Summary Provincial Diary in St. Petersburg ME Saltykov-Shchedrin
ME Saltykov-Shchedrin
Diary of a provincial in Petersburg
Diary? Well no! Rather, notes, notes, memories – more correctly, physiology (a forgotten genre in which fiction is combined with journalism, sociology, psychology, in order to more fully, and more easily describe a social slice). And now the hero is already on the train, rushing him from the Russian province to the Russian capital, the car is full of the same like him, the provincials, and the provincial complains that nowhere in the province can not escape (even in the post, the province is arranged in the same hotel ), ponders how the devil has pulled him to Petersburg, for there are no concessions for the construction of railroads, nor any other urgent matters in his memory.
However, the environment, as you know, sucks: everyone runs around the ministries and departments, and the hero starts running, if not the same, at least to the oyster hall to Eliseev, to this peculiar exchange where Adam’s
Prokop’s friend does not let him relax: he pulls the poor man in all circles and societies where the projects are written (now these projects are in vogue, they all write about reduction, another about
So, having read the projects, mostly the works of Prokop (about the need for decentralization, the need for stunning in the sense of temporary lulling of the senses, and the reorganization of the Academy’s de-facto), the provincial falls into a state of some particularly disturbing and visionary dreams. He dreams that he lonely dies in furnished rooms, having earned a million rubles on pay-off. And then the author describes how the soul of the deceased observes the plunder of the acquired. All that he could – from securities to cambric headscarves – was stolen by a bosom friend Prokop. And in the family manor at the village of the Spilled Sister Mashenka and Dashenka, the nieces of Fotochka and Lyolechka, remembering the deceased with a faint voice, they think how to draw pieces of the inheritance from each other.
Years have flown by – and now the aged Prokop lives under the oppression of the blackmailer Gavryushka, the former licensee, who saw a gentleman run into someone else’s hand. A lawyer comes, the case begins, the guard of the law tries to snatch his legitimate from Prokop, and only because of the intractability of both comes to court. Prokop wins his case, since the reason for the Russian assessors is his own yes to lose! this way and the world will soon go! After such a dream, the hero wants only one thing – to flee! Yes, where? From the province to the capital has already fled, not back again to come back…
The provincial rushes to his old friend Menander Perelestnov, who wrote an essay “Homer, Man and Citizen” at the university, translated the page from some textbook and, as a result, became a liberal and publicist in the daily literary and scientific journalistic publication “The oldest All-Russian Penkosnimatelnitsa “. In fact, our hero can not be called alien to literary work: a copy of the youthful narrative “Malanya”, from peasant life, perfectly rewritten and beautifully intertwined, and dodne is kept by the provincial. Friends agreed that it is now easy to breathe, it’s living lightly, and most importantly, Perelestnov promises to introduce a friend into the almost secret “Union of Penalty Makers”. The hero gets acquainted with the Charter of the Union,
“All-Russian Penkosnimatelnoy Tramp”, where, it seems, under different pseudonyms, the same person polemicizes with himself. And so… which of these penkosnimateley is engaged in the genealogy of Churilka; who proves that the plot of “Chizhika-Pyzhik” is borrowed; who actively works to maintain the “abolition”. In a word, the incompetence of the penitentiary in matters of life is beyond doubt; only in literature that is in a state of necrosis, they can give out their children’s babble for answering questions of life and even for somebody to impress. At the same time, literature wearily wanders about the decayed track and incoherently mutters that it falls first by the hand. The writer does not want to write, the reader – it’s disgusting to read. And I’m glad to escape, but nowhere…
However, the most important event for the provincial, after immersing himself in the world of the foamkeepers, was the mystification of the VIII International Statistical Congress, which attracted Atlantic friends, blown foreigners; credulous Russian delegates, including Kirsanov, Bersenev, Rudin, Lavretzky, Volokhov, they are fed-fed, arrange excursions, are going to show Moscow and the Trinity-Sergius Lavra. Meanwhile, at working sessions it becomes clear on which articles and rubrics in Russia it is generally possible to conduct statistical research. Finally, the love of Russians to open up with foreigners, polybearing before Europeans leads to a seemingly inevitable conclusion: the whole congress was a trap to find out the political views and the degree of loyalty of the misters of Russian delegates. They are rewritten and obliged to appear for interrogation in a secret place. Now the brave ones and the fronts are ready to lay each other, and each one exposes himself, if only to show his trustworthiness and otmazatsya from complicity, God knows in what. All ends with the usual swinishness: the defendants are extorted at least some money, promising to immediately stop the case. A sigh of general relief… However, according to numerous blunders and reservations, it is high time to guess that this is a silly, rude rally for profit.
The deformed provincial sits at home and begins to write articles with great anguish; so the free press is enriched with netlenkami on the themes: ospopivivanie; who was Tibulova Delia? hemorrhoids – is it a Russian disease? customs and customs of bats; the ceremonial burial of Grand Duke Truvor – and a long series of others with subtle hints of current modernity. And again, as a delusion, a dreamy dream comes to the provincial about a million, about his own death, about the trial of the provocated Prokop, whose case, according to the cassation ruling, is decided to be disassembled in turn in all cities of the Russian Empire. And again the unhidden soul flies over the crooked land, above all cities, in alphabetical order, watching everywhere the triumph of the post-reform justice and the imposing quirkiness of Prokop, rejoicing at the incessant ringing of bells, to which projects are easily written, and the reformist undertakings happily combine with the smell of the brew and the favorable attitude toward the scam. Sisterhood also hangs in the Spilled young lawyer Alexander Khlestakov, the son of the same Ivan Alexandrovich. He buys the right to the entire inheritance for five thousand in cash. The soul of the provincial is transferred to St. Petersburg. Alexander Ivanovich ponders where to find absolutely reliable false witnesses in order to overwhelm Prokop? False witnesses are found, but only those whom Prokop himself slipped to inflate the new relatives of the provincial. His soul is again transferred to the very end of the XIX century. Prokop is still suing, triumphantly winning in one hundred and twenty-five cities, giving away almost all the stolen million. Meanwhile, progressive changes in the kingdom state are extraordinary: instead of passports, small cards have been introduced; there is no division into military and state ones; curses, which were the beauty of the polemics of the 70’s, are abolished, although the literature is completely free… The hero is awake in… a hospital for the insane. How he got there, he does not remember and does not know. One comfort – there are both lawyers Prokop and Menander. That ends the year spent by the provincial in St. Petersburg.
In the yellow house, at leisure, the hero sums up all that he has seen and heard, and mainly, he decides who are these “new people” whom he knew in the capital. Here it comes to him that “new people” belong to that kind of mammals, who do not have any virtues according to the state. People who think themselves leaders, have no way to influence the general direction of life because they are vicious in a camp of spiritual poverty. From the average person, too, there is nothing to wait for, for he is a representative of a mass that is not sensitive to the public interest, which is ready to give away their birthright for nothing, but for no reason to sacrifice a spoonful of its lentil soup. And the provincial blames himself as a newly-born liberal, that he shouted at the new forms of old ugliness: shcheche! fuck you!
So, one of the results of the provincial diary is the realization of a vital emptiness and the inability to stumble anywhere, somewhere to play an active role. And in vain the provincial intelligentsia brings down to St. Petersburg with a thought: will it not be easier? whether it will be possible to adhere to the edge of some concession, then to sell its constituent right, and there – abroad, to mineral waters…
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