For myself, I am ready to divide Gogol's work into two blocks: Russian ("Dead Souls", "Petersburg Tales") and Ukrainian ("Evenings on a farm near Dikanka", "Taras Bulba").

As the book description says:

The satirical cycle "Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka" became Gogol's ardent declaration of love for Ukraine

What's true is true: there is an infinite amount of Ukrainian life here. Alas, too much for me. Here are two heroes sitting and discussing progressive German methods smoking steam and the opportunity to put a new distillery. Bytovuha, bytovuha, bytovuuuuuuha. Or they remember relatives seventh water on jelly and friends with whom no one plans to introduce the reader, but it is necessary to tell how they are doing. Let me remind you that the stories are short and do not exceed 30 text pages. “Taras Bulba” sinned the same way: as soon as the Cossacks start washing each other’s bones in the battle, there is no end and no end.

On the other hand, I like the description of nature: very bright and colorful passages, just bewitching. They create an atmosphere much better than endless talk about nothing.

Do you know Ukrainian night? Oh, you don't know the Ukrainian night! Look at it: a month looks from the middle of the sky. The immense vault of heaven resounded, parted even more immensely. It burns and breathes. The earth is all in silver light; and the wonderful air is cool and stuffy, and full of bliss, and moves an ocean of fragrances. Divine Night! Charming night!

And now you imagine yourself under a deep black sky. Or:

Quietly shines all over the world: then the moon appeared from behind the mountain. As if with a Damascus road and white as snow, he covered the mountainous bank of the Dnieper with muslin, and the shadow went even further into the thicket of pines.

Well, how can you not be transported to the coast of this beautiful river?

The Dnieper is wonderful in calm weather, when it freely and smoothly rushes through forests and mountains full of its waters. It won't rustle; not thunder. You look, and you don’t know whether its majestic width is moving or not, and it seems as if it is all poured out of glass, and as if a blue mirror road, without measure in width, without end in length, flies and winds through the green world.

A separate problem for me was obsolete spelling of many words. For example, "Cossack" or "devil". I realize that this was done purposefully in order to emphasize Ukrainian vernacular and local flavor, to convey the atmosphere of a small village with a motley superstitious audience. But it doesn't get any easier.

The moral of all stories lies on the surface. There are no tragic dilemmas here and there is simply nothing to discuss in a heated debate on long winter evenings, trying to find right and wrong or justify the heroes. No, “Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka” is a collection of very simple stories where good always triumphs and love always wins. The only thing that can be discussed after reading is how much social mores have changed or remained the same over two centuries.

Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol

Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka

PART ONE

FOREWORD

“What kind of unseen is this: “Evenings on a farm near Dikanka?” What is "Evenings"? And threw some beekeeper into the light! God bless! a little more they skinned the geese for feathers and exhausted the rags on paper! There are still few people, of every rank and rabble, who have stained their fingers in ink! The hunt also pulled the beekeeper to drag himself after the others! Indeed, there is so much printed paper that you can’t think of something to wrap in it.”

Heard, heard my prophetic all these speeches for another month! That is, I say that our brother, a farmer, stick his nose out of his backwoods into the big world - my fathers! It's the same as sometimes you go into the chambers of a great pan: everyone will surround you and go fool around. Still nothing, even the highest servility, no, some cut-off boy, look - the rubbish that digs in the backyard, and he will stick; and begin to stamp their feet on 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 for five years now neither the district court nor the venerable priest has seen me, than to appear in this great world. And it seemed - do not cry, give the answer.

Here, my dear readers, do not be angry (you may be angry that the beekeeper tells you easily, as if to some kind of matchmaker or godfather), - we, on farms, have long been: as soon as the work in the field is over, the peasant will climb on the stove to rest all winter, and our brother will hide his bees in a dark cellar, when you will no longer see cranes in the sky, or pears on a tree - then, only evening, probably already somewhere at the end a light glimmers on the street, laughter and songs are heard from afar, a balalaika strums, and sometimes a violin, talk, noise ... This is ours evening parties! They, if you please, they look like your balls; just can not say that at all. If you go to balls, it is precisely in order to turn your legs and yawn in your hand; and we will gather in one hut a crowd of girls not at all for the ball, with a spindle, with combs; and at first they seem to get down to business: the spindles rustle, songs flow, and each does not raise an eye to the side; but as soon as the lads with the violinist rush into the hut - a cry will rise, a shawl will be started, dances will go and such things will start up that it’s impossible to tell.

But it’s best when everyone gets together in a tight bunch and starts to guess riddles or just chatter. My God! What will they not tell you! Where do they not dig up the old ones! What fears will not inflict! But nowhere, perhaps, so many wonders were told as at the evenings at the beekeeper Rudy Panka. Why the laity called me Rudy Pank - by God, I can’t say. And my hair seems to be more gray than red now. But among us, if you please do not be angry, there is such a custom: as people give someone a nickname, then it will remain forever and ever. It used to happen that on the eve of the holiday, good people would gather to visit, in the beekeeper's shack, they would sit down at the table - and then I only ask you to listen. And then to say that the people were not at all a mere dozen, not some peasant peasants. Yes, maybe someone else, even taller than the beekeeper, would be honored by a visit. For example, do you know the deacon of the Dikan church, Foma Grigoryevich? Eh, head! What stories he knew how to let go! You will find two of them in this book. He never wore the mottled dressing-gown of the kind you see on many country deacons; but go to him even on weekdays, he will always receive you in a thin cloth robe the color of a chilled potato jelly, for which he paid almost six rubles per arshin in Poltava. From his boots, with us no one will say on the whole farm that the smell of tar was heard; but everyone knows that he cleaned them with the best lard, which, I think, some peasant would gladly 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 of his bosom a neatly folded white handkerchief, embroidered along all the edges with red thread, and, correcting what was necessary, folded it again, as usual, into a twelfth share and hid it in his bosom. And one of the guests ... Well, he was already such a panic that he could at least now be dressed up as assessors or subcommittees. It used to happen that he would put his finger in front of him and, looking at the end of it, would go to tell - pretentiously and cunningly, as in printed books! Sometimes you listen, you listen, and thought will attack. Nothing, for the life of me, you don't understand. Where did he get those words from? Foma Grigorievich once wove a glorious saying about this for him: he told him how one schoolboy, who studied with some clerk to read and write, came to his father and became such a Latin man that he even forgot our Orthodox language. All words turn into a mustache. His shovel is a shovel, a woman is a babus. So, it happened once, they went with their father to the field. The latynytsik saw the rake and asked his father: “What do you call it, father? Yes, and he stepped, gaping his mouth, with his foot on the teeth. He did not have time to gather an answer, as the pen, waving, rose and - grab him on the forehead. "Damned rake! shouted the schoolboy, clutching his forehead with his hand and jumping up a yard. - How are they, the devil would have shoved their father off the bridge, they are fighting painfully! So that's how! Remembered the name, my dear! Such a saying did not please the intricate narrator. Without saying a word, he got up from his seat, spread his legs in the middle of the room, bent his head a little forward, thrust his hand into the back pocket of his pea caftan, pulled out a round lacquered snuffbox, flicked his finger on the painted face of some Busurman general, and, seizing a considerable a portion of tobacco, pounded with ashes and lovage leaves, brought it to his nose with a yoke and pulled out the whole bunch with his nose on the fly, without even touching his thumb, - and still not a word; Yes, as he reached into another pocket and took out a blue checkered paper handkerchief, then he only muttered to himself almost a saying: “Don’t throw pearls in front of pigs” ... “Now there’s a quarrel,” I thought, noticing that Foma had fingers Grigoryevich and developed to give a muzzle. Fortunately, my old woman guessed to put a hot knysh with butter on the table. Everyone got to work. The hand of Foma Grigoryevich, instead of showing a pimple, stretched out to the knysh, and, as usual, they began to praise the mistress of the hostess. We also had one narrator; but he (there would be nothing to remember about him by night) dug such horror stories that the hair was walking on the head. I deliberately didn't include them here. You will also scare good people so that the beekeeper, God forgive me, how the hell everyone will be afraid. Let it be better, as soon as I live, God willing, until the new year and publish another book, then it will be possible to intimidate people from the other world and the divas that were created in the old days in our Orthodox side. Among them, perhaps, you will find the fables of the beekeeper himself, which he told his grandchildren. If only they would listen and read, but I, perhaps - too lazy to rummage through the damned one - will have enough for ten such books.

Yes, it was, and I forgot the most important thing: as soon as you, gentlemen, go to me, then take the path straight along the high road to Dikanka. I put it on the first page on purpose so that they would get to our farm as soon as possible. About Dikanka, I think you have heard enough. And then to say that there the house is cleaner than some beekeeper's hut. And there is nothing to say about the garden: in your Petersburg, you will probably not find such a thing. Arriving in Dikanka, ask only the first boy you meet, grazing 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 lead you to the very farm. However, I ask you not to put your hands back too much and, as they say, to feint, because the roads through our farms are not as smooth as in front of your mansions. In the third year, Foma Grigorievich, coming from Dikanka, nevertheless visited the ravine with his new taratayka and his bay mare, despite the fact that he himself ruled and that, over his eyes, he still sometimes put on bought ones.

But as you wish to visit, we will serve melons such as you, perhaps, have not eaten in your life; and honey, and I swear, you won’t find better on farms. Imagine that as you bring in the honeycomb, the spirit will go throughout the room, you can’t imagine what it is: pure, like a tear or expensive crystal, which happens in earrings. And what kind of pies will my old woman feed! What kind of pies, if you only knew: sugar, perfect sugar! And the oil, so it flows on the lips when you start eating. Just think, right: what are these women not craftswomen! Have you ever drunk, gentlemen, pear kvass with blackthorn berries or varenukha with raisins and plums? Or have you sometimes eat putru with milk? My God, what kind of food there are in the world! You will eat - overeating, and it's full. Sweetness indescribable! Last year... However, what am I really talking about?... Just come, come as soon as possible; but we will feed you in such a way that you will tell both the counter and the cross.

Genre:

Description of the book: Once an old manuscript was bought in the market. After reading it, a large number of questions remained unanswered. In this book, the main characters are two friends, represented by a blacksmith and a schoolboy. In this book, readers will be able to find out the answers to a variety of questions, including how to pacify the raging mermaids or whether it is easy to run through the heat and in reverse direction. The book presents other questions, to which the author gives rather detailed answers, describing the fantastic adventures of two best friends. Go with them.

In these times of active struggle against piracy, most of the books in our library have only brief fragments for review, including the book Night on a Farm near Dikanka. Thanks to this, you can understand whether you like this book and whether you should buy it in the future. Thus, you support the work of the writer Andrey Belyanin by legally purchasing the book if you liked its summary.

Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka . This real classic! Nikolay Gogol

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Title: Evenings on a farm near Dikanka

About the book "Evenings on a farm near Dikanka" Nikolai Gogol

The world of imagination is truly limitless. You can be convinced of this by reading such books as "Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka" by Nikolai Gogol. Mysticism, in some stories in no way inferior to modern horror films, is really frightening. And yet, how well written! Once you start reading, you just can't stop. No wonder "Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka" was included in. We also encourage everyone to read it!

And you can download the book itself at the bottom of the page in rtf, epub, fb2, txt format.

I was most impressed by the story "The Night Before Christmas" (I think many of you re-read it just recently, during the holidays). It reveals not only the customs themselves, but also their colorful atmosphere; here and squeaky snow, exciting the imagination, and fragrant palyanytsi with sausage, and exciting carols.

Nature in Gogol's description is something. Selected metaphors and epithets are striking in their freshness. What is the Ukrainian night alone worth... And the Dnieper, and the steppe, and the wind, and all this sounds like a song. Reading the descriptions of all sorts of goodies and dumplings, dumplings and donuts, you just feel their seductive smell!

And the heroes! One is better than the other. Capricious Oksana, Solokha, Solopiy… Their characters are extraordinarily bright, and each one reveals itself in a peculiar, unusual situation of a laconic story. In all of them there is something comic, they amuse with their simplicity. Grumpy wives with their spineless husbands in some stories contrast sharply with Cossacks and their noble wives in others.

Would it have been Gogol if he had not seasoned his stories with a fair portion of mysticism? Of course, "Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka" is not "Viy", but still ... Its mysticism is organically woven into Ukrainian life, complementing it and making it even more colorful. And if in some stories you can laugh with all this evil spirits, then in others (for example, “Terrible Revenge”, “The Night on the Eve of Ivan Kupala”) sometimes it becomes really creepy.

Probably such vivid stories once listened to and Chumaks, who stopped for the night. They sat around the fire and listened to incredible stories under the crackle of the fire. And around the steppe that steppe, and the black sky, and quiet stars, and the sound of the wind. I wonder if these stories were told to Gogol? After all, you have to come up with such things yourself!

No wonder Gogol is considered a classic. Incredibly rich language, vivid characters, wonderful descriptions of nature and people, as well as excellent humor and real mysticism - this is really his talent. I would really like to see “Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka” read by everyone who has not yet read :)

On our site about books site you can download for free or read online book"Evenings on a farm near Dikanka" by Nikolai Gogol in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and a real pleasure to read. Buy full version you can have our partner. Also, here you will find last news from the literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For novice writers, there is a separate section with useful tips and tricks, interesting articles, thanks to which you can try your hand at writing.

Quotes from the book "Evenings on a farm near Dikanka" by Nikolai Gogol

Indeed, there is so much printed paper that you will not soon think of what to wrap in it.

My God, my God, why such an attack on us sinners! And there is so much rubbish in the world, and you also spawned a zhinok!

It is easier for a woman to kiss the devil than to call someone a beauty ...

When a person is silent, then, it’s true, he hurt a lot with his mind.

Wonderfully arranged in our world! Everything that lives in it, everything tries to adopt and mimic one another!