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 gave the beekeeper the urge to trudge after the others! Really, there’s so much printed paper that you can’t quickly think of anything to wrap it in.” I heard, my prophetic heard all these speeches within a 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 the same as 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 digs into backyard, and he will stick; 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 has seen me for five years, than to appear on this great light. But it seemed - 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 up, laughter and songs are heard from afar, the balalaika strums, and sometimes the violin, conversation, noise... This is ours evening parties! 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. Oh 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 at the beekeeper Rudy Panka’s. Why the laity called me Rudy Pank - by God, I can’t 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 they would get together the day before holiday good people will visit Pasichnikov’s shack, sit down at the table, and then I ask you to just listen. And then to say that people were not at all simple ten, 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, another 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 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 collapse on mustache His shovel is a shovel, his woman is a babus. Well, one day it happened, 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?” And he stepped on the teeth with his mouth open. 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 rocker 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 my fingers Foma Grigoryevich was just about to give it a shot. 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 would be no need to remember about him by nightfall) dug up such horror stories that the hair was running all over my 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’s better that when I live, God willing, until the new year and publish another book, then it will be possible to frighten people from the other world and the divas that happened in the old days in the Orthodox side of our country. 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 path straight along 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 plenty 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 welcome 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 go 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 are there in the world! If you start eating, you’ll 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.Composition
The publication in 1831 of the first part of “Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka”, and in 1832 of the second, witnessed the emergence of a new writer - N.V. Gogol, who came to the forefront of Russian and European romanticism. The inimitable originality of “Evenings” on for a long time created their reputation artistic phenomenon, which has no analogies. Belinsky wrote in 1840: “Indicate in European or Russian literature at least something similar to these first experiments young man, at least something that could give me the idea to write like this. Isn’t this, on the contrary, a completely new, unprecedented world of art?”
Created by Gogol, a Ukrainian by origin, flowed into the mainstream of the widespread interest in Ukrainian society in Russian society. folk art, everyday life, lifestyle. “Everyone here is so interested in everything Little Russian,” the author wrote in a letter to his mother. The publications of “Evenings” evoked an open and enthusiastic response from Pushkin. Friendship with the great poet became happiness for Gogol and the greatest creative luck for all Russian literature. In their spiritual closeness, in their creative community, a wonderful law of continuity was expressed in artistic process. Belinsky described it this way: “Pushkin’s main influence on Gogol lay in the nationality, which, in the words of Gogol himself, “consists not in the description of the sundress, but in the very spirit of the people.” Gogol's discovery was that he discovered the poetry of natural life in people who stood closest to the origins of natural existence. It was maximum naturalness.
In "Evenings" there is a celebration of the people's spirit. But there is no hint of naive sentimental delight in them. It is enough to pay attention to the image of the “publisher” Pasichnik Rudy Panka, in whose fantastic intonation irony constantly sounds. This is that laughter where there is as much innocence as there is natural wisdom. The “cheerful trickery of the mind,” which Pushkin considered a characteristic of the people, found varied expression in “Evenings.” It’s not for nothing that almost every story has its own narrator, an original artistic type. This picturesque diversity of styles is close to the complex and cheerful range of feelings and passions of Ukrainian boys, girls and their fathers, united by “Evenings” in a festive round dance. The feeling of pride and admiration for his homeland is expressed by the writer with exceptional insight, becoming close and accessible to any sensitive reader, at any time. historical time.
Let's remember famous beginning one of the chapters of “May Night”: “Do you know the Ukrainian night? Oh, you don’t know Ukrainian night! Look at her." For many years now, Russian and European readers have been peering with great responsiveness into young heroes“Sorochinskaya Fair”, Paraska and Gritsko, singing tender and naive songs to each other in front of the entire crowd. It is impossible to tear yourself away from Foma Grigorievich’s folk tale in “The Evening on the Eve of Ivan Kupala,” where Gogol’s discovery lies in the unprecedented psychological complexity of the narrator - a simple-minded sexton and an almost romantic poet. The world of folk thinking is rich. In it, folklore is combined with sobriety in the perception of the real, the everyday principle does not contradict the national-historical feeling.
Therefore, in the second part of “Evenings” the theme sounds quite natural liberation struggle. Certainly, " Terrible revenge", where this sound is strongest, is a semi-legend in the plot, but thanks to the image of Danila Burulbash, the story claims to be a completely realistic interpretation of the topic. But to complete the picture of the Ukrainian night, Gogol needed in “Evenings...” a story like “Ivan Fedorovich Shponka and his Aunt.” The mood of the story is born folk thinking, which cannot fail to notice and accordingly evaluate the dull emptyness of prosaic vegetation. The “cunning of the mind” is here in the apt 84 literature depiction of types representing the insignificant life of a landowner. This is how the sketch is outlined “ Dead souls" The time of creation of “Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka”, their publication and discussion among the reading public is the happiest in Gogol’s life. It is full of grandiose plans, many of which were later realized.
Other works on this work
Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka Historical, everyday and moral element in “Evenings on a farm near Dikanka” Mysticism in “Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka” by N. V. Gogol My first reading of Gogol Folk character in “Evenings on a farm near Dikanka” The image of Oksana in the story by N.V. Gogol's "The Night Before Christmas" ("Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka") Analysis of Gogol's works "Evenings on a farm near Dikanka" Romance of Ukrainian fairy tales and legends Romance of Ukrainian fairy tales and legends in the works of N. V. Gogol (Based on the book “Evenings on a farm near Dikanka”) An essay based on the collection of stories by N. V. Gogol “Evenings on a farm near Dikanka” The spiritual breadth of Gogol's heroes Historical theme in the stories “Evenings on a farm near Dikanka” Comparison of “Mirgorod” and “Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka” The ideological meaning of “Evenings on a farm near Dikanka” Gogol essay – Evenings on a farm near Dikanka Folk character Essay based on the book “Evenings on a farm near Dikanka” The image of the blacksmith Vakula (based on Gogol’s story “The Night Before Christmas”) A beautiful image of Ukraine (N. Gogol “Evenings on a farm near Dikanka”) Essay based on Gogol’s collection “Evenings on a farm near Dikanka”The collection consists of 8 stories. Below is a very short summary:
Sorochinskaya fair
A man came to the fair with his new wife and beautiful daughter. A good guy falls in love with a girl, but the stepmother is against their relationship. A local gypsy offers the young man a deal: he helps him marry the girl he loves, and the guy sells him oxen cheaper. Well done, he agreed. With the help of the legend about the devil and his red caftan, the gypsy manages to play the girl’s father, and he happily gives his daughter in marriage to the guy. As a result, everyone gets what they wanted: the gypsy gets oxen, and the fellow gets a wife.
The story teaches you to be brave, courageous, resourceful and not give up on your dreams. ()
The evening before Ivan Kupala
In one village there lived a rich Cossack with his beautiful daughter. A poor orphan guy worked for him, who fell in love with the owner's daughter. The love was mutual. But the father did not want the poor son-in-law - he kicked him out. Tempted by the devil in human form, the guy enters into an agreement with him. A young man, blinded by the promise of gold, kills younger brother beloved girl. This was the payment for well-being. Having become a rich groom, he married a girl, but after a while he paid for the murder he committed with his life.
The story teaches you to live by listening to your conscience, to achieve love through noble and honest actions.
May Night or Drowned Woman
It was in the evening. Levko and Anna met near her house. The young people want to get married, but the guy’s father, the local head, is against this marriage. Levko tells the girl the story of an abandoned house near a pond, about the fate of the lady, who was tormented by her stepmother. The girl drowned, but her soul does not find peace and desires revenge.
By chance, Levko finds out that his father is in love with Anna and because of this he does not allow his son to marry. The guy has a dream that he is helping the drowned lady take revenge on her stepmother, who was a witch. In gratitude, Pannochka gives him a letter for his father. When Levko woke up, the letter was indeed in his hands. The head read it and immediately agreed to the wedding. The letter contained an order from the commissioner to urgently marry Anna and Levko.
The story teaches kindness and mutual assistance.
Missing certificate
Cossacks are sent to deliver a letter for the queen, among them the Cossack Thomas. Having met a Cossack on the road, they stop with him for the night. In the morning the Cossack disappears. Along with him, Thomas’s horse, hat and document for the queen disappear. At the tip of the shinkar, Foma goes to the forest, where he returns his property, winning against the evil spirits at cards.
The story teaches fidelity to duty, courage and resourcefulness. ()
Christmas Eve
The blacksmith Vakula loves the daughter of the head Oksana. In order to fulfill her wish, he, with the help of the devil, goes to the queen for slippers. The queen, admiring the naivety and spontaneity of the young Cossack, gives him her shoes. Happy Vakula returns home. Oksana, who no longer needs him, is waiting for him there. royal gift, but only his love.
The story teaches boundless love and devotion, the ability to overcome all obstacles. ()
Terrible revenge
There lived two brothers - Ivan and Petro. Out of envy of his brother, Petro threw him and his little son into the abyss. And then the dead brother cursed him and his heirs so that from generation to generation they would answer for their crime.
The story teaches us to remain human under any circumstances and not cause harm to people.
Ivan Fedorovich Shponka and his aunt
Ivan Fedorovich, having received his resignation, returns to his aunt’s estate to help her. Auntie greets him joyfully and then sends him for a deed of gift. This document is kept by a neighbor who does not want to return it. He introduces Ivan Fedorovich to his sisters, hoping that he will like one of them. Auntie also dreams of grandchildren, so she is not against such a wedding, but Ivan Fedorovich was not ready for this.
The story teaches you to love your loved ones and understand them, while remaining true to your principles.
Enchanted place
A family lived in a small village. The owner often went to town for trade affairs. His wife and sons remained in charge of the household. Their grandfather helped them. In the evening, the Chumaks stopped at their place, and the grandfather drank too much to celebrate. He imagined that he was in an unfamiliar place and that some kind of light was beckoning him. The grandfather rushed to this place, began to dig and took out a pot from the hole. appeared here devilry. The grandfather got scared and ran with the pot, which ended up being empty. He considered it an enchanted place and never returned there.
The story teaches us not to believe in miracles, but to earn wealth through our labor. ()
You can use this text for reader's diary
Gogol. All works
- The evening before Ivan Kupala
- Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka
- Overcoat
Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka. Picture for the story
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If we talk about the first books of Nikolai Gogol, and at the same time exclude from mention the poem “Hanz Küchelgarten”, which was published under a pseudonym, the cycle Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka is Gogol’s first book, which consists of two parts. The first part of the series was published in 1831, and the second in 1832.
In short, many people call this collection “Gogol’s Evenings.” As for the time of writing these works, Gogol wrote Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka in the period 1829-1832. And according to the plot, these stories seem to have been collected and published by the pasichnik Rudy Panko.
A brief analysis of the cycle Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka
The cycle of Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka is interesting because the events taking place take the reader from century to century. For example, " Sorochinskaya fair" describes events XIX century, from where the reader finds himself in the 17th century, moving on to reading the story “The Evening on the Eve of Ivan Kupala”. Next story " May night, or the Drowned Woman," "The Missing Letter" and "The Night Before Christmas" are set in the 18th century, followed by the 17th century again.
Both parts of the cycle Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka are united by the stories of the clerk’s grandfather Foma Grigorievich, who seems to combine the past times, the present, true and fables with the events of his life. However, speaking about the analysis of Evening on a Farm near Dikanka, it is worth saying that Nikolai Gogol does not interrupt the flow of time on the pages of his cycle; on the contrary, time merges into a spiritual and historical whole.
What stories are included in the series Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka
The cycle includes two parts, each of which contains four stories. Please note that on our website in the Summary section you can in a simple form in short time read the summary of each story included in the Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka cycle.
Moreover, every summary accompanies short description works indicating the date of its composition, characteristic features and time to read the summary itself.
“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 gave the beekeeper the urge to trudge after the others! Really, there’s so much printed paper that you can’t quickly think of anything to wrap it in.”
I heard, my prophetic heard all these speeches within a 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 the same as 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 up, laughter and songs are heard from afar, the balalaika is strumming, and sometimes a violin, talking, noise... This is ours evening parties! 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. Oh 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 at the beekeeper Rudy Panka’s. 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, another 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 collapse on mustache His shovel is a shovel, his woman is a babus. Well, one day it happened, 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?” And he stepped on the teeth with his mouth open. 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 rocker and pulled out the whole bunch with his nose on the fly, without even touching his 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 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 marvels 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 plenty 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.