Characteristics of Plyushkin in the poem “Dead Souls”: description of appearance and character. Plyushkin in the poem “Dead Souls”: analysis of the hero, image and characteristics Brief summary of Plyushkin

One of the most bright characters Gogol, literary hero, whose name has long become a household name, a character who is remembered by everyone who read " Dead Souls" - landowner Stepan Plyushkin. His memorable figure closes the gallery of images of landowners presented by Gogol in the poem. Plyushkin, who even gave his name to the official disease (Plyushkin syndrome, or pathological hoarding), is essentially a very rich man who has led his vast economy to complete decline, and a huge number of serfs - to poverty and a miserable existence.

This fifth and final companion of Chichikov is a prime example of how deadened a person can become human soul. Therefore, the title of the poem is very symbolic: it not only directly indicates that we're talking about O " dead souls ah" - as the dead serfs were called, but also about the pitiful, devastated souls of landowners and officials, devoid of human qualities.

Characteristics of the hero

("Plyushkin", artist Alexander Agin, 1846-47)

Gogol begins the reader’s acquaintance with the landowner Plyushkin with a description of the surroundings of the estate. Everything indicates desolation, insufficient funding and the absence of a strong hand of the owner: dilapidated houses with leaky roofs and windows without glass. The sad landscape is enlivened by the owner's garden, although neglected, but described in much more positive colors: clean, tidy, filled with air, with a “regular sparkling marble column.” However, Plyushkin’s home again evokes melancholy, around there is desolation, despondency and mountains of useless, but extremely necessary for the old man, rubbish.

Being the richest landowner in the province (the number of serfs reached 1000), Plyushkin lived in extreme poverty, eating scraps and dried crackers, which did not cause him the slightest discomfort. He was extremely suspicious; everyone around him seemed treacherous and unreliable, even his own children. Only the passion for hoarding was important for Plyushkin; he collected everything he could get his hands on on the street and dragged it into the house.

("Chichikov at Plyushkin's", artist Alexander Agin, 1846-47)

Unlike other characters, Plyushkin's life story is given in full. The author introduces the reader to a young landowner, talking about a good family, his beloved wife and three children. Neighbors even came to the zealous owner to learn from him. But the wife died, the eldest daughter ran away with the military man, the son joined the army, which the father did not approve of, and the youngest daughter also died. And gradually the respected landowner turned into a man whose whole life was subordinated to accumulation for the sake of the accumulation process itself. All other human feelings, which had not previously been bright, faded away in him completely.

It is interesting that some professors of psychiatry mentioned that Gogol very clearly and at the same time artistically described a typical case of senile dementia. Others, for example, psychiatrist Ya.F. Kaplan, deny this possibility, saying that psychopathological traits do not appear sufficiently in Plyushkin, and Gogol simply illuminated the state of old age, which he encountered everywhere.

The image of the hero in the work

Stepan Plyushkin himself is described as a creature dressed in unkempt rags, looking like a woman from afar, but the stubble on his face still made it clear that the main character was a representative of the stronger sex. Given the general amorphousness of this figure, the writer focuses attention on individual facial features: a protruding chin, a hooked nose, lack of teeth, eyes expressing suspicion.

Gogol - Great master words - with bright strokes shows us a gradual but irreversible change human personality. A man, in whose eyes intelligence shone in previous years, gradually turns into a pitiful miser who has lost everything. best feelings and emotions. The main goal of the writer is to show how terrible the coming old age can be, how small human weaknesses can turn into pathological traits under certain life circumstances.

If the writer simply wanted to portray a pathological miser, he would not go into details of his youth, a description of the circumstances that led to his current state. The author himself tells us that Stepan Plyushkin is the future of the fiery young man in old age, that unsightly portrait, upon seeing which the young man would recoil in horror.

("Peasants at Plyushkin", artist Alexander Agin, 1846-47)

However, Gogol leaves a small chance for this hero: when the writer conceived the third volume of the work, he planned to leave Plyushkin - the only landowner Chichikov met - in an updated, morally revived form. Describing the landowner’s appearance, Nikolai Vasilyevich separately singles out the old man’s eyes: “the little eyes had not yet gone out and ran from under his high eyebrows, like mice...”. And the eyes, as we know, are the mirror of the human soul. In addition, Plyushkin, seemingly having lost all human feelings, suddenly decides to give Chichikov a gold watch. True, this impulse immediately fades away, and the old man decides to include the watch in the deed of gift, so that after death at least someone will remember him with a kind word.

Thus, if Stepan Plyushkin had not lost his wife, his life could have turned out quite well, and his old age would not have turned into such a deplorable existence. The image of Plyushkin completes the gallery of portraits of degraded landowners and very accurately describes the lowest level to which a person can slide in his lonely old age.

Before, long ago, in the years of my youth, in the years of my irrevocably flashed childhood, it was fun for me to drive up for the first time to an unfamiliar place: it didn’t matter whether it was a village, a poor provincial town, a village, a settlement - I discovered a lot of curious things in it childish curious look. Every building, everything that bore only the imprint of some noticeable feature - everything stopped me and amazed me. Is it a stone government house, of well-known architecture with half of the false windows, standing alone among a pile of hewn logs of one-story philistine philistine houses, or a round regular dome, all upholstered in white sheet iron, raised above a new church whitened like snow, or a market, a dandy or a district official who came across the city - nothing escaped the fresh, subtle attention, and, sticking my nose out of my traveling cart, I looked at the hitherto unprecedented cut of some frock coat, and at the wooden boxes with nails, with sulfur turning yellow in the distance, with raisins and soap, flashing from the doors of a vegetable shop along with jars of dried Moscow sweets, I looked at the infantry officer walking aside, brought from God knows what province to the provincial boredom, and at the merchant flashing in Siberia on a racing droshky, and was carried away in his mind follow them into their poor life. The district official walk by - I was already wondering where he was going, whether for the evening to some brother of his or straight to his home, so that, after sitting on the porch for half an hour, before the twilight had completely set in, he could sit down for an early dinner with his mother , with his wife, with his wife’s sister and the whole family, and what they will be talking about at the time when a courtyard girl in monists or a boy in a thick jacket brings a tallow candle in a durable household candlestick after soup. Approaching the village of some landowner, I looked curiously at the tall, narrow wooden bell tower or the wide, dark wooden old church. The red roof and white chimneys of the manor's house flashed temptingly to me from afar through the greenery of the trees, and I waited impatiently until the gardens that surrounded it dispersed on both sides and he appeared all his own, then, alas! not at all vulgar in appearance; and from it I tried to guess who the landowner himself was, whether he was fat, and whether he had sons, or six whole daughters with ringing girlish laughter, games and the eternal beauty of their little sister, and whether they were dark-eyed, and whether he himself was a merry fellow or gloomy Like late September, he looks at the calendar and talks about rye and wheat, boring for youth.

Now I indifferently approach any unfamiliar village and indifferently look at its vulgar appearance; It’s unpleasant to my chilled gaze, it’s not funny to me, and what would have awakened in previous years a lively movement in the face, laughter and silent speech, now slides past, and my motionless lips keep an indifferent silence. O my youth! oh my freshness!

While Chichikov was thinking and laughing internally at the nickname given to Plyushkin by the peasants, he did not notice how he drove into the middle of a vast village with many huts and streets. Soon, however, he was made aware of this by a considerable jolt produced by the log pavement, compared to which the city stone pavement was nothing. These logs, like piano keys, rose up and down, and the careless rider acquired either a bump on the back of his head, or a blue spot on his forehead, or happened to bite off the tail of his own tongue with his own teeth. He noticed some special disrepair in all the village buildings: the logs on the huts were dark and old; many roofs were leaky like a sieve; on others there was only the ridge at the top and poles on the sides in the form of ribs. It seems that the owners themselves tore the shit and wood off them, reasoning, and, of course, rightly, that in the rain they don’t cover the hut, and the bucket itself doesn’t drip, but there’s no need to fool around in it when there’s room both in the tavern and on the big on the road - in a word, wherever you want. The windows in the huts were without glass, others were covered with a rag or a zipun; balconies under roofs with railings, built in some Russian huts for unknown reasons, were askew and blackened, not even picturesquely. In many places, behind the huts, huge stacks of grain lay in rows, apparently stagnant for a long time; the color of them was like old, poorly baked brick, all sorts of rubbish grew on their tops, and there was even a bush clinging to the side. The bread, apparently, was the master's. From behind the grain stacks and dilapidated roofs, two rural churches, one next to the other, rose and flashed in the clear air, now to the right, now to the left, as the chaise made turns: an empty wooden one and a stone one, with yellow walls, stained and cracked. The manor's house began to appear in parts, and finally he looked all over in the place where the chain of huts was broken and in their place there remained a vacant lot like a vegetable garden or a cabbage garden, surrounded by a low, broken town in places. This strange castle looked like some kind of decrepit invalid, long, immeasurably long. In some places it was one floor, in others it was two; on the dark roof, which did not always reliably protect his old age, two belvederes stuck out, one opposite the other, both already shaky, devoid of the paint that once covered them. The walls of the house were cracked in places by the bare plaster lattice and, apparently, had suffered a lot from all sorts of bad weather, rain, whirlwinds and autumn changes. Only two of the windows were open; the others were covered with shutters or even boarded up. These two windows, for their part, were also weak-sighted; on one of them there was a dark triangle made of blue sugar paper pasted on.

The old, vast garden stretching behind the house, overlooking the village and then disappearing into the field, overgrown and decayed, seemed to alone refresh this vast village and alone was quite picturesque in its picturesque desolation. The connected tops of trees growing in freedom lay on the sky horizon like green clouds and irregular, fluttering-leaved domes. A white colossal birch trunk, devoid of a top, broken off by a storm or thunderstorm, rose from this green thicket and rounded in the air, like a regular sparkling marble column; its oblique, pointed break, with which it ended upward instead of a capital, darkened against its snowy whiteness, like a hat or a black bird. The hops, which choked the elderberry, rowan and hazel bushes below and then ran along the top of the entire palisade, finally ran up and entwined half the broken birch. Having reached the middle of it, it hung down from there and began to cling to the tops of other trees, or it hung in the air, tying its thin, tenacious hooks in rings, easily swayed by the air. In places, green thickets, illuminated by the sun, diverged and showed an unlit depression between them, gaping like a dark mouth; it was all cast in shadow, and faintly flickered in the black depths of it: a running narrow path, collapsed railings, a swaying gazebo, a hollow, decrepit willow trunk, a gray-haired chap, with thick bristles poking out from behind the willow, withered leaves from the terrible wilderness, tangled and crossed leaves and branches, and, finally, a young maple branch, stretching out its green leaf paws from the side, under one of which, God knows how, the sun suddenly turned it into transparent and fiery, shining wonderfully in this thick darkness. To the side, at the very edge of the garden, several tall aspen trees, no match for the others, raised huge crow's nests to their tremulous tops. Some of them had pulled back and not completely separated branches hanging down along with withered leaves. In a word, everything was as good as neither nature nor art could invent, but as only happens when they are united together, when, through the piled-up, often useless, work of man, nature will pass with its final cutter, lighten the heavy masses, destroy the grossly perceptible correctness and beggarly holes through which the unhidden, naked plan peeks through, and will give wonderful warmth to everything that was created in the cold of measured cleanliness and neatness.

Having made one or two turns, our hero finally found himself in front of the house, which now seemed even sadder. Green mold has already covered the dilapidated wood on the fence and gate. A crowd of buildings: human buildings, barns, cellars, apparently dilapidated, filled the courtyard; near them, to the right and left, gates to other courtyards were visible. Everything said that farming had once taken place here on an extensive scale, and everything now looked gloomy. Nothing was noticeable to enliven the picture: no doors opening, no people coming out from anywhere, no living troubles and worries at home! Only one main gate was open, and that was because a man drove in with a loaded cart covered with matting, appearing as if on purpose to revive this extinct place; at other times they were locked tightly, for a gigantic lock hung in an iron loop. Near one of the buildings, Chichikov soon noticed a figure who began to quarrel with a man who had arrived in a cart. For a long time he could not recognize what gender the figure was: a woman or a man. She was wearing a completely indefinite dress, very similar to a woman’s bonnet, and on her head was a cap, like that worn by village courtyard women, only one voice seemed to him somewhat hoarse for a woman. “Oh, woman! - he thought to himself and immediately added: “Oh, no!” - “Of course, woman!” – he finally said, having examined it more closely. The figure, for its part, also looked at him intently. It seemed that the guest was a novelty for her, because she examined not only him, but also Selifan and the horses, from the tail to the muzzle. Judging by the keys hanging from her belt and the fact that she scolded the man with rather obscene words, Chichikov concluded that this was probably the housekeeper.

“Listen, mother,” he said, getting out of the chaise, “what’s the master?..

“I’m not at home,” the housekeeper interrupted, without waiting for the end of the question, and then, after a minute, she added: “What do you need?”

- There’s something to do!

- Go to the rooms! - said the housekeeper, turning away and showing him her back, stained with flour, with a large hole lower down.

He entered the dark, wide entryway, from which a cold air blew in, as if from a cellar. From the hallway he found himself in a room, also dark, slightly illuminated by the light coming out from under a wide crack located at the bottom of the door. Having opened this door, he finally found himself in the light and was amazed at the chaos that appeared. It seemed as if the floors were being washed in the house and all the furniture had been piled here for a while. On one table there was even a broken chair, and next to it a clock with a stopped pendulum, to which the spider had already attached its web. There was also a cabinet leaning sideways against the wall with antique silver, decanters and Chinese porcelain. On the bureau, lined with mother-of-pearl mosaic, which had already fallen out in places and left behind only yellow grooves filled with glue, lay a lot of all sorts of things: a bunch of finely written papers, covered with a green marble press with an egg on top, some kind of old book bound in leather with a red a sawn-off lemon, all dried up, the height of no more than a hazelnut, a broken armchair, a glass with some liquid and three flies, covered with a letter, a piece of sealing wax, a piece of a rag picked up somewhere, two feathers, stained with ink, dried out, as if consumption, a toothpick, completely yellowed, with which the owner, perhaps, picked his teeth even before the French invasion of Moscow.

Several paintings were hung very crowdedly and awkwardly on the walls: a long yellowed engraving of some kind of battle, with huge drums, screaming soldiers in triangular hats and drowning horses, without glass, inserted into a mahogany frame with thin bronze strips and bronze circles at the corners . In a row with them, a huge blackened picture, written oil paints, depicting flowers, fruits, a cut watermelon, a boar's face and a duck hanging upside down. From the middle of the ceiling hung a chandelier in a canvas bag, the dust making it look like a silk cocoon in which a worm sits. In the corner of the room there was a heap of things piled up on the floor that were coarser and unworthy to lie on the tables. It was difficult to decide what exactly was in the pile, because there was such an abundance of dust on it that the hands of anyone who touched it became like gloves; More noticeably than anything else protruding from there was a broken piece of a wooden shovel and an old boot sole. It would have been impossible to say that there was a living creature living in this room if its presence had not been announced by the old, worn cap lying on the table. While he was looking at all the strange decorations, a side door opened and the same housekeeper whom he had met in the yard came in. But then he saw that it was more likely a housekeeper than a housekeeper: the housekeeper, at least, does not shave his beard, but this one, on the contrary, shaved, and, it seemed, quite rarely, because his entire chin with the lower part of his cheek resembled on a comb made of iron wire, which is used to clean horses in a stable. Chichikov, giving a questioning expression to his face, waited impatiently for what the housekeeper wanted to tell him. The housekeeper, for his part, also expected what Chichikov wanted to tell him. Finally the latter, surprised by such a strange bewilderment, decided to ask:

- What about master? at home, or what?

“The owner is here,” said the housekeeper.

- Where? - Chichikov repeated.

- What, father, are they blind, or what? - asked the housekeeper. - Ehwa! And I am the owner!

Here our hero involuntarily stepped back and looked at him intently. He happened to see a lot of all kinds of people, even those whom the reader and I may never have to see; but he had never seen anything like this before. His face was nothing special; it was almost the same as that of many thin old men, one chin only protruded very far forward, so that he had to cover it with a handkerchief every time so as not to spit; the small eyes had not yet gone out and ran from under their high eyebrows, like mice, when, sticking their sharp muzzles out of the dark holes, pricking their ears and blinking their whiskers, they look out to see if a cat or a naughty boy is hiding somewhere, and sniff the very air suspiciously. Much more remarkable was his outfit: no amount of effort or effort could have been used to find out what his robe was made of: the sleeves and upper flaps were so greasy and shiny that they looked like the kind of yuft that goes into boots; in the back, instead of two, there were four floors dangling, from which cotton paper came out in flakes. He also had something tied around his neck that could not be made out: a stocking, a garter, or a belly, but not a tie. In a word, if Chichikov had met him, so dressed up, somewhere at the church door, he would probably have given him a copper penny. For to the honor of our hero it must be said that he had a compassionate heart and he could not resist giving the poor man a copper penny. But it was not a beggar who stood before him, a landowner stood before him. This landowner had more than a thousand souls, and would anyone try to find someone else who had so much bread in grain, flour and simply in storerooms, whose storerooms, barns and drying rooms were cluttered with so many canvases, cloth, dressed and rawhide sheepskins, dried fish and all kinds of vegetables, or gubina. If someone had looked into his work yard, where there was a stock of all sorts of wood and utensils that had never been used, he would have wondered if he had somehow ended up in Moscow at the chip yard, where efficient mothers-in-law and mothers-in-law, with the cooks behind, make their household supplies and where every tree is white in the mountains - sewn, turned, lacquered and wicker; barrels, crosses, tubs, lagoons, jugs with and without stigmas, twins, baskets, mykolniks, where women put their lobes and other squabbles, boxes made of thin bent aspen, beetroot made of woven birch bark and a lot of things that go to the needs of the rich and poor Rus'. Why would Plyushkin seem to need such destruction of such products? in his entire life he would not have had to use it even for two such estates as he had, but even this seemed not enough to him. Not content with this, he walked every day along the streets of his village, looked under the bridges, under the crossbeams and everything that he came across: an old sole, a woman’s rag, an iron nail, a clay shard - he dragged everything to him and put it in that pile , which Chichikov noticed in the corner of the room. “The fisherman has already gone hunting!” - the men said when they saw him going to prey. And in fact, after him there was no need to sweep the street: a passing officer happened to lose his spur, this spur instantly went into the well-known pile; if a woman somehow got lost at the well and forgot the bucket, he would take the bucket away too. However, when the man who noticed him immediately caught him, he did not argue and gave back the stolen item; but if it ended up in a pile, then it was all over: he swore that the thing was his, bought by him at that time, from such and such, or inherited from his grandfather. In his room, he picked up everything he saw from the floor: sealing wax, a piece of paper, a feather, and put it all on the bureau or on the window.

The hero of “Dead Souls” Plyushkin. Drawing by Kukryniksy

But there was a time when he was just a thrifty owner! he was married and a family man, and a neighbor came to have dinner with him, listen and learn from him about housekeeping and wise stinginess. Everything flowed briskly and happened at a measured pace: mills, fulling mills moved, cloth factories, carpentry machines, spinning mills worked; everywhere the keen eye of the owner entered into everything and, like a hardworking spider, ran busily, but efficiently, along all ends of his economic web. Too strong feelings were not reflected in his facial features, but his mind was visible in his eyes; His speech was imbued with experience and knowledge of the world, and the guest was pleased to listen to him; the friendly and talkative hostess was famous for her hospitality; two pretty daughters came out to meet them, both blond and fresh as roses; the son, a broken boy, ran out and kissed everyone, paying little attention to whether the guest was happy or not happy about it. All the windows in the house were open, the mezzanine was occupied by the apartment of a French teacher, who shaved well and was a great shot: he always brought grouse or ducks for dinner, and sometimes just sparrow eggs, from which he ordered himself scrambled eggs, because there were more in the whole house no one ate it. His compatriot, the mentor of two girls, also lived on the mezzanine. The owner himself came to the table in a frock coat, although somewhat worn, but neat, the elbows were in order: there was no patch anywhere. But the good housewife died; Some of the keys, and with them minor worries, went to him. Plyushkin became more restless and, like all widowers, more suspicious and stingy. He could not rely on his eldest daughter Alexandra Stepanovna for everything, and he was right, because Alexandra Stepanovna soon ran away with the captain of God knows what cavalry regiment, and married him somewhere hastily in a village church, knowing that her father does not like officers due to a strange prejudice, as if all military gamblers and money-makers. Her father sent a curse on her way, but did not bother to pursue her. The house became even emptier. The owner's stinginess began to become more noticeable; the glint of gray hair in his coarse hair, her faithful friend, helped her develop even more; the French teacher was released because it was time for his son to go to work; Madame was driven away because she turned out to be not innocent in the kidnapping of Alexandra Stepanovna; the son, having been sent to the provincial city in order to learn in the ward, in the opinion of his father, significant service, was instead assigned to the regiment and wrote to his father, already according to his determination, asking for money for uniforms; It is quite natural that he received for this what is popularly called a shish. Finally, the last daughter who remained with him in the house died, and the old man found himself alone as a watchman, guardian and owner of his wealth. Lonely life has provided satisfying food for stinginess, which, as you know, has a ravenous hunger and the more it devours, the more insatiable it becomes; human feelings, which were not deep in him anyway, grew shallow every minute, and every day something was lost in this worn-out ruin. If it happened at such a moment, as if on purpose to confirm his opinion about the military, that his son lost at cards; he sent him his father's curse from the bottom of his heart and was never interested in knowing whether he existed in the world or not. Every year the windows in his house were closed, until finally only two remained, one of which, as the reader has already seen, was covered with paper; Every year more and more important parts of the household disappeared from sight, and his shallow glance turned to the pieces of paper and feathers that he collected in his room; He became more unyielding to buyers who came to take away his economic products; the buyers haggled and haggled and finally abandoned him altogether, saying that he was a demon, not a man; hay and bread rotted, luggage and haystacks turned into pure manure, even if you planted cabbage on them, flour in the cellars turned into stone and had to be chopped, it was scary to touch cloth, linens and household materials: they turned to dust. He had already forgotten how much of anything he had, and only remembered where in his closet there was a decanter with the remainder of some tincture, on which he himself made a mark so that no one would drink it by stealing, and where the feather lay or sealing wax. Meanwhile, on the farm, income was collected as before: a man had to bring the same amount of rent, every woman was required to bring the same amount of nuts; the weaver had to weave the same number of pieces of canvas - it all fell into the storerooms, and everything became rotten and a hole, and he himself finally turned into some kind of hole in humanity. Alexandra Stepanovna once came twice with her little son, trying to see if she could get something; Apparently, camp life with a captain-captain was not as attractive as it seemed before the wedding. Plyushkin, however, forgave her and even gave his little grandson a button lying on the table to play with, but he did not give any money. Another time, Alexandra Stepanovna arrived with two little ones and brought him a cake for tea and a new robe, because the priest had such a robe that he was not only ashamed to look at, but even ashamed. Plyushkin caressed both grandchildren and, sitting them one on his right knee and the other on his left, rocked them in exactly the same way as if they were riding horses, took a cake and a robe, but gave absolutely nothing to his daughter; And with that, Alexandra Stepanovna left.

So, this is the kind of landowner who stood before Chichikov! It must be said that such a phenomenon rarely comes across in Rus', where everything likes to unfold rather than shrink, and it is all the more amazing that right there in the neighborhood a landowner turns up, carousing to the full extent of Russian prowess and nobility, burning, as they say, through life . An unprecedented traveler will stop in amazement at the sight of his home, wondering what kind of sovereign prince suddenly found himself among the small, dark owners: his white stone houses look like palaces with countless chimneys, belvederes, weather vanes, surrounded by a herd of outbuildings and all sorts of rooms for visiting guests. What doesn't he have? Theaters, balls; all night the garden, decorated with lights and bowls, resounding with the thunder of music, shines. Half the province is dressed up and happily walking under the trees, and no one appears wild and threatening in this violent lighting, when a branch, illuminated by a fake light, theatrically jumps out of the thicket of trees, deprived of its bright greenery, and at the top it is darker and more severe, and twenty times more menacing through that night sky and, far above, fluttering leaves, going deeper into the impenetrable darkness, the stern tops of the trees are indignant at this tinsel shine that illuminated their roots from below.

Plyushkin had been standing for several minutes without saying a word, but Chichikov still could not start a conversation, entertained both by the sight of the owner himself and by everything that was in his room. For a long time he could not think of any words to explain the reason for his visit. He was about to express himself in such a spirit that, having heard enough about the virtue and rare properties of his soul, he considered it his duty to personally pay tribute, but he caught himself and felt that this was too much. Taking another sidelong glance at everything in the room, he felt that the words “virtue” and “rare qualities of the soul” could be successfully replaced by the words “economy” and “order”; and therefore, having transformed his speech in this way, he said that, having heard a lot about his economy and rare management of estates, he considered it his duty to make the acquaintance and personally pay his respects. Of course, another, better reason could have been given, but nothing else came to mind then.

To this Plyushkin muttered something through his lips, for he had no teeth; what exactly is unknown, but probably the meaning was this: “And the devil would take you with your respect!” But since our hospitality is in such a state that even a miser is not able to break its laws, he immediately added somewhat more clearly: “Please, most humbly, sit down!”

“I haven’t seen guests for a long time,” he said, “yes, I must admit, I don’t see much use in them.” They have established a very indecent custom of visiting each other, but there are omissions in the household... and feed their horses with hay! It’s been a long time since I dined, and my kitchen is low, very nasty, and the chimney has completely collapsed: if you start heating, you’ll start a fire.

“Look there it is! - Chichikov thought to himself. “It’s good that I grabbed a cheesecake and a piece of lamb side from Sobakevich.”

- And such a bad joke that there’s at least a tuft of hay on the whole farm! - Plyushkin continued. - And really, how can you take care of it? the land is small, the man is lazy, doesn’t like to work, thinks he’s going to a tavern... just look, you’ll be walking around the world in your old age!

“However, they told me,” Chichikov noted modestly, “that you have more than a thousand souls.”

- Who said this? And you, father, would spit in the eyes of the one who said this! He, the mockingbird, apparently wanted to joke with you. Here, they say, there are thousands of souls, but go ahead and count them, and you won’t even count anything! For the last three years, the damned fever has wiped out a hefty sum of men from me.

- Tell! and starved a lot? – Chichikov exclaimed with participation.

- Yes, many were demolished.

– Let me ask you: how many in number?

- Eighty showers.

- I won’t lie, father.

– Let me also ask: after all, these souls, I believe, you count from the day the last audit was submitted?

“That would be a blessing to God,” said Plyushkin, “but it’s crazy that from that time on it will reach one hundred and twenty.”

- Really? A hundred and twenty? - Chichikov exclaimed and even opened his mouth somewhat in amazement.

- I’m too old, father, to lie: I’m living in my seventies! - said Plyushkin. He seemed offended by this almost joyful exclamation. Chichikov noticed that such indifference to someone else’s grief was, in fact, indecent, and therefore he immediately sighed and said that he was sorry.

“But you can’t put condolences in your pocket,” said Plyushkin. “The captain lives near me; God knows where it came from, a relative says: “Uncle, uncle!” - and kisses your hand, and when he begins to express condolences, such a howl will arise that you should take care of your ears. The face is all red: foam, tea, sticks to death. That’s right, he squandered his money while serving as an officer, or was lured away by a theater actress, so now he’s expressing condolences!

Chichikov tried to explain that his condolences were not at all of the same kind as the captain’s, and that he was ready to prove it not with empty words, but with deeds and, without delaying the matter further, without any beating around the bush, he immediately expressed his readiness to accept the obligation to pay taxes for everyone peasants who died in such accidents. The proposal seemed to completely astonish Plyushkin. He stared at him for a long time and finally asked:

- Yes, father, didn’t you serve in military service?

“No,” Chichikov answered rather slyly, “he served as a civil servant.”

- According to the civil code? - Plyushkin repeated and began to chew with his lips, as if he was eating something. - But how can it be? After all, this is at a loss for you?

– For your pleasure I am ready to take a loss.

- Oh, father! ah, my benefactor! - Plyushkin cried out, not noticing with joy that tobacco was peeking out of his nose in a very unpicturesque way, like a sample of thick coffee, and the skirts of his robe opened up to reveal a dress that was not very decent to look at. - They consoled the old man! Oh, my goodness! oh, my saints!.. - Plyushkin could not speak further. But not even a minute had passed before this joy, which had appeared so instantly on his wooden face, passed just as instantly, as if it had not happened at all, and his face again took on a caring expression. He even wiped himself with a handkerchief and, rolling it up into a ball, began to rub it over his upper lip.

- How, with your permission, so as not to anger you, do you undertake to pay taxes for them every year? and will you give the money to me or to the treasury?

- Yes, this is how we will do it: we will make a deed of sale on them, as if they were alive and as if you had sold them to me.

“Yes, a deed of sale...” said Plyushkin, thought for a moment and began to eat with his lips again. - After all, here is the deed of sale - all the costs. The clerks are so unscrupulous! Before, it used to be that you would get away with half a piece of copper and a sack of flour, but now send a whole cart of cereals, and add a red piece of paper, such love of money! I don’t know how the priests don’t pay attention to this; I would say some kind of teaching: after all, no matter what you say, you cannot resist the word of God.

“Well, I think you can resist!” - Chichikov thought to himself and immediately said that, out of respect for him, he was ready to accept even the costs of the bill of sale at his own expense.

Having heard that he was even taking on the costs of the bill of sale, Plyushkin concluded that the guest must be completely stupid and was only pretending that he was serving as a civilian, but, most likely, he was an officer and was chasing after actors. Despite all this, he, however, could not hide his joy and wished all kinds of consolations not only for him, but even for his children, without asking whether he had them or not. Approaching the window, he tapped his fingers on the glass and shouted: “Hey, Proshka!” A minute later you could hear someone running in a hurry into the hallway, fiddling around there for a long time and knocking their boots, finally the door opened and Proshka, a boy of about thirteen, came in, wearing such big boots that he almost took his feet out of them as he walked. Why Proshka had such big boots, you can find out right away: Plyushkin had only boots for all the servants, no matter how many there were in the house, which were always supposed to be in the entryway. Anyone called to the master's chambers usually danced across the entire courtyard barefoot, but upon entering the hallway, he put on boots and thus entered the room. Leaving the room, he left his boots again in the hallway and set off again on his own soles. If anyone looked out of the window in the autumn, and especially when small frosts begin in the mornings, he would see that all the servants were making such leaps that the most spirited dancer would hardly be able to do in the theaters.

- Look, father, what a face! - Plyushkin said to Chichikov, pointing his finger at Proshka’s face. “He’s as stupid as a tree, but if you try to put anything in, he’ll steal it in an instant!” Well, why did you come, fool, tell me, what? - Here he made a short silence, to which Proshka also responded with silence. “Put on the samovar, do you hear, but take the key and give it to Mavra so she can go to the pantry: there on the shelf there is a cracker from the Easter cake that Alexandra Stepanovna brought to be served for tea!.. Wait, where are you going?” Fool! ehwa, fool! Is the demon at your feet itching?.. listen first: the cracker on top, the tea, has spoiled, so let him scrape it off with a knife and not throw the crumbs away, but take them to the chicken coop. Look, don't go into the storeroom, brother, or I'll tell you! with a birch broom, just for taste! Now you have a nice appetite, so it’s even better! Just try to go to the pantry, and in the meantime I’ll look out of the window. “They can’t be trusted in anything,” he continued, turning to Chichikov after Proshka had cleared away with his boots. Following this, he began to look at Chichikov suspiciously. The features of such extraordinary generosity began to seem incredible to him, and he thought to himself: “The devil knows, maybe he’s just a braggart, like all these money-makers; he’ll lie, he’ll lie to talk and drink tea, and then he’ll leave!” And therefore, out of precaution and at the same time wanting to test him a little, he said that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to complete the deed of sale as soon as possible, because he’s not sure about the man: today he’s alive, but God knows tomorrow.

Chichikov expressed his readiness to carry it out even this very minute and demanded only a list to all the peasants.

This calmed Plyushkin. It was noticeable that he was thinking of doing something, and as if, taking the keys, he approached the closet and, having unlocked the door, rummaged for a long time between the glasses and cups and finally said:

- After all, you won’t find it, but I had a nice liqueur, if only you didn’t drink it! people are such thieves! But isn't that him? - Chichikov saw a decanter in his hands, which was covered in dust, like a sweatshirt. “The deceased woman did something else,” Plyushkin continued, “the fraudulent housekeeper completely abandoned it and didn’t even seal it, you scoundrel!” Bugs and all sorts of rubbish were stuffed in there, but I took out all the rubbish, and now it’s clean; I'll pour you a glass.

But Chichikov tried to refuse such liquor, saying that he had already drunk and eaten.

- We already drank and ate! - said Plyushkin. - Yes, of course, you can recognize a person’s good company anywhere: he doesn’t eat, but is well-fed; and like some kind of thief, no matter how much you feed him... After all, the captain will come: “Uncle, he says, give me something to eat!” And I’m as much an uncle to him as he is a grandfather to me. There’s probably nothing to eat at home, so he’s staggering around! Yes, do you need a register of all these parasites? Well, as I knew, I wrote them all down on a special piece of paper so that when I first submitted the revision, I could cross them all out.

Plyushkin put on his glasses and began rummaging through the papers. Untying all sorts of ties, he treated his guest to such dust that he sneezed. Finally he pulled out a piece of paper, all covered with writing. Peasant names covered her closely, like midges. There were all kinds of people there: Paramonov, and Pimenov, and Panteleimonov, and even some Grigory looked out; There were more than a hundred and twenty in all. Chichikov smiled at the sight of such numbers. Having hidden it in his pocket, he noticed to Plyushkin that he would need to come to the city to complete the fortress.

- In town? But how?.. and how to leave the house? After all, my people are either a thief or a swindler: they will steal so much in a day that they won’t have anything to hang their caftan on.

- So, don’t you know anyone?

- Who do you know? All my friends died or fell apart. Ah, father! how not to have, I have! - he cried. “After all, the chairman himself knows me, he even came to see me in the old days, how could you not know!” We were teammates and climbed fences together! how can you not be familiar? so familiar! So shouldn't I write to him?

- And, of course, to him.

- Why, he’s so familiar! I had friends at school.

And suddenly some kind of warm ray slid across this wooden face; it was not a feeling that was expressed, but some kind of pale reflection of a feeling, a phenomenon similar to the unexpected appearance of a drowning person on the surface of the waters, which produced a joyful cry in the crowd that surrounded the shore. But in vain the overjoyed brothers and sisters throw a rope from the shore and wait to see if a back or arms tired from the struggle will flash again - this was the last appearance. Everything is silent, and after that the quiet surface of the unresponsive element becomes even more terrible and deserted. So Plyushkin’s face, following the feeling that instantly slid across it, became even more insensitive and even more vulgar.

“There was a quarter of blank paper lying on the table,” he said, “but I don’t know where it went: my people are so worthless!” - Then he began to look both under the table and on the table, rummaged everywhere and finally shouted: - Mavra! and Mavra!

A woman answered the call with a plate in her hands, on which lay a cracker, already familiar to the reader. And the following conversation took place between them:

- Where are you going, robber, paper?

“By God, master, I didn’t even see the small piece of paper with which they deigned to cover the glass.”

“But I can see in my eyes that I’ve tinkered.”

- But what would I give a little credit for? After all, I have no use with her; I don't know how to read and write.

- You’re lying, you demolished the sexton: he’s messing around, so you demolished it for him.

- Yes, the sexton, if he wants, he can get himself papers. He hasn't seen your scrap!

- Just wait a minute: at the Last Judgment the devils will burn you with iron slingshots for this! You'll see how they cook!

- But why will they punish me if I didn’t even pick up a quarter? It’s more likely some other woman’s weakness, but no one has ever reproached me for theft.

- But the devils will get you! They’ll say: “Here’s to you, you swindler, for deceiving the master!”, and they’ll give you a hot roast!

“And I’ll say: “You’re welcome!” By God, no way, I didn’t take it...” Yes, there she is lying on the table. You always reproach us unnecessarily!

Plyushkin definitely saw a quarter and stopped for a minute, chewed his lips and said:

- Well, why did you disagree like that? What a pain! Tell her just one word, and she’ll answer with a dozen! Go and bring the light to seal the letter. Wait, you grab a tallow candle, tallow is a sticky business: it will burn - yes and no, only a loss, and you bring me a splinter!

Mavra left, and Plyushkin, sitting down in an armchair and taking the pen in his hand, spent a long time turning the quarter in all directions, wondering if it was possible to separate another octam from it, but finally he was convinced that it was impossible; stuck the pen into an inkwell with some kind of moldy liquid and a lot of flies at the bottom and began to write, making letters that looked like musical notes, constantly holding his agility hand, which was jumping all over the paper, sparingly molding line after line and not without regret thinking about it that there will still be a lot of blank space left.

And a person could stoop to such insignificance, pettiness, and disgustingness! could have changed so much! And does this seem true? Everything seems to be true, anything can happen to a person. Today's fiery young man would recoil in horror if they showed him his own portrait in old age. Take it with you on the journey, leaving the soft teenage years into stern, embittering courage, take with you all human movements, do not leave them on the road, you will not pick them up later! The old age coming ahead is terrible, terrible, and nothing gives back and back! The grave is more merciful than her, on the grave it will be written: “A man is buried here!”, but you can’t read anything in the cold, unfeeling features of inhuman old age.

“Do you know any friend of yours,” said Plyushkin, folding the letter, “who would need runaway souls?”

– Do you have any runaways? – Chichikov quickly asked, waking up.

- That's the point, it is. The son-in-law made adjustments: he says that the trace has disappeared, but he is a military man: he is a master of stamping a spur, and if he would bother with the courts...

- How many of them will there be?

- Yes, there will also be dozens up to seven.

- And by God, so! After all, I’ve been running around for a year now. The people are painfully gluttonous, out of idleness they have acquired the habit of eating, but I myself have nothing to eat... And I would take anything for them. So advise your friend: if you only find a dozen, then he’ll have a nice amount of money. After all, a revision soul costs five hundred rubles.

“No, we won’t even let a friend smell this,” Chichikov said to himself and then explained that there was no way to find such a friend, that the costs alone for this matter would cost more, because the courts would have to cut off the tails of their own caftan and go further away; but that if he is already really so squeezed, then, being moved by participation, he is ready to give... but that this is such a trifle that is not even worth talking about.

- How much would you give? - asked Plyushkin and he himself became excited: his hands trembled like mercury.

- I would give twenty-five kopecks per soul.

– How do you buy, for clean ones?

- Yes, now it’s money.

“Only, father, for the sake of my poverty, they would have already given forty kopecks.”

- Most Honorable! - said Chichikov, - not only forty kopecks, but five hundred rubles! I would gladly pay, because I see that the venerable, kind old man endures because of his own good nature.

- And by God, so! By God, it's true! - said Plyushkin, hanging his head down and shaking it crushingly. - Everything is out of good nature.

- Well, you see, I suddenly understood your character. So, why not give me five hundred rubles per soul, but... there is no fortune; five kopecks, if you please, I’m ready to add so that each soul will cost thirty kopecks.

- Well, father, it’s your choice, at least fasten two kopecks.

- I’ll put on two kopecks, if you please. How many do you have? I think you said seventy?

- No. The total number is seventy-eight.

“Seventy-eight, seventy-eight, thirty kopecks per soul, that will be...” here our hero thought for one second, no more, and suddenly said: “that will be twenty-four rubles ninety-six kopecks!” - He was strong in arithmetic. He immediately forced Plyushkin to write a receipt and gave him the money, which he accepted in both hands and carried it to the bureau with the same caution, as if he were carrying some kind of liquid, every minute afraid of spilling it. Approaching the bureau, he looked at them again and put them, also extremely carefully, into one of the boxes, where, probably, they were destined to be buried until Father Karp and Father Polycarp, two priests of his village, buried him, to the indescribable joy of his son-in-law and daughter, and perhaps even the captain, who was considered one of his relatives. Having hidden the money, Plyushkin sat down in an armchair and, it seemed, could no longer find anything to talk about.

- So, are you going to go? - he said, noticing the slight movement that Chichikov made just to take a handkerchief out of his pocket.

This question reminded him that there was really no need to delay any longer.

- Yes, I have to go! – he said, taking his hat.

- And some seagull?

- No, it’s better to have some seagull some other time.

- Of course, I ordered a samovar. I must admit, I’m not a fan of tea: the drink is expensive, and the price of sugar has risen unmercifully. Proshka! no need for a samovar! Take the biscuit to Mavra, you hear: let him put it in the same place, or not, bring it here, I’ll take it down myself. Farewell, father, God bless you, and give the letter to the chairman. Yes! let him read it, he’s an old friend of mine. Why! We were friends with him!

Then this strange phenomenon, this shriveled old man escorted him out of the yard, after which he ordered the gates to be locked immediately, then he walked around the storerooms in order to inspect whether the watchmen, who stood on all corners, were in their places, pounding on the empty barrel with wooden shovels, instead of a cast iron board; after that he looked into the kitchen, where, under the guise of trying to see if people were eating well, he ate a fair amount of cabbage soup and porridge and, scolding every last one for theft and bad behavior, returned to his room. Left alone, he even thought about how he could thank his guest for such truly unprecedented generosity. “I’ll give him,” he thought to himself, “a pocket watch: it’s a good one, a silver watch, and not like some kind of Tombak or bronze; a little spoiled, but he can transport it for himself; He is still a young man, so he needs a pocket watch to please his bride! Or not,” he added after some reflection, “it’s better that I leave them to him after my death, in a spiritual way, so that he remembers me.”

But our hero was in the most cheerful mood even without the watch. Such an unexpected acquisition was a real gift. In fact, whatever you say, there are not only dead souls, but also runaways, and in total more than two hundred people! Of course, even approaching the village of Plyushkin, he already had a presentiment that there would be some profit, but he did not expect such a profitable one. All the way he was unusually cheerful, whistled, played with his lips, putting his fist to his mouth, as if playing a trumpet, and finally began to sing some kind of song, so extraordinary that Selifan himself listened, listened and then, shaking his head slightly, said : “You see how the master sings!” It was already deep twilight when they approached the city. The shadow and light were completely mixed up, and it seemed that the very objects were mixed up too. The motley barrier took on some indefinite color; The mustache of the soldier standing guard seemed to be on his forehead and much higher than his eyes, and it seemed as if his nose was not there at all. Thunder and jumps made it possible to notice that the chaise had driven onto the pavement. The lanterns had not yet been lit, in some places the windows of houses were just beginning to be illuminated, and in the alleys and nooks there were scenes and conversations inseparable from this time in all cities, where there are many soldiers, cabbies, workers and a special kind of creatures, in the form of ladies in red shawls and shoes without stockings, which, like the bats, wandering around intersections. Chichikov did not notice them and did not even notice many thin officials with canes, who, having probably taken a walk outside the city, were returning home. From time to time, what seemed to be feminine exclamations reached his ears: “You’re lying, drunkard! I never allowed him to be so rude!” - or: “Don’t fight, you ignoramus, but go to the unit, there I’ll prove it to you!..” In a word, those words that suddenly pour over, like broth, some daydreaming twenty-year-old youth, when, returning from the theater, he carries in my head a Spanish street, night, wonderful female image with a guitar and curls. What is not there and what is not dreaming in his head? he is in heaven and has come to visit Schiller - and suddenly fatal words are heard above him like thunder, and he sees that he has again found himself on earth, and even on Sennaya Square, and even near the tavern, and again he has gone to show off in an everyday way life is in front of him.

Finally, the chaise, having made a decent leap, sank, as if into a pit, into the gates of the hotel, and Chichikov was met by Petrushka, who held the hem of his coat with one hand, for he did not like the floors to separate, and with the other he began to help him get out of the chaise. The polovoi also ran out, with a candle in his hand and a napkin on his shoulder. Whether Petrushka was happy about the master’s arrival is unknown; at least he and Selifan exchanged winks, and his usually stern appearance this time seemed to brighten up somewhat.

“We took a long walk,” said the floor guard, lighting the stairs.

“Yes,” said Chichikov when he went up the stairs. - Well, what about you?

“Thank God,” answered the sexton, bowing. “Yesterday some military lieutenant arrived and took number sixteen.

- Lieutenant?

– It’s unknown which one, from Ryazan, bay horses.

- Okay, okay, behave and go ahead! - Chichikov said and entered his room. Walking through the hallway, he twisted his nose and said to Petrushka: “You should at least unlock the windows!”

– “everything that fits the lip is edible; every vegetable except bread and meat.” (From N.V. Gogol’s notebook.)

In the person of the hero of “Dead Souls” Plyushkin, Gogol brought out a psychopathic miser. He pointed out in this pitiful old man the terrible consequences of the passion to “acquire” without a goal - when acquisition itself becomes the goal, when the meaning of life is lost. In “Dead Souls” it is shown how, from a reasonable, practical person needed for the state and family, Plyushkin turns into a “growth” on humanity, into some kind of negative value, into a “hole”... To do this, he only had to lose his meaning life. Before, he worked for the family. His ideal of life was the same as that of Chichikov - and Plyushkin was happy when a noisy, joyful family greeted him returning home to rest. Then life deceived him - he remained a lonely, angry old man, for whom all people seemed to be thieves, liars, robbers. A certain inclination towards callousness increased over the years, his heart became harder, his previously clear economic eye dimmed - and Plyushkin lost the ability to distinguish between large and small in the household, necessary from unnecessary - he directed all his attention, all his vigilance to the household, to the storerooms, glaciers... He stopped engaging in large-scale grain farming, and bread, the main basis of his wealth, rotted in barns for years. But Plyushkin collected all sorts of junk in his office, even stole buckets and other things from his own men... He lost hundreds, thousands, because he did not want to give up a penny or a ruble. Plyushkin had completely lost his mind, and his soul, which had never been distinguished by greatness, was completely crushed and vulgarized. Plyushkin became a slave to his passion, a pitiful miser, walking in rags, living from hand to mouth. Unsociable, gloomy, he lived out his unnecessary life, tearing even parental feelings for children out of his heart. (Cm. , .)

Plyushkin. Drawing by Kukryniksy

Plyushkin can be compared with the “miserly knight,” with the only difference being that in Pushkin “stinginess” is presented in a tragic light, while in Gogol it is presented in a comic light. Pushkin showed what gold did to a valiant man, a great man, - Gogol in “Dead Souls” showed how a penny perverted an ordinary, “average man”...

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In Gogol's poem "Dead Souls" all the characters have collective and typical traits. Each of the landowners whom Chichikov visits with his strange request for the purchase and sale of “dead souls” personifies one of the characteristic images of the landowners of Gogol’s modernity. Gogol’s poem, in terms of describing the characters of landowners, is interesting primarily because Nikolai Vasilyevich was a foreigner in relation to Russian people, Ukrainian society was closer to him, so Gogol was able to notice the specific character traits and behavior of certain types of people.

Plyushkin's age and appearance

One of the landowners whom Chichikov visits is Plyushkin. Before the moment of personal acquaintance, Chichikov already knew something about this landowner - mainly it was information about his stinginess. Chichikov knew that thanks to this trait, Plyushkin’s serfs were “dying like flies,” and those who did not die were running away from him.

We invite you to familiarize yourself with the summary of N.V. Gogol’s work “Taras Bulba,” which reveals the theme of patriotism and love for the Motherland.

In the eyes of Chichikov, Plyushkin became an important candidate - he had the opportunity to buy up many “dead souls.”

However, Chichikov was not ready to see Plyushkin’s estate and get to know him personally - the picture that opened before him plunged him into bewilderment, Plyushkin himself also did not stand out from the general background.

To his horror, Chichikov realized that the person he mistook for the housekeeper was in fact not the housekeeper, but the landowner Plyushkin himself. Plyushkin could have been mistaken for anyone, but not for the richest landowner in the district: he was extremely skinny, his face was slightly elongated and just as terribly skinny as his body. His eyes were small and unusually lively for an old man. The chin was very long. His appearance was complemented by a toothless mouth.

In the work of N.V. Gogol “The Overcoat” the theme is revealed little man. We invite you to read its summary.

Plyushkin's clothes were absolutely not like clothes; they could hardly even be called that. Plyushkin paid absolutely no attention to his suit - he was worn out to such an extent that his clothes began to look like rags. It was quite possible for Plyushkin to be mistaken for a tramp.

Natural aging processes were also added to this appearance - at the time of the story, Plyushkin was about 60 years old.

The problem of the name and the meaning of the surname

Plyushkin's name never appears in the text; it is likely that this was done deliberately. In this way, Gogol emphasizes Plyushkin’s detachment, the callousness of his character and the lack of a humanistic principle in the landowner.

There is, however, a point in the text that can help reveal the name Plyushkin. The landowner from time to time calls his daughter by her patronymic - Stepanovna, this fact gives the right to say that Plyushkin was called Stepan.

It is unlikely that this character's name was chosen as a specific symbol. Translated from Greek, Stepan means “crown, diadem” and indicates a permanent attribute of the goddess Hera. It is unlikely that this information was decisive when choosing a name, which cannot be said about the hero’s surname.

In Russian, the word “plyushkin” is used to nominate a person distinguished by stinginess and a mania for accumulating raw materials and material resources without any purpose.

Marital status of Plyushkin

At the time of the story, Plyushkin is a lonely person leading an ascetic lifestyle. He has been a widow for a long time. Once upon a time, Plyushkin’s life was different - his wife brought the meaning of life into Plyushkin’s being, she stimulated the emergence of positive qualities in him, contributed to the emergence of humanistic qualities. They had three children in their marriage - two girls and a boy.

At that time, Plyushkin was not at all like a petty miser. He happily received guests and was a sociable and open person.

Plyushkin was never a spender, but his stinginess had its reasonable limits. His clothes were not new - he usually wore a frock coat, it was noticeably worn, but looked very decent, there wasn’t even a single patch on it.

Reasons for character change

After the death of his wife, Plyushkin completely succumbed to his grief and apathy. Most likely, he did not have a predisposition to communicate with children, he was of little interest and fascination with the process of education, so the motivation to live and be reborn for the sake of children did not work for him.

Later, he begins to develop a conflict with his older children - as a result, they, tired of constant grumbling and deprivation, leave their father’s house without his permission. The daughter gets married without Plyushkin’s blessing, and the son begins military service. Such freedom became the reason for Plyushkin’s anger - he curses his children. The son was categorical towards his father - he completely broke off contact with him. The daughter still did not abandon her father, despite this attitude towards her family, she visits the old man from time to time and brings her children to him. Plyushkin does not like to bother with his grandchildren and perceives their meetings extremely coolly.

Plyushkin's youngest daughter died as a child.

Thus, Plyushkin remained alone in his large estate.

Plyushkin's estate

Plyushkin was considered the richest landowner in the district, but Chichikov, who came to his estate, thought it was a joke - Plyushkin’s estate was in a dilapidated state - repairs had not been made to the house for many years. Moss could be seen on the wooden elements of the house, the windows in the house were boarded up - it seemed that no one actually lived here.

Plyushkin's house was huge, now it was empty - Plyushkin lived alone in the whole house. Because of its desolation, the house resembled an ancient castle.

The inside of the house was not much different from appearance. Since most of the windows in the house were boarded up, the house was incredibly dark and it was difficult to see anything. The only place where sunlight penetrated was Plyushkin’s personal rooms.

An incredible mess reigned in Plyushkin's room. It seems that the place has never been cleaned - everything was covered in cobwebs and dust. Broken things were lying everywhere, which Plyushkin did not dare to throw away, because he thought that he might still need them.

The garbage was also not thrown away anywhere, but was piled right there in the room. Plyushkin's desk was no exception - important papers and documents lay mixed in with trash.

Behind Plyushkin's house there is a huge garden. Like everything else in the estate, it is in disrepair. No one has looked after the trees for a long time, the garden is overgrown with weeds and small bushes that are entwined with hops, but even in this form the garden is beautiful, it stands out sharply against the background of deserted houses and dilapidated buildings.

Features of Plyushkin's relationship with serfs

Plyushkin is far from the ideal of a landowner; he behaves rudely and cruelly with his serfs. Sobakevich, talking about his attitude towards serfs, claims that Plyushkin starves his subjects, which significantly increases the mortality rate among serfs. The appearance of Plyushkin’s serfs becomes confirmation of these words - they are excessively thin, immeasurably skinny.

It is not surprising that many serfs run away from Plyushkin - life on the run is more attractive.

Sometimes Plyushkin pretends to take care of his serfs - he goes into the kitchen and checks whether they are eating well. However, he does this for a reason - while undergoing food quality control, Plyushkin manages to eat to his heart’s content. Of course, this trick was not hidden from the peasants and became a reason for discussion.

Plyushkin always accuses his serfs of theft and fraud - he believes that the peasants are always trying to rob him. But the situation looks completely different - Plyushkin has intimidated his peasants so much that they are afraid to take at least something for themselves without the knowledge of the landowner.

The tragedy of the situation is also created by the fact that Plyushkin’s warehouses are overflowing with food, almost all of it becomes unusable and is then thrown away. Of course, Plyushkin could give the surplus to his serfs, thereby improving their living conditions and raising his authority in their eyes, but greed takes over - it’s easier for him to throw away unsuitable things than to do a good deed.

Characteristics of personal qualities

In his old age, Plyushkin became an unpleasant type due to his quarrelsome character. People began to avoid him, neighbors and friends began to visit less and less, and then they stopped communicating with him altogether.

After the death of his wife, Plyushkin preferred a solitary way of life. He believed that guests always cause harm - instead of doing something truly useful, you have to spend time in empty conversations.

By the way, this position of Plyushkin did not bring the desired results - his estate steadily fell into disrepair until it finally took on the appearance of an abandoned village.

There are only two joys in the life of the old man Plyushkin - scandals and the accumulation of finances and raw materials. Sincerely speaking, he gives himself wholeheartedly to both one and the other.

Plyushkin surprisingly has the talent to notice any little things and even the most insignificant flaws. In other words, he is overly picky about people. He is unable to express his comments calmly - he mainly shouts and scolds his servants.

Plyushkin is not capable of doing anything good. He is a callous and cruel person. He is indifferent to the fate of his children - he has lost contact with his son, and his daughter periodically tries to reconcile, but the old man stops these attempts. He believes that they have a selfish goal - his daughter and son-in-law want to enrich themselves at his expense.

Thus, Plyushkin is a terrible landowner who lives for a specific purpose. In general, he is endowed with negative character traits. The landowner himself does not realize the true results of his actions - he seriously thinks that he is a caring landowner. In fact, he is a tyrant, ruining and destroying the destinies of people.

Characteristics of Plyushkin: the hero of the poem Dead Souls.

Gallery of landowners presented in the poem by N.V. Gogol's "Dead Souls" ends with the image of Plyushkin. In the scene of meeting Chichikov, the character of the hero is revealed in all its artistic fullness.

The poem reveals such traits of the hero as grumpiness, stinginess, lack of spirituality, suspicion and distrust. He calls the dead peasants “parasites” and grumbles at Mavra, confident that she is deceiving the master. Plyushkin suspects Mavra that she “tampered” his paper. When it turns out that his suspicions are in vain, he begins to grumble, dissatisfied with the rebuff that Mavra gave him. Gogol also emphasizes Plyushkin’s stinginess here. Having found the paper, in order to save money, he asks for a “splinter” instead of a tallow candle. And, having started to write, he scribbles “sparingly line upon line,” regretting that “there will still be a lot of blank space left.” The hero's stinginess acquired hypertrophied features and led his entire house into desolation and chaos. In Plyushkin’s house everything is covered with dust, in his inkwell there is “moldy liquid and a lot of flies at the bottom.”

Using portrait details, the author reveals to the reader the lack of spirituality of his hero. In passing, Gogol gives us a brief portrait sketch of Plyushkin. We see how suddenly “some kind of warm ray”, “a pale reflection of feeling” flashed on his wooden face. Using an extended comparison, the author here compares this phenomenon with the appearance of a drowning person on the surface of the waters. But the impression remains immediate. Following this, Plyushkin’s face becomes “even more insensitive and even more vulgar.” Here the hero’s lack of spirituality and lack of living life are emphasized. And at the same time, the “pale reflection of feeling” on his face is probably a potential opportunity for spiritual rebirth. It is known that Plyushkin is the only landowner who, together with Chichikov, was supposed to become a character in the third volume of the poem, according to Gogol’s plan. And it’s not for nothing that the author gives us a biography of this hero, and in this passage he notes that Plyushkin had friends at school.

The hero's speech is typical. It is dominated by abusive expressions (“thief”, “fraudster”, “robber”). Plyushkin's intonations contain threats; he is grumpy, irritated, and emotional. His speech contains exclamatory sentences.

Thus, in the poem the character of the hero appears multifaceted, potentially interesting for readers and the author. Gogol's Plyushkin completes the gallery of Russian landowners opened by Manilov. And this order also, according to critics, has a certain meaning. Some researchers believe that the hero represents the last degree of moral decline, while others, analyzing Gogol’s plan (a poem in three volumes), say that the most soulless, “dead” character in the work is Manilov. Plyushkin is a man* capable of moral rebirth. And in this regard we can talk about great importance this scene in the development of the entire author's plan.

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