12 fb2 chairs. Ilya Ilf - Twelve chairs

The twelve Chairs Evgeny Petrov, Ilya Ilf

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Title: Twelve Chairs

About the book “The Twelve Chairs” Evgeny Petrov, Ilya Ilf

The novel “The Twelve Chairs” and its sequel “The Golden Calf” were written by a brilliant tandem from Odessa, Ilya Ilf and Evgeny Petrov, in the late 1920s and early 1930s. Funny, caustic and deeply anti-Soviet, the novel became a cult read for the embattled Soviet intelligentsia. He was like a sip fresh air in a stuffy communal apartment of Soviet reality, replete with stale smells of cabbage soup and rotten political dogmas.

As a creative team, Ilf and Petrov collected knowledge about elite culture, speech and expectations of the lower class, clashes between different social groups, which shaped the discourse of the 1920s in the Soviet Union.

Petrov worked as an inspector of the Odessa criminal investigation department, and you can see traces of this experience in the novel. But, above all, both writers are masters of the Odessa humorous tradition (and good style too: Isaac Babel was from there, and his often brutal narratives contain a good dose of humor).

The Twelve Chairs was a huge success when it was published in 1928, towards the end of the relatively liberal period of the NEP (New Economic Policy), and it remains a favorite book for everyone who can read Russian. It was taken away with quotes, which have long become phraseological units in the daily speech of Russian-speaking people.

What is there in the novel “The Twelve Chairs” besides humor? Ostap Bender ends badly in both novels in which he appears, but readers love him, and his unexpected appearance in The Golden Calf suggests that he is a more successful figure than he may seem at first glance. In fact, the combination of cunning and stupidity is traditional in stories about deceivers. Many negative characters are identified as elements of undesirable social groups (former aristocrat, priest, etc.).

It's interesting that Ilf and Petrov were planning a third novel in which Ostap Bender would be sent to hard labor in the notorious camp on the Solovetsky Islands - and it's interesting to wonder how they would have imbued the Gulag with humor - but perhaps it's a good thing that they never didn't write it.

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Quotes from the book “The Twelve Chairs” Evgeny Petrov, Ilya Ilf

We need to get ahead of him, and we will always have time to feel his face.

If you can no longer help but worry, then worry in silence.

– What is your political creed?
- Always! – Polesov answered enthusiastically.

Here Pasha Emilievich, who had a supernatural sense, realized that now they would beat him, maybe even kick him.

When a woman ages, many troubles can happen to her: teeth may fall out, hair may turn gray and thin, shortness of breath may develop, obesity may set in, extreme thinness may overcome her, but her voice will not change. He will remain the same as he was with her as a schoolgirl, a bride, or a young rake’s mistress.

It’s time for you, leader, to be treated with electricity.

Elena Stanislavovna, who had the same idea about three-eighths inch dies as she has about agriculture a student of the Leonardo da Vinci choreography course, who suggests that cottage cheese comes from dumplings.

Elena Stanislavovna, who had the same idea about three-eighths of an inch dies as a student of the Leonardo da Vinci choreography course has about agriculture, assuming that cottage cheese comes from dumplings, nevertheless sympathized.

However, for a leader of the nobility your scale is too small. Do you know the technique for this? Maybe you have a travel travel bag with a set of master keys hidden in your suitcase? Get it out of your head! It's typical foppishness to rob a poor widow.

I drink to yours public utilities! - Ostap exclaimed.

This is a book that everyone loves: from intellectuals to ordinary people.

This is a book torn into quotes as soon as it appeared on the readers' tables.

"The Twelve Chairs" is a worthy continuation of the novel "The Golden Calf". Both novels were written by Odessa writers Evgeny Petrov and Ilya Ilf in the 20s and 30s. Deeply anti-Soviet, caustic and very funny, the novel was popular among the Soviet intelligentsia, which at that time was on alert. The novel seemed to provide a breath of air in a communal apartment that smelled of cabbage soup and rotten political dogma.

You can download the book “The Twelve Chairs” in fb2, epub, pdf, txt – by Evgeny Petrov and Ilya Ilf, for free on the website

The team of Ilf and Petrov collected all the knowledge about the culture of elite society, about the expectations and speech of the lower classes, about the relationships between the various social groups that were formed in one way or another in the twenties in the Soviet Union.

Petrov had a very responsible and interesting job- Inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department of Odessa, his work also imprinted on the content of the novel itself. I would also like to note that both Ilf and Petrov are masters of the humorous tradition of Odessa residents.

The novel “The Twelve Chairs” was presented to readers in 1928, this period is also known to everyone as the end of the “liberal” period of the New Economic Policy (NEP). This book appealed to readers both at that time and today. And if you read the book carefully, you will notice that today quotes are often used in Everyday life and in in social networks, which are taken from this brilliant work. Many people can’t even imagine their speech without these quotes.

On KnigoPoisk you can listen to an audio book and read online “The Twelve Chairs” by Evgeny Petrov and Ilya Ilf.

Many may get the impression. That “The Twelve Chairs” is a purely humorous work. But it is worth noting that in addition to humor, the work also traces the life line of Ostap Bender. Ostap Bender is bright and very interesting features character character. In both works, the result of all his actions is quite deplorable for him. But regardless of the fact that he is more of a negative character than a positive one, readers really liked him. In all works about swindlers, the tandem of stupidity and cunning is considered traditional. The authors position all negative characters as some kind of undesirable elements of social media. groups (priest, former aristocrat, etc.).

The author's plans were to write a third novel, in which Ostap Bender would also star, and in which the main character would be sent to the Solovetsky Islands (a camp for hard labor). And here it becomes interesting how they would play this whole story from the point of view of humor. And maybe it’s good that this mythical third part was never written.

The novel “The Twelve Chairs” is recommended for everyone to read, because it is a classic that not only reflects some humorous positions, but also other social problems of that time.. Read also summary books (abbreviated retelling) and reviews of the book.

Ilya Ilf, Evgeny Petrov

The twelve Chairs

Dedicated to Valentin Petrovich Kataev

© Odessky M. P., Feldman D. M., afterword, commentary, 2017

© AST Publishing House LLC, 2017

In the text of the novel, small discrepancies and fragments excluded from the editions that were included in the previously published collected works of Ilf and Petrov are highlighted in bold, and large discrepancies and fragments are highlighted with a sign ().

Part one – Stargorod Lion

Bezenchuk and nymphs

In the district town of N there were so many hairdressing establishments and funeral procession bureaus that it seemed that the inhabitants of the city were born only to shave, cut their hair, freshen their hair with haircut and immediately die. But in fact, in the district town of N, people were born, shaved and died quite rarely. City life was quiet. The spring evenings were delightful, the dirt sparkled like anthracite under the moon, and all the youth of the city were so in love with the secretary of the local communal committee that it simply prevented her from collecting membership dues.

Issues of love and death did not bother Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov, although, due to the nature of his service, he was in charge of these issues from 9 am to 5 pm every day, with a half-hour break for breakfast.

In the morning, after drinking from fancy (frosty with a vein) After drinking his glass of hot milk served by Klavdia Ivanovna, he left the dim house onto a spacious street full of strange spring light "Them. Comrade Gubernsky". It was the most pleasant of the streets that can be found in county towns. By left hand, behind the wavy greenish glass, the coffins of the Nymph funeral home shone silver. To the right, behind the small windows with crumbling putty, oak windows, dusty and boring, reclined gloomily. coffin, coffin master Bezenchuk. Further, “Cirul master Pierre and Konstantin” promised their consumers “nail care” and “ondulation at home.” Even further away there was a hotel with a hairdressing salon, and behind it, in a large vacant lot, stood a fawn calf and tenderly licked a rusty, leaning (like a sign at the foot of a palm tree in botanical garden) to the lonely protruding gate, a sign:

“You are welcome” funeral home.

Although there were many funeral depots, their clientele was small. “You’re welcome” burst three years before Ippolit Matveevich settled in the city of N, and master Bezenchuk drank bitter and even once tried to pawn his best exhibition coffin in a pawnshop.

People in the city of N rarely died, and Ippolit Matveevich knew this better than anyone, because he served in the registry office, where he was in charge of the desk for registering deaths and marriages.

The table at which Ippolit Matveevich worked looked like an old tombstone. Left corner it was destroyed by rats. His frail legs shook under the weight of plump tobacco-colored folders with records from which one could glean all the information about the genealogies of the residents of the city of N and the genealogical (or, as Ippolit Matveevich jokingly used to say, gynecological) trees that grew on the poor district soil.

On Friday, April 15, 1927, Ippolit Matveyevich, as usual, woke up at half past eight and immediately stuck his nose into an old-fashioned pince-nez with a gold bow. He didn't wear glasses. One day, having decided that wearing pince-nez was unhygienic, Ippolit Matveevich went to the optician and bought rimless glasses with gold-plated shafts. He liked the glasses the first time, but his wife (this was not long before her death) found that he looked just like Miliukov wearing glasses, and he gave the glasses to the janitor. The janitor, although not nearsighted, got used to the glasses and wore them with pleasure.

- Bonjour! - Ippolit Matveyevich sang to himself, lowering his legs from the bed.

“Bonjour” indicated that Ippolit Matveyevich woke up in a good mood. Saying “gut morgen” upon awakening usually meant that the liver was playing tricks, that 52 years was no joke, and that the weather was damp today.

Ippolit Matveyevich put his lean legs into pre-war piece trousers, tied them at the ankle with ribbons and plunged into short soft boots with narrow square toes and low rebounds. Five minutes later, Ippolit Matveyevich was wearing a moon vest, studded with a small silver star, and an iridescent lustrine jacket. Swiping from a gray (hair to hair) mustache the dewdrops remaining after washing, Ippolit Matveevich brutally moved his mustache, indecisive tried it rough chin, ran a brush through short-cropped aluminum hair five times left and eight times right hand from forehead to back of head and, smiling politely, moved towards his mother-in-law, Claudia Ivanovna, who was entering the room.

“Eppole-et,” she thundered, “today I had a bad dream.”

The word "sleep" was pronounced with a French accent.

Ippolit Matveyevich looked down at his mother-in-law. His height reached 185 centimeters. From such a height it was easy and convenient for him to relate to his mother-in-law Klavdia Ivanovna with some disdain.

Klavdia Ivanovna continued:

“I saw the late Marie with her hair down and wearing a gold sash.

– I’m very worried! I'm afraid something would happen!

The last words were pronounced with such force that the square of hair on Ippolit Matveyevich’s head fluttered in different sides. He wrinkled his face and said separately:

- Nothing will happen, maman. Have you already paid for the water?

It turns out that they did not contribute. The galoshes were also not washed. Ippolit Matveevich did not like my mother-in-law. Klavdia Ivanovna was stupid, and her advanced age did not allow her to hope that she would ever become wiser. She was stingy to the extreme, and only Ippolit Matveyevich’s poverty prevented this exciting feeling from unfolding. Her voice was so strong and thick that Richard would have envied it. Lion Heart. And, besides, what was most terrible, Klavdia Ivanovna had dreams. She always saw them. She dreamed of girls in sashes and without them, horses trimmed with yellow dragoon piping, janitors playing harps, archangels in guard sheepskin coats, walking at night with mallets in their hands, and knitting needles that jumped around the room by themselves, making an upsetting ringing sound. The empty old woman was Klavdia Ivanovna. On top of that, she had a mustache growing under her nose, and each mustache looked like a shaving brush.

Ippolit Matveyevich, slightly irritated, left the house. At the entrance to his shabby establishment he stood, leaning against door jamb and with his arms crossed, undertaker Bezenchuk. From the systematic failure of his commercial endeavors and from long-term consumption of strong drinks, the master’s eyes were bright yellow, like a cat’s, and burned with an unquenchable fire.

- Honor to the dear guest! - he shouted quickly when he saw Ippolit Matveyevich. - Good morning.

Ippolit Matveyevich politely lifted his stained castor hat.

- How is your health yours mothers-in-law, please allow me , such impudence, to know?

“Mr, mr,” Ippolit Matveevich answered vaguely and, shrugging his straight shoulders, moved on.

“Well, God bless her,” Bezenchuk said bitterly, “we’re just suffering so many losses, we’ll put him in a swing.”

And again, crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against the door.

At the gates of the Nimfa funeral home, Ippolit Matveevich was again held back.

There were three owners of the Nymph. They bowed to Ippolit Matveyevich at once and inquired in unison about health mother-in-law

“She’s healthy, she’s healthy,” answered Ippolit Matveyevich, “what’s going on with her?” Today I saw a golden girl, dissolved. She felt like that review in a dream.

The three “nymphs” looked at each other and sighed loudly.

All these conversations delayed Ippolit Matveyevich on his way, and he, contrary to usual, came to work when the clock hanging over the slogan “Do your job - and leave” showed five minutes past ten.

– Maciste is late!

Ippolit Matveyevich was nicknamed Macist at the institution for his great height, and especially for his mustache, although the real Macist did not have any mustache.

Taking a blue felt pad out of the desk drawer, Ippolit Matveevich placed it on a chair, gave his mustache the correct direction (parallel to the line of the table) and sat down on the pad, slightly towering above him. everyone three of his colleagues. Ippolit Matveyevich was not afraid of hemorrhoids, he was afraid to wipe his trousers and therefore used blue felt.

All the manipulations of the Soviet employee were shyly watched by two young people - a man and a girl. The man in the woolen cloth jacket was completely depressed by the official atmosphere, the smell of alizarin ink, the clock that was breathing frequently and heavily, and, especially, the stern poster: “You’ve done your job - and leave.” Although the man in the jacket had not yet started his business, he already wanted to leave. It seemed to him that the matter for which he had come was so insignificant that he was ashamed to bother such a prominent gray-haired citizen like Ippolit Matveyevich because of it. Ippolit Matveyevich himself understood that the newcomer’s business was small, that it was enduring, and therefore, opening folder No. 2 and jerking his cheek, he delved into the papers. A girl in a long jacket trimmed with shiny black braid whispered with a man and, sweating out of shame, she began to slowly move towards Ippolit Matveyevich.