and in Moscow bazaars. He inherited the German language from his father and from books.
In the village of Verkhlev, where his father was a manager, Stolz grew up and was brought up. From the age of eight, he sat with his father at the geographical map, sorted through the warehouses of Herder, Wieland, biblical verses and summed up the illiterate accounts of peasants, townspeople and factory workers, and with his mother he read the Sacred History, learned Krylov’s fables and sorted out the Telemak from warehouses.
Taking off from the pointer, he ran to destroy birds' nests with the boys, and often, in the middle of class or during prayer, the squeak of jackdaws could be heard from his pocket.
It also happened that the father sat in the afternoon under a tree in the garden and smoked a pipe, and the mother knitted some kind of sweatshirt or embroidered on canvas; suddenly there is noise and screams from the street, and a whole crowd of people rushes into the house.
What's happened? - asks the frightened mother.
That’s right, they’re taking Andrei again,” the father says calmly.
The doors swing open, and a crowd of men, women, and boys invade the garden. In fact, they brought Andrei - but in what form: without boots, with a torn dress and with a broken nose, either from himself or from another boy.
Mother always watched with concern as Andryusha disappeared from the house for half a day, and if only for his father’s positive prohibition against disturbing him, she would have kept him near her.
She will wash him, change his underwear and dress, and Andryusha walks around like this clean, well-bred boy for half a day, and in the evening, sometimes in the morning, someone will bring him back again, dirty, disheveled, unrecognizable, or the men will bring him on a cart with hay, or, Finally, he will arrive with the fishermen on a boat, falling asleep on the net.
The mother is in tears, but the father is okay, still laughing.
There will be a good bursh, a good bursh! - he will sometimes say.
Have mercy, Ivan Bogdanich,” she complained, “not a day goes by without him returning without a blue spot, and the other day he broke his nose until it bled.”
What kind of child is he who has never broken his own or another’s nose? - the father said with a laugh.
The mother will cry, cry, then sit down at the piano and lose herself in Hertz: tears fall one after another onto the keys. But then Andryusha comes or they will bring him; he will begin to tell the story so smartly, so vividly that he will make her laugh too, and besides, he is so understanding! Soon he began to read "Telemacus" like she did, and play four hands with her.
Once he disappeared for a week: his mother cried her eyes out, and his father did nothing - he walked around the garden and smoked.
Now, if Oblomov’s son disappeared,” he said in response to his wife’s proposal to go look for Andrei, “then I would raise the whole village and the zemstvo police to their feet, and Andrei would come.” Oh, good bursh!
The next day, Andrei was found sleeping peacefully in his bed, and under the bed lay someone’s gun and a pound of gunpowder and shot.
Where have you been? Where did you get the gun? - the mother bombarded her with questions. - Why are you silent?
So! - was the only answer.
My father asked if he had a translation from Cornelius Nepos into German ready.
No, he answered.
His father took him by the collar with one hand, led him out the gate, put his cap on his head and kicked him from behind so that he knocked him off his feet.
Go where you came from,” he added, “and come again with a translation, instead of one, two chapters, and teach your mother the role from the French comedy that she asked: don’t show up without it!”
Andrey returned a week later and brought the translation and learned the role.
When he grew up, his father put him on a spring cart, gave him the reins and ordered him to take him to the factory, then to the fields, then to the city, to the merchants, to public places, then to look at some clay, which he would take on his finger, smell, sometimes he’ll lick it and let his son smell it, and explain what it’s like and what it’s good for. Otherwise, they will go to see how potash or tar is mined, how lard is melted.
At the age of fourteen or fifteen, the boy often went alone, in a cart or on horseback, with a bag at the saddle, on errands from his father to the city, and it never happened that he forgot something, changed it, didn’t notice, or made a mistake.
She didn’t quite like this laborious, practical upbringing. She was afraid that her son would become the same German burgher that his father came from. She looked at the entire German nation as a crowd of patented philistines, did not like the rudeness, independence and arrogance with which the German masses everywhere present their burgher rights developed over a thousand years, like a cow wears its horns, not knowing how to hide them.
In her opinion, there was not and could not be a single gentleman in the entire German nation. In the German character she did not notice any softness, delicacy, condescension, nothing that makes life so pleasant in a good light, with which you can circumvent some rule, violate a general custom, disobey the rules.
No, these ignoramuses are just pushing, they’re pushing for what they’re supposed to do, they’re taking it into their heads, they’re ready to even punch a wall with their foreheads just to act according to the rules.
She lived as a governess in a rich house and had the opportunity to be abroad, traveled all over Germany and mixed all the Germans into one crowd of clerks, artisans, merchants, straight as a stick, officers with soldiers and officials with everyday faces, smoking short pipes and spitting through their teeth, capable only of menial work, of hard-earned money-making, of vulgar order, of boring regularity of life and pedantic performance of duties: all these burghers with angular manners, with large, rough hands, with a bourgeois freshness in their faces and with rude speech.
“No matter how you dress a German,” she thought, “whatever thin and white shirt he puts on, let him put on patent leather boots, even put on yellow gloves, but he’s all cut as if from shoe leather; Hard and reddish hands still stick out from under the white cuffs, and from under the elegant suit peeks out, if not the baker, then the barman. These tough hands just beg to be taken up with an awl or many, many - what a bow in an orchestra.”
And in her son she saw the ideal of a gentleman, although an upstart, from a black body, from a burgher’s father, but still the son of a Russian noblewoman, still a white, beautifully built boy, with such small hands and feet, with a clean face, with a clear, with a lively look, the kind she had seen enough of in a rich Russian house, and also abroad, of course, not with the Germans.
And suddenly he will almost be turning the millstones in the mill himself, returning home from factories and fields, like his father: covered in lard, covered in manure, with red-dirty, calloused hands, with a wolfish appetite!
She rushed to cut Andryusha’s nails, curl his curls, sew elegant collars and shirtfronts; I ordered jackets in the city; taught him to listen to the thoughtful sounds of Hertz, sang to him about flowers, about the poetry of life, whispered about the brilliant calling of either a warrior or a writer, dreamed with him of the high role that falls to others...
And this whole prospect must be crushed by the clicking of bills, from sorting through the men’s oily receipts, from the treatment of factory workers!
She even hated the cart on which Andryusha went to town, and the oilskin raincoat that his father gave him, and the green suede gloves - all the rough attributes of working life.
Unfortunately, Andryusha was an excellent student, and his father made him a tutor in his small boarding school.
Well, so be it; but he paid him a salary, as a craftsman, completely in German: ten rubles a month, and forced him to sign a book.
Take comfort, good mother: your son grew up on Russian soil - not in the everyday crowd, with burgher cow horns, with hands turning millstones. Oblomovka was nearby: there was an eternal holiday there! There, work is lifted off one's shoulders like a yoke; there the master does not get up at dawn and does not walk around the factories near the wheels and springs smeared with lard and oil.
And in Verkhlev itself there is, although most of the year there is an empty, locked house, but a playful boy often climbs in there, and there he sees long halls and galleries, dark portraits on the walls, not with rough freshness, not with hard big hands - he sees languid blue eyes, powdered hair, white, pampered faces, full breasts, delicate blue-veined hands in fluttering cuffs, proudly placed on the hilt of a sword; sees a series of noble and useless things in the bliss of passing generations, in brocade, velvet and lace.
He goes through the history of glorious times, battles, names; there he reads a story about the old days, not the same as his father told him a hundred times, spitting over his pipe, about life in Saxony, between rutabaga and potatoes, between the market and the vegetable garden...
About three years later, this castle was suddenly filled with people, seething with life, holidays, balls; lights shone in the long galleries at night.
The prince and princess arrived with their family: the prince, a gray-haired old man, with a faded parchment face, dull bulging eyes and a large bald forehead, with three stars, with a golden snuff-box, with a cane with a yakhont knob, in velvet boots; The princess is a woman of majestic beauty, height and volume, to whom, it seems, no one ever came close, hugged or kissed her, not even the prince himself, although she had five children.
She seemed higher than the world into which she descended three times a year; She didn’t talk to anyone, didn’t go anywhere, but sat in a green coal room with three old women, and across the garden, on foot, along the covered gallery, went to church and sat on a chair behind the screens.
But in the house, besides the prince and princess, there was a whole, such a cheerful and living world that Andryusha, with his childish green eyes, suddenly looked into three or four different spheres, with a lively mind he greedily and unconsciously observed the types of this heterogeneous crowd, like the motley phenomena of a masquerade.
There were princes Pierre and Michel, of whom the first immediately taught Andryusha how to beat zorya in the cavalry and infantry, what sabers and spurs are hussars and what dragoons, what colors of horses are in each regiment and where you must definitely enroll after training so as not to disgrace yourself.
The other one, Michel, had just met Andryusha, when he put him in a position and began to do amazing things with his fists, hitting Andryusha in the nose, then in the belly, then he said that this was an English fight.
Three days later, Andrei, based only on village freshness and with the help of his muscular arms, broke his nose in both the English and Russian ways, without any science, and gained authority from both princes.
There were two more princesses, girls eleven and twelve years old, tall, slender, smartly dressed, who did not speak to anyone, did not bow to anyone, and were afraid of men.
There was their governess, Mlle Ernestine, who went to Andryusha’s mother for coffee and taught him how to make curls. She sometimes took his head, put it on her knees and curled it into pieces of paper until it hurt greatly, then she took both cheeks with her white hands and kissed it so tenderly!
Then there was a German who sharpened snuff boxes and buttons on a machine, then a music teacher who got drunk from Sunday to Sunday, then a whole gang of maids, and finally a pack of dogs.
All this filled the house and village with noise, din, knocking, clicks and music.
On the one hand, Oblomovka, on the other, the princely castle, with a wide expanse of lordly life, met the German element, and neither a good bursh nor even a philistine came out of Andrei.
Andryusha's father was an agronomist, technologist, and teacher. From his father, a farmer, he took practical lessons in agronomy, studied technology in Saxon factories, and at the nearby university, where there were about forty professors, he received a calling to teach what forty wise men somehow managed to explain to him.
Since then, Ivan Bogdanovich has not seen either his homeland or his father. For six years he traveled around Switzerland and Austria, and for twenty years he has lived in Russia and blesses his destiny.
He was at the university and decided that his son should also be there - there was no need, that it would not be a German university, there was no need, that a Russian university would have to make a revolution in the life of his son and take him far from the path that his father had mentally laid out in my son's life.
And he did it very simply: he took the track from his grandfather and continued it, as if on a ruler, to his future grandson, and was calm, not suspecting that Hertz’s variations, the dreams and stories of his mother, the gallery and boudoir in the princely castle would turn the narrow German rut on such a wide road that neither his grandfather, nor his father, nor himself had ever dreamed of.
However, he was not a pedant in this case and would not have insisted on his own; he just would not have been able to outline in his mind another path for his son.
He cared little about it. When his son returned from the university and lived at home for three months, the father said that he had nothing more to do in Verkhlev, that even Oblomov had been sent to St. Petersburg, and that, therefore, it was time for him too.
Why did he need to go to St. Petersburg, why couldn’t he stay in Verkhlev and help manage the estate - the old man didn’t ask himself about this; he only remembered that when he himself finished his course of study, his father sent him away.
And he sent his son away - this is the custom in Germany. The mother was not in the world, and there was no one to contradict.
On the day of departure, Ivan Bogdanovich gave his son one hundred rubles in banknotes.
“You will ride on horseback to the provincial town,” he said. - There, receive three hundred and fifty rubles from Kalinnikov, and leave the horse with him. If he is not there, sell the horse; there will be a fair soon; they will give four hundred rubles and not for the hunter. It will cost you forty rubles to get to Moscow, and from there to St. Petersburg - seventy-five; enough will remain. Then - as you wish. You did business with me, so you know that I have some capital; but don’t count on him before my death, and I’ll probably live another twenty years, unless a stone falls on my head. The lamp burns brightly and there is a lot of oil in it. You are well educated: all careers are open to you; you can serve, trade, or even write, perhaps - I don’t know what you will choose, what you feel more inclined to do...
“Yes, I’ll see if it’s possible for everyone,” Andrey said.
The father laughed with all his might and began to pat his son on the shoulder so hard that even a horse could not stand it. Andrey nothing.
Well, if you don’t have the skill, you won’t be able to find your way on your own, you’ll need advice, ask - go to Reingold: he’ll teach you. ABOUT! - he added, raising his fingers up and shaking his head. - This... this (he wanted to praise and couldn’t find the words)... We came from Saxony together. He has a four-story house. I'll tell you the address...
“Don’t, don’t talk,” Andrei objected, “I’ll go to him when I have a four-story house, but now I’ll do without him...
Again a tap on the shoulder.
Andrey jumped onto his horse. Two bags were tied to the saddle: in one there was an oilskin raincoat and thick, nail-lined boots and several shirts made of Verkhlevsky linen were visible - things bought and taken at the insistence of the father; in the other lay an elegant tailcoat of fine cloth, a shaggy coat, a dozen thin shirts and boots ordered in Moscow, in memory of his mother’s instructions.
Well! - said the father.
Well! - said the son.
All? - asked the father.
All! - answered the son.
They looked at each other silently, as if they were piercing right through each other with their gaze.
Meanwhile, a bunch of curious neighbors gathered around to watch, with their mouths open, how the manager would let his son go to someone else’s side.
Father and son shook hands. Andrey rode with a long stride.
What a puppy: not a tear! - the neighbors said. - There are two crows just sitting there, cawing on the fence: they will caw at him - just wait a minute!..
What does he care about crows? He wanders alone in the forest at night on Ivan Kupala: this doesn’t bother them, brothers. A Russian wouldn't get away with it!..
And the old one is damn good! - one mother remarked. - It’s like he threw a kitten out into the street: he didn’t hug him, he didn’t howl!
Stop! Stop, Andrey! - the old man shouted.
Andrey stopped the horse.
A! Apparently he spoke zealously! - they said in the crowd with approval.
Well? - asked Andrey.
The girth is weak, it needs to be tightened.
I’ll get to Shamshevka and fix it myself. There is no point in wasting time, we must arrive before dark.
Well! - said the father, waving his hand.
Well! - the son repeated, nodding his head and, bending down a little, just wanted to spur his horse.
Oh, you dogs, really, dogs! Like strangers! - the neighbors said.
But suddenly a loud cry was heard in the crowd: some woman could not stand it.
Father, you little light! - she said, wiping her eyes with the end of her headscarf. - Poor orphan! You don’t have a dear mother, there’s no one to bless you... Let me at least rebaptize you, my handsome man!..
Andrei rode up to her, jumped off his horse, hugged the old woman, then wanted to ride - and suddenly began to cry while she baptized and kissed him. In her hot words it was as if he heard his mother’s voice, and for a moment her tender image appeared.
He hugged the woman tightly, quickly wiped away his tears and jumped onto his horse. He hit her sides and disappeared in a cloud of dust; three mongrels desperately rushed after him from both sides and burst into barking.
Stolz is the same age as Oblomov: and he is already over thirty years old. He served, retired, went about his own business, and actually made a home and money. He is involved in some company that ships goods abroad.
He is constantly on the move: if society needs to send an agent to Belgium or England, they send him; you need to write some project or adapt a new idea to business - they choose it. Meanwhile, he goes out into the world and reads: when he has time, God knows.
He is all made up of bones, muscles and nerves, like a blooded English horse. He is thin, he has almost no cheeks at all, that is, he has bone and muscle, but no sign of fatty roundness; complexion is even, darkish and no blush; The eyes, although a little greenish, are expressive.
He had no unnecessary movements. If he was sitting, he sat quietly, but if he acted, he used as many facial expressions as necessary.
Just as he had nothing superfluous in his body, so in the moral practices of his life he sought a balance between the practical aspects and the subtle needs of the spirit. The two sides walked parallel, crossing and intertwining along the way, but never getting tangled in heavy, insoluble knots.
He walked firmly, cheerfully; lived according to a budget, trying to spend every day, like every ruble, with every minute, never dozing control of the time spent, labor, strength of soul and heart.
It seems that he controlled both sorrows and joys, like the movement of his hands, the steps of his feet, or how he dealt with bad and good weather.
He opened his umbrella while it was raining, that is, he suffered while the grief lasted, and he suffered without timid submission, but rather with annoyance, with pride, and endured it patiently only because he attributed the cause of all suffering to himself, and did not hang it up like a caftan , on someone else's nail.
And he enjoyed joy like a flower plucked along the way, until it withered in his hands, never finishing the cup to that drop of bitterness that lies at the end of all pleasure.
A simple, that is, direct, real view of life - that was his constant task, and, gradually reaching its solution, he understood all the difficulty of it and was inwardly proud and happy whenever he happened to notice a crookedness in his path and make straight step.
“It’s tricky and difficult to live simply!” - he often said to himself and with hasty glances looked at where it was crooked, where it was askew, where the thread of the cord of life began to wrap itself in an irregular, complex knot.
Most of all he was afraid of imagination, this two-faced companion, with a friendly face on one side and an enemy face on the other, a friend - the less you believe him, and an enemy - when you fall asleep trustingly under his sweet whisper.
He was afraid of every dream, or if he entered its realm, he entered as one enters a grotto with the inscription: ma solitude, mon hermitage, mon repos, knowing the hour and minute when you will leave there.
The dream, the enigmatic, the mysterious had no place in his soul. What was not subject to analysis of experience, of practical truth, was in his eyes an optical illusion, one or another reflection of rays and colors on the grid of the organ of vision, or, finally, a fact to which experience had not yet reached.
He also did not have that amateurism that loves to search in the realm of the miraculous or to indulge in the field of conjectures and discoveries a thousand years in advance. He stubbornly stopped at the threshold of the mystery, not revealing either the faith of the child or the doubt of the fat, but waited for the appearance of the law, and with it the key to it.
Just as subtly and carefully as he watched his imagination, he watched his heart. Here, often slipping, he had to admit that the sphere of cardiac functions was still terra incognita].
He warmly thanked fate if in this unknown region he managed to distinguish in advance between rouged lies and pale truth; no longer complained when, from a deception skillfully covered with flowers, he stumbled, and did not fall, if only his heart was beating feverishly and intensely, and he was glad if it did not bleed, if cold sweat did not appear on his forehead and then he did not lie down for a long time shadow over his life.
He considered himself lucky because he could stay at the same height and, galloping on the skate of feeling, not overshoot the thin line separating the world of feeling from the world of lies and sentimentality, the world of truth from the world of the ridiculous, or, galloping back, not jump onto the sandy , the dry soil of rigidity, cleverness, mistrust, trifles, emasculation of the heart.
Even in the midst of his enthusiasm, he felt the ground under his feet and had enough strength in himself so that in case of extremes he could rush and be free. He was not blinded by beauty and therefore did not forget, did not humiliate the dignity of a man, was not a slave, “did not lie at the feet” of beauties, although he did not experience fiery joys.
He had no idols, but he retained the strength of his soul, the strength of his body, but he was chastely proud; he exuded a kind of freshness and strength, before which even unshy women involuntarily felt embarrassed.
He knew the value of these rare and expensive properties and spent them so sparingly that he was called an egoist and insensitive. His restraint from impulses, his ability not to go beyond the boundaries of a natural, free state of spirit, was branded with reproach and was immediately justified, sometimes with envy and surprise, by another who, with all his might, flew into the swamp and destroyed his own and others’ existence.
Passions, passions justify everything, they said around him, but in your egoism you save only yourself: let’s see for whom.
“For someone, let me take care,” he said thoughtfully, as if looking into the distance, and continued not to believe in the poetry of passions, did not admire their violent manifestations and destructive traces, but still wanted to see the ideal of human existence and aspirations in a strict understanding and direction of life.
And the more they challenged him, the deeper he “sank” in his stubbornness, even falling, at least in disputes, into Puritan fanaticism. He said that “the normal purpose of a person is to live through the four seasons, that is, four ages, without leaps, and to carry the vessel of life to the last day, without spilling a single drop in vain, and that an even and slow burning of fire is better than violent fires, no matter what.” poetry never burned in them.” In conclusion, he added that he “would be happy if he managed to justify his conviction on himself, but that he does not hope to achieve this, because it is very difficult.”
And he himself walked and walked stubbornly along the chosen path. We didn’t see him thinking about anything painfully and painfully; apparently, he was not consumed by the remorse of a weary heart; He did not feel sick in his soul, he never got lost in complex, difficult or new circumstances, but approached them as if he were former acquaintances, as if he were living a second time, passing through familiar places.
No matter what he encountered, he now used the technique that was needed for this phenomenon, just as the housekeeper would immediately select from a pile of keys hanging on her belt the one that was needed for this or that door.
Above all, he placed persistence in achieving goals: this was a sign of character in his eyes, and he never refused to respect people with this persistence, no matter how unimportant their goals were.
These are people! - he said.
Need I add that he himself walked towards his goal, bravely walking through all obstacles, and only then abandoned the task when a wall appeared on his way or an impassable abyss opened up.
But he was not able to arm himself with that courage that, closing his eyes, would jump across an abyss or throw himself at a wall at random. He will measure an abyss or a wall, and if there is no sure way to overcome, he will move away, no matter what they say about him.
In order to develop such a character, perhaps such mixed elements as Stolz was formed from were needed. Our leaders have long been molded into five or six stereotypical forms, lazily, looking around with half an eye, putting their hand to the social machine and drowsily moving it along the usual track, placing their foot in the trace left by their predecessor. But then the eyes woke up from their slumber, brisk, wide steps, living voices were heard... How many Stoltsevs should appear under Russian names!
How could such a person be close to Oblomov, in whom every feature, every step, his entire existence was a blatant protest against Stolz’s life? This seems to be a settled issue, that the opposite extremes, if they do not serve as a reason for sympathy, as was previously thought, then do not in any way prevent it.
Moreover, they were connected by childhood and school - two strong springs, then Russians, kind, fat affections, abundantly lavished on the German boy in the Oblomov family, then the role of the strong, which Stolz occupied under Oblomov both physically and morally, and finally most of all, at the basis of Oblomov’s nature lay a pure, bright and kind beginning, filled with deep sympathy for everything that was good and that only opened up and responded to the call of this simple, uncomplicated, eternally trusting heart.
Whoever accidentally or deliberately looked into this bright, childish soul - no matter how gloomy or angry he was - he could no longer refuse him reciprocity or, if circumstances prevented rapprochement, then at least a good and lasting memory.
Andrei often, taking a break from business or from the social crowd, from the evening, from the ball, went to sit on Oblomov’s wide sofa and, in a lazy conversation, take away and calm an anxious or tired soul, and always experienced that calming feeling that a person experiences when coming from a magnificent hall under your own modest shelter or returning from the beauty of southern nature to the birch grove where you walked as a child.
How is it not a problem? - continued Oblomov. - The men were so-so, nothing was heard, neither good nor bad, they were doing their job, not reaching for anything; and now they will be corrupted! There will be teas, coffees, velvet trousers, harmonicas, greased boots... there will be no use!
Yes, if this is so, of course, it’s of little use,” Stolz noted... “And you start a school in the village...
Is not it too early? - said Oblomov. - Literacy is harmful to a peasant: teach him, and he probably won’t even plow...
Yes its true; But I don’t have a complete plan yet... - Oblomov timidly noted.
And you don't need any! - said Stolz. - Just go: you’ll see on the spot what needs to be done. You’ve been fiddling with this plan for a long time: is it really not ready yet? What are you doing?
Ah, brother! It’s as if all I have to do is manage the estate. What about another misfortune?
Which one?
They are driving me out of the apartment.
How are they driving?
So: move out, they say, and that’s all.
Well, so what?
So what? I rubbed my back and sides here, tossing and turning from all this trouble. After all, there is one thing: you need both this and that, settle scores there, pay there, pay here, and then transportation! There’s an awful lot of money coming out, and I don’t know where! Just look, you'll be left penniless...
This man is spoiled: it’s hard to move out of his apartment! - Stolz said with surprise. - Speaking of money, do you have a lot of it? Give me five hundred rubles: I need to send them now; I'll get it from our office tomorrow...
Wait! Let me remember... Recently they sent a thousand from the village, but now all that's left is... just wait...
Oblomov began rummaging through the boxes.
Here... ten, twenty, two hundred rubles... yes, here's twenty. There were also copper ones... Zakhar, Zakhar!
Zakhar jumped off the couch in the same manner and entered the room.
Where were the two hryvnias on the table? yesterday I put...
What is it, Ilya Ilyich, you were given two hryvnias! I already reported to you that there were no two hryvnias lying here...
How could it not be! They gave change from the oranges...
They gave it to someone and forgot about it,” said Zakhar, turning to the door.
Stolz laughed.
Oh you Oblomovites! - he reproached. - They don’t know how much money they have in their pocket!
And just now what kind of money did they give to Mikhei Andreich? - Zakhar reminded.
Oh, yes, Tarantiev took ten more rubles,” Oblomov quickly turned to Stoltz, “I forgot.”
Why are you letting this animal in? - Stolz noted.
Why let in! - Zakhar intervened. - He will come as if to his own house or to a tavern. He took the master’s shirt and vest, and remember his name! Just now, behind his tailcoat, he said, “Let me put it on!” If only you, father, Andrei Ivanovich, would calm him down...
It's none of your business, Zakhar. Come to your place! - Oblomov remarked sternly.
“Give me a piece of notepaper,” Stolz asked, “to write a note.”
Zakhar, give me the papers: Andrei Ivanovich needs... - said Oblomov.
After all, she doesn’t exist! “We were looking for it just now,” Zakhar responded from the hall and didn’t even come into the room.
Give me some scrap! - Stolz pestered.
Oblomov looked on the table: there was no scrap.
Well, at least give me a business card.
I haven’t had them for a long time, business cards,” said Oblomov.
What's wrong with you? - Stolz objected ironically. - When you’re going to do something, you write a plan. Please tell me, do you go anywhere you visit? Who are you seeing?
Yes, where am I? I don’t go to many places, I’m always at home: the plan worries me, and then there’s the apartment... Thank you, Tarantiev wanted to try, find...
Does anyone visit you?
It happens... here is Tarantiev, and also Alekseev. Just now the doctor came in... Penkin was there, Sudbinsky, Volkov...
“I don’t even see any books with you,” said Stolz.
Here's a book! - Oblomov noted, pointing to the book lying on the table.
What's happened? - Stolz asked, looking at the book. “Journey to Africa.” And the page you stopped on became moldy. Not a newspaper in sight... Do you read newspapers?
No, the print is crayon, it spoils the eyes... and there is no need: if there is something new, all day long you only hear about it from all sides.
Have mercy, Ilya! - said Stolz, turning an amazed look at Oblomov. - What are you doing yourself? Like a lump of dough, curled up and lying there.
True, Andrei is like a lump,” Oblomov responded sadly.
Is consciousness really a justification?
No, this is only a response to your words; “I’m not making excuses,” Oblomov noted with a sigh.
We need to get out of this dream.
I tried it before, it didn’t work, but now... why? Nothing provokes, the soul is not torn, the mind sleeps peacefully! - he concluded with barely noticeable bitterness. - Enough about this... Better tell me, where are you from now?
From Kyiv. In two weeks I will go abroad. Go too...
Fine; perhaps... - Oblomov decided.
So sit down, write a request, and you’ll submit it tomorrow...
That's it tomorrow! - Oblomov began, catching himself. - What a hurry they have, it’s as if someone is driving them! Let's think, talk, and then God will give! Maybe first to the village, and abroad... after...
Why after? After all, the doctor ordered it? You first throw off the fat, the heaviness of the body, then the sleep of the soul will fly away. We need both physical and mental gymnastics.
No, Andrey, all this will tire me: my health is bad. No, you better leave me, go alone...
Stolz looked at the lying Oblomov, Oblomov looked at him.
Stolz shook his head, and Oblomov sighed.
It seems to you that you are too lazy to live? - asked Stolz.
Well, that’s also true: laziness, Andrey.
Andrei was turning over the question in his head about how to touch his nerve and where he had something alive, meanwhile he silently looked at him and suddenly laughed.
Why are you wearing one thread stocking and the other paper? - he suddenly noticed, pointing to Oblomov’s legs. - And is your shirt on inside out?
Oblomov looked at his feet, then at his shirt.
“Indeed,” he admitted, embarrassed. - This Zakhar was sent to me as punishment! You won't believe how exhausted I was with him! He argues, he’s rude, but don’t ask questions!
Ah, Ilya, Ilya! - said Stolz. - No, I won’t leave you like this. In a week you won't recognize yourself. This evening I will tell you a detailed plan about what I intend to do with myself and with you, and now get dressed. Wait, I'll shake you. Zakhar! - he shouted. - Get dressed for Ilya Ilyich!
Where, for mercy's sake, are you going? Now Tarantyev and Alekseev will come for lunch. Then they wanted...
Zakhar,” Stolz said without listening to him, “let him get dressed.”
“I’m listening, father, Andrei Ivanovich, I’ll just clean my boots,” Zakhar said eagerly.
How? Don't have your boots shined until five o'clock?
They were cleaned, they were cleaned last week, but the master didn’t come out, so they faded again...
Well, let's do it as it is. Bring my suitcase into the living room; I'll stay with you. I’ll get dressed now, and you get ready, Ilya. We'll have lunch somewhere on the go, then go home at two, three, and...
Why, how is it suddenly... wait... let me think... I’m not shaved...
There’s no need to think and scratch your head... Dear, you’ll find it: I’ll take you there.
Which houses will we go to next? - Oblomov exclaimed sadly. - To strangers? What did you make up? I’d better go to Ivan Gerasimovich; I haven't been there for three days.
Who is Ivan Gerasimych?
Who served with me before...
A! This gray-haired executor: what did you find there? What a passion for killing time with this idiot!
How you sometimes speak harshly about people, Andrei, God knows. But this is a good person; He just doesn’t wear Dutch shirts...
What are you doing with him? What are you talking to him about? - asked Stolz.
You know, it’s somehow right and cozy in his house. The rooms are small, the sofas are so deep: you’ll get lost and you won’t see a person. The windows are completely covered with ivy and cacti, there are more than a dozen canaries, three dogs, so kind! The appetizer does not leave the table. The engravings all depict family scenes. You come and you don’t want to leave. You sit, not caring, not thinking about anything, you know that there is a person next to you... of course, he is unwise, there is no point in exchanging ideas with him, but he is simple, kind, hospitable, without pretensions and will not hurt your eyes!
What are you doing?
What? When I come, we’ll sit opposite each other on the sofas, with our legs up; he smokes...
Well, what about you?
I smoke too, listen to the canaries chirp. Then Marfa will bring the samovar.
Tarantiev, Ivan Gerasimych! - Stolz said, shrugging his shoulders. “Well, get dressed quickly,” he hurried. “Tell Tarantyev when he arrives,” he added, turning to Zakhar, “that we don’t have dinner at home, and that Ilya Ilyich will not have dinner at home all summer, and in the fall he will have a lot to do, and that it won’t be possible to see him.” ..
I’ll tell you, I won’t forget, I’ll tell you everything,” Zakhar responded, “and what do you say about dinner?”
Eat it with someone for your health.
I'm listening, sir.
About ten minutes later, Stoltz came out dressed, shaved, combed, and Oblomov sat melancholy on the bed, slowly buttoning the chest of his shirt and not getting the button in the buttonhole. Zakhar stood on one knee in front of him with an uncleaned boot, like some kind of dish, preparing to put it on and waiting for the master to finish fastening his chest.
You haven't put on your boots yet! - Stolz said with amazement. - Well, Ilya, hurry up, hurry up!
Where is it? What for? - Oblomov said sadly. -What didn’t I see there? I fell behind, I don’t want to...
Hurry, hurry! - Stolz hurried.
1. In ancient versification this phenomenon was the rule. In systems of versification that use rhyme, this is an exception. However, this exception can be found in the works of almost all Russian poets. Name the phenomenon and give examples of works in which it is used.
2. Match the portraits of characters in works of Russian literature (in the first column) with the name of the work and the author (in the second column). Name the hero (in the third column).
| He was a man about thirty-two or three years old, of average height, pleasant appearance, with dark gray eyes, but with the absence of any definite idea, any concentration in his facial features. The thought walked like a free bird across the face, fluttered in the eyes, sat on half-open lips, hid in the folds of the forehead, then completely disappeared, and then an even light of carelessness glowed throughout the face. | I.S. Turgenev "Fathers and Sons" | |
| He was a man of enormous stature, with a dark, open face and thick, wavy, lead-colored hair: his streak of gray was so strange. He was dressed in a novice cassock with a wide monastic belt and a high black cloth cap. | I.A. Goncharov "Oblomov" | |
| He is all made up of bones, muscles and nerves, like a blooded English horse. He is thin, he has almost no cheeks at all, that is, he has bone and muscle, but no sign of fatty roundness; complexion is even, darkish and no blush; The eyes, although a little greenish, are expressive. He had no unnecessary movements. | N.S. Leskov "The Enchanted Wanderer" | |
| ... turning away the collar of his robe, he showed... his whole face. Long and thin, with a wide forehead, a flat nose at the top, a pointed nose at the bottom, large greenish eyes and drooping sand-colored sideburns, it was enlivened by a calm smile and expressed self-confidence and intelligence. |
3. The life and work of which writers are associated with geographical names: Taganrog, Ovstug, Simbirsk, Spasskoye-Lutovinovo, Spas-Ugol.
4.
Based on the fragments given, determine the author and title of the work. What techniques of folklore (folk) poetics does the poet use in the above passages? Complete the resulting list by naming a few more techniques. What size is the work written in? What are the reasons for choosing a size?
5.
An etude is a small work dedicated to a specific phenomenon. As a rule, it is devoid of a plot basis. Write a sketch about winter using a variety of tropes (metaphor, epithet, simile, personification, hyperbole, etc.).
Answers to the Literature Olympiad, grade 10
1. Blank verse (A.S. Pushkin - "Again I visited...", "Boris Godunov", "Little Tragedies"; A.K. Tolstoy - dramatic trilogy; V.A. Zhukovsky - "Castle on the Seashore"; M.Yu. Lermontov - “Can I hear your voice”).
3. Taganrog - A.P. Chekhov, Ovstug - F.I. Tyutchev, Simbirsk - I.A. Goncharov, Spasskoye-Lutovinovo - I.S. Turgenev, Spas-Ugol - M.E. Saltykov-Shchedrin.
4.
ON THE. Nekrasov "Who Lives Well in Rus'." Mainly in white iambic tetrameter, imitating folk oral speech.
Goncharov Ivan Alexandrovich. "Oblomov"
Goncharov reflects on love for a person through his hero - Oblomov: "Love him, remember yourself in him and treat him as yourself..."
Excerpts from a book I read once that I wanted to highlight.
This is approximately 19 pages in A4 format, 12 font Times New Roman CYR.
Page 49, Oblomov:
“I’m stuck, dear friend, up to my ears,” Oblomov thought, following him with his eyes. “And blind, and deaf, and dumb for everything else in the world. But he will come out into the people, in time he will manage his affairs and grab ranks... We also call this a career! But how little a person is needed here: his intelligence, his will, his feelings - what is this for? Luxury! And he will live out his life, and much, much will not move in him... And yet he works from twelve to five in the office, from eight to twelve at home - unhappy!
He experienced a feeling of peaceful joy that he could stay on his couch from nine to three, from eight to nine, and was proud that he did not have to go with a report, write papers, that there was scope for his feelings and imagination.
Page 51, Penkin to Oblomov:
But I beg you, read one thing; is preparing for a magnificent, one might say, poem: “The love of a bribe-taker for a fallen woman.” ...
- What is it?
- The entire mechanism of our social movement has been revealed, and everything is in poetic colors. ...
No, Penkin, I won’t read it.
- Why? It makes noise, people talk about it...
- Let them in! Some people have nothing else to do but talk. There is such a calling.
- Yes, at least read it out of curiosity.
-What didn’t I see there? ... Why do they write this, they’re just amusing themselves...
- How about yourself: such loyalty, loyalty! Looks like a laugh. Exactly living portraits. Whenever they take someone, a merchant, a mat-maker, an officer, a baker, they will definitely stamp him alive.
What are they fighting for: for fun, perhaps, that no matter who we take, it will come out right? But there is no life in anything: there is no understanding of it and sympathy, there is no what is called humanity there. Only one pride. They portray thieves, fallen women, as if they were caught on the street and taken to prison. In their story one can hear not “invisible tears”, but only rough laughter, anger...
What else is needed? And it’s great, you yourself spoke out: this is seething anger - a bilious persecution of vice, laughter of contempt for fallen man... that’s all!
No, not all! - Oblomov said, suddenly inflamed. - Portray a thief, a fallen woman, a pompous fool, and don’t forget the man. Where is the humanity? You want to write with one head! - Oblomov almost hissed. - Do you think that thoughts don’t require a heart? No, she is fertilized by love. Extend your hand to a fallen person to lift him up, or weep bitterly over him if he dies, and do not mock him. Love him, remember yourself in him and treat him as you would treat yourself, then I will begin to read you and bow my head before you...” he said, lying down again calmly on the sofa. “They portray a thief, a fallen woman,” he said, “but they forget the person or do not know how to portray him.” What kind of art is there, what poetic colors have you found? Denounce debauchery and filth, but please, without pretending to be poetry.
Well, tell me to depict nature: roses, a nightingale or a frosty morning, while everything is boiling and moving around? We need one bare physiology of society; We have no time for songs now...
Give me a man, a man! - said Oblomov. - Love him...
To love a usurer, a bigot, a thief or a stupid official - do you hear? What are you? And it’s clear that you don’t study literature! - Penkin got excited. - No, they need to be punished, expelled from the civilian environment, from society...
Eject from the civilian environment! - Oblomov suddenly spoke with inspiration, standing in front of Penkin. - This means forgetting that a higher principle was present in this worthless vessel; that he is a spoiled person, but a person nonetheless, that is, you yourself. Spew out! How can you be cast out from the circle of humanity, from the bosom of nature, from the mercy of God?
Stolz is the same age as Oblomov: and he is already over thirty years old. He served, retired, went about his own business, and actually made a home and money. He is involved in some company that ships goods abroad.
He is constantly on the move: if society needs to send an agent to Belgium or England, they send him; you need to write some project or adapt a new idea to business - they choose it. Meanwhile, he goes out into the world and reads: when he has time, God knows.
He is all made up of bones, muscles and nerves,... He is thin; he has almost no cheeks at all, that is, bone and muscle, but no sign of fatty roundness; complexion is even, darkish and no blush; The eyes, although a little greenish, are expressive.
He had no unnecessary movements. If he was sitting, he sat quietly, but if he acted, he used as many facial expressions as necessary.
Just as he had nothing superfluous in his body, so in the moral practices of his life he sought a balance between the practical aspects and the subtle needs of the spirit. The two sides walked parallel, crossing and intertwining along the way, but never getting tangled in heavy, insoluble knots.
...
It seems that he controlled both sorrows and joys like the movement of his hands...
He opened his umbrella while it was raining, that is... he suffered without timid submission, but rather with annoyance... and endured it patiently only because he attributed the cause of all suffering to himself, and did not hang it, like a caftan, on someone else's nail.
The dream, the enigmatic, the mysterious had no place in his soul. What was not subject to analysis of experience, of practical truth, was in his eyes an optical illusion, one or another reflection of rays and colors on the grid of the organ of vision, or, finally, a fact to which experience had not yet reached.
...
Just as... carefully... he watched his heart. Here, often slipping, he had to admit that the sphere of cardiac functions was still terra incognita (unknown region, lat.).
...
He had no idols, but he retained the strength of his soul, the strength of his body, but he was chastely proud; he exuded a kind of freshness and strength, before which even unshy women involuntarily felt embarrassed.
He knew the value of these rare and expensive properties and spent them so sparingly that he was called an egoist and insensitive. His restraint from impulses, his ability not to go beyond the boundaries of a natural, free state of spirit, was branded with reproach and was immediately justified, sometimes with envy and surprise, by another who, with all his might, flew into the swamp and destroyed his own and others’ existence.
Passions, passions justify everything, they said around him, but in your egoism you save it only for yourself: let’s see for whom.
“For someone, let me take care,” he said thoughtfully, as if looking into the distance, and continued not to believe in the poetry of passions, did not admire their violent manifestations and destructive traces, but still wanted to see the ideal of human existence and aspirations in a strict understanding and direction of life.
And the more they challenged him, the deeper he “sank” in his stubbornness... He said that the normal purpose of a person is to live through the four seasons, that is, four ages, without leaps and to carry the vessel of life to the last day without spilling a single one drop is in vain, and that the even and slow burning of the fire of life is better than stormy fires, no matter what poetry burns in them.”
Page 220, dialogue about the life of Andrei Stolts and Ilya Oblomov
Which one do you like? - asked Stolz.
- Not like here.
- What exactly didn’t you like here?
- Everything, the eternal running around, the eternal game of crappy passions, especially greed, interrupting each other’s paths, gossip, gossip, clicking on each other, this is looking from head to toe; If you listen to what they are talking about, your head will spin and you will become stupefied. It seems that people seem so smart, with such dignity on their faces, all you hear is: “This one was given this, that one got the rent.” - “For mercy, for what?” - someone shouts. “This one lost yesterday at the club; he takes three hundred thousand!” Boredom, boredom, boredom!.. Where is the man here? Where is his integrity? Where did he disappear, how did he exchange for every little thing?
“Something must occupy the world and society,” said Stolz, “everyone has their own interests.” That's what life is for...
Light, society! You, probably, on purpose, Andrei, are sending me into this world and society in order to discourage me from being there anymore. Life: life is good! What to look for there? Interests, mind, heart? Look where the center is around which all this revolves: it is not there, there is nothing deep that touches the living. All these are dead people, sleeping people, worse than me, these members of the world and society! What drives them in life? So they don’t lie down, but scurry about every day like flies, back and forth, but what’s the point? You will enter the hall and will not stop admiring how symmetrically the guests are positioned, how quietly and thoughtfully they sit - playing cards. There is nothing to say, what a glorious task of life! An excellent example for the seeker of the movement of the mind! Aren't these the dead? Don't they sleep sitting all their lives? Why am I more guilty than them, lying at home and not infecting my head with threes and jacks?
“This is all old, it’s been said a thousand times,” Stolz noted. - Is there anything newer?
And our best youth, what are they doing? Doesn't he sleep while walking, driving along Nevsky, dancing? daily empty shuffling of days! And look with what pride and unknown dignity, with a repulsive gaze they look at those who are not dressed like them, who do not bear their name and title. And they imagine, the unfortunate ones, that they are still above the crowd: “We serve, where no one serves except us; we are in the first row of chairs, we are at Prince N’s ball, wherever we are allowed”... And they will come together between themselves, get drunk and fight. definitely wild! Are these living, non-sleeping people? It’s not just young people: look at the adults. They gather, feed each other, no cordiality, no kindness, no mutual attraction! They gather for lunch, for the evening, as if on duty, without fun, it’s cold, to show off the cook, the salon, and then at hand to ridicule, to trip one another up. The third day, at dinner, I didn’t know where to look, even to crawl under the table, when the torment of the reputations of those who were absent began: “This one is stupid, this one is low, another is a thief; the third is ridiculous” - real persecution! Saying this, they look at each other with the same eyes: “Just go out the door, and it will happen to you too”... Why do they get together if they are like that? Why do they shake each other's hands so tightly? Not a sincere laugh, not a glimmer of sympathy! They are trying to get a big rank, a name. “I had such and such, and I was with such and such,” they boast later... What kind of life is this? I don't want her. What will I learn there, what will I gain?
...
“No one has a clear, calm look,” Oblomov continued, “everyone is infected from each other with some kind of painful concern, melancholy, painfully searching for something.” And the good of truth, the good of oneself and others - no, they turn pale from the success of a comrade. One has worries: to go to the public office tomorrow, the case has been dragging on for five years, the other side is prevailing, and for five years he has been carrying one thought in his head, one desire: to knock the other off his feet and build the building of his well-being on his fall. Walking, sitting and sighing in the waiting room for five years is the ideal and goal of life! Another is tormented that he is condemned to go to service every day and sit until five o’clock, and he sighs heavily that he does not have such grace...
You are a philosopher, Ilya! - said Stolz. - Everyone is busy, but you don’t need anything!
“This yellow gentleman with glasses,” Oblomov continued, “pickled me: did I read the speech of some deputy, and his eyes widened at me when I said that I don’t read newspapers. And he talked about Louis-Philippe as if he were his own father. Then I became attached, as I think: why did the French envoy leave Rome? How do you doom yourself for the rest of your life to be loaded with world-wide news every day, scream for a week until you scream out! Today Mehmet Ali sent a ship to Constantinople, and he is racking his brain: why? Don Carlos did not succeed tomorrow - and he is in terrible anxiety. They are digging a canal there, a detachment of troops was sent to the East; Father, it's on fire! There is no face, he runs, shouts, as if an army is coming towards him. They reason and think at random, but they themselves are bored - it doesn’t interest them; through their screams one can see the deep sleep! This is foreign to them; they don't wear their own hat. There is nothing of their own, they are scattered in all directions, not heading towards anything. Underneath this comprehensiveness lies emptiness, a lack of sympathy for everything! But choosing a modest, laboring path and walking along it, digging through a deep rut, is boring and imperceptible; there, omniscience will not help and there is no one to throw dust in the eyes.
I don’t touch them, I don’t look for anything; I just don’t see a normal life in this. No, this is not life, but a distortion of the norm, the ideal of life, which nature indicated as the goal for man...
...
- Why not life? What's missing here? Guess you wouldn't have seen a single pale, suffering face. no worries, not a single question about the Senate, about the stock exchange, about shares, about reports... And all the conversations are from the heart!... And this is not life?
- This is not life! - Stolz repeated stubbornly.
...
- Where is the ideal of life in your opinion?... - Doesn’t everyone achieve the same thing that I dream of? Have mercy! - he added more boldly. - Isn’t the goal of all your running around, passions, wars, trade and politics the pursuit of peace, the desire for this ideal of a lost paradise?
Do you know, Andrei, in my life, no fire, either salutary or destructive, has ever lit up? She was not like the morning, on which the colors gradually fall, the fire, which then turns into a day, like others, and burns hot, and everything boils, moves in the bright afternoon, and then everything is quieter and quieter, everything is paler, and everything naturally and gradually fades away in the evening. No, my life began with extinction. It's strange, but it's true! From the first minute I became aware of myself, I felt. that I'm already going out. I began to fade away while writing papers in the office; then he died out, reading truths in books that he didn’t know what to do with in life, he died out with his friends, listening to talk, gossip, mockery, angry and cold chatter, emptiness, looking at friendships maintained by gatherings without a goal, without sympathy; I faded away and lost my strength with Mina: I paid her more than half of my income and imagined that I loved her; faded away in a sad and lazy walk along Nevsky Prospekt, among raccoon coats and beaver collars - at evenings, on reception days, where they showed me hospitality as a tolerable groom; faded away and wasted his life and mind on trifles, moving from the city to the dacha, from the dacha to Gorokhovaya, defining spring by the arrival of oysters and lobsters, autumn and winter by designated days, summer by festivities and all life by lazy and peaceful slumber, like others... Even pride - what was it spent on? To order a dress from a famous tailor? To get into a famous house? So that Prince P* shakes my hand? But pride is the salt of life! Where did it go? Either I didn’t understand this life, or it’s no good, and I didn’t know anything better, I didn’t see anything, no one showed it to me. You appeared and disappeared like a comet, brightly, quickly, and I forgot all this and went out...
Stolz no longer responded with casual ridicule to Oblomov’s speech. He listened and was sullenly silent.
“You said just now that my face is not entirely fresh, it’s wrinkled,” Oblomov continued, “yes, I’m a flabby, shabby, worn-out caftan, but not because of the climate, not because of work, but because for twelve years the light was locked in me , who was looking for a way out, but only burned his prison, did not break free and died out. So, twelve years, my dear Andrey, have passed: I didn’t want to wake up anymore.
- Why didn’t you break out, didn’t run somewhere, but died in silence? - Stolz asked impatiently.
- Where?
Page 294, Stolz to Olga:
When all the forces in your body begin to play, then life will begin to play around you, and you will see what your eyes are closed to now, you will hear what you cannot hear: the music of the nerve will begin to play, you will hear the noise of the spheres, you will listen to the growth of grass.
Page 333, Olga:
And Oblomov? Why was he silent and motionless with her yesterday, there is no need, that her breath fanned his cheek with heat, that her hot tears dripped onto his hand, that he almost carried her home in his arms, heard the indiscreet whisper of her heart?.. And the other? Others look so bold...
Although Oblomov lived his youth in the circle of all-knowing youth who had long ago decided all life’s issues, who believed in nothing and who coldly and wisely analyzed everything, in his soul there was a glimmer of faith in friendship, in love, in human honor, and no matter how wrong he was in people, no matter how many more mistakes he made, his heart suffered, but the foundation of goodness and faith in him never shook. He secretly worshiped the purity of a woman, recognized her power and rights and made sacrifices to her.
But he lacked the character to clearly recognize the teaching of goodness and respect for innocence. Quietly he reveled in its aroma, but clearly sometimes he pestered the chorus of cynics who trembled even with suspicions of chastity or respect for him, and he added his frivolous word to the riotous chorus.
He never clearly delved into how much weight the word of goodness, truth, purity, thrown into the stream of human speech, what a deep twist it breaks through; I didn’t think that what was said cheerfully and loudly, without the paint of false shame, but with courage, it would not drown in the ugly cries of secular satyrs, but would plunge, like a pearl, into the abyss of public life, and there would always be a shell for it.
Many stumble over a good word, blushing with shame, and boldly and loudly pronounce a frivolous word, not suspecting that, unfortunately, it, too, does not go to waste, leaving a long trail of evil...
But Oblomov was right in fact: not a single stain, reproach for cold, soulless cynicism, without passion and without struggle, lay on his conscience. He could not listen to daily stories about how one changed horses, furniture, and that one changed a woman... and what costs the changes entailed...
More than once he suffered for the dignity and honor lost by a man, cried about the dirty fall of a woman who was strange to him, but remained silent, afraid of the light.
You had to guess it: Olka guessed it.
Men laugh at such eccentrics, but women recognize them immediately; pure, chaste women love them - out of sympathy; the spoiled seek rapprochement with them - in order to refresh themselves from corruption.
...
If Olga sometimes had to think about Oblomov, about her love for him... - she fell into painful reverie:... and the warm, fairy-tale world of love turned into some autumn day, when all objects seem gray.
She was looking for why this incompleteness, dissatisfaction with happiness occurs? What is she missing? What else is needed? After all, this is fate - an appointment to love Oblomov? This love is justified by his meekness, pure faith in goodness, and most of all by tenderness, tenderness such as she has never seen in the eyes of a man.
What does it matter that he doesn’t respond to every glance of hers with an understandable look, that something sometimes sounds in his voice, something that seems to have sounded to her once before, either in a dream or in reality... This is imagination, nerves: what listen to them and split hairs?
Page 472, Stolz and Oblomov
Eh, that's enough! Man was created to arrange himself and even change his nature, but he grew a belly and thinks that nature sent him this burden! You had wings, but you untied them.
- Where are they, the wings? - Oblomov said sadly. - I can’t do anything...
“That is, you don’t want to be able to,” interrupted Stolz. - There is no person who cannot do something, by God, no!
Page 484, Stolz about Olga
To all the activity, to the whole life of Stolz, another person’s activity and life grew every day: having furnished Olga with flowers, surrounded by books, notes and albums, Stolz calmed down, believing that he had filled his friend’s leisure time for a long time, and went to work or drove... then He returned to her tired, sat down near her piano and rested to the sounds of her voice. And suddenly there were ready-made questions on her face, an insistent demand for an account in her eyes. And imperceptibly, involuntarily, little by little, he laid out in front of her what he had examined and why.
Sometimes she expressed a desire to see for herself and find out what he saw and learned. And he repeated his work: he went with her to look at a building, a place, a car, to read an old event on the walls, on the stones. Little by little, imperceptibly, he got used to thinking and feeling out loud in front of her, and suddenly one day, strictly trusting himself, he learned that he had begun to live not alone, but together, and that he had been living this life since the day Olga arrived.
Almost unconsciously, as if in front of himself, he made a loud assessment of the treasure he had acquired in front of her and was surprised at himself and at her; then he carefully checked whether there was any question left in her gaze, whether the dawn of a satisfied thought lay on her face and whether his gaze followed her as a winner.
If this was confirmed, he went home with pride, with trembling excitement and secretly prepared himself for tomorrow for a long time at night. The most boring, necessary activities did not seem dry to him, but only necessary: they went deeper into the foundation, into the fabric of life; thoughts, observations, phenomena were not added up, silently and carelessly, into the memory archive, but gave bright color to every day.
What a hot dawn covered Olga’s pale face when he, without waiting for a questioning and thirsty look, hurried to throw in front of her, with fire and energy, a new supply, new material!
And he himself was so completely happy when her mind, with the same care and sweet humility, hurried to catch in his gaze, in every word, and both looked vigilantly: he looked at her, was there a question left in her eyes, she him, is there anything left unsaid, has he forgotten and, most of all, God forbid! Did you neglect to open up some foggy, inaccessible corner for her, to develop your thought?
The more important and complex the question, the more carefully he confided it to her, the longer and more intently her grateful gaze rested on him, the warmer, deeper, more heartfelt this gaze was.
“This is a child, Olga!” he thought in amazement. “She is outgrowing me!”
He thought about Olga as he had never thought about anything before.
In the spring they all left for Switzerland. Stolz decided back in Paris that from now on he could not live without Olga. Having resolved this issue, he began to decide the question of whether Olga could live without him. But this question did not come so easily to him.
Page 490, Stolz and Olga
Does she love you or not? - he said with painful emotion, almost to the point of bloody sweat, almost to tears.
This question flared up more and more in his mind, engulfed him like a flame, fettered his intentions: this was the one main question no longer of love, but of life. There was now no place in his soul for anything else.
It seems that during these six months, all the torments and tortures of love, from which he so skillfully guarded himself in meetings with women, gathered together and played out over him.
He felt that his healthy body would not be able to resist if this strain of mind, will, and nerves continued for another month. He understood - this was alien to him until now - how strength is wasted in these hidden struggles of the soul with passion, how incurable wounds fall on the heart without blood, but give rise to groans, how life also leaves.
Some of his arrogant self-confidence had subsided; he no longer joked lightly, listening to stories about how others lose their minds, waste away from various reasons, among other things... from love.
He was getting scared.
“No, I’ll put an end to this,” he said, “I’ll look into her soul, as before, and tomorrow - either I’ll be happy or I’ll leave!” No forces! - he said further, looking in the mirror. - I don’t look like anything... Enough!..
He went straight to the goal, that is, to Olga.
And what about Olga? Was she oblivious to his situation or was she insensitive to him?
She could not help but notice this: and not such subtle women as she know how to distinguish friendly devotion and pleasing from the tender manifestation of another feeling. Coquetry cannot be allowed in her due to a correct understanding of true, unhypocritical morality, not inspired by anyone. She was above this vulgar weakness.
It remains to assume one thing that she liked, without any practical considerations, this was the continuous, intelligent and passionate worship of a person like Stolz. Of course, she liked it: this worship restored her offended pride and little by little put her back on the pedestal from which she had fallen; little by little her pride was restored.
But how did she think: how should this worship be resolved? It cannot always be expressed in this eternal struggle between Stolz’s inquisitiveness and its stubborn silence. At least, did she have a presentiment that all this struggle of his was not in vain, that he would win the case into which he had put so much will and character? Is he wasting this flame and shine in vain? Will he drown in the rays of this?
the shine of the image of Oblomov and that love?..
She didn’t understand any of this, didn’t recognize it clearly, and struggled desperately with these questions, with herself, and didn’t know how to get out of the chaos.
What should she do? It is impossible to remain in an indecisive position: someday from this silent game and the struggle of feelings locked in the chest it will come to words - what will she answer about the past! What will he call him and what will he call what he feels for Stolz?
If she loves Stolz, what was that love? - coquetry,
windiness or worse? She felt hot and flushed with shame at the thought. Such
She will not bring charges upon herself.
If it was first, pure love, what is her relationship with Stolz? Again a game, a deception, a subtle calculation to lure him into marriage and thereby cover up the frivolity of his behavior?.. She was thrown into the cold, and she turned pale at the mere thought.
And not a game, not deception, not calculation - so... love again?
She was at a loss from this assumption: second love - seven, eight months after the first! Who will believe her? How will she mention her without causing amazement, maybe... contempt! She doesn’t even dare to think, she has no right!
She rummaged through her experience: no information was found there about her second love. I remembered the authorities of aunts, old maids, various clever women, and finally writers, “thinkers about love” - from all sides I heard an inexorable verdict: “A woman truly loves only once.” And Oblomov pronounced his sentence like this. I remembered Sonechka, how she would respond to a second love, but I heard from visitors from Russia that her friend had moved on to a third...
No, she doesn’t have love for Stolz, she decided, and there can’t be! She loved Oblomov, and this love died, the flower of life faded forever! She has only friendship for Stolz, based on his brilliant qualities, then on his friendship for her, on attention, on trust.
So she pushed away the thought, even the possibility, of loving her old friend.
P.499 Stolz and Olga about “love” for Oblomov
Oblomov! - he repeated in amazement. - It is not true! - he added positively, lowering his voice.
- Is it true! - she said calmly.
- Oblomov! - he repeated again. - Can't be! - he added again affirmatively. - There is something here: you did not understand yourself, Oblomov, or, finally, love.
She was silent.
- This is not love, this is something else, I say! - he insisted.
...
Page 503 Stolz - Olga
Angel - let me say - mine! - he said. - Don’t suffer in vain: you don’t need to be executed or pardoned. I don’t even have anything to add to your story. What doubts might you have? Do you want to know what it was, call it by name? You've known for a long time. Where is Oblomov's letter? - He took the letter from the table.
- Listen! - and read: “Your present love is not real love, but future love. This is only an unconscious need to love, which, due to a lack of real food, is sometimes expressed in women in affection for a child, for another woman, even simply in tears or in hysterical seizures: You made a mistake (Stolz read, emphasizing this word): in front of you is not the one you were waiting for, about whom you dreamed. Wait - he will come, and then you will wake up, you will be annoyed and ashamed of your mistake..." - See how true this is! - he said. - You were both ashamed and annoyed for... the mistake. There is nothing to add to this. He was right, but you didn’t believe it, and that’s all your fault.
...
- From your story it is clear that in your last dates you had nothing to talk about. Your so-called “love” lacked content; she couldn't go any further. Even before separation, you separated and were faithful not to love, but to its ghost, which you yourself invented - that’s the whole secret.
...
“Oh, what a blessing... to get better,” she said slowly, as if blossoming, and turned to him a look of such deep gratitude, such ardent, unprecedented friendship that in this look he felt a spark that he had been chasing in vain for almost a year. A joyful shiver ran through him.
Page 506
- Like a dream, as if nothing had happened! - she said thoughtfully, barely audible, surprised at her sudden rebirth. - You took out not only shame, remorse, but also bitterness, pain - everything... How did you do it? - she asked quietly. - And all this will pass, this mistake?
- Yes, I think it’s gone! - he said, looking at her for the first time with the eyes of passion and without hiding it, - that is, everything that happened.
“What... will be... not a mistake... the truth?...” she asked, without finishing.
“It’s written here,” he decided, taking the letter again: “This is not the one you were waiting for, about whom you dreamed: he will come, and you will wake up...” And you will love, I add, you will love so much that it will not be enough years, but a whole life for that love, but I don’t know... who? - he finished, glaring at her.
Page 537 Stolz
“Apparently, this blessing has not been given in all its fullness,” he thought, “or those hearts that are illuminated by the light of such love are shy: they are timid and hide, not trying to challenge the wise men; perhaps they feel sorry for them, forgive them in their own name.” happiness that they trample a flower into the mud, for lack of soil, where it could take deep roots and grow into a tree that would overshadow all life.”
He looked at marriages, at husbands and in their relationships with their wives, he always saw the sphinx with his riddle, everything seemed to be something incomprehensible, unsaid; and yet these husbands do not think about complicated questions, they walk along the marriage road with such an even, conscious step, as if they had nothing to decide or seek.
“Aren’t they right? Maybe, in fact, nothing more is needed,” he thought with distrust of himself, watching how some quickly pass through love as the ABC of marriage or as a form of politeness, as if they bowed when entering society, and - get to work quickly!
They impatiently shrug off the spring of life; many even look sideways at their wives for the rest of their lives, as if annoyed that they were once foolish to love them.
For others, love does not leave for a long time, sometimes until old age, but the smile of a satyr never leaves them...
Finally, the majority enter into marriage, as they take an estate, enjoy its significant benefits: the wife brings better order to the house - she is a housewife, mother, teacher of children; and they look at love as a practical owner looks at the location of the estate, that is, he immediately gets used to it and then never notices it.
What is this: an innate inability due to the laws of nature, - he said, - or a lack of preparation, education?.. Where is this sympathy, which never loses its natural charm, does not dress in a clownish outfit, changes, but does not go out? What is the natural color and colors of this all-pervading goodness, this juice of life?
He prophetically peered into the distance, and there, as if in a fog, an image of feeling appeared to him, and with it a woman, dressed in its light and shining with its colors, an image so simple, but bright, pure.
Dream! dream! - he said, sobering up, with a smile, from the idle irritation of thoughts. But the outline of this dream lived against his will in his memory.
At first he dreamed in this image of the future of women in general; when he later saw, in the grown and matured Olga, not only the luxury of blossoming beauty, but also strength, ready for life and thirsty for understanding and struggle with life, all the makings of his dream, a long-standing image of love, almost forgotten by him, arose in him, and Olga began to dream in this image, and far ahead it seemed to him that truth was possible in their sympathy - without a clownish outfit and without abuse.
Without playing with the question of love and marriage, without confusing any other calculations, money, connections, places, Stolz, however, thought about how his external, hitherto tireless activity would be reconciled with his internal, family life, as a tourist, Will he turn from a merchant into a family homebody? If he calms down from this external rush, what will his life be filled with at home? Raising, educating children, directing their lives is, of course, not an easy or empty task, but it is still far away, and until then what will he do?
These questions troubled him for a long time and often, and he was not burdened by his single life; It never occurred to him, as soon as his heart began to beat, sensing the proximity of beauty, to put on the wedding chains. That is why he seemed to neglect even Olga the maiden, admiring only her as a sweet child showing great promise; jokingly, in passing, he threw into her greedy and receptive mind a new, bold thought, an accurate observation of life and continued in her soul, without thinking or guessing, a living understanding of phenomena, a correct look, and then he forgot Olga and his careless lessons.
And at times, seeing that not quite ordinary features of the mind, views flash in her, that there is no lie in her, she does not seek general worship, that feelings come and go in her simply and freely, that nothing is foreign, but everything is her own, and this was so bold, fresh and strong - he wondered where she had gotten it from, did not recognize his flying lessons and notes.
If he had stopped his attention then on her, he would have realized that she was walking almost alone on her way, protected by the superficial supervision of her aunt from extremes, but that the authorities of seven nannies, grandmothers, aunts, with the traditions of her family, family, class, outdated morals, customs, maxims; that they were not forcibly leading her along the beaten path, that she was walking along a new path along which she had to carve out her own path with her own mind, look, feeling.
But nature did not offend her in any way; her aunt does not despotically control her will and mind, and Olga guesses a lot, understands herself, carefully peers into life, listens... by the way, and in speech, to the advice of her friend...
He didn’t realize anything about this and only expected a lot from her in the future, but far ahead, never expecting her to be his girlfriend.
At first he had to struggle for a long time with the liveliness of her nature, interrupt the fever of youth, control impulses into certain dimensions, give a smooth flow of life, and then only for a while: as soon as he closed his eyes trustingly, anxiety arose again, life was in full swing, a new question was heard from a restless mind, an anxious heart; there it was necessary to calm the irritated imagination, calm or awaken pride. She thought about the phenomenon - he was in a hurry to hand her the key to it.
Belief in chance, the fog of hallucinations disappeared from life. Light and free, the distance opened up before her, and she, as if in clear water, saw every pebble, pothole and then a clean bottom in it.
I'm happy! - she whispered, looking over her past life with a look of gratitude, and, torturing the future, she recalled her girlish dream of happiness, which she once had in Switzerland, that thoughtful, blue night, and saw that this dream, like a shadow, was carried in life .
“Why did this happen to me?” - she thought humbly. She wondered, sometimes even feared, whether this happiness would end.
Years passed, but they did not get tired of living. Silence came, the gusts subsided; The curvatures of life became clear, they were endured patiently and cheerfully, and life never ceased for them.
Olga had already been brought up to a strict understanding of life; two existences, hers and Andrei’s, merged into one channel; There could be no rampant wild passions: everything was harmony and silence.
It would seem to fall asleep in this well-deserved peace and bliss, as the inhabitants of calm bliss, meeting three times a day, yawning during ordinary conversation, falling into a dull slumber, languishing from morning to evening, that everything has been changed, renegotiated and redone, that there is nothing more to say and to do, and that “such is life in the world.”
On the outside, everything was done with them as with others. They got up, although not at dawn, but early; they loved to sit for a long time over tea, sometimes they even seemed to be lazily silent, then they went to their own corners or worked together, had lunch, went to the fields, played music... just like everyone else, just as Oblomov dreamed...
Only there was no drowsiness or despondency; they spent their days without boredom and apathy; there was no sluggish look, no words; their conversation never ended; it was often heated.
And their silence was sometimes a pensive happiness, which Oblomov dreamed of alone, or mental work alone on the endless material asked of each other...
Her remark, advice, approval or disapproval became an inevitable verification for him: he saw that she understood exactly the same as he, she understood, she reasoned no worse than him... Zakhar was offended by such ability in his wife, and many are offended - and Stolz was happy!
And reading and learning are the eternal nourishment of thought, its endless development! Olga was jealous of every book or magazine article that was not shown to her, she was seriously angry or offended when he did not deign to show her something, in his opinion, too serious, boring, incomprehensible to her, she called it pedantry, vulgarity, backwardness, scolded him " an old German wig." Lively, irritable scenes took place between them about this.
She was angry, and he laughed, she was even more angry and then only made peace when he stopped joking and shared his thought, knowledge or reading with her. It ended with everything that he needed and wanted to know and read, that she also needed.
...
As a thinker and as an artist, he weaved a rational existence for her, and never before in his life had he been so deeply absorbed, neither during his studies, nor in those difficult days when he struggled with life, extricated himself from its twists and turns and grew stronger, tempering himself in experiences of masculinity, as now, nursing this incessant, volcanic work of the spirit of his friend!
How happy I am! - Olga also repeated quietly, admiring her life, and at a moment of such consciousness she sometimes fell into thoughtfulness... especially for some time, after three or four years of marriage.
...
Olga listened carefully, tortured herself, but did not extract anything, could not achieve what she sometimes asks for, what her soul is looking for, but only asks and seeks something, even as if - it’s scary to say - she was yearning, as if a happy life was not enough for her, as if she grew tired of it and demanded even new, unprecedented phenomena, looked further ahead...
“What is this?” she thought with horror. “Is it really still necessary and possible to desire something? Where to go? There is nowhere! There is no further road... Is it really not, have you really completed the circle of life? Is it really all... everything? ..." - her soul spoke and did not finish saying something... and Olga looked around with anxiety, no one would recognize, would not overhear this whisper of the soul... She asked with her eyes the sky, the sea, the forest... nowhere to be found answer: there is distance, depth and darkness.
Nature kept saying the same thing; in her she saw a continuous but monotonous flow of life, without beginning, without end.
She knew who to ask about these concerns and would find an answer, but what?
What if this is the murmur of a barren mind or, even worse, the thirst of an unfeminine heart not created for sympathy! God! She, his idol, is without a heart, with a callous mind, not satisfied with anything! What will come of it? If a blue stocking! How she will fall when these new, unprecedented, but, of course, sufferings known to him open up before him!
...
- What is this? - she asked in despair when she suddenly became bored, indifferent to everything, on a beautiful, thoughtful evening or behind the cradle, even among her husband’s caresses and speeches...
She suddenly seems to petrify and fall silent, then fusses around with feigned liveliness to hide her strange illness, or she refers to a migraine and goes to bed.
But it was not easy for her to hide from Stolz’s watchful gaze: she knew this and internally, with the same anxiety, she prepared for the conversation when it came, as she had once prepared for the confession of the past. The conversation has arrived.
...
- The nanny says that Olenka coughed at night. Should I send for the doctor tomorrow? - he asked.
- I gave her a warm drink and tomorrow I won’t let her go out, but we’ll see! - she answered monotonously.
They walked to the end of the alley in silence.
Why didn’t you answer your friend Sonechka’s letter? - he asked.
- And I kept waiting, I was almost late for the post office. This is her third letter without an answer.
“Yes, I want to forget her as soon as possible...” she said and fell silent.
“I bowed to Bichurin on your behalf,” Andrei spoke again, “after all, he is in love with you, so maybe he will be consoled at least a little by this, that his wheat will not be in place on time.”
She smiled dryly.
Yes, you said so,” she responded indifferently.
- What do you want to sleep? - he asked.
Her heart pounded, and not for the first time, as soon as questions close to the point began.
“Not yet,” she said with artificial cheerfulness, “but what?”
- Unwell? - he asked again.
- No. Why do you think so?
- Well, you're so bored!
She squeezed his shoulder tightly with both hands.
- No no! - she denied in a falsely cheeky voice, in which, however, it sounded as if she was really bored.
...
- I’m not bored and cannot be bored: you know this and, of course, you yourself don’t believe your words; I’m not sick, but... I’m sad... it happens sometimes... what an obnoxious person you are if you can’t hide from you! Yes, it’s sad, and I don’t know why!
...
“Yes, maybe,” she said seriously, “it’s something like that, although I don’t feel anything.” You see how I eat, walk, sleep, work. Suddenly something seems to come over me, some kind of melancholy... Life will seem to me... as if not everything is in it... No, don’t listen: it’s all empty.
...
“Sometimes I seem to be afraid,” she continued, “that this won’t change, won’t end... I don’t know myself!” Or am I tormented by a stupid thought: what else will happen?.. What is this happiness... all life... - she spoke more and more quietly, ashamed of these questions, - all these joys, sorrows... nature - she whispered, - everything pulls me somewhere else; I'm becoming dissatisfied with nothing... My God! I’m even ashamed of these stupid things... this is dreaminess... Don’t notice, don’t look... - she added in a pleading voice, caressing him. - This sadness will soon pass, and I will again feel as light and cheerful as I have again now!
...
“Maybe it’s an excess of imagination: you’re too alive... or maybe you’ve matured until that time...” he finished in a low voice, almost to himself.
...
“I thought...” he said slowly, speaking thoughtfully and not trusting his own thoughts, as if he was also ashamed of his speech, “you see... there are moments... that is, I want to say, if this is not a sign of some kind of - disorders, if you are completely healthy, then perhaps you have matured, you have come to the time when the growth of life has stopped... when there are no mysteries, it has all opened up...
...
- Don’t be afraid..., your sadness, longing - if this is just what I think - is rather a sign of strength... The search for a living, irritated mind sometimes rushes beyond everyday boundaries, does not find, of course, answers, and sadness appears. .. temporary dissatisfaction with life... This is the sadness of the soul, asking life about its secret... Maybe the same is with you... If so, this is not nonsense.
Happiness is overflowing, I want to live so much... and then suddenly some kind of bitterness is mixed in...
- A! This is retribution for Promethean fire! Not only endure, but also love this sadness and respect doubts and questions: they are an overflowing excess, a luxury of life and appear more at the heights of happiness when there are no gross desires; they will not be born among ordinary life: there is no time for grief and need; the crowds walk and do not know this fog of doubt, the anguish of questions... But whoever met them in a timely manner, for that they are not a hammer, but dear guests.
Stolz was deeply happy with his full, exciting life, in which an unfading spring blossomed, and he jealously, actively, vigilantly cultivated, took care of and cherished it. Horror rose from the bottom of his soul only when he remembered that Olga was within a hair's breadth of death, that this guessed road - their two existences, merged into one, could diverge; that ignorance of the ways of life could lead to a disastrous mistake, that Oblomov...
He shuddered. How! Olga in the life that Oblomov prepared for her! She is among the crawling day after day, a village lady, a nanny for her children, a housewife - and nothing more!
All questions, doubts, all the fever of life would be spent on worries around the house, on waiting for holidays, guests, family gatherings, on homecomings, christenings, on the apathy and sleep of the husband!
Marriage would be only a form and not a content, a means and not an end; would serve as a broad and unchanging frame for visits, receiving guests, dinners and evenings, empty chatter?... How will she endure this life? At first he struggles, searching and guessing the secret of life, he cries, suffers, then he gets used to it, gets fat, eats, sleeps, becomes dull...
Poor Ilya! - Andrei said out loud one day, remembering the past.
At this name, Olga suddenly lowered her hands with her embroidery to her knees, threw her head back and thought deeply. The exclamation was triggered by a memory.
- What about him? - she asked later. - Is it really impossible to find out?
Andrey shrugged.
“Just think,” he said, “that we live in a time when there were no post offices, when people, having dispersed in different directions, considered each other dead and actually went missing.”
...
- It’s not enough that we find out, we have to do everything...
Didn't I do it? You never know how much I persuaded him, worked for him, arranged his affairs - and at least he would respond to this! When on a date, I'm ready for anything, but just out of sight - goodbye: I fell asleep again. You're messing around like a drunkard!
Why out of sight? - Olga objected impatiently. “You need to act decisively with him: take him with you into the carriage and take him away.” Now we are moving to the estate; he will be close to us... we will take him with us.
Here you and I have been given care! - Andrei reasoned, walking back and forth around the room. - And there is no end to it!
-Are you burdened by her? - Olga said. - This is news! This is the first time I hear you grumbling about this concern.
“I don’t complain,” answered Andrei, “but I reason.”
-Where did this reasoning come from? You admitted to yourself that this is boring, restless - right?
She looked at him inquisitively. He shook his head negatively:
- No, not restless, but useless: that’s what I sometimes think.
Page 558, Stolz to Olga:
Do you want me to tell you why he is dear to you, why you still love him?
She nodded her head in agreement.
- For what is more valuable in him than any mind: an honest, faithful heart! This is his natural gold; he carried it through life unscathed. He fell from the tremors, cooled down, fell asleep, finally, killed, disappointed, having lost the strength to live, but did not lose honesty and loyalty. His heart did not emit a single false note, nor did any dirt stick to it. No elegant lie will seduce him, and nothing will lure him onto a false path; let a whole ocean of rubbish, evil swirl around him, let the whole world be poisoned with poison and go topsy-turvy - Oblomov will never bow to the idol of lies, his soul will always be pure, light, honest... This is a crystal, transparent soul; there are few such people; they are rare; These are pearls in the crowd! Nothing can bribe his heart; you can rely on him anywhere and everywhere. This is what you have remained faithful to and why taking care of him will never be difficult for me. I have known many people with high qualities, but I have never met a purer, brighter and simpler heart; I loved many, but no one as firmly and ardently as Oblomov. Once you know him, you can’t stop loving him. Is that so? Did you guess right?
...
There are only 590 pages in the book. These are the excerpts you get. And you?
Oblomov and Stolz
Stolz is the antipode of Oblomov (The principle of antithesis)
The entire figurative system of I. A. Goncharov’s novel “Oblomov” is aimed at revealing the character and essence of the main character. Ilya Ilyich Oblomov is a bored gentleman lying on the sofa, dreaming of transformations and a happy life with his family, but doing nothing to make his dreams come true. The antipode of Oblomov in the novel is the image of Stolz. Andrei Ivanovich Stolts is one of the main characters, a friend of Ilya Ilyich Oblomov, the son of Ivan Bogdanovich Stolts, a Russified German who manages an estate in the village of Verkhlev, which is five miles from Oblomovka. The first two chapters of the second part contain a detailed account of Stolz’s life and the conditions in which his active character was formed.
1. General features:
a) age (“Stolz is the same age as Oblomov and is already over thirty”);
b) religion;
c) training at the boarding house of Ivan Stolz in Verchlöw;
d) service and quick retirement;
e) love for Olga Ilyinskaya;
f) kind attitude towards each other.
2. Various features:
A ) portrait;
Oblomov . “He was a man about thirty-two or three years old, of average height, pleasant appearance, with dark gray eyes, but with absence of any definite idea, any concentration in facial features.”
«… flabby beyond his years: from lack of movement or air. In general, his body, judging by its matte finish, too white neck, small plump arms, soft shoulders, seemed too effeminate for a man. His movements, even when he was alarmed, were also restrained softness and not devoid of a kind of graceful laziness.”
Stolz- the same age as Oblomov, he is already over thirty. The portrait of Sh. contrasts with the portrait of Oblomov: “He is all made up of bones, muscles and nerves, like a blooded English horse. He is thin, he has almost no cheeks at all, that is, bone and muscle, but no sign of fatty roundness...”
Getting acquainted with the portrait characteristics of this hero, we understand that Stolz is a strong, energetic, purposeful person who is alien to daydreaming. But this almost ideal personality resembles a mechanism, not a living person, and this repels the reader.
b) parents, family;
Oblomov's parents are Russian; he grew up in a patriarchal family.
Stolz comes from the philistine class (his father left Germany, wandered around Switzerland and settled in Russia, becoming the manager of an estate). “Stolz was only half German, on his father’s side; his mother was Russian; He professed the Orthodox faith, his native speech was Russian...” The mother was afraid that Stolz, under the influence of his father, would become a rude burgher, but Stolz’s Russian entourage prevented him.
c) education;
Oblomov moved “from hugs to hugs of family and friends,” his upbringing was patriarchal in nature.
Ivan Bogdanovich raised his son strictly: “From the age of eight, he sat with his father at the geographical map, sorted through the warehouses of Herder, Wieland, biblical verses and summed up the illiterate accounts of the peasants, townspeople and factory workers, and with his mother he read sacred history, learned Krylov’s fables and sorted through the warehouses of Telemachus.”
When Stolz grew up, his father began to take him to the field, to the market, and forced him to work. Then Stolz began sending his son to the city on errands, “and it never happened that he forgot something, changed it, overlooked it, or made a mistake.”
Upbringing, like education, was dual: dreaming that his son would grow up to be a “good bursh,” the father in every possible way encouraged boyish fights, without which the son could not do a day. If Andrei appeared without a lesson prepared “by heart,” Ivan Bogdanovich sent his son back to where he came from - and every time young Stlts returned with the lessons he had learned.
From his father he received a “hard-working, practical upbringing,” and his mother introduced him to beauty and tried to instill in little Andrei’s soul a love of art and beauty. His mother “seemed the ideal of a gentleman in her son,” and his father accustomed him to hard, not at all lordly, work.
d) attitude towards studying at a boarding house;
Oblomov studied “out of necessity”, “serious reading tired him”, “but the poets touched... a nerve”
Stolz always studied well and was interested in everything. And he was a tutor at his father's boarding school
e) further education;
Oblomov lived in Oblomovka until he was twenty, then graduated from the university.
Stolz graduated from the university with flying colors. Parting with his father, who was sending him from Verkhlev to St. Petersburg, Stolz. says that he will certainly follow his father’s advice and go to Ivan Bogdanovich’s old friend Reingold - but only when he, Stolz, has a four-story house, like Reingold. Such independence and independence, as well as self-confidence. - the basis of the character and worldview of the younger Stolz, which his father so ardently supports and which Oblomov so lacks.
f) lifestyle;
“Ilya Ilyich’s lying down was his normal state.”
Stolz has a thirst for activity
g) housekeeping;
Oblomov did not do business in the village, received little income and lived on credit.
Stolz serves successfully, resigns to do his own business; makes a house and money. He is a member of a trading company that ships goods abroad; as an agent of the company, Sh. travels to Belgium, England, and throughout Russia.
h) life aspirations;
In his youth, Oblomov “prepared for the field,” thought about his role in society, about family happiness, then he excluded social activities from his dreams, his ideal became a carefree life in unity with nature, family, and friends.
Stolz chose an active beginning in his youth... Stolz’s ideal of life is continuous and meaningful work, this is “the image, content, element and purpose of life.”
i) views on society;
Oblomov believes that all members of the world and society are “dead men, sleeping people”; they are characterized by insincerity, envy, the desire to “get a high-profile rank” by any means; he is not a supporter of progressive forms of farming.
According to Stolz, with the help of the establishment of “schools”, “piers”, “fairs”, “highways”, the old, patriarchal “detritus” should be turned into comfortable estates that generate income.
j) attitude towards Olga;
Oblomov wanted to see a loving woman capable of creating a serene family life.
Stolz marries Olga Ilyinskaya, and Goncharov tries in their active alliance, full of work and beauty, to imagine an ideal family, a true ideal, which fails in Oblomov’s life: “we worked together, had lunch, went to the fields, played music< …>just as Oblomov dreamed... Only there was no drowsiness, no despondency, they spent their days without boredom and without apathy; there was no sluggish look, no words; their conversation never ended, it was often heated.”
k) relationship and mutual influence;
Oblomov considered Stoltz his only friend, capable of understanding and helping, he listened to his advice, but Stoltz failed to break Oblomovism.
Stolz highly appreciated the kindness and sincerity of the soul of his friend Oblomov. Stolz does everything to awaken Oblomov to activity. In friendship with Oblomov Stolz. also rose to the occasion: he replaced the rogue manager, destroyed the machinations of Tarantiev and Mukhoyarov, who deceived Oblomov into signing a false loan letter.
Oblomov is accustomed to living according to Stolz’s orders; in the smallest matters, he needs the advice of a friend. Without Stoltz, Ilya Ilyich cannot decide on anything, however, Oblomov is in no hurry to follow Stoltz’s advice: their concepts of life, work, and application of strength are too different.
After the death of Ilya Ilyich, a friend takes in Oblomov’s son, Andryusha, named after him.
m) self-esteem ;
Oblomov constantly doubted himself. Stolz never doubts himself.
m) character traits ;
Oblomov is inactive, dreamy, sloppy, indecisive, soft, lazy, apathetic, and not devoid of subtle emotional experiences.
Stolz is active, sharp, practical, neat, loves comfort, open in spiritual manifestations, reason prevails over feeling. Stolz could control his feelings and was “afraid of every dream.” Happiness for him lay in consistency. According to Goncharov, he “knew the value of rare and expensive properties and spent them so sparingly that he was called an egoist, insensitive...”.
The meaning of the images of Oblomov and Stolz.
Goncharov reflected in Oblomov the typical features of the patriarchal nobility. Oblomov absorbed the contradictory features of the Russian national character.
Stolz in Goncharov’s novel was given the role of a person capable of breaking Oblomovism and reviving the hero. According to critics, the unclear idea of Goncharov about the role of “new people” in society led to the unconvincing image of Stolz. According to Goncharov, Stolz is a new type of Russian progressive figure. However, he does not depict the hero in a specific activity. The author only informs the reader about what Stolz has been and what he has achieved. By showing Stolz's Parisian life with Olga, Goncharov wants to reveal the breadth of his views, but in fact reduces the hero
So, the image of Stolz in the novel not only clarifies the image of Oblomov, but is also interesting to readers for its originality and complete opposite to the main character. Dobrolyubov says about him: “He is not the person who will be able, in a language understandable to the Russian soul, to tell us this almighty word “forward!” Dobrolyubov, like all revolutionary democrats, saw the ideal of a “man of action” in serving the people, in the revolutionary struggle. Stolz is far from this ideal. However, next to Oblomov and Oblomovism, Stolz was still a progressive phenomenon.
Test work based on the novel “Oblomov” by I.A. Goncharov Option 1
Fill in the missing words: A) In “Oblomov’s Dream” the heroes of Homer’s poems are mentioned: _____ and Ulysses (Odysseus). B) In the last chapter of the novel, Stolz and his friend meet, “a writer, plump, with a ____ face, thoughtful, as if sleepy eyes.” C) Olga Ilyinskaya introduced herself to Oblomov ____ (heroine of Shakespeare’s tragedy). D) For the first time in the novel, ___ (character) starts talking about Norma’s aria (“Casta diva”) from V. Bellini’s opera “Norma”. D) Stolz proposes to Olga in _____ (country).
A) “He is all made up of bones, muscles and nerves, like a blooded English horse.” B) “His movements were bold and sweeping; he spoke loudly, smartly and almost always angrily; if you listen at some distance, it’s as if three empty carts are driving across a bridge.” C) “Some considered her simple, short-sighted, shallow, because neither wise maxims about life, about love, nor quick, unexpected and bold remarks, nor read or overheard judgments poured from her tongue; she said little, and only her own, unimportant..." D) "But he kept getting ready and preparing to start life, he kept drawing in his mind the pattern of his future" D) "He rarely shaves and although he washes his hands and face, it seems he does more the kind that washes; and you can’t wash it off with any soap.”
Who owns the words? A) “We need one physiology of society; We have no time for songs now...” B) “Ten places in one day - unfortunate! And this is life! B) “Oh, if only I could live for two hundred, three hundred years!.. how much more things could be done!” D) “Could this be? The man is lazy - I don’t understand that.” D) “Study! Haven't you taught him enough yet? What is this for? Which good person studies?”
A) “Oblomov was sitting in the stroller next to the windows and found it difficult to get out. In the windows, lined with mignonette, marigolds and marigolds, heads began to bustle around. Oblomov somehow got out of the carriage.” B) “Just as one hut fell onto the cliff of a ravine, it has been hanging there since time immemorial, standing with one half in the air and supported by three poles. Three or four generations lived quietly and happily in it.” C) “Therefore, in order to prevent the recurrence and intensification of painful attacks, I consider it necessary to stop Mr. Oblomov from going to work for a while and generally prescribe abstinence from mental pursuits and all activities.” D) “Zakhar could not stand it: the word does good finished him off! It started blinking faster and faster.” D) “I just want to prove to you that your present love is not real love, but future love; This is only an unconscious need to love, which, due to the lack of real food, due to the absence of fire, burns with a false, unwarming light...”
Test work based on the novel by I.A. Goncharov “Oblomov” Option 2
Fill in the missing words: A) “In _____ street, in one of the big houses, Ilya Ilyich Oblomov was lying in bed in his apartment in the morning.” B) Olga Ilyinskaya about Oblomov: “But this is some kind of ____, with whom she herself had to be Pygmalion.” C) Oblomov, like a fabulous lazy person, dreams of marrying “some unheard-of beauty, ____.” D) Stolz about Oblomov: “Do you want me to tell you why he is dear to you, why else do you love him? For what is more valuable in him than any mind: ___, true heart! This is his natural gold." D) For the first time in the novel, the word “Oblomovism” is spoken by _____ (character).
Who is characterized (described) in this way in the novel? A) “.. a man of uncertain years, with an uncertain physiognomy, at a time when it is difficult to guess the age; neither handsome nor ugly, neither tall nor short, neither blond nor dark-haired. Nature did not give him any sharp, noticeable feature, neither bad nor good.” B) “He walked firmly, cheerfully; lived on a budget, trying to spend every day like every ruble, with every minute, never dozing control of spent time, labor, strength of soul and heart.” C) “This knight was both afraid and reproachful. He belonged to two eras, and both put their stamp on him.” D) “... looked at everything gloomily, with half-contempt, with obvious hostility towards everything around him, ready to scold everything and everyone in the world” D) “The dream, the mysterious, the mysterious had no place in his soul. He stubbornly stopped at the threshold of the mystery, not revealing either the child’s faith or the fate’s doubts, but awaited the appearance of the law, and with it the key to it.”
Who owns the words? A) “Life begins: give me your future and don’t think about anything - I vouch for everything” B) “I heard excerpts - the author is great! You can hear either Dante or Shakespeare in it...” B) “Boredom, boredom, boredom! Where is the man here? Where is his integrity? How did he disappear, how did he exchange for every little thing?” D) “Would a real good Russian person do all this? A Russian person will choose one thing, and even then slowly, little by little, somehow.” D) “Where will the Germans get their litter? They don’t even have a crust lying around in vain: they’ll make some crackers and drink it with beer.”
Give the name of the episode, scene, fragment. A) “Before lunch, it’s nice to look into the kitchen, open the pan, smell it, watch how the pies are rolled, the cream is whipped. Then lie down on the couch; my wife reads something new out loud.” B) “Suddenly his eyes stopped at something motionless, with amazement, but then again took on their usual expression. No, it can not be! - he thought. C) “Ominous rumors began to circulate about the need not only for knowledge of literacy, but also for other sciences, hitherto unheard of in that everyday life. An abyss opened up between the titular adviser and the collegiate assessor, and some kind of diploma served as a bridge across it.” D) “I’ll say it frankly and simply: you don’t love me and you can’t love me. Listen to my experience and believe unconditionally.” D) “Plain walnut chairs were huddled along the walls; under the mirror stood a card table; there were four cages with siskins and canaries hanging.”
Test work based on the novel “Oblomov” by I.A. Goncharov Option 3
Fill in the missing words: A) He suggested that Oblomov move to the Vyborg side _____ (character). B) Oblomov after a conversation with Stolz: “He became thoughtful and mechanically began to draw with his finger in the dust, then looked at what he wrote: it turned out ____.” C) Oblomov’s dreams in Pshenitsyna’s house: “He hears stories of dreams, omens, the clinking of plates and the clatter of knives, presses close to the nanny, listens to her voice: “___!” “she says, pointing him to the image of the hostess.” D) Stolz grew up in the village of ___, where his father was a manager. D) “In conclusion, she sang _____: all the delight, the thoughts rushing like lightning in her head, the trembling like needles running through her body - all this destroyed Oblomov: he was exhausted.”
Who is characterized (described) in this way in the novel? A) “Life in his eyes was divided into two halves: one consisted of work and boredom; the other is from peace and peaceful fun.” B) “Isn’t it because, perhaps, she walked so confidently along this path that from time to time she heard nearby other, even more moderate steps of a “friend” whom she trusted, and measured her step with them.” C) “She was very white and plump in face, so that the blush seemed unable to break through her cheeks.” D) “In her opinion, there was not a single gentleman in the entire German nation. She did not notice any softness, delicacy, condescension in the German character...” D) “He was about forty, with a straight crest on his forehead and two similar crests on his temples, carelessly thrown into the wind, looking like medium-sized dog ears.”
Who owns the words? A) “Learning won’t go away, but you can’t buy health; health is more important than anything in life" B) "Life is a duty, an obligation, therefore, love is also a duty: it’s as if God sent it to me and told me to love" C) "They gather, feed each other, no cordiality, no kindness, no mutual attraction ! They gather for dinner, for the evening, as if on duty, without fun, it’s cold, to show off the cook, the salon, and then at hand to ridicule, to trip one another up.” D) “This is a crystal, transparent soul; there are few such people; they are rare; these are pearls in the crowd! D) “Work is the image, content, element and purpose of life, at least mine”
Give the name of the episode, scene, fragment. A) “The bread was good in price, and in March or April you will receive money. Now there is not a penny of cash.” B) “The morning is magnificent; the air is cool; the sun is not high yet. From the house, from the trees, and from the dovecote, and from the gallery - long shadows ran far away from everything. Cool corners have formed in the garden and yard, inviting thoughtfulness and sleep.” C) “As soon as he entered the long alley, he saw a woman under a veil get up from one bench and walk towards him.” D) “You are speaking like an ancient: in the old books they wrote everything like this. But even that’s good: at least you’re reasoning and not sleeping.” D) “You are not allowed, but I can and should know where the truth is and where the error is, and I have an obligation to warn those who have not yet managed to know this. And so I warn you: you are in error, look around!
Answers: Option 1
A) Achilles B) apathetic C) Cordelia D) Oblomov E) Switzerland
A) Stolz B) Tarantiev C) Olga D) Oblomov D) Zakhar
A) Penkin B) Oblomov C) Stolz D) Olga D) Tarantiev
A) Oblomov’s move to the house of the widow Pshenitsyna (part 3) B) Oblomov’s dream (part 1) C) medical certificate (part 1) D) “Pathetic scene” between Oblomov and Zakhar (part 1) E) Oblomov’s letter to Olga (part 2)
Option 2
A) Gorokhova B) Galatea C) Militrisa Kiribityevna D) honest E) Stolz
A) Alekseev B) Stolz C) Zakhar D) Tarantiev D) Stolz
A) Stolz B) Penkin C) Oblomov D) Tarantiev D) Zakhar
A) dialogue between Oblomov and Stolz (part 2) B) meeting of Stolz and Olga in Paris (part 4) C) Oblomov’s dream (part 1) D) Oblomov’s letter to Olga (part 2) E) description of the house of the widow Pshenitsyna (part 3)
Option 3
A) Tarantyev B) Oblomovism C) Militrisa Kiribityevna D) Verkhleve D) “Casta diva”
A) Oblomov B) Olga C) Agafya Matveevna D) Stoltz’s mother D) Ivan Matveevich
A) Oblomov’s parents B) Olga C) Oblomov D) Stolz E) Stolz
A) letter to Oblomov from the village (part 3) B) Oblomov’s dream (part 1) C) Oblomov and Olga’s meeting in the Summer Garden (part 3) D) Dialogue between Oblomov and Stolz (part 1) E) Oblomov’s letter to Olga (part 2)