Faithful companion of the legendary hodge nasreddin. The Tale of Khoja Nasreddin. Nasreddin in Khojent or the Enchanted Prince
Leonid Solovyov: The Tale of Khoja Nasreddin:
THE CHARMED PRINCE
CHAPTER SEVEN
They sat down on the rocks; The one-eyed thief began the story of his amazing, sad life:
“I developed an uncontrollable passion for theft at a very early age. While still a baby, I once stole a silver hairpin from my mother’s chest, and when she turned over the whole house in search of this hairpin, I, who still could not speak, secretly grinned, lying in my cradle, hiding the precious booty under the blanket... Having become stronger and Having learned to walk, I became a scourge for our house. I carried everything that came to hand: money, fabrics, flour, butter. I hid the stolen goods so cleverly that neither my father nor my mother could find the loss; then, seizing an opportune moment, I ran with my prey to one noseless, hunchbacked tramp, who was huddled in an old cemetery, among the sunken graves and tombstones grown into the ground. He greeted me with the words: “May I grow another hump in front, if you, O child, like an unopened bud, do not end your life on the gallows or under the executioner’s knife!” We started a game of dice - this old hunchback with traces of all the vices on his flabby face, and I, a four-year-old pink baby with chubby cheeks and a clear, innocent look...
The thief sobbed, turning his thoughts to his golden, irrevocable childhood, then he sniffed noisily, wiped away his tears and continued:
“When I was five years old, I was a skilled dice player, but by that time our economy had noticeably deteriorated. My mother could not see me without tears, my father would writhe, and he would say: “Cursed be the bed on which I conceived you!” But I did not listen to either the pleas or the reproaches and, having recovered from the beatings, returned to the old ways. By the day of my seventh birthday, our family fell into poverty, close to poverty, but the hunchback opened his own teahouse at the market with a secret gambling den and a hashish smokehouse in the basement under the platform... Seeing that there was nothing more to take from home, I turned my greedy gaze and wicked thoughts to neighbors. I completely ruined the wheelwright who lived to our left, stealing from him from the bottom of the well a pot of money that he had saved throughout his life; then, in a little over two months, I plunged the neighbor on the right into complete poverty, devastating him to the ground. No locks or bolts could hold me back: I opened them as easily as a simple latch. My father's patience was exhausted, he cursed me and kicked me out of the house. I left, taking his only robe and the last money - twenty-six tangas. I was eight and a half years old at that time... I won’t bore your ears with stories about my travels, I’ll just say that I visited Madras, Herat, Kabul, and even Baghdad. I stole everywhere - this was my only occupation, and in it I achieved extraordinary dexterity. Then I came up with this vile method - to lie down on the road, pretending to be sick, in order to rob a person who showed mercy to me. I will say without boasting that in the despicable craft of thieves, it is unlikely that any of the thieves not only of Fergana, but of the entire Muslim world can compare with me!
- Wait! - Khoja Nasreddin interrupted him. - And the famous Baghdad thief, about whom such miracles are told?
- Thief of Baghdad? - One-Eye laughed. - Know that I am that same Baghdad thief!
He paused, enjoying the amazement reflected on Khoja Nasreddin’s face, then his yellow eye became clouded with the fog of memories.
— Most of the stories about my adventures are idle fiction, but there is some truth. I was eighteen years old when I first came to Baghdad, to this fabulous city full of treasures and lop-eared fools who owned them. I managed the shops and chests of Baghdad merchants as if they were my own, and finally I climbed into the treasury of the caliph himself. It wasn't that hard to get into, to be honest. The treasury was guarded by three huge blacks, each of whom alone could fight a bull, and was therefore considered inaccessible to thieves and robbers. But I knew that one of the blacks was as deaf as an old tree stump, the second was devoted to smoking hashish and always slept, even on the move, and the third was endowed by nature with such incredible cowardice that the rustling of a night frog in the bushes made him tremble and tremble. I took an empty pumpkin, cut holes in it to represent eyes and a grinning mouth, planted the pumpkin on a stick, inserted a burning candle inside, wrapped it all in a white shroud and lifted it out of the bushes at night to meet the cowardly black man. He screamed convulsively and fell dead. The sleepy one did not wake up, the deaf one did not hear; With the help of master keys, I easily entered the treasury and took out as much gold as I could lift. The next morning, news of the robbery of the Caliph's treasury spread throughout the city, and then throughout the Muslim world, and I became famous.
“They say that later the Baghdad thief married the caliph’s daughter,” Khoja Nasreddin recalled.
- Pure lie! All these stories about me, relating to various princesses, are nonsense and fiction. From childhood I despised women, and - thanks be to Allah! - I was never obsessed with that strange insanity called love. “He said the last word with a tinge of disdain, apparently quite proud of his chastity. “Besides, women, when you rob them of even the smallest amount, behave so obscenely and raise such an incredible cry that a man of my profession cannot feel anything but disgust for them.” For nothing in the world would I marry any princess, even the most beautiful one!
“We’ll wait until you change your opinion about the Chinese or Indian princess for the better,” added Khoja Nasreddin. “Then I’ll say: half the job is done, all that remains is to persuade the princess.”
The thief understood and appreciated the mockery; his flat rogue face with a thorn on one eye and a huge bruise under the other lit up with a grin:
“You might think that Khoja Nasreddin suggested such a subtle and caustic answer to you.”
Hearing your name. Khoja Nasreddin became wary and looked around cautiously. But all around there was clear spring solitude; the shadows of clouds floating south glided along the brown slopes, hung in the sunny air on the flickering wings of a dragonfly; Next to Khoja Nasreddin, an emerald lizard perched on a hot stone and dozed, opening from time to time its lively black eyes with a narrow golden rim.
—Have you ever met Khoja Nasreddin in your thieving wanderings?
“I had to,” answered the one-eyed man. “Ignorant, uninformed people often attribute his deeds to me, and vice versa. But in reality there is and cannot be any similarity between us. In contrast to Khoja Nasreddin, I spent my entire life in vices, sowing only evil in the world and not caring at all about improving my spiritual being, without which, as we know, the transition from mortal earthly existence to another, higher state is impossible. With my vile deeds, I doomed myself to start all over again the whole circle of stellar wanderings.
Khoja Nasreddin could not believe his ears: the one-eyed man spoke in the words of the old dervish from the Khodjent Gyuhar-Shau mosque! “Is it really possible that he, this thief, is also involved in the secret brotherhood of the Silent and the Comprehending?” - thought Khoja Nasreddin, but immediately rejected this idea as incongruous.
Guesses, each more incredible than the other, crowded into his mind.
“That’s how I am,” the one-eyed man continued in a contrite voice. “Only an ignorant person can look for similarities between me and Khoja Nasreddin, whose entire life was devoted to active good and will serve as an example for many generations in the coming centuries.”
The last doubts disappeared: he repeated the words of the old beggar. "Does he know my name?" - Khoja Nasreddin thought, looking shrewdly into the thief’s face, trying to catch at least a faint shadow of pretense.
- Tell me, where did you meet Khoja Nasreddin?
The suspicions were not justified; this time the one-eyed man’s conscience was clear: he really didn’t know who was sitting on the stone in front of him.
— I met him in Samarkand. With spiritual sorrow I must admit that I marked this only meeting with a vile deed. One spring, while wandering around the Samarkand bazaar, I heard a whisper: “Khoja Nasreddin! Khoja Nasreddin!” Two artisans were whispering; Having fixed my only eye along the path of their glances, I saw in front of one shop an unremarkable-looking, middle-aged man holding a gray donkey by the reins. This man was buying a robe and was about to pay. I saw his face only for a moment, briefly. “So here he is, the famous Khoja Nasreddin, a troublemaker, whose name is blessed by some and cursed by others!” - I thought. And a devilish temptation crept into my soul - to rob him. No, not for the sake of profit, for at that time I had enough money, but out of sheer vile thieves’ ambition. “Let me be the only thief in the world who can boast that he robbed Khoja Nasreddin himself!” - I said to myself, and without any delay I began to implement my plan. Quietly, from behind, I approached the donkey and, with a smooth stick, stuck a pod of red caustic pepper turned inside out under its tail. Feeling an unbearable burning sensation in some parts of his body, the donkey began to twist his head and tail, and then, deciding that a fire had been built under his butt, he roared, broke free from the hands of Khoja Nasreddin and rushed to the side, knocking over baskets with flat cakes, apricots and cherries. Khoja Nasreddin chased after him; there was confusion; Taking advantage of this, I took the robe from the counter without interference...
- So it was you, O descendant of the wicked, O son of sin and shame! - Khoja Nasreddin exclaimed with flaming eyes. “I swear by Allah, no one has ever played such jokes on me before you!” You nearly drove us both crazy,” I shed ten sweats trying to quiet his kicking and screaming before I realized to look under his tail! Oh, if only you had fallen under my hot hand then, after that even Kanibadam boots would have seemed softer to you than down pillows!
Having forgotten himself, he betrayed himself with his indignation; When he came to his senses, it was already too late: the thief realized who fate had confronted him on the road.
It's hard to describe the feelings of a one-eyed thief. He fell to his knees in front of Khoja Nasreddin, grabbed the hem of his robe and pressed his lips to it, like a pilgrim meeting a holy sheikh.
- Let me go! - Hodja Nasreddin shouted, tugging at his robe. - Have you conspired to make a saint out of me? I am the most ordinary person on this earth - how many times do I have to tell you! And I don’t want to be anyone else: neither a sheikh, nor a dervish, nor a miracle worker, nor a star wanderer!
- May this road on which we met be blessed forever and ever! - the one-eyed man repeated. - Help me, O Khoja Nasreddin, my salvation is in your hands!
- Let me go! - In his temper, Khoja Nasreddin pulled his robe so that the floor cracked. - Where is it written that I am obliged to save all the beggars and all the thieves wandering around the world? I would like to know who will save me from you?
But, apparently, fate actually wrote somewhere in its books that Khoja Nasreddin, beyond the forty-year mark, should be engaged in the spiritual salvation of the lost; he had to sit down again on the same stone and listen to the end of the story of the one-eyed thief.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“The further events of my life proceeded rapidly,” the thief continued. “I’m skipping a lot, I’ll only talk about the most important things.” I remained in my disastrous vices and delusions until I met one pious old man, whose wise teachings were burned into my chest like Suleiman’s seal. This old man exposed to me all the vileness of my vices and showed me the method of purification, but I, a fool, was unable to use it. I'll tell you everything as it happened, in order. Five years ago, at the end of winter, I came to Margelan - the city of silk. Shaitan tempted me to put my hand into the Afghan’s belt; I was caught on this. The Afghan grabbed me, I broke free, and the entire bazaar rushed after me; I tossed about like a quail in a net. Probably, this day would have been the last of my life, but, running into one alley, I heard a weak senile voice:
“Hide here!..” Some old beggar was sitting by the road. "Hide!" - he repeated. We exchanged robes; I sat down in his place and lowered my head low to hide my face, and the beggar crossed the road and sat down opposite. The pursuers who burst into the alley did not pay attention to the two humble beggars, rushed past, and scattered across the courtyards. Taking advantage of this, the old man took me out of the alley and hid me in his wretched home.
“Stop,” Khoja Nasreddin interrupted: everything was already clear to him. “This beggar planned to turn you to the path of virtue, he talked for a long time about the stellar wanderings of our spirit, about the final victory of good on earth in five hundred thousand years, but as soon as the midnight roosters crowed, he fell silent and did not say another word.
- Was it really you? “The one-eyed man moved away from Khoja Nasreddin in fear. “Is it really true what I heard about you, that you can take on any form you want?”
- Continue your story. Why didn’t you follow the pious path indicated by the elder?
- Oh woe! - exclaimed the one-eyed man. “Your question pierces my heart like a poisoned thorn!” Know that I did not remain deaf to the elder’s teachings. Like a hot flame, his words melted away the lead of my delusions. Before the midnight roosters crowed and the elder fell silent, I repented, bursting into tears. Overwhelmed by awe, I swore to him to reform, to enter the path of virtue, so as never to leave it again. It was then that the elder called your name and revealed to me the great meaning of your earthly existence. “Look at Khoja Nasreddin!” he said. “Here is a man who generously enriches the world with good all his life, without thinking or caring about it - simply because he does not know how to live differently. If you can become like him even in insignificant At least you are saved for a future higher existence in other incarnations.” I left the old man's shack on the wings of hope, my heart glowing in my chest. I swear, long ago I would have stepped on the path he predicted, if the devil, this well-known enemy of people, this insidious extinguisher of all our saving aspirations and noble impulses, had not hastened to lay his vile, stringy, mangy tail under my feet, stepping on which I slipped!.. Burning with impatience to start a new life as soon as possible, I decided to go to Kokand, where I was known less than in other cities. I had about four thousand tanga, and in my imagination I captivatingly pictured a future filled only with virtue, without the slightest admixture of sin. I intended to open a teahouse in Kokand, cover it with carpets, hang cages with songbirds, and in silence, in the coolness, under the gentle splash of a fountain, conduct pious conversations with the guests, filling their souls with the light of the truth revealed to me by the elder. For myself, I determined the most modest way of life, and allocated all the excess income to orphans and widows. Having compared my money with the upcoming costs of buying a teahouse, dishes, carpets and other things, I was convinced that I had enough money for everything except musicians who would play the dutars and sing well-behaved songs in thin voices, containing an edifying meaning. There was some small change missing, some three or four hundred tanga. It was here that the devil dug a pit of temptation on my path, bringing me together on the road to Kokand with one skilled dice player. “I’ll play for the last time,” I said to myself. “This sin will be forgiven me, because I will use the money I win for a good, righteous cause; if after winning I have excess money, I will give it to the poor.” It would seem that a person who has such pious intentions has the right to expect help from above in the game, but that’s not what happened...
“I know the rest,” said Khoja Nasreddin. You played all night, and by morning you were left penniless. Your teahouse, carpets, cages with birds, fountains, musicians, good conversations and edifying songs - everything floated into the pocket of the lucky player. In addition, you gave him boots, a robe, a skullcap and even, I remember, a shirt, leaving you in only your pants.
- In the name of the prophet! - exclaimed the one-eyed man. - What omniscience! How do you know - even about the shirt? So, is it true that in the eyes of any person you can read his past and future?
“I can only read the past from your one eye; As for the future, it is hidden behind your thorn. Continue.
- What could I do after losing? To part forever with dreams of a virtuous life? From such thoughts, the world was clouded with black smoke in front of me. “No!” I decided. “I must be firm in my aspirations for good. It is the devil who is leading me astray, in despair that my soul is escaping from his predatory clutches. I’d rather commit one more, the very last sin, but take the path predetermined old man!" With such a firm decision, I came to Kokand, and here I heard news that confused my mind. It turns out that a new khan recently reigned in Kokand, and this city, which was previously a blooming garden for all thieves and swindlers, has now become a barren desert for them. The new khan introduced such cruel rules that the thieves had no choice but to flee the city or abandon their craft. The Khan disgracedly expelled from service the old chief of the city guard, for whom all the Kokand thieves had not tired of praying in mosques for many years, and installed a new one - an active, ambitious and heartless man named Kamilbek. The new chief, seeking the khan's favor, vowed to eradicate all theft from the roots in the city; By the time of my arrival in Kokand, he had fully succeeded in this cruel intention. He filled the city with many skilled spies and fierce guards; it was impossible to steal anything, not even a pea from a bag, without immediately falling into their clutches. Those caught had their right hand cut off and a brand burned on their forehead with a hot iron; Even if another trickster managed to steal some small change, there was nowhere to put it, because the same punishment was imposed for buying stolen goods, and everyone was afraid. Thus, a new obstacle arose on my path to a righteous life - this cruel boss with his inhumane orders. I spent several days in painful thought, not knowing what to do, where to start. Meanwhile, May had already approached, the holiday of grandfather Turakhon was approaching, whose tomb is located, as you know, not far from Kokand. And so the vile devil, in his tireless quest to take possession of my soul, instilled in me a disastrous thought: to take advantage of this holiday to get the money necessary to enter the path of piety...
But let’s leave the one-eyed thief and Khoja Nasreddin for a short time and tell about the spring holiday of grandfather Turakhon, since without this story much would remain incomprehensible in our further narration.
According to an old legend, Turakhon, originally from Kokan, was left an orphan at the age of five and went to wander around the bazaar, begging for alms. He drank to the very bottom the bitter cup of hopeless orphanhood; such a test can either harden a person, turning his heart into stone, or direct him to sublime human wisdom, if he, through the power of his spirit, can transform resentment and bitterness for himself into resentment and bitterness for everyone. This is what happened with Turakhon: he entered manhood with a soul incandescent with anger towards the hard-hearted rich and pity for the poor, especially children, powerless to help themselves.
He was twenty-five years old when he left Kokand with one caravan; He returned to his native land at the age of forty. He spent all this time in India and Tibet, studying the secrets of healing, and reached extraordinary heights in his work. They said that he heals with a touch, they also said that he strictly takes a large fee from rich people for healing, but immediately spends everything received on the children of the poor.
He always walked accompanied by a crowd of children of all ages; When he had money, he went to a shop selling toys or sweets and bought it all at once for his little friends. If he didn’t have money, and some half-naked, barefoot kid caught his eye, Turakhon, without further words, led him first to the seller of robes, then to the sellers of boots, belts, skullcaps, and everywhere he uttered only two words: “Be merciful!” And the sellers, trembling under the exacting gaze of the old man - and he was very strict towards adults - shoed and dressed the child, not daring even to mention money, remembering that grandfather Turakhon was free not only to heal, but also to punish the hard-hearted with diseases.
When he died, thousands of children, bursting into tears, accompanied the elder to the cemetery. The learned mudarris and mullahs did not agree to classify Turakhon among the ranks of the righteous: he did not observe fasts, violated the rules and regulations of Islam, and throughout his life he did not donate a penny for the decoration of tombs, saying that the living poor need money more than dead sheikhs. But the common people themselves, by their own power, recognized Turakhon as a righteous man; his fame spread far beyond Kokand, throughout the East. And the May holiday named after him belonged to children.
Legend said that on the eve of his holiday, grandfather Turakhon walks around the courtyards and delivers gifts to children worthy of his attention, leaving them in skullcaps hung for this purpose. Children began to prepare for the special day long before spring. The piercing icy winds were still blowing, the dry, stinging snow was still flying from the hazy sky, the gardens were still black, lifeless, and the earth, turned into stone by the frost, was ringing under the cart wheels - and the children were already gathering in flocks in the mornings behind walls, fences and other places, sheltered from the wind, and with blue, squelching noses, shivering in their dressing gowns and clutching their ears with their palms, they had sedate, long conversations about Turakhon. The kids knew with certainty that he was very picky - receiving a gift from him was a very tricky business and not everyone succeeded. To do this, in the fifty days preceding the holiday, it was required:
Firstly, never upset your parents, secondly, do one good deed every day, for example, help a blind man cross a bridge or carry his luggage to some old man, thirdly, for these fifty days it was necessary to give up sweets, which so temptingly they flaunted themselves on peddlers' stalls, and save up money to buy a new beautiful skullcap (it was known that Grandfather Turakhon does not like old, greasy skullcaps and usually leaves them without attention, making an exception only for the poorest children).
For fifty days, silence and good behavior reigned in all families. The children obeyed unquestioningly, walked on tiptoes and spoke in a half-whisper, fearing to anger grandfather Turakhon. Even the most desperate mischief-makers turned into meek sheep at this time; no screams or shouts were heard, no fights were seen, no playing with pebbles and dashing races in fluttering robes, with whoops and whistles, on each other’s backs.
And on the eve of the holiday, a great bustle and bustle began everywhere - mysterious meetings, timid whispers, the rapid beating of little hearts. The fact is that the mullahs were very disapproving of this holiday, and in other places they banned it completely, which made it even more tempting in the eyes of Turakhon’s young admirers. It was necessary to sew three threads to the skullcap: white - a sign of goodness, green - a sign of spring and blue - a sign of sky; then, with the onset of night, secretly leave the house somewhere in the garden or vineyard and hang the skullcap there, facing the tomb of Turakhon and without taking his eyes off the constellation of the Seven Diamonds. Then one had to read the secret words addressed to Turakhon three times and bow to the ground three times - and only after doing all this could one return home and go to bed. It was strictly forbidden to jump up at night and run to the skullcaps - that’s why this night was painful for many little impatients.
But the holiday morning made up for everything! There was a joyful squeal in every house. Grandfather Turakhon left silk robes as a gift to some, boots with red or green tassels to others, toys and sweets to others; girls - shoes, rings, dresses... That's how kind and caring he was, grandfather Turakhon! And all day long in the gardens, in the light green smoke of spring foliage, colorful children's round dances swirled and a song composed by children in honor of their patron was heard:
The south wind opens
White cherry flowers,
The day rises, radiant and bright,
The sun warms from above
And under the clear whistle of a tit,
Under the spring thunder and ringing
Wakes up in a tomb
Good old Turakhon
He takes out rolls of silk,
Bright bunches of thread,
He takes a needle in his hands,
He puts on glasses.
Spring days are winged, -
Without knowing sleep from worries,
He sews robes for the boys,
He sews dresses for girls
Without leaning on the pillows
Whitened head
He takes up toys
For sweets and halva...
And when all the children dream
In the moonlight, a May dream -
He comes out of the tomb
Good old Turakhon.
You and I looked at:
With your big bag
With a blessed foot
He walks from house to house...
For gifts on a happy day,
Clear, warm, golden,
We sing "thank you" to him
Our song is simple.
Let him, listening to the song,
Falling back into sleep,
On this merry day of May
Turakhon will smile!..
Let us now return to Khoja Nasreddin and his one-eyed companion, whom we left behind. During our absence, nothing had changed here on the road: they were still sitting on the stones, the sun was shining, gliding along the slopes in the shadows of clouds, hanging in the warm air on the shimmering wings of a dragonfly, lizards basking in the sun.
One-Eye continued his story:
“I listened to the devil’s insidious whispers. On the night before the Turakhona holiday, I went around the surrounding courtyards, gardens and vineyards. Everywhere I collected skullcaps with gifts. Several times I returned to my lair, which was located in the basement of an abandoned watchtower, emptied the bags and again left for the loot. By dawn, I was the owner of several thousand skull caps, many children's robes, boots with tassels, dresses, shoes, bracelets, beads and other small items. Looking at the motley pile of goods I had collected, I thought: “There is enough here for two teahouses with musicians! And I can sell all this without hindrance. Who will dare to identify their thing? After all, the celebration of the memory of grandfather Turakhon is prohibited in Kokand - who would want to get in because of some kind of robes and skullcaps to go to prison?" These are the vile and vile thoughts I have reached!.. Tired of a sleepless night, I imperceptibly dozed off.
The awakening was terrible! My entire lair trembled and swayed, illuminated by some strange, trembling, bluish-volatile shine. And in this menacing splendor stood the righteous Turakhon himself! His face burned with anger, his eyes burned through him, his voice thundered like a mountain waterfall. “O wicked one!” he cried. “O abominable sinner and scoundrel! You have dared to rob children of their pure joy; instead of the cries of delight and rejoicing so dear to my heart, now crying and tears are being shed everywhere! You have dared to put a black stain on my immaculate name, what will the children say about me now when they don’t find not only gifts, but also their new skull caps? They will say: Grandfather Turakhon is a liar, a deceiver and a thief; do you hear, oh stinking receptacle of all human vices and abominations! " Numb with fear, I listened to the angry speech of the righteous man. “Listen to your sentence, despicable one, worthy of eating only the meat of dead hyenas!” he thundered. “From now on, I condemn you to steal always and everywhere, no matter how disgusted you are with this business. You will feel disgusted with theft and still steal! Every year Before my holiday, you will be subject to severe stomach pains, from which you can only get rid of one way - by stealing! The pain will pass, but what terrible torments of conscience will you be subjected to every time you commit a theft! Abstain for a whole year, crave virtue for a whole year, even approach her - and yet, at the end of the year, steal, thereby immediately destroying the entire edifice of your aspirations for good and your abstinence from evil!.. And all this will continue until you atone for your guilt before me, and in what way should you can redeem her - figure it out yourself!" And following these final words of Turakhon, a new thunderous blow struck, shaking my lair to the foundation. There was a terrible crash and clay fell on me; distraught, with a clouded gaze, I jumped out of the basement - and at the same instant the tower collapsed, burying all the goods I had stolen.
“It was five years ago, at the beginning of May,” Khoja Nasreddin picked up. “It was then that a strong earthquake, accompanied by an unprecedented thunderstorm, destroyed many houses in Kokand. It even resonated in Khojent: there the ancient Gyuhar-Shad mosque collapsed, the same one where an old dervish now sits...
But here he stopped, deciding not yet to tell the one-eyed man about his acquaintance with the Khojent elder.
- So, it turns out who was the culprit of this earthquake - you!
“Alas, I,” confirmed the one-eyed man. “Then I found out that the tombstone in Turakhon’s tomb cracked that day. It burst when the righteous man, overwhelmed with anger, came out of the grave to punish me. Since then I have been in a miserable and unhappy situation. Every year at this time, before the holiday of Turakhona, I suffer the most severe torment, which you witnessed. I cannot get rid of them otherwise than by stealing. Now you understand what I meant by a certain healing effect that does not require the intervention of a doctor, and you understand how the kumgan ended up in your bag.
- Now understand. Tell me, doesn’t your illness recur if you are caught and your stolen goods are taken away?
Khoja Nasreddin inquired about this for a reason - just in case, in anticipation of the future.
- No, it is not renewed. But when they catch me, they beat me very severely every time. Today they beat me for kumgan...
“And I am at the same time with you,” Khoja Nasreddin reminded.
“And a year ago Andijan guards beat me for my prayer rug...
“And the guards let you go?” Didn't they put you in an underground prison?
-Haven't you heard the story about the stupid cat? — the one-eyed man grinned. — One person has mice in his house. To get rid of them, he picked up a stray skinned cat somewhere. The stupid cat destroyed all the mice in one night; the next morning the owner, seeing that no one else would cause damage to his supplies, kicked the cat out into the street from the cozy house, where there were soft pillows, a warm fireplace and a saucer of milk... The guards are smarter than the cat!
Laughing at this fairy tale. Khoja Nasreddin asked the one-eyed man why he was going to Kokand, what business awaited him there. The thief replied that every spring he makes a pilgrimage to the tomb of Turakhon and spends several hours at the tombstone, shedding tears of repentance and begging for forgiveness. But so far all his pleas have remained in vain: the righteous is implacable.
- I'm waiting for your advice.
Khoja Nasreddin thought about it. His initial intention to part with the one-eyed man was wavered. And the reason for this was the old Khodzhent beggar, who seemed to link their destinies together. “If I have to save one or two from returning to a lower state, the difference is small,” Khoja Nasreddin decided. “Besides, he found out my name, so it will be safer to keep him in front of my eyes.”
- Okay, you will be with me. Let's see if the two of us together can't appease grandfather Turakhon and pacify his righteous anger. But you must take an oath - from now on, perform the healing action known to you only with my permission.
One-Eye readily took the oath. There was no end to his thanks and praise.
Meanwhile, the sun had long since passed the daytime line, painted the snow on the peaks a delicate fawn color, and spread thick purple shadows across the mountains. The wind freshened, the dragonflies and midges disappeared, the lizards hid in the stones. Khoja Nasreddin felt languor in his empty stomach; in addition, he had to think about lodging for the night.
- Forward! - he said, sitting on the donkey. “We spent a lot of time here, but Kokand is still far away.
The well-rested donkey shook his head, twirled his tail, and they moved.
CHAPTER NINE
Near Kokand, in the lowlands where residents of the southern part of the city sowed rice, there were warm lakes in those days, fed by the waters of hot underground springs. Here spring began a whole week earlier: around the gardens were still turning black, but on the lakes they were blooming, around them they were blooming, but here they were already green, warmed by the sun above and hot springs below.
From this we can conclude that Grandfather Turakhon deliberately chose this lowland for his tomb: here he could take up his various business - tailoring, shoemaking, toy making and hacks - a whole week earlier. His modest tomb was decorated only with two black ponytails mounted on poles in front of the entrance; around were crowded old gnarled elm trees, the lower branches of which were hung with a motley fringe of silk ribbons brought here by admirers of the righteous man. The abundance of these ribbons testified that his memory does not fade in the hearts of Muslims.
In front of the tomb of Khoja Nasreddin dismounted and reverently bowed to Turakhon, whom he sincerely honored. One-Eye was left far behind; he crawled along the road on his knees, sprinkling dust on his head and sadly shouting: “Oh, merciful Turakhon, forgive me in the name of Allah!” His repentant voice was barely heard over the elms.
An old man came, the keeper of the tomb, in rags, with a face yellow and wrinkled, like dried uryu-chin, but with eyes in which a hidden fire shone. A carved door opened - dilapidated, darkened, completely eaten away by wood worms. From the cool semi-darkness there was a smell of antiquity - a strange smell that penetrates the soul. He took off his boots and put on soft shoes, helpfully offered by the old man. Khoja Nasreddin entered the tomb. White walls of rough-hewn stone, without decoration or painting, supported a dome with two narrow barred windows; Two thin blades of light cut through the semi-darkness, crossing on a stone tombstone split across. From the entrance to the tombstone there was a stone path raised above the floor, two cubits wide, and on both sides of it lay gray-greenish dust on the floor, which had accumulated here for centuries. According to custom, it was kept intact: it would be a great blasphemy to leave your mark on it. And there was such silence in the tomb that Khoja Nasreddin heard the ringing of his own blood in his ears; he approached the tombstone, bent over it, kissed the stone, under which rested one of the kindest hearts that ever beat on earth.
- O merciful Turakhon, will there never be redemption for my sin? - Close screams were heard, and the one-eyed man crawled into the tomb. His head was gray with dust, his flat face was torn into blood, he fell with his chest on a stone and fell silent.
Khoja Nasreddin left, leaving him alone with Turakhon. An hour passed, two. One-Eye did not leave the tomb. Khoja Nasreddin waited patiently, sitting on an old worn rug in the shade of an elm tree and talking with the old guardian about dervishism and its advantages over any other way of life.
“Have nothing, desire nothing, strive for nothing, fear nothing, and least of all bodily death,” said the old man. “How else can you live in this sorrowful world, where lies are piled on top of lies, where everyone swears that they want to help each other, but they only help to die.”
“This is not life, but an ethereal shadow of it,” Khoja Nasreddin objected. - Life is a battle, not burying yourself alive.
“As for external bodily life, your words, traveler, are quite fair,” responded the old man. - But there is also an inner, spiritual life - our only asset, over which no one has power. A person must choose between lifelong slavery and freedom, which is achievable only in the inner life and only at the cost of the greatest renunciation of bodily goods.
-Did you find her?
- Yes, I found it. Since I gave up everything unnecessary, I don’t lie, I don’t servile, I don’t grovel, because I have nothing that could be taken away from me. Is it my senile bodily life? Let them take it; to tell the truth, I don’t value it very much... Here is the tomb of Turakhon; The mullahs do not like him, the guards persecute his admirers, but, as you can see, I am not afraid to serve him openly - quite disinterestedly, out of pure inner attraction.
“What is selfless, I see from your clothes,” Khoja Nasreddin noted, pointing to the old man’s robe, indescribably torn, full of patches, with fringe at the bottom - sewn as if from those ribbons and rags that hung around on the trees.
“I don’t ask for much from life,” the old man continued. - This torn robe, a sip of water, a piece of barley cake - that's all. And my freedom is always with me, because it is in my soul!
- No offense to you, venerable old man, be it said, but any dead person is even freer than you, because he doesn’t need anything from life at all, not even a sip of water! But is the path to freedom necessarily the path to death?
- To death? I don’t know... But loneliness is a must.
After a pause, the old man finished with a sigh:
- I've been lonely for a long time...
- Not true! - Khoja Nasreddin responded. “In your speeches I heard both pain for people and pity for them. Your pity awakens an echo in many hearts, which means you are not alone on earth. A living person is never lonely. People are not alone, they are united; This is the deepest truth of our common existence!
- Comforting fiction! People protect themselves from cold, wind, and rain with walls, and from the cruel truth with various fictions. Defend yourself, traveler, defend yourself, for the truth of life is terrible!
- Defend yourself? No, venerable old man, I am not defending myself, I am attacking! Everywhere and always I attack, no matter in what guise earthly evil appears to me! And if I am destined to fall in the fight, no one will say that I shirked the fight! And my weapons will pass into other hands - I’ll take care of that!
The hot word of Khoja Nasreddin was interrupted by the appearance of the one-eyed man from the tomb. His face was quiet and pale. While he was washing himself by the pond, the old man said:
“Every year this unfortunate man plants a rose cutting near the tomb, in the hope that it will be accepted, and this will be a sign of forgiveness. But so far not a single cutting has taken root. Tears come to my eyes at the sight of this man; You correctly guessed in me my compassion for people, O traveler! I have freed myself from greed, vanity, envy, gluttony, and fear, but I cannot free myself from pity. Allah gave me a soft heart, and it does not want to harden...
One-Eye was minding his own business at this time:
He took out from his bosom a stalk wrapped in a damp rag and, loosening the ground with a knife, stuck it in front of the entrance to the tomb.
“It won’t be accepted,” Khoja Nasreddin whispered to the old man. - They don’t imprison people like that.
“Maybe he will,” answered the old man. - I will take care of this cutting, I will water it three times a day.
Khoja Nasreddin noticed tears sparkling in the corners of his gray eyes.
All business at the tomb was completed. Having said goodbye to the old man, our travelers left the shady cool of the Turakhona elm grove.
And Kokand greeted them with hot dust, crush and bustle at the city gates. The big spring markets began, the gates did not have time to let all the arrivals through.
Under the city wall, from the outside, a motley camp buzzed with awnings made of reed mats, with tents made of horse blankets, with taverns and teahouses, in which there was a bustling trade. Along the road, in shallow pits, sat beggars, as dry and yellow as the waterless land around them - they seemed to be generated by this land, as if they were growing out of it or, conversely, were slowly sinking into its depths. And to the side, to the unbearable roar of drums, the roar of copper pipes and the sharp squeal of nozzles, jesters, magicians, snake charmers, dancers, tightrope walkers and other corrupters of Muslim hearts excelled in their despicable craft. Above this multilingual crowd in the cloudy whitish sky stood a hot sun - flat, dim, without rays; there was dust and dust everywhere - it flew in the wind, creaked on the teeth, got into the nose, into the eyes, into the ears.
A great hunter of all kinds of spectacles, Khoja Nasreddin, without wasting any time, with a flatbread in one hand and a skullcap full of ripe cherries in the other, set off to bypass first the magicians, and then the others. He paused in front of a dark-faced, wizened old man with a red line on the bridge of his nose - the sign of the tribe; lowering his eyes, the Indian quietly and plaintively played the reed pipe, and two snakes swayed in front of him - sleepy, sluggish, completely submissive to the sound of his reed; Without taking his lips off the pipe, he placed both snakes, each separately, in two deep baskets with tight lids - and only after that did he give rest to his numb lips; replaced by the thin sound of a pipe - what a terrible elastic rustle was heard from these baskets, what an ominous, heart-chilling hissing, turning into an evil whistle! a small man, naked to the waist, wearing wide red pants blown by the wind; he squatted and arched, threw and caught his pole, still managing to beat with one hand a small drum suspended in front of his belt: the crowd was buzzing below, dust was swirling, saturated with the smells of sweat, dung and greasy tavern fumes - and he was alone in in the heavenly expanse he was a comrade of the wind, separated from death only by the thin and unsteady string of his rope.
Nearby were the white tents of the dancers; near the extreme one there was noticeable movement and people were gathering; Khoja Nasreddin hurried there.
Two stalwart Dungans with black-pitch braids up to their waists quickly rolled out of the tent a flat drum the width of a millstone; then one of them, throwing back his head, began to blow into a long narrow pumpkin - a whining, rattling sound was heard, like the flight of a wasp. This ancient Kashkar dance was called “Evil Wasp”. The itchy whining of the pumpkin continued for a long time, now intensifying, now dying out; suddenly the tent flap parted and a dancer ran out.
She ran out and stopped, as if frightened by the sight of the crowd - she pressed her sharp young elbows to her sides, spread her small palms to the sides. She was about seventeen years old, no more; there was no antimony, no rouge, no whitewash on her soft golden face; she didn’t need it. Multi-colored silks - blue, yellow, red, green - enveloped her flexible body, glowing and sparkling in the slanting early evening rays, merging their hot, living colors into one rainbow. Throwing a flying glance at the crowd from under her eyelashes with slanting and narrow, moist, hot eyes, the dancer threw off her shoes and deftly jumped onto the drum without a run. He grumbled angrily under her small feet; the trumpeter raised the mouth of his pumpkin higher and turned purple from the effort; the pumpkin whined, nasally, with ringing and screaming; The dancer, feigning fear on her face, began to look around restlessly: somewhere nearby a wasp was hovering, threatening to sting. This evil wasp attacked from everywhere - from the sides, from below, from above; the dancer fought back with impetuous bends of her body and waves of her arms; more and more often, more and more hotly, she beat the drum with her small heels, it responded with a tight, growing roar, forcing her to become more and more fervent. Merged together, they urged each other on; the dancer, dodging the wasp, fell to her knees and jumped up again, looking for this evil wasp in the folds of her clothes - and the colored silks kept unwinding and unwinding, falling onto the drum, and only barely covered her thin body. When she was naked to the waist, an evil wasp suddenly flew in from below; the dancer screamed, spun like a top on the rumbling maddened drum, a colorful whirlwind rose around her, the last pink silk fell, and she was left completely naked in front of the crowd. And suddenly she trembled all over from head to toe, arched and threw back her head, a viscous spasm passed through her whole body: the wasp still stung her!.. Accompanied by the admiring and greedy roar of the crowd, she ran into the tent; and immediately, following her, a Persian merchant headed into the tent - stout, short-legged, with a black beard, a round belly and oily, sleepy, bulging eyes.
Khoja Nasreddin and his one-eyed companion spent the night in some run-down teahouse full of fleas, and in the morning, with the first rays of the sun, they entered Kokand.
As they moved deeper into the city, more and more guards of various ranks got in their way. Guards scurried through the streets, squares and alleys, hanging out on every corner. Thieves really had nothing to do in Kokand.
“But how much does all this commanding horde cost the poor Kokandans?” thought Khoja Nasreddin. “No thieves, even after a hundred years of continuous theft, could inflict such losses on them!”
We passed the ancient madrasah - the nest of Kokand champions of Islam, a stone bridge over the stormy shallow Sai - and the main square with the Khan's palace behind the high fortress walls opened up.
The market began here.
CHAPTER TEN
In those distant years, every large city in the East had, in addition to its name, also a title. Bukhara, for example, was named pompously and loudly: Bukhara-iShe-rif, that is, Noble Royal Bukhara, Samarkand bore the title of Islamo the valiant Battle-victorious and Brilliant, and Kokand, in accordance with its location in a flowering valley and the easy carefree character of the inhabitants, was called Kokand-iLatif, which means Cheerful Pleasant Kokand.
There was a time, and not so long ago, when this title was completely true: not a single city could compare with Kokand in the abundance of holidays, in the fun and ease of life. But in recent years, Kokand has become gloomy and quiet under the heavy right hand of the new khan.
The holidays were still celebrated according to old memory, the trumpeters were still straining and the drummers were zealous in front of the teahouses, the jesters were still making antics at the markets, entertaining the frivolous Kokand residents - but the holidays were no longer the same, and the fun was not so ebullient. There were gloomy rumors coming from the palace: the new khan, blazing with extraordinary zeal for Islam, devoted all his time to pious conversations and did not want to know anything else. Madrasahs and new mosques were built; mullahs, mudarris, and ulemas came to Kokand from all sides; money was needed to feed this greedy horde; taxes increased. The khan's only entertainment was horse racing; From childhood, he passionately loved horses, and even Islam could not drown out this passion in his soul. But in all other respects he was completely impeccable and not subject to vain temptations. The path in the garden from the harem to the khan's bedchamber has died down and is overgrown with grass, and for a long time no longer has one heard hurried, finely flying steps at night, accompanied by the sluggish snoring of the chief eunuch and the tedious shuffling of his shoes, dragging their soles along the ground. The khan demanded the same chastity from his nobles and piety from the inhabitants; Kokand was full of guards and spies.
Every now and then new bans were announced with new threats; just the other day a firman came out on adultery, according to which unfaithful wives were subject to punishment with lashes, and men were to be deprived of their nature under the knives of doctors; there were many other firms similar to this one; Every Kokandian lived as if in the middle of a weave of thousands of threads with bells hanging from them: no matter how careful you are, you will still touch some thread and a quiet ominous ringing will be heard, fraught with many troubles.
But such is the irresistible force of spring that in these days that we are telling about, the Kokand people forgot their hardships. Under the bright rays of the young sun, the bazaar was filled with noisy activity. Having long been famous for their love of flowers and songbirds, the Kokand people did not change their custom: everyone had either a tulip, or jasmine, or another spring flower stuck under their skullcap near their ear. In the teahouses, winged captives sang to different voices, and often some idle Kokand resident, throwing a coin to the teahouse owner, opened the cage and, to the approving roar of those gathered, released the songbird into freedom. The movement of carts, horsemen and pedestrians stopped: everyone, throwing back their heads, watched her free flight, full of delight, in the shining sky.
“Grandfather Turakhon is waiting for our good deeds,” Khoja Nasreddin said to the one-eyed man. - Let's start with the birds. Here's your money. But remember: you yourself should not get a single tanga from the local swindlers, even if their wallets look at you with tender eyes.
- I listen and obey.
One-Eye went to the nearest teahouse and bought all the birds at once. One after another, their wings flashing in the sun, they rose into the sky.
A crowd gathered and blocked the road. Loud praise was heard for the one-eyed man's generosity.
He opened the cage, took out the bird, held it in his hand for a few moments and, enjoying its living warmth, the fearful flutter of his little heart, threw it up. "Fly in peace!" - he said after her. “I’m flying! Thank you, kind man, I’ll put in a word for you to grandfather Turakhon!” she answered in her bird language and disappeared. The one-eyed man burst into quiet happy laughter:
“It’s surprising I didn’t think of this before.” After all, I used to have a lot of money, I could issue thousands of them. I just didn’t know that this childhood fun could be so joyful for the soul.
“You didn’t know a lot, and even now you still don’t know,” answered Khoja Nasreddin, thinking to himself: “I was not mistaken in this man - he kept a living spring in his heart.”
- Disperse! Don't crowd! — menacing shouts were heard, accompanied by the beating of drums; the crowd shuddered and dispersed - and Khoja Nasreddin saw in front of him some high-ranking nobleman riding a red Tekin stallion. The nobleman was surrounded on all sides by guards - mustachioed, fierce, with thick red muzzles, blazing with great grasping zeal, with spears, sabers, axes and other terrifying weapons. The nobleman’s chest shone with many large and small medals, and his well-groomed face with a black curled mustache reflected arrogant arrogance. The stallion, held by the bridle on both sides, played and danced, squinted with a fiery purple eye, arched its neck and gnawed at the bit; the saddle cloth on his back shone gold.
-Where are you from, you despicable ragamuffins? — the nobleman asked, sticking out his lower lip in disgust and wincing.
Oh, if he only knew who was standing in front of him now in this shabby robe, in patched boots and a greasy skullcap!
“We are villagers who came to Kokand for the bazaar,” Khoja Nasreddin humbly answered, depicting servility on his face. “We didn’t do anything wrong, we just released a few birds for the glory of our great khan and as a sign of respect for you, O radiant beacon of power.”
“Aren’t there other ways to express loyalty to the Khan and respect for me than by releasing some stupid birds and gathering a crowd around?” - the nobleman asked angrily, and the words: “releasing into freedom,” he said with a twist of his lips, with disgust at their meaning. “It’s high time to ban all these “releases into the wild,” he again curled his lips in disgust, “all these stupid customs that disgrace my city!” You apparently have extra money, and instead of reverently contributing it to the treasury - this is the true way to express devotion! - you scatter them around the market. Search! - he ordered the guards.
They grabbed Khoja Nasreddin and the one-eyed man, tore off their belts, robes, and shirts.
Triumphantly, they showed their master a wallet filled with silver and copper. The nobleman grinned, pleased with his insight.
- I knew it! Hide it! - he ordered the senior guard. “Then you will hand it over to me for transfer to the treasury.”
The guard dropped his wallet into the bottomless pocket of his red wide pants, and the menacing procession, accompanied by the rolling drum roll, moved on: in front was a nobleman on horseback, behind him were guards in red pants and boots with cuffs, behind everyone was a drummer in the same red pants , but barefoot, since, according to his rank, he was not supposed to have official shoes. And everywhere they passed, the cheerful noise of the market died down, the teahouses emptied and the birds, frightened by the drum, fell silent; life stopped, froze under the glassy, intense gaze of the nobleman - only his firmans with threats and prohibitions remained. But as soon as he passed, life behind him again began to play with all its colors, sound with all its sounds - irrepressible, forever young, unwilling to recognize any prohibitions and laughing at them. He passed through life like some kind of alien body hostile to it; he could temporarily disrupt its flow, but was powerless to subjugate it and gain a foothold in it; with every spring flower, with every sound, the Great Living Life rejected him!
Looking after those who were leaving. Khoja Nasreddin said:
— The earthly authorities are divided into three types:
Younger, middle and older - according to the degree of harm they cause. We were left without a penny in our pocket, which is good: we could have been left without heads - the boss was senior...
“My hands were itching to fish our wallet out of the guard’s pocket,” admitted the one-eyed man. “But I didn’t have your permission.”
- You have to think a little on your own! - Hodja Nasreddin responded with annoyance. - To return his wallet to the rightful owner - why is there any special permission here?
- Here he is! - With these words, the one-eyed man pulled out a wallet from his bosom. - There! he had two more bracelets in his pocket—gold, judging by their weight, but I didn’t touch them.
The return of the wallet was celebrated with a sumptuous feast at a nearby tavern. The tavern owner went off his feet, serving the generous guests first one dish and then another, seasoned with Afghan intoxicating drugs that heated the tongue and palate. From the tavern they went to the teahouse, from the teahouse to the seller of honey snow and finished the feast at the halva stand.
Then they headed around the bazaar. And the Ko-Kand bazaar in those years was such that not even the fastest-footed walker would have been able to get around it all at once. The silk row alone stretched for two arrow flights; the pottery, shoe, weapon, dressing and other rows were only slightly inferior to it; As for the horse fair and cattle area, they were vast. Throughout this entire space, a crowd swirled, seethed, and crowded from end to end; Khoja Nasreddin and his companion kept squeezing sideways.
It is impossible to describe the abundance and splendor of goods laid out on counters, on reed mats, on rugs: everything that the East could boast of at that time was all here! Hookahs from the simplest and roughest to those worth thousands, made in Istanbul, trimmed with gold and gems; silver Indian mirrors for the beautiful stealers of our hearts; Persian multi-colored carpets, pleasing the eye with the extraordinary subtlety of their patterns; silks that borrowed their shine from the sun; velvet, the soft and deep tints of which could be the envy of the evening sky; trays, bracelets, earrings, saddles, knives...
Boots, robes, skullcaps, belts, jugs, amber, musk, rose oil... But here we stop the run of our pen, because to list all the riches of the Kokand bazaar we would need two or even three large books!
The market day, full of colorful colors, sounds and smells, flew by quickly. The sun was setting, the edges of the high clouds melted and glowed with a pink sheen. The hours of rest arrived: people went home, visitors settled down in teahouses. But the drums announcing the end of the bazaar had not yet struck; many shops continued trading.
Among them is the shop of one money changer, named Ra-khimbai, a famous Kokand rich man. Fat, with a double chin, puffy cheeks, a fat scruff protruding from under his robe, with many rings on his plump short fingers, he, with his fleshy eyelids half-lowered, sat at his counter, on which gold, silver and copper money were laid out in even columns . There were Indian rupees, Chinese quadrangular chengs, Tatar altyns that came here from the wild steppes of the Golden Horde, Persian mists with the image of a roaring lion, Arab dinars and many other coins that were in circulation in the East at that time; There were also coins from distant pagan lands: guineas, doubloons, farthings, bearing the sinful images of the Frankish kings - in armor, with drawn swords and the wicked sign of the cross on the chest.
Hodja Nasreddin and the one-eyed thief reached the money changer's shop just as he was finishing counting the day's profits. With an air of mournful thoughtfulness, protruding his plump lips, which were brightly red in his black beard, he collected his money from the counter; coins slipped from his thick fingers like gold and silver fish and fell into his bag with a quiet, delightful splash, and the despicable copper, which he raked without counting, fell with a dull dull thud, like a broken stone.
Khoja Nasreddin glanced sideways at his companion, expecting to see a piercing yellow light in his seeing eye. And I didn’t see it. The thief calmly looked at the gold, his face reflecting completely different thoughts.
“Today before this morning I dreamed that my cuttings took root and threw out buds,” he said. - Should we believe this dream or not? Will Turakhon really not forgive me, will my illness resume again in a year and again I will be forced to resort to healing?
Here we will explain in passing that the insightful Khoja Nasreddin had already managed to study his companion and understand the nature of his illness, which stemmed from an obsessive thought that the one-eyed man instilled in himself. In the writings of the much-wise Avicenna, the father of healing, it is said that any violation of bodily health immediately responds to the state of the spiritual being, and vice versa; Khoja Nasreddin drank from Avicenna's springs and, applying his instructions to the one-eyed thief, was able to draw the correct conclusion.
“A prophetic dream,” he answered, trying to give his voice benevolent confidence, in exact accordance with Avicenna’s admonitions. “A prophetic dream, remember it. I have reason to believe that this time Turakhon will be more merciful to you, and you will receive forgiveness.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the appearance of a widowed woman, as was clear from the blue trim on the sleeves of her robe. The trim was new, but the robe was very worn - from here Khoja Nasreddin concluded that after the recent death of her husband, the widow had no money left even to buy mourning attire.
“O virtuous and generous merchant, I came to you with a prayer for the salvation of my children,” she turned to the money changer.
“Come on in, I don’t give alms,” he muttered, without raising his eyes, which were glued to the money.
“I’m not asking for alms, but for help, which will not be unprofitable for you either.” The money changer deigned to look up.
— After the death of my husband, I was left with jewelry that had been preserved from my former prosperity, my last asset, which I saved for a rainy day. — The woman took out a leather bag from under her robe. - This dark day has come: my three children are all sick. “Tears rang in her voice. “I offered the jewelry to several merchants - no one wants to buy them without first being examined by the chief of the city guard, as the last firman orders. But you know, honorable merchant, that after the inspection I will have neither money nor jewelry: the chief of the guard will definitely recognize them as stolen and take them to the treasury.
“Hmm!..” the money changer grinned, scratching his beard with his finger. - To the treasury, or maybe not to the treasury, but he will definitely take it. On the other hand, buying from an unknown random person without inspection by the head of the guard is very dangerous: the firman promises a hundred sticks and prison for this. But out of sympathy for your grief... Show me what you have there?
She handed him her bag. He untied it, shook out onto the counter a heavy gold bracelet, earrings with large emeralds, ruby beads, a gold chain, which, according to ancient custom, the husband gave to his wife as a sign of the indissolubility of the marriage, and several other small gold things.
- What do you want for this?
“Two thousand tanga,” the woman said timidly. The one-eyed man nudged Khoja Nasreddin with his elbow:
— She asks exactly a third of the real price. These are Indian rubies, I can see from here.
The money changer pursed his plump lips disdainfully:
- There is some gold mixed in, and the cheapest stones are from Kashgar.
- He's lying! - whispered the one-eyed man.
“Only out of pity for you, woman,” the money changer continued, “I will give for everything... well, a thousand tanga.”
The one-eyed man's face twitched, indignation flared in his yellow eye; he rushed forward, ready to intervene. Khoja Nasreddin stopped him.
The widow tried to argue:
“My husband said that he paid more than a thousand for rubies alone.”
“I don’t know what he told you there, but jewelry can be stolen, remember that.” Okay, I'll add two hundred tangas. One thousand two hundred, and not a penny more!
What could the poor widow do? She agreed.
The money changer, casually putting the jewelry into his bag, handed the woman a handful of money.
- Robber! - whispered the one-eyed man, trembling. “I myself am a thief, and I’ve spent my whole life with thieves, but I’ve never met such bloodsuckers!”
But that was not all; Having counted the money, the woman exclaimed:
“You are mistaken, venerable merchant: there are only six hundred and fifty here!”
- Get out! - the money changer screamed, turning red all over. - Get out, or I will immediately hand you over to the guards with your stolen gold!
- Help! He robbed me! Help, good people! - the woman screamed, bursting into tears.
The one-eyed man's indignation crossed all boundaries; this time Khoja Nasreddin would hardly have been able to hold him back, but around the corner a drum suddenly struck.
A nobleman with his guards appeared near the shop. Having completed the rounds, the procession headed to the service house.
The woman fell silent and backed away.
The merchant, folding his hands under his stomach, bowed low to the nobleman.
He answered with a casual nod from the height of his stallion:
- I greet the most respectable Rakhimbai, who adorns the trading class of our city! I heard a scream near your shop.
- Yes, here she is! — The money changer pointed to the woman. - Shows immoral licentiousness, boldly disrupts order, demands money, talks about some kind of jewelry...
— About jewelry? — the nobleman perked up, and such a sparkle flashed in his bulging glass eyes, next to which the yellow eye of the thief could have been considered innocent and meek, belonging to a baby. - Come on, bring her to me, this woman!
The widow was no longer there: saving her last money, she hurried to hide in the alley.
“Here’s an example: the more oppression there is for the common people, the more freedom there is for all sorts of crooks,” said Khoja Nasreddin. - They eradicated theft - they started robbery in broad daylight, covered with the guise of trade. Run after this widow, find out where she lives.
One-Eye disappeared; Among its features was the ability to disappear from sight and appear before the eyes subtly, as if dissolving in the surrounding air and again condensing from it.
So as not to lead the guards into temptation. Khoja Nasreddin hid behind a pile of stones prepared for lining a large ditch that flowed here. From here he could see and hear everything that was happening in the shop.
The nobleman graciously accepted the merchant's invitation to drink tea. A friendly conversation ensued between them about the upcoming races in the presence of the khan himself.
“I am not afraid of any rivals except you, venerable Rahimbai,” said the nobleman, twirling and stroking his mustache. “I heard about your two stallions brought from Arabia for this race.” Heard, but saw - did not see, for you hide them from prying eyes more jealously than even your wife. Rumor has it that they cost you forty thousand tangas, including shipping by sea; Even the first reward will not cover your expenses!
“At fifty-two thousand, at fifty-two,” the merchant said smugly. “But I don’t count expenses when it comes to pleasing the eyes of our great khan.”
“This is commendable, I will report to the khan about your diligence.” But don’t be angry if my Tekins deprive you of your first reward. Of course, nothing bad can be said about Arabian horses, but I still consider the Tekin horses to be the best in the world.
The nobleman launched into lengthy discussions about the merits of various breeds of horses, the merchant listened and grinned mysteriously, running his fingers over his thick belly.
The air was filled with fragrances. The money changer's wife came - tall, slender, under a light blanket, through which you could see rouge and white on her cheeks, paint on her eyelashes, antimony on her eyebrows and Chinese mastic on her lips.
The nobleman stood up when he saw her:
“I greet the most honorable and beautiful Arzi-bibi, the wife of my best friend.”
She responded with a bow and a smile. The money changer could not resist boasting to the nobleman of his wealth and his generosity: he pulled out jewelry from his bag and immediately gave it to his wife, lying that an hour ago he had paid eight thousand tanga for them in the gold row. The wife thanked her for the gift in the most refined terms; her words were addressed to her husband, but her glances were directed to the nobleman. The merchant, drowning in complacency, did not notice anything and kept talking about the eight thousand tanga paid for the jewelry, the fifty-two thousand for the Arabian stallions, and some other thousands. The nobleman listened, twirling his black irresistible mustache, hiding behind it a condescending smile, with a tinge of contempt, the same one that many of the Kokand residents longed to wear on their faces, but were torn off from someone else’s with a dagger, and more often with denunciations.
“With these jewels you will be even more captivating, oh beautiful Arzi-bibi,” said the noblewoman. “What a pity that only your spouse can enjoy the contemplation of your angelic face framed by these jewels.”
“I believe it won’t be a special sin if you, Arzi-bibi, put on earrings, a necklace and reveal yourself for a moment before the illustrious Kamilbek, my best friend,” the merchant readily picked up (that’s where his complacency and stupid vanity led him!).
She agreed without arguing (of course!) - she put on the necklace and lifted the blanket.
The nobleman leaned back, groaned and covered his eyes in exhaustion with his palm, as if blinded by her beauty.
The merchant puffed up with self-satisfaction, puffed, snorted and grunted slightly.
Khoja Nasreddin behind the stones, seeing all this, just shook his head, mentally exclaiming: “Fat ferret, why are you happy? You order stallions from Arabia, and your wife finds them much closer!”
The thief has returned and appeared out of thin air in front of Khoja Nasreddin:
— The widow lives nearby. She really has three children, and all are sick. Six hundred and fifty tanga is not enough for her even to pay her debts. Tomorrow she will be penniless again at the mercy of this despicable bloodsucker!
“Remember his shop, remember the widow’s house, all this will soon be useful to us,” said Khoja Nasreddin. - Now - let's go!
They departed, leaving the nobleman, the boastful money changer and his wife, with all their thousands, jewelry, Arabian horses and shameful secrets. The teahouse where they stopped was at the other end of the bazaar, they walked for a long time, passing empty rows, crossing quiet squares. The flaming sunset was blinding, the evening light poured widely and quietly onto the earth, and in this golden radiance the minarets, the gloomy bulks of the mosques seemed to lose their earthly heaviness, seemed transparent, unsteady, as if ready to rise into the sky and melt in its pure, calm fire.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mountain lake!.. Khoja Nasreddin asked everyone about it at the bazaar - farmers, wandering artisans, jesters and magicians. In vain - no one had heard anything about such a lake. “Where did it go?” thought Khoja Nasreddin. “Perhaps the old man owned it in one of his previous incarnations, somewhere on Jupiter or Saturn, and now, due to old age, he has mixed everything up and is sending me to look for this lake on Earth!”
The second matter, concerning the propitiation of Turakhon, also worried him a lot. “There’s only a week left before the holiday,” he thought. “I need money, at least six thousand, where can I get it?”
I had to turn to the one-eyed thief for advice - without, of course, revealing to him the purpose for which this money was needed.
“In previous years, I could have gotten six thousand in Kokand without much difficulty,” answered the thief. - But now the Kokand people are all impoverished, who will you find such a weighty wallet with? Is it just the money changers?
“You are again captured by your sinful thoughts,” Khoja Nasreddin said reproachfully. - Why is it necessary to steal, aren’t there other ways?
—Win at dice?
- You can lose. We must choose some other win-win game.
A guess flashed in Khoja Nasreddin’s head, still vague, but containing fruitful seeds.
- A game of three: you, me and this fat, sinful money changer. But how to lure him into our game?
- Fat money changer, thief of widows and orphans! - exclaimed the one-eyed man. - Lure him into the game? Yes, it’s easier to lure this pillar or that camel!
“It would be very good to receive money from him,” Khoja Nasreddin continued, carried away by his guess. - Voluntarily, of course - completely voluntary! This would be very useful for the money changer himself to transition to another existence at the end of his earthly journey.
“To voluntarily receive six thousand tanga from this bloodsucker!” - the one-eyed man laughed. - Yes, his earthly journey will end at the first hundred! Look how he holds on to his bag - he can’t snatch it!
The conversation took place in a teahouse, at a late hour, at the turn of midnight. The city was asleep, the market lights went out, only the tar fires on the watchtowers burned. The young moon bowed lonely and sad over the minarets, silvering their tiled caps with icy light. It was cool and quiet; During the day, summer already reigned in the city - heat, dust, stuffiness, but the winged nights with their hazy radiance, with the mysterious freshness of the star wind still belonged to spring. The one-eyed thief climbed under the blanket and began to snore, and Khoja Nasreddin lay with his eyes open, completely in the grip of a blue fog that had descended to the earth from unknown heights and full of unclear visions of another, distant world.
The booming drums that announced midnight returned Khoja Nasreddin to earthly affairs - to the fat merchant and his leather bag with money. With an effort of will, he shook off the sweet numbness of thoughtlessness. “Seek, my mind, search! The money changer must give six thousand tanga, and he will give, and completely voluntarily - that’s what I planned, that’s how it will be done!”
And the fat money changer at this time, not suspecting anything, not experiencing any worries, peacefully whistled with his nose and smacked his lips next to his lovely wife. She did not sleep and, looking with disgust at his swollen womb, softly swaying under the silk blanket, recalled the burning gaze and irresistible mustache of the nobleman. The bedroom was stuffy and steamy from the tightly locked shutters, from the lamp that showered greasy flakes of soot on the tray. “Oh, beautiful Kamilbek!” thought the beauty. “How sweet are your embraces for me and how disgusting are the powerless touches of this fat fool!..” With such sinful thoughts she fell asleep, having before her eyes the same persistent vision of a beautiful black mustache, confident, that their noble owner responds to her in his nightly dreams with complete reciprocity.
She was mistaken - the nobleman at this late hour was busy with completely different thoughts: about his elevation, about new rewards, about the overthrow of his rivals.
He stood in the palace bedchamber in front of the master's bed and obsequiously reported to him the events of the past day. This was the order established by the khan; may think that the ruler did not have enough daytime time - this is not at all true: he was simply afraid to be alone at night, since he had long been susceptible to attacks of sudden suffocation. This disease tormented him severely and did not recede, despite the friendly assurances of the palace doctors that it was weakening every day and would soon disappear completely. The doctors did not lie to the khan, they just did not say that she would disappear with him...
Lying with his back high on the pillows, throwing back the heavy blanket, the khan breathed heavily, with wheezing and whistling, from his skinny chest under a thin silk shirt. The bedroom windows were open, the incense burners were not smoking, but he still lacked air.
“After the market closed,” the nobleman reported, “having made sure that the city was quiet, I went to the racing field in order to personally check its improvement for the upcoming races...
“You examined it yourself last year,” interrupted the khan. “And yet one stallion twisted his leg. Look, if there is a hole this time too!..
“This time I’m ready to answer with my head,” the nobleman answered with a bow. “I hope that my Tekins will be able to adequately please the eyes of the brilliant ruler.”
- Your Tekins, I heard, have rivals. One merchant, I don’t remember his name, ordered horses from Arabia, paying for them, they say, over fifty thousand. Have you seen these horses?
“I saw it, oh lord,” the nobleman lied without blinking an eye. “The horses are undoubtedly good, but they are far from my horses.” I can also add that the merchant greatly boasted about the price; for these Arabs, as I reliably know through my spies, he paid a little more than twenty thousand.
- Twenty thousand? What kind of horses are these, for twenty thousand a couple? He doesn’t think he will appear on the racing field before our eyes with nags!
“The merchant is of low birth, how does he know the rules of the highest decency,” the nobleman casually said.
Having thus denigrated the fat money changer, his rival in the racing field, the nobleman proceeded to denigrate other rivals in the palace. The treasurer, who recently arranged a feast for eighty guests with suspicious extravagance, got it, the tax vizier got it, and, incidentally, the high eunuch got it for his excessive adherence to Lagodian hashish.
Then the nobleman hesitated, preparing to strike his main enemy. He had planned this blow long ago and had been cultivating it for a long time, like a careful gardener growing a precious fruit in a greenhouse. The enemy of the nobleman was the military leader Yadgorbek, nicknamed Fearless, the driver of the famous Kokand cavalry - a valiant warrior, covered in scars from enemy sabers and crowned with the glory of many victories. Slavish, cowardly baseness always hates the clear nobility of high and brave souls; The nobleman hated Yadgorbek for his directness in his speeches, especially for his incorruptible respect, turning into love, for the common people.
Gloomy, overweight, already aged, with drooping gray mustaches, in a simple turban with a single golden feather as a sign of his military power, in a shabby silk robe, shiny at the elbows, shod in boots with toes wrinkled from stirrups and heels, rusty from constant contact with the hair of a horse, accompanied only by one bodyguard - a decrepit, half-blind old man, a constant uncle since his youth - Yadgorbek, slouching in the saddle, slowly rode through the bazaar on his old argamak, also cut by sabers, and the crowd fell silent, parted, seeing off the warrior in a respectful whisper, and his former centurions, gray-haired like him, with honest battle scars on their faces, shouted from the teahouses: “Greetings to you. Fearless! When will we go on a campaign? Don’t forget about us, we can still fight!..” Appearing once per year in the palace, the old warrior was always silent and did not say a word about his exploits, but the very scars on his disfigured face hummed and rumbled, as if storing in themselves from past times the intermittent roar of copper battle trumpets, the whistle of naked sabers, an evil, with the screaming neighing of horses, the ringing of shields and the continuous beat of drums, filling with rage.
Was it easy for a nobleman to experience all this, who had never been in a single battle, who had never seen the shine of someone else’s blade over his head? The beautiful Kamilbek wisely went out to battle all his life, without injuring his opponent, who was tightly tied with ropes and laid prone on the ground, face down, and pressed down from above by two guards - one sitting on his neck, and the second sitting on his legs.
- What else? - asked the ruler, yawning loudly; It was late, he felt heaviness in his swollen eyelids, but beneficial sleep did not come to him.
The nobleman bent over and trembled all over from head to toe. Here it is, the long-awaited minute!
“I have in my thoughts a certain word of sad truth, oh lord!”
- Speak!
“I’m afraid I’ll burden them with the sovereign heart of a powerful ruler.”
- Speak!
— We are talking about the military leader Yadgorbek.
- Yadgorbek? Did he do something wrong? What?
The nobleman choked slightly, but, courageously overcoming his excitement, said in a sonorous and clear voice:
- He was caught by me in adultery!
- In adultery? Yadgorbek? - cried the khan, amazed beyond all measure. - You're crazy! If it were something else, I could still believe, but this!..
- Yes, in adultery! - the nobleman repeated with firmness. - There is indisputable evidence. Widowed six years ago...
- I know…
- ...the said sensualist Yadgorbek, not wanting to marry legally and in accordance with the established order of Allah, entered into an adulterous relationship two years ago with one woman, a Persian, named Sharafat.
“I know,” interrupted the Khan. - So this woman is without a husband; He left with his caravan for India five years ago and died somewhere along the way.
“May the lord incline his ear to my further speeches.” Already after the announcement of the firman, and more than two months have passed since that day, Yadgorbek did not interrupt his adulterous relationship with the specified woman, therefore, he is guilty and subject to the established punishment.
- Why did he need to break off contact with her if she is free, I repeat to you! - the khan cried with impatient annoyance in his voice. - How can a firman be applied in this case, what kind of adultery is this, what are you muttering!
He was, after all, the ruler of a large khanate and involuntarily took care of the most correct and strict implementation of the laws, so that his kingdom would not be destroyed by the willfulness of the leaders.
- Is it possible to use firman, asks the overlord? - the nobleman hissed, wiggling his mustache predatorily. - Well, what if this woman is not really free and continues to be in a marriage that has not been legally dissolved? What if her husband was not dead, but alive?
- Alive? Where was he these five years?
- He is alive and now resides in India, in Peshawer, enslaved. I have two Peshavers sitting in my dungeon, who were captured by me at the bazaar the year before for their magical plans against the Great Khan. They, of course, fully confessed to their crimes during the first two interrogations and were sentenced by me, in accordance with the law, to imprisonment in an underground prison. So recently, the other day, they additionally testified that they met this woman’s husband in the pitiful state of a slave at the Peshawar bazaar. He sent messages to his wife three times, begging for a ransom, but she did not respond, instigated, as I am sure, by her adulterous partner Yadgorbek. This, O lord, is what the Peshavers showed during interrogation - both, and in the same words.
“During interrogations, everyone uses the same words,” the khan remarked, smiling gloomily. - What will the residents think, what will the army say if Yadgorbek is captured for such a ridiculous reason? There is something very dirty here with you, as I see...
He was irritated by the excessive impudence of the nobleman, who had prepared the verdict in advance; he was irritated by the overly self-confident sticking out of his black mustache; Moreover, the illness also reminded of itself with a dull ache in the back of the head, so the khan’s voice sounded creaky and sarcastic.
“Something is very dirty,” I say. The Peshavers were captured a year and a half ago, but they only revealed their meetings with this woman’s husband now. Why haven't they shown it until now?
“They persisted in denial, only now they admitted it.”
— Did you persist in denial? “The smile on the khan’s face became even darker. — According to you, they admitted to the witchcraft that threatened them with prison during the first two interrogations, but they did not admit to meetings with this woman’s husband, which threatened them with absolutely nothing, for a whole year and a half? Is this in your dungeons, in your hands? A little strange, don’t you think, huh?...
The nobleman realized that he had chosen the wrong time for his business. Khan is in a bad mood, he turns his sting without a choice, to the one who is closer; that night he should not have appeared in the palace at all, saying he was sick and putting someone else under the khan’s sting in his place. But the mistake has already been made; Such blunders are not uncommon with people huddling at the foot of the thrones - whoever catches the first piece gets the first slap in the face.
“O great center of the universe, I had previously noticed in Yadgorbek a penchant for adultery, and if I was silent about it in front of the khan, it was only out of concern for preserving the precious health of the ruler, which could suffer damage from such upsetting news,” the nobleman began, bending and wriggling backwards in the hope that it will still be possible to give the matter the desired turn.
No such luck - it turned out to be such a miserable night!
— Have you noticed a tendency towards adultery in Yadgorbek before? - the khan asked. - Where? On trips you never shared with him? And with whom? Did he commit adultery with his saber? But I noticed something different, I noticed a similar tendency in some others... who have enough strength and free time for this, who, precisely for the sake of all kinds of adultery, grow a lush mustache and wear patent leather boots with such high heels that they look like Chinese women in them . This is where one should look for adultery; I am sure that this search would not last long.
The earth shook and swam under the nobleman’s feet. Is the Khan speaking at random or has he received a denunciation from someone? Perhaps he knows everything, even the name Arzi-bibi is known to him? Perhaps he is simply hesitating, like a cat who has already clawed a mouse? All these thoughts, whirling and whistling, flashed through the nobleman’s head, like an instant Arabian whirlwind, overthrowing palm trees.
Now he had no time for insidious plans - he would rather jump out of his own trap!
Feeling the telltale pallor on his face, turning away from the lamps, he cleared his throat for a long time, expelling the hoarseness that was stuck in his throat.
He should have retreated with intelligence and cunning, without turning his open back to the khan, but he, being cowardly by nature, rushed into reckless flight.
- The Great Lord is right, as always! - he exclaimed with exaggerated fervor. “With his incomparable wisdom, the lord tore the scales from my eyes. Now I see clearly that the said Peshavers maliciously slandered the noble Yadgorbek in order to diminish the glory of his military exploits and thereby reduce the splendor of the Kokand kingdom! This was their criminal goal; Now all that remains is to find out where the instigation came from, where the betrayal was hidden? Tomorrow I will personally interrogate the Peshavers.
Khan listened in silence; the smile on his thin lips flickered very forebodingly; what word was hidden under it and what would it bring when it finally surfaced on the lips? In confusion, in fear, trying to push this word away, the nobleman spoke incessantly, with ever-increasing ardor.
“How blessed is this night,” he exclaimed. “Thanks to the bottomless wisdom of our ruler, treason has been exposed and the good name has been cleared!” Now my conscience is calm, my mind is elevated, my spirit is enlightened - now I can retire.
Bowing at every word and crouching, he backed towards the saving door, but the bedchamber was vast, and he did not have time to take the last step; he had already moved his right foot over the threshold and was bowing his left foot, just one more moment, and he would have walked out the door to salvation - but it was here that the arrow of retribution overtook him.
- Wait! - said the khan. - Come here, closer...
With a glazed, clouded gaze, inexorably riveted to the khan's finger, slightly beckoning to him, the nobleman silently, as if drawn by the neck by an invisible lasso, made the way back, from the door to the khan's bed, and every step on this way back came at the cost of the most severe internal spasm .
-Where are they now, your Peshavers? - asked the khan.
- In an underground prison, oh lord!
“I intend to interrogate them myself.” The light faded before the nobleman’s eyes, and his head began to spin.
But the tongue did its job, in addition to the mind:
“When daylight comes, they will be taken to the palace.”
“Not when the day comes, but now,” said the khan. “I don’t care, I see I can’t sleep, so I’ll get on with it...
“They are not prepared for the palace,” the nobleman muttered. - They are in rags and overgrown with wild hair...
“Nothing, just in case of emergency, we’ll wake up the barber.”
- An unbearable stench emanates from them...
“And we’ll put them at a distance, near an open window.” And I will ask in every detail about this woman’s husband: how he got to Peshawer and who enslaved him. And also about the sorceries for which they were captured; I remember that you received ten thousand tanga, or even fifteen, for your zeal. They will tell; You, of course, will leave so that they feel freer, and I will listen and figure it out. Hey guards!
He hit the copper circle hanging from the lamp with a hammer.
The chief of the palace guard entered.
“You will stay here for now,” said the khan, turning to the nobleman. - And you will take four guards from the guard and go with them to the prison where they are being held...
But at that moment, suffocation grabbed him by the throat with a bone hand, filling his larynx and chest as if with finely chopped horsehair. Khan swayed, turned purple, and turned blue; a dry cough beat, shook and ruffled his skinny body; the eyes bulged, the tongue lolled out. The night healers ran in with basins, towels, and jugs; a commotion began.
The nobleman himself did not remember how he got out of the palace.
If not for a sudden attack of suffocation that plunged the khan into unconsciousness, this night for the nobleman would have been the last of his prosperity.
Only in the square, under the fresh night wind, did he come to his senses.
The danger has moved away, but has not yet passed. Having recovered, the khan will remember the Peshavers and demand them to come to him.
It is necessary to remove the Peshavers, remove them now, before the day comes!
But how?…
The nobleman was perplexed.
Yesterday he could have executed them or secretly killed them - and no one would have said a word. But today these tried and tested methods were not suitable: to the two heads of the Peshaweri people it was possible to inadvertently attach a third one - your own.
There remained the only method, never before used by the nobleman in his multi-secret affairs - escape!
With this decision, the nobleman headed to the service house, where he had faithful people who were always ready to fulfill everything without unnecessary questions and knew how to remain silent about what was done.
The enchanting Peshavers, who that night became the object of attention of the ruler himself, were in fact the most ordinary stonemasons, who had long worked in pairs and came to Kokand to earn money; both are already elderly, they have never had any contact with witchcraft in their lives; The nobleman invented all this for the sake of his promotion.
After a year and a half of hopeless sitting in an underground prison, the Peshavers recently had to go out for a short time to the torture tower to give new testimony, as muddy as the first: about some woman, somewhere, by someone, and once turned into slavery by magic means, about some man who did not want to ransom her, or, conversely, about a man in slavery and about a woman who did not want to ransom, or about both of them in slavery... and someone else performed magic on some old military leader, turning him into a Persian woman, named Shara-fat - in a word, all this was confused in the heads of the Peshavers and they returned to the dungeon with gloomy indifference to what happened next, knowing with certainty only one thing - that now, after the second interrogation, they would not escape from the scaffold!
With this thought in mind, they met three jailers who came down to them before dawn and unlocked the locks of the chains.
Observing the silence necessary for the intended task, two jailers went upstairs with the Peshavers, and the third remained below to saw through the empty chains.
Everything was going smoothly and well, in full accordance with the plans of the nobleman, but suddenly an unexpected delay arose at the top: the Peshavers, confident that they were going straight to the chopping block, demanded a mullah - firm Muslims, they did not want to appear to Allah unpurified.
Persuasion was in vain.
In vain did the jailers, vying with each other in conspiratorial half-voices, convince them that they were going to freedom.
The Peshavers, of course, did not believe and demanded the mullah more and more firmly.
Meanwhile, precious minutes flew by and dawn was approaching - a time no longer suitable for what was planned.
Attempts to push the Peshavers out of prison by force were unsuccessful, as they raised a cry that echoed the roar of many voices below, in the dungeon, among other criminals.
And the prison was dangerously close to the palace, where they could hear.
I had to report to the nobleman, who at that time himself was prudently outside the prison, but still nearby.
The nobleman did not have his faithful mullah at hand for this occasion - having foreseen many things, he lost from his thoughts the firmness of the Peshavers in Islam.
The secret did not allow calling an outsider as a mullah.
Muttering curses and curses, the nobleman ordered one of his trusted guards to dress as a mullah, that is, in a white robe and a white turban, and in this form go to the Peshavers.
The newly-minted mullah, approaching them with feigned piety on his face, wanted to shout out a proper prayer address, but his lips, out of many years of habit, unexpectedly for the guard himself, suddenly spewed out foul language, which resulted in his identification by the Peshavers.
The guard's mistake almost ruined the whole plan.
Horrified at the thought of being deprived of confessional repentance, seeing that they were being deceived in this last and most important matter, the people of Peshaver raised a cry even stronger than the first time - and the dungeon responded to them with a dull roar, similar to the roar of an earthquake.
They reported to the nobleman again.
He gritted his teeth, he turned pale, as if a pale stripe, already visible in the east, was reflected on his face.
The minutes flew by...
Dawn was approaching.
The idea collapsed.
The secret threatened to emerge.
Driven by fear, the nobleman in despair decided to take extreme measures.
He ordered an escape to be announced and the alarm raised - to blow trumpets, beat drums, ring shields, wave torches and shout to everyone as loud as possible.
In the midst of this noise and commotion, tie up the Peshavers - fortunately their screams will be muffled, stuff their mouths with rag gags, hide them in thick woolen bags and, on fast horses, accompanied by four of the most trusted guards, send them to the southern gate.
And direct the pursuit of the fugitives to the northern gate.
All this was accomplished.
Trumpets blew, drums thundered, torches blazed, shouts were heard: “Hold! Catch! Grab!..”
On a white horse, with a drawn saber and raised mustache, in the light of torches, a nobleman pranced in front of the prison, as if he had just rushed in on alarm.
- To the northern gate!
The chase rushed there; in front is a nobleman on a white horse, with a naked saber raised above his head.
And the Peshavers, suffocating in their sacks, were rushed by fast horses south of Kokand.
After two hours of non-stop racing, the guards stopped the horses near an abandoned cemetery, in dense thickets of reeds and thorns.
The Peshavers were shaken out of their sacks.
They were still breathing, albeit weakly.
The rays of the early sun, a fresh wind and water from the irrigation ditch, poured generously on them with a leather camp bucket, had the desired effect.
The people of Peshaver woke up and gained the ability to listen to human speech.
True, the speech addressed to them consisted nine-tenths of nothing but foul language, but nevertheless the Peshavers realized that they were really being released, and thanked Allah for such a miraculous deliverance from inevitable death
They were given fifty tanga between them - half of what the nobleman assigned to soften the border guard.
The guards divided the second half of the money among themselves, then jumped on their horses and rushed off to Kokand.
Left alone, the Peshavers first performed a pious ablution, which they had been deprived of for so long in the underground prison.
Then, spreading out their robes, they knelt down, having the rising sun on their left side, turning their emaciated faces towards holy Mecca.
They prayed for a long time, according to the importance of the miracle that happened for them.
When they finished the prayer, peace descended into their hearts - into the pure, ingenuous hearts of ordinary people who honestly earned their bread through hard work.
They divided the money they received equally, twenty-five tanga each, and hid it, anticipating a return to families in need without breadwinners.
Then they wandered along the road, enjoying the sun, green foliage, birds and talking about past misadventures, unable to understand either why a year and a half ago they were suddenly captured and thrown into a dungeon, or why that night they were just as suddenly thrown out from prison under these special circumstances.
They just shook their heads, marveling at the inscrutability of God’s ways, the intricacy of earthly destinies and the incomprehensibility of the many-wise and many-secret plans of the authorities for the simple mind.
The next day, without further hindrance, having suffered only ten tangas each out of the twenty-five that had been set aside, they crossed the southern border of the khanate and by evening were already working, cutting stones for a newly built mosque.
So, slowly, from one side job to another, they moved towards their native village and safely reached it, having tasted the joy of meeting their families.
Their further fate is unknown to us, but we believe that they no longer found themselves grinding in that glorious mill, where the waters of self-interest turn the wheels of cunning, where the shafts of ambition set in motion the cogs of denunciations and the millstones of envy grind the grains of lies...
The night storm around the Peshavers did not touch the teahouses where Khoja Nasreddin and the one-eyed thief spent the night; Only the faint echo of drums and trumpets, announcing the escape, reached here from the prison, and the muffled and continuous sound of horse trampling was transmitted across the ground in the direction of the northern gate. Then everything was quiet again until the morning.
The moon disappeared, the blue haze disappeared, replaced by the pre-dawn gray haze, and Khoja Nasreddin still did not close his eyes to sleep, his thoughts riveted to the fat merchant and his bag of money.
Hundreds of ingenious ways to lure six thousand tanga from the money changer have already been invented and rejected. “To seduce him with the specter of false gain?” Hodja Nasreddin thought. “Or to frighten him?...”
And suddenly he was burned from head to toe with an instant, piercing insight. Here it is - a surefire way to open the money changer's money bag! Everything immediately lit up, as if under the white shine of flying lightning; doubts dissipated.
And such was the burning power of this insight that it was transmitted from Khoja Nasreddin to the other end of the city - to the merchant’s house. The money changer shifted restlessly under the blanket, snorted, smacked his thick lips, and grabbed the left side of his stomach, where he always carried his bag.
- Ugh! - he said, nudging his wife. - What a bad dream I had just now: as if I had tripped and fell down the stairs into a trough with oats and some gray donkey had eaten me and my money bag. And then the donkey disgorged me in his dung, but without the bag - it remained in his stomach.
“Be quiet, don’t disturb me from sleeping,” the wife responded in a dissatisfied voice, thinking to herself: “The beautiful Kamilbek, of course, never dreams such stupid, such indecent dreams!” Smiling dreamily, she fixed her gaze on the window, pink in the rays of sunrise, behind which the morning began, full of worries for everyone - for her, and for the money changer, and for the beautiful Kamilbek.
CHAPTER TWELVE
But this morning brought the greatest troubles and worries to Khoja Nasreddin.
Leaving the one-eyed thief in the teahouse, at the first rays of the sun he went to the far end of the bazaar, where they were selling junk. There, on the cheap, he bought an old, worn rug, an empty water gourd, an old Chinese book, a silver-plated mirror, a bunch of beads and some other small items. Then along the banks of the Sai he came to the Bridge of Severed Heads.
This bridge had such a terrible name because here in former times the heads of executed people were usually displayed on high poles; now, by order of the khan, poles with heads were erected in the main square so that they could be seen from the palace, and the bridge, retaining only its ominous title from the past, passed into the possession of fortunetellers and soothsayers.
There were always at least fifty of them sitting here - these wise seers of the hidden plans of fate. The most revered and famous occupied niches in the stone fence of the bridge, others, who had not yet reached such heights, spread their rugs near the niches, the third, the youngest, were placed anywhere. In front of each fortune teller lay various magical objects on the mat: beans, rat bones, pumpkins filled with water from the prophetic spring Gul-Kunar, tortoise shells, seeds of Tibetan herbs and much more necessary to penetrate the dark depths of the future. Some of the most learned also had books - thick, disheveled, with pages yellowed by time, with mysterious signs that instilled fear and awe in the minds of the uninitiated. And the most important fortune teller even had, with the special permission of his superiors, a human skull - the object of the burning envy of everyone else.
Fortune tellers were strictly divided according to specific types of fortune telling: some dealt only with weddings and divorces, others with upcoming deaths and inheritances arising from them, others with love affairs, the area of fourths was trade, fifths chose travel for themselves, sixths - illnesses... And none of them could complain about the scarcity of income: from morning to evening, people crowded on the Bridge of Severed Heads; by sunset, the wallets of fortune tellers were completely swollen with copper and small silver.
Khoja Nasreddin approached the largest niche, which was occupied by the chief fortune teller - a frail old man, so dry and bony that his robe stuck out at some angles, and the skull lying on the rug in front of him seemed to have been removed from his own shoulders. Bowing humbly. Khoja Nasreddin asked to indicate the place where he would be allowed to lay out the rug.
- What kind of fortune-telling do you think you’ll do? - the old man inquired grumpily.
The fortune tellers leaned out of their niches, listening to the conversation. Their views were unkind.
- Another one! - said the fat fortune teller on the left.
“There are already too many of us gathered on the bridge,” added the second one, who looked like a gopher, with an elongated face, with long teeth sticking out from under the upper lip, grabbing the lower one.
“Yesterday I didn’t earn even ten tanga,” complained the third.
- And new ones are climbing! Where do they come from! - added a fourth.
Khoja Nasreddin did not expect any other reception from the fortune tellers, so he prepared softening words in advance:
- O wise seers of human destinies, you have nothing to fear from my rivalry. My fortune telling is of a very special kind and does not concern trade, love affairs, or funerals. I only guess at thefts and the search for the stolen property, but in my field, I will say without boasting, I have not yet met my equals!
- For theft? — the chief fortune teller asked, and suddenly all his bones under his robe creaked and shook with petty laughter. - For theft, you say, and for searching for the stolen property? Then sit anywhere - you still won’t earn a penny!
- Not a single penny! - the others chimed in, echoing their leader’s skeletal laughter.
“There’s nothing to do with your fortune telling in our city,” the old man finished. — In Kokand, theft has been eradicated by the roots; It would be better for you to go somewhere - to Herat or Khorezm.
“To leave...” Khoja Nasreddin was saddened. - Where will I get the money to leave, if I only have eight tangas in my pocket?
Sighing and looking depressed, he stepped aside and spread a rug on the stone slabs.
And the bazaar around was already full of noise: shops opened, the rows began to hum, the squares shook. More and more people flocked to the bridge - merchants, artisans, childless wives, rich widows eager to find new husbands, rejected lovers and various young idlers languishing in anticipation of an inheritance.
And the friendly work began! The future, always dressed for us in veils of impenetrable mystery, here, on the bridge, appeared completely naked to the eye; There was no corner in its innermost depths where the inquisitive gaze of brave fortune tellers would not penetrate. Fate, which we call powerful, inevitable, insurmountable, here on the bridge had the most pitiful appearance and was daily subjected to unheard-of torture; It would be fair to say that here she was not a sovereign queen, but an unfortunate victim in the hands of cruel interrogators, led by a bony old man - the owner of a skull.
— Will I be happy in my new marriage? - some venerable widow would ask tremulously and freeze, waiting for an answer.
“Yes, you will be happy if a black eagle does not fly into your window at dawn,” was the fortune teller’s answer. - Also beware of dishes contaminated by mice, never drink or eat from them.
And the widow walked away, full of vague fear of the black eagle, which painfully struck her imagination, and not at all thinking about some despicable mice; Meanwhile, they were precisely the threat to her family well-being, which the fortune teller would have readily explained to her if she had come to him with complaints about the incorrectness of his predictions.
— One Samarkand resident offers me eighteen bales of wool. Will this deal be beneficial for me? - asked the merchant.
“Buy, but make sure that at the time of payment there is not a single bald man around you within a hundred cubits.”
The merchant walked away, racking his brains about how to avoid the harmful influence of the bald men, who were not so easy to recognize under their turbans and skullcaps at the market.
But the first place among fortune tellers undoubtedly belonged to the owner of the skull. He was truly a great, soulful master of his craft! How meaningfully he pursed his bloodless lips, with what concentrated attention he blew on the dry snake skin, looked at the tortoise shell and sniffed from a pumpkin filled with the waters of the prophetic spring Gul-Kunar, before touching his main treasure - the skull. But now the time has come for the skull. Knitting his eyebrows, muttering something inaudibly, the fortune teller stretched his hands towards him with overhanging bony fingers - and suddenly pulled back, as if he had been burned. Then he pulled again and pulled back again. Finally he took the skull and slowly brought it to his ear. Before the eyes of the truster, shackled with horror, two skulls appeared: one - bone, the second - covered with leather. The skulls began a terrible conversation: the bone one whispered, the skin-covered one listened... Who would have the courage to pay in copper after that? — the hand itself took silver out of the wallet.
A day passed, a second, a third. No one turned to Khoja Nasreddin to search for the kidnapped person, he never had to look into his Chinese book and smell from a pumpkin.
In the evenings, when he was rolling up the rug, fortune tellers from all sides mockingly shouted:
“Today he didn’t earn a penny again!”
- How much do you still have left of the eight tanga, - hey, you, a fortune teller about theft?
- What will he have for dinner today, this fortune teller, who has never met his equal anywhere?
Khoja Nasreddin was silent, maintaining a feignedly depressed appearance.
And on the fourth day, the whole city was shocked and thrown into confusion by the news of a daring theft - unprecedented, unheard of even in ancient times, happy for thieves. The Arabian stallions, which he was taking care of and grooming for the upcoming spring races, were taken away from the stable of the fat money changer at night.
In the morning, the news of the theft was passed from mouth to mouth in a fearful whisper, at noon it was spoken about out loud, and in the evening, in all parts of the bazaar, drums beat and the trumpets of heralds blared, announcing a reward of five hundred tanga to anyone who would point out the trail of the daring thieves.
The fortune tellers on the bridge were alarmed. All eyes were turned to Khoja Nasreddin:
- Earn these five hundred tangas quickly!
- Take them, why are you delaying?
“He disdains such a small reward, he expects a reward of five thousand!”
This annoying screech made Khoja Nasreddin’s breathing heavy and his heart burned.
He restrained his anger, waiting for the hour of his triumph.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Meanwhile, unrest in the city grew.
The money changer became ill and took ill due to extreme distress.
The nobleman, who had just finished, with great shock of spirit and not without damage to his health, night conversations with the khan about the mysterious escape of the Peshavers, was, by this abduction, faced with the threat of new conversations, even more painful. In anticipation of this, the nobleman was like a thundering cloud (through which, however, no, no, and like a momentary ray of sunshine, a hidden smile slipped through - the child of deeply hidden thoughts about the upcoming races, where now his Tekins will no longer meet dangerous Arab rivals).
At night, the khan called the nobleman to his bedchamber. The conversation was very short, and the words came from only one side, while the other was necessarily limited to bowing, wrinkling of the mustache, rolling of the eyes, raising of hands to the sky and other word-substituting body movements (without which, truly, the sons and daughters of men would sometimes experience insurmountable difficulties in official matters, and especially in marital matters).
The nobleman came out from the khan, looking yellow and green, and immediately demanded all the senior and middle commanders to come to him. His conversation with his superiors was even shorter than the master’s conversation with him.
Senior and middle bosses, in turn, demanded junior ones; there the entire conversation consisted of several curse words.
As for the lower ones, that is, simple spies and guards, then the words did not descend at all to them, but only mere punching.
It's been a long time since there was such a restless night in Kokand! In the squares, on the streets, in the alleys - weapons rattled and clanked everywhere, spears, shields and sabers gleamed in the cold light of the month: the guards were looking for thieves. The fires on the watchtowers raised tongues of dark red tar flame high into the quiet sky, and a smoky glow stood over the city. The watchmen called to each other mournfully. Hundreds of spies lurked in dark corners, under bridges, in broken fences, in vacant lots and cemeteries.
Senior and middle commanders, accompanied by junior and inferior ones, undertook a personal tour of all the teahouses and caravanserais. They also went into the teahouse where Khoja Nasreddin was sleeping and brought a flaming torch to his face. He didn't even open his eyes, although he could hear his beard crackling and inhale the smell of burnt hair.
The one-eyed thief was not with him that night.
The coming morning did not bring peace to the city.
Around noon, a nobleman with a large retinue appeared on the Bridge of Severed Heads.
He stretched out his right hand. Two jumped out from the crowd of mounted guards - on a bay stallion and on a gray one; twirling his whip, hanging to one side in the saddle, whooping and whistling, the first of them rushed loudly across the bridge, dousing the fortune tellers with a hot wind and the smell of horse sweat; the second - he directed his horse down, crossed the shallow Sai in a cloud of spray, swung to the opposite bank in one leap, and disappeared into a side alley.
The nobleman extended his right hand in the other direction - and the foot guards rushed there, jingling shields, sabers, spears, crowding and quarreling.
After this, the nobleman went to the old man - the main fortune teller. A secret conversation began between them.
Khoja Nasreddin could not hear anything from his place, but he guessed every word.
It was, of course, about searching for missing horses. The old man promised to call for help all otherworldly forces under his control, including those hidden in the skull. The nobleman snorted and bristled his mustache - he didn’t come for stupid fairy tales, he demanded action!
The old man had to turn to the earthly forces under his control. The interrogation of the fortune tellers began - to whom did they tell fortunes yesterday and the day before yesterday, did they happen to notice anything suspicious in their clients, perhaps related to a daring kidnapping?
Everyone answered that they had not noticed anything like that.
The nobleman was angry and twitched his mustache. His intense glassy gaze threatened with sticks, whips, and expulsion from the city.
The fortune tellers became despondent. Fate, which had suffered so much humiliation from them, suddenly appeared before them in a new powerful form to enjoy the long-awaited revenge; Today not only beans and rat bones were powerless against her, but even a skull! It was Khoja Nasreddin’s turn to answer. Following everyone else, he repeated that he had not seen or heard anything suspicious.
The nobleman snorted angrily, “nothing again!” Suddenly, from the niche opposite (that’s exactly what Khoja Nasreddin thought and counted on!) someone’s maliciously cowardly voice was heard with a nasal squeal:
“But you said that you have no equal in fortune-telling to find stolen goods!”
Hearing the word “wanted,” the nobleman perked up:
- Why were you silent, fortune teller? — Fire flared up in his glass eyes. - Answer! “The anger that had accumulated in him for a long time was looking for a way out. - I will mark out your entire filthy nest, turn it into dust and ashes! - he thundered. - Guards, take him! Take this fortune teller, this swindler, and beat him with whips until he tells you where the stolen horses are! Or let it be publicly admitted that he is a shameless liar! Beat him!
The guards tore off Khoja Nasreddin's robe. The two ran under the bridge to wet the whips. It was dangerous to hesitate. Khoja Nasreddin humbly addressed the nobleman:
- The unworthy slave throws a humiliated plea at the feet of the illustrious prince to listen to him. I really think about searching for the stolen property and can find the missing horses.
- You can find? Why haven't you found it yet?!
“Oh, illustrious prince, my fortune-telling requires that the person who has suffered from the thieves personally contact me, otherwise it will lose its power.”
- How long do you need to search?
- One night, if the victim comes to me today before sunset.
These words caused whispers and movement among the fortune tellers.
The face of the bony old man, already anticipating the bitterness of exile, lit up with hope.
The nobleman looked straight at Khoja Nasreddin with angry bewilderment:
“You dare lie to my face!” To me, who knows all your tricks and tricks, to me, who tolerates you here on the bridge, just so as not to keep extra spies on your payroll!
“There is no lie in my words, O lord shining with splendor!”
- Okay, we'll see! But if you lied, fortune teller, it would have been better for you not to have been born. Call the money changer Rakhimbai here!
“The venerable Rakhimbai is ill,” one of the mid-level commanders crowding around the nobleman obsequiously reminded him.
- Am I not sick? — the nobleman flushed. - I am not sick? I haven’t closed my eyes for two nights now, looking for these damned horses! He will lie there, and I will take the rap for him! Call! Bring it on a stretcher!
Eight guards, led by two middle commanders and one senior, rushed to the merchant’s house...
The nobleman was of average height, even very average; there was a discrepancy between his appearance and his high and powerful rank; In order to correct this annoying oversight of nature, he always wore narrow patent leather boots with excessively high heels, thanks to which he added to his height and grandeur. Tapping his heels on the stone slabs, he walked back and forth along the bridge, then stopped, rested his right hand regally on the stone fence, and slowly raised his left hand to his black mustache and began to stroke and twirl it. Everything around was reverently silent - and his anger little by little began to cool down.
In moments of leisure, the nobleman was no stranger to sublime thoughts, and even loved them, as a sign of his undoubted spiritual superiority over his subjects. “Isn’t this the main duty of a boss to instill fear and trepidation in his subjects?” he thought. “The easiest way to achieve this is to cut them all, in a row and indiscriminately, but certainly accompanying the punishment with appropriate edifications, without which it cannot take place.” proper consequences." These thoughts calmed the nobleman - he felt as if he had soared on the mighty wings of superior wisdom to the superstellar heights, from where everything seemed small, insignificant, deserving not of anger, but only contempt; his gaze, fixed on the bony old man, did not so much soften, but as if it had acquired a certain ethereality and passed right through, without burning or causing wounds. “As for the actual guilt of the insect,” he continued to expand the circle of his thoughts, “such doubts should not have access to the mind of the boss, for even if the insect is not guilty of the matter for which he is being punished, then he is certainly guilty of what "Something else!" This thought, its depth and strength, even took his breath away; there was nowhere to rise higher, higher began the already divine wisdom - he soared to its very boundaries, and an ocean of blinding, incomprehensible light seemed to open to his mental gaze!
The merchant's house was nearby. Half an hour later the stretcher returned.
A money changer crawled out from under a silk curtain - yellow, swollen, with an unkempt beard speckled with pillow fluff. Holding his heart, groaning and groaning, he bowed to the nobleman and said in a weak but sarcastic voice:
— Greetings to the illustrious and powerful Kamilbek! Why did he need to raise his pathetic slave from his mournful bed, whose insignificance is such that he cannot even find protection in this city from daring thieves?
“I called the most respected Rakhimbai just for this reason - to prove to him my diligence in searching for the missing horses. I am sadder and more worried than ever!
- What is the illustrious Kamil-bek so worried about? After all, now his Tekin stallions will definitely receive the first award at the races.
It was an open blow - right in the face.
The nobleman turned pale.
“The bitterness of loss and the illness associated with it clouded the mind of worthy Rakhimbai,” he said with cold dignity. “Here, in front of us, is a fortune teller, extremely skillful, as he says, who undertakes to find the missing horses.
- Fortune teller! And for this, the illustrious prince lifts me, sick, out of bed! No, let the powerful prince guess for himself, and I leave.
And he turned to leave. The nobleman said with cold dignity:
- I am in charge of the city! The most venerable Rahimbay will now enter into negotiations with the fortune teller.
He knew how to inspire obedience, this nobleman! Although the merchant frowned, he approached Khoja Nasreddin:
“I don’t believe you, fortune teller, and I’m talking to you on a dime, forced to do so by the authorities.” Two purebred Arabian horses have disappeared from my stable...
“One is white, and the other is black,” suggested Khoja Nasreddin, opening his Chinese book.
“The whole city can confirm the truth of your words, O most insightful of fortune tellers!” - the money changer sarcastically. “Many people admired my horses on the day they arrived from Arabia.
“The white horse has a small scar, no thicker than a woolen thread, under the mane, and the black horse has a wart in the left ear, the size of a pea,” Khoja Nasreddin continued calmly.
The merchant was taken aback.
Only two people knew about these signs: he himself and his trusted groom - no one else.
The sarcastic grin disappeared from his face.
- You're right, fortune teller! But how did you get in? The nobleman perked up and moved closer. Khoja Nasreddin turned the page of his Chinese book:
- And one more thing: a white charmed silk is woven into the tail of a white stallion, and a black one is woven into the tail of a black stallion.
Even the trusted groom did not know this: the merchant wove the enchanted silks into the horses’ tails personally and in deep secrecy, since resorting to magic and conspiracies at the races was strictly prohibited on pain of prison.
The words of Khoja Nasreddin completely stunned the money changer.
The illustrious Kamilbek also did not remain indifferent to these words. His thoughts raced. “However, look no further, he will actually find it! This is not at all included in my calculations. My job is to show the greatest zeal in the search, and everything further does not depend on me; whether horses are found or not, this is the business of Allah; it’s better would not have been found, at least - before the races... Shaitan slipped me this fortune-teller! But what can I do? Yeah, magic! Scare the money changer, catch him red-handed, delay the investigation - then his Arabs will never get to the racing field! "
- What do you say, most respected Rakhimbai? - he asked in an ominous judicial voice.
“I don’t know anything about any silks,” the merchant muttered confusedly, changing his face and thereby betraying himself completely. “Perhaps the grooms themselves... without my knowledge... Or the old owner of the horses... back there, in Arabia...”
But here he came to his senses, realizing that the horses were gone and it was impossible to incriminate him.
- Yes, all this is a lie! - he exclaimed with feigned indignation. - The fortune teller is lying and slandering! If only my horses were found!..
“Tomorrow they will be found,” interrupted Khoja Nasreddin. - Wait, my book says something else... It says that in the horseshoe on the front right leg of the white stallion, among other nails, there is one gold nail, also enchanted. It is covered with gray paint on top so that it does not differ from the iron ones. There is the same magic nail in the black stallion’s horseshoe... but I can’t tell which leg it’s on.
- Hm! Magic nails, enchanted silks! — the nobleman grinned. “Due to my duty, I must begin an investigation.”
And the merchant lost his tongue from extreme amazement; However, his confusion did not last long - his long-term trading habit of lying came to the rescue:
“I don’t understand what he’s talking about, this fortune teller.” Most likely, he is simply raising the price. Let him say directly - how much does he want for his fortune-telling and how will he answer if it turns out to be false?
The book of his soul was completely clear to Khoja Nasreddin, not like the Chinese book. Now the merchant no longer doubted that he was seeing a fortune-teller with an undoubted gift of clairvoyance. The desire to return what was lost fought in him with the ominous ghost of prison. Charmed nails, magical silks, a nobleman who got wind of this... Except for a fortune teller, no one can help in such a matter.
“We must talk about the price, just like everything else, face to face, just the two of us,” said Khoja Nasreddin, turning his words to the merchant’s most burning, deepest desire.
- Can't we have three of us? — the nobleman was worried.
- No, you can’t, my fortune telling will lose its power. The nobleman had to give in. He walked away, ordering the guards to clear the area. A minute later there was no one left around Khoja Nasreddin and the merchant. The chief fortune teller tried to hide in his niche, but was kicked out of there.
“We are alone,” said the merchant.
“Alone,” Khoja Nasreddin confirmed.
“I can’t understand where these nails and silks came from.”
- But now we’ll find out where it comes from. Khoja Nasreddin reached for his Chinese book.
- No need, fortune teller! - the merchant said hastily. - This is yesterday’s matter, the past, but we have to think...
“About the future, about tomorrow’s business,” Khoja Nasreddin finished.
- That's it! It would be good, fortune teller, if these horses returned to me in that form... in this form... how should I say it...
- Without nails and without silks, - I understand...
- Quiet, fortune teller! Now tell me your price.
“The price is similar, venerable merchant: ten thousand tanga.”
- Ten thousand! Dear Allah, this is half their cost! The horses cost me twenty thousand tanga to transport from Arabia all the way to Kokand.
- You named a different price for the illustrious Kamilbek. Remember, there in the shop - fifty-two thousand...
The merchant's eyes bulged - the omniscience of this amazing fortune-teller truly went too far!
- Is this all your book? - After a pause, the merchant asked in a timid voice.
- Yes she.
- Amazing book! Where did you get it?
- In China.
— Are there many similar books there in China?
- The only one in the whole world.
- Glory to Allah, who cares about our well-being! It’s scary to think what would happen to us traders if a hundred such books appeared in the world! Close it, fortune teller, close it - the sight of these Chinese signs is painful for my heart! Okay, I agree to your price:
- And don’t try to deceive me, merchant!
“I am unarmed, and in your hands the book is like a sharp sword.”
- Tomorrow you will receive your horses. You will receive them without silks and nails, according to our agreement. Prepare money - in gold, in one wallet. Now let's do the last thing.
Khoja Nasreddin uncorked the pumpkin and sprinkled magic water on himself and the merchant.
The nobleman, the chiefs, the guards, the fortune tellers silently watched all this.
The bony old man - the leader of the fortune tellers - was exhausted with envy; Twice he tried to get close to the conversation in order to eavesdrop, and twice, thwarted in his intention by the guards, he was kicked back.
He began to squirm when he heard the price of fortune telling.
- Ten thousand! - he exclaimed hoarsely and fell to the ground unconscious.
There was no one to lift it - everyone was numb, stunned by such an unheard-of price.
The nobleman coughed meaningfully, grinned openly, but remained silent.
But when the merchant went home, a flock of spies followed his trail.
“This means that I will not be abandoned by their attention,” thought Khoja Nasreddin. And I was not mistaken: looking back, I saw three people behind me and one more to the side.
- Fortune teller! “The nobleman beckoned Khoja Nasreddin to him with his finger. - Remember: horses can be returned to the merchant only in my presence, not otherwise! And you don’t have to rush with this matter. In addition - silks and nails; make sure they don’t suddenly disappear somewhere - otherwise you will regret your birthday! Go!
Khoja Nasreddin rolled up the rug and left the Bridge of Severed Heads under the angry, envious whispers of his fellow practitioners of the fortune-telling craft.
The spies followed him.
You have read the text of Leonid Solovyov's story: The Tale of Khoja Nasreddin: Troublemaker.
Classics of literature (satire and humor) from a collection of stories and works by famous authors: writer Leonid Vasilyevich Solovyov.
.................
Recently, many unusual monuments have appeared in Russian cities. Moscow was no exception.
On April 1, 2006, in Moscow, near the Molodezhnaya metro station on Yartsevskaya Street, a monument was erected to the philosopher, poet, hero of oriental legends and wit Khoja Nasreddin. He is sculpted in bronze with a book in his hands along with his constant companion, a donkey. The author of the monument is sculptor Andrei Orlov. Address: Molodezhnaya metro station (first car from the center). Exit to the right onto Yartsevskaya street, 25 A.
The sculptural composition weighs 750 kg.
It is interesting that Khoja Nasreddin is considered a folk hero in Central Asia, the Caucasus, and the Middle East. Therefore, it is not surprising that people of different nationalities were present at the opening of the monument - Tajiks, Azerbaijanis, Turks, Uzbeks, Afghans, and Kazakhs.
Anyone has ever heard of Khoja Nasreddin. He is often remembered with or without reason. He was in the most unimaginable situations, cunning, deceived, got out, joked, mocking self-interest and ignorance, ridiculed human stupidity, while always remaining wise.
The monument is very nice. Khoja Nasreddin with a book in his hands leads his beloved donkey. But, if Nasreddin looks very realistic, then the donkey turned out to be a puppet and resembles Shrek the donkey. Hence some disproportions in the figure of Hoxha and his companion. Despite the fact that no one understands why it stands here and why, the monument is very nice and evokes only good feelings. The donkey's ears are already polished to a shine. Apparently kids love to climb on it by grabbing onto them. Or maybe some kind of sign has already appeared. For example, holding a donkey by the ears will make you wiser or wittier...
We probably shouldn’t take this monument so seriously. Rather, it is an urban sculpture that has become popular recently. An ordinary element of urban design. Moreover, there is a tent nearby that sells shawarma. Quite in style...
Many stories have been written about Khoja Nasreddin. Here is one of them. Nasreddin lost his donkey. At the market, he began to shout out: “Whoever finds my donkey will receive it as a gift along with a bridle, sweatshirt and saddle!” He was asked why it was necessary to spend a lot of effort and look for a donkey if it would still be given as a reward. Khoja answered with confidence: “Yes, that’s all true. But you simply never experienced the joy of a discovery.”
This is how Muscovites, having found such a wonderful and unusual sculpture, receive great joy from their find.
was on him, and he beamed proudly, standing next to his gray brother, the ancient
and a faithful companion of Khoja Nasreddin in his wanderings. But the gray donkey is not at all
embarrassed by such a brilliant neighborhood, calmly chewed green juicy clover and
he even pushed the muzzle of the white donkey away with his muzzle, as if making it clear that,
Despite the undeniable superiority in color, the white donkey is still far from having
such merits to Khoja Nasreddin as he, the gray donkey, has.
The blacksmiths brought a portable forge and immediately shod both donkeys,
the saddle makers presented two rich saddles: one trimmed with velvet - for Khoja
Nasreddin and trimmed with silver - for Guljan. The teahouse workers brought two teapots
and two Chinese best bowls, a gunsmith - a saber of the famous gourde steel, so that
Khoja Nasreddin had something to defend himself from robbers on the way; carpet makers brought
blankets, lasso - a hair lasso, which, being stretched in a ring around
sleeper, protects from the bite of a poisonous snake, for the snake, impaling itself on hard
hairs, cannot crawl over it.
Weavers, coppersmiths, tailors, shoemakers brought their gifts; all of Bukhara, for
with the exception of mullahs, dignitaries and rich people, she was preparing her Khoja Nasreddin for the journey.
The potters stood aside sadly: they had nothing to give. Why does a person
Do you need a clay jug on the road when you have a copper one donated by minters?
– Who says that we, potters, didn’t give anything to Khoja Nasreddin? A
doesn't his bride, this beautiful girl, come from a glorious and
the famous class of Bukhara potters?
The potters screamed and made noise, completely delighted with the words
old man. Then they gave Guljan strict instructions from themselves - to be Khoja
Nasreddin's faithful, devoted friend, so as not to lose glory and honor
estates.
“Dawn is approaching,” Khoja Nasreddin addressed the people. - They'll open soon
city gate. My fiancée and I must leave unnoticed, but if you go
to see us off, the guards, imagining that all the inhabitants of Bukhara had decided to leave
city and move to another place, they will close the gates and not let anyone out.
Therefore, go home, O inhabitants of Noble Bukhara, let it be calm
your dream, and may the black wings of trouble never hang over you, and may things
yours will be successful. Hodja Nasreddin says goodbye to you! How long? I don't know and
myself…
In the east, a narrow, barely noticeable strip has already begun to thaw. Above the pond
light steam rose. The people began to disperse, people extinguished their torches, shouted,
saying goodbye:
- Good journey. Khoja Nasreddin! Don't forget your native Bukhara!
Particularly touching was the farewell to the blacksmith Yusup and the teahouse owner Ali.
The fat teahouse owner could not resist the tears that moistened him abundantly
red full cheeks.
Before the gates were opened, Khoja Nasreddin stayed in Niyaz’s house, but as soon as the first
The muezzin stretched the sad ringing thread of his voice over the city - Khoja
Nasreddin and Guljan set off. Old man Niyaz accompanied them to the corner, then
Khoja Nasreddin did not allow it, and the old man stopped, looking after them with wet
eyes until they disappeared around the bend. A light morning breeze came and
began to bustle about on the dusty road, carefully covering his tracks.
Niyaz ran home and hurriedly climbed to the roof, from where he could see
far beyond the city wall, and, straining his old eyes, brushing away uninvited tears,
looked for a long time at the brown, sun-burnt hill, along which it wound, leaving behind
distant lands, a gray ribbon of road. He waited a long time, in his heart the beginning
anxiety creeps in: have Khoja Nasreddin and Guljan fallen into the hands
guards? But, having looked closely, the old man distinguished two spots in the distance - gray and
white: they all moved away, they all became smaller, then the gray spot disappeared, merging
with the hills, and the white was visible for a long time, then disappearing in the hollows and depressions, then
showing up again. Finally, it too disappeared, dissolved in the rising haze.
The day began, and the heat began. And the old man, not noticing the heat, sat on the roof in
bitter thoughtfulness, his gray head shook, and a stuffy lump stood in his throat.
He did not complain about Khoja Nasreddin and his daughter, he wished them long happiness, but
it was bitter and painful for him to think about himself - now his house was completely empty, and
there is no one to brighten up his lonely old age with a ringing song and cheerful laughter. Blown
a hot wind shook the foliage of the vineyard, swirled the dust, touched it with its wing
the pots that were drying on the roof, and they rang plaintively, thinly, drawn out, as if
They would also be sad about those who left home...
Niyaz woke up, hearing some noise behind him, looked around: to his roof
three brothers climbed the stairs one after another, all well done, and all
- potters. They approached and bowed before the old man, filled with
deepest respect.
- O venerable Niyaz! - said the eldest of them. - Your daughter left you for
Khoja Nasreddin, but you should not grieve and murmur, for such is the eternal law
land that a hare cannot live without a hare, a doe cannot live without a deer, a cow cannot live
Without a bull, a duck cannot live without a drake. Can a girl really live without her boyfriend?
and a devoted friend, and didn’t Allah create everything living on earth in pairs,
dividing even cotton shoots into male and female. But so as not to be black
your old age, oh venerable Niyaz, all three of us decided to tell you the following: the one
whoever became related to Khoja Nasreddin became related to all the inhabitants of Bukhara, and
You, O Niyaz, have become related to us from now on. Do you know that last fall we
mourning and groaning, we buried our father and your friend, the most honorable Usman
Ali, and now at our hearth there is an empty place intended for the eldest, and we
deprived of the daily happiness of reverently contemplating a white beard, without which, how
even without a baby's cry, the house is considered half empty, for it is good and
There is peace in a person’s soul only when he is in the middle
between the one with the beard who gave him life, and between the one lying in
the cradle to which he himself gave life. And therefore, O venerable Niyaz, we ask you
incline your ears to our words, and do not reject our request, and enter our house,
take the place at our fireplace reserved for the eldest, and let all three of us
for the father, and for our children for the grandfather.
The brothers asked so insistently that Niyaz could not refuse: he entered their
home and was received with great respect. So in his old age he for his honest and
pure life was rewarded with the greatest reward that exists on
earth for a Muslim: he became Niyaz-bobo, that is, grandfather, head of a large family,
in which he had fourteen grandchildren, and his gaze could enjoy
continuously, moving from only rosy cheeks, smeared with mulberries and grapes,
to others, no less dirty. And since then his hearing has never been depressing
silence, so that out of habit he sometimes even had a hard time and he
retired to his old home to rest and be sad about those so close to his heart and
so distant, gone who knows where... On market days he went to the square
and asked the caravan leaders who arrived in Bukhara from all over the world: not
did they meet two travelers on the road - a man with a gray donkey under him, and
a woman on a white donkey without a single dark spot? The caravan men wrinkled their
tanned foreheads, shook their heads negatively: no, such people are not on their way
came across.
Khoja Nasreddin, as always, disappeared without a trace, only to suddenly appear there,
where he is not expected at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT, which could serve as the beginning of a new book
I've made seven trips, and every trip has an amazing story.
a story that confuses minds.
"Thousand and One Nights"
And he showed up where he was not expected at all. He showed up in Istanbul.
This happened on the third day after the Sultan received a letter from the Emir
Bukhara. Hundreds of heralds traveled around cities and villages, warning
people about the death of Khoja Nasreddin. Delighted mullahs twice a day, in the morning and
in the evening, they read out the emir’s letter in mosques and offered thanks to Allah.
The Sultan feasted in the palace garden, in the cool shade of poplars irrigated
damp dust of fountains. Viziers, sages, poets and other people crowded around
palace servants, greedily awaiting handouts.
Black slaves moved in lines with smoking trays, hookahs and
jugs in hands. The Sultan was in a very good mood and constantly
joked.
Why today, despite such heat, is there a sweetness in the air?
lightness and fragrance? - He asked the sages and poets, slyly squinting his eyes. –
Which one of you will adequately answer our question?
And they, casting touching glances at the wallet in his hands, answered:
– The breath of our illustrious ruler saturated the air with sweet
ease, and the fragrance spread because the soul of the wicked Khoja
Nasreddin finally stopped exuding her vile stench, which previously poisoned the entire
world.
To the side, observing order, stood the guardian of peace and piety
in Istanbul - the chief of the guard, different from his worthy Bukhara
brother Arslanbek, perhaps with even greater ferocity and extraordinary thinness,
what qualities accompanied each other in him, which was noticed long ago
residents of Istanbul, and they asked the palace officials every week with anxiety in their eyes
bath attendants about the state of the boss’s venerable bodies - if the information was ominous,
then all the residents who lived near the palace hid in their homes and without extreme
If necessary, we didn’t go anywhere until the next bath day. So, this one
the awe-inspiring boss stood aside; his head, crowned with a turban,
stuck out on a long and thin neck, like on a pole (many residents of Istanbul secretly
would sigh when hearing such a comparison!).
Everything went very well, nothing overshadowed the holiday or foreshadowed trouble.
No one noticed the palace overseer, who, habitually and deftly
Slipping between the courtiers, he approached the chief of the guard and whispered something to him.
The chief shuddered, changed his face and walked out with hurried steps following
overseer. A minute later he returned - pale, with trembling lips.
Pushing aside the courtiers, he approached the Sultan and bowed before him.
in half:
- O great lord!..
– What else is there? – the Sultan asked displeasedly. - Are you even on such a day?
can't keep your stick and prison news to yourself? Well, speak quickly!
- O illustrious and great Sultan, my tongue refuses...
The Sultan became alarmed and knitted his eyebrows. The chief of the guard finished in a half-whisper:
- He is in Istanbul!
- Who? – the Sultan asked dully, although he immediately understood who he was talking about.
- Khoja Nasreddin!
The chief of the guard spoke this name quietly, but the courtiers have sensitive ears; By
the whole garden began to rustle:
- Khoja Nasreddin! He is in Istanbul!.. Khoja Nasreddin is in Istanbul!
- How do you know? - asked the Sultan; his voice was hoarse. - Who said
you? Is this possible if we have a letter from the Emir of Bukhara, in which he
with a royal word assures us that Khoja Nasreddin is no longer in
alive.
The chief of the guard signaled to the palace guard, who led him to the Sultan.
some man with a flat nose on a pockmarked face, with yellow restless
eyes.
- O lord! – explained the head of the guard. - This man served for a long time
a spy at the palace of the Emir of Bukhara and knows Khoja Nasreddin very well. After
this man moved to Istanbul, and I took him on as a spy, in which
he still holds the position.
- Did you see him? - the Sultan interrupted, addressing the spy. - You've seen
with my own eyes? The spy answered in the affirmative.
- But maybe you got it wrong?
The spy answered negatively. No, he couldn't identify himself. And next to Khoja
A woman was riding Nasreddin on a white donkey.
- Why didn’t you grab him right away? - exclaimed the Sultan. - Why you are not
handed him over to the guards?
- O illustrious lord! - the spy answered and fell, trembling, to his knees. –
In Bukhara I once fell into the hands of Khoja Nasreddin, and if not for the mercy of Allah,
I wouldn’t have left him alive. And when I saw him today on the streets of Istanbul, then
my vision was blurred with fear, and when I woke up, he had already disappeared.
- These are your spies! - exclaimed the Sultan, flashing his eyes at the bent
chief of the guard. – Just the sight of a criminal makes them tremble!
He kicked the pockmarked spy away and retired to his chambers, followed by
a long chain of black slaves.
Viziers, dignitaries, poets and sages rushed to the
exit.
Five minutes later there was no one left in the garden except the chief of the guard,
who, looking into emptiness with fixed, dull eyes, sank helplessly onto
marble edge of the pond and sat for a long time, listening alone to the quiet splashing and laughter
fountains. And it seemed that in an instant he had become so thin and dry that if
the residents of Istanbul saw him, they would have rushed in all directions, without picking up
“...And the road kept ringing and smoking under the donkey’s hooves. And the song of Khoja Nasreddin sounded. For ten years he visited everywhere: Baghdad, Istanbul and Tehran, Bakhchisaray, Etchmiadzin and Tbilisi, Damascus and Trebizond, he knew all these cities and a great many others, and everywhere he left his memory.”
And a few years ago, Khoja Nasreddin appeared in Moscow with his donkey. They took their place next to the Molodezhnaya metro station very modestly, as if not wanting to attract the attention of passers-by. And this place is unusually busy, there are always a lot of people, everyone is in a hurry around. Khoja Nasreddin is also in a hurry somewhere, and his faithful companion stopped only for one moment, timidly offering his master a little rest. Khoja looked around, but he did not want to linger here at all. He has a kind smile on his face, and the cute little donkey listens attentively to his owner, understanding him, it seems, perfectly. A minute will pass and they will disappear into the crowd.
But they attract passers-by like a powerful magnet. Almost everyone wants to be photographed next to them. The older children immediately climb on the donkey themselves; the younger ones are seated by their parents. And even adults cannot resist the desire to sit on Nasreddin’s own donkey! All day long until late in the evening, excitement reigns around them, cheerful voices are heard. Photographers change, those being photographed change. It's hard to seize a moment when no one is around them. Needless to say, the poor donkey’s current life is very difficult, but he is not at all discouraged!
For most readers, their acquaintance with Khoja Nasreddin most likely began not with a book, but with a movie. The most famous film, Nasreddin in Bukhara, was produced during the war in 1943. The script was written by L. Soloviev and V. Vitkovich, directed by Y. Protazanov, starring People's Artist of the USSR Lev Sverdlin. Many, many people have seen this film. But there was another film: “The Adventures of Nasreddin,” filmed at the Tashkent film studio in 1946. Scriptwriter V. Vitkovich, director Nabi Ganiev. The main role in it was played by People's Artist of the USSR Razzak Khamrayev. Two great actors, two great films. However, very few people seem to have seen the last of them. Perhaps even few of today's viewers know about its existence.
The author of this sculptural composition, Andrei Yuryevich Orlov, apparently followed his own plan and idea of this character. His Khoja Nasreddin does not resemble any of the actors who played this role in films. The composition is simple and expressive; Nasreddin and his donkey immediately became everyone’s favorites. How pleasant it is, in the everyday hustle and bustle of the street, among anxious, often irritated passers-by, to unexpectedly meet an old, good friend, a favorite literary character! Surely, everyone who sees them here will change their mood for the better and become, at least for a moment, a little kinder.
The author of “The Tale of Khoja Nasreddin” was destined by fate to meet his hero. Writer Leonid Vasilyevich Solovyov (1906-1962) was born far from Bukhara, but it happened under the sky of the East. His father V.A. Soloviev served as assistant inspector of the North Syrian schools of the Imperial Orthodox Society in the city of Tripoli, on the eastern shore of the Mediterranean Sea (modern Lebanon). Here the parents of the future writer met, met and got married, and here their son Leonid was born. But Khoja Nasreddin himself once visited this land: “After leaving Bukhara, Khoja Nasreddin and his wife Guljan went first to Istanbul, and from there to the Arabs. He disturbed the calm in turn in Baghdad, Medina, Beirut and Basra, brought Damascus into unprecedented confusion, then turned casually to Cairo.”. (“The Enchanted Prince.”)
In 1909, when the boy was about three years old, his family returned to their homeland and settled in Buguruslan. But the house preserved memories and stories about a distant, exotic country. In 1920 (or 1921) the family moved to Kokand, his father was appointed head of the railway school here. Legends and stories about the East have become reality.
The young writer began publishing in the newspaper “Turkestanskaya Pravda”, later “Pravda Vostoka”; in this newspaper he worked as a special correspondent until 1930. He knew and loved Uzbek and Tajik folklore very well. Leonid Solovyov became the author of many works, but the most famous of them is “The Tale of Khoja Nasreddin.” He himself spoke jokingly about this: “What a pig this Hodja Nasreddin played on me - he made me the author of one book...”
The first book about Khoja Nasreddin, “The Troublemaker,” was published in 1939 (or 1940). The success of the story occurred in the pre-war years. In September 1946, the writer was arrested and accused of preparing a terrorist act. Therefore, probably, his name is not among the authors of the film N. Ganiev, as a screenwriter. He wrote his second book about Khoja Nasreddin, “The Enchanted Prince,” while imprisoned in a Mordovian camp, where he was first a night watchman in a workshop, and then a night attendant. Night work allowed him to concentrate on his book; his parents and sisters sent him paper. This is how one of our kindest and most beloved books was written. The writer worked on the book until the end of 1950. He was released in June 1954, and indicated this year as the year he completed work on his book. In 1956, both books “Tales of Khoja Nasreddin” were first published in Leningrad in one volume.
The author of a biographical sketch about him (in the afterword to the one-volume edition of 1971), Dmitry Moldavsky, could not tell readers about this in those days. Now we understand the meaning of his words, hidden between the lines: “After the war, the name of Leonid Solovyov was not mentioned for several years. But even during these years the writer continued to work. His old friend Khoja Nasreddin came to him again at the most difficult time of his life, came to inspire hope and faith in the future. He helped him preserve the humor and optimism that so amazed the first listeners of this work...”
After the death of the writer, Dmitry Moldavsky met in Namangan with his sister Ekaterina Vasilievna, she told him: “Leonid, first of all, was and until the end remained an “Asian.” The stock of impressions he took from Central Asia was enough for him to last his whole life. From these impressions Leonid’s most significant work, “The Tale of Khoja Nasreddin,” was formed.
And she also said: “The simple heroes of Leonid’s book are people whom he met in everyday life. But emirs, khans, nobles are characters from fairy tales.”
The character of this old postcard was undoubtedly one of those people from the people, thanks to whom the legend of Khoja Nasreddin took shape. The photographer met this young man in ancient times somewhere in the Margelan district, a carefree tramp and a merry fellow who traveled around the cities, probably told different stories, entertaining the guests of the caravanserai with his jokes, thereby earning his living. You can see that he is not in poverty, he has his own transport, his donkey. He is not at all dressed in rags, and his cheerful mood does not look feigned at all. He doesn't look like a hungry beggar. Therefore, his stories and jokes were valued and paid quite adequately. Who knows, perhaps Leonid Vasilyevich Solovyov, who in 1924-25 traveled a lot around the Fergana region, working as a special correspondent, once met this man, who by that time was already quite old.
“There are rivers in Arabia, only the middle course of which is open to human gaze, and the beginning and end are hidden in the underground depths. The life of Khoja Nasreddin can be likened to such a river: everything that we knew about him related to his middle age, from twenty to fifty years; childhood, as well as old age, remained hidden.
Eight tombs in different parts of the world bear his glorious name; where is the only one among them? Yes, maybe she is not among these eight; Perhaps the sea or a foggy mountain gorge served as a worthy tomb for him, and the funeral cry over him was the wild howl of a sea hurricane or the immense, slow, heavy roar of an avalanche...
As for the origins of his existence, they know that he was born and raised in Bukhara, but how he lived in childhood, which powerful blacksmiths tempered his heart, which masters sharpened his mind, which of the sages revealed to him the nature of his indomitable spirit - everything this remained unknown until now.”*
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* Leonid Solovyov. The Tale of Khoja Nasreddin. L., 1988.
This is what the writer and screenwriter Leonid Solovyov* wrote in his famous book “The Tale of Khoja Nasreddin”. This is perhaps the best work in Russian, telling about the legendary life of the famous sage.
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* Leonid Vasilyevich Solovyov (1905 - 1962) was born in Tripoli (Lebanon). In 1925-1929. He taught in Kokand, then for two years he was a special correspondent for the newspaper Pravda Vostoka. In 1933 he graduated from the screenwriting department of the State Institute of Cinematography. From that time on, he wrote film scripts and novels, mainly about the Middle East and naval exploits.
In the East they claim that Khoja Nasreddin is a historical figure. According to Soviet tradition, when all the best should have been (and often really was) ours, Solovyov adhered to the version that Khoja was a native of Bukhara. After the collapse of the USSR, when Uzbekistan became a foreign country for us, but Turkish resorts opened their doors to Russians, the version about its Turkish origin became much more popular.
Establishing the truth is extremely difficult. Indeed, in different countries they even call him differently: Uzbeks and Turks - Khoja Nasreddin; Afghans - Nasreddin Afandi (Efendi, Ependi); Azerbaijanis and Chechens - Mulla (or Molloy) Nasreddin; they call him Anastratin, and Nesart, and Nasir, and Nasr ad-din. It should be borne in mind that the names Khoja, Afandi or Mulla do not mean clergy, since in the old days in the East it was customary to call all the most respected and educated people this way
According to the Turkish version, Khoja Nasreddin (1208 - 1284) was born in the village of Hortu* near the town of Sivrihisar** in Turkish Anatolia.
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* Nowadays the village of Nasreddin-Khoja.
** Apparently, its exact name is Sivri-isar (Turkish) - “a fortress with pointed walls”; the fact is that the place is surrounded on all sides by rocky mountains with pointed peaks.
Nasreddin's father's name was Abdullah Effendi, he was the imam of the village mosque, a very educated man for his time. But his mother, the beautiful Sydyka Khatun, was illiterate, and also a very quarrelsome and scandalous woman. Few doubt that the famous anecdotes about Nasreddin's quarrelsome wife are stories from the life of his parents.
Nasreddin received his primary education at a madrasah. Then he worked for a long time as a senior teacher, which is why they began to call him Khoja (teacher), and after the death of his father he took a place in the village mosque. Some believe that the wit was a qadi - a people's judge and at the same time wrote fables *.
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* Fables of Khoja Nasreddin were first published in 1923 in Paris.
The real Nasreddin allegedly died in the city of Akshehir, two hundred kilometers south of his native village. One of his tombs is now located there, the same one on which the famous inverted date of his death is carved - 386 according to the Eastern calendar. According to legend, this was the last joke of the cunning man, who ordered the year of his death to be written in reverse - in fact, the number 683 should have been on the coffin slab.
According to another version, Khoja Nasreddin lived at the court of the Arab caliph Harun ar-Rashid* and was an outstanding scientist. He preached some false doctrine, and teachers of the faith began to persecute him. Then Nasreddin pretended to be mad, became a jester and got the opportunity to freely say whatever he thought.
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* Harun al-Rashid (Harun ar-Rashid) (763 or 766 - 809) - Arab caliph, head of the Abbasid Caliphate from 786. His reign was associated with mass repressions of the nobility. Among those executed was Vizier Jafar, who, according to the tales of the Arabian Nights, is the caliph’s closest friend and companion during his night travels around Baghdad.
Be that as it may, today Khoja Nasreddin is a celebrated hero of folklore in many countries of the Near and Middle East and Central Asia. A witty philosopher and a cheerful tramp, he walks around the world with his beloved donkey and teaches people about life, protects the poor, punishes the rich and villains, which, however, is the same thing.
By the way, a donkey is usually considered a dumb people - a draft force, a transport force, and a patient, silent servant. For Nasreddin, he is also a faithful friend who will never betray and will help in difficult times. True, Nasreddin is not shy about making fun of the dumb animal for his own benefit. Let me remind you of the famous parable.
One day, Khoja Nasreddin began to brag everywhere that he could teach his donkey to speak. The Sultan found out about this and called the braggart to account. Nasreddin offered to pay him for his work, and in twenty years he would be ready to show the ruler a talking donkey. The Sultan ordered the said amount to be paid and began to wait. When the wife decided to scold Khoja for his stupidity, where has it been seen - to teach a donkey human speech, the sage replied:
Calm down! In twenty years, someone will probably die - either a donkey or a sultan.
Short stories and parables about Khoja Nasreddin belong to a special school of Sufism*. At the same time, witty parables, close in genre to an anecdote, are a unique phenomenon.
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* Sufism (from Arabic suf - coarse woolen fabric, hair shirt) - a mystical movement in Islam; it is characterized by asceticism and the doctrine of gradual approach through mystical love to the knowledge of God.
“Sufism denies the possibility of comprehending truth by traditional methods used in everyday life, that is, formal logic and stereotyped thinking. To refine perception (the Path itself begins with this), it is necessary to go beyond the standard, change the point of reference and the coordinate system itself - to become unusual. This method of “detachment” is very typical for stories about Mulla Nasreddin, and, as a result, the most ordinary, seemingly everyday situations, seen from an unusual perspective, acquire a new, deeply philosophical meaning. Nasrudin, who is a true Sufi, often uses a special dervish technique, which consists in playing the role of an ordinary person, an uninitiated person (Sufis call this “the path of reproach”) so that the person can be reflected in the situation, as in a mirror, and receive the necessary lesson "*.
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* Idris Shah. Wisdom of idiots. The exploits of the incomparable Mullah Nasreddin. Sufi parables. M., 1993
Nasreddin's wit made him famous throughout the centuries. He apparently became a people's favorite during his lifetime. Over time, his fame did not diminish, but increased so much that now some peoples of the East have even developed a tradition - if someone pronounces the name of Khoja Nasreddin in society, he is obliged to tell seven stories from the life of the wit, and in response to this, each listener must also tell your seven stories about Hodge. According to legend, seven stories about Nasreddin, told in a certain sequence, can lead a person to insight and instant comprehension of the truth.
The first lataifa - anecdotes about Nasreddin - were recorded in Turkey in the 16th century. Over time they were collected in a book. The first book of jokes about Nasreddin appeared in Turkey in 1837 - 1838. In 1859, the orientalist Malouf translated them into French and published them in Paris. From that time on, Hoxha became a popular hero among European peoples.
There are several monuments to Khoja Nasreddin erected in the world. The most famous ones are at the entrance to Sivrihisar and Khorta, as well as in Bukhara. Recently, a monument to the wit appeared on April Fool’s Day in Moscow on Yartsevskaya Street. Sculptor Andrey Orlov*. It is curious that on all the monuments Nasreddin is accompanied by a donkey.
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* Andrey Yurievich Orlov (b. 1946) - Russian sculptor; More than 20 monuments to the author have been erected in Russia and abroad, including: in Moscow - Baron Munchausen, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson; near Kaluga - to the Little Prince; in Podolsk - Peter and Fevronia and the Golden Fish, etc.
Yakov Protozanov’s film “Nasreddin in Bukhara”, filmed during the Great Patriotic War in 1943 in Tashkent, became a classic of Soviet cinema. The author of the script was Leonid Solovyov, and the role of Khoja Nasreddin was played by the outstanding actor Lev Sverdlin**.
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* Yakov Aleksandrovich Protozanov (1881 - 1945) - one of the leading directors of world silent cinema. In the USSR he made such famous films as “Aelita” (1924), “The Cutter from Torzhok” (1925), “The Trial of the Three Millions” (1926), “The Feast of St. Jorgen” (1930) and others.
** Lev Naumovich Sverdlin (1901 - 1969) - one of the leading actors of Soviet cinema; People's Artist of the USSR.
