Read online Viy Gogol in full. Gogol Nikolay Vasilievich
[1Viy is a colossal creation of the common people's imagination. This is the name given by the Little Russians to the head of the dwarfs, whose eyelids go all the way to the ground before his eyes. This whole story is folk tradition. I did not want to change it in anything and I tell it in almost the same simplicity as I heard it. (Note by N.V. Gogol.)]
As soon as the rather sonorous seminary bell, which hung at the gates of the Brotherhood Monastery, struck in Kyiv in the morning, schoolchildren and students from all over the city hurried in crowds. Grammarians, orators, philosophers and theologians[ 2Grammarians and rhetors - students of elementary grades in theological seminaries; philosophers and theologians are senior students. Hereinafter, notes by S.I. Mashinsky], with notebooks under their arms, wandered into the classroom. The grammars were still very small; as they walked, they pushed each other and quarreled among themselves with the thinnest treble; they were all almost in tattered or soiled dresses, and their pockets were always filled with all sorts of rubbish; somehow: grandmas, whistles made of feathers, a half-eaten pie, and sometimes even little sparrows, of which one, suddenly chirping in the middle of an unusual silence in the classroom, delivered decent fells to his patron [ 3Pali - a seminary expression: a blow with a ruler on the hands.] in both hands, and sometimes cherry rods. Rhetors walked more solidly: their dresses were often completely intact, but on the other hand there was almost always some kind of decoration in the form of a rhetorical path on their faces: either one eye went right under the forehead, or instead of a lip there was a whole bubble, or some other sign; these spoke and swore among themselves in a tenor voice. Philosophers took a whole octave lower: in their pockets, except for strong tobacco roots, there was nothing. They did not make any stocks and everything that came across, they ate at the same time; from them they could hear the pipe and the burner, sometimes so far away that the craftsman who was passing by for a long time, stopping, sniffed the air like a hound dog.
The market at this time was usually just beginning to move, and the vendors with bagels, rolls, watermelon seeds and poppy seeds tugged at the floors of those whose floors were made of fine cloth or some kind of paper material.
- Panichi! panic! here! here! they said from all directions. - Axis bagels, poppy seeds, twirls, loaves are good! oh my god, they're good! on honey! baked it myself!
Another, picking up something long, twisted from dough, shouted:
- Axis gopher! panichi, buy a gopher!
- Do not buy anything from this one: look how bad she is - and her nose is not good, and her hands are unclean ...
But they were afraid to offend philosophers and theologians, because philosophers and theologians always liked to take only for a sample and, moreover, a whole handful
Upon arrival at the seminary, the entire crowd was placed in classrooms, which were located in low, but rather spacious rooms with small windows, wide doors and soiled benches. The class was suddenly filled with discordant buzzing: auditors 4Auditors are high school students who were entrusted with checking the knowledge of elementary school students.] listened to their students; the sonorous treble of the grammar hit just in the clinking of glass inserted in small windows, and the glass answered with almost the same sound; in the corner hummed a rhetorician whose mouth and thick lips should at least belong to philosophy. He hummed in a bass voice, and only heard from a distance: boo, boo, boo, boo ... The tutors, listening to the lesson, looked with one eye under the bench, where a bun, or a dumpling, or pumpkin seeds peeped out of the pocket of a subordinate student.
When all this learned crowd managed to arrive a little earlier, or when they knew that the professors would be later than usual, then, with the general consent, they planned a battle, and everyone, even the censors, who were obliged to look after the order and morality of the entire student class, had to participate in this battle. . Two theologians used to decide how the battle should go: whether each class should stand up for itself especially, or whether everyone should be divided into two halves: into the bursa and the seminary. In any case, the grammarians started before everyone else, and as soon as the rhetoricians intervened, they already ran away and stood on the dais to watch the battle. Then philosophy entered with long black mustaches, and finally theology, in terrible trousers and with thick necks. As a rule, theology ended up beating everyone, and philosophy, scratching its sides, was crowded into the classroom and placed to rest on the benches. A professor who entered a class and who himself had once taken part in similar battles, in one minute, from the inflamed faces of his listeners, recognized that the battle was not bad, and at the time when he was whipping rhetoric on his fingers, another professor in another class finished with wooden spatulas on the hands of philosophy. With the theologians, it was treated in a completely different way: they, in the words of the professor of theology, were sprinkled on the measure of large peas, which consisted of short leather kanchuks [ 5 Kanchuk - whip.].
On solemn days and holidays, seminarians and students went home with nativity scenes [ 6Nativity scene - an old puppet theater.]. Sometimes they played a comedy, and in this case, some theologian was always distinguished, not much shorter than the Kyiv bell tower, representing Herodias or Pentephria, the wife of an Egyptian courtier. As a reward they received a piece of linen, or a sack of millet, or half a boiled goose, and the like.
All this learned people, both the seminary and the bursa, who had some kind of hereditary hostility among themselves, were extremely poor in the means of subsistence and, moreover, unusually gluttonous; so it would be quite impossible to count how many dumplings each of them ate at supper; and therefore the well-meaning donations of well-to-do owners could not suffice. Then the senate, which consisted of philosophers and theologians, sent grammarians and rhetors under the leadership of one philosopher - and sometimes joined himself - with bags on their shoulders to devastate other people's gardens. And pumpkin porridge appeared in the bursa. The senators gorged themselves on so many watermelons and melons that the next day the auditors heard from them two lessons instead of one: one came from the mouth, the other grumbled in the senatorial stomach. Bursa and the seminary wore some kind of long semblance of frock coats, which extend to this day: a technical word, meaning - further than heels.
The most solemn event for the seminary was the vacancy - the time since June, when the bursa usually went home. Then grammarians, philosophers and theologians strewn the whole high road. Whoever did not have his own shelter, he went to one of his comrades. Philosophers and theologians went to the standard, that is, they undertook to teach or prepare the children of wealthy people, and for that they received new boots a year, and sometimes even a frock coat. This whole gang was dragged together by a whole camp; cooked porridge for herself and spent the night in the field. Each of them dragged behind him a sack containing one shirt and a pair of onuch. 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 mud. Then they, having rolled up their bloomers to their knees, fearlessly splashed puddles with their feet. As soon as they envied the farm in the distance, they immediately turned off the main road and, approaching the hut, built more neatly than the others, stood in a row in front of the windows and began to sing the chant at the top of their lungs. 7Kants are spiritual songs.]. The owner of the hut, some old Cossack peasant, 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 some bacon and something that we have!” And a whole bowl of dumplings fell into the bag. A decent bite of fat, a few sticks [ 8Palyanitsa - wheat bread.], and sometimes a tied chicken was placed together. Having refreshed themselves with such a stock of grammar, rhetoricians, philosophers and theologians again continued on their way. The further, however, they went, the more their crowd decreased. All were almost scattered to their homes, and those who had parental nests further than others remained.
Once during such a journey, three bursaks turned off the main road to the side in order to stock up on provisions in the first farm they came across, because their bag had long been empty. These were: the theologian Khalyava, the philosopher Khoma Brut and the rhetorician Tiberius Gorobets.
The theologian was a tall, broad-shouldered man and had an extremely strange disposition: everything that lay near him, he would certainly steal. In another case, his character was extremely gloomy, and when he got drunk drunk, he hid in the weeds, and the seminary had great difficulty finding him there.
The philosopher Homa Brutus was of a cheerful disposition. He liked very much to lie and smoke a cradle. If he drank, he certainly hired musicians and danced the tropaca. He often tasted large peas, but with complete philosophical indifference, saying that what will be, will not be avoided.
Rhetor Tiberius Gorobets still did not have the right to wear a mustache, drink burners and smoke cradles. He wore only a sedentary [ 9Oseledets - a long tuft of hair on the head, wrapped behind the ear; in the proper sense - herring.], and therefore his character at that time was still little developed; but judging by the large bumps on his forehead, with which he often came to class, one could assume that he would be a good warrior. The theologian Khalyava and the philosopher Khoma often tore at his forelock as a sign of their patronage and used him as a deputy.
It was already evening when they turned off the main 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 Tiberius Gorobets knocked the heads off the bugs that grew along the edges of the road with a stick. The road ran between scattered clumps of oak and hazel that covered the meadow. Slopes and small mountains, green and round as domes, sometimes interspersed the plain. A cornfield with a ripened corn that appeared in two places made it clear that some village should soon appear. But for more than an hour they had passed the grain strips, and meanwhile they did not come across any housing. Twilight had already completely darkened the sky, and only in the west did the remnant of the scarlet radiance fade.
- What the hell! - said the philosopher Khoma Brut, - it seemed completely as if there would be a farm now.
The theologian paused, looked around, then again took his cradle in his mouth, and everyone continued on their way.
- By God! said the philosopher, stopping again. “I can’t see a damn fist.
But meanwhile it was already night, and the night was rather dark. Small clouds increased the gloom, and, judging by all the signs, neither the stars nor the moon could be expected. The Bursaks noticed that they had gone astray and had not been on the road for a long time.
The philosopher, groping about with his feet in all directions, finally said curtly:
- Where is the road?
The theologian was silent for a moment, and after thinking it over, he said:
Yes, the night is dark.
The rhetor stepped aside and tried to crawl to find the way, but his hands fell only into fox holes. Everywhere there was one steppe, on which, it seemed, no one traveled. The travelers still made an effort to go a little further, but everywhere there was the same game. The philosopher tried to call to each other, but his voice was completely lost on the sides and did not meet any answer. A few minutes later, only a faint moaning was heard, like a wolf's howl.
- Look, what is there to do? the philosopher said.
- And what? stay and spend the night in the field! - said the theologian and reached into his pocket to get a tinderbox and light his cradle again. But the philosopher could not agree to this. He always used to hide half a pood of bread and four pounds of lard for the night, and this time he felt in his stomach a kind of unbearable loneliness. Moreover, despite his cheerful disposition, the philosopher was afraid of several wolves.
“No, Freebie, you can’t,” he said. - How, without supporting yourself with anything, stretch out and lie down like a dog? Let's try again; maybe we'll come across some accommodation and at least manage to drink a cup of the burner out of the night.
At the word "burner" the theologian spat aside and said:
- Of course, there is nothing to remain in the field.
The Bursaks went ahead, and, to their great joy, they heard barking in the distance. Having listened to which side they came from, they set off more cheerfully and, having passed a little, they saw a light.
- Farm! oh god, farm! the philosopher said.
His assumptions did not deceive him: after a while they saw, for sure, a small farm, consisting of only two huts, located in the same courtyard. There were fires in the windows. A dozen plum trees stuck out under the tyn. Glancing through the wooden gates, the Bursaks saw a yard set up by Chumatsky 10Chumaks are Ukrainian merchants who brought fish and salt to the Crimea, and from there they brought fish and salt.] wagons. The stars in some places looked at this time in the sky.
- Look, brothers, do not lag behind! whatever it was, but to get a lodging for the night!
Three learned men violently struck the gate and shouted:
- Open it!
The door in one hut creaked, and a minute later the Bursaks saw before them an old woman in an unsheathed sheepskin coat.
- Who's there? she screamed, coughing hard.
- Let me go, grandma, spend the night. Lost off the road. So bad in the field, as in a hungry belly.
- And what kind of people are you?
- Yes, the people are not touchy: 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 will I take you? Yes, all what a tall and healthy people! Yes, my hut will fall apart when I put these. I know these philosophers and theologians. If you start accepting such drunkards, then soon there will be no court. Went! went! There is no place for you here.
- Have mercy, grandma! How is it possible for Christian souls to disappear for no reason at all? Wherever you want to place us. And if we do something, somehow this or some other thing, then let our hands wither, and it will be that God alone knows. That's what!
The old woman seemed to soften a little.
“Very well,” she said, as if thinking, “I will let you in; I’ll just put everyone in different places: otherwise I won’t have peace of mind when you lie together.
- That's your will; Let's not argue, - answered the Bursaks.
The gate creaked and they entered the courtyard.
- And what, granny, - said the philosopher, following the old woman, - if it were so, as they say ... by God, it’s as if someone began to ride wheels in the stomach. From the very morning, if only a sliver was in my mouth.
- Look what you want! said the old woman. - No, I don’t have anything like that, and the stove was not heated today.
“And we would already have paid for all this,” continued the philosopher, “tomorrow, as it should be, with a clean one.” Yes,” he continued quietly, “the hell you'll get something!
- Get on, get on! and be happy with what they give you. What the hell brought some gentle panichs!
The philosopher Khoma was completely disheartened by such words. But suddenly his nose caught 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 pick up 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 carp, was already looking at what to pull off another, not having the intention of missing even a broken wheel, the philosopher Khoma put his hand into his pocket, as in his own, and pulled out a crucian.
The old woman placed the bursaks: she put the rhetorician in the hut, locked the theologian in an empty closet, and assigned an empty sheepshed to the philosopher.
The philosopher, left alone, in one minute ate the crucian carp, examined the wicker walls of the barn, kicked a curious pig that had poked its way out of another barn with his foot in the muzzle, and turned on the other side to fall asleep like a dead man. Suddenly the low door opened, and the old woman, bending down, entered the barn.
“And what, grandma, what do you need?” the philosopher said.
But the old woman walked straight towards him with outstretched arms.
“Ege-um! thought the philosopher. - No, my dear! outdated." He moved a little further away, but the old woman, without ceremony, again approached him.
- Listen, grandma! - said the philosopher, - now fasting; and I am such a person that I would not want to be dishonored even for a thousand gold pieces.
But the old woman spread her arms and caught him without saying a word.
The philosopher became frightened, especially when he noticed that her eyes sparkled with some unusual brilliance.
- Grandma! 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 with the intention of running away, but the old woman stood in the doorway and fixed her sparkling eyes on him and again began to approach him.
The philosopher wanted to push her away with his hands, but, to his surprise, he noticed that his hands could not rise, his legs did not move; and he saw with horror that not even a voice came out of his mouth: the words moved silently on his lips. He only heard his heart beating; he saw how the old woman came up to him, folded his arms, bent his head, jumped up on his back with the speed of a cat, 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 come to his senses and grabbed his knees with both hands, wanting to hold his legs; but, to his great amazement, they rose against their will and made leaps faster than a Circassian runner. When they had already passed the farm and a flat hollow opened up in front of them, and a forest black as coal stretched to the side, then he only said to himself: “Hey, yes, this is a witch.”
The reversed crescent crescent brightened in the sky. The timid midnight radiance, like a through veil, lay lightly and smoked on the ground. Forests, meadows, sky, valleys - everything seemed to be sleeping with open eyes. The wind at least once fluttered somewhere. There was something damp-warm in the night freshness. The shadows from the trees and bushes fell like comets in sharp wedges across the sloping plain. Such was the night when the philosopher Homa Brutus rode with an incomprehensible rider on his back. He felt a kind of agonizing, unpleasant, and at the same time sweet feeling, rising to his heart. He lowered his head and saw that the grass, which was almost under his feet, seemed to grow deep and far away, and that above it was water, transparent as a mountain spring, and the grass seemed to be the bottom of some bright, transparent to the very depths of the sea; at least he saw clearly how he was reflected in it, together with the old woman sitting on his back. He saw some kind of sun shining there instead of a moon; he heard the blue bells chiming as they tilted their heads. He saw how a mermaid floated out from behind a sedge, flashed a back and a leg, convex, elastic, all created from brilliance and awe. She turned to him - and now her face, with bright, sparkling, sharp eyes, penetrating into his soul with singing, was already approaching him, was already on the surface and, trembling with sparkling laughter, was moving away - and then she fell over on her back, and her cloudy feathers, matte, like unglazed porcelain, shone through the sun along the edges of their white, elastically delicate circumference. Water in the form of small bubbles, like beads, sprinkled them. She is trembling and laughing in the water...
Does he see it or does he not? Is this real or a dream? But what is there? Wind or music: ringing, ringing, and winding, and rises, and pierces the soul with some unbearable trill ...
"What is it?" thought the philosopher Homa Brutus, looking down, rushing at full speed. Sweat rolled down from him. He felt a demonically sweet feeling, he felt some kind of piercing, some kind of tormentingly terrible pleasure. It often seemed to him as if he no longer had a heart at all, and with fear he clutched at it with his hand. Exhausted, confused, he began to recall all the prayers he knew. He went over all the spells against the 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 unusual in it. A bright sickle shone in the sky.
"Good!" thought the philosopher Homa to himself and began to say almost aloud incantations. Finally, with lightning speed, he jumped out from under the old woman and jumped, in turn, onto her back. The old woman ran with small, fractional steps so quickly that the rider could hardly catch his breath. The ground shook a little under him. Everything was clear in the month-long, though incomplete, light. The valleys were smooth, but everything from speed flickered indistinctly and confusedly in his eyes. He grabbed a log lying on the road and began to beat the old woman with all his might. She let out wild cries; at first they were angry and threatening, then they became weaker, more pleasant, more often, and then already quietly, they barely rang, like thin silver bells, and were buried in his soul; and the thought involuntarily flashed through my head: is it really the old woman? "Oh, I can't take it anymore!" she said in exhaustion and fell to the ground.
He got to his feet and looked into her eyes: the dawn was lighting up, and the golden domes of the Kyiv churches shone in the distance. In front of him lay a beauty, with a disheveled luxurious braid, with eyelashes as long as arrows. Unfeelingly she flung her white, bare arms to either side and groaned, raising her eyes full of tears.
Khoma trembled like a tree leaf: pity and some strange agitation and timidity, unknown to him, took possession of him; he started running at full speed. On the way his heart beat restlessly, and he could not explain to himself what strange, new feeling had taken possession of him. He no longer wanted to go to the farms and hurried to Kyiv, thinking all the way about such an incomprehensible incident.
There were almost no Bursaks in the city: they all scattered around the farms, either in condition, or simply without any conditions, because in Little Russian farms you can eat dumplings, cheese, sour cream and dumplings the size of a hat, without paying a penny of money. The large, dilapidated hut, in which the bursa was located, was decidedly empty, and no matter how much the philosopher rummaged around in all the corners and even felt all the holes and traps in the roof, he did not find anywhere a piece of lard, or at least an old knish. 11Knish - baked bread made from wheat flour.], which, as usual, was hidden by the Bursaks.
However, the philosopher soon figured out how to correct his grief: he walked, whistling, three times through the market, winked at the very end with some young widow in a yellow ochipka [ 12Ochipok is a kind of cap.], who sold ribbons, rifle shot and wheels, - and was fed on the same day with wheat dumplings, chicken ... and, in a word, it is impossible to count what he had at the table set in a small clay house in the middle of a cherry garden. On the same evening they saw the philosopher in the tavern: he was lying on a bench, smoking, as usual, a cradle, and in front of everyone he threw half a piece of gold to the Jewish tavern keeper. There was a mug in front of him. He looked at those who came and went with cold-blooded, contented eyes, and did not at all think about his unusual incident.
* * *
Meanwhile, rumors spread everywhere that the daughter of one of the richest centurions, whose farm was fifty miles from Kyiv, returned in one day from a walk all beaten up, barely having the strength to get to her father's house, was dying and before her death expressed a desire that one of the Kyiv seminarians, Khoma Brutus, read the prayers and prayers for three days after his death. The philosopher learned about this from the rector himself, who purposely 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 because of some unaccountable feeling, which he himself could not explain to himself. A dark premonition told him that something bad was waiting for him. Without knowing why, he announced bluntly that he would not go.
– Listen, domine[ 13Dominus (lat.) - Lord.] Homa! - said the rector (in some cases he explained himself very politely to his subordinates), - no devil even asks you whether you want to go or not. I will only tell you that if you still show your lynx and philosophize, then I will order you on the back and, in other ways, beat you off with a young birch forest so that you won’t even need to go to the bathhouse.
The philosopher, scratching slightly behind his mind, went out without saying a word, disposing at the first opportunity to put hope on his feet. In thought, he descended a steep staircase that led to a yard planted with poplars, and stopped for a moment, hearing quite clearly the voice of the rector, giving orders to his housekeeper and someone else, probably one of those sent for him by the centurion.
- Thank the pan for the cereal and eggs, - the rector said, - and say that as soon as the books about which he writes are ready, I will immediately send them. I have already given them to be copied by a scribe. Don’t forget, my pigeon, to add to the sir that, I know, they have good fish on the farm, and especially sturgeon, then if the opportunity arises, I would send it: here in the bazaars the road is not good either. And you, Yavtukh, give the fellows a cup of burners. Yes, bind the philosopher, otherwise he will just run away.
"Look, damn son! - the philosopher thought to himself, - sniffed out, long-legged loach!
He went downstairs and saw a wagon, which at first he took for a bread barn on wheels. Indeed, it was as deep as a kiln in which bricks are fired. It was an ordinary Krakow carriage, in which fifty Jews go along with goods to all cities, where only the fair can hear their nose. He was expected by six healthy and strong Cossacks, already somewhat elderly. Scrolls of fine cloth with tassels showed that they belonged to a rather significant and wealthy owner. Small scars said that they had once been in the war not without glory.
“What to do? What to be, that cannot be avoided! thought the philosopher to himself, and turning to the Cossacks, he said loudly:
Hello, fellow brothers!
- Be healthy, pan philosopher! answered some of the Cossacks.
“So I have to sit with you?” And the brika is noble! he continued, climbing in. - Here, if only to hire musicians, then you can dance.
– Yes, a proportionate crew! - said one of the Cossacks, sitting on the box with a coachman, who tied his head with a rag instead of a hat, which he managed to leave in the tavern. The other five, together with the philosopher, climbed into the recess and settled down on sacks filled with various purchases made in the city.
- It would be interesting to know, - said the philosopher, - if, for example, this brick was loaded with some kind of goods - let's say, salt or iron wedges: how many horses would then be required?
“Yes,” said the Cossack, who was sitting on the box, after a pause, “a sufficient number of horses would be required.
After such a satisfactory answer, the Cossack considered himself entitled to remain silent all the way.
The philosopher extremely wanted to know in more detail: who was this centurion, what was his temper, what is heard about his daughter, who in such an unusual way returned home and was dying and whose history is now connected with his own, how are they and what is happening in the house? He addressed them with questions; but the Cossacks, it is true, were also philosophers, because in response to this they kept silent and smoked cradles, lying on sacks. Only one of them turned to the driver sitting on the box with a short order: “Look, Overko, you old fool; as you drive up to the tavern on the Chukhrailovskaya road, then don’t forget to stop and wake me and 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 tavern on the Chukhrailovskaya road, everyone shouted in one voice: “Stop!” Moreover, Overk's horses were already so accustomed that they themselves stopped in front of each tavern. Despite the hot July day, everyone left the brika and went to a low, dirty room, where the Jewish tavern keeper, with signs of joy, rushed to receive his old acquaintances. The Jew brought several pork sausages under the skirt and, putting them on the table, immediately turned away from this fruit forbidden by the Talmud. Everyone sat around the table. Clay mugs appeared before each of the guests. The philosopher Homa had to participate in the general feast. And since the Little Russians, when they go for a walk, will certainly begin to kiss or cry, the whole hut was soon filled with kisses: “Come on, Spirid, let’s kiss!” – “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 from the bottom of his heart that he had neither father nor mother and that he was left alone in the world. The other was a great reasoner and incessantly consoled him, saying: “Don't cry, by God don't cry! what is it ... God knows how and what it is. One, named Dorosh, became extremely curious and, turning to the philosopher Khoma, constantly asked him:
- I would like to know what they teach in your bursa: is it the same as the deacon reads in church, or something else?
- Do not ask! - said the reasoner drawlingly, - let it be there, as it was. God already knows how to; god knows everything.
– No, I want to know, – said Dorosh, – what is written there in those books. Maybe it's completely different than the deacon's.
– Oh, my God, my God! - said this venerable teacher. - And what is it to say? So it is the will of God. What God has already given cannot be changed.
“I want to know everything that is written. I'll go to the bursa, by God, I'll go! What do you think I won't learn? I will learn everything, everything!
- Oh, my God, my God! .. - said the comforter and lowered his head on the table, because he was completely unable to keep it longer on his shoulders.
The other Cossacks talked about the lords and why the moon shines in the sky.
The philosopher Khoma, seeing such an arrangement of heads, decided to take advantage and sneak away. He first turned to the gray-haired Cossack, who was sad about his father and mother:
“What are you, uncle, burst into tears,” he said, “I myself am an orphan!” Let me go guys.. to freedom! 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, raising his head. - Let him go! Let him 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:
- Do not touch: I want to talk to him about the bursa. I myself will go to the bursa ...
However, this escape could hardly have taken place, because when the philosopher took it into his head to get up from the table, his legs seemed to become wooden and the doors in the room began to appear to him so many that he would hardly have found the real one.
Only in the evening all this company remembered that they needed to go further on the road. Having climbed into the briquette, they stretched, driving the horses and singing a song whose words and meaning hardly anyone could make out. Having traveled for the greater part of the night, constantly going astray from the path learned by heart, they finally descended the steep mountain into the valley, and the philosopher noticed a palisade, or wattle fence, stretching along the sides, with low trees and roofs protruding from behind them. It was a large village that belonged to a centurion. It was already well past midnight; the skies were dark, and small stars flickered here and there. There was no fire to be seen in any of the houses. They rode, accompanied by the barking of dogs, into the yard. On both sides, thatched sheds and houses were visible. One of them, located just in the middle opposite the gate, was larger than the others and served, as it seemed, as the centurion's stay. Brika stopped in front of a small semblance of a barn, and our travelers went to bed. The philosopher, however, wanted to take a look at the panorama from the outside; but no matter how he stared his eyes, nothing could be clearly indicated: instead of a house, he saw a bear; a rector was made from a pipe. The philosopher waved his hand and went to sleep.
When the philosopher woke up, the whole house was in motion: in the night the lady died. The servants ran to and fro in a hurry. Some of the old women were crying. A crowd of curious people looked through the fence at the pansky yard, as if they could see something.
The philosopher began at his leisure to inspect those places that he could not see at night. The lord's house was a low, small building, such as were usually built in the old days in Little Russia. It was covered with straw. The small, sharp, high pediment, with a window like a raised eye, 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 elaborate turning at the top. Under this pediment was a small porch with benches on both sides. On the sides of the house there were sheds on the same posts, ind[ 14Inde - somewhere.] twisted. A tall pear tree with a pyramidal top and fluttering leaves was green in front of the house. Several barns stood in two rows in the middle of the courtyard, forming a kind of wide street leading to the house. Behind the barns, to the very gates, stood two cellars in triangles, one opposite the other, also covered with straw. The triangular wall of each of them was equipped with a low door and painted with various 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 the other is a flask, suleys and on the sides, for beauty, a horse standing upside down, a pipe, tambourines and the inscription: "Wine is a Cossack fun." From the attic of one of the sheds, a drum and copper pipes peered 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 yard was often filled with feasting cliques. Behind the gate were two windmills. Behind the house were gardens; and through the tops of the trees only the dark chimney caps of the huts hidden in the green thicket could be seen. The whole village was located on a wide and even ledge of the mountain. On the north side, everything was obscured by a steep mountain and ended with its sole at the very courtyard. When looking at it from below, it seemed even steeper, and on its high top, here and there, irregular stalks of skinny weeds stuck out and blackened in the bright sky. Her naked clay appearance evoked some kind of despondency. It was all pitted with rain gullies and grooves. On its steep slope two huts stuck out in two places; over one of them a wide apple tree spread its branches, propped up at the root by small stakes filled with earth. The apples, knocked down by the wind, rolled into the very lord's yard. From the top, a road wound all over the mountain and, descending, went past the courtyard to the village. When the philosopher measured its terrible twist and remembered yesterday's journey, he decided that either the pan 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 breeze and luggage. The philosopher stood on the highest place in the courtyard, and when he turned and looked in the opposite direction, a completely different view appeared to him. The village, along with the slope, rolled down to the plain. Boundless meadows opened onto a distant expanse; their bright green darkened as they moved away, and whole rows of villages turned blue in the distance, although their distance was more than twenty miles. Mountains stretched on the right side of these meadows, and the Dnieper burned and darkened in a slightly visible band in the distance.
- Oh, what a great place! the philosopher said. - Here we should live, fish in the Dnieper and in the ponds, hunt with nets or with a gun for little bustards and curlews! However, I think there are a lot of bustards in these meadows. You can dry fruits and sell a lot in the city, or, even better, smoke vodka out of them; because vodka from fruit cannot be compared with any foam. Yes, it doesn’t hurt to think about how to sneak out of here.
He noticed a small path behind the wattle fence, completely covered with overgrown weeds. He mechanically put his foot on it, thinking in advance only of taking a walk, and then quietly, in between, and waving in the field, when he suddenly felt a rather strong hand on his shoulder.
Behind him stood the same old Cossack who yesterday so bitterly condoled about the death of his father and mother and about his loneliness.
- In vain do you think, pan philosopher, to escape from the farm! he said. “This is not an establishment where you can run away; and the roads are bad for pedestrians. And go better to the pan: he has been waiting for you for a long time in the room.
- Let's go to! Well ... I'm happy, - said the philosopher and went after the Cossack.
The centurion, already elderly, with a gray mustache and with an expression of gloomy melancholy, was sitting in front of the table in the room, propping his head on both hands. He was about fifty years old; but the deep despondency on his face and some kind of pale, skinny color showed that his soul was killed and destroyed suddenly, in one minute, and all his former gaiety and noisy life disappeared forever. When Khoma came up with the old Cossack, he withdrew one hand and slightly nodded his head at their low bow.
Khoma and the Cossack stopped respectfully at the door.
- Who are you, and where are you from, and what is your rank, good man? said the centurion, neither kindly nor sternly.
- From the Bursaks, the philosopher Khoma Brut.
- And who was your father?
“I don’t know, sir.
- And your mother?
“And I don’t know my mother. According to sound reasoning, of course, there was a mother; but who she is, and where, and when she lived - by God, kindness, I don’t know.
The centurion was silent and seemed to remain thoughtful for a minute.
How did you meet my daughter?
- I didn’t get acquainted, noble pan, by God, I didn’t get acquainted. I still had nothing to do with pannochki, no matter how much I live in the world. Tzur them, not to say obscene things.
- Why did she not appoint someone else, but you specifically assigned to read?
The philosopher shrugged.
“God knows how to interpret it. It is already a well-known fact that panamas sometimes want something that even the most literate person cannot understand; and the proverb says: “Jump, enemy, like a sir!”
“Are you lying, pan philosopher?”
- Here in this very place, let the thunder clap like that if I'm lying.
“If only you had lived a little longer,” the centurion said sadly, “then, it would be true, I would know everything. “Don’t let anyone read from me, but let’s go, tattoo, this very hour to the Kyiv seminary and bring the bursak Khoma Brutus. Let him pray for three nights for my sinful soul. He knows…” But what he knows, I have not heard. She, the little dove, could only say, and died. You, a good man, are surely known for your holy life and charitable deeds, and she, perhaps, has heard a lot about you.
- Who? I? said the student, stepping back in amazement. - Am I a saint of life? he said, looking directly into the centurion's eyes. - God be with you, sir! What are you saying! Yes, I, though it is obscene to say, went to the baker's on the eve of Holy Thursday.
“Well… that’s right, it’s not without reason that it’s been appointed so. You must start your business from this very day.
- I would say to your grace ... it, of course, every person who is instructed in the Holy Scriptures, can be proportional ... only here it would be more decent to require a deacon, or, at least, a deacon. They are sensible people and know how all this is already being done, but I ... Yes, my voice is not like that, and I myself - the devil knows what. There is no view from me.
- As you wish for yourself, only I will fulfill everything that my dove bequeathed to me, regretting nothing. And when from this day on you perform prayers over her properly for three nights, then I will reward you; otherwise, I don’t advise the devil himself to irritate me.
The last words were uttered by the centurion so strongly that the philosopher fully understood their meaning.
- Follow me! the centurion said.
They went out into the hallway. The centurion opened the door to another room, which was opposite the first. The philosopher stopped for a minute in the entryway to blow his nose, and with a sort of unaccountable fear stepped over the threshold. The whole floor was covered with red Chinese. In the corner, under the images, on a high table lay the body of the deceased, on a blanket of blue velvet, trimmed with gold fringe and tassels. Tall wax candles, entwined with viburnum, stood at their feet and heads, pouring out their cloudy light, lost in the daylight. The face of the deceased was shielded from him by the inconsolable father, who sat in front of her, his back turned to the door. The philosopher was struck by the words he heard:
“I don’t regret that, my dearest daughter to me, that you, in the prime of your life, before you lived your appointed age, left the earth for sadness and sorrow to me. I regret that, my dove, that I do not know who was, my fierce enemy, the cause of your death. And if I knew who could only think of insulting you or even say something unpleasant about you, then, I swear to God, he would not see his children again, if only he was as old as I am; nor his father and mother, if only he was still in his early years, and his body would be thrown out to be eaten by the birds and animals of the steppe. But woe to me, my field cape[ 15Nagidochka - nail (flower).], my quail, my yasochka, 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.
The philosopher was touched by such inconsolable sadness. He coughed and let out a dull grunt, wanting to clear his voice a little with it.
The centurion turned around and pointed out to him a place in the heads of the dead woman, in front of a small deposit on which books lay.
“I’ll somehow work for three nights,” thought the philosopher, “but the pan will fill both my pockets with clean gold pieces.”
He approached and, clearing his throat again, began to read, paying no attention to the side and not daring to look into the face of the deceased. A deep silence reigned. He noticed that the centurion had left. Slowly he turned his head to look at the deceased and…
A thrill ran through his veins: before him lay a beauty such as had ever been on earth. It seemed that facial features had never been formed in such a sharp and at the same time harmonious beauty. She lay as if alive. The forehead, beautiful, tender, like snow, like silver, seemed to be thinking; eyebrows - night in the midst of a sunny day, thin, even, proudly raised above closed eyes, and eyelashes, which fell like arrows on the cheeks, glowed with the heat of secret desires; his lips were rubies, ready to smile... But in them, in the same features, he saw something terribly poignant. He felt that his soul began to somehow painfully whine, as if suddenly, in the midst of a whirlwind of fun and a swirling crowd, someone sang a song about the oppressed people. The rubies of her lips seemed to boil with blood to the very heart. Suddenly something terribly familiar appeared in her face.
It was the same witch he had killed.
When the sun began to set, the dead was carried to the church. The philosopher supported the black mourning coffin with one shoulder and felt something as cold as ice on his shoulder. The centurion himself walked in front, carrying with his hand the right side of the cramped house of the deceased. The wooden church, blackened, covered with green moss, with three cone-shaped domes, stood dejectedly almost on the edge of the village. It was noticeable that no service had been sent there for a long time. Candles were lit before almost every image. The coffin was placed in the middle, opposite the altar itself. The old centurion kissed the deceased one more time, threw himself down on his face and went out with the porters, giving the order to give the philosopher a good meal and, after supper, to take him to church. Arriving in the kitchen, all those who carried the coffin began to put their hands on the stove, which Little Russians usually do when they see a dead man.
The hunger that the philosopher began to feel at that time made him completely forget about the deceased for several minutes. Soon all the household, little by little, began to converge in the kitchen. The kitchen in the centurion's house was something like a club, where everything that lived in the yard flocked, including the dogs that came with waving tails to the very doors for bones and slops. Wherever someone was sent, and for whatever reason, he always went into the kitchen first to rest for a minute on the bench and smoke a cradle. All the bachelors who lived in the house, flaunting their Cossack coats, lay here for almost the whole day on a bench, under a bench, on the stove—in a word, wherever one could find a comfortable place to lie. Moreover, everyone always forgot in the kitchen either a hat, or a whip for other people's dogs, or something like that. But the most numerous meeting took place during supper, when the herdsman came, who managed to drive his horses into the corral, and the drover, who brought the cows for milking, and all those who could not be seen during the day. At dinner, chatter took over the most inarticulate languages. Here they usually talked about everything: about who sewed new trousers for himself, and what is inside the earth, and who saw a wolf. There were a lot of bonmotists here[ 16Bonmotist is a wit; (French bon mot - sharpness).], in which there is no shortage among Little Russians.
The philosopher sat down with the others in a vast circle in the free air in front of the threshold of the kitchen. Soon a woman in a red cap leaned out of the door, holding a hot pot of dumplings in both hands, and placed it in the middle of those who were getting ready for supper. Each took out a wooden spoon from his pocket, others, for lack of it, a wooden match. As soon as the mouth moved a little slower and the ravenous hunger of this whole assembly subsided a little, many began to talk. The conversation, naturally, should have turned to the deceased.
“Is it true,” said one young shepherd, who had planted so many buttons and copper plaques on his leather strap for the cradle that he looked like a petty tradesman’s shop, “is it true that the pannochka, if you don’t remember it, knew the unclean?
- Who? lady? - said Dorosh, already familiar to our philosopher. - Yes, she was a whole witch! I swear I'm a witch!
- Full, full, Dorosh! - said another, who during the journey showed a great readiness to console. “It's none of our business; God bless him. There is nothing to talk about it.
But Dorosh was by no means disposed to remain silent. He had just gone down to the cellar, together with the housekeeper, on some necessary business, and, leaning over two or three barrels a couple of times, came out extremely cheerful and talked incessantly.
- What do you want? To keep me quiet? - he said. - Yes, she rode me! Oh my gosh, I went!
- And what, uncle, - said a young shepherd with buttons, - is it possible to recognize a witch by some signs?
“Impossible,” answered Dorosh. - You never know; even if you re-read all the psalms, you will never know.
– You can, you can, Dorosh. Don't say that, said the former comforter. It is not for nothing that God has given everyone a special custom. People who know science say that the witch has a small tail.
“When a woman is old, then a witch,” said the gray-haired Cossack coolly.
- Oh, you are good too! - picked up the woman, who at that time was pouring fresh dumplings into the cleaned pot, - real fat boars.
The old Cossack, whose name was Yavtukh, and whose nickname was Kovtun, expressed a smile of pleasure on his lips, noticing that his words touched the old woman to the quick; and the driver of the cattle let out such a thick laugh, as if two bulls, standing one against the other, lowed at once.
The conversation that began aroused an irresistible desire and curiosity of the philosopher to find out in more detail about the dead centurion's daughter. And therefore, wanting to bring him back to the former matter, he turned to his neighbor with these words:
- I wanted to ask why all this class that sits at dinner considers the lady a witch? Well, has she harmed or tormented anyone?
“There were all sorts of things,” answered one of those sitting, with a smooth face, extremely similar to a shovel.
- And who does not remember the dog-keeper Mikita, or that ...
- And what is the dog-keeper Mikita? the philosopher said.
- Stop! I will tell you about the kennel Mikita,” said Dorosh.
“I’ll tell you about Mikita,” the herdsman answered, “because he was my godfather.”
“I will tell you about Mikita,” said Spirid.
- Let, let Spirid tell! the crowd shouted.
Spirid began:
“You, pan philosopher Khoma, did not know Mikita. Ah, what a rare man he was! He used to know every dog like his own father. The present kennel Mikola, who sits third behind me, is no match for him. Although he also understands his business, but he is against him - rubbish, slop.
“You speak well, well!” Dorosh said, nodding his head approvingly.
Spirid continued:
- He will see a hare sooner than wipe tobacco from his nose. It used to whistle: “Come on, Robbery! oh, quick!" - and he himself is on a horse at full speed, - and it is already impossible to tell who will overtake whom sooner: whether he is a dog or his dog. Sivuhi a quart will suddenly hang down, no matter how it happened. The kennel was nice! Only recently did he begin to look incessantly at the lady. Whether he had riveted right into her, or whether she had already bewitched him like that, only the man was gone, he was completely offended; the devil knows what has become; pfu! obscene and say.
“Good,” Dorosh said.
- As soon as the pannochka used to look at him, then she let the reins out of her hands, she calls Rogue Brovkom, stumbles and does God knows what. Once the lady came to the stable, where he was cleaning the horse. Dai says, Mikitka, I'll put my foot on you. And he, the fool, is glad of that: he says that not only the leg, but sit on me yourself. Pannochka raised her leg, and when he saw her naked, full and white leg, then, he says, the charm stunned him. He, the fool, bent his back and, grabbing her naked legs with both hands, went galloping like a horse all over the field, and where they went, he could not say anything; he only returned barely alive, and since then he has withered all over, like a chip; and when once they came to the stable, instead of it there was only a heap of ashes and an empty bucket: it burned down completely; burned itself out. And he was such a kennel, which cannot be found in the whole world.
When Spirid finished his story, rumors about the merits of the former kennel went from all sides.
“Have you heard about Shepchikha?” Dorosh said, turning to Khoma.
- Ege-ge-ge! So you, in the bursa, apparently, do not teach too much intelligence. Well, listen! We have a Cossack Sheptun in the village. Good goat! He sometimes likes to steal and lie without any need, but ... a good Cossack. His house is not that far from here. At the same time as we now sat down to supper, the Whisperer and the Zhinka, having finished the supper, went to bed, and since the time was good, the Shepchikha lay down in the yard, and the Whisperer in the hut on the bench; or not: the Whisperer is in the hut on the bench, and the Whisperer is in the yard ...
“And not on the bench, but on the floor, Shepchikha lay down,” the woman picked up, standing at the threshold and resting her cheek on her hand.
Dorosh looked at her, then looked down, then again at her, and after a short pause he said:
- When I throw off your underwear in front of everyone, it will not be good.
This warning had its effect. The old woman fell silent and never once interrupted her speech.
Dorosh continued:
- And in the cradle, hanging in the middle of the hut, lay a one-year-old child - I don’t know, male or female. Shepchikha lay, and then she hears that a dog is scratching behind the door and howling so that even run out of the hut. She was frightened; for the women are such a stupid people that stick out your tongue from behind the doors in the evening, then the soul will enter into the heels. However, she thinks, let me hit the damned dog in the face, maybe it will stop howling, - and, taking the poker, she went out to open the door. Before she had time to open a little, the dog rushed between her legs and straight to the cradle. Shepchikha sees that this is no longer a dog, but a lady. And besides, even if the lady had already been in the form as she knew her, that would still be nothing; but here's the thing and the circumstance: that she was all blue, and her eyes burned like coal. She grabbed the child, bit her throat and began to drink blood from him. Whisperer only screamed: “Oh, too little!” - Yes, from the house. He only sees that the doors in the entryway are locked. She's in the attic; she sits and trembles, a stupid woman, and then she sees that the pannochka is going to her and into the attic; rushed at her and began to bite the stupid woman. Already in the morning Whisperer pulled out his zhinka, all bitten and blue. And the next day the stupid woman died. So that's what devices and seductions are! Although it is a pan's litter, but all when a witch, then a witch.
After such a story, Dorosh looked back complacently and stuck his finger into his pipe, preparing it for stuffing with tobacco. The matter about the witch became inexhaustible. Everyone, in turn, was in a hurry to tell something. In addition, a witch in the form of a stack of hay arrived at the very door of the hut; she stole a hat or a pipe from another; I cut off the braids of many girls in the village; I drank several buckets of blood from others.
Finally, the whole company came to their senses and saw that they were already chattering too much, because it was already perfect night in the yard. Everyone began to wander around for the night, located either in the kitchen, or in the sheds, or in the middle of the yard.
- Well, pan Khoma! now it’s time for us to go to the deceased,” said the gray-haired Cossack, turning to the philosopher, and all four, including Spirid and Dorosh, went to church, whipping dogs, of which there were a great many in the street, and which gnawed their sticks out of anger.
The philosopher, in spite of the fact that he had managed to refresh himself with a good mug of burner, felt secretly rising timidity as they approached the illuminated church. The tales and strange stories he heard helped his imagination to work even more. The darkness under the tyn and the trees began to thin; the place became more naked. They finally stepped behind the dilapidated church fence into a small courtyard, behind which there was not a tree and only an empty field and meadows swallowed up by the night darkness opened up. The three Cossacks went up the steep stairs with Khoma to the porch and entered the church. Here they left the philosopher, wishing him to safely carry out his duty, and locked the door behind him, by order of the pan.
The philosopher was left alone. First he yawned, then he stretched, then he farted into both hands, and finally he looked around. In the middle stood a black coffin. Candles glowed before dark images. The light from them illuminated only the iconostasis and slightly the middle of the church. The distant corners of the porch were shrouded in darkness. The high ancient iconostasis already showed deep dilapidation; its through carving, covered with gold, still shone with nothing but sparks. The gilding has fallen off in one place, completely blackened in another; the faces of the saints, completely darkened, looked somehow gloomy. The philosopher looked around again.
“Well,” he said, “what is there to be afraid of? A person cannot come here, but from the dead and people from the other world I have prayers such that as soon as I read them, they won’t even touch me with a finger. Nothing! he repeated, waving his hand, "let's read!"
Approaching the krylos, he saw several bundles of candles.
“That's good,” thought the philosopher, “you need to light up the whole church so that it can be seen as during the day. Oh, it’s a pity that you can’t smoke cradles in the temple of God!
And he began to stick wax candles to all the cornices, overlays and images, not sparing them in the least, and soon the whole church was filled with light. Above, only the darkness seemed to grow stronger, and the gloomy images looked gloomier from the ancient carved frames, in some places sparkling with gilding. He went up to the coffin, looked timidly into the face of the deceased, and could not help but close his eyes, somewhat shuddering.
Such a terrible, sparkling beauty!
He turned away and wanted to go away; but out of a strange curiosity, a strange feeling that crosses itself, which does not leave a person especially in times of fear, he could not resist, as he left, not to look at her, and then, feeling the same trembling, looked again. In fact, the sharp beauty of the deceased seemed terrible. Perhaps even she would not have struck with such panicky horror if she had been a little more ugly. But in her features there was nothing dull, cloudy, dead. It was alive, and it seemed to the philosopher as if she were looking at it with closed eyes. It even seemed to him as if a tear rolled from under the eyelash of her right eye, and when it stopped on her cheek, he clearly distinguished that it was a drop of blood.
He hurriedly went to the krylos, opened the book and, in order to encourage himself more, began to read in the loudest voice. His voice struck the wooden church walls, long silent and deaf. Lonely, without an echo, it poured out in a thick bass in a completely dead silence and seemed somewhat wild even to the reader himself.
“What is there to be afraid of? he thought meanwhile to himself. - After all, she will not rise from her coffin, because she is afraid of God's word. Let it lie! And what kind of Cossack am I, if I were frightened? Well, I drank too much - that's why it seems scary. And sniff tobacco: oh, good tobacco! Nice tobacco! Good tobacco!
However, turning over each page, he looked askance at the coffin, and an involuntary feeling seemed to whisper to him: “Here, here it will rise! here it will rise, here it will look out of the coffin!
But the silence was dead. The coffin stood motionless. Candles shed a flood of light. Terrible is the illuminated church at night, with a dead body and without the soul of people!
But the coffin did not move. If only there was some sound, some living being, even a cricket in the corner! The slightest crackle of some distant candle was heard, or the faint, slightly popping sound of a drop of wax falling to the floor.
“Well, if it rises? ..”
She lifted her head...
He looked wildly and rubbed his eyes. But she definitely no longer lies, but sits in her coffin. He averted his eyes and again turned with horror to the coffin. She got up ... she walks around the church with her eyes closed, constantly spreading her arms, as if wanting to catch someone.
She walks straight towards him. In fear, he drew a circle around him. With an effort, he began to read prayers and cast spells, which had been taught to him by a monk who had seen witches and unclean spirits all his life.
She became almost on the very line; but it was evident that she did not have the strength to cross it, and she turned blue all over, like a man who had been dead for several days. Khoma did not have the heart to look at her. She was terrible. She struck her teeth with her teeth and opened her dead eyes. But, not seeing anything, with fury - which her trembling face expressed - she turned in the other direction and, spreading her arms, wrapped them around every pillar and corner, trying to catch Khoma. At last she stopped, shaking her finger, and lay down in her coffin.
The philosopher still could not come to his senses and looked with fear at this cramped dwelling of the witch. Finally, the coffin suddenly fell off its place and began to whistle all over the church, baptizing the air in all directions. The philosopher saw him almost above his head, but at the same time he saw that he could not catch the circle he had outlined, and strengthened his incantations. The coffin burst in the middle of the church and remained motionless. The corpse rose from it again, blue and green. But at that moment a distant cock crow was heard. The corpse sank into the coffin and slammed the coffin lid shut.
The philosopher's heart was beating, and sweat was rolling down in hail; but, emboldened by the cock's crow, he read faster the sheets which he should have read first. At the first dawn, a deacon and a gray-haired Yavtukh, who at that time sent the post of church elder, came to replace him.
Arriving at a distant lodging for the night, the philosopher could not fall asleep for a long time, but fatigue overcame, and he slept until dinner. When he awoke, the whole night's events seemed to him to have taken place in a dream. He was given a quart of burners to strengthen his strength. At dinner, he soon untied himself, added some remarks to something, and ate almost one rather old pig; but, nevertheless, he did not dare to speak about his event in the church due to some feeling that was not accountable to him, and answered the questions of the curious: “Yes, there were all sorts of miracles.” The philosopher was one of those people who, if fed, then an extraordinary philanthropy awakens in them. He, lying with his pipe in his teeth, looked at everyone with unusually sweet eyes and continuously spat to one side.
After dinner the philosopher was completely in the spirit. He managed to go around the whole village, to get acquainted with almost everyone; they even kicked him out of two huts; one handsome young woman gave him a decent blow on the back with a shovel, when he took it into his head to feel and inquire about what material her shirt and plakhta were made of. But the more time approached evening, the more thoughtful the philosopher became. An hour before dinner, almost all the household gathered to play porridge or cragli - a kind of skittles where long sticks are used instead of balls, and the winner had the right to ride on the other horseback. This game became very interesting for the spectators: often a drover, as wide as a pancake, climbed on horseback on a pig shepherd, frail, short, all consisting of wrinkles. Another time, the driver turned his back, and Dorosh, jumping on it, always said: “What a healthy bull!” At the threshold of the kitchen sat those who were more impressive. They looked exceedingly serious as they smoked their cradles, even when the young people laughed heartily at some sharp word of a drover or Spirid. Khoma tried in vain to intervene in this game: some kind of dark thought, like a nail, was sitting in his head. During the evening, no matter how hard he tried to cheer himself up, fear flared up in him along with the darkness that spread over the sky.
- Well, it's time for us, sir bursak! - the gray-haired Cossack he knew told him, rising from his seat with Dorosh. - Let's go to work.
Khoma was again taken to church in the same way; again they left him alone and locked the door behind him. As soon as he was alone, timidity began to creep into his chest again. He saw again the dark images, the gleaming frames, and the familiar black coffin, standing in menacing silence and stillness in the midst of the church.
“Well,” he said, “now this wonder is not a curiosity for me. It's scary the first time. Yes! it is only a little scary the first time, but there it is no longer scary; it's not scary anymore.
He hurriedly stood on the wing, drew a circle around him, uttered several incantations and began to read aloud, deciding not to raise his eyes from the book and not pay attention to anything. He had been reading for about an hour and was starting to get a little tired and coughing. He took a horn out of his pocket, and before bringing the tobacco to his nose, timidly looked at the coffin. His heart went cold.
The corpse was already standing in front of him on the very line and staring at him with dead, green eyes. Bursak shuddered, and a chill ran through all his veins. Lowering his eyes to the book, he began to read his prayers and curses louder and heard the corpse again strike with its teeth and wave its arms, wanting to grab it. But, squinting a little with one eye, he saw that the corpse was catching him in the wrong place where he was standing, and, apparently, could not see him. She began to mutter in a dull voice and began to utter terrible words with her dead lips; they sobbed hoarsely, like the gurgling of boiling tar. What they meant, he could not say, but there was something terrible in them. The philosopher, in fear, realized that she was casting spells.
The wind went through the church from the words, and a noise was heard, as if from many flying wings. He heard how wings were beating against the glass of the church windows and against the iron frames, how they scratched with a squeal of claws on the iron, and how an incalculable force smashed through the doors and wanted to break in. His heart was beating strongly all the time; closing his eyes, he kept reading spells and prayers. Finally, suddenly, something whistled in the distance: it was the distant cry of a rooster. The exhausted philosopher stopped and rested his spirit.
Those who came in to replace the philosopher found him barely alive. He leaned his back against the wall and, bulging his eyes, looked motionlessly at the Cossacks pushing him. He was almost taken out and had to be supported all the way. Arriving at the lord's court, he shook himself and ordered himself to bring a quart of burner. Having drunk it, he smoothed the hair on his head and said:
- There is a lot of rubbish in the world! And such fears happen - well ... - At the same time, the philosopher waved his hand.
The circle gathered around him bowed his head at hearing such words. Even the little boy, whom all the household considered entitled to delegate instead of themselves, when it came to cleaning the stable or carrying water, even this poor boy also opened his mouth.
At this time, a not quite elderly woman in a tight-fitting spare, showing her round and strong figure, was passing by the old cook's assistant, a terrible coquette who always found something to pin to her ochipka: either a piece of ribbon, or a carnation, or even a piece of paper if there was nothing else.
Hello, Homa! she said, seeing the philosopher. - Ah ah ah! what is it with you? she cried, throwing up her hands.
"What's up, stupid woman?"
- Oh my god! Yes, you are all gray!
- Ege-ge! Yes, she speaks the truth! Spirid said, peering at him intently. - You definitely turned gray, like our old Yavtukh.
The philosopher, hearing this, ran headlong into the kitchen, where he noticed a triangular piece of mirror stuck to the wall, covered in flies, in front of which were stuck forget-me-nots, periwinkles, and even a garland of capes, showing its purpose for the dressing room of a dapper coquette. He saw with horror the truth of their words: half of his hair, for sure, turned white.
Homa Brutus hung his head and gave himself up to reflection.
“I’ll go to the pan,” he said at last, “I’ll tell him everything and explain it. I don't want to read anymore. Let him send me this very hour to Kyiv.
In such thoughts he directed his way to the porch of the lord's house.
The centurion sat almost motionless in his room; the same hopeless sadness that he had met before on his face remained in him to this day. His cheeks sagged only much more than before. It was noticeable that he ate very little food, or perhaps did not even touch it at all. His unusual pallor gave him a kind of stony immobility.
- Hello, heavenly 17Heaven is poor.], - he said, seeing Khoma, who stopped with a hat in his hands at the door. - What, how are you doing? Is everything all right?
- Well, well, well. Such devilry is found that you just take your hat, and run away wherever your legs take you.
- How so?
- Yes, your, sir, daughter ... According to common sense, she, of course, is of the lord's family; no one will argue with that, just don’t say it out of anger, God calm her soul ...
- What about daughter?
- Took on Satan. Such fears are set by the fact that no Scripture is taken into account.
- Read, read! She called you for a reason. She cared, my dove, about her soul and wanted to cast out every bad thought with her prayers.
- The power is yours, sir: by God, unbearable!
- Read, read! continued the centurion in the same persuasive voice. “You have one night left now. You will do a Christian deed and I will reward you.
- Yes, no matter what the awards ... As you wish, sir, but I will not read! Homa said decisively.
- How not to know! said the philosopher, lowering his voice. - Everyone knows what leather kanchuks are: with a large amount, the thing is unbearable.
- Yes. Only you don't know yet how my lads can soar! - said the centurion menacingly, rising to his feet, and his face assumed an imperious and ferocious expression, revealing all his unbridled character, lulled only for a while by grief. “First, they will evaporate me, then they will sprinkle with a burner, and then again. Get up, get up! fix your business! If you don't fix it, you won't get up; and fix it - a thousand reds!
“Wow! yes it's a grip! thought the philosopher as he left. - There's nothing to joke about. Stop, stop, buddy: I will sharpen my skis so that you and your dogs will not keep up with me.
And Homa decided to run without fail. He waited only for the afternoon, when all the domestics used to climb into the hay under the sheds and, opening their mouths, emit such snoring and whistling that the lord's farmstead became like a factory. This time has finally come. Even Yavtukh closed his eyes as he stretched out before the sun. The philosopher, with fear and trembling, went slowly to the master's garden, from where, it seemed to him, it was more convenient and imperceptible to run into the field. This garden, as usual, was terribly neglected and, therefore, was extremely conducive to every secret undertaking. Excluding only one path, trodden for household needs, everything else was hidden by densely overgrown cherries, elderberry, burdock, which had stuck their tall stems with tenacious pink cones to the very top. The hops covered, as if with a net, the top of this motley collection of trees and shrubs and formed a roof over them, leaning on the wattle fence and falling from it in winding snakes along with wild field bells. Behind the wattle fence, which served as the border of the garden, there was a whole forest of weeds, into which no one seemed to be curious to look, and the scythe would have shattered to smithereens if it wanted to touch its stiff, thick stems with its blade.
When the philosopher wanted to step over the fence, his teeth chattered and his heart beat so violently that he himself was frightened. The hem of his long mantle seemed to stick to the ground, as if someone had nailed it. When he crossed the wattle fence, it seemed to him that with a deafening whistle a voice crackled in his ears: “Where, where?” The philosopher darted into the weeds and started to run, constantly stumbling on old roots and crushing the moles with his feet. He saw that, having got out of the weeds, it was worth running across the field, beyond which the thick blackthorn loomed, where he considered himself safe and, having passed which, according to his assumption, he thought he would meet the road directly to Kyiv. He suddenly ran across the field and found himself in a thick thorn bush. He climbed through the thorn bush, leaving, instead of a fee, pieces of his coat on each sharp spike, and found himself in a small hollow. The willow, with its divided branches, bowed to the Inda almost to the very ground. A small source sparkled, pure as silver. The first thing the philosopher did was lie down and get drunk, because he felt an unbearable thirst.
- Good water! he said, wiping his lips. “Here you can rest.
- No, we'd better run forward: the pursuit will be unequal!
The words resounded in his ears. He looked around: Yavtukh was standing in front of him.
"Damn Yavtukh! thought the philosopher in his hearts to himself. “I would take you, but by the legs ... And your vile mug, and everything that is on you, I would beat with an oak log.”
- In vain you gave such a detour, - continued Yavtukh, - it is much better to choose the road I went on: right past the stables. And besides, it's a pity about the coat. The cloth is good. How much did you pay for the arshin? However, we walked quite a bit, it's time to go home.
The philosopher, scratching himself, wandered after Yavtukh. "Now the damned witch will give me a pfeifer[ 18Pfeiffer (German) - pepper.], he thought. “Yes, but what am I, really?” What am I afraid of? Am I not a Cossack? After all, he read for two nights, God help and the third. It can be seen that the damned witch has done quite a few sins, that the evil spirit stands up for her so much.
Such reflections occupied him when he entered the lord's court. Reassuring himself with such remarks, he begged Dorosh, who, through the protection of the housekeeper, sometimes had an entrance to the pans' cellars, to pull out a bunch of fusel oil, and both friends, sitting under the shed, pulled out a little more than half a bucket, so that the philosopher, suddenly rising to his feet, shouted: "Musicians ! certainly musicians! - and, without waiting for the musicians, he set off in the middle of the courtyard in a cleared place to dance the tropaca. He danced until it was time for an afternoon snack, and the servants, who surrounded him, as usual on such occasions, in a circle, finally spat and walked away, saying: “This is how long a person has been dancing!” Finally, the philosopher immediately went to bed, and a good tub of cold water could only wake him up for supper. At dinner, he talked about what a Cossack was and that he should not be afraid of anything in the world.
- It's time, - said Yavtukh, - let's go.
“A match in your tongue, damn knur [ 19Knur is a boar.]!” thought the philosopher, and rising to his feet he said:
- Let's go to.
Walking along the road, the philosopher constantly glanced around and lightly spoke to his escorts. But Yavtukh was silent; Dorosh himself was taciturn. The night was hellish. The wolves howled in the distance in a whole flock. And the very barking of the dog was somehow terrible.
- It seems as if something else is howling: it's not a wolf, - said Dorosh.
Yavtukh was silent. The philosopher was unable to say anything.
They approached the church and stepped under its dilapidated wooden vaults, which showed how little the owner of the estate cared about God and his soul. Yavtukh and Dorosh left as before, and the philosopher was left alone. Everything was the same. Everything was in the same menacingly familiar form. He stopped for a minute. In the middle, still as motionless, stood the coffin of the terrible witch. "I'm not afraid, by God, I'm not afraid!" he said, and, still drawing a circle around him, he began to recall all his spells. The silence was terrible; candles fluttered and poured light over the whole church. The philosopher turned over one sheet, then turned over another and noticed that he was reading something completely different from what was written in the book. With fear, he crossed himself and began to sing. This somewhat encouraged him: the reading went on, and the sheets flickered one after another. Suddenly… in the midst of silence… the iron lid of the coffin burst with a crack and a dead man stood up. It was even scarier than the first time. His teeth banged row upon row terribly, his lips twitched in convulsions, and, screeching wildly, spells rushed. A whirlwind rose through the church, icons fell to the ground, broken windows flew from top to bottom. The doors were torn off the hinge, and an innumerable force of monsters flew into God's church. A terrible noise from the wings and from the scratching of the claws filled the whole church. Everything flew and rushed, looking everywhere for the philosopher.
Khoma got the last remnant of hops out of his head. He only crossed himself and read prayers at random. And at the same time, he heard the unclean force rushing around him, almost catching him with the ends of his wings and disgusting tails. He did not have the heart to see them; I only saw how some huge monster stood all along the wall in his tangled hair, as if in a forest; two eyes peered terribly through the net of hair, their eyebrows slightly raised. Above him was something in the air in the form of a huge bubble, with a thousand pincers and scorpion stings stretched out from the middle. Black earth hung on them in tufts. Everyone looked at him, searched and could not see him, surrounded by a mysterious circle.
Bring Viy! follow Wim! - the words of the dead man were heard.
And suddenly there was silence in the church; a wolf's howl was heard in the distance, and soon heavy footsteps were heard, sounding through the church; glancing sideways, he saw that some squat, hefty, clubfoot man was being led. He was all in the black earth. Like sinewy, strong roots, his legs and arms covered with earth stood out. He walked heavily, stumbling every minute. Long eyelids were lowered to the ground. Khoma noticed with horror that his face was iron. He was led under the arms and directly placed to the place where Khoma was standing.
- Raise my eyelids: I can’t see! - Viy said in an underground voice - and the whole host rushed to raise his eyelids.
"Don't look!" whispered some inner voice to the philosopher. He could not bear it and looked.
- Here he is! Viy shouted and pointed an iron finger at him. And everyone, no matter how much, rushed at the philosopher. Breathless, he fell to the ground, and immediately the spirit flew out of him from fear.
There was a rooster cry. This was already the second cry; the dwarfs heard it first. The frightened spirits rushed, at random, through the windows and doors in order to fly out as soon as possible, but it didn’t work: they remained there, stuck in the doors and windows. The priest who entered stopped at the sight of such a disgrace to God's shrine and did not dare to serve a memorial service in such a place. So the church remained forever with monsters stuck in the doors and windows, overgrown with forest, roots, weeds, wild thorns; and no one will find the way to it now.
* * *
When rumors about this reached Kyiv and the theologian Khalyava finally heard about the fate of the philosopher Khoma, he indulged in an hour of thought. During that time, great changes took place with him. Happiness smiled at him: after completing the course of sciences, he was made the bell ringer of the highest bell tower, and he almost always appeared with a broken nose, because the wooden staircase to the bell tower was extremely carelessly made.
“Did you hear what happened to Homoyu?” - said, going up to him, Tiberius Gorobets, who at that time was already a philosopher and wore a fresh mustache.
- So God gave him, - said the ringer Freebie. - Let's go to the tavern and commemorate his soul!
The young philosopher, who, with the ardor of an enthusiast, began to exercise his rights, so that his trousers, and frock coat, and even his hat, reeked of alcohol and tobacco roots, at the same moment expressed his readiness.
- Nice was the man Khoma! - said the bell-ringer, when the lame tavern-keeper placed the third mug in front of him. - He was a noble man! And disappeared for nothing.
“But I know why he disappeared: because he was afraid. And if he was not afraid, then the witch could not do anything with him. You just need to cross yourself and spit on her very tail, then nothing will happen. I already know all this. After all, in Kyiv all the women who sit in the market are all witches.
To this the ringer nodded his head in agreement. But, noticing that his tongue could not utter a single word, he carefully got up from the table and, staggering on both sides, went to hide in the most remote place in the weeds. And he did not forget, according to his former habit, to drag off the old sole from the boot, lying on the bench.
"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 arbitrary, since the author is widely known for his works in which Ukraine and Ukrainians are colorfully, colorfully, 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 Ukrainian; they call him an Orthodox Christian and, on the other hand, the devil and even Satan. Linguists reproach him for "low" themes and rough, incorrect language, and at the same time admire the language of his works - "fantastic" at the intonational and semantic levels. A. S. Pushkin enthusiastically said about the works of the writer: “They amazed me. Here is real gaiety, sincere, unconstrained, without affectation, without stiffness. In such contradictory definitions, it is difficult not to recognize the outstanding writer of the 19th century, N.V. Gogol.
Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol was born on March 20, 1809 in the town of Sorochintsy (on the border of Poltava and Mirgorod districts). Father, Vasily Afanasyevich, served at the Little Russian Post Office. A man of a cheerful nature, 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. Gogol's inner world was largely formed under the influence of his mother, Marya Ivanovna, a Poltava beauty who came from a landowner's family. She gave her son a somewhat unusual religious upbringing, in which spirituality, morality intertwined with superstitions, retold apocalyptic prophecies, fear of the underworld and the inevitable punishment of sinners.
N. Gogol's childhood passed in his native estate Vasilievka. Together with his parents, the boy visited the surrounding villages of the Poltava region: Dikanka, which belonged to the Minister of Internal Affairs V. Kochubey, 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 abilities manifested themselves very early. In his childhood, he began to write poems, which were approved by V. Kapnist, who prophetically remarked on the artistic talent of the future writer: “He will have 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 high school of higher sciences. In the gymnasium theater, he showed himself as a talented actor, performing comic roles. Soon a theater opens in Poltava, directed by Ivan Kotlyarevsky, the founder of Ukrainian dramaturgy. And the artistic taste of N. Gogol is formed and educated on the dramatic work of I. Kotlyarevsky. Together with Gogol, Nestor Kukolnik and Evgen Grebenka studied at the gymnasium.
By the same time, the first creative experiments of the writer belong: the satire “Something about Nizhyn, or the law is not written for fools” (not preserved), poetry and prose. He writes the poem "Hanz Küchelgarten", largely immature, inherited, which was met with harsh and even murderous criticism. Gogol immediately buys up almost the entire print run 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 the gymnasium, Gogol moved to St. Petersburg, but did not get the place he had hoped for, and suddenly left for Germany. Returning to Russia, Gogol confusedly explained this trip (allegedly God told him to go to a foreign land) or referred to problems in his personal life. In reality, he fled from himself, from the divergence of his ideas about life from life itself. At this time, new horizons appear in Gogol's creative activity. He asks his mother in writing to send information about Ukrainian customs, legends, traditions, superstitions. All this subsequently served as material for stories from Little Russian life, which became the beginning of Gogol's literary glory: "Evening on the Eve of Ivan Kupala", "Sorochinsky Fair" and "May Night". In 1831 and 1832 the 1st and 2nd parts of the collection of short stories "Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka" are published. After the release of the book, Gogol became a famous writer. Of great importance for Gogol's creative career was Pushkin's enthusiastically positive review of "Evenings ...". One of the literary critics put it simply: "Genius blessed genius." In the future, N. Gogol creates the books "Mirgorod", "Arabesques", the play "The Inspector General", St. Petersburg stories, the poem "Dead Souls".
Tired of hard 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, strange and fatal phenomena are observed in his life: spleen, withdrawal into himself, alienation. He works hard on Dead Souls, returns to Russia and goes abroad again. Various rumors circulated 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 begin to dance the hopak; walking in one of the parks, Gogol irritably 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 his notes out of his briefcase and threw them into the fireplace, although in the morning he came to the conclusion that he had done this under the influence of an evil spirit. It is also said 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 psychologically the most difficult in his life. He was suddenly seized by the fear of death, he left literary and creative studies and delved into religious reflections. Gogol constantly asked his spiritual father, Father Matthew, to pray for him. One night he distinctly heard voices saying that he would soon die. The depression got worse and worse. And on February 21, 1852, the writer died in a deep spiritual 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 upside down and the coffin lid was scratched.
The life path and worldview of N. Gogol are clearly reflected in his work. The works included in this collection best demonstrate the interweaving of various images and spheres of reality - both material, real (of this world), and spiritual, otherworldly (of 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 place of action in the works is not accidental: Ukraine is a region that is extremely interesting in ethno-cultural, historical and even social terms, 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 intervention of supernatural dark forces in people's lives, and what is mysterious and incomprehensible causes fear - irrational fear, inexplicable, turning into mystical horror. Gogol draws plots from folklore, folk demonology: this is the night on the eve of Ivan Kupala, a sold soul, an enchanted place, a family curse, a devil expelled from hell - while processing in his own unique manner, sometimes squeezing the whole plot down to a few lines, and sometimes building a complete story on it.
The mystical story "Viy" Gogol wrote at the end of 1834. The work was included in the collection of the writer "Mirgorod" (1835).
On our website you can read online a summary of "Viya" chapter by chapter. The presented retelling is suitable for a reader's diary, preparation for a literature lesson.
main characters
Homa Brut seminarian, philosopher I read three nights of prayer over the deceased pannochka-witch; "had a cheerful disposition."
Pannochka- a witch, the daughter of a centurion, Khoma read prayers over her dead body.
centurion- a rich man, the father of a pannochka-witch, "already elderly", about 50 years old.
Other characters
Freebie- the theologian (then the bell ringer), Khoma's friend.
Tibery Gorobets- rhetorician (then philosopher), Khoma's friend.
Viy- Slavic demonic creature with centuries to the ground.
The most solemn event for the Kyiv seminary was the vacancies (holidays), when all the seminarians were sent home. The Bursaks walked in a crowd along the road, gradually dispersing to the sides. Somehow, “during such a journey, three bursaks” - the theologian Khalyava, the philosopher Khoma Brut and the rhetorician Tiberius Gorobets decided to go to the nearest farm on the way to stock up on provisions. The old woman let the seminarians in and placed them separately.
The philosopher Homa was about to go to bed when the hostess came in. Her eyes burned with "some unusual brilliance." Khoma realized that he could not move. The old woman jumped on the back of the philosopher, “hit him on the side with a broom, and he, bouncing like a riding horse, carried her on his shoulders.” Khoma realized that the old woman was a witch, and began to read prayers and spells against the spirits. When the old woman weakened, he jumped out from under her, jumped on her back and began to beat with a log. The witch screamed, gradually weakened and fell to the ground. It began to get light, and the philosopher saw a beautiful woman in front of him instead of a witch. “Homa trembled like a tree leaf” and started running at full speed to Kyiv.
Rumors spread that the daughter of a wealthy centurion returned home all beaten up and, before her death, “expressed a desire that the funeral and prayers for her” be read for three days by the Kyiv seminarian Khoma Brut. A carriage and six Cossacks were sent straight to the seminary for the philosopher. Upon arrival, Khoma was immediately taken to the centurion. When asked by the pan, the philosopher replied that he did not know either his daughter or the reasons for her will. The centurion showed the philosopher the deceased. Brutus, to his horror, realized that this "was the same witch that he killed."
After dinner, Khoma was taken to the church, where there was a coffin with the deceased, and the doors were locked behind Brutus. It seemed to the philosopher that the pannochka was “looking at him with her eyes closed.” Unexpectedly, the dead woman raised her head, then left the coffin and, with her eyes closed, followed the philosopher. In fear, Homa drew a circle around him and began to read prayers and spells against evil spirits. Pannochka was unable to cross the circle and again lay down in the coffin. Suddenly the coffin rose and began to fly around the church, but even so the witch did not cross the outlined circle. “The coffin burst in the middle of the church”, a “blue, greenish” corpse rose from it, but then a rooster crow was heard. The corpse sank into the coffin, and the coffin slammed shut.
Returning to the settlement, Khoma went to bed and after dinner "was completely in good spirits." “But the more time approached evening, the more thoughtful the philosopher became” - “fear lit up in him.”
At night Khoma was again taken to the church. The philosopher immediately drew a circle around himself and began to read. An hour later, he looked up and saw that "the corpse was already standing in front of him on the very line." The deceased began to utter some terrible words - the philosopher realized that "she cast spells." The wind went through the church, and something beat into the glass of the church windows, trying to get inside. Finally, a cock crow was heard in the distance, and everything stopped.
Those who came in to replace the philosopher found him barely alive - during the night Khoma turned gray all over. Brutus asked the centurion for permission not to go to church on the third night, but the pan threatened him and ordered him to continue.
Arriving at the church, the philosopher again drew a circle and began to read prayers. Suddenly, in silence, the iron lid of the coffin burst with a crack. The deceased got up and began to cast spells. “A whirlwind rose through the church, icons fell to the ground”, the doors fell off their hinges and “an innumerable force of monsters” flew into the church. At the call of the witch, a “squat, hefty, clumsy man” entered the church, all in black earth and with an iron face. His long eyelids were lowered to the ground. Viy said: “Raise my eyelids: I don’t see!” . An inner voice whispered to the philosopher not to look, but Khoma looked. Viy immediately shouted: “Here he is!” , and pointed at the philosopher with an iron finger. All evil spirits rushed to Brutus. “Lifeless, he fell to the ground, and immediately the spirit flew out of him from fear.”
There was a second rooster crow - the first evil spirits listened. The spirits rushed to run away, but could not get out. “So the church remained forever with monsters stuck in the doors and windows,” overgrown with forest and weeds, “and no one will find a way to it now.”
Rumors about what had happened reached Kyiv. Freebie and Gorobets went to commemorate Khoma's soul in a tavern. During the conversation, Gorobets said that Khoma disappeared "because he was afraid."
Conclusion
The story of N.V. Gogol "Viy" is usually attributed to the prose of romanticism. In the story, the fantastic, romantic world is presented exclusively at night, while the real world is daytime. At the same time, Khoma himself is not a classic romantic hero - he has a lot from the layman, he is not opposed to the crowd.
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Retelling rating
Average rating: 4.7. Total ratings received: 359.
Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol is a famous Russian writer. His works are familiar to us from the school bench. We all remember his "Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka", "Dead Souls" and other famous creations. In 1835, Gogol finished his mystical story Viy. The summary of the work presented in this article will help to refresh the main points of the plot. The story stands apart in the work of the writer. Viy is an ancient Slavic demonic creature. It could kill with just one look. His image was embodied in his story by Gogol. The work "Viy" at one time was not appreciated by critics. Belinsky called the story "fantastic", devoid of useful content. But Nikolai Vasilyevich himself attached great importance to this work. He remade it several times, removing 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 Kyiv Seminary is vacancies, when all students go home. They go home in groups, earning money along the way with spiritual chants. Three bursaks: the philosopher Khoma Brut, the theologian Freebie and the rhetorician Tiberius Gorodets - go astray. At night, they go out to an abandoned farm, where they knock on the first hut with a request to be allowed to spend the night. The hostess, the old woman, agrees to let them in on the condition that they lie down in different places. She determines Khoma Brutus to spend the night in an empty sheepshed. Not having time to close his eyes, the student sees an old woman entering him. Her gaze seems sinister to him. He understands that before him is a witch. The old woman comes up to him and quickly jumps on his shoulders. Before the philosopher has time to come to his senses, 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 at the same time. Having chosen the moment, he slips out from under the cursed witch, sits on her and begins to walk around her with a log. Exhausted, the old woman falls to the ground, and the philosopher continues to beat her. Groans are heard, and Khoma Brut sees that a young beauty is lying in front of him. In fear, he runs away.
"Viy", Gogol (summary): development of events
Soon the rector of the seminary calls Khoma to him and informs him that a rich centurion from a distant farm has sent a wagon and six healthy Cossacks for him to take the seminarian to read prayers over his deceased daughter, who returned from a beaten walk. When the bursak is brought to the farm, the centurion asks him where he could meet his daughter. After all, the lady's last wish is for the seminarian Khoma Brut to read the waste paper on her. Bursak says he does not know his daughter. But when he sees her in a coffin, he notes with fear that this is the same witch whom he was guarding with a log. At dinner, the villagers tell Khoma different stories about the dead lady. Many of them noticed that hell was going on with her. By nightfall, the seminarian is taken to the church where the coffin stands, and they lock him up there. Approaching the kliros, Khoma draws a protective circle around him and begins to recite prayers aloud. By midnight, the witch rises from the coffin and tries to find the bursak. The protective circle prevents her from doing so. Khoma reads prayers with his last breath. Then a rooster crow is heard, and the witch returns to the coffin. Its lid closes. 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 the church and lock him up. There, Khoma, before he had time to draw a circle, sees that the witch has risen from the coffin again and walks around the church - looking for him. She casts spells. But the circle again does not allow her to catch the philosopher. Brutus hears how an uncountable army of evil spirits is breaking into the church. With the last of his strength, he reads prayers. A cock crow is heard, and everything disappears. In the morning Khoma is taken out of the church gray-haired.
"Viy", Gogol (summary): denouement
The time has come for the third night of prayer reading by the seminarian in the church. All the same circle protects Homa. The witch is on a rampage. bursting into the church, trying to find and seize the bursak. The latter continues to read prayers, trying not to look at the spirits. Then the witch shouts: "Bring Viy!" Walking heavily, a squat monster with large eyelids covering his eyes enters the church. An inner voice tells Khoma that it is impossible to look at Viy. The monster demands that his eyelids be opened. Evil spirits rush to carry out this order. The seminarian, unable to resist, casts a glance at Viy. He notices him and points at him with an iron finger. All evil spirits rush to Homa, who immediately gives up the spirit. A cock crow is heard. The monsters rush out of the church. But this is the second cry, the first they did not hear. The evil spirit does not have time to leave. The church remains standing with the evil spirit stuck in the cracks. No one else will come here. After all these events, Freebie and Tiberius Gorodets, having learned about the plight of Khoma, commemorate the soul of the departed. They conclude that he died from fear.
The work "Viy" is not included in the compulsory program for the study of literature in secondary schools. But we are very interested in it. This mystical story allows you to immerse yourself in the atmosphere of ancient fairy tale legends (here is a brief retelling of it). "Viy" Gogol wrote more than a century and a half ago. Then the work caused a lot of rumors and conversations. Nowadays, it is read with no less trepidation.
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Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol
I. F. Annensky
On the forms of the fantastic in Gogol
Speech read at the annual act of the Gurevich gymnasium on September 15, 1890 (Excerpt)
... We will take Viy as a representative of the fantastic form from Gogol. The main psychological motive of this story is fear. Fear is twofold: fear of the strong and fear of the mysterious - mystical fear. So here it is precisely mystical fear that is depicted.
The author's goal, as he himself says in a note, is to tell the legend he heard about Wii as simply as possible. Tradition is indeed conveyed simply, but if you analyze this story, which develops so naturally and freely, you will see the complex mental work and see how immeasurably far it is from tradition. A poetic creation is like a flower: simple in appearance, but in reality it is infinitely more complicated than any steam locomotive or chronometer.
The poet had first of all to make the reader feel that mystical fear, which served as the psychic basis of the legend. The phenomenon of death, the idea of life after the grave, has always been especially willingly colored by fantasy. The thought and imagination of several thousand generations rushed intently and hopelessly into the eternal questions of life and death, and this intent and hopeless work left in the human soul one powerful feeling - the fear of death and the dead. This feeling, while remaining the same in its essence, changes infinitely in the forms and groupings of those representations with which it is associated. We must be introduced into the realm, if not one that produced tradition (its roots often run too deep), then at least one that supports and nourishes it. Gogol points at the end of the story to the ruins, the memory of the death of Khoma Brutus. Probably, these decayed and mysterious ruins, overgrown with forest and weeds, were precisely the impetus that prompted the fantasy to produce a legend about Viya in this form. But, in order to become artistic as well, tradition had to be placed on an everyday and psychic basis.
The first part of the story seems to constitute an episode in the story. But this is only apparently - in fact, it is an organic part of the story. Here we can see the environment in which the tradition was supported and flourished. This Wednesday is bursa. Bursa peculiar status in statu 1
State within a state (lat.).
The Cossacks on the school bench, always starving, physically strong, with courage, hardened by a rod, terribly indifferent to everything except physical strength and pleasures: scholastic, incomprehensible science, sometimes in the form of some unbearable appendage to existence, sometimes transferring into the metaphysical world and mysterious.
On the other hand, the bursak is close to the people's environment: his mind is often full of naive ideas about nature and superstitions under the bark of learning; romantic vacation wanderings further maintain the connection with nature, with the common people and the legend.
Khoma Brut believes in devilry, like Yavtukh and Dorosh 2
Yavtukh and Dorosh are characters from the story "Viy".
But he is still a scientist. The monk, who had seen witches and unclean spirits all his life, taught him spells. His fantasy was brought up under the influence of various images of hellish torments, diabolical temptations, painful visions of ascetics and ascetics. In the environment of naive mythical traditions among the people, he, a bookish person, introduces a bookish element - a written tradition. Here we see a manifestation of that primordial interaction of literacy and nature, which created the motley world of our folk literature.
What kind of person is Khoma Brut? Gogol generally liked to portray average ordinary people, what this philosopher is like.
Homa Brut is a fine fellow, strong, indifferent, careless, loves to eat well and drinks cheerfully and good-naturedly. He is a direct person: his tricks, when, for example, he wants to take time off from his business or run away, are rather naive. He lies somehow without trying; there is no expansiveness in him - he is too lazy even for that. With rare skill, Gogol placed this indifferent person at the center of his fears: it took a lot of horrors for them to finish off Khoma Brut and the poet could unfold the whole terrible chain of devilry in front of his hero.
Let's just follow how the feeling of fear gradually thickens in the story.
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