“Father deacon, you’ve had enough of burning candles, you won’t have enough,” said the deaconess. - Time to get up.
This small, thin, yellow-faced woman, a former diocesan, treated her husband extremely strictly. When she was still at the institute, the prevailing opinion was that men were scoundrels, deceivers and tyrants with whom one had to be cruel. But the archdeacon did not seem at all like a tyrant. He was quite sincerely afraid of his slightly hysterical, slightly epileptic deaconess. They had no children, the deaconess turned out to be barren. The deacon contained about nine and a half pounds of net weight, rib cage- like the body of a car, a terrible voice, and at the same time that gentle condescension that is characteristic only of extremely strong people towards the weak.
It took the protodeacon a very long time to establish his voice. This nasty, painfully lengthy task is, of course, familiar to everyone who has ever sung in public: lubricating the throat, gargling it with a solution of boric acid, breathing in steam. While still lying in bed, Father Olympius tried out his voice.
– Via… mmm!.. Via-a-a!.. Hallelujah, hallelujah... Both... mmm!.. Ma-ma... Mom-ma...
- Vla-dy-ko-bla-go-slo-vi-i-i... Hm...
Just like famous singers, he was susceptible to suspiciousness. It is known that actors turn pale and cross themselves before going on stage. Father Olympius, entering the temple, was baptized according to the chip and according to custom. But often, while making the sign of the cross, he would also turn pale with excitement and think: “Oh, I wish I could lose my temper!” However, only he in the whole city, and perhaps in all of Russia, could make an ancient, dark, ancient cathedral with gold and mosaic grass sound in the tone of D. He alone knew how to fill all the nooks and crannies of the old building with his powerful animal voice and make the crystal glass on the chandeliers tremble and ring in tune.
The cutesy, sour deaconess brought him some thin tea with lemon and, as always on Sundays, a glass of vodka. Olympius tried his voice again:
“Mi... mi... fa... Mi-ro-no-sitsy... Hey, mother,” he shouted to the deaconess in the other room, “give me D on the harmonium.”
The wife drew out a long, sad note.
- Km... km... to the chariot-persecutor Pharaoh... No, of course, the voice fell asleep. And the devil gave me this writer, what’s his name?
Father Olympius was a great lover of reading, read a lot and indiscriminately, and was rarely interested in the names of authors. Seminary education, based mainly on rote learning, on reading the “rules”, on the necessary quotations from the fathers of the church, developed his memory to extraordinary proportions. In order to memorize an entire page from such complex casuist writers as St. Augustine, Tertullian, Origen of Adamantium, Basil the Great and John Chrysostom, he only had to skim the lines with his eyes to remember them by heart. A student from the Bethany Academy, Smirnov, supplied him with books, and just before that night he brought him a charming story about how soldiers, Cossacks, and Chechens lived in the Caucasus, how they killed each other, drank wine, got married and hunted animals.
A. I. Kuprin
“Father deacon, you’ve had enough of burning candles, you won’t have enough,” said the deaconess. - Time to get up.
This small, thin, yellow-faced woman, a former diocesan, treated her husband extremely strictly. When she was still at the institute, the prevailing opinion was that men were scoundrels, deceivers and tyrants with whom one had to be cruel. But the archdeacon did not seem at all like a tyrant. He was quite sincerely afraid of his slightly hysterical, slightly epileptic deaconess. They had no children, the deaconess turned out to be barren. The deacon had about nine and a half pounds of net weight, a chest like the body of a car, a terrible voice, and at the same time that gentle condescension that is characteristic only of extremely strong people towards the weak.
It took the protodeacon a very long time to establish his voice. This nasty, painfully lengthy task is, of course, familiar to everyone who has ever sung in public: lubricating the throat, gargling it with a solution of boric acid, breathing in steam. While still lying in bed, Father Olympius tried out his voice.
– Via… mmm!.. Via-a-a!.. Hallelujah, hallelujah... Both... mmm!.. Ma-ma... Mom-ma...
- Vla-dy-ko-bla-go-slo-vi-i-i... Hm...
Just like famous singers, he was susceptible to suspiciousness. It is known that actors turn pale and cross themselves before going on stage. Father Olympius, entering the temple, was baptized according to the chip and according to custom. But often, while making the sign of the cross, he would also turn pale with excitement and think: “Oh, I wish I could lose my temper!” However, only he in the whole city, and perhaps in all of Russia, could make an ancient, dark, ancient cathedral with gold and mosaic grass sound in the tone of D. He alone knew how to fill all the nooks and crannies of the old building with his powerful animal voice and make the crystal glass on the chandeliers tremble and ring in tune.
The cutesy, sour deaconess brought him some thin tea with lemon and, as always on Sundays, a glass of vodka. Olympius tried his voice again:
“Mi... mi... fa... Mi-ro-no-sitsy... Hey, mother,” he shouted to the deaconess in the other room, “give me D on the harmonium.”
The wife drew out a long, sad note.
- Km... km... to the chariot-persecutor Pharaoh... No, of course, the voice fell asleep. And the devil gave me this writer, what’s his name?
Father Olympius was a great lover of reading, read a lot and indiscriminately, and was rarely interested in the names of authors. Seminary education, based mainly on rote learning, on reading the “rules”, on the necessary quotations from the fathers of the church, developed his memory to extraordinary proportions. In order to memorize an entire page from such complex casuist writers as St. Augustine, Tertullian, Origen of Adamantium, Basil the Great and John Chrysostom, he only had to skim the lines with his eyes to remember them by heart. A student from the Bethany Academy, Smirnov, supplied him with books, and just before that night he brought him a charming story about how soldiers, Cossacks, and Chechens lived in the Caucasus, how they killed each other, drank wine, got married and hunted animals.
This reading stirred the spontaneous protodeacon’s soul. He read the story three times in a row and often cried and laughed with delight while reading, clenching his fists and tossing his huge body from side to side. Of course, it would be better for him to be a hunter, warrior, fisherman, plowman, and not at all a clergyman.
He always arrived at the cathedral a little later than expected. Just like the famous baritone in the theater. Passing through the southern doors of the altar, he last time Clearing his throat, he tried his voice. “Km, km... sounds in D,” he thought. “And this scoundrel will certainly hit you in C sharp.” Anyway, I will change the choir to my tone.”
The real pride of a public favorite awoke in him, the darling of the whole city, at whom even the boys were going to stare with the same reverence with which they look into the open mouth of the copper helicon in the military orchestra on the boulevard.
The archbishop entered and was solemnly installed in his place. His miter was worn slightly to the left side. Two subdeacons stood on the sides with censers and rattled them in time. The priesthood in bright festive vestments surrounded the bishop's seat. Two priests carried out the icons of the Savior and the Mother of God from the altar and placed them on the lectern.
The cathedral was on a southern model, and in it, like Catholic churches, an oak carved pulpit was built, stuck in the corner of the temple, with a screw move upward.
Slowly, feeling step by step and carefully touching the oak handrails with his hands - he was always afraid that he would break something by accident - the protodeacon climbed onto the pulpit, cleared his throat, pulled from his nose into his mouth, spat over the barrier, pinched the tuning fork, moved from before to re and began:
- Bless, Most Reverend Bishop.
“No, scoundrel regent,” he thought, “you won’t dare change my tone in front of the lord.” With pleasure, at that moment he felt that his voice sounded much better than usual, moving freely from tone to tone and shaking the entire air of the cathedral with soft, deep sighs.
The rite of Orthodoxy was celebrated in the first week of Lent. For now, Father Olympius had little work to do. The reader mumbled unintelligible psalms, and the academic deacon, a future professor of homiletics, nasalized.
The archdeacon growled from time to time: “Let’s cry”... “Let’s pray to the Lord.” He stood on his dais, huge, in a golden, brocade, stiff surplice, with black and gray hair, like a lion’s mane, and from time to time he constantly tested his voice. The church was all filled with some tearful old women and grey-bearded, fat-bellied old men who looked either like fishmongers or moneylenders.
“It’s strange,” Olympius suddenly thought, “why is it that all women’s faces, if you look in profile, look like either a fish’s face or a chicken’s head... And so does the deaconess...”
However, professional habit forced him to constantly follow the service according to the breviary XVII century. The psalmist finished his prayer: “Almighty God, ruler and creator of all creation.” Finally - amen.
The establishment of Orthodoxy began.
“Who is the great God, like our God; You are God, you alone work miracles.”
The chanting was hooky and not particularly clear. In general, the observance of Orthodoxy during the week and the rite of anathematization can be modified as desired. It is already enough that the Holy Church knows anathemas written on special occasions: a curse on Ivashka Mazepa, Stenka Razin, heretics: Arius, iconoclasts, Archpriest Avvakum, and so on and so forth.
But something strange happened to the archdeacon today, something that had never happened to him before. True, he was a little sick from the vodka that his wife brought him in the morning.
Father deacon, you’ve had enough of burning candles, you won’t have enough,” said the deaconess. - Time to get up.
This small, thin, yellow-faced woman, a former diocesan, treated her husband extremely strictly. When she was still at the institute, the prevailing opinion was that men were scoundrels, deceivers and tyrants with whom one had to be cruel. But the archdeacon did not seem at all like a tyrant. He was quite sincerely afraid of his slightly hysterical, slightly epileptic deaconess. They had no children, the deaconess turned out to be barren. The deacon had about nine and a half pounds of net weight, a chest like the body of a car, a terrible voice, and at the same time that gentle condescension that is characteristic only of extremely strong people towards the weak.
It took the protodeacon a very long time to establish his voice. This nasty, painfully lengthy task is, of course, familiar to everyone who has ever sung in public: lubricating the throat, gargling it with a solution of boric acid, breathing in steam. While still lying in bed, Father Olympius tried out his voice.
- Via... mmm!.. Via-a-a!.. Hallelujah, hallelujah... Both... mmm!.. Ma-ma... Mom-ma...
Vla-dy-ko-bla-go-slo-vi-i-i... Km...
Just like famous singers, he was susceptible to suspiciousness. It is known that actors turn pale and cross themselves before going on stage. Father Olympius, entering the temple, was baptized according to the chip and according to custom. But often, while making the sign of the cross, he would also turn pale with excitement and think: “Oh, I wish I could lose my temper!” However, only he in the whole city, and perhaps in all of Russia, could make an ancient, dark, ancient cathedral with gold and mosaic grass sound in the tone of D. He alone knew how to fill all the nooks and crannies of the old building with his powerful animal voice and make the crystal glass on the chandeliers tremble and ring in tune.
The cutesy, sour deaconess brought him some thin tea with lemon and, as always on Sundays, a glass of vodka. Olympius tried his voice again:
Mi... mi... fa... Mi-ro-no-sitsi... Hey, mother,” he shouted to the deaconess in the other room, “give me a D on the harmonium.”
The wife drew out a long, sad note.
Km... km... to the chariot-persecutor Pharaoh... No, of course, the voice fell asleep. And the devil gave me this writer, what’s his name?
Father Olympius was a great lover of reading, read a lot and indiscriminately, and was rarely interested in the names of authors. Seminary education, based mainly on rote learning, on reading the “rules”, on the necessary quotations from the fathers of the church, developed his memory to extraordinary proportions. In order to memorize an entire page from such complex casuist writers as St. Augustine, Tertullian, Origen of Adamantium, Basil the Great and John Chrysostom, he only had to skim the lines with his eyes to remember them by heart. A student from the Bethany Academy, Smirnov, supplied him with books, and just before that night he brought him a charming story about how soldiers, Cossacks, and Chechens lived in the Caucasus, how they killed each other, drank wine, got married and hunted animals.
This reading stirred the spontaneous protodeacon’s soul. He read the story three times in a row and often cried and laughed with delight while reading, clenching his fists and tossing his huge body from side to side. Of course, it would be better for him to be a hunter, warrior, fisherman, plowman, and not at all a clergyman.
He always arrived at the cathedral a little later than expected. Just like the famous baritone in the theater. Passing through the southern doors of the altar, he cleared his throat for the last time and tried his voice. “Km, km... sounds in D,” he thought. - And this scoundrel will certainly hit C sharp. Anyway, I will change the choir to my tone.”
The real pride of a public favorite awoke in him, the darling of the whole city, at whom even the boys were going to stare with the same reverence with which they look into the open mouth of the copper helicon in the military orchestra on the boulevard.
The archbishop entered and was solemnly installed in his place. His miter was worn slightly to the left side. Two subdeacons stood on the sides with censers and rattled them in time. The priesthood in bright festive vestments surrounded the bishop's seat. Two priests carried out the icons of the Savior and the Mother of God from the altar and placed them on the lectern.
The cathedral was of a southern model, and in it, like Catholic churches, there was a carved oak pulpit, attached to the corner of the temple, with a spiral upward movement.
Slowly, feeling step by step and carefully touching the oak handrails with his hands - he was always afraid that he might break something by accident - the protodeacon climbed onto the pulpit, cleared his throat, pulled from his nose into his mouth, spat over the barrier, pinched the tuning fork, moved from before to re and began:
Bless, Most Reverend Bishop.
“No, scoundrel regent,” he thought, “you won’t dare change my tone in front of the lord.” With pleasure, at that moment he felt that his voice sounded much better than usual, moving freely from tone to tone and shaking the entire air of the cathedral with soft, deep sighs.
The rite of Orthodoxy was celebrated in the first week of Lent. For now, Father Olympius had little work to do. The reader mumbled unintelligible psalms, and the academic deacon, a future professor of homiletics, nasalized.
The archdeacon growled from time to time: “Let’s cry”... “Let’s pray to the Lord.” He stood on his dais, huge, in a golden, brocade, stiff surplice, with black and gray hair, like a lion’s mane, and from time to time he constantly tested his voice. The church was all filled with some tearful old women and grey-bearded, fat-bellied old men who looked either like fishmongers or moneylenders.
Then came the categorical curses: those who did not accept the grace of redemption, those who abolished all the holy sacraments, those who rejected the councils of the holy fathers and their traditions.
“Those who think that in Orthodoxy sovereigns are not elevated to thrones by God’s special favor from them, and during the anointing of the gift of the Holy Spirit for the passage of this great title are not poured into them, and thus those who dare against them to rebel and betray. Those who scold and blaspheme holy icons.” And to each of his exclamations, the choir sadly answered him in gentle, moaning, angelic voices: “Anathema.”
For a long time, women in the crowd were sobbing hysterically.
The protodeacon was already approaching the end when a psalm-reader climbed up to his pulpit with a short note from the father of the archpriest: by order of the Most Reverend Bishop, to anathematize the boyar Leo Tolstoy. "Cm. Breviary, ch. l.,” was added in the note.
Father Olympius already had a sore throat from reading for a long time. However, he cleared his throat and began again: “Bless, Most Reverend Bishop.” Rather, he did not hear, but guessed the faint muttering of the old bishop:
“May the Lord our God bless your protodeaconry, anathematize the blasphemer and apostate from the faith of Christ, who whorely rejects the holy mysteries of God, the boyar Leo Tolstoy. In the name of the father, and the son, and the holy spirit."
And suddenly Olympius felt that the hair on his head was bristling. different sides and became heavy and tough, as if made of steel wire. And at that same moment, the beautiful words of yesterday’s story emerged with extraordinary clarity:
“... Having woken up, Eroshka raised his head and began to peer intently at the night butterflies that hovered over the swaying candle fire and fell into it.
- Fool fool! - he spoke. - Where are you flying? Stupid! Stupid! “He stood up and began to drive away the butterflies with his thick fingers.
“You’ll burn, fool, fly here, there’s plenty of space,” he said in a gentle voice, trying to politely catch her by the wings with his thick fingers and let her go. “You’re ruining yourself, and I feel sorry for you.”
“My God, who am I cursing? - the deacon thought in horror. - Is it really him? After all, I cried all night from joy, from tenderness, from tenderness.”
But, obedient to a thousand-year-old habit, he uttered terrible, stunning words of curse, and they fell into the crowd like the blows of a huge copper bell...
...The former priest Nikita and the monks Sergius, Savvaty and Savvaty, Dorotheus and Gabriel... blaspheme the holy church sacraments, but do not want to repent and submit to the true church; Let everyone be damned for such an ungodly deed...
He waited a moment until his voice settled in the air. Now he was red and covered in sweat. Arteries bulged on both sides of his throat, each as thick as a finger.
“Once I was sitting on the water, I saw a ripple floating above. Completely intact, only the edge is broken off. That's when the thoughts came. Whose is this shaky thing? I think your devilish soldiers must have come to the village, took the Chechen woman, some devil killed the child: he took him by the legs and on the corner! Don't they do something like this? Eh, people have no soul! And such thoughts came, I felt sorry. I think: they abandoned the shaky and stole the woman, burned the house, and the horseman took a gun and went to our side to rob.”
...Although the spirit of the Lord is tempted by Simon the Magus and by Ananias and Sapphira, like a dog returning to its vomit, let its days be short and evil, and let its prayer become sin, and let the devil stand in its right hands and let it go out condemned, in of one generation, let his name perish, and let his memory be destroyed from the earth... And let the curse and anathema come, not just strictly and sharply, but with many lips... May there be for him the shaking of Cain, the leprosy of Gehazi, the strangulation of Judas, the destruction of Simon the Magus, the destruction of the Aryans, Ananias and Sapphiri’s sudden death... may he be excommunicated and anathematized and not forgiven after death, and may his body not crumble and may the earth not accept him, and may his part be in eternal hell, and may he be tormented day and night...
“God did everything for the joy of man. There is no sin in anything. At least take an example from the beast. He lives in the Tatar reeds and lives in ours. Wherever he comes, there is home. What God gave, he eats. And our people say that we will lick the frying pans for this. I think it’s all just false.”
The archdeacon suddenly stopped and slammed the ancient missal shut with a bang. There further came even more terrible words of curses, those words that, along with the rite of confession of worldly people, could only be invented by the narrow mind of the monks of the first centuries of Christianity.
His face turned blue, almost black, and his fingers frantically grabbed the railing of the pulpit. For one moment he thought he was going to faint. But he managed it. And, straining all the power of his enormous voice, he began solemnly:
– Our earthly joy, the adornment and flower of life, truly Christ’s comrade-in-arms and servant, the boyar Leo...
He fell silent for a second. And in the crowded church at that time there was no coughing, no whispering, no shuffling of feet. There was that terrible moment of silence when a crowd of hundreds is silent, obeying one will, captured by one feeling. And then the archdeacon’s eyes filled with tears and immediately turned red, and his face for a moment became as beautiful as beautiful can be human face in an ecstasy of inspiration. He cleared his throat again, mentally tried a transition into two semitones, and suddenly, filling the huge cathedral with his supernatural voice, he roared:
-...Many le-e-e-ta-a-a-a.
And instead of lowering the candle down according to the rite of anathema, he raised it high up.
Now in vain the regent hissed at his boys, hit them on the head with a tuning fork, and covered their mouths. Joyfully, like the silver sounds of Arkhangelsk trumpets, they shouted to the whole church: “Many, many, many years.”
The following people had already climbed onto the pulpit next to Father Olympius: the rector, the dean, the consistory official, the psalm-reader and the alarmed deaconess.
“Leave me... Leave me alone,” Father Olympius said in an angry, whistling whisper and dismissed the dean’s father with a dismissive hand. “I lost my voice, but it’s for the glory of God and him... Move away!”
He took off his brocade robes in the altar, kissed the orarion with tenderness, saying goodbye, crossed himself at the altarpiece and went down to the temple. He walked, towering his whole head above the people, large, majestic and sad, and people involuntarily, with strange fear, parted before him, forming wide road. Like a stone, he walked past the bishop's place, without even glancing there, and went out onto the porch.
Only in the church square did the little deaconess catch up with him and, crying and tugging at the sleeve of his cassock, she began to babble:
- Why did you do this, you damned fool!.. I swallowed vodka this morning, you wicked drunkard. After all, you will still be happy if they just put you in a monastery, clean the outhouses, you Cherkassy bastard. How many thresholds will I have to beat now because of you, Herod? Stupid slaughter! Took my life!
“It doesn’t matter,” the deacon hissed, looking at the ground. “I’ll go load bricks, I’ll go to work as a switchman, as a wheelman, as a janitor, but I’ll still resign my rank.” Tomorrow. I don't want anymore. I don't want to. The soul does not endure. I truly believe, according to the creed, in Christ and apostolic church. But I don’t accept anger. “God did everything for the joy of man,” he suddenly uttered familiar beautiful words.
- You are an idiot! Big guy! - the deaconess shouted. - Say - for joy! I got you in madhouse I’ll plant you, you’ll be happy there!.. I’ll go to the governor, I’ll go all the way to the Tsar... I drank myself into delirium tremens, an oak log.
Then Father Olympius stopped, turned to her and, widening his big, angry ox eyes, said heavily and sternly:
And for the first time the deaconess timidly fell silent, walked away from her husband, covered her face with a handkerchief and began to cry.
1. The image of the free musician Sashka from Gambrinus.
2. Father Olympius from the story “Anathema” as a spokesman for protest against falsehood.
3. Common features violinist Sashka and deacon Father Olympius.
God did everything for the joy of man.
A. I. Kuprin
When you touch on the topic of creativity in the works of A. I. Kuprin, the first thing that comes to mind is the story “Gambrinus” and his main character— violinist Sashka. He represented essential attribute beer in a southern Russian port city. This is a bright and memorable image; "...among the port and sea people Sashka enjoyed greater honor and fame than, for example, the local bishop or governor.” The musician knew the melodies of all nationalities, whose representatives came to the pub and ordered songs from him: he played Russian, Ukrainian, Greek, Georgian, English, Italian, and Jewish melodies. People constantly turned to him: “And he played all the ordered songs without rest. Apparently, there was not a single one that he did not know by heart. Silver coins poured into his pockets from all sides, and mugs of beer were sent to him from all tables. When he got down from his platform to go to the buffet, he was torn to pieces.” Sashka was in demand as a musician; his work was certainly needed by the visitors of Gambrinus. But was the violinist Jewish? freelance artist? Did he play of his own free will, at the call of his heart, or was it tedious daily work, necessary only to make money? The answer to this question is given by the narrator of the story: “Sashka, softened by beer, by his own kindness and by the raw joy that his music brought to others, was ready to play anything.” It should be noted that the musician played not only for the audience, but also for himself. In the presence of the barmaid Madame Ivanova, he often performed his favorite sad Jewish national melodies. As it turns out, the violinist himself is an orphan. In addition to the dog Squirrel and, perhaps, cousin and his nephew's widow, he had no one. Therefore, music was the meaning of Sashka’s life, his happiness and joy.
Sashka is taken to war, although he is already about forty-six years old: for the first time he is separated from his favorite craft and work. But a year later the musician returns to everyone’s and his own joy. At the beginning of the coup and revolution, Sashka began to be oppressed. The assistant bailiff made the violinist promise not to play hymns. There was chaos on the street. And Sashka “walked freely around the city with his ridiculously simian, purely Jewish physiognomy. They didn't touch him. He had that unshakable spiritual courage, that fear of fear that protects even weak person better than any Browning." And even after a brave battle with the boor Gundos and subsequent serving in the police station “for political reasons,” the violinist did not break down and did not lose his talent. Sashka only worked now right hand, despite this, the violinist remained able to work, happy and free - “art will endure everything and conquer everything.”
In the story “Anathema” the situation is different. Protodeacon Father Olympius had a powerful in a beautiful voice, but he always sang strictly what was allowed. In addition, he was sincerely afraid of his hysterical deaconess wife. The church singer had a habit of reading fiction. And one day, reading L.N. Tolstoy’s work about the Caucasus revealed new feelings and aspirations in him: “This reading excited the spontaneous protodeacon’s soul. He read the story three times in a row and often cried and laughed with delight while reading, clenching his fists and tossing his huge body from side to side. Of course, it would be better for him to be a hunter, a warrior, a fisherman, a plowman, and not a clergyman at all.” Father Olympius feels even greater subjugation at the service in the cathedral, when he had to sing an anathema to that wonderful writer who brought so many joyful moments of reading to the protodeacon. This went against the soul of Father Olympius, and he decided to go against both the formalist archbishop and the opinion of the official church. The archdeacon began to praise L.N. Tolstoy. His heart told him: “God did everything for the joy of man. There is no sin in anything. At least take an example from the beast. He lives in the Tatar reeds and lives in ours. Wherever he comes, there is home. What God gave is what he eats. And our people say that we will lick the frying pans for this. I think it’s all just false.” This protest freed the church singer from both his rank and his psychological dependence from my wife. The protodeacon himself no longer wanted to serve in the cathedral. And he had a good reason for this: “...The soul does not tolerate. I truly believe, according to the Creed, in Christ and the Apostolic Church. But I don’t accept malice.” Father Olympius became a free man in a moral sense.
What unites the free Jewish violinist Sashka with the protodeacon Father Olympius? Firstly, both belong to art, to creativity. Sashka’s masterly violin playing and the powerful voice of Father Olympius fascinated people and listeners. “Sashka acted on them like Orpheus, pacifying the waves, and it happened that some forty-year-old chieftain of the longboat... a beast-like man, burst into tears, taking in a thin voice pitiful words of the song..." And the protodeacon: “The real pride of a public favorite awoke in him, the darling of the whole city, at whom even the boys were going to stare with the same reverence with which they look into the open mouth of the copper helicon in the military orchestra on the boulevard.” The main characters of these two stories, “Gambrinus” and “Anathema,” gave people joy and themselves enjoyed doing what they loved.
Both Sashka and the archdeacon had to endure trials, which in both cases consisted of a violation of their spiritual harmony, an attack on freedom (external or internal). But the violinist Sashka, with a broken arm, still survived and returned to his favorite work, to music. But Father Olympius decided to remove himself from the rank, and this was almost inevitable. Finally he became free internally, independent person: "Doesn't matter. I’ll go load bricks, I’ll go to work as a switchman, as a wheelman, as a janitor, but I’ll still resign my rank. Tomorrow..." Only those who are strong in spirit and truly free man such a decisive step is possible. Now Father Olympius has acquired inner freedom And spiritual harmony With myself. From that moment on, he appeared before the reader not as a “tenderly condescending” person submissive to his superior clergy, but as an “immensely huge, black and majestic monument.” And he, even having lost his priesthood, will be happy, because he did not waste his art on senseless malice and remained pure before his soul, conscience and sincere gratitude to the great Russian writer L.N. Tolstoy.
Thus, an analysis of two stories by A. I. Kuprin shows that the theme of freedom, creative and internal, occupied an important place in the writer’s work.