Evenings on a farm near Dikanka full content. Nikolay Gogol
Sorochinskaya fair
The action takes place at a fair in the town of Sorochynets. Residents of surrounding villages gather for it. Solopiy Cherevik and his daughter Paraska come to the fair. At the fair, a boy wooes her, Cherevik agrees, but his wife opposed such a hasty decision. At the fair, a red scroll is noticed - a symbol of a curse. According to legend, every year the devil in the guise of a pig looks for a scroll at the fair. Cherevik began to tell this story to his guests, when suddenly a window frame broke in the house and a pig’s face appeared. Everything in the house was mixed up, the guests fled.
The evening before Ivan bathed. A true story told by the sexton of the *** church.
The beautiful daughter of the Cossack Korzha fell in love with the boy Petrus. But Korzh drove him away. And it was decided to marry the daughter to a rich Pole. Petrus meets Basavryuk in a tavern. As it turned out, he turned into a man in order to tear off treasures with the help of young people. Petrus, not knowing, agrees to help him find a fern flower on the night of Ivan Kupala. As a result, Petrus encounters all sorts of evil spirits and witches in the forest. After this he begins to go crazy. People who once ran to Petrus’s house find only ashes in his place. In it, the local commissioner orders consent to Levko’s marriage to Hanna.
May night, or drowned woman
The story is about two lovers - Hanna and Levka. His father is against the marriage. Levko tells the girl a story about a young lady who was not loved by her witch stepmother. Pannochka threw herself into the water and became the leader over the drowned women. Levko says goodbye to Ganna. After some time in the darkness, he hears a conversation between his lover and a man who scolds Levko. The stranger turns out to be his father. Levko and the boys decide to teach him a lesson. A stone flies into the house towards the head. Instead of the instigator, Kalenik was caught by mistake. And the hero goes to the lady’s house, sings a song and agrees to play a game. He unmistakably distinguishes a witch among drowned women. As a reward from the lady he receives a note addressed to his father-head.
Christmas Eve
Christmas Eve traditional time for carols. All the young boys and girls are taking to the streets. The blacksmith Vakula is in love with the daughter of the Cossack Chub, who is quite rich. The devil, who hates the blacksmith, steals the moon in the hope that he will not go to Oksana in the dark. Vakula nevertheless goes to Chub’s house, where the beautiful Oksana mocks him. She declares that she will become the blacksmith’s wife if he brings her little slippers like the queen’s. Chance helps Vakula. He manages to catch the devil. He orders him to take him to St. Petersburg for some little slippers. The blacksmith manages to get a reception from the queen, she gives him the treasured shoes. The whole village rejoices at Vakula’s return, and he marries Oksana.
Terrible revenge
Many guests gathered at the wedding of the son of Yesaul Gorobets. Among them are Danilo Burulbash with his wife Katerina and little son. At the height of the wedding, Gorobets brought out two icons to bless the newlyweds. At that moment a sorcerer appeared in the crowd, but immediately disappeared, frightened by the icons. The next day, when the heroes returned home, Katerina tells her husband about her dream that her father was a sorcerer. Danilo decides to check on his father-in-law and watches him in his house. The fears are confirmed, the sorcerer is chained in the basement, and Katerina renounces him. But, having pity, he lets him go. The Poles help the sorcerer, they burn the surrounding area, and Danilo is killed in the battle. Then the sorcerer, coming to Katerina in a different guise, kills her. The sorcerer then goes to the Carpathians, but he himself suffers death along the way.
Ivan Fedorovich Shponka and his aunt
Ivan Fedorovich Shponka, who served in an infantry regiment, receives news from his aunt that she is no longer able to look after the estate. The hero receives his resignation and goes to Gadyach. On the way to the tavern, the hero meets Grigory Storchenko. The aunt, whose meeting turned out to be very warm, sends Ivan Fedorovich to Khortyn for a deed of gift. There he again meets his friend Storchenko, who should have the document for the estate. Storchenko tries to assure Shponka that there was no deed of gift. The hospitable owner tries to divert the conversation to other topics and introduces Ivan Fedorovich to his young ladies-sisters. Returning to her aunt, Shponka tells her about the quirky Storchenko. The relatives decide to go to him together.
Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol
Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka
Stories published by pasichnik Rudy Panko
Part one
Preface
“What kind of unprecedented thing is this: “Evenings on a farm near Dikanka”? What are these “Evenings”? And some beekeeper threw it into the light! God bless! They haven’t yet stripped the geese of their feathers and turned their rags into paper! There are still a few people, of all ranks and rabble, who have their fingers dirty in ink! The hunt also drove the beekeeper to drag himself after the others! Really, there’s so much printed paper that you can’t quickly think of anything to wrap it in.”
My prophetic listened, heard all these speeches for another month! That is, I say that our brother, the farmer, should stick his nose out of his remote place in big light- my fathers! It’s just like what happens sometimes when you go into the chambers of a great master: everyone surrounds you and starts to fool you. It would be nothing, let it be the highest lackey, no, some ragged boy, look - rubbish, who is digging in the back yard, and he will pester; and they will start stamping their feet from all sides. “Where, where, why? let's go, man, let's go!.." I'll tell you... But what can I say! It’s easier for me to go twice a year to Mirgorod, where neither the judge from the zemstvo court nor the venerable priest have seen me for five years, than to appear in this great world. But he showed up - don’t cry, give me an answer.
Here, my dear readers, don’t say this in anger (you may be angry that the beekeeper speaks to you simply, as if to some matchmaker or godfather), - here on our farms it has long been the custom: as soon as work in the field will end, the man will climb up to rest on the stove for the whole winter, and our brother will hide his bees in a dark cellar, when you no longer see cranes in the sky or pears on the tree - then, only in the evening, probably somewhere in the end The streets are lit with lights, laughter and songs are heard from afar, the balalaika is strumming, and sometimes the violin, talking, noise... These are our vespers! They are, if you please, similar to your balls; I just can’t say that at all. If you go to balls, it is precisely to twirl your legs and yawn in your hand; and here a crowd of girls will gather in one hut, not at all for a ball, with a spindle, with combs; and at first they seem to be busy: the spindles are noisy, songs are flowing, and each one does not even raise an eye to the side; but as soon as the couples with the violinist come into the hut, a scream will rise, a shawl will start, dancing will begin and such things will happen that it is impossible to tell.
But it’s best when everyone huddles together in a tight group and starts asking riddles or just chatting. My God! What they won’t tell you! Where antiquities won't be dug up! What fears will not be caused! But nowhere, perhaps, were so many wonders told as at the evenings with the beekeeper Rudy Panka. Why the laity called me Rudy Pank - by God, I don’t know how to say. And it seems that my hair is now more gray than red. But we, if you please, do not get angry, have this custom: when people give someone a nickname, it will remain forever and ever. It used to be that on the eve of a holiday, good people would gather for a visit, in Pasichnik’s shack, sit down at the table, and then I ask you to just listen. And that is to say that the people were not at all just a dozen, not some peasant peasants. Yes, maybe someone else, even higher than the beekeeper, would have been honored by a visit. For example, do you know the clerk of the Dikan church, Foma Grigorievich? Eh, head! What kind of stories he could tell! You will find two of them in this book. He never wore a motley robe, such as you will see on many village sextons; but come to him on weekdays, he will always receive you in a robe made of fine cloth, the color of chilled potato jelly, for which in Poltava he paid almost six rubles per arshin. From his boots, no one in our whole village can say that the smell of tar can be heard; but everyone knows that he cleaned them with the best lard, which, I think, some man would happily put in his porridge. No one will also say that he ever wiped his nose with the hem of his robe, as other people of his rank do; but he took out from his bosom a neatly folded white handkerchief, embroidered along all the edges with red thread, and, having corrected what needed to be done, folded it again, as usual, into a twelfth share and hid it in his bosom. And one of the guests... Well, he was already so panicked that he could at least now dress up as an assessor or sub-committee. Sometimes he would put his finger in front of him and, looking at the end of it, would go on to tell a story - pretentiously and cunningly, like in printed books! Sometimes you listen and listen, and then thoughts come over you. For the life of me, you don’t understand anything. Where did he get those words from! Foma Grigorievich once wove him a nice tale about this: he told him how one schoolboy, learning to read and write from some clerk, came to his father and became such a Latin scholar that he even forgot our Orthodox language. All words are twisted. His shovel is a shovel, his woman is a babus. So, it happened one day, they went with their father to the field. The Latin guy saw the rake and asked his father: “What do you think this is called, dad? “Yes, and with his mouth open, he stepped on the teeth. He didn’t have time to compose himself with an answer when the hand, swinging, rose and grabbed him on the forehead. “Damn rake! - the schoolboy shouted, grabbing his forehead with his hand and jumping an arshin, - how, the devil would push their father off the bridge, they fight painfully! So that's how it is! I also remembered the name, my dear! The intricate storyteller did not like such a saying. Without saying a word, he stood up, spread his legs in the middle of the room, bent his head a little forward, stuck his hand into the back pocket of his pea caftan, pulled out a round, varnished snuff-box, snapped his finger on the painted face of some Busurman general, and, taking a considerable a portion of tobacco, ground with ash and lovage leaves, brought it to his nose with a yoke and pulled out the whole pile with his nose on the fly, without even touching thumb, – and still not a word; Yes, when I reached into another pocket and took out a blue checkered paper handkerchief, then I just muttered to myself almost a proverb: “Don’t throw your pearls before swine”... “Now there will be a quarrel,” I thought, noticing that Foma’s fingers Grigoryevich was just about to get hit. Fortunately, my old woman thought of putting a hot knish with butter on the table. Everyone got down to business. Foma Grigorievich’s hand, instead of showing the shish, reached out to the knish, and, as always, they began to praise the craftswoman and hostess. We also had one storyteller; but he (there’s no point in even remembering him by nightfall) dug up such terrible stories that the hairs were running all over his head. I didn't put them here on purpose. You'll still scare me good people so that, God forgive me, everyone will be afraid of the beekeeper like the devil. It would be better if I live, God willing, until the new year and publish another book, then it will be possible to fear people from the other world and the divas that happened in the old days in our Orthodox side. Among them, perhaps, you will find the fables of the beekeeper himself, which he told to his grandchildren. If only they listened and read, but I, perhaps, - I’m just too damn lazy to rummage around - can get enough of ten such books.
Yes, that was it, and I forgot the most important thing: when you, gentlemen, come to me, then take the straight path along the main road to Dikanka. I put it on the first page on purpose so that they could get to our farm faster. I think you've heard enough about Dikanka. And that’s to say that the house there is cleaner than some pasichnikov’s kuren. And there’s nothing to say about the garden: you probably won’t find anything like this in your St. Petersburg. Having arrived in Dikanka, just ask the first boy you come across, herding geese in a soiled shirt: “Where does the beekeeper Rudy Panko live?” - “And there!” - he will say, pointing his finger, and, if you want, he will take you to the very farm. I ask, however, not to put your hands back too much and, as they say, to feint, because the roads through our farmsteads are not as smooth as in front of your mansions. In his third year, Foma Grigorievich, coming from Dikanka, came to the hole with his new tarataika and a bay mare, despite the fact that he himself was driving and that from time to time he wore store-bought ones over his own eyes.
But as soon as you come to visit us, we will serve you melons such as you may not have eaten in your life; and honey, and I’ll take care, you won’t find anything better on the farmsteads. Imagine that as soon as you bring in the honeycomb, a spirit will flow throughout the room, it’s impossible to imagine what kind: pure, like a tear or expensive crystal, which happens in earrings. And what kind of pies will my old woman feed me! What pies, if only you knew: sugar, perfect sugar! And the oil just flows over your lips when you start eating. Just think, really: what masters are these women! Have you, gentlemen, ever drunk pear kvass with sloe berries or varenukha with raisins and plums? Or have you ever eaten putra with milk? My God, what kind of dishes there are in the world! If you start eating, you will be full and full. The sweetness is indescribable! Last year... However, why did I really babble?.. Just come, come quickly; and we’ll feed you in such a way that you’ll tell everyone you meet and those who cross you.
Pasichnik Rudy Panko.
Just in case, so that they do not remember me with an unkind word, I am writing down here, in alphabetical order, those words that are not clear to everyone in this book.
Bandu"ra, instrument, type of guitar.
Bato"g, whip
Sore, scrofula.
Cooper, cooper.
Bagel, round pretzel, ram.
Storm"k, beet.
Bukhan"ts, small bread.
Vi"nytsia, distillery.
Galu"shki, dumplings.
Golodra" bets, poor man, poor man.
Gopa"k, Little Russian dance.
Turtle Dove, Little Russian dance.
Di"vchina, young woman.
Divcha" that, girls.
Dija", tub.
Dribu"shki, small braids.
Domovi"on, coffin.
Du"la, shish.
Ducat, a type of medal, worn around the neck.
Zna'choir, knowledgeable, fortune teller.
Zhinka, wife.
Zhupa"n, a type of caftan.
Kagane"ts, a type of lamp.
Rivets, convex planks from which the barrel is made.
Knish, a type of baked bread.
Ko"bza, musical instrument.
Como"ra, barn.
Bark "highlight", headdress.
Kuntu"sh, outer vintage dress.
Cow, wedding bread.
Ku'hol, clay mug.
Bald Didko, brownie, demon.
Cradle, a tube.
Maki"tra, a pot in which poppy seeds are ground.
Makogo"n, pestle for grinding poppy seeds.
Malachy, whip
A bowl, wooden plate.
Youth, married woman.
Na'ymyt, hired worker.
On the "jock", hired worker.
Osele "children, a long tuft of hair on the head, wrapped around the ear.
Eyes", a type of cap.
Pampa"shki, a dish made from dough.
Pa"sichnik, beekeeper.
Pa" felling, boy.
Pla"khta, women's underwear.
Pe'klo, hell
Re-purchase, trader.
Re-pollo"x, fright.
Pe'ysiki, Jewish curls.
Pove"tka, barn
Half-tabe"nek, silk fabric.
Poo"shaking, food, a type of porridge.
Rushni" to, wiper.
Sweet, a kind of half-caftan.
Sindy chicks, narrow ribbons.
People with a sweet tooth, crumpets.
Svo"lok, crossbar under the ceiling.
Slivya"nka, liqueur from plums.
Smoo"shki, lamb fur.
So"nyashnitsa, abdominal pain.
Sopi"lka, a type of flute.
Stus"n, fist.
Haircuts, tapes.
Troycha" weave, triple lash.
Chlo"pets, boy.
Hu"tor, a small village.
Hu"stka, handkerchief.
Tsibu"la, onion.
Chumaks", transporters traveling to Crimea for salt and fish.
Chupri" on,forelock, a long tuft of hair on the head.
Cone, a small bread made at weddings.
Yushka, sauce, slurry.
Yatka, a type of tent or pavilion.
Sorochinskaya fair
I'm bored of living in a house.
Oh, take me from home,
There's a lot of thunder, thunder,
Dear all the wonders,
The boys are walking!
From an ancient legend
How delightful, how luxurious a summer day in Little Russia! How languidly hot are those hours when midday shines in silence and heat and the blue immeasurable ocean, bent over the earth like a voluptuous dome, seems to have fallen asleep, completely drowned in bliss, hugging and squeezing the beautiful one in its airy embrace! There's not a cloud on it. No speech in the field. Everything seemed to have died; only above, in the depths of heaven, a lark trembles, and silver songs fly along the airy steps to the loving land, and occasionally the cry of a seagull or the ringing voice of a quail echoes in the steppe. Lazily and thoughtlessly, as if walking without a goal, the oak trees stand under the clouds, and the dazzling blows sun rays they light up whole picturesque masses of leaves, casting over others a shadow as dark as night, through which gold flecks only in a strong wind. Emeralds, topazes, and jahonts of ethereal insects rain down over the colorful vegetable gardens, overshadowed by stately sunflowers. Gray haystacks and golden sheaves of bread are encamped in the field and wander through its immensity. Wide branches of cherries, plums, apple trees, and pears bent over from the weight of fruit; the sky, its pure mirror - the river in green, proudly raised frames... how full of voluptuousness and bliss the Little Russian summer is!
One of the days of hot August shone with such luxury one thousand eight hundred... eight hundred... Yes, thirty years ago, when the road, about ten miles to the town of Sorochinets, was seething with people hurrying from all the surrounding and distant farmsteads to the fair. In the morning, there was still an endless line of Chumaks with salt and fish. The mountains of pots, wrapped in hay, moved slowly, seemingly bored by their confinement and darkness; in some places only some brightly painted bowl or makitra showed boastfully from a fence perched high on a cart and attracted the tender glances of admirers of luxury. Many passers-by looked with envy at the tall potter, the owner of these jewels, who walked with slow steps behind his wares, carefully wrapping his clay dandies and coquettes in hated hay.
Lonely to the side was a cart, heaped with sacks, hemp, linen and various household luggage, dragged along by exhausted oxen, followed by its owner, in a clean linen shirt and soiled linen trousers. With a lazy hand he wiped away the sweat that was rolling down from his dark face and even dripping from his long mustache, powdered by that inexorable hairdresser who, without being called, appears to both the beauty and the ugly and has been forcibly powdering the entire human race for several thousand years. Next to him walked a mare tied to a cart, whose humble appearance revealed her advanced years. Many people we met, and especially young guys, grabbed their hats when they caught up with our man. However, it was not his gray mustache and his unimportant gait that forced him to do this; you only had to raise your eyes a little upward to see the reason for such respect: sitting on the cart was a pretty daughter with a round face, with black eyebrows, even arches rising above her light brown eyes, with carelessly smiling pink lips, with red and blue ribbons tied on her head, which , together with long braids and a bunch of wild flowers, a rich crown rested on her charming head. Everything seemed to occupy her; everything was wonderful and new to her... and her pretty eyes constantly ran from one object to another. How not to get scattered! first time at the fair! An eighteen-year-old girl at the fair for the first time!.. But not a single one of the passers-by knew what it cost her to beg her father to take with her, who would have been glad to do it with his soul before, if not for the evil stepmother, who learned to hold him in his hands as deftly as he holds the reins of his old mare, which, after a long service, was now being dragged for sale. A restless wife... but we forgot that she was sitting right there at the height of the cart, in an elegant green woolen jacket, on which, as if on ermine fur, there were tails sewn on, only red in color, in a rich plakhta, colorful as Chess board, and in a colored chintz jacket, which gave some special importance to her red, full face, through which slipped something so unpleasant, so wild, that everyone immediately hurried to transfer their alarmed gaze to the cheerful face of their daughter.
Psel has already begun to open to the eyes of our travelers; From a distance there was already a breath of coolness, which seemed more noticeable after the languid, destructive heat. Through the dark and light green leaves of sedge, birch and poplar carelessly scattered across the meadow, fiery sparks, dressed in cold, sparkled, and the beautiful river brilliantly exposed its silver chest, onto which the green curls of the trees luxuriously fell. Willful, as she is in those ecstatic hours when the faithful mirror so enviably captures her forehead, full of pride and dazzling brilliance, her lily-colored shoulders and marble neck, overshadowed by a dark wave that has fallen from her fair-haired head, when with contempt she throws away only her jewelry to replace them others, and there is no end to her whims - she changed her surroundings almost every year, choosing for herself new way and surrounding ourselves with new, diverse landscapes. Rows of mills lifted their wide waves onto heavy wheels and threw them powerfully, breaking them into splashes, sprinkling dust and filling the surrounding area with noise. The cart with the passengers we knew drove onto the bridge at that time, and the river in all its beauty and grandeur, like solid glass, spread out in front of them. The sky, green and blue forests, people, carts with pots, mills - everything overturned, stood and walked upside down, without falling into the beautiful blue abyss. Our beauty became lost in thought, looking at the splendor of the view, and even forgot to peel her sunflower, which she had been regularly doing throughout the entire journey, when suddenly the words: “Oh, what a maiden!” - amazed her ears. Looking around, she saw a crowd of boys standing on the bridge, one of whom, dressed more dapper than the others, in a white scroll and a gray hat of Reshetilovsky smushkas, propped up on his sides, bravely glanced at the passers-by. The beauty could not help but notice his tanned, but full of pleasant face and fiery eyes, which seemed to strive to see right through her, and lowered her eyes at the thought that perhaps the spoken word belonged to him.
- Nice girl! - continued the boy in the white scroll, not taking his eyes off her. “I would give my entire household to kiss her.” But the devil sits ahead!
Laughter arose from all sides; but the dressed-up cohabitant of the slowly speaking husband did not much like such a greeting: her red cheeks turned fiery, and the crackle of choice words rained down on the head of the revelry young man
- May you choke, you worthless barge hauler! May your father get hit in the head with a pot! May he slip on the ice, damned Antichrist! May the devil burn his beard in the next world!
- Look how he swears! - said the boy, widening his eyes at her, as if puzzled by such a strong volley of unexpected greetings, - and her tongue, a hundred-year-old witch, would not hurt to utter these words.
- A hundred years old! – picked up the elderly beauty. - Wicked man! go wash yourself first! Worthless tomboy! I haven’t seen your mother, but I know it’s rubbish! and the father is rubbish! and your aunt is rubbish! Centennial! that he still has milk on his lips...
Then the cart began to descend from the bridge, and last words it was no longer possible to hear; but the boy didn’t seem to want to end it with this: without thinking for long, he grabbed a lump of dirt and threw it after her. The blow was more successful than one might have expected: the entire new calico otchik was splashed with mud, and the laughter of the riotous rakes doubled with renewed vigor. The portly dandy seethed with anger; but the cart had driven quite far at that time, and her revenge turned on her innocent stepdaughter and her slow partner, who, having long been accustomed to such phenomena, maintained stubborn silence and calmly accepted the rebellious speeches of her angry wife. However, despite this, her tireless tongue crackled and dangled in her mouth until they arrived in the suburbs to an old friend and godfather, the Cossack Tsybula. The meeting with the godfathers, who had not seen each other for a long time, temporarily drove this unpleasant incident out of our heads, forcing our travelers to talk about the fair and relax a little after long journey.
What, my God, my Lord! Why is there nothing at that fair! Wheels, sklo, diogot, tyutyun, belt, tsibulya, kramari all sorts of things... so, if you wanted thirty rubles in Kisheni, then you wouldn’t have bought it at the fair.
From a Little Russian comedy
You've probably heard a distant waterfall lying somewhere, when the alarmed surroundings are full of roar and a chaos of wonderful, unclear sounds rushes like a whirlwind in front of you. Isn’t it true, isn’t it the same feelings that will instantly seize you in the whirlwind of a rural fair, when all the people merge into one huge monster and move their whole body in the square and along the narrow streets, screaming, cackling, thundering? Noise, swearing, mooing, bleating, roaring - everything merges into one discordant conversation. Oxen, sacks, hay, gypsies, pots, women, gingerbread, hats - everything is bright, colorful, discordant; rushing about in heaps and scurrying before our eyes. Discordant speeches drown each other, and not a single word can be snatched out or saved from this flood; not a single cry will be spoken clearly. Only the clapping of traders' hands can be heard from all sides of the fair. The cart breaks, the iron clinks, the boards thrown to the ground rattle, and the dizzy one wonders where to turn. Our visiting man with his black-browed daughter had been jostling among the people for a long time. He approached one cart, felt another, applied to the prices; and meanwhile his thoughts were tossing and turning non-stop about the ten sacks of wheat and the old mare he had brought for sale. It was noticeable from his daughter’s face that she was not too pleased to rub around the carts with flour and wheat. She would like to go there, where red ribbons, earrings, tin and copper crosses and ducats are elegantly hung under the linen yats. But even here, however, she found many things to observe: she was extremely amused by the way the gypsy and the peasant beat each other on the hands, crying out in pain; how a drunken Jew gave jelly to a woman; how quarreling buyers exchanged curses and crayfish; like a Muscovite, stroking his goat beard with one hand, with the other... But then she felt someone tug her by the embroidered sleeve of her shirt. She looked around - and a boy in a white scroll, with bright eyes, stood in front of her. Her veins trembled, and her heart beat as never before, with any joy or sorrow: it seemed wonderful and loving to her, and she herself could not explain what was happening to her.
Kramarenko Alexander
The material contains the history of the creation of the work and presentation.
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The history of the creation of the stories “Evenings on a farm near Dikanka”(slide 1)
1. As you know, Gogol spent his childhood years near the village of Dikanka.(slide 2) This place is unique; many consider it mystical. Ukraine has always been distinguished by its special flavor.
2. Gogol had a bold idea - to write a series of stories on Ukrainian themes.(slide 3) . The writer began working on it in 1829, and in 1831 the first book “Evenings...” was published, and a year later the second. The result is an amazing collection of stories about a beautiful place in Ukraine.
1. It includes 8 works,(slide 4) which are divided into 2 books. The first includedSorochinskaya fair , The evening before Ivan Kupala , May Night or Drowned Woman , And Missing certificate .
In the second - A terrible revenge, Ivan Fedorovich and his aunt, An Enchanted Place and the Night Before Christmas.
2. It is known that the writer used not only Ukrainian historical legends, (slide5) which his family and friends helped him collect, but also other sources.
1. Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka was met with positive reviews from critics. They noted the diversity, brightness, amazing humor, National character and folk legends.(slide 6) A.S. Pushkin wrote: “I just read Evenings near Dikanka. They amazed me. This is real gaiety, sincere, relaxed, without affectation, without stiffness. And in places what poetry!..”
2. The action of the works is free(slide 7) moves from the 19th century to the 17th, and then to the 18th, and again to the 17th, and again takes us back to the 19th.
Gogol conveyed genuine gaiety, simplicity and truthfulness in his stories.
Gogol's humor (slide 8) makes us laugh, because humor is the depiction of heroes in a funny way, cheerful, friendly laughter. Even evil forces are depicted not as scary, but as funny. This can be especially observed in the story “The Night Before Christmas”.
1. In this story Gogol(slide 9) how impossible it is to accurately describe life, outfits, Ukrainian folklore that time. The writer was inspired by popular beliefs,(slide 10) associated with this holiday, because it is on the night before Christmas that a wide variety of miracles happen.
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The history of the creation of “Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka”
Ukraine is amazing, unique, mystical place. Covered with various beliefs and traditions.
The writer began working on a series of stories in 1829, and in 1831. The first book, Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka, was published, and a year later the second book was published. The result is an amazing collection of stories.
First book: 1. Sorochinskaya Fair 2. The Evening on the Eve of Ivan Kupala 3. May Night or the Drowned Woman 4. The Missing Letter Second Book: 1. Terrible Revenge 2. Ivan Fedorovich and his Aunt 3. The Enchanted Place 4. The Night Before Christmas
Gogol and relatives. Gogol among friends Friends and relatives helped the writer collect historical legends.
“I just read Evenings near Dikanka. They amazed me. This is real gaiety, sincere, relaxed, without affectation, without stiffness. And in some places what poetry!..." A.S. Pushkin
XIX XVIII XVIII XIX
Gogol's Humor Humor is a depiction of Heroes in a funny way, laughter is more fun, friendly.
"Christmas Eve"
"Evenings on a farm near Dikanka - 01 Preface"
Stories published by pasichnik Rudy Panko
Part one
Preface
“What kind of unprecedented thing is this: “Evenings on a farm near Dikanka”? What kind of “Evenings” is this? And some beekeeper threw it into the light! Thank God! They haven’t stripped the geese for their feathers yet and put their rags on paper! There are still few people, all kinds of ranks and rabble, with their fingers stained in ink! And the beekeeper was tempted to drag himself along after the others! Really, there is so much printed paper that you can’t quickly think of something to wrap it in.”
My prophetic listened, heard all these speeches for another month! That is, I say that our brother, the farmer, should stick his nose out of his remote place into the big world - my fathers! It’s just like what happens sometimes when you go into the chambers of a great master: everyone surrounds you and starts to fool you. It would be nothing, let it be the highest lackey, no, some ragged boy, look - rubbish, who is digging in the back yard, and he will pester; and they will start stamping their feet from all sides. “Where, where, why? went, man, went!..” I’ll tell you... But what can I say! It’s easier for me to go twice a year to Mirgorod, where neither the judge from the zemstvo court nor the venerable priest have seen me for five years, than to appear in this great world. But it seemed - don’t cry, give me an answer.
Here, my dear readers, don’t be told in anger (you may be angry that the beekeeper speaks to you simply, as if to some matchmaker or godfather), - here on our farms it has long been the custom: as soon as the work in the field will end, the man will climb up to rest on the stove for the whole winter, and our brother will hide his bees in a dark cellar, when you no longer see cranes in the sky or pears on the tree - then, just evening, probably somewhere in the end The streets are lit with lights, laughter and songs are heard from afar, the balalaika is strumming, and sometimes the violin, talking, noise... These are our vespers! They are, if you please, similar to your balls; I just can’t say that at all. If you go to balls, it is precisely to twirl your legs and yawn in your hand; and here a crowd of girls will gather in one hut, not at all for a ball, with a spindle, with combs; and at first they seem to be busy: the spindles are noisy, songs are flowing, and each one does not even raise an eye to the side; but as soon as the couple with the violinist arrives at the hut, a scream will rise, a shawl will start, dancing will begin and such things will happen that it is impossible to tell.
But it’s best when everyone huddles together in a tight group and starts asking riddles or just chatting. My God! What they won’t tell you! Where antiquities won't be dug up! What fears will not be caused! But nowhere, perhaps, were so many wonders told as at the evenings with the beekeeper Rudy Panka. Why the laity called me Rudy Pank - by God, I don’t know how to say. And it seems that my hair is now more gray than red. But we, if you please, do not get angry, have this custom: when people give someone a nickname, it will remain forever and ever. It used to be that on the eve of a holiday, good people would gather for a visit, in Pasichnik’s shack, sit down at the table - and then I ask you to just listen. And that is to say that the people were not at all just a dozen, not some peasant peasants. Yes, maybe someone else, even higher than the beekeeper, would have been honored by a visit. For example, do you know the clerk of the Dikan church, Foma Grigorievich? Eh, head! What kind of stories he could tell! You will find two of them in this book. He never wore a motley robe, such as you will see on many village sextons; but come to him on weekdays, he will always receive you in a robe made of fine cloth, the color of chilled potato jelly, for which in Poltava he paid almost six rubles per arshin. From his boots, no one in our whole village can say that the smell of tar can be heard; but everyone knows that he cleaned them with the best lard, which, I think, some man would happily put in his porridge. No one will also say that he ever wiped his nose with the hem of his robe, as other people of his rank do; but he took out from his bosom a neatly folded white handkerchief, embroidered along all the edges with red thread, and, having corrected what needed to be done, folded it again, as usual, into a twelfth and hid it in his bosom. And one of the guests... Well, he was already so panicked that he could at least now dress up as an assessor or subcommittee. Sometimes he would put his finger in front of him and, looking at the end of it, would go on to tell a story - pretentiously and cunningly, like in printed books! Sometimes you listen and listen, and then thoughts come over you. For the life of me, you don’t understand anything. Where did he get those words from! Foma Grigorievich once wove him a nice tale about this: he told him how one schoolboy, learning to read and write from some clerk, came to his father and became such a Latin scholar that he even forgot our Orthodox language. All words are twisted. His shovel is a spade, his woman is a babus. So, it happened one day, they went with their father to the field. The Latin guy saw the rake and asked his father: “What do you think it’s called, dad? “Yes, and with his mouth open, he stepped on the teeth with his foot. He didn’t have time to compose himself with an answer when the hand, swinging, rose and grabbed him on the forehead. “Damned rake!” - the schoolboy shouted, grabbing his forehead with his hand and jumping an arshin, “how the devil would have pushed their father off the bridge, they fight painfully!” So that’s how! I also remembered the name, my dear! Such a saying did not please the intricate storyteller. Without saying a word, he stood up, spread his legs in the middle of the room, bent his head a little forward, stuck his hand into the back pocket of his pea caftan, pulled out a round varnished snuff-box, snapped his finger on the painted face of some Busurman general and, taking a considerable portion tobacco, ground with ash and lovage leaves, brought it to his nose with a yoke and pulled out the whole pile with his nose on the fly, without even touching his thumb - and still not a word; but when he reached into another pocket and took out a blue checkered paper handkerchief, then I just muttered to myself, almost like a proverb: “Don’t throw pearls before swine”... “Now there will be a quarrel,” I thought, noticing that Foma Grigoryevich’s fingers were just about to kick the gun. Fortunately, my old woman guessed Place a hot knish with butter on the table. Everyone got down to business. Foma Grigorievich’s hand, instead of showing the shish, reached out to the knish, and, as always, they began to praise the craftswoman and hostess. We also had one storyteller; but he (there’s no point in even remembering him by nightfall) dug up such terrible stories that the hairs were running all over his head. I didn't put them here on purpose. You will also scare good people so much that, God forgive me, everyone will be afraid of the beekeeper like the devil. It would be better if I live, God willing, until the new year and publish another book, then it will be possible to fear people from the other world and the divas that happened in the old days in our Orthodox side. Among them, perhaps, you will find the fables of the beekeeper himself, which he told to his grandchildren. If only they listened and read, and I, perhaps, - I’m just too damn lazy to rummage through - can get enough of ten such books.
Yes, that was it, and I forgot the most important thing: when you, gentlemen, come to me, then take the straight path along the main road to Dikanka. I put it on the first page on purpose so that they could get to our farm faster. I think you've heard enough about Dikanka. And that’s to say that the house there is cleaner than some pasichnikov’s kuren. And there’s nothing to say about the garden: you probably won’t find anything like this in your St. Petersburg. Having arrived in Dikanka, just ask the first boy you come across, herding geese in a soiled shirt: “Where does the beekeeper Rudy Panko live?” - “And there it is!” - he will say, pointing his finger, and, if you want, he will take you to the very farm. I ask, however, not to put your hands back too much and, as they say, to feint, because the roads through our farmsteads are not as smooth as in front of your mansions. In his third year, Foma Grigorievich, coming from Dikanka, came to the hole with his new tarataika and a bay mare, despite the fact that he himself was driving and that from time to time he wore store-bought ones over his own eyes.
But as soon as you come to visit us, we will serve you melons such as you may not have eaten in your life; and honey, and I’ll take care, you won’t find anything better on the farmsteads. Imagine that as soon as you bring in the honeycomb, a spirit will flow throughout the room, it’s impossible to imagine what kind: pure, like a tear or expensive crystal, which happens in earrings. And what kind of pies will my old woman feed me! What pies, if only you knew: sugar, perfect sugar! And the oil just flows over your lips when you start eating. Just think, really: what masters are these women! Have you, gentlemen, ever drunk pear kvass with sloe berries or varenukha with raisins and plums? Or have you ever eaten putra with milk? My God, what kind of dishes there are in the world! If you start eating, you will be full and full. The sweetness is indescribable! Last year... However, why did I really blab?.. Just come, come quickly; and we’ll feed you in such a way that you’ll tell everyone you meet and those who cross you.
Pasichnik Rudy Panko.
Just in case, so that they do not remember me with an unkind word, I am writing down here, in alphabetical order, those words that are not clear to everyone in this book.
Bandu "ra, instrument, type of guitar.
Bato"g, whip.
Pain, scrofula.
Bo'ndar, cooper.
Boo "blick, round pretzel, ram.
Storm "k, beets.
Bukhane"ts, small bread.
Vinnitsa, distillery.
Galushki, dumplings.
Hungry man, poor man, poor man.
Gopa"k, Little Russian dance.
Turtle-dove, Little Russian dance.
Di "vchina, girl.
Girlish, girls.
Dija", tub.
Dribushki, small braids.
Domovi"na, coffin.
Du'la, shish.
Duka"t, a type of medal, is worn around the neck.
Knowing choir, knowledgeable, sorceress.
Zhinka, wife.
Zhupa"n, a type of caftan.
Kagan"ts, a kind of lamp.
Staves, convex planks, from which the barrel is made.
Knish, a type of baked bread.
Ko"bza, musical instrument.
Como"ra, barn.
Bark "highlight, headdress.
Kuntu"sh, ancient outer dress.
Cow, wedding bread.
Ku'khol, clay mug.
Bald didko, brownie, demon.
Luka, tube.
Maki'tra, a pot in which poppy seeds are ground.
Makogo'n, pestle for grinding poppy seeds.
Malachy, whip.
Mi"ska, wooden plate.
Young, married woman.
Na'imyt, hired worker.
Na"ymychka, hired worker.
A donkey, a long tuft of hair on his head, wrapped around his ear.
Ochi"pok, a kind of cap.
Pampu"shki, a dish made from dough.
Pasichnik, beekeeper.
Let's cut it, guy.
Pla"khta, women's underwear.
Pe'klo, hell.
Re-purchase, trader.
Frightened, frightened.
Little pees, Jewish curls.
Povetka, barn.
Half-tabe, silk fabric.
Pu "shaking, food, a kind of porridge.
Rushni"k, wiper.
Sweater, a kind of half-caftan.
Sindy chicks, narrow ribbons.
Sweets, donuts.
Svo"lok, crossbar under the ceiling.
Slivyanka, plum liqueur.
Smokka, mutton fur.
Sore throat, abdominal pain.
Sopi"lka, a type of flute.
Stus"n, fist.
Haircuts, ribbons.
Troycha weave, triple lash.
Damn it, guy.
Khutor, a small village.
Hu"stka, handkerchief.
Tsibu'la, onion.
Chumaks,” transport workers traveling to the Crimea for salt and fish.
Chupri"na, forelock, a long tuft of hair on the head.
Shi"shka, a small bread made at weddings.
Yushka, sauce, slurry.
Yatka, a type of tent or tent.
Nikolai Gogol - Evenings on a farm near Dikanka - 01 Preface, read the text
See also Gogol Nikolai - Prose (stories, poems, novels...):
Evenings on a farm near Dikanka - 02 Sorochinskaya Fair
I find it boring to live in my house. Oh, take me out of the house, there's a lot of thunder...
Evenings on a farm near Dikanka - 03 Evening on the eve of Ivan Kupala
A true story told by the sexton of the church Foma Grigorievich was haunted...
“Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka” was written by Gogol in 1829-1832. The appearance of Gogol's Ukrainian stories, in which he addressed folk theme, stories that REVEALED “a new, unprecedented world of art” (V. G. Belinsky, vol. III, p. 504), was due to both the general development of Russian aesthetic thought, as well as some significant circumstances in the life of a beginning writer.
The interest of advanced Russian literature in the life of the people, in the historical past and folklore intensified under the influence of the patriotic upsurge during the Patriotic War of 1812. Throughout the 20s in progressive literary circles thoughts have been repeatedly expressed that the features of nationality and national identity are expressed most fully in the history of a people, in folk art. “Domestic morals, chronicles, songs and folk tales are the best, purest, most reliable sources for our literature,” declared the Decembrist poet V. Kuchelbecker in the article “On the direction of our poetry” (“Mnemosyne”, part II, 1824, p. 42). On the importance of folk art as a source true art wrote M.
Maksimovich in the preface to the first edition of “Little Russian Songs” (1827), well known to Gogol: “It seems that the time has come when they will learn the true chain of the nationality; The wish is already beginning to come true - may truly Russian poetry be created!”
It is characteristic that, simultaneously with Gogol’s creation of “Evenings,” Pushkin was working on “The Tale of Tsar Saltan” and “The Tale of the Priest and His Worker Balda,” and Zhukovsky was working on his own fairy tales, borrowed from Russian folklore. For the first time, folk art in this meaning becomes the property and foundation of book literature.
Young Gogol’s appeal to the life of Ukraine was in the interests of advanced people Russia. In the struggle of the Ukrainian people for their national independence, their folk culture had much in common with the history and culture of the Russian people. In Russian fiction In the 20s, stories by O. Somov and novels by V. Narezhny (“Bursak”, “Two Ivans”) were told about Ukraine. The poems of K. Ryleev (“Voinarovsky”, “Nalivaiko”) and especially Pushkin’s “Poltava” resurrected images of the distant heroic past of Ukraine.
The stories of Gogol's closest predecessors, primarily O. Somov, who published under the pseudonym "Porfiry Baysky" in the late 20s a number of stories based on Ukrainian folk legends and legends (“Gaydamak”, “Treasures”), anticipated not only many plot motifs of “Evenings”, but also their household painting, their folk humor. But in addition to these works, which are closest to Gogol’s “Evenings,” ethnographic materials and stories from Ukrainian life increasingly appear in the literature of the late 20s. Among them is the story of the gymnasium teacher Gogol I. Kulzhinsky “Little Russian Village” (1827), although in it everyday and ethnographic elements were often lost in sentimental and idyllic descriptions.
Interest in folklore folk art Gogol arose very early. He spent his childhood in Ukraine, on his father’s estate Vasilyevka, not far from Mirgorod. Pictures of Ukrainian nature, acquaintance with Ukrainian songs, “thoughts,” and legends were imprinted in the consciousness of the future writer. He listened to the songs of blind kobzars, attended peasant weddings, watched puppet shows in Ukrainian "dens". Children's love for folk tales, legends and songs over the years has grown into a serious hobby. Passionate collector and connoisseur folk songs, Gogol called them “resonant, living chronicles”; folk songs were for the writer the most valuable source of knowledge of the living soul of the people. The song is, according to Gogol, “ folk history, living, “bright, full of colors, truth, revealing the whole life of the people. If his life was active, varied, self-willed, full of everything poetic, and he, despite all its versatility, received the highest civilization, then all the ardor, all the strong, his youthful existence pours out in folk songs" (N, V. Gogol, vol. VIII, p. 90)
Back in 1826, at the Nizhyn gymnasium, Gogol began the “Book of All Things, or the Handy Encyclopedia.” The main place in the “Book” was occupied by records of folklore, extracts from historical documents. This unique “encyclopedia” contained the “Virsha spoken to Hetman Potemkin by the Cossacks” and the decree of Hetman Skoropadsky, as well as excerpts from Kotlyarevsky’s “Aeneid”, Ukrainian folk songs, proverbs and riddles. In Gogol’s “encyclopedia” there are ethnographic notes about the life of Ukrainian peasants, records of beliefs, wedding ceremony, descriptions of various dishes, etc. It is noteworthy that Gogol continued to write the “Book of Sundries” for several years even after graduating from high school. Many of the materials available in the “Book of All Things” were used by Gogol in “Evenings” (see notes on “The Evening on the Eve of Ivan Kupala”, “May Night”, etc.) and even in “Mirgorod”.
Gogol came to St. Petersburg shortly after graduating from the Nizhyn Gymnasium of Higher Sciences in the hope of devoting himself to “serving the state” and becoming “truly useful to humanity,” which he wrote about in letters to family and friends. Gogol's high civic ideals were formed during his high school years. Big influence The young man was influenced by progressive lectures on “natural law” by Professor P. G. Belousov, who developed “seditious” thoughts about the illegality of despotic power, about the freedom and independence of the human person. At the gymnasium, Gogol became acquainted with the “Polar Star” and was fond of reading the freedom-loving poems of Ryleev and Pushkin. The spiritual quest of young Gogol, his dreams of high and noble activity, were reflected in the romantic idyll poem “Hanz Küchelgarten,” which he began in high school and published in St. Petersburg in 1829. This “work of eighteen years of youth” reflected the poet’s dissatisfaction with the bourgeois world of “existents”, who, according to figuratively Gogol, “crushed under the bark of their earthiness... the high purpose of man” (I.V. Gogol, vol. X, p. 98). However, this poem was not successful, and after its release Gogol bought and destroyed the entire circulation.
The failure of “Hanz Küchelgarten” apparently played a significant role in Gogol’s conversion from poetry to prose, from the conventionally idyllic setting of fictional bookish Germany to the life of the people close to him. The young man’s patriotic dreams of serving the fatherland in the name of “the happiness of citizens” did not come true either. Gogol very soon becomes disillusioned with St. Petersburg, where he was first struck by the sharpness of social contrasts. In the cold, high-ranking capital, in the city of officials and departments, where “no spirit shines among the people,” the beloved life of the common people of Ukraine, their customs, legends and songs, became especially dear to Gogol from his childhood.
Recreating the life of the Ukrainian people in “Evenings on a Farm Near Dikaika”, Gogol did not go the route of “burlesque” depiction peasant life, nor through its sentimental idealization that distinguished literature late XVIII- beginning of the 19th century. The peasant in the “heroic-comic” poems of V. Maykov, N. Osipov, and the comedies of A. Sumarokov usually found himself in absurd comic situations and was depicted naturalistically peasant life, emphasized negative traits peasants Even in the novels of V. Narezhny, despite his democratic aspirations, the peasant was portrayed as a rude, undeveloped creature. In the works of the book. P. Shalikova, Vl. Izmailov and other “sensitive travelers” depicted the life of the Ukrainian village in conditionally idyllic colors - the authors were primarily interested in the exotic village life, and the peasants presented themselves as Arcadian shepherds and shepherdesses, “kind villagers.”
Breaking with naturalistic everyday life writing, as well as with the tradition of noble sentimentalism, Gogol turned directly to reality itself, to poetry folk life and on this basis created unique images ordinary people Ukraine. In this he was helped not only good knowledge rural life, but also young Ukrainian Literature, represented by such works as “The Aeneid” by I. P. Kotlyarevsky, “Garaska’s Odes” and fables by P. Gulak-Artemovsky, the comedies of Father Gogol -V. A. Gogol-Yanovsky, one of the first Ukrainian writers of the realistic school.
In a letter to his mother dated April 30, 1829, Gogol asked her to send his father’s comedies and a number of ethnographic information and folklore materials: “Everyone here is so interested in everything Little Russian,” he explained his request. In the same letter, Gogol wrote: “... you know a lot about the customs and morals of our Little Russians, and therefore I know you will not refuse to tell me about them in our correspondence. I really, really need this.” Gogol asks to send him a “detailed description” of the Ukrainian wedding, as well as folk beliefs and customs: “If a few words about carols, about Ivan Kupala, about mermaids. If there are, in addition, any spirits or brownies, then more about them with their names and actions; many rush between common people beliefs, terrible tales, traditions, various anecdotes and so on... All this will be extremely interesting for me” (N.V. Gogol, vol. X, pp. 142 and 141). Judging by the letter to his mother, it can be assumed that by the spring of 1829 the idea for “Evenings” had taken shape in the writer’s creative imagination. Much of what Gogol’s mother told him was used in “Evenings”, became part of the artistic fabric of the stories, and clarified everyday and ethnographic details. Gogol himself knew very well the life and folklore of Ukraine. We can say that the writer was internally prepared to create his own poetry book about the people - “Evenings on a farm near Dikanka.”
“Evenings” is a book about Ukraine, conveying the colors, legends, melodies, beauty of Ukraine, its nature, its people, V. G. Belinsky, developing his thoughts about the features of Gogol’s creativity, wrote in the article “On the Russian story of the stories of Mr. Gogol”: “Gogol became famous for his Evenings on the Farm. These were poetic essays of Little Russia, essays, full of life and charm. Everything that nature can have that is beautiful, rural life seductive commoners, everything that a people can have that is original, typical - all of this shines with rainbow colors in these first poetic dreams of Mr. Gogol” (V. G. Belinsky, vol. I, p. 301).
In “Evenings on a Farm,” Gogol contrasts the bright world of “natural man,” the world of the people, with the “earthliness” of “existents,” a selfish and selfish society. Gogol sees in the soul of the people and in the simple ordinary people the embodiment of the humane and bright principle in man. He admires their selflessness, sense of camaraderie, courage, and generosity of spirit.
Young Gogol, in his search for the ideal of beauty, turns to the people as a whole, as the bearer of the positive qualities of man in general. It was not in the everyday life of people, not in their forced life that the writer found this lofty, poetic beginning, but in those manifestations folk character, in those features that were revealed by the entire heroic past of the people. To a certain extent, this explains the fact that Gogol in “Evenings” does not show pictures of serfdom. The very events in the stories of “Evenings” are confined mainly to those times when there was no serfdom in Ukraine. Thus, the action in the story “The Evening on the Eve of Ivan Kupala” takes place when “almost everyone was a Cossack,” when the “valiant deeds” of Podkova, Potortor Kozhukh, Sagaidachny and other Cossack hetmans were still remembered. “The Enchanted Place” and “The Missing Letter” are told by sexton Foma Grigorievich from the words of his grandfather, a Cossack. The events of “The Night Before Christmas” date back to the 70s of the 18th century, to the time of the destruction of the Zaporozhye Sich. “Terrible Revenge” is dedicated to the struggle against the Polish gentry in the 16th century. Only “May Night” and “Sorochinskaya Fair” were shown modern life. It is important to take into account the peculiarity historical development Ukraine. As Herzen wrote, serfdom appeared late in Ukraine, and “one century of serfdom could not destroy everything that was independent and poetic in this glorious people” (A. I. Herzen, Works in nine volumes, vol. 3, M. 1956, p. 475). This also largely explains Gogol's turn to his native Ukraine in his search for integral freedom-loving people.
However, creating pictures of life in Little Russia full of charm, joy and light, Gogol was far from an idyllic perception of reality. Already in “Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka” his own Gogolian vision of the world was revealed. Along with the voices of the narrators, who do not rise below the level of views and relationships of the heroes of the stories, another voice is heard in “Evenings”, the voice of the author himself, expressing the desire for beauty and at the same time realizing its impracticability. The internal “dialectic” of the stories and the philosophical subtext of the entire cycle are inextricably linked with the author’s lyrical beginning. The cheerful, bright world of “Evenings” is invaded by sad and sometimes tragic notes. Even such a joyful, sunny story as “Sorochinskaya Fair” ends with the author’s sad monologue about the fragility and short-term nature of human happiness.
Gogol feels the fragility of the integral and simple way of life of the people, which is being destroyed in conditions of increasing social contradictions. Beyond the harmonious world shown in " Sorochinskaya fair"or in "The Night Before Christmas", there is a reality full of contradictions and dramatic conflicts. The dramatic theme of “Vespers” is represented by two stories - “The Evening on the Eve of Ivan Kupala” and “ Terrible revenge" The tragic idea of “The Evening on the Eve of Ivan Kupala” and “Terrible Revenge” is closely connected with the popular idea of the essence of evil, the moral duty person. But if " devilry"in other stories the writer usually depicts it with mocking and parodic features, then the demonic heroes of these stories, personifying evil, hostile forces, traitors and traitors, are shown in an atmosphere of mystery and mystical horror. True, despite the fantastic nature of the plot, Gogol sees the origins of the crime in isolation from the people, from their life and interests.
