Nikolay Gogol. Nikolay Gogolviy Gogol's work vii read

"Raise my eyelids ..." - these words, which have become a catch phrase in our time, belong to the pen of a famous Russian writer. The definition of "Russian" is rather conditional, since the author is widely known for the works in which Ukraine and Ukrainians are colorfully, vividly, juicy and, finally, mystically displayed. But the contradiction lies not only in the writer's belonging to one or another national culture. In literary criticism, he is called a great Russian writer and at the same time - an underground Ukrainian and a terrible crest; are called an Orthodox Christian and, on the other hand, a devil and even Satan. Linguists reproach him for his “low” subject matter and crude, incorrect language, and at the same time admire the language of his works - “fantastic” at the intonation and semantic levels. Alexander Pushkin enthusiastically said about the writer's works: “They amazed me. This is real gaiety, sincere, unconstrained, without pretense, without stiffness. " In such contradictory definitions it is difficult not to recognize the outstanding writer of the XIX century N. V. Gogol.

Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol was born on March 20, 1809 in the town of Sorochintsy (on the border of the Poltava and Mirgorod districts). Father, Vasily Afanasyevich, served at the Little Russian Post Office. A man of a cheerful character, an entertaining storyteller, he wrote comedies and played in the home theater of a distant relative of D. Troshchinsky, a former minister and a famous nobleman. His passion for theater undoubtedly influenced the upbringing of the future writer in his son. The inner world of Gogol was largely formed under the influence of his mother - Marya Ivanovna, a beauty from Poltava who came from a landowner family. She gave her son a somewhat unusual religious upbringing, in which spirituality, morality were intertwined with superstitions, retold by apocalyptic prophecies, fear of the underworld and the inevitable punishment of sinners.

Nikolai Gogol spent his childhood on his native estate Vasilyevka. Together with his parents, the boy visited the surrounding villages of the Poltava region: Dikanka, which belonged to the Minister of Internal Affairs V. Kochubei, Obukhovka, where the writer V. Kapnist lived, but most often they visited Kibintsy, the estate of D. Troshchinsky, where there was a large library.

Gogol's literary ability manifested itself very early. In childhood, he began to write poems, which were approved by V. Kapnist, prophetically noting about the artistic talent of the future writer: "He will have a great talent, give him only fate as the leader of a Christian teacher."

From 1818 to 1819 Gogol studied at the Poltava district school, in 1821 Gogol entered the Nizhyn gymnasium of higher sciences. In the gymnasium theater, he showed himself as a talented actor performing comic roles. Soon a theater opens in Poltava, headed by Ivan Kotlyarevsky, the founder of Ukrainian drama. And the artistic taste of N. Gogol is formed and brought up on the dramatic works of I. Kotlyarevsky. Together with Gogol, Nestor Kukolnik and Evgen Grebenka studied at the gymnasium.

The first creative experiments of the writer belong to the same time: the satire "Something about Nezhin, or the Law is not Written to Fools" (not preserved), poetry and prose. He writes a poem "Ganz Küchelgarten", largely immature, inherited, which was met with harsh and even deadly criticism. Gogol immediately buys up almost the entire circulation of the book and burns it (many years later, history will repeat itself when he, already a well-known writer, burns the 2nd volume of Dead Souls and destroys the unfinished tragedy about the Cossacks).

After graduating from high school, Gogol moved to St. Petersburg, but did not get the place he had hoped for, and suddenly left for Germany. Returning to Russia, Gogol explained this trip in a confused way (allegedly God told him to go to a foreign land) or referred to problems in his personal life. In reality, he was running from himself, from the divergence of his ideas about life with life itself. At this time, new horizons appeared in Gogol's creative activity. He asks his mother in writing to send information about Ukrainian customs, legends, traditions, superstitions. All this later served as material for stories from the Little Russian life, which became the beginning of Gogol's literary glory: "Evening on the Eve of Ivan Kupala", "Sorochinskaya Fair" and "May Night". In 1831 and 1832. the 1st and 2nd parts of the collection of stories "Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka" are published. After the book was published, Gogol became a famous writer. Of great importance for Gogol's creative career was Pushkin's enthusiastic and positive review of "Evenings ...". One of the literary critics put it simply: "Genius blessed genius." Later N. Gogol created the books "Mirgorod", "Arabesques", the play "The Inspector General", Petersburg stories, the poem "Dead Souls".

Tired of the intense work on his latest works and mental anxieties, Gogol in 1836 again changes the situation - he goes to rest abroad. The trip, on the one hand, strengthened him, but, on the other hand, from that moment on, strangely fatal phenomena are observed in his life: spleen, withdrawal, alienation. He works hard on Dead Souls, returns to Russia and again goes abroad. There were various rumors about the writer (perhaps because of his state of mind): in Rome he seemed to jump up in the middle of the night and suddenly began to dance the hopak; while walking in one of the parks, Gogol irritatedly crushed the lizards running along the paths; One night the thought occurred to him that he had not fulfilled what God intended for him - he took out his notes from his portfolio and threw them into the fireplace, although in the morning he came to the conclusion that he had done it under the influence of an evil spirit. They also say that doctors determined that Gogol had a mental illness.

Gogol himself called his impression of visiting holy places - Jerusalem, Palestine, Nazareth, the Holy Sepulcher “sleepy”. The holy places did not improve his mood, on the contrary - he felt the emptiness and coldness in his heart even more sharply. The years 1848-1852 were the most difficult psychologically in his life. He was suddenly seized by the fear of death, he abandoned literary and creative pursuits and went deep into religious reflections. His confessor - Father Matthew - Gogol constantly asked to pray for him. One night, he distinctly heard voices saying that he would soon die. The depression grew more and more intense. And on February 21, 1852, the writer died in the deepest mental crisis. There are also many legends about his death: they say that he did not die at all, but fell asleep in a lethargic sleep and was buried alive, then during the reburial (1931) it turned out that the body was turned over and the lid of the coffin was scratched.

The life path and worldview of N. Gogol were vividly reflected in his work. The works included in this collection demonstrate in the best way the interweaving of various images and spheres of reality - both material, real (this world) and spiritual, otherworldly (that world). Here the greatest talent of the writer is revealed: he appears before us as a mystic, science fiction writer, historian, religious scholar, expert in demonology and folklore.

The choice of the scene of action in the works is not accidental: Ukraine is a land extremely interesting in ethnocultural, historical and even social and everyday life, shrouded in legends, myths, rich in mystical traditions.

The plots of the works included in the collection are similar and are based on the unexpected interference of supernatural dark forces in the lives of people, and what is mysterious and incomprehensible, it causes fear - an irrational fear, inexplicable, turning into mystical horror. Gogol draws plots from folklore, folk demonology: this is the night before Ivan Kupala, a sold-out soul, an enchanted place, a generic curse, a devil expelled from the hell - at the same time he processes in his own unique manner, sometimes squeezing the whole plot down to several lines, and sometimes building a full story on it.

(Tale)

Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol.

As soon as a rather sonorous seminary bell that hung at the gates of the Bratsk monastery struck in Kiev in the morning, schoolchildren and students from all over the city hurried in droves. Grammars, rhetors, philosophers and theologians, with notebooks under their arms, wandered into the classroom. The grammars were still very small; while walking, they pushed each other and scolded among themselves in the thinnest treble; they were all almost in tattered or soiled dresses, and their pockets were always filled with all sorts of rubbish; somehow: grandmothers, whistles made of feathers, half-eaten pie, and sometimes even little sparrows, of which one, suddenly chilling in the midst of the extraordinary silence in the classroom, delivered decent fell in both hands to his patron, and sometimes cherry rods. The rhetoricians were more respectable: their dresses were often completely intact, but on the other hand, there was almost always some adornment in the form of a rhetorical path on their faces: either one eye went under the very forehead, or instead of a lip there was a whole bubble, or some other sign; these spoke and swore among themselves in tenor. Philosophers took a whole octave lower: in their pockets, except for strong tobacco roots, there was nothing. They did not make any supplies and ate everything that came across at the same time; sometimes a pipe and a burner could be heard from them so far that a craftsman who was passing by for a long time, stopped, sniffing the air like a hound.

The market at this time usually just started to move, and the tradesmen with bagels, rolls, watermelon seeds and poppy seeds tugged at the floor of those whose floors were of thin cloth or some kind of paper matter.

- Panic! panic! syudy! syudy! They said from all sides. - Axis bagels, poppies, spinners, loafs are good! by golly, good! on honey! she baked herself.

Another, picking up something long, twisted of dough, shouted: - Axis gopher! panic, buy a gopher.

- Do not buy anything from this one: look how nasty she is - her nose is bad and her hands are unclean ...

But they were afraid of offending philosophers and theologians, because philosophers and theologians always liked to take only for trial and, moreover, with a whole handful.Once they arrived at the seminary, the whole crowd was housed in classes located in low, however, rather spacious rooms with small windows, with wide doors and dirty benches. The class was suddenly filled with discordant hums: the auditors were listening to their students; the sonorous treble grammar fell just into the sound of glass inserted into small windows, and the glass answered with almost the same sound; in the corner a rhetorician hummed, whose mouth and thick lips ought at least to belong to philosophy. It hummed in bass, and only heard from a distance: boo, boo, boo, boo ... The auditors, listening to the lesson, looked with one eye under the bench, where a loaf, or a dumpling, or pumpkin seeds peeped out of the pocket of a subordinate bursak.

When all this learned crowd managed to come a little earlier, or when they knew that the professors would be later than usual, then, with general consent, they planned a battle, and everyone, even the censor, had to take part in this battle, who were obliged to watch the order and morality of the entire student class. ... Two theologians usually decided how the battle would proceed: whether each class should stand up for itself especially, or all should be divided into two halves: the bursa and the seminary. In any case, the grammarians started first, and as soon as the rhetoricians intervened, they already ran away and stood on the heights to watch the battle. Then philosophy entered with a long black mustache, and finally theology, in terrible trousers and with thick necks.

As a rule, it ended with theology beating everyone, and philosophy, scratching its sides, was pressed into the classroom and placed on the benches to rest.

A professor who entered the classroom and who had once participated in similar battles himself, at one minute, from the flaring faces of his listeners, learned that the battle was not bad, and while he was beating rhetoric on his fingers, in another class another professor trimmed philosophy with wooden shovels.

With the theologians, it was done in a completely different way: they, in the words of the professor of theology, were poured on the scale of large peas, which consisted of short leather kanchuks.

On solemn days and holidays, seminarians and students went home with nativity scenes. Sometimes they acted out a comedy, and in this case, some theologian was always distinguished, not much lower than the Kiev bell tower, representing Herodias or Pentephria, the wife of an Egyptian courtier. As a reward, they received a piece of linen, or a bag of millet, or half a boiled goose, and the like.

All this learned people, both the seminary and the bursa, which harbored some kind of hereditary enmity with each other, were extremely poor in terms of means of feeding and, moreover, unusually gluttonous; so to count how many dumplings each of them ate at the supper would be an absolutely impossible task; and therefore the voluntary donations of wealthy owners could not be sufficient. Then the Senate, which consisted of philosophers and theologians, sent out grammarians and rhetoricians under the leadership of one philosopher - and sometimes he joined himself - to empty other people's gardens with sacks on its shoulders.

And pumpkin porridge appeared in the bursa. The senators ate so much watermelons and melons that the next day the auditors heard from them instead of one two lessons: one came from the mouth, the other grumbled in the senator's stomach. Bursa and the seminary wore some kind of long similarity of frock-coats that had been stretched to this day: a technical word meaning - beyond the heels.

The most solemn event for the seminary was vacancies - the time from June, when the bursa usually went home. Then the whole main road was littered with grammarians, philosophers and theologians. Those who did not have their own shelter went to one of their comrades. Philosophers and theologians went on condition, that is, they undertook to teach or prepare the children of wealthy people, and received new boots a year, and sometimes for a frock coat. This whole gang was drawn together as a whole camp; cooked porridge and slept in the field. Each dragged a sack with him, which contained one shirt and a pair of onuchs. Theologians were especially thrifty and careful: in order not to wear out their boots, they threw them off, hung them on sticks and carried them on their shoulders, especially when there was dirt. Then they, rolling up their trousers up to their knees, fearlessly splashed puddles with their feet. As soon as they envied the farmstead, they immediately turned off the high road and, approaching the hut, built neatly than the others, stood in a row in front of the windows and began to sing kant with their whole mouths. The owner of the hut, some old Cossack villager, listened to them for a long time, leaning on both hands, then sobbed bitterly and said, addressing his wife: “Zhinko! what the schoolchildren sing must be very reasonable; bring them lard and something that we have! ” And a whole bowl of dumplings fell into the sack. A decent piece of bacon, a few cakes, and sometimes a tied chicken were placed together. Supported by such a supply of grammar, rhetoricians, philosophers and theologians continued their journey again. The further, however, they went, the more their crowd diminished. All almost scattered to their homes, and there remained those who had parental nests further than others.

Once, during such a wandering, three students were turned off the high road to the side in order to stock up on provisions in the first farm they came across, because their sack had long been empty. They were: the theologian Freebie, the philosopher Khoma Brut and the rhetorician Tiberiy Gorobets.

The theologian was a tall, broad-shouldered man and had an extremely strange disposition: he would certainly steal whatever lay near him. In another case, his character was extremely gloomy, and when he got drunk, he hid in the weeds, and the seminary took a lot of effort to find him there.

The philosopher Homa Brutus had a cheerful disposition. He loved to lie down and smoke the cradle. If he drank, he would certainly hire musicians and dance the trope.

He often tasted large peas, but with absolutely philosophical indifference, saying that what will be will be inevitable.

The rhetorician Tiberiy Gorobets did not yet have the right to wear a mustache, drink burners and smoke cradles. He was worn only by a horse-bearer, and therefore his character had not yet developed much at that time; but judging by the big bumps on his forehead with which he often appeared in class, one could assume that he would make a good warrior.

The theologian Freebie and the philosopher Khoma often scolded him for the forelock as a sign of their patronage and used him as a deputy.

It was already evening when they turned off the high road. The sun had just set, and the warmth of the day was still in the air. The theologian and philosopher walked in silence, smoking cradles; the rhetorician Tiberiy Gorobets knocked the heads off the beacons that grew along the edges of the road with a stick. The road ran between the scattered clusters of oak and hazel that covered the meadow. Slopes and small mountains, green and round like domes, sometimes interspersed the plain. A cornfield with a ripening grain that appeared in two places indicated that soon some village was to appear. But for more than an hour they had passed the grain strips, and meanwhile they had not come across any housing. Twilight had already completely darkened the sky, and only in the west was the remnant of the scarlet radiance pale.

- What the hell! - said the philosopher Khoma Brut, - it gave up completely, as if there would be a farm now.

The theologian paused, looked around the neighborhood, then again took his cradle in his mouth, and everyone continued on their way.

- By God! Said the philosopher, stopping again. “Not a damn fist in sight.

But meanwhile it was already night, and the night was rather dark. Small clouds increased the gloom, and, judging by all the signs, one could not expect stars or a month. The Bursaks noticed that they had lost their way and had not been on the road for a long time.

The philosopher, feeling his feet in all directions, finally said abruptly: “Where is the road?

The theologian paused and, thinking it over, said: - Yes, the night is dark.

The rhetorician stepped aside and tried to crawl to find his way, but his hands only fell into the fox holes. Everywhere there was one steppe, on which, it seemed, no one drove. The travelers still made an effort to go a little ahead, but everywhere there was the same game. The philosopher tried to call each other, but his voice completely died out on the sides and did not meet any answer. A few years later, only a faint moan was heard, similar to a wolf's howl.

- See what to do here? - said the philosopher.

- What? stay and spend the night in the field! - said the theologian and reached into his pocket to get a flint and light up his cradle again. But the philosopher could not agree to this. He always used to hide a half-pound crust of bread and four pounds of lard for the night, and this time he felt a kind of unbearable loneliness in his stomach. Moreover, despite his cheerful disposition, the philosopher was afraid of several wolves.

- No, Freebie, you can't, - he said. - How, without backing yourself up with anything, stretch out and lie down like a dog? Let's try again; maybe we will come across some lodging and at least a glass of the burner will be able to drink from the night.

At the word “burner,” the theologian spat aside and said: “Of course, there’s nothing to stay in the field.

The Bursaks went forward, and, to their great joy, barking was heard in the distance. Listening to which side, they set off more cheerfully and, having passed a little, saw a light.

- Farm! by golly, a farm! - said the philosopher.

His assumptions did not deceive him: after a while they saw, as if, a small farm, consisting of only two huts, located in the same yard. There was a fire in the windows. A dozen drainage trees stuck out under the tyn. Glancing through the through wooden gates, the Bursaks saw a courtyard set up by Chumak wagons. The stars glanced here and there in the sky at that time.

- Look, brothers, do not lag behind! by all means, but to get an overnight stay.

Three learned men violently hit the gate and shouted: - Open it.

The door in one of the houses squeaked, and a minute later the students saw an old woman in a sheepskin coat in front of them.

- Who's there? She screamed, coughing dully.

- Let go, granny, spend the night. Lost their way. So bad in the field, as in a hungry belly.

- And what kind of people are you.

- Yes, the people are not offended: the theologian Freebie, the philosopher Brutus and the rhetorician Gorobets.

“It’s not possible,” the old woman grumbled, “my yard is full of people, and all the corners in the hut are occupied. Where am I taking you? And what a tall and healthy people, too! Yes, my hut will fall apart when I put such. I know these philosophers and theologians. If you start to accept such drunks, then the court will soon be gone. Let's go! let's go! There is no place for you here.

- Have mercy, granny! How can Christian souls be lost for nothing? Where do you want to place us. And if we do something, somehow this or some other thing, then let our hands dry up, and it will be that God only knows. That's what.

The old woman seemed to soften a little.

“All right,” she said, as if thinking, “I'll let you in; I’ll just put everyone in different places: otherwise my heart will not be calm when you lie together.

- That's your will; Let's not contradict, - answered the students.

The gate creaked and they entered the courtyard.

- And what, granny, - said the philosopher, walking after the old woman, - if only as they say ... by God, in the stomach as if someone began to ride wheels. From the very morning, if only there was a chip in my mouth.

- See what you wanted! - said the old woman. - No, I have nothing like that, and the stove was not heated today.

- And we would have paid for all this, - continued the philosopher, - tomorrow we would have paid as it should - in cash. Yes, - he went on quietly, - God damn it you will get something.

- Go, go! and be happy with what they give you. What a devil brought some gentle panic.

The philosopher Khoma was completely disheartened by such words. But suddenly his nose smelled of dried fish. He glanced at the trousers of the theologian, who was walking next to him, and saw that an enormous fish tail was sticking out of his pocket: the theologian had already managed to shake off a whole crucian carp from the cart. And since he did this not out of any self-interest, but solely out of habit, and, having completely forgotten about his crucian carp, was already looking at what to pull off something else, not having the intention of missing even a broken wheel, the philosopher Khoma thrust his hand into his pocket, as in his own, and pulled out a crucian carp.

Mirgorod - 3

@ eugene.msk.su
"N.V. Gogol. Collected works in seven volumes. Volume 2. Mirgorod ": Fiction; Moscow; 1967
annotation
… There was a cock crow. This was already the second cry; the dwarves heard first. Frightened spirits rushed, whoever hit the windows and doors, in order to fly out as soon as possible, but that was not the case: they remained there, stuck in the doors and windows. The priest who entered, stopped at the sight of such a shame of God's shrine and did not dare to serve a panikhida in such a place. So forever the church remained with monsters stuck in the doors and windows, overgrown with forest, roots, weeds, wild thorns; and no one will find a way to her now ...

Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol
Mirgorod. Part two.
Viy

As soon as a rather sonorous seminary bell, which hung at the gates of the Bratsk monastery, struck in Kiev in the morning, schoolchildren and campers hurried from all over the city in droves. Grammars, rhetors, philosophers and theologians, with notebooks under their arms, wandered into the classroom. The grammars were still very small; while walking, they pushed each other and scolded among themselves in the thinnest treble; they were all almost in tattered or soiled dresses, and their pockets were always filled with all sorts of rubbish; somehow: grandmothers, whistles made of feathers, half-eaten pie, and sometimes even little sparrows, of which one, suddenly chilling amid the extraordinary silence in the classroom, delivered to his patron decent fell in both hands, and sometimes cherry rods. The rhetoricians were more respectable: their dresses were often completely intact, but on the other hand, there was almost always some adornment in the form of a rhetorical path on their faces: either one eye went under the very forehead, or instead of a lip there was a whole bubble, or some other sign; these spoke and swore among themselves in tenor. Philosophers took a whole octave lower: in their pockets, except for strong tobacco roots, there was nothing. They did not make any supplies and ate everything that came across at the same time; sometimes a pipe and a burner could be heard from them so far that a craftsman passing by for a long time, stopped, sniffing the air like a hound.
The market at this time usually just began to stir, and the tradesmen with bagels, rolls, watermelon seeds and poppy seeds tugged at the floors of those whose floors were of thin cloth or some kind of paper matter.
- Panic! panic! syudy! syudy! They said from all sides. - Axis bagels, poppies, spinners, loafs are good! by golly, good! on honey! I baked myself!
Another, picking up something long, twisted of dough, shouted:
- Axis gopher! panic, buy a gopher!
- Do not buy anything from this one: look how nasty she is - her nose is bad and her hands are unclean ...
But they were afraid of offending philosophers and theologians, because philosophers and theologians always liked to take only for trial and, moreover, with a whole handful
Upon arriving at the seminary, the entire crowd was housed in classrooms in low but rather spacious rooms with small windows, wide doors, and dirty benches. The class was suddenly filled with discordant hums: the auditors were listening to their students; the sonorous treble grammar fell just into the sound of glass inserted into small windows, and the glass answered with almost the same sound; in the corner a rhetorician hummed, whose mouth and thick lips ought at least to belong to philosophy. It hummed in bass, and only heard from a distance: boo, boo, boo, boo ... The auditors, listening to the lesson, looked with one eye under the bench, where a loaf, or dumpling, or pumpkin seeds peeped out of the pocket of a subordinate student.
When all this learned crowd managed to come a little earlier, or when they knew that the professors would be later than usual, then, with general consent, they planned a battle, and everyone, even the censor, had to take part in this battle, who were obliged to watch the order and morality of the entire student class. ... Two theologians usually decided how to proceed in the battle: whether each class should stand up for itself especially, or all should be divided into two halves: a bursa and seminary. In any case, the grammarians started first, and as soon as the rhetoricians intervened, they already ran away and stood on the heights to watch the battle. Then philosophy entered with a long black mustache, and finally theology, in terrible trousers and with thick necks. As a rule, it ended with theology beating everyone, and philosophy, scratching its sides, was squeezed into the classroom and placed on the benches to rest. A professor who entered the classroom and who had once participated in such battles himself, at one minute, from the flaring faces of his listeners, learned that the battle was not bad, and while he was beating rhetoric on his fingers, in another class another professor trimmed philosophy with wooden shovels. With the theologians, it was done in a completely different way: they, in the words of the professor of theology, were poured on the scale of large peas, which consisted of short leather kanchuks.
On solemn days and holidays, seminarians and students went home with nativity scenes. Sometimes a comedy was played, and in this case, some theologian was always distinguished, not much lower than the Kiev bell tower, representing Herodias or Pentephria, the wife of an Egyptian courtier. As a reward, they received a piece of linen, or a bag of millet, or half a boiled goose, and the like.
All this learned people, both the seminary and the bursa, which harbored some kind of hereditary enmity with each other, were extremely poor in terms of means of feeding and, moreover, unusually gluttonous; so to count how many dumplings each of them ate at the supper would be an absolutely impossible task; and therefore the voluntary donations of wealthy owners could not be sufficient. Then the Senate, which consisted of philosophers and theologians, sent out grammarians and rhetoricians under the leadership of one philosopher - and sometimes joined himself - to empty other people's gardens with sacks on their shoulders. And pumpkin porridge appeared in the bursa. The senators ate so many watermelons and melons that the next day the auditors heard from them instead of one two lessons: one came from the mouth, the other grumbled in the senator's stomach. Bursa and the seminary wore some kind of long similarity of frock-coats that had stretched to this time: a technical word, meaning - beyond heels.
The most solemn event for the seminary was vacancies - the time from June, when the bursa usually went home. Then the whole main road was littered with grammarians, philosophers and theologians. Those who did not have their own shelter went to one of their comrades. Philosophers and theologians went on condition, that is, they undertook to teach or prepare the children of wealthy people, and received new boots a year, and sometimes for a frock coat. This whole gang was drawn together as a whole camp; cooked porridge and slept in the field. Each dragged a sack with him, which contained one shirt and a pair of onuchs. Theologians were especially thrifty and careful: in order not to wear out their boots, they threw them off, hung them on sticks and carried them on their shoulders, especially when there was dirt. Then they, rolling up their trousers up to their knees, fearlessly splashed puddles with their feet. As soon as they envied the farmstead, they immediately turned off the high road and, approaching the hut, built neatly than the others, stood in a row in front of the windows and began to sing kant with their whole mouths. The owner of the hut, some old Cossack villager, listened to them for a long time, leaning on both hands, then sobbed bitterly and said, turning to his wife: “Zhinko! what the schoolchildren sing must be very reasonable; bring them lard and something that we have! " And a whole bowl of dumplings fell into the sack. A decent piece of bacon, a few cakes, and sometimes a tied chicken were placed together. Supported by such a supply of grammar, rhetoricians, philosophers and theologians continued their journey again. The further, however, they went, the more their crowd diminished. All almost scattered to their homes, and there remained those who had parental nests further than others.
Once, during such a wandering, three students were turned off the high road to the side in order to stock up on provisions in the first farm they came across, because their sack had long been empty. They were: the theologian Freebie, the philosopher Khoma Brut and the rhetorician Tiberiy Gorobets.
The theologian was a tall, broad-shouldered man and had an extremely strange disposition: he would certainly steal whatever lay near him. In another case, his character was extremely gloomy, and when he got drunk, he hid in the weeds, and the seminary took a lot of effort to find him there.
The philosopher Homa Brutus had a cheerful disposition. He loved to lie down and smoke the cradle. If he drank, he would certainly hire musicians and dance the trope. He often tasted large peas, but with absolutely philosophical indifference, saying that what will be will be inevitable.
The rhetorician Tiberiy Gorobets did not yet have the right to wear a mustache, drink burners and smoke cradles. He was only worn by a horse-bearer, and therefore his character had not yet developed much at that time; but judging by the big bumps on his forehead with which he often appeared in class, one could assume that he would make a good warrior. The theologian Freebie and the philosopher Khoma often scolded him for the forelock as a sign of their patronage and used him as a deputy.
It was already evening when they turned off the high road. The sun had just set, and the warmth of the day was still in the air. The theologian and philosopher walked in silence, smoking cradles; the rhetorician Tiberiy Gorobets knocked the heads off the beacons that grew along the edges of the road with a stick. The road ran between the scattered groups of oak and hazel trees that covered the meadow. Slopes and small mountains, green and round like domes, sometimes interspersed the plain. A cornfield with a ripening grain that appeared in two places indicated that soon some village was to appear. But for more than an hour they had passed the grain strips, and meanwhile they had not come across any housing. Twilight had already completely darkened the sky, and only in the west was the remnant of the scarlet radiance pale.
- What the hell! - said the philosopher Khoma Brut, - it gave up completely, as if there would be a farm now.
The theologian paused, looked around the neighborhood, then again took his cradle in his mouth, and everyone continued on their way.
- By God! Said the philosopher, stopping again. “Not a damn fist in sight.
“And maybe some kind of farm will come next,” said the theologian, not releasing the cradle.
But meanwhile it was already night, and the night was rather dark. Small clouds increased the gloom, and, judging by all the signs, one could not expect stars or a month. The Bursaks noticed that they had lost their way and had not been on the road for a long time.
The philosopher, feeling his feet in all directions, finally said abruptly:
- And where is the road?
The theologian paused and, thinking it over, said:
- Yes, the night is dark.
The rhetorician stepped aside and tried to crawl to find his way, but his hands only fell into the fox holes. Everywhere there was one steppe, on which, it seemed, no one drove. The travelers still made an effort to go a little ahead, but everywhere there was the same game. The philosopher tried to call each other, but his voice completely died out on the sides and did not meet any answer. A few years later, only a faint moan was heard, similar to a wolf's howl.
- See what to do here? - said the philosopher.
- What? stay and spend the night in the field! - said the theologian and reached into his pocket to get the flint and light up his cradle again. But the philosopher could not agree to this. He always had the habit of hiding half a pound of bread and a pound of four lard for the night, and this time he felt a kind of unbearable loneliness in his stomach. Moreover, despite his cheerful disposition, the philosopher was afraid of several wolves.
- No, Freebie, you can't, - he said. - How, without backing yourself up with anything, stretch out and lie down like a dog? Let's try again; maybe we will come across some accommodation and at least a glass of the burner will be able to drink from the night.
At the word "burner" the theologian spat aside and said:
- Of course, there is nothing to stay in the field.
The Bursaks went forward, and, to their great joy, barking was heard in the distance. Listening to which side, they set off more cheerfully and, after walking a little, saw a light.
- Farm! by golly, a farm! - said the philosopher.
His assumptions did not deceive him: after a while they saw, as if, a small farm, which consisted of only two huts, located in the same yard. There was a fire in the windows. A dozen drainage trees stuck out under the tyn. Glancing through the through wooden gates, the Bursaks saw a courtyard set up by Chumak wagons. The stars glanced here and there in the sky at that time.
- Look, brothers, do not lag behind! by all means, but to get an overnight stay!
Three pundits violently hit the gate and shouted:
- Open it!
The door in one of the houses squeaked, and a minute later the students saw an old woman in a sheepskin coat in front of them.
- Who's there? She screamed, coughing dully.
- Let go, granny, spend the night. Lost their way. So bad in the field, as in a hungry belly.
- And what kind of people are you?
- Yes, the people are not offended: the theologian Freebie, the philosopher Brutus and the rhetorician Gorobets.
“It’s not possible,” the old woman grumbled, “my yard is full of people, and all the corners in the hut are occupied. Where am I taking you? And what a tall and healthy people, too! Yes, my house will fall apart when I put such. I know these philosophers and theologians. If you start to accept such drunks, then the court will soon be gone. Let's go! let's go! There is no place for you here.
- Have mercy, granny! How can Christian souls be lost for nothing? Where do you want to place us. And if we do something, somehow this or some other thing, then let our hands dry up, and it will be that God only knows. That's what!
The old woman seemed to soften a little.
“All right,” she said, as if thinking, “I'll let you in; just put everyone in different places: otherwise my heart will not be calm when you lie together.
- That's your will; Let's not contradict, - answered the students.
The gate creaked and they entered the courtyard.
- And what, granny, - said the philosopher, walking after the old woman, - if only as they say ... by God, in the stomach as if someone began to ride wheels. From the very morning, if only there was a chip in my mouth.
- See what you wanted! - said the old woman. - No, I have nothing like that, and the stove was not heated today.
- And we would have paid for all this, - continued the philosopher, - tomorrow we would have paid as it should - in cash. Yes, - he went on quietly, - damn it with two you get something!
- Go, go! and be happy with what they give you. What a devil brought some gentle paniches!
The philosopher Khoma was completely disheartened by such words. But suddenly his nose smelled the smell of dried fish. He glanced at the trousers of the theologian, who was walking beside him, and saw that an enormous fish tail was sticking out of his pocket: the theologian had already managed to shake off a whole crucian carp from the cart. And since he did this not out of any self-interest, but solely out of habit, and, having completely forgotten about his crucian carp, was already looking at what to pull off something else, with no intention of missing even a broken wheel, the philosopher Khoma threw his hand into his pocket, as in his own, and pulled out a crucian carp.
The old woman placed the students: she put the rhetorician in the hut, locked the theologian in an empty clod, took the philosopher, too, an empty sheep shed.
The philosopher, left alone, in one minute ate the crucian carp, examined the wicker walls of the barn, pushed a curious pig that had pushed out of the other barn with his foot, and turned on the other side to fall asleep dead. Suddenly the low door opened, and the old woman bent down and entered the barn.
- And what, granny, what do you want? - said the philosopher.
But the old woman walked straight towards him with open arms.
“Hey, hm! Thought the philosopher. - No, my dear! outdated. " He moved a little further away, but the old woman, without ceremony, again approached him.
- Listen, granny! - said the philosopher, - now post; and I am such a person that I don’t want to get hurt for a thousand gold pieces.
But the old woman spread her arms and caught him without saying a word.
The philosopher became afraid, especially when he noticed that her eyes sparkled with some extraordinary brilliance.
- Granny! What are you? Go, go with God! He shouted.
But the old woman did not say a word and grabbed him with her hands. He jumped to his feet, intending to run, but the old woman stood in the doorway and stared at him with sparkling eyes and again began to approach him.
The philosopher wanted to push her away with his hands, but, to his surprise, noticed that his arms could not rise, his legs did not move; and he saw with horror that even a voice did not sound out of his mouth: words without a sound moved on his lips. He only heard the beat of his heart; he saw the old woman come up to him, folded her arms, bent his head, jumped with the speed of a cat on his back, hit him on the side with a broom, and he, jumping up and down like a riding horse, carried her on his shoulders. All this happened so quickly that the philosopher could hardly recover and grabbed his knees with both hands, wanting to hold his legs; but they, to his great amazement, rose against their will and made races faster than the Circassian runner. When they had already passed the farm and a flat ravine opened up in front of them, and to the side stretched a wood black as coal, then he only said to himself: "Hey, this is a witch."
The inverted monthly sickle brightened in the sky. The timid midnight radiance, like a blanket, fell lightly and smoked on the ground. Forests, meadows, sky, valleys - everything seemed as if sleeping with open eyes. The wind fluttered somewhere at least once. There was something humid and warm about the freshness of the night. Shadows from trees and bushes, like comets, fell in sharp wedges on the sloping plain. Such was the night when the philosopher Homa Brut was galloping with an incomprehensible rider on his back. He felt some kind of weary, unpleasant, and at the same time sweet feeling coming to his heart. He lowered his head down and saw that the grass, which was almost under his feet, seemed to grow deep and far away, and that above it there was water transparent, like a mountain spring, and the grass seemed to be the bottom of some light, transparent to the very depths of the sea; at least he saw clearly how he was reflected in him along with the old woman sitting on his back. He saw a sun shining there instead of a month; he heard the blue bells tinkling as they tilted their heads. He saw a mermaid swim out from behind the sedge, a back and a leg flashing, bulging, elastic, all made of glitter and awe. She turned to him - and now her face, with bright, sparkling, sharp eyes, with a singing intruding into the soul, was already approaching him, was already on the surface and, trembling with sparkling laughter, was moving away - and now she fell onto her back, and her cloudy persians, matte like porcelain not covered with glaze, shone before the sun along the edges of their white, elastic-tender circle. Water in the form of small bubbles, like beads, sprinkled them. She shivers all over and laughs in the water ...
Does he see it or not? Is it waking or dreaming? But what is there? Wind or music: it rings, rings, and winds, and approaches, and pierces the soul with some unbearable trill ...
"What is it?" - thought the philosopher Khoma Brut, looking down, rushing at full speed. Sweat rolled off him like a hail. He felt a devilishly sweet feeling, he felt some piercing, some painfully terrible pleasure. It often seemed to him as if he had no heart at all, and he fearfully clutched at it with his hand. Exhausted, confused, he began to recall all the prayers he knew. He went over all the spells against spirits - and suddenly felt some kind of refreshment; felt that his step was beginning to become lazier, the witch was somehow weaker on his back. Thick grass touched him, and he no longer saw anything extraordinary in it. A light sickle shone in the sky.
"Good!" - the philosopher Khoma thought to himself and began to utter spells almost aloud. Finally, with the speed of lightning, he jumped out from under the old woman and jumped, in turn, on her back. The old woman ran with a small, fractional step so quickly that the rider could hardly catch his breath. The ground flickered slightly under him. Everything was clear in the monthly, albeit incomplete light. The valleys were smooth, but everything from the speed flashed vaguely and confused in his eyes. He grabbed a log lying on the road and began to beat the old woman with all his might. Wild screams she let out; at first they were angry and threatening, then they became weaker, more pleasant, more often, and then quietly, barely ringing like thin silver bells, and buried in his soul; and involuntarily a thought flashed through my head: is it really an old woman? "Oh, I can't take it anymore!" - She said in exhaustion and fell to the ground.
He stood on his feet and looked into her eyes: the dawn was on fire, and the golden heads shone in the distance of Kiev churches. Before him lay a beauty, with a disheveled luxurious braid, with long, like arrows, eyelashes. She insensibly threw her white naked hands to both sides and groaned, lifting up her eyes full of tears.
Khoma trembled like a leaf of wood: pity and some strange excitement and timidity, unknown to him, seized him; he started to run at full speed. On the way his heart beat restlessly, and he could not in any way interpret to himself what a strange, new feeling possessed him. He no longer wanted to go to the farmstead and hurried to Kiev, thinking all the way about such an incomprehensible incident.
There were almost no Bursakov in the city: everyone scattered around the farmsteads, either in good condition, or simply without any condition, because in Little Russian farms it is possible to eat dumplings, cheese, sour cream, and dumplings the size of a hat without paying a penny. The large, parted hut, in which the bursa was located, was decidedly empty, and no matter how much the philosopher rummaged in all corners and even felt all the holes and traps in the roof, but nowhere did he find a piece of bacon, or at least an old knish, which, by as usual, it was hidden by the Bursaks.
However, the philosopher soon found how to correct his grief: he walked, whistling, three times around the market, winked at the very end with some young widow in a yellow hat, selling ribbons, shotguns and wheels - and was fed the same day wheat dumplings, chicken ... and, in a word, it is impossible to count what he had at the table set in a small earthen house among the cherry orchard. The same evening, the philosopher was seen in the inn: he was lying on a bench, smoking, as usual, a cradle, and in front of everyone he threw a creeper to the innkeeper. There was a mug in front of him. He looked at those who came and went with cool, contented eyes and no longer thought about his extraordinary incident.

* * *
Meanwhile, rumors spread everywhere that the daughter of one of the richest centurions, whose farm was fifty miles from Kiev, returned from a walk in one day, all beaten, barely having the strength to kindness to her father's house, was dying and before the hour of death expressed a desire that one of the Kiev seminarians, Khoma Brut, recited prayers for it and prayers for three days after death. The philosopher learned about this from the rector himself, who deliberately called him to his room and announced that he should hurry on the road without any delay, that the eminent centurion had sent people and a cart for him on purpose.
The philosopher shuddered at some unaccountable feeling, which he himself could not explain to himself. A dark foreboding told him that something unkind awaited him. Without knowing why, he announced bluntly that he would not go.
- Listen, domine Homa! - said the rector (in some cases he explained himself very politely with his subordinates), - no devil asks you whether you want to go or not. I will only tell you that if you still show your trot and philosophize, then I will order you on the back and, for other reasons, so unfasten with a young birch forest that you will not need to go to the bathhouse.
The philosopher, scratching slightly behind his mind, went out without saying a word, disposed at the first opportunity to put hope on his feet. In thought, he descended the steep staircase that led to the courtyard lined with poplars, and stopped for a minute, hearing quite clearly the voice of the rector, giving orders to his housekeeper and someone else, probably one of those sent for him from the centurion.
- Thank the gentleman for the cereals and eggs, - said the rector, - and tell them that as soon as those books about which he writes are ready, I will immediately send them. I have already given them to the scribe to copy. But do not forget, my pigeon, to add to the pan that, I know, they have good fish on their farm, and especially sturgeon, then on occasion I would send: here in the bazaars the road is not good either. And you, Yavtukh, give the fellows a glass of burners. Yes, bind the philosopher, or else he will just run away.
“See, you damn son! - thought the philosopher to himself - sniffed out, long-legged loach! "
He went downstairs and saw a wagon, which at first he took for a barn of bread on wheels. Indeed, it was as deep as an oven in which bricks are fired. It was an ordinary Krakow carriage, in which fifty Jews go along with goods to all cities where the fair hears their nose. Six healthy and strong Cossacks, already several elderly, were waiting for him. Cloth scrolls with tassels showed that they belonged to a rather significant and wealthy owner. Small scars said that they had once been in a war, not without glory.
“What can I do? What will be, that cannot be avoided! " The philosopher thought to himself and, turning to the Cossacks, he said loudly:
- Hello, comrade brothers!
- Be healthy, sir philosopher! - answered some of the Cossacks.
- So this is what I have to sit with you? And the brika is notable! He continued, getting in. - If only to hire musicians, then you can dance.
- Yes, a proportionate crew! - said one of the Cossacks, sitting down on the bed, a friend himself with the coachman, who had tied his head with a rag instead of a hat, which he had managed to leave in a shawl. The other five, together with the philosopher, climbed into the depression and settled themselves on sacks filled with various purchases made in the city.
- It would be interesting to know, - said the philosopher, - if, for example, this brick were to be loaded with some kind of commodity - let’s say, salt or iron wedges: how many horses would be required then?
“Yes,” said the Cossack, after a pause, “a sufficient number of horses would be required.
After such a satisfactory answer, the Cossack considered himself entitled to remain silent throughout the journey.
The philosopher was extremely anxious to know in more detail: who this centurion was, what was his disposition, what was heard about his daughter, who in such an unusual way returned home and was dying and whom history now connected with his own, how they have and what is going on in the house? He turned to them with questions; but the Cossacks, it is true, were also philosophers, because in response to this they were silent and smoked cradles lying on the bags. Only one of them turned to the charioteer sitting on the box with a short order: “Look, Overko, you are an old fool; as you drive up to the shrubbery that is on the Chukhrailov road, do not forget to stop and wake me and the other fellows if anyone happens to fall asleep. " After that, he fell asleep quite loudly. However, these instructions were completely in vain, because as soon as the gigantic brika approached the shank on the Chukhrailovskaya road, everyone shouted with one voice: "Stop!" Moreover, Overk's horses were already so trained that they stopped themselves in front of each shin. Despite the hot July day, everyone got out of the brika, went to a low, dirty room, where the Jewish tavern-keeper rushed to receive his old acquaintances with signs of joy. The Jew brought under the floor several pork sausages and, putting them on the table, immediately turned away from this fruit forbidden by the Talmud. They all sat around the table. Clay mugs appeared before each of the guests. The philosopher Khoma was to take part in a general feast. And since the Little Russians, when they play around, will certainly start kissing or crying, soon the whole hut was filled with kisses: "Come on, Spirid, let's break it!" - "Come here, Dorosh, I will hug you!"
One Cossack, who was older than all the others, with a gray mustache, putting his hand under his cheek, began to sob heartily that he had no father or mother and that he was left alone in the world. Another was a great reasoning and constantly consoled him, saying: “Don't cry, by God, don't cry! what is there ... God knows how and what it is. " One, by the name of Dorosh, became extremely curious and, turning to the philosopher Homa, incessantly asked him:
- I would like to know what they teach in your school: is it the same that the clerk reads in church, or something else?
- Do not ask! - the reasoner said drawn-out, - let him be there as it was. God knows how to do it; God knows everything.
- No, I want to know, - said Dorosh, - what is written there in those books. Perhaps quite different from that of the clerk.
- Oh my god, my god! - said this venerable mentor. - And what is it to say? So the will of God put it. Already what God has given cannot be changed.
- I want to know everything that is written. I will go to the bursa, by God, I will go! What do you think I won't learn? I will learn everything, everything!
- Oh, my God, my God! .. - said the comforter and put his head down on the table, because he was completely unable to keep it on his shoulders any longer.
Other Cossacks talked about the Panakhs and why the month was shining in the sky.
The philosopher Khoma, seeing such an arrangement of heads, decided to use it and sneak away. He first turned to a gray-haired Cossack who was sad about his father and mother:
- What are you, uncle, burst into tears, - he said, - I'm an orphan myself! Let me go guys .. free! What am I to you!
- Let's set him free! Some responded. - He's an orphan. Let him go where he wants.
- Oh my God, my God! Said the comforter, lifting his head. - Let him go! Let it go!
And the Cossacks already wanted to take him out into the open field themselves, but the one who showed his curiosity stopped them, saying:
- Don't touch: I want to talk to him about the bursa. I'll go to the bursa myself ...
However, this escape could hardly have taken place, because when the philosopher decided to get up from the table, his legs became as if made of wood and there were so many doors in the room that he would hardly have found the real one.
Only in the evening the whole company remembered that it was necessary to go further on the road. Covered in the brika, they stretched, chasing the horses and singing a song whose words and meaning could hardly be understood by anyone. Having traveled for more than half of the night, incessantly straying from the road, learned by heart, they finally descended from a steep mountain into a valley, and the philosopher noticed on the sides a stretching palisade, or fence, with low trees and roofs protruding from behind them. It was a large village owned by a centurion. It was already well past midnight; the skies were dark and little stars flickered here and there. There was no fire in any hut. They rode into the yard, accompanied by a barking dog. Thatched sheds and houses were visible on both sides. One of them, located just in the middle opposite the gate, was more than the others and served, as it seemed, as the centurion's stay. Brick stopped in front of a small semblance of a barn, and our travelers went to sleep. The philosopher wanted, however, to look at the man's mansions from outside; but no matter how he stared at his eyes, nothing could be clearly signified: instead of a house, a bear appeared to him; the rector was made from the pipe. The philosopher waved his hand and went to sleep.
When the philosopher woke up, the whole house was in motion: the lady died in the night. The servants ran back and forth in haste. Some old women were crying. A crowd of curious people looked through the fence at the courtyard, as if they could see something.
The philosopher began at his leisure to inspect those places that he could not see at night. The Pan's House was a low, small building, which was usually built in the old days in Little Russia. It was covered with straw. A small, sharp and high pediment with a window that looked like an eye raised upward was all painted with blue and yellow flowers and red crescents. It was approved on oak posts, up to half round and hexagonal at the bottom, with an elaborate turning at the top. Under this pediment was a small porch with benches on either side. On the sides of the house there were awnings on the same posts, indent. A tall pear tree with a pyramidal top and quivering leaves was green in front of the house. Several barns in two rows stood in the middle of the courtyard, forming a kind of wide street leading to the house. Behind the barns, to the very gates, stood in triangles two cellars, one opposite the other, also covered with thatch. The triangular wall of each of them was equipped with a low door and painted with different images. One of them depicted a Cossack sitting on a barrel, holding a mug over his head with the inscription: "I'll drink everything." On another flask, rims and on the sides, for beauty, a horse standing upside down, a pipe, tambourines and the inscription: "Wine is Cossack fun." From the attic of one of the sheds peeped out a drum and copper pipes through a huge dormer window. There were two cannons at the gate. Everything showed that the owner of the house liked to have fun, and the courtyard often heard banquet cries. There were two windmills outside the gate. There were gardens behind the house; and through the tops of the trees only the dark caps of the pipes were visible, hidden in the green thick of the huts. The whole village was located on a wide and flat ledge of a mountain. On the north side, everything was obscured by a steep mountain and with its sole ended at the very courtyard. Looking at it from below, it seemed even steeper, and on the high top of it there were irregular stems of skinny weeds sticking out in some places and turned black in the light sky. Her naked, clayey appearance evoked a kind of despondency. It was all covered with rain gullies and depressions. On its steep slope, two huts protruded in two places; over one of them a wide apple tree was spreading its branches, propped at the root by small stakes with loose earth. Apples, knocked down by the wind, rolled into the most master's yard. From the top of the mountain, a road wound up and down and went past the yard to the village. When the philosopher measured its terrible twist and remembered yesterday's journey, he decided that either the gentleman had too smart horses, or the Cossacks had too strong heads, when even in a drunken fumes they knew how not to fly upside down along with an immeasurable brika and baggage. The philosopher stood in the highest place in the courtyard, and when he turned and looked in the opposite direction, he presented himself with a completely different view. The settlement, along with the slope, slid down onto the plain. Boundless meadows opened into a distant space; their bright greens darkened with distance, and whole rows of villages turned blue in the distance, although their distance was more than twenty versts. On the right side of these meadows stretched mountains, and the Dnieper was burning and darkening in a barely noticeable strip in the distance.
- Eh, a glorious place! - said the philosopher. - Here is where to live, to fish in the Dnieper and in the ponds, to hunt with snares or with a gun for little bustards and rabbits! However, I think there are many bustards in these meadows. Fruit can be dried and sold to the city, or, even better, you can smoke vodka from them; because fruit vodka cannot be compared to any penny. And it doesn't hurt to think about how to get out of here.
He noticed a small path behind the fence, completely closed by overgrown weeds. He put his foot mechanically on her, thinking in advance only to take a walk, and then quietly, between the huts, and wave in the field, when he suddenly felt a rather strong hand on his shoulder.
Behind him stood that same old Cossack who yesterday had so bitterly condoled with the death of his father and mother and his loneliness.
- In vain do you think, sir philosopher, to flee from the farm! - he said. - This is not a place to run away; and the roads are bad for pedestrians. Better go to the pan: he has been expecting you for a long time in the parlor.
- Let's go to! Well ... I would love to, - said the philosopher and set off after the Cossack.
The centurion, already elderly, with a gray mustache and with an expression of gloomy sadness, was sitting in front of the table in the parlor, his head propped in both hands. He was about fifty years old; but a deep despondency on his face and a kind of pale skinny color showed that his soul was killed and destroyed suddenly, in one minute, and all the former gaiety and noisy life disappeared forever. When Khoma ascended along with the old Cossack, he took one hand away and slightly nodded his head at their low bow.
The Khoma and the Cossack stopped respectfully at the door.
- Who are you, and where are you, and what rank, kind person? The centurion said neither kindly nor sternly.
- From the Bursaks, the philosopher Homa Brut.
- Who was your father?
“I don’t know, noble sir.
- And your mother?
“I don’t know my mother either. By common sense, of course, there was a mother; but who she is, and where, and when she lived - by God, goodness, I don't know.
The centurion was silent and seemed to remain for a minute in thought.
- How did you meet my daughter?
- I didn’t get acquainted, the noble sir, by God, didn’t get acquainted. I haven’t had anything to do with girls yet, no matter how long I live in the world. Tsur them, so as not to say obscene.
- Why did she not appoint someone else, but you specifically to read?
The philosopher shrugged his shoulders:
- God knows how to interpret it. It is already known that the Panamas sometimes want something that even the most literate person cannot understand; and the proverb says: "Ride, enemy, yak pan kazhe!"
“Aren't you lying, sir philosopher?
- Here at this very place let it clap like thunder, if I lie.
- If only you lived a minute longer, - said the centurion sadly, - then, surely, I would know everything. “Don't let anyone read about me, but let's go, tattoo, this very hour to the Kiev seminary and bring the student Khoma Brut. Let him pray for three nights for my sinful soul. He knows ... ”And what he knows, I have not heard. She, little dear, could only say, and she died. You, a kind person, are surely known for your holy life and godly deeds, and she may have heard a lot about you.
- Who? I? - said the student, stepping back from amazement. - I am a holy life? - he said, looking directly into the eyes of the centurion. - God be with you, sir! What are you talking about! yes I, even though it is indecent to say, went to the baker's opposite the most passionate Thursday.
- Well ... that's right, it's not for nothing that it was appointed. You must start your business from this very day.
- I would say to this, your grace ... it is, of course, every person, admonished by the Holy Scripture, can in proportion ... only here it would be more appropriate to require a deacon or, at least, a clerk. They are intelligent people and know how all this is already done, but I ... Yes, my voice is not that, and I myself - God knows what. There is no sight from me.
- Oh, as you want yourself, only I will fulfill everything that my dove bequeathed to me, without regretting anything. And when, from this day on, you have prayed over her properly for three nights, then I will reward you; otherwise, I don't advise the devil himself to make me angry.
The last words were pronounced by the centurion so firmly that the philosopher fully understood their meaning.
- Follow me! - said the centurion.
They went out into the hallway. The centurion opened the door to another room opposite the first. The philosopher stopped for a minute in the entryway to blow his nose and, with a kind of unaccountable fear, stepped over the threshold. The entire floor was covered with red Chinese. In the corner, under the icons, on a high table lay the body of the deceased, on a blue velvet blanket, trimmed with gold fringes and tassels. Tall wax candles, entwined with viburnum, stood at the feet and heads, pouring out their dim light, lost in the daylight. The face of the deceased was shielded from him by an inconsolable father, who sat in front of her, his back turned to the door. The philosopher was struck by the words that he heard:
“I’m not sorry about that, my dearest daughter, that you, in the prime of your years, did not live up to the allotted century, for sorrow and grief, you left the land for me. I regret that, my little dear, that I do not know who was, my fierce enemy, the cause of your death. And if I knew who could only think of offending you or even say something unpleasant about you, then, I swear to God, he would not have seen more of his children, if only he is as old as I am; nor his father and mother, if only he was still at the time of age, and his body would be thrown out to be devoured by the birds and animals of the steppe. But woe to me, my field nagidochka, my quail, my yazochka, that I will live the rest of my life without fun, wiping away the fractional tears flowing from my old eyes, while my enemy will have fun and secretly laugh at the frail old man ...
He stopped, and the reason for this was tearing grief, which was resolved by a flood of tears.

Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol is a famous Russian writer. We are familiar with his works from school. We all remember his "Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka", "Dead Souls" and other famous creations. In 1835, he finished his mystical story "Viy" Gogol. The summary of the work presented in this article will help to refresh the memory of the main points of the plot. The story stands apart in the writer's work. Viy is an ancient Slavic demonic creature. It could kill with just one look. Gogol embodied his image in his story. The work "Viy" was not appreciated by critics in its time. Belinsky called the story "fantastic", devoid of useful content. But Nikolai Vasilievich himself attached great importance to this work. He altered it several times, deleting the details of the description of the terrible fairy-tale creatures that killed the main character. The story was published in the collection "Mirgorod".

"Viy", Gogol (summary): introduction

The most long-awaited event for the students at the Kiev Seminary is the vacancies, when all students go home. They go home in groups, earning spiritual chants along the way. Three students: the philosopher Khoma Brut, the theologian Freebie and the rhetorician Tiberiy Gorodets - go astray. At night they go out to an abandoned farm, where they knock on the first hut with a request to allow them to spend the night. The old mistress agrees to let them in on the condition that they lie in different places. She defines Homa Bruta for the night in an empty sheep-barn. Not having time to close his eyes, the student sees the old woman entering him. Her look seems sinister to him. He realizes that this is a witch. The old woman walks up to him and quickly jumps on his shoulders. Before the philosopher has time to recover, he is already flying through the night sky with a witch on his back. Khoma tries to whisper prayers and feels that the old woman is weakening. Having chosen the moment, he slips out from under the cursed witch, sits on her and begins to haunt her with a log. Exhausted, the old woman falls to the ground, and the philosopher continues to beat her. Moans are heard, and Khoma Brut sees a young beauty lying in front of him. In fear, he runs away.

"Viy", Gogol (summary): development of events

Soon the rector of the seminary summons Khoma to him and informs him that a rich centurion from a distant farm had sent for him a wagon and six healthy Cossacks to take the seminary to read prayers over his deceased daughter, who returned from a walk beaten. When the student is brought to the farm, the centurion asks him where he could meet his daughter. After all, the last wish of the lady is for the seminarian Homa Brut to read the booklet about her. Bursak says he doesn't know his daughter. But when he sees her in the coffin, he notes with fear that this is the same witch he was hauling with a log. At dinner, the villagers tell Homa different stories about the deceased lady. Many of them noticed that the hell was going on with her. By nightfall, the seminarist is taken to the church, where the coffin stands, and locked there. Approaching the choir, Khoma draws a protective circle around him and begins to read prayers aloud. By midnight, the witch rises from the coffin and tries to find the student. The protective circle prevents her from doing this. Khoma reads prayers with his last breath. Then the crowing of a rooster is heard, and the witch returns to the coffin. Its lid slams shut. The next day, the seminarian asks the centurion to let him go home. When he refuses this request, he tries to escape from the farm. They catch him and by nightfall they again take him to church and lock him up. There Khoma, not yet having time to draw a circle, sees that the witch has risen from the coffin again and is walking around the church - looking for him. She casts spells. But the circle again prevents her from catching the philosopher. Brutus hears the countless army of evil spirits breaking into the church. With his last strength, he reads prayers. The crowing of a rooster is heard and everything disappears. In the morning Khoma is taken out of the church gray-haired.

"Viy", Gogol (summary): denouement

It was time for the third night of the seminarist reading the prayers in the church. The same circle protects Homa. The witch is on a rampage. bursting into the church, trying to find and grab the student. The latter continues to read prayers, trying not to look at the spirits. Then the witch shouts: "Bring Viy!" Pacing heavily, a squat monster with large eyelids enters the church. An inner voice tells Homa that it is impossible to look at Viy. The monster demands that his eyelids be opened. The evil spirits rush to carry out this order. The seminarist, unable to resist, casts a glance at Viy. He notices him and points at him with an iron finger. All the evil spirits rush to Homa, who immediately gives up the spirit. The crowing of a rooster is heard. The monsters rush out of the church. But this is already the second cry, the first they did not hear. The evil spirits do not have time to leave. The Church remains standing with evil spirits stuck in the cracks. Nobody else will come here anymore. After all these events, Freebie and Tiberiy Gorodets, having learned about the plight of Khoma, remember the soul of the departed. They conclude that he died of fear.

The work "Viy" is not included in the compulsory program for the study of literature in general education schools. But we are very interested in it. This mystical tale allows you to immerse yourself in the atmosphere of ancient fairy-tale legends (here is its brief retelling). "Viy" Gogol wrote more than a century and a half ago. Then the work caused a lot of talk and talk. Nowadays it is read with no less trepidation.

Mirgorod - 3

As soon as a rather sonorous seminary bell rang in Kiev in the morning,
hanging at the gates of the Brotherhood Monastery, then from all over the city they hurried in droves
schoolchildren and students. Grammars, rhetors, philosophers and theologians, with notebooks
under my arm, wandered into class. The grammars were still very small; walking, pushed friend
friend and scolded among themselves in the thinnest treble; they were all almost
in tattered or soiled dresses, and their pockets were always full
all kinds of rubbish; somehow: grandmas, whistles made of feathers,
half-eaten pie, and sometimes even little sparrows, of which
one, suddenly chiliknuv among the extraordinary silence in the classroom, delivered to his
to the patron, decent ones fell in both hands, and sometimes cherry rods. The speakers walked
more solid: their dresses were often completely intact, but on the other hand,
there was almost some decoration in the form of a rhetorical trope: or one
the eye went under the very forehead, or instead of a lip, a whole bubble, or some
another sign; these spoke and swore among themselves in tenor. Philosophers whole
they took an octave lower: in their pockets, except for strong tobacco roots, nothing
did not have. They did not make any reserves and ate everything that came across then
same; they heard the pipe and the burner sometimes so far that the passing
My artisan stopped for a long time and sniffed the air like a hound.
At this time the market was usually just beginning to stir, and the women
with bagels, rolls, watermelon seeds and poppy seeds were tugged at the
the floors of those whose floors were of thin cloth or some kind of paper
matter.
- Panic! panic! syudy! syudy! they said from all sides. - Axis
bagels, poppy seeds, spinners, loafs are good! by golly, good! on honey! itself
baked!
Another, picking up something long, twisted of dough, shouted:
- Axis gopher! panic, buy a gopher!
- Do not buy anything from this one: look how nasty she is - and your nose
bad, and unclean hands.