“Exposing the “vulgarity of a vulgar person” “Ionych. “Exposing the“ vulgarity of a vulgar person ”“ Ionych Several years have passed, the elders have become even more stout

Four years have passed. In the city, Startsev already had a lot of practice. Every morning he hurriedly received patients at his place in Dyalizh, then he left for the city patients, he left no longer in a pair, but in a troika with bells, and returned home late at night. He was stout, ill-mannered and reluctant to walk, as he suffered from shortness of breath. And Panteleimon also gained weight, and the more he grew in width, the more sadly he sighed and complained about his bitter fate: the ride had overcome!

Startsev visited different houses and met many people, but did not get close to anyone. The townsfolk irritated him with their conversations, views on life, and even their appearance. Experience taught him little by little that as long as you play cards with a layman or have a snack with him, he is a peaceful, good-natured and not even stupid person, but as soon as you talk to him about something inedible, for example, about politics or science, how he gets into a dead end or starts such a stupid and evil philosophy that all that remains is to wave his hand and walk away. When Startsev tried to talk even with a liberal layman, for example, that mankind, thank God, is advancing and that in time it will do without passports and without the death penalty, the layman looked at him sideways and incredulously and asked: “So, then anyone can slaughter anyone in the street?” And when Startsev in society, at dinner or tea, spoke about the need to work, that one cannot live without work, then everyone took this as a reproach and began to get angry and importunately argue. For all that, the townsfolk did nothing, absolutely nothing, and were not interested in anything, and it was impossible to think of anything to talk about with them.

And Startsev avoided talking, but only ate and played vint, and when he found a family holiday in some house and he was invited to eat, he sat down and ate in silence, looking at the plate; and everything that was said at that time was uninteresting, unfair, stupid, he felt annoyed, agitated, but was silent, and because he was always sternly silent and staring at his plate, he was nicknamed in the city "pouted Pole", although he never been Polish.

He shied away from such entertainments as theater and concerts, but on the other hand he played vint every evening, for three hours, with pleasure. He had another entertainment, into which he imperceptibly, little by little, got involved, this - in the evenings, taking out of his pockets pieces of paper obtained by practice, and, it happened, pieces of paper - yellow and green, from which they smelled of perfume, and vinegar, and incense, and blubber - it was stuffed into all the pockets of seventy rubles; and when a few hundred were collected, he took it to the Mutual Credit Society and deposited it in a checking account.

In all four years after the departure of Ekaterina Ivanovna, he visited the Turkins only twice, at the invitation of Vera Iosifovna, who was still being treated for migraine. Every summer Ekaterina Ivanovna came to visit her parents, but he never saw her; somehow didn't happen.

But four years have passed. One quiet, warm morning, a letter was brought to the hospital. Vera Iosifovna wrote to Dmitry Ionych that she missed him very much, and asked him to be sure to come to her and ease her suffering, and by the way, today is her birthday. At the bottom there was a postscript: “I join my mother's request. TO."

Startsev thought about it and in the evening went to the Turkins.

Oh, hello please! Ivan Petrovich met him, smiling with his eyes alone. -Bonjourte.

Vera Iosifovna, already very old, with white hair, shook Startsev's hand, sighed manneredly, and said:

You, doctor, do not want to look after me, you never visit us, I am already old for you. But now a young woman has arrived, perhaps she will be happier.

And Kitty? She lost weight, turned pale, became more beautiful and slimmer; but it was already Ekaterina Ivanovna, and not Kotik; there was no longer the former freshness and expression of childish naivety. There was something new in her eyes and in her manners - timid and guilty, as if here, in the Turkins' house, she no longer felt at home.

Long time no see! she said, offering Startsev her hand, and it was evident that her heart was beating uneasily; and intently, looking into his face with curiosity, she continued: You tanned, matured, but in general you have changed little.

And now he liked her, liked her very much, but something was already missing in her, or something was superfluous - he himself could not say what exactly, but something already prevented him from feeling as before. He didn't like her pallor, her new expression, her weak smile, her voice, and a little later he didn't like the dress, the chair in which she was sitting, he didn't like something in the past, when he almost married her. He remembered his love, the dreams and hopes that worried him four years ago - and he felt embarrassed.

They drank tea with sweet cake. Then Vera Iosifovna read the novel aloud, read about things that never happen in life, and Startsev listened, looked at her gray, beautiful head and waited for her to finish.

“Untalented,” he thought, “not the one who cannot write stories, but the one who writes them and cannot hide it.”

Not bad, - said Ivan Petrovich. Then Ekaterina Ivanovna played the piano noisily and for a long time, and when she finished, they thanked her for a long time and admired her.

“It’s good that I didn’t marry her,” thought Startsev.

She looked at him and seemed to expect him to invite her to go into the garden, but he was silent.

Let's talk, - she said, coming up to him. - How do you live? What do you have? How? I have been thinking about you all these days,” she continued nervously, “I wanted to send you a letter, I wanted to go to Dyalizh myself, and I already decided to go, but then I changed my mind, God knows how you feel about me now. I've been waiting for you with such excitement today. For God's sake, let's go to the garden. They went into the garden and sat there on a bench under an old maple tree, as they had done four years ago. It was dark.

How are you? - Ekaterina Ivanovna asked.

Nothing, we live a little, - answered Startsev.

And he couldn't think of anything else. They were silent.

I'm worried, - said Ekaterina Ivanovna and covered her face with her hands, - but don't pay attention. I feel so good at home, I'm so glad to see everyone and I can't get used to it. How many memories! It seemed to me that we would talk with you incessantly, until the morning.

Now he could see her face up close, her shining eyes, and here, in the darkness, she seemed younger than in the room, and it was even as if her former childish expression had returned to her. And in fact, she looked at him with naive curiosity, as if she wanted to take a closer look and understand the man who had once loved her so ardently, with such tenderness and so unhappily; her eyes thanked him for this love. And he remembered everything that happened, all the slightest details, how he wandered around the cemetery, how later in the morning, tired, he returned to his home, and he suddenly felt sad and sorry for the past. A fire burned in my soul.

Do you remember how I accompanied you to the evening at the club? - he said. -Then it was raining, it was dark...

The flame kept burning in my soul, and I already wanted to talk, to complain about life...

Eh! he said with a sigh. - You ask me how I'm doing. How are we doing here? No way. We grow old, we grow fat, we fall. Day and night - a day away, life passes dully, without impressions, without thoughts ... During the day, profit, and in the evening a club, a society of gamblers, alcoholics, wheezing, whom I cannot stand. What's good?

But you have a job, a noble goal in life. You loved talking about your hospital so much. I was kind of strange then, I imagined myself to be a great pianist. Now all the young ladies play the piano, and I also played like everyone else, and there was nothing special about me; I am the same pianist as my mother is a writer. And of course, I did not understand you then, but then, in Moscow, I often thought about you. I only thought of you. What a joy it is to be a zemstvo doctor, to help the sufferers, to serve the people. What happiness! Ekaterina Ivanovna repeated with enthusiasm. “When I thought about you in Moscow, you seemed to me so ideal, sublime ...

Startsev remembered the papers that he took out of his pockets with such pleasure in the evenings, and the light in his soul went out.

He got up to walk towards the house. She took his arm.

You are the best person I have ever known in my life,” she continued. - We will see each other, talk, right? Promise me. I am not a pianist, I am no longer mistaken about myself and will not play or talk about music in front of you.

When they entered the house and Startsev saw in the evening light her face and sad, grateful, searching eyes turned on him, he felt uneasy and thought again:

"I'm glad I didn't get married then."

He began to say goodbye.

You have no Roman right to leave without dinner,” Ivan Petrovich said, seeing him off. “That is very perpendicular of you. Come on, picture it!” he said, turning to Pave in the hallway.

Pava, no longer a boy, but a young man with a mustache, struck a pose, raised his hand and said in a tragic voice:

Die, unfortunate!

All this irritated Startsev. Sitting in the carriage and looking at the dark house and garden, which had once been so sweet and dear to him, he remembered everything at once - both the novels of Vera Iosifovna, and the noisy game of Kotik, and the wit of Ivan Petrovich, and the tragic pose of Pava, and thought, that if the most talented people in the whole city are so mediocre, then what a city should be.

Three days later, Pava brought a letter from Ekaterina Ivanovna.

“You are not coming to us. Why? she wrote. -I'm afraid that you have changed towards us; I'm afraid, and I'm scared just thinking about it. Reassure me, come and tell me that everything is fine.

I need to talk to you. Your E.T.

He read this letter, thought, and said to Pave:

Tell me, my dear, that today I cannot go, I am very busy. I'll come, say so, in three days. But three days passed, a week passed, and he still did not go. Somehow, driving past the Turkins' house, he remembered that he should have stopped by at least for a minute, but he thought about it and ... did not stop by.

And he never visited the Turkins again.

A few more years passed. Startsev has become even more stout, fat, he breathes heavily and already walks with his head thrown back.

When he, chubby, red, rides on a troika with bells and Panteleimon, also chubby and red, with a fleshy nape, sits on the goats, stretching his straight, like wooden arms forward, and shouts to the oncoming ones “Hold it!”, then the picture is impressive, and it seems that it is not a man who is riding, but a pagan god. He has a huge practice in the city, there is no time to breathe, and he already has an estate and two houses in the city, and he chooses for himself a third, more profitable one, and when they tell him in the Mutual Credit Society about some house nominated for auction, he the ceremony goes to this house and, passing through all the rooms, not paying attention to the undressed women and children who look at him with amazement and fear, pokes at all the doors with a stick and says:

Is this an office? Is this a bedroom? And then what?

And while breathing heavily and wiping sweat from his forehead.

He has a lot of trouble, but still he does not leave the Zemstvo place; greed has overcome, I want to be in time here and there. In Dyalizh and in the city, his name is already simply Ionych. - "Where is Ionych going?" or: “Should I invite Ionych to the consultation?”

Probably because his throat was swollen with fat, his voice changed, became thin and sharp. His character also changed: he became heavy, irritable. When receiving patients, he usually gets angry, impatiently taps the floor with a stick and shouts in his unpleasant voice:

Feel free to answer only questions! Don't talk!

He is alone. He is bored, nothing interests him.

For all the time while he lives in Dyalizh, love for Kotik was his only joy and, probably, his last. In the evenings he plays vint at the club and then sits alone at a large table and has supper. He is served by the footman Ivan, the oldest and most respected, they serve him lafitte No. 17, and already everyone - the foremen of the club, and the cook, and the footman - know what he likes and what he does not like, they try their best to please him, otherwise, what good, suddenly get angry and begin to knock with a stick on the floor.

While having dinner, he occasionally turns around and intervenes in some conversation:

What are you talking about? A? Whom?

And when, it happens, in the neighborhood at some table the Turkins are mentioned, he asks:

What kind of Turkins are you talking about? Is it about those that the daughter plays the piano?

That's all that can be said about him.

And the Turks? Ivan Petrovich hasn't aged, hasn't changed in the slightest, and as before keeps joking around and telling jokes; Vera Iosifovna reads her novels to the guests willingly, as before, with sincere simplicity. And Kotik plays the piano every day, for four hours. She has visibly aged, is getting sick, and every autumn leaves with her mother for the Crimea. Seeing them off at the station, Ivan Petrovich, when the train starts moving, wipes away his tears and shouts:

Farewell please!

4. GRAIN AND PLANT

It can be said that the draft recording for Rothschild's Violin is the grain of the future story. In the sketch (“The undertaker’s wife dies ...”), the motives that will be included in the final text are already anticipated: the death of Yakov’s wife, her “measurement”, taken during her lifetime, the record of expenses for the coffin, the memory of the willow, the child with blond hair hair.

However, in the sketch, as we have seen, everything is centered around the death of the undertaker's wife; and in the story, the center of gravity is transferred to the undertaker's thoughts about a life that "wasted in vain, not for a pinch of snuff."

Chekhov's notebooks are a garden where he slowly grows his plans, his perennial plants... A gardener of plans - sounds poetic. But - not entirely accurate.

Wheat grows from a grain of wheat. From the very beginning, the grain is doomed to recreate itself, its variety, its characteristics. The plant, speaking today's language, is programmed in the grain.

That is why it is not entirely correct to call a draft note the grain of the story - there is a different relationship between the blank and the final text. Here, from a grain of wheat, something completely different can grow.

If all the properties of the creative grain were prepared, then what would the process of figurative thinking consist in? Is it just that the writer unfolds the hidden, laid down from the very beginning? And to think in images means only to realize the given?

Here is one of the few articles about notebooks.

Author - I. Bityugova. Her article ( I. Bityugova. Notebooks - creative laboratory. On Sat. "Great artist". Rostov-on-Don, Rostov book. publishing house, 1960.) is a serious work, although with some inaccuracies in the explanation of draft notes. We are interested in one thing here: how the relationship between the idea and the work is interpreted.

I. Bityugova gives a sketch of the story "Ionych". “The Filimonovs are a talented family, they say so throughout the city. He, an official, plays on stage, sings, shows tricks, makes jokes (“Hello, please”), she writes liberal stories, imitates - “I'm in love with you ... oh, my husband will see!” - this is what she says to everyone in front of her husband. Boy in front: die, unfortunate! For the first time, in fact, all this in a boring gray city seemed funny and talented. The second time too. After 3 years, I went for the 3rd time, the boy already had a mustache, and again: “I’m in love with you ... oh, my husband will see!”, again the same imitation: “die, unhappy”, and when I left from the Filimonovs, it seemed to me that there were no more boring and mediocre people in the world” (I, 85, 7).

Before us is the same type of entry as for the story "Rothschild's Violin". Not a note-detail, a detail, but a record of the plot, an attempt to grasp the work from beginning to end. At first glance, all the main motives of "Ionych" are already outlined here. I. Bityugova says something like this:

Almost the entire story has already been written concisely, it remains to supplement it with external events.

The harmony of work on the creation of a work, an example of which is the story "Ionych", testifies to the existence of an already fully formed plan before the start of work" (p. 215).

Further, the author writes that in other cases the idea changed, not noticing that the work on the story "Ionych" was not at all so "harmonious". In general, the expression - "the harmony of work on the creation of a work" - is not very successful. In fact, this work turns out to be much more contradictory, unpredictable, and full of surprises. And it consists not only in the fact that the artist supplements the abstract with external events.

The work of the writer's thought, the movement of the image goes both in the form of additions, and - shifts, rethinking, removal of one image by another, sometimes - anti-image. In the definition of "slenderness of work", the resistance of the material is smoothed.

The bottom line is that not only the full text is formed from the working outline, but the “education” itself is carried out in the form of a transformation of the previously outlined ( In some testimonies of writers about their work, this moment seems to be omitted. “...At the starting point,” says playwright V. Rozov, “as in a grain, lies everything, the entire development of the play. Just as a sprout, a flower, and a fruit are hidden in a small grain, so the whole play is hidden in the starting point. And no matter how small the point, known only to you, the whole development of your play will grow from it ”(V. Rozov. The process of creation (the article is a record of the author’s conversations).“ Questions of Literature ”, 1968, No. 8, p. 92 ). It is difficult, of course, to argue with a writer about his own work. Indeed, the work is hidden in the original "seed" - the whole thing, however, how it comes out of there, is deduced. This process itself is sometimes depicted more directly and unilinearly than is actually the case.).

The writer strives to embrace the whole work in its foreseeable integrity with a note-summary. But the initial outline does not yet cover everything. Rough sketch - and "grain", and only the starting point; it cannot be immediately conclusively grasping. The final text not only embodies, implements what was conceived, but also - in the process of implementation - often disputes the preparation.

Let's read again the sketch "Filimonov's talented family ...". Let's not skim our eyes, let's not slip "diagonally", but carefully, line by line, we will read - Chekhov's text, his notebooks in particular, are generally not suitable for fluent reading. Brevity, the sister of talent, is designed for the increased attention and sensitivity of the reader. In essence, brevity is trust. Chekhov teaches not only to write in a new way, but also to read.

The Filimonovs are a family that seemed funny, interesting against the backdrop of a "boring gray city." After the third visit, the hero already thinks that there are no more boring and mediocre people in the world.

The Filimonovs (in the story - the Turkins) set off the boredom of the city with their playful banality. They are the symbol and personification of this gray boredom. This is the main idea of ​​the outline.

But - do not lead.

Let's see how the contours of the work are outlined in notebooks.

Here is one of the first entries:

"Lackey boy: die unhappy!" (I, 83, 4). This character will then be included in the abstract note (I, 85, 7),

“Hello, please.

What full Roman law do you have” (I, 84, 1).

This is from the repertoire of Filimonov the owner (in the story - Ivan Petrovich Turkin).

And, finally, that note-summary, in which “almost the entire” story is captured (“it remains to be supplemented with external events”).

But in reality, all the notes cited are connected with only one side of the story - they lack the image of Ionych himself. A hero unknown to us tells about the Filimonovs. He has little in common with Ionych, except perhaps the indignation of the Filimonovs.

Another group of notes is connected with the image of Ionych - the story appears at the intersection of these two lines. In 1897, Chekhov wrote in his notebook: “A serious baggy doctor fell in love with a girl who dances very well, and in order to please her, he began to study the mazurka” (I, 72, 3).

This note did not come close to the image of Ionych. L. M. Dolotova, commenting on the story for the new Complete Works and Letters of Chekhov in 30 volumes, first drew attention to the fact that in the “baggy doctor” some features of Dr. Dmitry Ionych Startsev are foreseen. Recall that in Chapter III, Ionych comes to the Turkins to ask for the hand of Ekaterina Ivanovna. He appears at the wrong time - "She was going to the club for a dance party" (IX, 294). Then he also goes to the club - "Dressed in someone else's tailcoat and a white hard tie, which kept bristling and wanted to slip off his collar ...".

In the note, all the inconsistency, the paradox of the situation is that the "serious baggy" doctor, having fallen in love, "began to study the mazurka." This contradiction deepens in the story.

The second note related to Ionych: “The credit notes smelled of blubber” (I, 76, 14) ( Wed also with a note about credit papers, an episode in "The Steppe": Yegorushka looks at a pile of money - "He looked at her indifferently and felt only the nasty smell of rotten apples and kerosene coming from the pile" (VII, 42).). This detail - the money earned by the doctor - has a long history.

In works about Chekhov, it has been noted more than once that the image of Ionych is to a certain extent anticipated by the image of Toporkov from the story Belated Flowers (1882). Toporkov looks at the papers lying on his desk, recalls his youth, full of work and hardship: “Is it really only for five-ruble notes and ladies that he went through that labor road?” (I, 468). These five-ruble notes become a symbol of his life, devoid of a great goal. At the end of the story, the hero for a moment is resurrected by his soul, but then returns to his former life again: “Heals ladies and saves five rubles” (I, 469).

The entry about credit notes goes back to the story, separated from the time of work on Ionych by about 15 years. We have already seen the longevity of Chekhov's creative memory.

This detail (“The credit papers smelled of blubber”) is not just included in the text of the story - it unfolds into a picture description:

“He had another entertainment, into which he imperceptibly, little by little, got involved, this - in the evenings to take out of his pockets pieces of paper obtained by practice, and, it happened, pieces of paper - yellow and green, which smelled of perfume, and vinegar, and incense , and blubber, - seventy rubles were stuffed into all pockets ”(IX, 298).

At the decisive moment of the conversation with Ekaterina Ivanovna - four years after her refusal, when suddenly something like love flared up in his soul again - at that moment “Startsev remembered the papers that he took out of his pockets in the evenings with such pleasure, and the light in my soul went out” (IX, 301).

The detail - “loan notes smelled of blubber” not only becomes a thing of the past, to “Belated Flowers”, but also turns out to be an important, supporting detail in the development of the plot of the story “Ionych”, in the biography of the soul of the protagonist.

And the last entry to the story, made in 1898, is obviously already shortly before Chekhov began to write it:

Manuscript of the story "Ionych"

"Ionych. Obese. In the evenings, he dine at the club at a large table, and when it comes to the Turkins, he asks: - What kind of Turkins are you talking about? About those whose daughter plays the piano.

He practices very much in the city, but the Zemstvo does not give up either: greed has overcome” (III, 31, 3).

Before us are two rows of records: one is about the Filimonovs, the other is about Ionych.

The entries of the first row go in the same direction, they are stable and unchanged: "Die, unhappy!", "What full Roman law do you have."

The records of the second one are modified: first, the "baggy doctor", then - credit notes, and finally, "greed has overcome" completely.

The creative history of the story "Ionych" is not an addition to the abstract with external events, but a significant shift in emphasis, a shift in the center of gravity: the main thing in the story is not the Filimonovs-Turkins, but Ionych himself ( Draft notes and the final text of the story are compared by V. V. Golubkov in his book “The Mastery of A. P. Chekhov”. M., Uchpedgiz, pp. 105-107.).

The internal logic of the sketch in the notebook is approximately the following: what kind of boring gray city is this if the intricate vulgar Filimonovs are the most talented family.

In the story - a different course of development of figurative thought and a different relationship between the hero and the environment. The plot of "Ionych" is the story of his gradual spiritual stupefaction and hardening. And this is what is important: the more Ionych descends, the more resolutely he scolds the city, the townsfolk, the environment.

Four years have passed since his unsuccessful matchmaking - “He gained weight, grew fat and was reluctant to walk, as he suffered from shortness of breath” (IX, 297). And along with this “disaffection”, his anger against the inhabitants of the city intensifies:

“Startsev visited different houses and met many people, but did not get close to anyone. The townsfolk irritated him with their conversations, views on life, and even their appearance. Experience taught him little by little that as long as you play cards with a layman or have a snack with him, he is a peaceful, good-natured and not even stupid person, but as soon as you talk to him about something inedible, for example, about politics or science, how he gets into a blind alley or starts such a stupid and evil philosophy that it remains only to wave his hand and move away” (IX, 297-298).

Ionych waved his hand at the people around him, at everything - except for credit papers.

D. Ovsyaniko-Kulikovsky, one of the most thoughtful researchers of Chekhov of the pre-revolutionary period, wrote that the meaning of the story "Ionych" does not at all boil down to the notorious "environment stuck": does not come out to fight with the environment, the very thought of fighting does not even enter his head; but on the other hand, he ends up saying that all his relations with society are an involuntary, unintentional expression of some semblance of a “struggle” with it, or better, not a struggle, but only a protest, and, moreover, one that can in no way be subsumed under a stereotyped the idea of ​​\u200b\u200ba "fresh" person with lofty feelings and noble aspirations, opposing the vulgarity and rudeness of the mores of the "environment" (D. Ovsyaniko-Kulikovsky. Our writers ( Literary essays and characteristics). I, A.P. Chekhov, Journal for Everyone, 1899, No. 3, p. 260.).

“On the one hand, we sympathize with Startsev and are ready to admit that he has reason to despise the inhabitants of the city of S. But on the other hand, we come to the conclusion that, probably, some (and maybe many) of those whom he despise , may be in other respects much better than him, and that he, in fact, has no moral right to treat people with undisguised contempt for the mere fact that they are “average” and routine people, that nature has not endowed them with such a mind as him" ( Ibid., p. 267.).

Chekhov wrote about "the essence that decides the fate of any story" (XV, 265). The essence of "Ionych" is in the ratio of the hero and the environment, the doctor and the Filimonov-Turkin family, personifying the whole city.

We know the stories of Chekhov's contemporaries, where the spiritual and mental stupefaction, hardening of the hero is associated with capitulation before the swamp of the philistine. Such a scheme is inapplicable to the story "Ionych". The more angry, embittered the doctor is by his patients, interlocutors, partners on the cards, the more he departs - and not only from the environment, but also from himself, the former, able to love, feel, live.

In an excerpt from the notebook (“The Talented Filimonov Family”), the last words: “When I left the Filimonovs, it seemed to me that there were no more boring and mediocre people in the world” - these words of the character-narrator are the result, clarifying the essence of the Filimonov family.

In the story, Ionych thinks and feels the same thing:

“All this annoyed Startsev. Sitting in the carriage and looking at the dark house and garden, which had once been so sweet and dear to him, he remembered everything at once - both the novels of Vera Iosifovna, and the noisy game of Kotik, and the wit of Ivan Petrovich, and the tragic pose of Pava, and thought, that if the most talented people in the whole city are so mediocre, then what kind of city should be” (IX, 301-302).

However, the paradox of the story is that the merciless sentence that Ionych Turkin mentally pronounces and in their person to the whole city also turns into a sentence to himself. And he breaks not only with Katerina Ivanovna, Kotik, but with love, with the ability to love. Starting from the Turkins, he falls much lower than the Turkins. And in essence, he loses any right to judge them.

Let's compare the final words about Ionych and about the Turkins.

“A few more years have passed. Startsev has become even more stout, fat, he breathes heavily and already walks with his head thrown back. When he, chubby, red, rides on a troika with bells, and Panteleimon, also chubby and red, with a fleshy nape, sits on the goats, stretching his straight arms forward, like wooden ones, and shouts to the oncoming ones “Hold it!”, then the picture is imposing, and it seems that it is not a man who is riding, but a pagan god” (IX, 302).

"Not a man" - this is the result of Ionych. The resemblance to Panteleimon, as if we are talking about some special bred breed, and the “straight, like wooden hands” mentioned, as if in passing, and the strange voice of Ionych, described later, a few paragraphs later, thin and sharp (his throat swollen with fat ), - everything sums up: Ionych ceased to be a man. By the end of the story, he exhausts himself. And his description ends with the words: "That's all that can be said about him" (IX, 303).

And here is the last image of the story, dedicated to the Turkin family.

“And the Turks? Ivan Petrovich hasn't aged, hasn't changed in the slightest, and as before, he jokes and tells jokes; Vera Iosifovna reads her novels as before willingly, with sincere simplicity. And Kotik plays the piano every day, for four hours. She has visibly aged, is getting sick, and every autumn leaves with her mother for the Crimea. Seeing them off at the station, Ivan Petrovich, when the train starts moving, wipes away his tears and shouts:

Farewell please!

And he waves his handkerchief" (IX, 303).

Of course, the words about reading Vera Iosifovna’s novels: “with cordial simplicity” are restrainedly ironic, and the phrase: “everything is still sharp” also carries not just information, but also a hidden mocking intonation. Turkins have not changed, they are still the same pretentiously banal people; but people. But Ionych is not a person.

Katerina Ivanovna "gets sick" - this can be said about a person. And Ionych’s “throat swam with fat” - it’s more natural to say about a capon that is fattened for slaughter.

The final words of the story are especially rich in intonation - about Ivan Petrovich, who, parting at the station, “wipes away his tears and shouts:

This is not just a reminder - for the last time - of Turkin's vulgar playfulness, his hackneyed humor. He cries, saying goodbye to his relatives, he loves them, albeit in his own way, but he is able to love and therefore immeasurably higher than Ionych.

That is why D. Ovsyaniko-Kulikovsky is right when he says that the inhabitants of the city in other respects can be better than the protagonist of the story; and I. Bityugova is not right, who did not see the huge distance between the outline of the story and the final text.

Let's go back to one of the original notes:

“Hello, please.

What full Roman law do you have ”(I, 84, 1) - and compare with the last words of the story:

“... wipes away tears and shouts:

Farewell please! And waving a handkerchief.

What was planned as a sign of vulgar-playful wit, humor for hire, was filled with new meaning, emotionally complicated and enriched.

The plant brought forth fruits that were not intended in the grain.

Chekhov said:

“Living, truthful images create a thought, but a thought does not create an image” ( These words, spoken in a conversation with L. Avilova, she cites in her memoirs “A. P. Chekhov in my life. Very controversial in their general concept, these memoirs provide a lot of interesting material in particular. (A.P. Chekhov in the memoirs of contemporaries. M., GIHL, 1960, p. 203).).

The creative history of a work is not a direct development of thought, but a living and conflicting development. It often takes the form of "rethinking the idea" and "transforming the image."

Notebooks help to imagine the path from blank to work, full of unexpected turns, shifts, departures from the previously planned creative route.

Composition

One of the main themes of Chekhov's work is the exposure of the "vulgarity of a vulgar person", especially in the everyday life and moods of the intelligentsia. The theme of "Ionych" is an image of the deadly power of philistinism and vulgarity. Chekhov considers the story of an educated, efficient doctor Dmitry Ionych Startsev, who turned into an unsociable and callous egoist in a provincial wilderness. The action of the story develops against the backdrop of a provincial town with its monotonous and boring philistine life. Showing the gradual rebirth of his hero, Chekhov gives only turning points in his life, three descending steps.

At the beginning of the story, when Startsev was just appointed a zemstvo (doctor), he is young, cheerful, cheerful, he loves work and his first profession as a doctor. Startsev in his development and interests (much higher than city dwellers. He is capable of sincere feelings, love, understands poetry nature, are available to him (romantic moods. But even then Chekhov hints at those features of his hero that will be developed and then turn him into "Ionych", first of all - practicality and prudence. So, for example, when in the midst of his love Startsev comes to Kotik to make an offer to the Turkins, he does not forget the material side of the matter. "And they will give a dowry, they must be a lot," he thought. The feeling of love was sincere, but shallow. Having received an unexpected refusal from Ekaterina Ivanovna, he "was sorry his feelings, this love of his, "but his heavy mood quickly passed. In one year in the Zemstvo, Startsev managed to develop a private practice, and he is drawn to a quiet life.

Four years have passed. Chekhov takes those aspects of Startsev's life, which he spoke about earlier, and shows how the withering, the devastation of the human soul takes place. Previously, Startsev loved work and worked with great pleasure in the Zemstvo hospital, now he has a large practice in the city, and he is chasing only a ruble, having lost interest and compassion for the sick. The range of his interests has narrowed extremely, and now only card games and profit are of concern. The depth of his spiritual devastation is shown by his attitude towards the girl he recently loved. Now, when meeting with Ekaterina Ivanovna, he feels only anxiety and unaccountable fear for himself, for his well-fed, measured life: “It’s good that I didn’t marry her.”

A few more years of life "without impressions, without thoughts" passed. Startsev has become even more stout, obese, breathes heavily and walks with his head thrown back. The thirst for profit finally took possession of him and crowded out other feelings. He "has no time to breathe", he, despite the huge private practice, does not give up even the zemstvo place: he was overcome by greed, "I want to keep up here and there." He became thick-skinned and insensitive to the grief of others. Passing through the rooms of the house for sale, he, ignoring the undressed women and children, pokes his stick and asks: “Is this an office? Is this a bedroom? And then what?

When someone in the club talks about the Turkins, he asks: “Are you talking about those that your daughter plays the pianos?” Only a person who has reached the last degree of spiritual emptiness can talk like that about a girl whom he once loved, even if love has passed.

What led Startsev to this? Chekhov argues: the philistine environment, vulgar and insignificant, destroys the best that is in a person, if the person himself does not have some kind of “ideological antidote” and internal conscious protest. Startsev's story makes us think about what turns a person into a spiritual freak. In my opinion, the worst thing in life is the fall of the individual into the quagmire of narrow-mindedness and vulgar philistinism.

In the story "Ionych" we see how the vulgarity of the bourgeois environment literally sucks a person, turning him into a soulless soft-bodied layman. The beginning of this story introduces us to the boring and monotonous atmosphere of the provincial city of S. The pride of this city was the Turkin family, which was considered the most educated and cultured. The basis for this was the numerous talents of the Turkin family. So, Ivan Petrovich is known as a famous joker. One of his "jokes" - "hello please" - is well known to each of us, because it has become a kind of aphorism. His wife Vera Iosifovna is also an outstanding person: she writes novels that arouse undoubted interest among her guests. Their daughter Katerina Ivanovna firmly decides to study at the conservatory, because, according to others, she is an outstanding pianist. When a young zemstvo doctor Dmitry Startsev appears in the city, we have the opportunity to look at this outstanding family through the eyes of a fresh person. The stale jokes of the father of the family, the novels of his wife that are good to fall asleep to, and the strumming of their daughter on the piano, who hit the keys with such force as if she wanted to drive them inside - that's what their talents really were. The reader can immediately imagine how mediocre the inhabitants of the city were if the Turkin family was the most cultured in it.

Once in this city, a young doctor, who compares favorably with its inhabitants by honesty, diligence, and a desire to engage in a noble cause, cannot but notice the inferiority of the people around him. For a long time they annoyed him with their empty conversations, meaningless activities, Dmitry Startsev comes to the conclusion that with these people you can only play cards, have a snack and talk about the most ordinary things. And at the same time, he, like most residents of the provincial town, admires the talents of the Turkin family ...

The most terrible thing is that this man, at first resisting the vulgarity surrounding him with his whole being, began to gradually succumb to the influence of the environment in which he fell. For the first time in his life, he falls in love. And the daughter of the family already known to us, Katerina Ivanovna, becomes the object of his adoration. The ardent feeling of the hero obscures everything before him. He idealizes Katerina Ivanovna, fulfills all her whims. And when he proposes to her in marriage, he is almost sure that she will become his wife. The thought slips through his head: they must give a lot of dowry, and he will have to move from Dyalizh to the city and engage in private practice.

But Katerina Ivanovna refuses Startsev. And what? We see that this person suffers no more than three days ... His life is getting back on track, and, remembering the girl he loves, he thinks: "How much trouble, however." Having said goodbye to his dreams of love and noble service to people, the hero of the story finds pleasure only in playing vint and counting the daily fee. In fact, his life is filled with the same meaning as that of the rest of the inhabitants of the town. “A frantic game of cards, gluttony, drunkenness, constant talking about the same thing” - all this turns out to be stronger than Dr. Startsev, and he turns into a flabby Ionych.

“How are we doing here? - he answers Katerina Ivanovna's question when he meets her a few years later. - No way. We grow old, we grow fat, we fall. Day and night - a day away, life passes dully, without impressions, without thoughts ... During the day, profit, and in the evening a club, a society of gamblers, alcoholics, wheezing, whom I can not stand. What's good? From these words it is clear that Startsev is well aware that he is degrading, but he does not have the strength to break out of this vicious circle. Therefore, answering the question of the essay, it must be said that not only the philistine environment turned Startsev into Ionych, but he himself was to blame for this.

The lack of will of the hero, the unwillingness to change anything in his life became the main reason that he turned into a plump, red, shortness of breath man. And then we see that Ionych intends to buy another house for himself in addition to the two he already owns. This tells us that the meaning of Ionych's life was rather personal well-being than the desire to benefit people, as it was in the beginning, when he received people in the hospital even on weekends and holidays. It seems to me that Chekhov wanted to tell with this story how strongly the philistine environment influences a person: it changes not only the appearance of a person, his way of life, but is also capable of completely turning the scale of his moral values.

Other writings on this work

Analysis of the second chapter of A.P. Chekhov's story "Ionych" What is the meaning of the finale of A.P. Chekhov's story "Ionych"? Degradation of Dmitry Ivanovich Startsev in A.P. Chekhov's story "Ionych" Degradation of Dmitry Startsev (according to A. Chekhov's story "Ionych") Degradation of the human soul in the story of A. P. Chekhov "Ionych" Ideological and artistic originality of A. P. Chekhov's story "Ionych" Depiction of everyday life in the works of A.P. Chekhov How Dr. Startsev became Ionych How and why does Dmitry Startsev turn into Ionych? (according to the story of A.P. Chekhov "Ionych".) The skill of A.P. Chekhov the storyteller The moral qualities of a person in Chekhov's story "Ionych" Denunciation of philistinism and vulgarity in A.P. Chekhov's story "Ionych" Denunciation of vulgarity and philistinism in A.P. Chekhov's story "Ionych" The image of Dr. Startsev in Chekhov's story "Ionych" Images of "case" people in the stories of A.P. Chekhov (based on the "little trilogy" and the story "Ionych") The fall of the human soul in the story of A.P. Chekhov "Ionych". The fall of Startsev in the story of A. P. Chekhov "Ionych" WHY DOCTOR STARTSEV BECAME IONYCH? Why does the doctor of elders become the layman Ionych? (according to the story of A.P. Chekhov "Ionych") The transformation of a person into an inhabitant (according to the story of A.P. Chekhov "Ionych") The transformation of a person into an inhabitant (according to Chekhov's story "Ionych") The role of poetic images, colors, sounds, smells in the disclosure of the image of Startsev Composition based on the story of A.P. Chekhov "IONYCH" Comparative analysis of the first and last meeting of Startsev and Ekaterina Ivanovna (according to the story of A.P. Chekhov "Ionych") Is there real life in A.P. Chekhov's story "Ionych"? The theme of the death of the human soul in the story of A. P. Chekhov "Ionych" When visitors to the provincial town of S. complained about the boredom and monotony of life, the local residents, as if justifying themselves, said that, on the contrary, it was very good in S., that there was a library, a theater, a club in S., there were balls, that, finally, there are smart, interesting, pleasant families with whom you can make acquaintances. And they pointed to the Turkin family as the most educated and talented. This family lived on the main street, near the governor, in their own house. Turkin himself, Ivan Petrovich, a plump, handsome brunette with whiskers, staged amateur performances for charitable purposes, he himself played old generals and at the same time coughed very funny. He knew many anecdotes, charades, sayings, he liked to joke and make jokes, and he always had such an expression that it was impossible to understand whether he was joking or speaking seriously. His wife, Vera Iosifovna, a thin, pretty lady in pince-nez, wrote stories and novels and read them aloud to her guests. Daughter, Ekaterina Ivanovna, a young girl, played the piano. In a word, each member of the family had some kind of talent. The Turkins welcomed the guests cordially and showed them their talents cheerfully, with cordial simplicity. Their large stone house was spacious and cool in summer, half of the windows overlooked an old shady garden where nightingales sang in spring; when guests were sitting in the house, knives were banging in the kitchen, the yard smelled of fried onions and this always foreshadowed a plentiful and tasty dinner. And Dr. Startsev, Dmitry Ionych, when he had just been appointed zemstvo doctor and settled in Dyalizh, nine miles from S., was also told that he, as an intelligent person, needed to get acquainted with the Turkins. One winter in the street he was introduced to Ivan Petrovich; we talked about the weather, about the theater, about cholera, followed by an invitation. In the spring, on a holiday - it was Ascension, - after receiving the sick, Startsev went to the city to have a little fun and, by the way, buy himself something. He walked slowly (he didn’t have his own horses yet), and all the time he sang:

When I didn't drink tears from the cup of life...

In the city he dined, took a walk in the garden, then somehow by itself Ivan Petrovich's invitation came to his mind, and he decided to go to the Turkins, to see what kind of people they were. Hello, please, said Ivan Petrovich, meeting him on the porch. Very, very glad to see such a nice guest. Come, I will introduce you to my missus. I tell him, Verochka, he continued, introducing the doctor to his wife, I tell him that he has no Roman right to stay in his hospital, he must give his leisure time to society. Isn't it true, sweetheart? Sit down here, said Vera Iosifovna, seating the guest next to her. You can look after me. My husband is jealous, this is Othello, but we will try to behave in such a way that he will not notice anything. Oh, you chick, spoiled girl ... Ivan Petrovich muttered tenderly and kissed her on the forehead. You are very welcome, he again turned to the guest, my missus has written the Bolshinsky novel and today she will read it aloud. Zhanchik, Vera Iosifovna said to her husband, dites que l "on nous donne du thé. Startseva was introduced to Ekaterina Ivanovna, an eighteen-year-old girl, very similar to her mother, just as thin and pretty. Her expression was still childish, and her waist was thin and delicate; and the virgin, already developed breasts, beautiful, healthy, spoke of spring, real spring. Then they drank tea with jam, honey, sweets and delicious biscuits that melted in your mouth. As evening approached, the guests gradually came together, and Ivan Petrovich turned his laughing eyes to each of them and said: Hello please. Then everyone sat in the drawing room, with very serious faces, and Vera Iosifovna read her novel. She began thus: “The frost was getting stronger...” The windows were wide open, one could hear the clatter of knives in the kitchen, and the smell of fried onions was wafting ... It was quiet in the soft, deep armchairs, the lights were blinking so affectionately in the twilight of the living room; and now, on a summer evening, when voices and laughter came from the street, and lilacs sipped from the yard, it was hard to understand how the frost grew stronger and how the setting sun illuminated the snowy plain with its cold rays and the traveler walking alone along the road; Vera Iosifovna read about how a young, beautiful countess set up schools, hospitals, libraries in her village and how she fell in love with a wandering artist, read about what never happens in life, and yet it was pleasant, convenient to listen to, and all such good, calm thoughts went into my head, I did not want to get up. Not bad... Ivan Petrovich said quietly. And one of the guests, listening and carried away by his thoughts somewhere very, very far, said in a barely audible voice: Yes... indeed... An hour passed, then another. In the city garden next door, an orchestra played and a songbook choir sang. When Vera Iosifovna closed her notebook, they were silent for about five minutes and listened to “Luchinushka”, which the choir sang, and this song conveyed what was not in the novel and what happens in life. Do you publish your works in magazines? asked Vera Iosifovna Startsev. No, she answered, I don't print anywhere. I'll write it down and hide it in my closet. Why print? she explained. After all, we have the means. And for some reason everyone sighed. And now you, Kotik, play something, Ivan Petrovich said to his daughter. They lifted the lid of the piano, opened the notes, which were already at the ready. Ekaterina Ivanovna sat down and struck the keys with both hands; and then immediately struck again with all her might, and again, and again; her shoulders and chest trembled, she stubbornly struck everything in one place, and it seemed that she would not stop until she had hammered the key inside the piano. The drawing room was filled with thunder; everything rattled: the floor, and the ceiling, and the furniture... Ekaterina Ivanovna played a difficult passage, interesting precisely because of its difficulty, long and monotonous, and Startsev, listening, drew to himself how stones were falling down from a high mountain, falling down and falling down, and he wanted them to stop shedding as soon as possible, and at the same time Ekaterina Ivanovna, rosy from exertion, strong, energetic, with a curl that fell on her forehead, he liked very much. After the winter spent in Dyalizh, among the sick and peasants, to sit in the living room, look at this young, graceful and, probably, pure creature and listen to these noisy, annoying, but still cultured sounds, it was so pleasant, so new .. . Well, Kotik, today you played like never before, Ivan Petrovich said with tears in his eyes when his daughter had finished and got up. Die, Denis, you can't write better. Everyone surrounded her, congratulated her, were amazed, assured her that they had not heard such music for a long time, but she listened in silence, slightly smiling, and triumph was written all over her figure. Great! perfect! Excellent! Startsev also said, succumbing to the general enthusiasm. Where did you study music? he asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. At the conservatory? No, I'm just going to the conservatory, but for now I studied here, with Madame Zavlovskaya. Did you finish your course at the local gymnasium? Oh no! Vera Iosifovna answered for her. We invited teachers to the house, in the gymnasium or at the institute, you see, there could be bad influences; as long as a girl grows up, she should be under the influence of her mother alone. Still, I will go to the conservatory, said Ekaterina Ivanovna. No, Kotik loves his mother. The cat will not upset mom and dad. No, I'll go! I'll go! said Ekaterina Ivanovna, joking and capricious, and stamped her foot. And at dinner, Ivan Petrovich already showed his talents. He, laughing with his eyes alone, told jokes, joked, suggested ridiculous problems and solved them himself, and all the time spoke in his extraordinary language, worked out by long exercises in wit and, obviously, had long become a habit with him: Bolshinsky, not bad, humiliated you thank you... But that was not all. When the guests, well-fed and satisfied, crowded in the hall, sorting out their coats and canes, Pavlusha's footman bustled around them, or, as he was called here, Pava, a boy of fourteen, with short hair, with full cheeks. Come on, Pava, draw! Ivan Petrovich told him. Pava took a pose, raised his hand and said in a tragic tone: Die, unfortunate! And everyone laughed. "Interesting," thought Startsev, going out into the street. He also went to a restaurant and drank beer, then went on foot to his place in Dyalizh. He walked and sang all the way: Having walked nine versts and then going to bed, he did not feel the slightest fatigue, but on the contrary, it seemed to him that he would gladly walk another twenty versts. "Not bad..." he remembered as he fell asleep and laughed.

II

Startsev kept going to the Turkins, but there was a lot of work in the hospital, and he could not choose a free hour. More than a year passed thus in labor and solitude; but from the city they brought a letter in a blue envelope ... Vera Iosifovna had suffered from migraines for a long time, but recently, when Kotik scared every day that she would go to the conservatory, the attacks began to recur more and more often. All the city doctors visited the Turkins; the turn finally came to the zemstvo. Vera Iosifovna wrote him a touching letter, in which she asked him to come and alleviate her suffering. Startsev arrived and after that he began to visit the Turkins often, very often ... He actually helped Vera Iosifovna a little, and she already told all the guests that he was an extraordinary, amazing doctor. But he went to the Turkins no longer for her migraine ... Holiday. Ekaterina Ivanovna finished her long, agonizing exercises on the piano. Then they sat for a long time in the dining room and drank tea, and Ivan Petrovich told something funny. But here is the call; I had to go into the hall to meet some guest; Startsev took advantage of the moment of confusion and said to Ekaterina Ivanovna in a whisper, greatly agitated: For God's sake, I beg you, don't torture me, let's go to the garden! She shrugged her shoulders, as if perplexed and not understanding what he wanted from her, but got up and went. You play the piano for three, four hours, he said, following her, then you sit with your mother, and there is no way to talk to you. Give me at least a quarter of an hour, I beg you. Autumn was approaching, and it was quiet and sad in the old garden, and dark leaves lay in the alleys. It was getting dark early. I haven't seen you for a whole week, Startsev continued, if only you knew what suffering it is! Let's sit down. Listen to me. Both had a favorite place in the garden: a bench under an old wide maple. And now sit down on this bench. What do you want? Ekaterina Ivanovna asked dryly, in a businesslike tone. I haven't seen you for a whole week, I haven't heard from you for so long. I crave, I long for your voice. Speak up. She delighted him with her freshness, the naive expression of her eyes and cheeks. Even in the way her dress sat, he saw something extraordinarily sweet, touching in its simplicity and naive grace. And at the same time, despite this naivety, she seemed to him very smart and developed beyond her years. With her, he could talk about literature, about art, about anything, he could complain to her about life, about people, although during a serious conversation, it happened that she suddenly started laughing inopportunely or ran into the house. She, like almost all these girls, read a lot (in general, in S. they read very little, and in the local library they used to say that if it were not for the girls and young Jews, then at least close the library); Startsev liked this endlessly; he asked her with excitement every time what she had been reading about in recent days, and, fascinated, listened when she told. What did you read this week while we did not see each other? he asked now. Speak, please. I read Pisemsky. What exactly? "A thousand souls," answered Kotik. And what a funny name Pisemsky was: Alexei Feofilaktych! Where are you going? Startsev was horrified when she suddenly got up and went to the house. I need to talk to you, I need to explain myself... Stay with me for at least five minutes! I conjure you! She stopped, as if wanting to say something, then awkwardly shoved a note into his hand and ran into the house, and there she sat down again at the piano. “Today, at eleven o’clock in the evening,” Startsev read, “be at the cemetery near the Demetti monument.” "Well, that's not smart at all," he thought, coming to his senses. What does the cemetery have to do with it? For what?" It was clear: Kitty was fooling around. Who, in fact, would seriously think of making an appointment at night, far outside the city, in a cemetery, when it can be easily arranged on the street, in the city garden? And does it suit him, a zemstvo doctor, an intelligent, respectable man, to sigh, to receive notes, to wander around cemeteries, to do stupid things that even high school students now laugh at? Where will this novel lead? What will the comrades say when they find out? So Startsev thought as he wandered around the tables in the club, and at half-past ten he suddenly took off and went to the cemetery. He already had his own pair of horses and the coachman Panteleimon in a velvet waistcoat. The moon shone. It was quiet, warm, but warm in autumn. In the suburbs, near the slaughterhouses, the dogs howled. Startsev left his horses on the edge of the city, in one of the alleys, while he himself went to the cemetery on foot. Everyone has their oddities, he thought. The cat is also strange and who knows? perhaps she is not joking, she will come, and he gave himself up to this weak, empty hope, and it intoxicated him. From half a verst he walked across the field. The cemetery was indicated in the distance by a dark stripe, like a forest or a large garden. A fence made of white stone, a gate appeared ... In the moonlight, one could read on the gate: “The hour is coming at the same time ...” Startsev entered the gate, and the first thing he saw was white crosses and monuments on both sides of the wide alleys and black shadows from them and from poplars; and white and black could be seen all around, and sleepy trees bent their branches over the white. It seemed that it was brighter here than in the field; maple leaves, like paws, stood out sharply on the yellow sand of the alleys and on the slabs, and the inscriptions on the monuments were clear. At first, Startsev was struck by what he now saw for the first time in his life and which, probably, will no longer be seen: a world unlike anything else, a world where the moonlight is so good and soft, as if its cradle is here. where there is no life, no and no, but in every dark poplar, in every grave, the presence of a mystery is felt, promising a quiet, beautiful, eternal life. From slabs and withered flowers, together with the autumn smell of leaves, forgiveness, sadness and peace emanates. Silence all around; in deep humility the stars looked down from the sky, and Startsev's steps were heard so abruptly and out of place. And only when the clock in the church began to strike and he imagined himself dead, buried here forever, it seemed to him that someone was looking at him, and for a moment he thought that this was not peace and not silence, but the deaf melancholy of non-existence, crushed despair... Monument to Demetti in the form of a chapel, with an angel on top; once an Italian opera was passing through S., one of the singers died, she was buried and this monument was erected. No one in the city remembered her, but the lamp over the entrance reflected the moonlight and seemed to be on fire. There was no one. And who's coming here at midnight? But Startsev waited, and, as if the moonlight warmed up passion in him, he waited passionately and pictured kisses and hugs in his imagination. He sat near the monument for half an hour, then walked along the side alleys, hat in hand, waiting and thinking about how many women and girls were buried here, in these graves, who were beautiful, charming, who loved, burned with passion at night, giving in to affection. How, in essence, mother nature plays a bad joke on a person, how insulting to realize this! Startsev thought so, and at the same time he wanted to cry out that he wanted to, that he was waiting for love at all costs; it was no longer pieces of marble that stood white before him, but beautiful bodies, he saw forms that shyly hid in the shade of trees, he felt warmth, and this languor became painful ... And it was as if a curtain fell, the moon went under the clouds, and suddenly everything around went dark. Startsev barely found the gate, it was already dark, like an autumn night, then he wandered for an hour and a half, looking for the alley where he had left his horses. I am tired, I can hardly stand on my feet, he said to Panteleimon. And as he sat down with pleasure in the carriage, he thought: "Oh, you shouldn't get fat!"

III

The next day in the evening he went to the Turkins to make an offer. But this turned out to be inconvenient, since Ekaterina Ivanovna was combed by a hairdresser in her room. She was going to the club for a dance evening. I had to sit again for a long time in the dining room and drink tea. Ivan Petrovich, seeing that the guest was thoughtful and bored, took notes from his waistcoat pocket, read a funny letter from the German manager about how all denials had deteriorated on the estate and shyness had collapsed. “And they must give a lot of dowry,” thought Startsev, listening absently. After a sleepless night, he was in a state of stupefaction, as if he had been drugged with something sweet and soporific; my soul was hazy, but joyful, warm, and at the same time in my head some cold, heavy piece reasoned: "Stop before it's too late! Is she a match for you? She is spoiled, capricious, sleeps until two o'clock, and you are a deacon's son, a zemstvo doctor ... " "Well? he thought. And let. “Besides, if you marry her,” continued the piece, “then her relatives will force you to quit the Zemstvo service and live in the city.” "Well? he thought. In the city, so in the city. They will give a dowry, we will set up the situation ... " Finally, Ekaterina Ivanovna entered in a ball gown, cleavage, pretty, clean, and Startsev admired and was so delighted that he could not utter a single word, but only looked at her and laughed. She began to say goodbye, and he there was no need for him to stay here got up, saying that it was time for him to go home: the sick were waiting. There is nothing to do, said Ivan Petrovich, go, by the way, you will give Kitty a lift to the club. It was raining outside, it was very dark, and only by Panteleimon's hoarse cough could one guess where the horses were. Raise the top of the stroller. I am walking on the carpet, you are walking while you are lying, Ivan Petrovich said, putting his daughter into the carriage, he is walking while he is lying... Move on! Farewell please! Go. And I was at the cemetery yesterday, Startsev began. How ungenerous and unmerciful of you... Have you been to the cemetery? Yes, I was there and waited for you until almost two o'clock. I suffered... And suffer if you don't get the jokes. Ekaterina Ivanovna, pleased that she had so slyly played a trick on her lover and that she was loved so much, burst out laughing and suddenly cried out in fright, as at that very moment the horses turned sharply into the gates of the club and the carriage tilted. Startsev put his arm around Ekaterina Ivanovna's waist; she, frightened, clung to him, and he could not resist and passionately kissed her on the lips, on the chin and hugged her tighter. Enough, she said dryly. And in a moment she was no longer in the carriage, and the policeman near the illuminated entrance of the club shouted in a disgusting voice at Panteleimon: What has become, crow? Drive on! Startsev went home, but soon returned. Dressed in someone else's tailcoat and white stiff tie, which somehow kept bristling and wanted to slip off his collar, at midnight he sat in the club in the drawing room and said to Ekaterina Ivanovna with enthusiasm: Oh, how little do those who have never loved know! It seems to me that no one has yet correctly described love, and it is hardly possible to describe this tender, joyful, painful feeling, and whoever has experienced it at least once will not begin to convey it in words. Why prefaces, descriptions? Why unnecessary eloquence? My love is boundless... Please, I beg you, Startsev finally uttered, be my wife! Dmitry Ionych, said Ekaterina Ivanovna with a very serious expression, after thinking. Dmitry Ionych, I am very grateful to you for the honor, I respect you, but ... she got up and continued standing, but, excuse me, I cannot be your wife. Let's talk seriously. Dmitry Ionych, you know, most of all in my life I love art, I am madly in love, I adore music, I devoted my whole life to it. I want to be an artist, I want fame, success, freedom, but you want me to continue living in this city, to continue this empty, useless life, which has become unbearable for me. To become a wife oh no, sorry! A person should strive for a higher, brilliant goal, and family life would bind me forever. Dmitry Ionych (she smiled a little, because, saying "Dmitry Ionych", she remembered "Aleksey Feofilaktych"), Dmitry Ionych, you are a kind, noble, intelligent person, you are the best ... tears welled up in her eyes, I sympathize with you with all my heart, but... but you will understand... And, in order not to cry, she turned away and left the living room. Startsev's heart stopped beating restlessly. On leaving the club and into the street, the first thing he did was tore off his stiff tie and sighed deeply. He was a little ashamed and his vanity was offended, he did not expect a refusal, and could not believe that all his dreams, languor and hopes had led him to such a stupid end, as if in a small play at an amateur performance. And it was a pity for his feelings, this love of his, so sorry that, it seems, he would have taken it and sobbed, or with all his strength he would have grabbed Panteleimon's broad back with an umbrella. For three days things fell out of his hands, he did not eat, did not sleep, but when a rumor reached him that Ekaterina Ivanovna had gone to Moscow to enter the conservatory, he calmed down and healed as before. Then, sometimes remembering how he wandered around the cemetery or how he traveled all over the city and looked for a tailcoat, he lazily stretched himself and said: What a hassle, however!

IV

Four years have passed. In the city, Startsev already had a lot of practice. Every morning he hurriedly received patients at his place in Dyalizh, then he left for the city patients, he left no longer in a pair, but in a troika with bells, and returned home late at night. He was stout, ill-mannered and reluctant to walk, as he suffered from shortness of breath. And Panteleimon also gained weight, and the more he grew in width, the more sadly he sighed and complained about his bitter fate: the ride had overcome! Startsev visited different houses and met many people, but did not get close to anyone. The townsfolk irritated him with their conversations, views on life, and even their appearance. Experience taught him little by little that as long as you play cards with a layman or have a snack with him, he is a peaceful, good-natured and not even stupid person, but as soon as you talk to him about something inedible, for example, about politics or science, how he gets into a dead end or starts such a stupid and evil philosophy that all that remains is to wave his hand and walk away. When Startsev tried to talk even with a liberal layman, for example, that mankind, thank God, is advancing and that in time it will do without passports and without the death penalty, the layman looked at him sideways and incredulously and asked: “So, then anyone can slaughter anyone in the street?” And when Startsev in society, at dinner or tea, spoke about the need to work, that one cannot live without work, then everyone took this as a reproach and began to get angry and importunately argue. For all that, the townsfolk did nothing, absolutely nothing, and were not interested in anything, and it was impossible to think of anything to talk about with them. And Startsev avoided talking, but only ate and played vint, and when he found a family holiday in some house and he was invited to eat, he sat down and ate in silence, looking at the plate; and everything that was said at that time was uninteresting, unfair, stupid, he felt annoyed, agitated, but was silent, and because he was always sternly silent and staring at his plate, he was nicknamed in the city "pouted Pole", although he never been Polish. He shied away from such entertainments as theater and concerts, but on the other hand he played vint every evening, for three hours, with pleasure. He had another entertainment, into which he imperceptibly, little by little, got involved, this in the evenings taking out of his pockets pieces of paper obtained by practice, and, it happened, pieces of paper yellow and green, which smelled of perfume, and vinegar, and incense, and blubber, was crammed into all pockets of seventy rubles; and when a few hundred were collected, he took it to the Mutual Credit Society and deposited it in a checking account. In all four years after the departure of Ekaterina Ivanovna, he visited the Turkins only twice, at the invitation of Vera Iosifovna, who was still being treated for migraine. Every summer Ekaterina Ivanovna came to visit her parents, but he never saw her; somehow didn't happen. But four years have passed. One quiet, warm morning, a letter was brought to the hospital. Vera Iosifovna wrote to Dmitry Ionych that she missed him very much, and asked him to be sure to come to her and ease her suffering, and by the way, today is her birthday. At the bottom there was a postscript: “I join my mother's request. TO." Startsev thought about it and in the evening went to the Turkins. Oh, hello please! Ivan Petrovich met him, smiling with his eyes alone. Bonjourte. Vera Iosifovna, already very old, with white hair, shook Startsev's hand, sighed manneredly, and said: You, doctor, do not want to look after me, you never visit us, I am already old for you. But now a young woman has arrived, perhaps she will be happier. And Kitty? She lost weight, turned pale, became more beautiful and slimmer; but it was already Ekaterina Ivanovna, and not Kotik; there was no longer the former freshness and expression of childish naivety. There was something new in her eyes and in her manners, timid and guilty, as if here, in the Turkins' house, she no longer felt at home. How many years, how many winters! she said, offering Startsev her hand, and it was evident that her heart was beating anxiously; and intently, looking into his face with curiosity, she continued: How plump you have become! You tanned, matured, but in general you have changed little. And now he liked her, liked her very much, but something was already missing in her, or something was superfluous, he himself could not say what exactly, but something already prevented him from feeling as before. He didn't like her pallor, her new expression, her weak smile, her voice, and a little later he didn't like the dress, the chair in which she was sitting, he didn't like something in the past, when he almost married her. He remembered his love, the dreams and hopes that worried him four years ago, and he felt uncomfortable. They drank tea with sweet cake. Then Vera Iosifovna read the novel aloud, read about things that never happen in life, and Startsev listened, looked at her gray, beautiful head and waited for her to finish. “Untalented,” he thought, “not the one who cannot write stories, but the one who writes them and cannot hide it.” Not bad, said Ivan Petrovich. Then Ekaterina Ivanovna played the piano noisily and for a long time, and when she finished, they thanked her for a long time and admired her. "It's good that I didn't marry her," thought Startsev. She looked at him and seemed to expect him to invite her to go into the garden, but he was silent. Let's talk, she said, coming up to him. How do you live? What do you have? How? I’ve been thinking about you all these days,” she continued nervously, “I wanted to send you a letter, I wanted to go to Dyalizh myself, and I already decided to go, but then I changed my mind, God knows how you feel about me now. I've been waiting for you with such excitement today. For God's sake, let's go to the garden. They went into the garden and sat there on a bench under an old maple tree, as they had done four years ago. It was dark. How are you doing? Ekaterina Ivanovna asked. Nothing, we live a little, Startsev replied. And he couldn't think of anything else. They were silent. I'm worried, said Ekaterina Ivanovna and covered her face with her hands, but don't pay attention. I feel so good at home, I'm so glad to see everyone and I can't get used to it. How many memories! It seemed to me that we would talk with you incessantly, until the morning. Now he could see her face up close, her shining eyes, and here, in the darkness, she seemed younger than in the room, and it was even as if her former childish expression had returned to her. And in fact, she looked at him with naive curiosity, as if she wanted to take a closer look and understand the man who had once loved her so ardently, with such tenderness and so unhappily; her eyes thanked him for this love. And he remembered everything that happened, all the slightest details, how he wandered around the cemetery, how later in the morning, tired, he returned to his home, and he suddenly felt sad and sorry for the past. A fire burned in my soul. Do you remember how I saw you off to the club for the evening? he said. Then it was raining, it was dark... The flame kept burning in my soul, and I already wanted to talk, to complain about life... Eh! he said with a sigh. You ask me how I'm doing. How are we doing here? No way. We grow old, we grow fat, we fall. Day and night day and night away, life passes dimly, without impressions, without thoughts ... During the day, profit, and in the evening a club, a society of gamblers, alcoholics, wheezing, whom I cannot stand. What's good? But you have a job, a noble goal in life. You loved talking about your hospital so much. I was kind of strange then, I imagined myself to be a great pianist. Now all the young ladies play the piano, and I also played like everyone else, and there was nothing special about me; I am the same pianist as my mother is a writer. And of course, I did not understand you then, but then, in Moscow, I often thought about you. I only thought of you. What a joy it is to be a zemstvo doctor, to help the sufferers, to serve the people. What happiness! Ekaterina Ivanovna repeated with enthusiasm. When I thought about you in Moscow, you seemed to me so perfect, sublime... Startsev remembered the papers that he took out of his pockets with such pleasure in the evenings, and the light in his soul went out. He got up to walk towards the house. She took his arm. You are the best person I have known in my life, she continued. We will see each other, talk, won't we? Promise me. I am not a pianist, I am no longer mistaken about myself and will not play or talk about music in front of you. When they entered the house and Startsev saw in the evening light her face and sad, grateful, searching eyes turned on him, he felt uneasy and thought again: "I'm glad I didn't get married then." He began to say goodbye. You have no Roman right to leave without dinner, Ivan Petrovich said, seeing him off. This is very perpendicular of you. Come on, picture it! he said, addressing Pave in front. Pava, no longer a boy, but a young man with a mustache, struck a pose, raised his hand and said in a tragic voice: Die, unfortunate! All this irritated Startsev. Sitting in the carriage and looking at the dark house and garden, which had once been so sweet and dear to him, he remembered everything at once and the novels of Vera Iosifovna, and the noisy game of Kotik, and the wit of Ivan Petrovich, and the tragic pose of Pava, and thought, that if the most talented people in the whole city are so mediocre, then what a city should be. Three days later, Pava brought a letter from Ekaterina Ivanovna. “You are not coming to us. Why? she wrote. I am afraid that you have changed towards us; I'm afraid, and I'm scared just thinking about it. Reassure me, come and tell me that everything is fine. I need to talk to you. Your E.T. He read this letter, thought, and said to Pave: Say, my dear, that today I cannot go, I am very busy. I'll come, say so, in three days. But three days passed, a week passed, and he still did not go. Somehow, driving past the Turkins' house, he remembered that he should have stopped by at least for a minute, but he thought about it and ... did not stop by. And he never visited the Turkins again.

V

A few more years passed. Startsev has become even more stout, fat, he breathes heavily and already walks with his head thrown back. When he, chubby, red, rides on a troika with bells and Panteleimon, also chubby and red, with a fleshy nape, sits on the goats, stretching his straight, like wooden arms forward, and shouts to the oncoming ones “Hold it!”, then the picture is impressive, and it seems that it is not a man who is riding, but a pagan god. He has a huge practice in the city, there is no time to breathe, and he already has an estate and two houses in the city, and he chooses for himself a third, more profitable one, and when they tell him in the Mutual Credit Society about some house nominated for auction, he the ceremony goes to this house and, passing through all the rooms, not paying attention to the undressed women and children who look at him with amazement and fear, pokes at all the doors with a stick and says: Is this an office? Is this a bedroom? And then what? And while breathing heavily and wiping sweat from his forehead. He has a lot of trouble, but still he does not leave the Zemstvo place; greed has overcome, I want to be in time here and there. In Dyalizh and in the city, his name is already simply Ionych. "Where is Ionych going?" or: “Should I invite Ionych to the consultation?” Probably because his throat was swollen with fat, his voice changed, became thin and sharp. His character also changed: he became heavy, irritable. When he sees the sick, he usually gets angry, impatiently taps his stick on the floor, and shouts in his unpleasant voice: Please answer only questions! Don't talk! He is alone. He is bored, nothing interests him. For all the time while he lives in Dyalizh, love for Kotik was his only joy and, probably, his last. In the evenings he plays vint at the club and then sits alone at a large table and has supper. He is served by the footman Ivan, the oldest and most respected, they serve him lafitte No. 17, and already everyone - the foremen of the club, and the cook, and the footman - know what he loves and what he does not like, they try their best to please him, otherwise, what good, suddenly get angry and start banging on the floor with a stick. While having dinner, he occasionally turns around and intervenes in some conversation: What are you talking about? A? Whom? And when, it happens, in the neighborhood at some table the Turkins are mentioned, he asks: What kind of Turkins are you talking about? Is it about those that the daughter plays the piano? That's all that can be said about him. And the Turks? Ivan Petrovich hasn't aged, hasn't changed in the slightest, and as before keeps joking around and telling jokes; Vera Iosifovna reads her novels to the guests willingly, as before, with sincere simplicity. And Kotik plays the piano every day, for four hours. She has visibly aged, is getting sick, and every autumn leaves with her mother for the Crimea. Seeing them off at the station, Ivan Petrovich, when the train starts moving, wipes away his tears and shouts: Farewell please!

One of the main themes of Chekhov's work is the exposure of the "vulgarity of a vulgar person", especially in the everyday life and moods of the intelligentsia. The theme of "Ionych" is an image of the deadly power of philistinism and vulgarity. Chekhov considers the story of an educated, efficient doctor Dmitry Ionych Startsev, who turned into an unsociable and callous egoist in a provincial wilderness. The action of the story develops against the backdrop of a provincial town with its monotonous and boring philistine life. Showing the gradual rebirth of his hero, Chekhov gives only turning points in his life, three descending steps. At the beginning of the story, when Startsev was just appointed a zemstvo (doctor), he is young, cheerful, cheerful, he loves work and his first profession as a doctor. Startsev in his development and interests (much higher than the city dwellers.

He is capable of sincere feelings, love, understands the poetry of nature, romantic moods are available to him. But even then Chekhov hints at those features of his hero that will develop and then turn him into “Ionych”, first of all - practicality and prudence So, for example, when, in the midst of his love for Kotik, Startsev comes to the Turkins to make an offer, he does not forget the material side of the matter. "And they will give a dowry, it must be a lot," he thought. from Ekaterina Ivanovna an unexpected refusal, he "was sorry for his feelings, this love of his, "but his heavy mood quickly passed. Startsev managed to develop a private practice in one year in the Zemstvo, and he is drawn to a quiet life.

Four years have passed. Chekhov takes those aspects of Startsev's life, which he spoke about earlier, and shows how the withering, the devastation of the human soul takes place. Previously, Startsev loved work and worked with great pleasure in the Zemstvo hospital, now he has a large practice in the city, and he is chasing only a ruble, having lost interest and compassion for the sick. The range of his interests has narrowed extremely, and now only card games and profit are of concern. The depth of his spiritual devastation is shown by his attitude towards the girl he recently loved. Now, when meeting with Ekaterina Ivanovna, he feels only anxiety and unaccountable fear for himself, for his well-fed, measured life: “It’s good that I didn’t marry her.”

A few more years of life "without impressions, without thoughts" passed. Startsev has become even more stout, obese, breathes heavily and walks with his head thrown back. The thirst for profit finally took possession of him and crowded out other feelings. He "has no time to breathe", he, despite the huge private practice, does not give up even the zemstvo place: he was overcome by greed, "I want to keep up here and there." He became thick-skinned and insensitive to the grief of others. Passing through the rooms of the house for sale, he, ignoring the undressed women and children, pokes his stick and asks: “Is this an office?

Is this a bedroom? And then what?

When someone in the club talks about the Turkins, he asks: “Are you talking about those that your daughter plays the pianos?” Only a person who has reached the last degree of spiritual emptiness can talk like that about a girl whom he once loved, even if love has passed. What led Startsev to this? Chekhov argues: the philistine environment, vulgar and insignificant, destroys the best that is in a person, if the person himself does not have some kind of “ideological antidote” and internal conscious protest. Startsev's story makes us think about what turns a person into a spiritual freak.

In my opinion, the worst thing in life is the fall of the individual into the quagmire of narrow-mindedness and vulgar philistinism. In the story "Ionych" we see how the vulgarity of the bourgeois environment literally sucks a person, turning him into a soulless soft-bodied layman. The beginning of this story introduces us to the boring and monotonous atmosphere of the provincial town of S.

The pride of this city was the Turkin family, which was considered the most educated and cultured. The basis for this was the numerous talents of the Turkin family. So, Ivan Petrovich is known as a famous joker.

One of his "jokes" - "hello please" - is well known to each of us, because it has become a kind of aphorism. His wife Vera Iosifovna is also an outstanding person: she writes novels that arouse undoubted interest among her guests.

Their daughter Katerina Ivanovna firmly decides to study at the conservatory, because, according to others, she is an outstanding pianist. When a young zemstvo doctor Dmitry Startsev appears in the city, we have the opportunity to look at this outstanding family through the eyes of a fresh person.

The stale jokes of the father of the family, the novels of his wife that are good to fall asleep to, and the strumming of their daughter on the piano, who hit the keys with such force as if she wanted to drive them inside - that's what their talents really were. The reader can immediately imagine how mediocre the inhabitants of the city were if the Turkin family was the most cultured in it. Once in this city, a young doctor, who compares favorably with its inhabitants by honesty, diligence, and a desire to engage in a noble cause, cannot but notice the inferiority of the people around him. For a long time they annoyed him with their empty conversations, meaningless activities, Dmitry Startsev comes to the conclusion that with these people you can only play cards, have a snack and talk about the most ordinary things. And at the same time, he, like most residents of the provincial town, admires the talents of the Turkin family ... The most terrible thing is that this man, who at first resisted the vulgarity surrounding him with his whole being, began to gradually succumb to the influence of the environment in which he fell . For the first time in his life, he falls in love.

And the daughter of the family already known to us, Katerina Ivanovna, becomes the object of his adoration. The ardent feeling of the hero obscures everything before him. He idealizes Katerina Ivanovna, fulfills all her whims. And when he proposes to her in marriage, he is almost sure that she will become his wife.

The thought slips through his head: they must give a lot of dowry, and he will have to move from Dyalizh to the city and engage in private practice. But Katerina Ivanovna refuses Startsev. And what?

We see that this man suffers no more than three days... His life is getting back on track, and, remembering the girl he loves, he thinks: "How much trouble, however."

Having said goodbye to his dreams of love and noble service to people, the hero of the story finds pleasure only in playing vint and counting the daily fee. In fact, his life is filled with the same meaning as that of the rest of the inhabitants of the town. “A frantic game of cards, gluttony, drunkenness, constant talking about the same thing” - all this turns out to be stronger than Dr. Startsev, and he turns into a flabby Ionych.

“How are we doing here? - he answers Katerina Ivanovna's question when he meets her a few years later. - No way. We grow old, we grow fat, we fall. Day and night - a day away, life passes dully, without impressions, without thoughts ... During the day, profit, and in the evening a club, a society of gamblers, alcoholics, wheezing, whom I cannot stand. What's good?

From these words it is clear that Startsev is well aware that he is degrading, but he does not have the strength to break out of this vicious circle. Therefore, answering the question of the essay, it must be said that not only the philistine environment turned Startsev into Ionych, but he himself was to blame for this. The lack of will of the hero, the unwillingness to change anything in his life became the main reason that he turned into a plump, red, shortness of breath man. And then we see that Ionych intends to buy another house for himself in addition to the two he already owns. This tells us that the meaning of Ionych's life was rather personal well-being than the desire to benefit people, as it was in the beginning, when he received people in the hospital even on weekends and holidays.

It seems to me that Chekhov wanted to tell with this story how strongly the philistine environment influences a person: it changes not only the appearance of a person, his way of life, but is also capable of completely turning the scale of his moral values.