Помяловский Николай Герасимович (11.04.1835 года, Петербург - 05.10.1863 года, Петербург) - русский писатель.
Родился в семье дьякона. Учился в Александро-Невском духовном училище. Окончил Петербургскую духовную семинарию в 1857 году. Некоторое время был вольнослушателем Петербургского университета. В 1859 опубликовал очерк "Вукол", в 1861 в "Современнике" - повести "Мещанское счастье" и "Молотов". В 1862-1863 в журнале "Время" и "Современник" появились "Очерки бурсы". Работал над романом "Брат и сестра" и повестью "Поречане" (неокончена). Мировоззрение писателя сложилось под влиянием революционных демократов, в частности Н. Г. Чернышевского. Для Помяловского характерно резко отрицательное отношение к дворянской культуре в целом, отвращение к буржуазному накопительству.
Герой Помяловского - плебей, разночинец, борющийся за своё место в жизни, ненавидящий барство, безделье, либеральную болтовню; однако классовое самосознание, чувство собственного достоинства не избавляют его от капитуляции перед действительностью. В "Очерках бурсы" писатель остро поставил проблему воспитания, с большим критическим пафосом заклеймил бездушие, применение телесных наказаний, консерватизм - черты, характерные не только для духовных учебных заведений, но и для всей русской жизни в условиях самодержавия и деспотизма. Помяловский - убеждённый реалист, продолжатель традиций Н. В. Гоголя и натуральной школы; художественная практика роднит его с группой молодых писателей 60-х гг. - В. А. Слепцовым, Н. В. Успенским, Ф. М. Решетниковым. М. Горький видел в Помяловском талантливого писателя-гражданина, обличителя мещанства.
Тем временем:
... Indeed, Maisie rather liked the unwonted sense of space and freedom which was given by this easy access to the world without; and, as the windows were secured by great shutters and fasteners, she had no counterbalancing fear lest a nightly burglar should attempt to carry off her little pearl necklet or her amethyst brooch, instead of directing his whole attention to Mrs. West's famous diamond tiara.
She moved naturally to the window. She was fond of nature. The view it disclosed over the Weald at her feet was wide and varied. Misty range lay behind misty range, in a faint December haze, receding and receding, till away to the south, half hidden by vapour, the Sussex downs loomed vague in the distance. The village church, as happens so often in the case of old lordly manors, stood within the grounds of the Hall, and close by the house. It had been built, her hostess said, in the days of the Edwards, but had portions of an older Saxon edifice still enclosed in the chancel. The one eyesore in the view was its new white tower, recently restored (or rather, rebuilt), which contrasted most painfully with the mellow grey stone and mouldering corbels of the nave and transept.
"What a pity it's been so spoiled!" Maisie exclaimed, looking across at the tower. Coming straight as she did from a Merioneth rectory, she took an ancestral interest in all that concerned churches.
"Oh, my dear!" Mrs. West cried, "please don't say that, I beg of you, to the Colonel. If you were to murmur 'spoiled' to him you'd wreck his digestion. He's spent ever so much money over securing the foundations and reproducing the sculpture on the old tower we took down, and it breaks his dear heart when anybody disapproves of it. For some people, you know, are so absurdly opposed to reasonable restoration."
"Oh, but this isn't even restoration, you know," Maisie said, with the frankness of twenty, and the specialist interest of an antiquary's daughter. "This is pure reconstruction."
"Perhaps so," Mrs. West answered. "But if you think so, my dear, don't breathe it at Wolverden...
