Nasreddin Khoja - biography Nasreddin Khoja's hometown. Nasreddin Khoja - biography. Nasreddin Khoja - biography Hometown of Nasreddin Khoja Nasreddin Khoja Nasreddin

The Tale of Khoja Nasreddin is one of my favorite books. One of those that can be called ageless. That's great rarity! I never cling to the past - if I have “outgrown” a book, I will not return to it, I just remember the feelings that it gave in its time, and for this I am grateful to the author. But "Nasreddin" can be re-read at 10, and at 20, at 30, and at 60 years old - and there will be no feeling that he has outgrown.

In addition to all the joys that the Tale brings, it also contributed to the desire to go to Uzbekistan - a trip to Bukhara in 2007. was not just a trip to the old and beautiful city, I went to the homeland of Khoja Nasreddin. It was possible to look at the city in two ways: directly and through the prism of the book. And it is obvious that it makes sense to come to Bukhara again.

In the light of everything written above, it is all the more strange that no matter how many editions of the Tale fell into the hands, practically nothing was written in them about the author - Leonid Solovyov. A very meager biography - a maximum of a couple of small paragraphs. Attempts to find more information were fruitless. Up to this day. I could not imagine, for example, that the second part of The Tale (like R. Shtilmark's The Heir from Calcutta) was written in the Stalinist camp, and that thanks to this Solovyov was not exiled to Kolyma ...

It so happened that Leonid Solovyov did not get into the memoirs of his contemporaries. There are only brief notes of the mother, sisters, wife, preserved in the archives, and even a sketch in the papers of Yuri Olesha. Even a normal, solid photo portrait cannot be found. There are only a few small home photographs. Random, amateur. Solovyov's biography is full of sharp turns, strong upheavals, which by no means always coincide with general historical ones.

He was born on August 19, 1906, in Tripoli (Lebanon). The fact is that the parents were educated in Russia at public expense. So they weren't rich. They had to work for a certain period of time where they were sent. They sent them to Palestine. Each separately. There they met and got married. The Russian Palestine Society set itself missionary goals. In particular, he opened schools in Russian for Arabs.

Vasily Andreevich and Anna Alekseevna taught at one of these schools. In the year of his son's birth, his father was a collegiate adviser, assistant inspector of the North Syrian schools of the Imperial Orthodox Palestinian Society (as it was fully called). Having served the prescribed term in a distant land, the Solovyovs returned to Russia in 1909. According to the official movements of the father until 1918, their place of residence was Buguruslan, then nearby was the Pokhvistnevo station of the Samara-Zlatoust railway. Since 1921 - Uzbekistan, the city of Kokand.

There, Leonid studied at school and a mechanical college, without finishing it. Started working there. At one time he taught various subjects at the school of the FZU of the oil industry. Started writing. Began to be published in newspapers. He rose to Pravda Vostoka, which was published in Tashkent. He distinguished himself at the competition, which was announced by the Moscow magazine "World of Adventures". The story "On the Syr-Darya Shore" appeared in this magazine in 1927.

1930 Solovyov leaves for Moscow. He enters the literary and scriptwriting department of the Institute of Cinematography (VGIK). Finished it in June 1932. The dates found in Solovyov's biography are sometimes surprising. But the document on graduation from the institute has been preserved in the archive. Yes, Solovyov studied from the thirtieth to the thirty-second!

His first stories and stories about today's life, new buildings, everyday work of people, about Central Asia did not go unnoticed. In 1935-1936, special articles were devoted to Solovyov by the magazines Krasnaya Nov and Literary Studies. Suppose, in Krasnaya Nov, A. Lezhnev admitted: “His stories are built up each time around one simple idea, like the pulp of a cherry around a bone”, “... his stories retain an intermediate form between everyday feuilleton and a story” and so on. Nevertheless, the article was called "About L. Solovyov", and this meant that he was recognized, introduced into the series.

After the publication of "Troublemaker" Leonid Vasilyevich became completely famous. In the February issue of "Literary Studies" for 1941, following the greetings to Kliment Voroshilov on his sixtieth birthday, there was a heading "Writers about their work." She was taken to Solovyov. He talked about his latest book. In a word, he moved forward firmly and steadily.

When the war began, Solovyov became a war correspondent for the Krasny Fleet newspaper. He writes a kind of modern prose epics: "Ivan Nikulin - Russian sailor", "Sevastopol stone". According to the scripts, films are staged one after another.

In September 1946 Solovyov arrested. Either he really annoyed someone, or there was a denunciation, or one led to another. He spent ten months in pre-trial detention. In the end, he admitted his guilt - of course, fictitious: the plan of a terrorist act against the head of state. He said something unflattering about Stalin. Apparently, he told his friends, but he was mistaken in them. Solovyov was not shot, because the idea is not yet the action. We were sent to the Dubravlag camp. His address was as follows: Mordovian Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic, Potma station, Yavas post office, mailbox LK 241/13.

According to the memoirs of fellow camper Alexander Vladimirovich Usikov, Solovyov was selected as part of the stage to Kolyma. He wrote to the head of the camp, General Sergeenko, that if he was left here, he would take up the second book about Khoja Nasreddin. The general ordered Solovyov to leave. And The Enchanted Prince was indeed written in the camp. Manuscripts have been preserved. Papers, of course, were not given. She was sent by her family. Parents then lived in Stavropol, sisters - in various other cities.

Solovyov managed to become a night watchman in a workshop where wood was dried. Then he became a night attendant, that is, like a watchman at the bathhouse. Apparently, new prisoners were also brought in at night, they had to comply with sanitary standards. Occasionally, Moscow acquaintances were delivered. These meetings were great events in a monotonous life. Lonely night positions gave Solovyov the opportunity to concentrate on his literary pursuits.

The work on the book has been delayed. Still, by the end of 1950, The Enchanted Prince was written and sent to the authorities. The manuscript was not returned for several years. Solovyov was worried. But someone saved the "Enchanted Prince" - by accident or being aware of what was being done.

For reasons unclear to the biographer, apparently, in the middle of 1953 Solovyov's prison and camp life continued already in Omsk. Presumably, it was from there that he was released in June 1954, when all cases were reviewed. Among others, it became clear that Solovyov's accusation was exaggerated. I had to start life over.

For the first time, Leonid Vasilyevich married very early, back in Central Asia, in Kanibadam, Elizaveta Petrovna Belyaeva. But their paths soon parted. The Moscow family was Tamara Alexandrovna Sedykh. According to eyewitness accounts, their union was not smooth, or rather painful. Upon Solovyov's arrival from the camp, Sedykh did not take him back into the house. All letters were returned unopened. Solovyov had no children.

In the first days after the camp he was met in Moscow by Yuri Olesha. The Central Archive of Literature and Art (TsGALI) keeps a record of this meeting: “July 13. I met Leonid Solovyov, who returned from exile ("Troublemaker"). Tall, old, lost his teeth. (…) Decently dressed. This, he says, was bought by a man who owes him. I went to the department store and bought it. He says about life there that he did not feel bad - not because he was placed in any special conditions, but because inside, as he says, he was not in exile. “I took it as retribution for the crime I committed against one woman - my first, as he put it, “real wife.” Now I believe I'll get something."

Confused, confused, with bitter reproaches to himself, without money, where was he to go? On reflection, Leonid Vasilyevich went to Leningrad for the first time in his life, to his sister Zinaida (the eldest, Ekaterina, lived until the end of her days in Central Asia, in Namangan). Zina was tight. Lived with difficulty. In April 1955, Solovyov married Maria Markovna Kudymovskaya, a teacher of the Russian language, most likely his age. They lived on Kharkovskaya Street, building 2, apartment 16. There, in the last months of his life, I met Leonid Vasilyevich and I, unexpectedly learning that the author of The Tale of Khoja Nasreddin lives in Leningrad.

Everything seemed to be on the mend. Lenizdat was the first to publish The Enchanted Prince, preceded by The Troublemaker. The book was a huge success. Solovyov again began to work for the cinema. Started The Book of Youth. But health was deteriorating. He had severe hypertension. I found Leonid Vasilyevich walking, but half of his body was paralyzed. On April 9, 1962, he died before reaching fifty-six.

At first, in Leningrad, Solovyov was immediately supported by Mikhail Aleksandrovich Dudin. We also met friendly people. But in Leningrad literary life Leonid Vasilievich did not really enter. He kept himself apart - most likely due to ill health and mental unrest. When Maria Markovna gathered writers at her place to celebrate some date connected with Solovyov, there were three of us and one more, who did not know Leonid Vasilyevich. He was buried at the Red Cemetery in Avtovo.

Monument to Khoja Nasreddin in Bukhara

P.S. In 2010, the complete works of Leonid Solovyov were published in 5 volumes. Publishing House "Book Club Knigovek".

All day the sky was covered with a gray veil. It became cold and deserted. The dull treeless steppe plateaus with burnt-out grass made me sad. Went to sleep...

In the distance appeared the post of the TRF the Turkish equivalent of our traffic police. I instinctively prepared for the worst, because I know from past driving experience that meetings with such services do not bring much joy.

I have not had to deal with Turkish "road owners" yet. Are they the same as ours? Just in case, in order not to give the road guards time to come up with an excuse to find fault with us, they stopped themselves and “attacked” them with questions, remembering that the best defense is an attack.

But, as we have seen, there is a completely different “climate”, and the local “traffic cops”, in whom drivers are accustomed to seeing their eternal opponents, were not at all going to stop us and were not at all opponents of motorists. Even vice versa.

The police kindly answered our questions, gave a lot of advice, and in general showed the liveliest interest in us and especially in our country. Already a few minutes of conversation convinced me: these are simple, disinterested and kind guys, conscientiously fulfilling their official duty, which at the same time does not prevent them from being sympathetic, cheerful and smiling. The hospitable policemen invited us to their post to drink a glass of tea and continue the conversation there...

After this fleeting meeting, it seemed to me that the sky seemed to brighten up, and it became warmer, and nature smiled ... And it was as if the shadow of that cheerful person who, according to the Turks, once lived here, flashed by.

We were approaching the city of Sivrihisar. The surroundings are very picturesque - rocky mountains, bristling up to the sky with sharp teeth. From a distance, I was mistaking them for ancient fortress walls. Apparently, the city was named “Sivrihisar”, which means “fortress with pointed walls”. At the entrance to the city, to the left of the highway, they suddenly saw a monument an old man in a wide-brimmed hat is sitting on a donkey, thrusting a long stick into the globe, on which is written: “Dunyanyn merkezi burasydyr” (“The center of the world is here”).

I was waiting for this meeting and therefore I immediately guessed: this is the legendary Nasreddin-Khoja ...

I remembered an anecdote. Nasreddin was asked a tricky question that seemed impossible to answer: "Where is the center of the Earth's surface?" “Here,” Hodge replied, sticking his stick into the ground. If you don’t believe me, you can make sure I’m right by measuring the distances in all directions...”

But why is this monument erected here? We turn into the city and at the hotel, which is called "Nasreddin-Khoja", we learn that, it turns out, one of the neighboring villages is no more, no less the homeland of the favorite of the Turks.

This further piqued our curiosity. Immediately we go to the specified village. Today it is also called Nasreddin-Khoja. And at the time when Nasreddin was born there, her name was Hortu.

Three kilometers from the road leading to Ankara, a roadside sign made us turn sharply to the southwest.

Along the main street of the village there are whitewashed blank end walls of adobe houses, painted with color paintings illustrating jokes about Nasreddin. On the central square, which, like the main street in this small village, can only be called so conditionally, a small monument has been erected. On the pedestal there is an inscription testifying that Nasreddin was born here in 1208 and lived until the age of 60. He died in 1284 in Aksehir...

The headman pointed out to us a narrow, crooked street, where one car could not pass, that was where Nasreddin's house was. The huts huddle closely, clinging to each other. Walls without windows that had grown into the ground, like blind old men crushed by the unbearable burden of time, were powdered with whitewash, which, contrary to their aspirations, did not hide age, but, on the contrary, showed wrinkles even more. The same miserable and compassionate crooked doors and gates squinted and wrinkled from old age and disease... Some houses were two stories high; the second floors hung like bony loggias over crooked steep streets.

Nasreddin's dwelling differs from others in that the house was built not immediately outside the gate, at the "red line", but in the depths of a tiny "patch" courtyard, at the back border of the site. Cramped on both sides by neighbors, a dilapidated house, built of unhewn stones, nevertheless contained several small rooms and an open veranda on the second floor. In the lower floor utility rooms and for the traditional personal transport of the East the unchanging donkey. In an empty courtyard without a single tree, only an antediluvian axle from a cart with wooden solid curved wheels has been preserved.

No one has lived in the house for a long time, and it has fallen into complete disrepair. However, they say, as a token of grateful memory to the glorious Nasreddin, a new, solid house worthy of his on the main square will be built in his native village. And then the villagers are ashamed that their illustrious countryman has such a wreck ... And, right, they will hang a memorial plaque on that house with the inscription: "Nasreddin-Khoja was born and lived here."

Such a neglected view of his house surprised us a lot: the popularity of Nasreddin-Khoja has reached truly global proportions. With the growth of his popularity, the number of applicants who considered Nasreddin their countryman also grew. Not only the Turks, but also many of their neighbors in the Middle East, the Caucasus, and Central Asia consider him “their own” ...

Nasreddin's grave is located in the city of Akshehir, about two hundred kilometers south of his native village. It is curious that the date of death on the tombstone of the crafty merry fellow and joker, as they say, is also deliberately indicated in a playful spirit, in his manner backwards (this is how Nasreddin-Khoja often rode his donkey) that is, 386 instead of 683, which corresponds to 1008 according to our chronology. But ... it turns out then that he died before he was born! True, this kind of "inconsistency" does not bother the fans of the beloved hero.
I asked the inhabitants of Nasreddin-Khoja whether any of the descendants of the Great Joker had accidentally remained here. It turned out that there are descendants. In less than five minutes, the neighbors, without hesitation, introduced us to the direct descendants of Nasreddin, whom we captured against the backdrop of a historic dwelling ...

favorite of Nasreddin

Alternative descriptions

Pet

Donkey, hinny or mule

The person who does the minimum work for the maximum reward

Beast of burden

long-eared transport

Transport Nasreddin

Asian "horse"

Donkey with Central Asian ornament

Stubborn Stubborn

hard-working donkey

donkey hard worker

industrious animal

cargo cattle

Cattle with a bale on their back

Living "truck" Asian

Resigned hard worker

Same donkey

Skotina Nasreddin

Shurik's eared transport

Donkey with an Asian bias

Workaholic Donkey

Donkey plowed

. Asian "truck"

. "motor" arba

Horse_Nasred-_din

Nasredin taught him to speak

Donkey harnessed to a cart

Domesticated African donkey

Stubborn

Horse Nasreddin

Animal Nasreddin

Central Asian version of Winnie the Pooh's friend

pet in the middle east

Same as donkey

Donkey from Central Asia

Asian Donkey

Donkey in the expanses of Central Asia

hoofed pet

Donkey in Asia

. “Looking for porridge from the mother-in-law” (palindrome)

Donkey who moved to Central Asia

working donkey

Transport of cunning Khoja Nasreddin

Central Asian donkey

donkey workaholic

Donkey of Central Asian nationality

Horse Khoja Nasreddin

Eared stubborn workaholic

Donkey hard worker

Asian cattle

Central Asian pet

Arba engine

industrious donkey

laborious donkey

eared hard worker

Stubborn Beast

He is a donkey

Four-legged cart tractor

Donkey that drags a cart

hardworking donkey

working animal

working donkey

What animal can stubbornly?

. "tractor" for arba

What animal can kick?

What animal is harnessed to the cart?

Horse plus donkey

diligent donkey

Eastern name for donkey

. "tractor" arba

Donkey or mule

Horse and donkey mix

Pet, donkey or mule

The man who does the hardest work without a murmur

Donkey and Regio hinny or mule

Stubborn Stubborn

. "Looking for porridge from the mother-in-law" (palind.)

. "Transport" Nasreddin

. "Tractor" carts

. "Tractor" for arba

. asian truck

. "Looking for porridge from his mother-in-law" (palindrome)

. "motor" arba

Asian "horse"

Live "truck" Asian

What animal is harnessed to the cart

What animal can kick

What animal can stubbornly

M. tatarsk. sib. orenb. kavk. donkey; donkey, donkey donkey; donkey, donkey m. donkey foal; in some places, the donkey is called both the hinny and the mule, even the mashtak, a small horse. Either a donkey, or an ishan, that is, not all the same: either a donkey, or a Muslim clergyman. donkey, donkey, belonging to the donkey., related

Donkey middle-az. nationality

Wed-az. donkey

Another name for donkey

. "Skakun" in a cart cart

Donkey harnessed to a cart

O. BULANOVA

There is probably not a single person who has not heard of Khoja Nasreddin, especially in Muslim East. His name is remembered in friendly conversations, in political speeches, and in scientific disputes. They remember for various reasons, and even for no reason at all, simply because Hodge has been in all conceivable and unthinkable situations in which a person can find himself: he deceived and was deceived, cunning and getting out, was immensely wise and a complete fool.

For so many years he joked and mocked human stupidity, self-interest, complacency, ignorance. And it seems that stories in which reality goes hand in hand with laughter and paradox are almost not conducive to serious conversations. If only because this person is considered a folklore character, fictional, legendary, but in no way historical figure. However, just as seven cities argued for the right to be called the homeland of Homer, so three times as many peoples are ready to call Nasreddin theirs.

Nasreddin was born in the family of the venerable Imam Abdullah in the Turkish village of Khorto in 605 AH (1206) near the city of Sivrihisar in the province of Eskisehir. However, dozens of villages and cities in the Middle East are ready to argue about the nationality and birthplace of the great cunning.

In maktab, an elementary Muslim school, little Nasreddin asked his teacher - domullah - tricky questions. The domulla simply could not answer many of them. Then Nasreddin studied in Konya, the capital of the Seljuk Sultanate, lived and worked in Kastamonu, then in Aksehir, where, in the end, he died.

Turkish professor-historian Mikayil Bayram conducted an extensive study, the results of which showed that the full name of the real prototype of Nasreddin is Nasir ud-din Mahmud al-Khoyi, he was born in the city of Khoy, Iranian province of Western Azerbaijan, was educated in Khorasan and became a student of the famous Islamic figure Fakhr ad-din ar-Razi.

Caliph of Baghdad sent him to Anatolia to organize resistance Mongol invasion. He served as a qadi, an Islamic judge, in Kayseri and later became a vizier at the court of Sultan Kay-Kavus II in Konya. He managed to visit a huge number of cities, got acquainted with many cultures and was famous for his wit, so it is quite possible that he was the first hero of funny or instructive stories about Khoja Nasreddin.

True, it seems doubtful that this educated and influential person rode around on a modest donkey and quarreled with his quarrelsome and ugly wife. But what a noble cannot afford is quite accessible to the hero of funny and instructive anecdotes, isn't it?

However, there are other studies that admit that the image of Khoja Nasreddin is a good five centuries older than is commonly believed in modern science.

An interesting hypothesis was put forward by Azerbaijani scientists. A number of comparisons allowed them to assume that the famous Azerbaijani scientist Haji Nasireddin Tusi, who lived in the 13th century, was the prototype of Nasreddin. Among the arguments in favor of this hypothesis is, for example, the fact that in one of the sources Nasreddin is called by this name - Nasireddin Tusi.

In Azerbaijan, Nasreddin's name is Molla - perhaps this name, according to researchers, is a distorted form of the name Movlan, which belonged to Tusi. He had another name - Hassan. This point of view is confirmed by the coincidence of some motifs from the works of Tusi himself and anecdotes about Nasreddin (for example, ridicule of soothsayers and astrologers). The considerations are interesting and not without persuasiveness.

Thus, if you start looking in the past for a person similar to Nasreddin, it will very soon become clear that his historicity borders on legendary. However, many researchers believe that traces of Khoja Nasreddin should not be sought in historical chronicles and grave crypts, which, judging by his character, he did not want to get into, but in those parables and anecdotes that were told and are still being told by the peoples of the Middle East and Central Asia, and not only them.

Folk tradition draws Nasreddin truly many-sided. Sometimes he appears as an ugly, unsightly man in an old, worn dressing gown, in the pockets of which, alas, there are too many holes for something to be stale. Why, sometimes his dressing gown is simply greasy with dirt: long wanderings and poverty take their toll. At another time, on the contrary, we see a person with a pleasant appearance, not rich, but living in abundance. In his house there is a place for holidays, but there are also black days. And then Nasreddin sincerely rejoices at the thieves in his house, because finding something in empty chests is a real success.

Khoja travels a lot, but it is not clear where is his home after all: in Akshehir, Samarkand, Bukhara or Baghdad? Uzbekistan, Turkey, Azerbaijan, Afghanistan, Kazakhstan, Armenia (yes, she too!), Greece, Bulgaria are ready to give him shelter. His name is inclined to different languages: Khoja Nasreddin, Jokha Nasr-et-din, Mulla, Molla (Azerbaijani), Afandi (Uzbek), Ependi (Turkmen), Nasyr (Kazakh), Anasratin (Greek). Friends and students are waiting for him everywhere, but there are also enough enemies and ill-wishers.

The name Nasreddin is spelled differently in many languages, but they all go back to the Arabic Muslim personal name Nasr ad-Din, which translates as "Victory of the Faith." In different ways and address Nasreddin in parables different peoples- it can be a respectful address “Khoja”, and “Molla”, and even the Turkish “effendi”. It is characteristic that these three appeals - khoja, molla and efendi - are in many ways very close concepts.

Compare yourself. “Khoja” in Farsi means “master”. This word exists in almost all Turkic languages, as well as in Arabic. Initially, it was used as the name of the clan of the descendants of Islamic Sufi missionaries in Central Asia, representatives of the “white bone” estate (Turk. “ak suyuk”). Over time, “Khoja” became an honorary title, in particular, Islamic spiritual mentors of Ottoman princes or teachers of Arabic literacy in a mekteb, as well as noble husbands, merchants or eunuchs in ruling families, began to be called this way.

Mulla (molla) has several meanings. For Shiites, a mullah is the leader of a religious community, a theologian, a specialist in interpreting issues of faith and law (for Sunnis, these functions are performed by the ulema). In the rest of the Islamic world, in a more general sense, as a respectful title, it can mean: “teacher”, “assistant”, “owner”, “protector”.

Efendi (afandi, ependi) (this word has Arabic, Persian, and even ancient Greek roots) means “one who can (in court) defend himself”). This is an honorary title of noble people, a polite treatment with the meanings “master”, “respected”, “master”. Usually followed the name and was given mainly to representatives of scientific professions.

But back to the reconstructed biography. Khoja has a wife, son and two daughters. The wife is a faithful interlocutor and eternal opponent. She is grumpy, but sometimes much wiser and calmer than her husband. His son is completely different from his father, and sometimes he is just as cunning and troublemaker.

Khoja has many professions: he is a farmer, a merchant, a doctor, a healer, he even trades in theft (most often unsuccessfully). He is a very religious person, so his fellow villagers listen to his sermons; he is fair and knows the law well, therefore he becomes a judge; he is majestic and wise - and now the great emir and even Tamerlane himself want to see him as his closest adviser. In other stories, Nasreddin is a stupid, narrow-minded person with many shortcomings and is even sometimes reputed to be an atheist.

One gets the impression that Nasreddin is a manifestation human life in all its diversity, and everyone can (if he wants) discover his own Nasreddin.

It can be concluded that Khoja Nasreddin is, as it were, a different outlook on life, and if certain circumstances cannot be avoided, no matter how hard you try, then you can always learn something from them, become a little wiser, and therefore much freer from these very circumstances! And maybe, at the same time, it will turn out to teach someone else ... or teach a lesson. Nasreddin will definitely not rust.

For the Arab tradition, Nasreddin is not an accidental character. It is not at all a secret that every fable or anecdote about him is a storehouse of ancient wisdom, knowledge about the path of a person, about his destiny and ways of gaining a true existence. And Hoxha is not just an eccentric or an idiot, but someone who, with the help of irony and paradox, tries to convey high religious and ethical truths.

It can be boldly concluded that Nasreddin is a real Sufi! Sufism is an internal mystical trend in Islam that developed along with official religious schools. However, the Sufis themselves say that this trend is not limited to the religion of the prophet, but is the seed of any genuine religious or philosophical teaching. Sufism is the striving for Truth, for the spiritual transformation of man; this is a different way of thinking, a different view of things, free from fears, stereotypes and dogmas. And in this sense, real Sufis can be found not only in the East, but also in Western culture.

The image of Khoja Nasreddin, according to Idris Shah, is an amazing discovery of the Sufis. Khoja does not teach or rant, there is nothing far-fetched in his tricks. Someone will laugh at them, and someone, thanks to them, will learn something and realize something. Stories live their lives, wandering from one nation to another, Hodge travels from anecdote to anecdote, the legend does not die, wisdom lives on.

In the East, there is a legend that says that if you tell seven stories about Khoja Nasreddin in a special sequence, then a person will be touched by the light of eternal truth, giving extraordinary wisdom and power. How many were those who from century to century studied the legacy of the great mockingbird, one can only guess.

Generations changed generations, fairy tales and anecdotes were passed from mouth to mouth throughout all the tea and caravanserai of Asia, the inexhaustible folk fantasy added to the collection of stories about Khoja Nasreddin all new parables and anecdotes that spread over a vast territory. The themes of these stories have become part of the folklore heritage of several peoples, and the differences between them are explained by the diversity national cultures. Most of them depict Nasreddin as a poor villager and have absolutely no reference to the time of the story - their hero could live and act in any time and era.

For the first time, the stories about Khoja Nasreddin were subjected to literary processing in 1480 in Turkey, being recorded in a book called “Saltukname”, and a little later, in the 16th century, by the writer and poet Jami Ruma Lamiya (died in 1531), the following manuscript with stories about Nasreddin dates back to 1571. Later, several novels and stories were written about Khoja Nasreddin (“Nasreddin and his wife” by P. Millin, “Rosary from cherry stones” by Gafur Gulyam, etc.).

Well, the 20th century brought the stories about Khoja Nasreddin to the movie screen and the theater stage. Today, the stories about Khoja Nasreddin have been translated into many languages and have long become part of the world's literary heritage. So, 1996-1997 was declared by UNESCO international year Khoja Nasreddin.

The main feature of the literary hero Nasreddin is to get out of any situation as a winner with the help of a word. Nasreddin, masterfully mastering the word, neutralizes any of his defeats. Hoxha's frequent tricks are feigned ignorance and the logic of the absurd.

The Russian-speaking reader knows the stories about Khoja Nasreddin not only from collections of parables and anecdotes, but also from the wonderful novels by Leonid Solovyov "Troublemaker" and "The Enchanted Prince", combined into "The Tale of Khoja Nasreddin", also translated into dozens of foreign languages.

In Russia, the “official” appearance of Khoja Nasreddin is associated with the publication of the “History of Turkey” by Dmitry Cantemir (Moldovan ruler who fled to Peter I), which included the first historical anecdotes about Nasreddin (Europe got to know him much earlier).

The subsequent, unofficial existence of the great Hoxha is shrouded in mist. Once, leafing through a collection of fairy tales and fables collected by folklorists in Smolensk, Moscow, Kaluga, Kostroma and other regions in the 60-80s of the last century, researcher Alexei Sukharev found several anecdotes that exactly repeat the stories of Khoja Nasreddin. Judge for yourself. Foma says to Yerema: “I have a headache, what should I do?”. Yerema replies: “When I had a toothache, I pulled it out.”

And here is Nasreddin's version. “Afandi, what should I do, my eye hurts?” a friend asked Nasreddin. “When I had a toothache, I could not calm down until I pulled it out. Probably, you should do the same, and you will get rid of the pain, ”advised Hoxha.

It turns out that this is nothing unusual. Such jokes can be found, for example, in the German and Flemish legends about Thiel Ulenspiegel, in Boccaccio's Decameron, in Cervantes' Don Quixote. Similar characters among other peoples: Sly Peter - among the southern Slavs; in Bulgaria there are stories in which two characters are present at the same time, competing with each other (most often - Khoja Nasreddin and Sly Peter, which is associated with the Turkish yoke in Bulgaria).

The Arabs have a very similar character Jokha, the Armenians have Pulu-Pugi, the Kazakhs (along with Nasreddin himself) have Aldar Kose, the Karakalpaks have Omirbek, Crimean Tatars- Akhmet-akai, among the Tajiks - Mushfiks, among the Uighurs - Salai Chakkan and Molla Zaydin, among the Turkmens - Kemine, among the Ashkenazi Jews - Hershele Ostropoler (Hershele from Ostropol), among the Romanians - Pekale, among the Azerbaijanis - Molla Nasreddin. In Azerbaijan, the satirical magazine Molla Nasreddin, published by Jalil Mammadguluzade, was named after Nasreddin.

The article uses materials from the Bolshoi Soviet Encyclopedia(article “Khodja Nasreddin”), from the book “Good Jokes of Khoja Nasreddin” by Alexei Sukharev, from the book “Twenty-Four Nasreddins” (Compiled by M.S. Kharitonov)

Khoja Nasreddin is a folklore character of the Muslim East and some peoples of the Mediterranean and the Balkans, the hero of short humorous and satirical miniatures and anecdotes, and sometimes everyday tales. There are frequent statements about its existence in real life in specific places (for example, in the city of Aksehir, Turkey).

At the moment, there is no confirmed information or serious grounds to talk about the specific date or place of Nasreddin's birth, so the question of the reality of the existence of this character remains open.

On the territory of Muslim Central Asia and the Middle East, in Arabic, Persian, Turkish, Central Asian and Chinese literature, as well as in the literature of the peoples of the Transcaucasus and the Balkans, there are many popular anecdotes and short stories about Khoja Nasreddin. The most complete collection of them in Russian contains 1238 stories.

The literary character of Nasreddin is eclectic and combines the syncretic image of a sage and a simpleton at the same time.

This internally contradictory image of an anti-hero, a vagabond, a freethinker, a rebel, a fool, a holy fool, a cunning rogue, and even a cynic philosopher, a subtle theologian and a Sufi, clearly transferred from several folklore characters, ridicules human vices, misers, bigots, hypocrites, bribe-taking judges and mullah.

Often finding himself on the verge of violating generally accepted norms and concepts of decency, his hero, nevertheless, invariably finds an extraordinary way out of the situation.

The main feature of the literary hero Nasreddin is to get out of any situation as a winner with the help of a word. Nasreddin-effendi masterfully mastering the word, neutralizes any of his defeats. Hoxha's frequent tricks are feigned ignorance and the logic of the absurd.

An integral part of the image of Nasreddin was the donkey, which appears in many parables or as main character, or as a satellite of Hoxha.

The Russian-speaking reader is best known for Leonid Solovyov's dilogy The Tale of Khoja Nasreddin, which consists of two novels: The Troublemaker and The Enchanted Prince. This book has been translated into dozens of languages around the world.

Similar characters among other peoples: Sly Peter among the southern Slavs, Jokha among the Arabs, Pulu-Pugi among the Armenians, Aldar Kose among the Kazakhs (along with Nasreddin himself), Omirbek among the Karakalpaks, is also found in the epos of the Kazakhs (especially the southern ones) due to the kinship of languages and cultures, Akhmet-akai among the Crimean Tatars, Mushfike among the Tajiks, Salyai Chakkan and Molla Zaidin among the Uighurs, Kemine among the Turkmens, Til Ulenspiegel among the Flemings and Germans, Hershele from Ostropol among the Ashkenazi Jews.

As three hundred years ago, as in our days, jokes about Nasreddin are very popular among children and adults in many Asian countries.

Several researchers date the emergence of anecdotes about Khoja Nasreddin to the 13th century. If we accept that this character actually existed, then he lived in the same 13th century.

Academician V. A. Gordlevsky, a prominent Russian turkologist, believed that the image of Nasreddin came out of anecdotes created among the Arabs around the name of Juhi and passed to the Seljuks, and later to the Turks as its extension.

Other researchers are inclined to believe that both images have only a typological similarity, explained by the fact that almost every nation in folklore has a popular hero-wit, endowed with the most contradictory properties.

The first anecdotes about Khoja Nasreddin were recorded in Turkey in "Saltukname" (Saltukname), a book dating from 1480 and a little later in the 16th century by the writer and poet "Jami Ruma" Lamia (d. 1531).

Later, several novels and stories about Khoja Nasreddin were written (Nasreddin and his wife by P. Millin, Rosary from cherry stones by Gafur Gulyam, etc.).

In Russia, Hodge anecdotes first appeared in the 18th century, when Dmitry Cantemir, a Moldavian ruler who fled to Peter I, published his History of Turkey with three "historical" anecdotes about Nasreddin.

In Russian tradition, the most common name is Khoja Nasreddin. Other options: Nasreddin-efendi, molla Nasreddin, Afandi (Efendi, Ependi), Anastratin, Nesart, Nasyr, Nasr ad-din.

IN Oriental languages there are several different versions of the name Nasreddin, they all boil down to three main ones:
* Khoja Nasreddin (with variations in the spelling of the name "Nasreddin"),
* Mulla (Molla) Nasreddin,
* Afandi (effendi) (Central Asia, especially among the Uighurs and in Uzbekistan).

The Persian word "hoja" (Persian waga "master") exists in almost all Turkic and Arabic. In the beginning, it was used as the name of the clan of the descendants of Islamic Sufi missionaries in Central Asia, representatives of the “white bone” class (Turk. “ak suyuk”). Over time, “Khoja” became an honorary title, in particular, Islamic spiritual mentors of Ottoman princes or teachers of Arabic literacy in Makteb, as well as noble husbands, merchants or eunuchs in ruling families, began to be called this way.

The Arabic Muslim personal name Nasreddin translates to "Victory of the Faith".

Mulla (molla) (arab. al-mullaa, Turkish molla) has several meanings. For Shiites, a mullah is the leader of a religious community, a theologian, an expert in interpreting issues of faith and law (for Sunnis, these functions are performed by the ulema).

In the rest of the Islamic world, in a more general sense, as a respectful title, it can mean: “teacher”, “assistant”, “owner”, “protector”.

Efendi (afandi, ependi) (arab. Afandi; Persian from ancient Greek aphthentes "one who can (in court) defend himself") - an honorary title of noble persons, polite treatment, with the meanings "master", "respected", "mister". It usually followed the name and was given mainly to representatives of learned professions.

The most developed and, according to some researchers, the classic and original is the image of Khoja Nasreddin, which still exists in Turkey.

According to the documents found, a certain Nasreddin really lived there at that time. His father was Imam Abdullah. Nasreddin was educated in the city of Konya, worked in Kastamonu and died in 1284 in Aksehir, where his grave and mausoleum (Hoca Nasreddin turbesi) have been preserved to this day.

On the tombstone there is most likely an erroneous date: 386 Hijri (i.e. 993 AD). Perhaps it is incorrect because the Seljuks appeared here only in the second half of the 11th century. It is suggested that the great joker has a “difficult” grave, and therefore the date must be read backwards.

Other researchers dispute these dates. K. S. Davletov attributes the origin of the image of Nasreddin to the 8th-11th centuries. There are also a number of other hypotheses.

Monuments
* Uzbekistan, Bukhara, st. N. Khusainova, house 7 (as part of the Lyabi-Khauz architectural ensemble)
* Russia, Moscow, st. Yartsevskaya, 25a (next to Molodezhnaya metro station) - opened on April 1, 2006, sculptor Andrey Orlov.
* Türkiye, reg. Sivrihisar, s. Horta

There is probably not a single person who has not heard of Khoja Nasreddin, especially in the Muslim East. His name is remembered in friendly conversations, in political speeches, and in scientific disputes. They remember for various reasons, and even for no reason at all, simply because Hodge has been in all conceivable and unthinkable situations in which a person can find himself: he deceived and was deceived, cunning and getting out, he was immensely wise and a complete fool ...

And for almost a thousand years now he has been joking and mocking human stupidity, self-interest, complacency, ignorance. And it seems that stories in which reality goes hand in hand with laughter and paradox are almost not conducive to serious conversations. If only because this person is considered a folklore character, fictional, legendary, but not a historical figure. However, just as seven cities argued for the right to be called the homeland of Homer, so three times as many peoples are ready to call Nasreddin theirs.

Scientists different countries they are searching: did such a person really exist and who was he? Turkish researchers believe that this person is historical, and insisted on their version, although they had not much more reason than scientists of other nations. We just decided that, that's all. Quite in the spirit of Nasreddin himself ...

Not so long ago, information appeared in the press that documents were found that mention the name of a certain Nasreddin. Having compared all the facts, you can bring them together and try to reconstruct the biography of this person.

In maktabe, an elementary Muslim school, little Nasreddin asked his teacher - domulla - tricky questions. The domulla simply could not answer many of them.

Then Nasreddin studied in Konya, the capital of the Seljuk Sultanate, lived and worked in Kastamonu, then in Aksehir, where, in the end, he died. In Aksehir, his grave is still shown, and there is also an annual International Festival Khoja Nasreddin.

With the date of death is even more confusion. It can be assumed that if a person is not sure where he was born, then he does not know where he died. However, there is a grave and even a mausoleum - in the area of the Turkish city of Akshehir. And even the date of death on the gravestone of the tomb is indicated - 386 AH (993). But, as a prominent Russian turkologist and academician V.A. Gordlevsky, for a number of reasons, "this date is absolutely unacceptable." Because it turns out that Hodge died two hundred years before his birth! It was suggested, writes Gordlevsky, that such a joker as Nasreddin, and the tombstone inscription should not be read like people, but backwards: 683 AH (1284/85)! In general, somewhere in these centuries our hero was lost.

Researcher K.S. Davletov attributes the birth of the image of Nasreddin to the 8th-11th centuries, the era of the Arab conquests and the struggle of peoples against the Arab yoke: “If you look for a period in the history of the East that could serve as the cradle of the image of Nasreddin Hodja, which could give rise to such a magnificent artistic generalization, then, of course, , we can stop only at this epoch.

It is difficult to agree with the categorical nature of such a statement; the image of Nasreddin, as he came down to us, took shape over the centuries. Among other things, K.S. Davletov refers to “vague” information that “during the time of Caliph Harun ar-Rashid, there lived a famous scientist Mohammed Nasreddin, whose teaching turned out to be contrary to religion. He was sentenced to death and, in order to save himself, pretended to be insane. Under this mask, he then began to ridicule his enemies.

Turkish history professor Mikayil Bayram conducted an extensive study, the results of which showed that the full name of the real prototype of Nasreddin is Nasir ud-din Mahmud al-Khoyi, he was born in the city of Khoy, Iranian province of Western Azerbaijan, was educated in Khorasan and became a student of the famous Islamic figure Fakhr ad-din ar-Razi. The Caliph of Baghdad sent him to Anatolia to organize resistance to the Mongol invasion. He served as a qadi, an Islamic judge, in Kayseri and later became a vizier at the court of Sultan Kay-Kavus II in Konya. He managed to visit a huge number of cities, got acquainted with many cultures and was famous for his wit, so it is quite possible that he was the first hero of funny or instructive stories about Khoja Nasreddin.

True, it seems doubtful that this educated and influential man rode around on a modest donkey and quarreled with his quarrelsome and ugly wife. But what a noble cannot afford is quite accessible to the hero of funny and instructive anecdotes, isn't it?

However, there are other studies that admit that the image of Khoja Nasreddin is a good five centuries older than is commonly believed in modern science.

Academician V.A. Gordlevsky believed that the image of Nasreddin came out of the anecdotes created among the Arabs around the name of Juhi, and passed to the Seljuks, and later to the Turks as its extension.

Thus, if you start looking in the past for a person similar to Nasreddin, it will very soon become clear that his historicity borders on legendary. However, many researchers believe that the traces of Khoja Nasreddin should be sought not in historical chronicles and grave crypts, which, judging by his character, he did not want to get into, but in those parables and anecdotes that twenty-three peoples told and still tell the Middle East and Central Asia, and not only them.

Khoja travels a lot, but it is not clear where is his home after all: in Akshehir, Samarkand, Bukhara or Baghdad? Uzbekistan, Turkey, Azerbaijan, Afghanistan, Kazakhstan, Armenia (yes, she too!), Greece, Bulgaria are ready to give him shelter. His name is declined in different languages: Khoja Nasreddin, Jokha Nasr-et-din, Mulla, Molla (Azerbaijani), Afandi (Uzbek), Ependi (Turkmen), Nasyr (Kazakh), Anasratin (Greek). Friends and students are waiting for him everywhere, but there are also enough enemies and ill-wishers.

The name Nasreddin is spelled differently in many languages, but they all derive from the Arabic Muslim personal name Nasr ad-Din, which translates as "Victory of the Faith." Nasreddin is addressed in different ways in the parables of different peoples - it can be the respectful address “Khoja”, and “Molla”, and even the Turkish “efendi”.

It is characteristic that these three appeals - Khoja, Molla and Efendi - are in many respects very close concepts. Compare yourself. “Khoja” in Farsi means “master”. This word exists in almost all Turkic languages, as well as in Arabic. Initially, it was used as the name of the clan of the descendants of Islamic Sufi missionaries in Central Asia, representatives of the “white bone” estate (Turk. “ak suyuk”). Over time, “Khoja” became an honorary title, in particular, Islamic spiritual mentors of Ottoman princes or teachers of Arabic literacy in a mekteb, as well as noble husbands, merchants or eunuchs in ruling families, began to be called this way.

Mulla (molla) has several meanings. For Shiites, a mullah is the leader of a religious community, a theologian, an expert in interpreting issues of faith and law (for Sunnis, these functions are performed by the ulema). In the rest of the Islamic world, in a more general sense, as a respectful title, it can mean: “teacher”, “assistant”, “owner”, “protector”.

Efendi (afandi, ependi) (this word has Arabic, Persian, and even ancient Greek roots) means "one who can (in court) defend himself"). This is an honorary title of noble people, a polite treatment with the meanings of "master", "respected", "master". Usually followed the name and was given mainly to representatives of scientific professions.

One gets the impression that Nasreddin is a manifestation of human life in all its diversity, and everyone can (if he wants) discover his own Nasreddin. It is more than enough for everyone, and even left! If Hodge had lived in our time, he probably would have driven a Mercedes, worked part-time at a construction site, begged in subway passages ... and all this at the same time!

Sufism is an internal mystical trend in Islam that developed along with official religious schools. However, the Sufis themselves say that this trend is not limited to the religion of the prophet, but is the seed of any genuine religious or philosophical teaching. Sufism is the striving for Truth, for the spiritual transformation of man; this is a different way of thinking, a different view of things, free from fears, stereotypes and dogmas. And in this sense, real Sufis can be found not only in the East, but also in Western culture.

The mystery that Sufism is shrouded in, according to its followers, is connected not with some special mysticism and secrecy of the teaching, but with the fact that there were not so many sincere and honest seekers of truth in all ages. “To be in the world, but not of the world, to be free from ambition, greed, intellectual arrogance, blind obedience to custom or reverent fear of superiors - this is the ideal of the Sufi,” wrote Robert Graves, an English poet and scholar.

In our age, accustomed to sensations and revelations, these truths pale before stories of mystical miracles and world conspiracies, but it is about them that the sages speak. And with them Nasreddin. The truth is not far away, it is here, hidden behind our habits and attachments, behind our selfishness and stupidity. The image of Khoja Nasreddin, according to Idris Shah, is an amazing discovery of the Sufis. Khoja does not teach or rant, there is nothing far-fetched in his tricks. Someone will laugh at them, and someone, thanks to them, will learn something and realize something. Stories live their lives, wandering from one nation to another, Hodge travels from anecdote to anecdote, the legend does not die, wisdom lives on. Indeed, it was hard to find a better way to convey it!

Khoja Nasreddin constantly reminds us that we are limited in understanding the essence of things, and therefore in their assessment. And if someone is called a fool, there is no point in being offended, because for Khoja Nasreddin such an accusation would be the highest of praises! Nasreddin is the greatest teacher, his wisdom has long crossed the borders of the Sufi community. But few people know this Hodja. In the East, there is a legend that says that if you tell seven stories about Khoja Nasreddin in a special sequence, then a person will be touched by the light of eternal truth, giving extraordinary wisdom and power. How many were those who from century to century studied the legacy of the great mockingbird, one can only guess. A lifetime can be spent in search of this magical combination, and who knows if this legend is not another joke of the incomparable Hoxha?

Generations changed generations, fairy tales and anecdotes were passed from mouth to mouth throughout all the tea and caravanserai of Asia, the inexhaustible folk fantasy added to the collection of stories about Khoja Nasreddin all new parables and anecdotes that spread over a vast territory. The themes of these stories have become part of the folklore heritage of several peoples, and the differences between them are explained by the diversity of national cultures. Most of them depict Nasreddin as a poor villager and have absolutely no reference to the time of the story - their hero could live and act in any time and era.

For the first time, the stories about Khoja Nasreddin were subjected to literary processing in 1480 in Turkey, being recorded in a book called "Saltukname", and a little later, in the 16th century, by the writer and poet Jami Ruma Lamiya (died in 1531), the following manuscript with stories about Nasreddin dates back to 1571. Later, several novels and stories about Khoja Nasreddin were written (Nasreddin and his wife by P. Millin, Rosary from cherry stones by Gafur Gulyam, etc.).

Well, the 20th century brought the stories about Khoja Nasreddin to the movie screen and the theater stage. Today, the stories about Khoja Nasreddin have been translated into many languages and have long become part of the world's literary heritage. Thus, 1996-1997 was declared by UNESCO the International Year of Khoja Nasreddin.

The subsequent, unofficial existence of the great Hoxha is shrouded in mist. Judge for yourself. Once, leafing through a collection of fairy tales and fables collected by folklorists in Smolensk, Moscow, Kaluga, Kostroma and other regions in the 60-80s of the last century, researcher Alexei Sukharev found several anecdotes that exactly repeat the stories of Khoja Nasreddin. Judge for yourself. Foma says to Yerema: “My head hurts, what should I do?”. Yerema replies: "When I had a toothache, I pulled it out."

And here is Nasreddin's version. “Afandi, what should I do, my eye hurts?” a friend asked Nasreddin. “When I had a toothache, I couldn’t calm down until I pulled it out. Probably, you need to do the same, and you will get rid of the pain, ”advised Hoxha.

It turns out that this is nothing unusual. Such jokes can be found, for example, in the German and Flemish legends about Thiel Ulenspiegel, in Boccaccio's Decameron, and in Cervantes' Don Quixote. Similar characters among other peoples: Sly Peter - among the southern Slavs; in Bulgaria there are stories in which two characters are simultaneously present, competing with each other (most often - Khoja Nasreddin and Sly Peter, which is associated with the Turkish yoke in Bulgaria).

The Arabs have a very similar character Jokha, the Armenians have Pulu-Pugi, the Kazakhs (along with Nasreddin himself) have Aldar Kose, the Karakalpaks have Omirbek, the Crimean Tatars have Akhmet-akai, the Tajiks have Mushfiks, the Uighurs have Salai Chakkan and Molla Zaydin, Turkmens - Kemine, Ashkenazi Jews - Hershele Ostropoler (Hershele from Ostropol), Romanians - Pekale, Azerbaijanis - Molla Nasreddin. In Azerbaijan, the satirical magazine Molla Nasreddin, published by Jalil Mammadguluzade, was named after Nasreddin.

Of course, it is difficult to say that the stories about Khoja Nasreddin influenced the appearance of similar stories in other cultures. Somewhere for researchers this is obvious, but somewhere it is not possible to find visible connections. But it is difficult not to agree that there is something unusually important and attractive in this. Knowing nothing about Nasreddin, we also know nothing about ourselves, about those depths that are reborn in us, whether we live in Samarkand of the XIV century or in a modern European city. Truly, the boundless wisdom of Khoja Nasreddin will outlive all of us, and our children will laugh at his tricks just as our grandfathers and great-grandfathers once laughed at them. Or maybe they won’t… As they say in the East, everything is the will of Allah!

Of course, there will definitely be someone who will say that Nasreddin is incomprehensible or simply outdated. Well, if Hodge happened to be our contemporary, he would not be upset: you can’t please everyone. Yes, Nasreddin did not like to get upset at all. The mood is like a cloud: it ran and flew away. We get upset only because we lose what we had. But it is worth considering: do we really have so much? There is something wrong when a person determines his dignity by the amount of accumulated property. After all, there is something that you can’t buy in a store: intelligence, kindness, justice, friendship, resourcefulness, wisdom, finally. Now, if you lost them, then there is something to be upset about. As for the rest, Khoja Nasreddin has nothing to lose, and this, perhaps, is his most important lesson.

So what, after all, in the end? At the moment, there is no confirmed information or serious grounds to talk about the specific date or place of Nasreddin's birth, so the question of the reality of the existence of this character remains open. In a word, whether Khoja was born or not born, lived or did not live, died or did not die, is not very clear. A complete misunderstanding and misunderstanding. Don't laugh or cry, just shrug. Only one thing is known for certain: many wise and instructive stories about Khoja Nasreddin have come down to us. Therefore, in conclusion, a few of the most famous.

Once at the bazaar, Khoja saw a fat teahouse owner shaking a beggar tramp, demanding payment for lunch from him.
- But I just sniffed your pilaf! - justified the tramp.
- But the smell also costs money! - answered the fat man.
- Wait, let him go - I'll pay you for everything - with these words Khoja Nasreddin went up to the teahouse owner. He released the poor man. Khoja took out a few coins from his pocket and shook them over the ear of the teahouse keeper.
- What is this? - he was amazed.
“Whoever sells the smell of dinner gets the sound of coins,” Hodge replied calmly.

The following story, one of the most beloved, is given in the book by L.V. Solovyov "Troublemaker" and in the film "Nasreddin in Bukhara" based on the book.

Nasreddin says that he once argued with the emir of Bukhara that he would teach his donkey theology so that the donkey would know him no worse than the emir himself. This requires a purse of gold and twenty years of time. If he does not fulfill the conditions of the dispute - the head off his shoulders. Nasreddin is not afraid of the inevitable execution: “After all, in twenty years,” he says, “either the shah dies, or I, or the donkey dies. And then go and figure out who knew theology better!”

An anecdote about Khoja Nasreddin is given even by Leo Tolstoy.

Nasreddin promises a merchant for a small fee to make him fabulously rich through magic and sorcery. To do this, the merchant had only to sit in a bag from dawn to dusk without food or drink, but the main thing: during all this time he should never think about a monkey, otherwise everything will be in vain. It is not difficult to guess whether the merchant became fabulously rich ...

The article uses materials from the Great Soviet Encyclopedia (article "Khodja Nasreddin"), from the book "Good Jokes of Khoja Nasreddin" by Alexei Sukharev, from the book "Twenty-four Nasreddin" (Compiled by M.S. Kharitonov)

Leonid Solovyov: The Tale of Hodja Nasreddin:

TROUBLESHOOTER

CHAPTER FIRST

Khoja Nasreddin met the thirty-fifth year of his life on the road.

He spent more than ten years in exile, wandering from city to city, from one country to another, crossing seas and deserts, spending the night as he had to - on bare ground near a meager shepherd's fire, or in a cramped caravanserai, where in dusty darkness until morning camels sigh and itch and tinkle dully with bells, or in a fumed, smoky teahouse, among the water carriers lying side by side, beggars, drovers and other poor people, who, with the onset of dawn, fill the market squares and narrow streets of cities with their piercing cries. Often he managed to spend the night on soft silk pillows in the harem of some Iranian nobleman, who just that night went with a detachment of guards to all the teahouses and caravanserais, looking for the tramp and blasphemer Khoja Nasreddin in order to put him on a stake ... Through the bars through the window one could see a narrow strip of sky, the stars were growing pale, the pre-dawn breeze rustled lightly and gently through the foliage, on the windowsill merry doves began to coo and clean their feathers. And Khoja Nasreddin, kissing the weary beauty, said:

It's time. Farewell, my incomparable pearl, and do not forget me.

Wait! - she answered, closing her beautiful hands on his neck. - Are you leaving completely? But why? Listen, tonight, when it gets dark, I'll send the old woman for you again. - No. I have long forgotten the time when I spent two nights in a row under the same roof. I have to go, I'm in a hurry.

Drive? Do you have any urgent business in another city? Where are you going to go?

Don't know. But it is already dawn, the city gates have already opened and the first caravans have set off. Can you hear the camel bells ringing! When I hear this sound, it's like genies are infused in my legs, and I can't sit still!

Leave if so! the beauty said angrily, trying in vain to hide the tears glistening on her long eyelashes. - But tell me at least your name in parting.

Do you want to know my name? Listen, you spent the night with Khoja Nasreddin! I am Khoja Nasreddin, a disturber of the peace and a sower of discord, the very one about whom heralds shout every day in all squares and bazaars, promising a big reward for his head. Yesterday they promised three thousand fogs, and I even thought about selling my own head myself for such a good price. You laugh, my little star, well, give me your lips for the last time. If I could, I would give you an emerald, but I don’t have an emerald - take this simple white pebble as a keepsake!

He pulled on his tattered dressing gown, burned in many places by the sparks of road fires, and moved away slowly. Behind the door, a lazy, stupid eunuch in a turban and soft shoes with upturned toes snored loudly - a negligent guardian of the main treasure in the palace entrusted to him. Farther on, stretched out on carpets and felt mats, the guards snored, resting their heads on their naked scimitars. Khoja Nasreddin would tiptoe past, and always safely, as if becoming invisible for the time being.

And again the white stony road rang, smoked under the brisk hooves of his donkey. Above the world in the blue sky the sun shone; Khoja Nasreddin could look at him without squinting. Dewy fields and barren deserts, where camel bones half covered with sand, green gardens and foamy rivers, gloomy mountains and green pastures, heard the song of Khoja Nasreddin. He drove farther and farther away, not looking back, not regretting what he had left behind, and not fearing what lies ahead.

And in the abandoned city, the memory of him forever remained to live.

The nobles and mullahs turned pale with rage, hearing his name; water carriers, drovers, weavers, coppersmiths and saddlers, gathering in the evenings in teahouses, told each other funny stories about his adventures, from which he always emerged victorious; the languid beauty in the harem often looked at the white pebble and hid it in a mother-of-pearl chest, hearing the steps of her master.

Phew! - said the fat nobleman and, puffing and sniffing, began to pull off his brocade robe. - We are all completely exhausted with this accursed vagabond Khoja Nasreddin: he angered and stirred up the whole state! Today I received a letter from my old friend, the respected ruler of the Khorasan district. Just think - as soon as this vagabond Khoja Nasreddin appeared in his city, the blacksmiths immediately stopped paying taxes, and the keepers of the taverns refused to feed the guards for free. Moreover, this thief, the defiler of Islam and the son of sin, dared to climb into the harem of the Khorasan ruler and dishonor his beloved wife! Truly, the world has never seen such a criminal! I regret that this despicable ragamuffin did not try to enter my harem, otherwise his head would have stuck out on a pole in the middle of the main square a long time ago!

The beauty was silent, secretly smiling - she was both funny and sad. And the road kept ringing, smoking under the hooves of the donkey. And the song of Khoja Nasreddin sounded. For ten years he traveled everywhere: in Baghdad, Istanbul and Tehran, in Bakhchisaray, Etchmiadzin and Tbilisi, in Damascus and Trebizond, he knew all these cities and a great many others, and everywhere he left a memory of himself.

Now he was returning to his native city, to Bukhara-i-Sherif, to Noble Bukhara, where he hoped, hiding under a false name, to take a break from endless wanderings.

CHAPTER TWO

Having joined a large merchant caravan, Khoja Nasreddin crossed the Bukhara border and on the eighth day of the journey he saw the familiar minarets of the great, glorious city in the distance in a dusty haze.

The caravaners, exhausted by thirst and heat, shouted hoarsely, the camels quickened their pace: the sun was already setting, and it was necessary to hurry to enter Bukhara before the city gates were closed. Khoja Forward din rode at the very tail of the caravan, shrouded in a thick, heavy cloud of dust; it was native, sacred dust; it seemed to him that it smelled better than the dust of other distant lands. Sneezing and clearing his throat, he said to his donkey:

Well, we are finally home. I swear by Allah, good luck and happiness await us here.

The caravan approached the city wall just as the guards were locking the gates. "Wait, in the name of Allah!" shouted the caravan-bashi, showing a gold coin from afar. But the gates were already closed, the bolts fell with a clang, and sentries stood on the towers near the cannons. A cool wind blew, the pink glow faded in the foggy sky and the thin crescent of the new moon clearly appeared, and in the twilight silence from all the countless minarets the high, drawn-out and sad voices of the muezzins called Muslims to evening prayers.

The merchants and caravaners knelt down, and Khoja Nasreddin with his donkey moved slowly aside.

These merchants have something to thank Allah for: they had lunch today and are now going to have dinner. And you and I, my faithful donkey, have not had lunch and will not have dinner; if Allah wants to receive our gratitude, then let him send me a bowl of pilaf, and you - a sheaf of clover!

He tied the donkey to a roadside tree, and he himself lay down beside him, right on the ground, putting a stone under his head. Shining plexuses of stars were opened to his eyes in the dark transparent sky, and each constellation was familiar to him: so often in ten years he had seen the open sky above him! And he always thought that these hours of silent wise contemplation make him richer than the richest, and although the rich man eats on golden dishes, he must certainly spend the night under a roof, and it is not given to him at midnight, when everything calms down, to feel the flight of the earth through blue and cool star mist...

Meanwhile, in the caravanserais and teahouses adjoining the battlements of the city outside, fires lit up under large cauldrons and rams bleated plaintively, which were dragged to the slaughter. But the experienced Khoja Nasreddin prudently settled down for the night on the windward side, so that the smell of food would not tease or disturb him. Knowing the Bukhara order, he decided to save the last money in order to pay a fee at the city gates in the morning.

He tossed and turned for a long time, but sleep did not come to him, and hunger was not at all the cause of insomnia. Khoja Nasreddin was tormented and tormented by bitter thoughts; even the starry sky could not console him today.

He loved his homeland, and there was no greater love in the world for this cunning merry fellow with a black beard on a copper-tanned face and crafty sparks in his clear eyes. The farther from Bukhara he wandered in a patched robe, greasy skullcap and torn boots, the more he loved Bukhara and yearned for her. In his exile, he always remembered the narrow streets, where the cart, passing, harrowed clay fences on both sides; he remembered the tall minarets with patterned tiled hats, on which the fiery brilliance of dawn burns in the morning and evening, the ancient, sacred elms with huge nests of storks blackening on the branches; he remembered the smoky teahouses above the ditches, in the shade of murmuring poplars, the smoke and fumes of taverns, the motley hustle and bustle of the bazaars; he remembered the mountains and rivers of his homeland, its villages, fields, pastures and deserts, and when in Baghdad or Damascus he met a compatriot and recognized him by the pattern on his skullcap and by the special cut of his robe, Khoja Nasreddin's heart sank and his breath became shy.

When he returned, he saw his homeland even more unhappy than in the days when he left it. The old emir was buried long ago. The new emir managed to completely ruin Bukhara in eight years. Khoja Nasreddin saw destroyed bridges on the roads, poor crops of barley and wheat, dry ditches, the bottom of which was cracked from the heat. The fields grew wild, overgrown with weeds and thorns, orchards were dying of thirst, the peasants had neither bread nor cattle, the beggars sat in strings along the roads, begging for alms from the same beggars as themselves. The new emir placed detachments of guards in all the villages and ordered the inhabitants to feed them free of charge, founded many new mosques and ordered the inhabitants to finish building them - he was very pious, the new emir, and twice a year he always went to worship the ashes of the most holy and incomparable Sheikh Bogaeddin, the tomb which rose near Bukhara. In addition to the previous four taxes, he introduced three more, set a fare across each bridge, increased trade and judicial duties, minted counterfeit money ... Crafts fell into decay, trade was destroyed: Khoja Nasreddin was sadly met by his beloved homeland.

... Early in the morning, muezzins again sang from all the minarets; the gates opened, and the caravan, accompanied by the dull ringing of sleigh bells, slowly entered the city.

Outside the gate the caravan stopped: the road was blocked by guards. There were a great many of them - shod and barefoot, dressed and half-naked, who had not yet managed to get rich in the Emir's service. They pushed, shouted, argued, distributing the profit among themselves in advance. Finally, the toll collector came out of the tea house - fat and sleepy, in a silk dressing gown with greasy sleeves, shoes on his bare feet, with traces of intemperance and vice on his swollen face. Casting a greedy glance on the merchants, he said:

Greetings, merchants, I wish you good luck in your business. And know that there is an order from the emir to beat with sticks to death anyone who hides even the smallest amount of goods!

The merchants, seized with embarrassment and fear, silently stroked their dyed beards. The Collector turned to the guards, who had long been dancing in place with impatience, and wiggled his thick fingers. It was a sign. The guards with a boom and a howl rushed to the camels. In a crush and haste, they cut hair lassos with sabers, ripped bales loudly, threw brocade, silk, velvet, boxes of pepper, tea and amber, jugs with precious rose oil and Tibetan medicines onto the road.

From horror, the merchants lost their language. Two minutes later, the inspection ended. The guards lined up behind their leader. Their robes were bristling and puffy. The collection of duties for goods and for entry into the city began. Khoja Nasreddin had no goods; he was charged a duty only for entry.

Where did you come from and why? asked the assembler. The scribe dipped a quill pen into the inkwell and prepared to write down Khoja Nasreddin's answer.

I have come from Ispahan, O bright sir. Here, in Bukhara, my relatives live.

Yes, said the builder. You are going to visit your relatives. So you have to pay the guest fee.

But I'm not going to visit my relatives, - Khoja Nasreddin objected. - I'm on important business.

On business! cried the assembler, and a gleam flashed in his eyes. - So, you are going to visit and at the same time on business! Pay the guest tax, business tax and donate to decorate mosques for the glory of Allah, who saved you from the robbers on the way.

“It would be better if he saved me now, and somehow I could save myself from the robbers,” thought Khoja Nasreddin, but did not say anything: he managed to calculate that in this conversation each word costs him more than ten tangas. He untied his belt and, under the rapacious gaze of the guards, began counting out the city entrance fee, the guest fee, the business fee, and the donation for the decoration of mosques. The assembler squinted menacingly at the guards, who turned away. The scribe, buried in the book, quickly scratched his pen.

Khoja Nasreddin paid and wanted to leave, but the collector noticed that there were still a few coins left in his belt.

Wait, - he stopped Khoja Nasreddin. - And who will pay the duty for your donkey? If you go to visit relatives, then your donkey goes to visit relatives.

You are right, oh wise chief, - Khoja Nasreddin answered humbly, again untying his belt. - My donkey in Bukhara really has a great many relatives, otherwise our emir with such orders would have flown from the throne a long time ago, and you, oh venerable one, would have been impaled for your greed!

Before the collector came to his senses. Khoja Nasreddin jumped on the donkey and, setting it at full speed, disappeared into the nearest alley. “Hurry, hurry! he said. - Speed up, my faithful donkey, speed up, otherwise your master will pay another fee - with his own head!

Khoja Nasreddin's donkey was very clever, he understood everything: with his long ears he heard the rumble and confusion at the city gates, the cries of the guards, and, not understanding the road, rushed so that Khoja Nasreddin, clasping his neck with both hands and picking up his legs high, could hardly hold on. in the saddle Behind him with a hoarse bark rushed a whole pack of dogs; passers-by huddled against the fences and looked after them, shaking their heads.

Meanwhile, at the city gates, the guards searched the entire crowd, looking for a daring freethinker. Merchants, grinning, whispered to each other:

Here is an answer that would do honor even to Khoja Nasreddin himself!..

By noon the whole city knew about this answer; the sellers at the bazaar whispered to the buyers, and they passed it on, and everyone said at the same time: “These are words worthy of Khoja Nasreddin himself!”

And no one knew that these words belonged to Khoja Nasreddin, that he himself, the famous and incomparable Khoja Nasreddin, is now wandering around the city, hungry, penniless, looking for relatives or old friends who would feed him and give him shelter for the first time.

CHAPTER THREE

He did not find any relatives or old friends in Bukhara. He did not even find his father's home, in which he was born and grew up, playing in a shady garden, where on transparent autumn days yellowing leaves rustled in the wind, ripe fruits fell to the ground with a dull, as if distant thud, birds whistled with thin voices, sun spots trembled on the fragrant grass, industrious bees buzzed, collecting the last tribute from the fading flowers, the water secretly buzzed in the canal, telling the boy its endless, incomprehensible tales ... Now this place was a wasteland: mounds, ruts, tenacious thistles, sooty bricks, sagging the remains of the walls, pieces of decayed reed mats; Khoja Nasreddin did not see a single bird, not a single bee here! Only from under the stones, on which he stumbled, suddenly an oily long stream flowed out and, shining dully in the sun, disappeared again under the stones - it was a snake, a lonely and terrible inhabitant of desert places forever abandoned by man.

Looking down, Khoja Nasreddin stood in silence for a long time; Grief gripped his heart.

He heard a rattling cough behind him and turned around.

An old man walked along the path through the wasteland, bent by need and worries. Khoja Nasreddin stopped him:

Peace be with you, old man, may Allah send you many more years of health and prosperity. Tell me, whose house used to be on this wasteland?

Here stood the house of the saddler Shir-Mamed, - the old man answered. “I used to know him well. This ShirMamed was the father of the famous Khoja Nasreddin, about whom you, a traveler, must have heard a lot.

Yes, I heard something. But tell me, where did this saddle-maker Shir-Mamed, the father of the famous Khoja Nasreddin, go, where did his family go?

Hush, my son. There are thousands and thousands of spies in Bukhara - they can hear us, and then we will not end up in trouble. You probably came from afar and don't know that in our city it is strictly forbidden to mention the name of Khoja Nasreddin, for this they put you in jail. Lean closer to me and I'll tell you.

Khoja Nasreddin, concealing his excitement, stooped low to him.

It was still under the old emir,” the old man began. - A year and a half after the expulsion of Khoja Nasreddin, a rumor spread around the bazaar that he had returned, secretly resides in Bukhara and composes mocking songs about the Emir. This rumor reached the emir's palace, the guards rushed to look for Khoja Nasreddin, but could not find him. Then the emir ordered to seize Khoja Nasreddin's father, two brothers, an uncle, all distant relatives, friends and torture them until they told where Khoja Nasreddin was hiding. Glory to Allah, he sent them so much courage and firmness that they were able to remain silent, and our Khoja Nasreddin did not fall into the hands of the emir. But his father, the saddler Shir-Mamed, fell ill after being tortured and soon died, and all relatives and friends left Bukhara, hiding from the emir's wrath, and no one knows where they are now. And then the emir ordered to destroy their dwellings and uproot the gardens in order to destroy the very memory of Khoja Nasreddin in Bukhara.

Why were they tortured? exclaimed Khoja Nasreddin; tears flowed down his face, but the old man saw badly and did not notice these tears. Why were they tortured? After all, Khoja Nasreddin was not in Bukhara at that time, I know this very well!

Nobody knows! - answered the old man. - Khoja Nasreddin appears where he wants and disappears when he wants. He is everywhere and nowhere, our incomparable Khoja Nasreddin!

With these words, the old man, groaning and coughing, wandered on, and Khoja Nasreddin, covering his face with his hands, went up to his donkey.

He hugged the donkey, pressed his wet face against his warm, fragrant neck: “You see, my good, my faithful friend,” said Khoja Nasreddin, “I don’t have anyone close to me, only you are a constant and unchanging comrade in my wanderings.” And, as if feeling the grief of his master, the donkey stood still, not moving, and even stopped chewing the thorn, which remained hanging on his lips.

But an hour later Khoja Nasreddin strengthened his heart, the tears dried up on his face. "Nothing! he cried, slapping the donkey hard on the back. - Nothing! I have not yet been forgotten in Bukhara, I am known and remembered in Bukhara, and we will be able to find friends here! And now we will compose such a song about the emir that he will burst with anger on his throne, and his stinking intestines will stick to the decorated walls of the palace! Forward, my faithful donkey, forward!”

CHAPTER FOUR

It was a muggy and quiet afternoon. Road dust, stones, clay fences and walls - everything became hot, breathed a lazy heat, and the sweat on Hodja Nasreddin's face dried up before he had time to wipe it off.

Khoja Nasreddin excitedly recognized the familiar streets, teahouses and minarets. Nothing had changed in ten years in Bukhara, the shabby dogs were still dozing by the ponds, and a slender woman, bending over and holding her veil with a swarthy hand with painted nails, was plunging a narrow jingling jug into the dark water. And the gates of the famous Mir-Arab madrasah were still tightly locked, where, under the heavy vaults of the cells, the learned ulemas and mudarrises, who had long forgotten the color of spring foliage, the smell of the sun and the sound of water, compose thick books with eyes burning with a gloomy flame to the glory of Allah, proving the need destruction up to the seventh generation of all who do not profess Islam. Khoja Nasreddin hit the donkey with his heels while driving through this terrible place.

But where can you eat anyway? Khoja Nasreddia tied up his belt for the third time since yesterday.

We have to think of something,” he said. - Let's stop, my faithful donkey, and think. And here, by the way, teahouse!

Having unbridled the donkey, he let him collect the half-eaten clover at the hitching post, and he himself, picking up the skirts of his dressing gown, sat down in front of the ditch, in which, gurgling and foaming on the inversions, there was water thick with clay. “Where, why and from where this water flows - she does not know and does not think about it,” Khoja Nasreddin thought sadly. - I also do not know my way, or rest, or home. Why did I come to Bukhara? Where will I go tomorrow? And where can I get half a tanga for lunch? Am I going to be hungry again? Damned toll collector, he robbed me clean and had the shamelessness to talk to me about robbers!

At that moment he suddenly saw the culprit of his misfortunes. The toll collector himself drove up to the teahouse. Two guards led by the bridle an Arabian stallion, a handsome bay with a noble and passionate fire in his dark eyes. He, bending his neck, impatiently moved his thin legs, as if he was disgusted to carry the fat carcass of the collector.

The guards respectfully unloaded their chief, and he entered the teahouse, where the teahouse attendant, trembling with servility, seated him on silk cushions, brewed for him separately the best tea, and served a thin bowl of Chinese work. “He’s well received for my money!” thought Khoja Nasreddin.

The picker filled himself with tea to the very throat and soon dozed off on the pillows, filling the teahouse with snuff. eating, snoring and smacking. All the other guests turned to whispers in conversation, afraid to disturb his sleep. The guards sat over him - one on the right and the other on the left - and drove off annoying flies with branches until they were sure that the collector was fast asleep; then they exchanged winks, unbridled the horse, threw him a sheaf of clover and, taking with them a hookah, went into the depths of the tea house, into the darkness, from where a minute later Khoja Nasreddin was drawn by the sweet smell of hashish: the guards at large indulged in vice. "Well, it's time for me to pack up! - Khoja Nasreddin decided, remembering the morning adventure at the city gates and fearing that the guards, at odd hours, would recognize him. - But where can I get half a tanga anyway? O almighty fate, which has helped Khoja Nasreddin so many times, turn your benevolent gaze on him! At this time he was called:

Hey you rogue!

He turned around and saw a covered, richly decorated cart on the road, from where, parting the curtains, a man in a large turban and an expensive dressing gown peered out.

And before this person - a rich merchant or nobleman - uttered the next word. Khoja Nasreddin already knew that his call for happiness had not gone unanswered: happiness, as always, turned its benevolent gaze on him in difficult times.

I like this stallion, - the rich man said arrogantly, looking over Khoja Nasreddin and admiring the handsome bay Arabian. - Tell me, is this stallion for sale?

There is no such horse in the world that would not be sold, - Khoja Nasreddin answered evasively.

You probably don’t have much money in your pocket,” the rich man continued. - Listen carefully. I don't know whose stallion it is, where it came from or who it belonged to before. I don't ask you about it. It is enough for me that, judging by your dusty clothes, you came to Bukhara from afar. That's enough for me. Do you understand?

Khoja Nasreddin, seized with jubilation and admiration, nodded his head: he immediately understood everything and even much more than the rich man wanted to tell him. He thought only of one thing: that some stupid fly should not crawl into the nostril or into the larynx of the toll collector and wake him up. He was less worried about the guards, who continued to indulge in vice with enthusiasm, as evidenced by the thick green smoke billowing out of the darkness.

But you yourself understand,” the rich man continued arrogantly and importantly, “that it is not fitting for you to ride such a horse in your tattered dressing gown. It would even be dangerous for you, because everyone would ask themselves the question: “Where did this beggar get such a beautiful stallion?” - and you could easily end up in jail.

You are right, highborn! Khoja Nasreddin answered humbly. - The horse is really too good for me. In my torn dressing gown, I have been riding a donkey all my life and I don’t even dare to think about mounting such a horse.

The rich man liked his answer.

It is good that in your poverty you are not blinded by pride: the poor must be humble and modest, for lush flowers are inherent in the noble almond, but not inherent in the wretched thorn. Now answer me - do you want to get this wallet? There are exactly three hundred tangas in silver.

Still would! exclaimed Khoja Nasreddin, inwardly growing cold, because the malicious fly nevertheless crawled into the toll collector's nostril: he sneezed and stirred. - Still would! Who will refuse to receive three hundred tangas in silver? It's like finding a wallet on the road!

Well, suppose you found something completely different on the road, - the rich man answered, smiling thinly. - But what you found on the road, I agree to exchange for silver. Get your three hundred tangas.

He handed Khoja Nasreddin a heavy purse and signaled to his servant, who, scratching his back with a whip, silently listened to the conversation. The servant walked towards the stallion. Khoja Nasreddin managed to notice that the servant, judging by the grin on his flat, pockmarked face and restless eyes, is a notorious rogue, quite worthy of his master. "Three rogues on one road is too much, it's time for one to get out!" Khoja Nasreddin decided. Praising the piety and generosity of the rich man, he jumped on the donkey and hit him with his heels so hard that, despite all his laziness, the donkey immediately took off at a gallop.

Turning around, Khoja Nasreddin saw that a pock-marked servant was tying a bay Arabian stallion to a cart.

Turning once more, he saw that the rich man and the toll collector were pulling each other's beards, and the guards were trying in vain to separate them.

A wise man does not interfere in someone else's quarrel. Khoja Nasreddin twisted and wove along all the lanes until he felt safe. He pulled on the reins, holding back the gallop of the donkey.

Wait, wait, he began. "Now we're in no hurry..."

Suddenly, he heard an alarming, interrupted clatter of hooves nearby.

Hey! Forward, my faithful donkey, forward, help me out! - Khoja Nasreddin shouted, but it was already too late: a rider jumped out from behind a turn into the road.

It was a pock-marked servant. He rode on a horse harnessed from a cart. Dangling his legs, he rushed past Khoja Nasreddin and, abruptly reining in his horse, placed it across the road.

Skip a kind person- Khoja Nasreddin said meekly. - On such narrow roads You need to drive along, not across.

Aha! - answered the servant with gloating in his voice. - Well, now you can't escape the underground prison! Do you know that this nobleman, the owner of a stallion, tore out half of my master's beard, and my master broke his nose until it bled. Tomorrow they will drag you to the emir's court. Truly, your fate is bitter, O man!

What are you saying?! exclaimed Khoja Nasreddin. - Because of what could these respectable people quarrel so much? But why did you stop me - I can not be a judge in their dispute! Let them figure it out on their own!

Enough chatting! - said the servant. - Turn back. You'll have to answer for this stallion.

What stallion?

Are you still asking? The one for which you received a purse of silver from my master.

I swear by Allah, you are mistaken, - answered Khoja Nasreddin. - The stallion has nothing to do with it. Judge for yourself - you've heard the whole conversation. Your master, a generous and pious man, wishing to help the poor, asked: do I want to receive three hundred tangas in silver? - and I replied that, of course, I want to. And he gave me three hundred tangas, may Allah prolong the days of his life! But first he decided to test my modesty and my humility in order to make sure that I deserve a reward. He said: "I do not ask whose stallion this is and where he comes from" - wanting to check if I would not call myself out of false pride the owner of this stallion. I kept silent, and the generous, pious merchant was pleased with this. Then he said that such a stallion would be too good for me, I fully agreed with him, and he was again satisfied. He then said that I had found something on the road that could be exchanged for silver, hinting at my diligence and firmness in Islam, which I had found in my wanderings in the holy places. And then he rewarded me, so that by this pious deed in advance to facilitate his transition to paradise over the afterlife bridge, which is lighter than a hair and thinner than the edge of a sword, as the holy Quran says. In the very first prayer, I will inform Allah about the pious deed of your master, so that Allah will prepare for him a railing on this bridge in advance.

The servant thought for a moment, then said with a sly smile, which made Hodja Nasreddin somehow uneasy:

You are right, traveler! And how did I not immediately guess that your conversation with my master had such a virtuous meaning! But if you have already decided to help my master in crossing the afterlife bridge, then it is better that the railings be on both sides. It will come out stronger and more reliable. I would also like to pray for my master that Allah put a railing on the other side as well.

So pray! exclaimed Khoja Nasreddin. - Who's stopping you? You even have to do it. Doesn't the Qur'an command slaves and servants to pray daily for their masters without demanding any special reward...

Wrap the donkey! the servant said rudely and, touching the horse, pressed Khoja Nasreddin against the fence. - Come on, don't make me waste my time!

Wait, - Khoja Nasreddin hastily interrupted him. - I haven't said everything yet. I was going to say a prayer of three hundred words, according to the number of tangas received by me. But now I think we can do with a prayer of two hundred and fifty words. The railing on my side will only be a little thinner and shorter. And you will read a prayer of fifty words, and the wise Allah will be able to carve out a railing on your side from the same logs.

How so? replied the servant. “So my railing will be five times shorter than yours?”

But they will be in dangerous place! - Hodja Nasreddin added with liveliness.

No! I don't agree with such short railings! the servant said decisively. - So, part of the bridge will be unfenced! I turn pale and break out in a cold sweat at the thought of the terrible danger that threatens my master! I believe that we should both say prayers of one hundred and fifty words so that the railing is the same on both sides. Well, let them be thin, but on both sides. And if you do not agree, then I see in this an evil intent against my master - it means that you want him to fall off the bridge! And now I will call people, and you will go directly to the underground prison!

Tiny railings! Khoja Nasreddin exclaimed in rage, feeling, as it were, the slight stirring of the purse in his belt. - In your opinion, it is enough to enclose this bridge with twigs! Understand that the railing on one side must certainly be thicker and stronger, so that the merchant has something to grab on to if he stumbles and falls!

Truth itself speaks through your mouth! the servant exclaimed happily. - Let them be thicker on my part, and I will not spare the labor and read a prayer in two hundred words!

Do you want three hundred? said Khoja Nasreddin angrily.

They argued for a long time on the road. A few passers-by who heard fragments of the conversation bowed respectfully, mistaking Khoja Nasreddin and the pockmarked servant for pious pilgrims returning from worshiping holy places.

When they parted, Khoja Nasreddin's wallet was half as light: they agreed that the bridge leading to paradise should be fenced off for the merchant on both sides with railings of exactly the same length and strength.

Farewell, traveller, said the servant. “Today we have done a pious deed.

Farewell, kind, devoted and virtuous servant, so anxious to save the soul of his master. I will also say that in a dispute you will probably not yield even to Khoja Nasreddin himself.

Why did you remember him? the servant was worried.

Yes so. I had to say it, - Khoja Nasreddin answered, thinking to himself: "Hey! .. Yes, this, it seems, is not an ordinary bird!"

Perhaps you are some distant relative of his? the servant asked. Or do you know any of his relatives?

No, I never met him. And I don't know any of his relatives.

I'll tell you in your ear, - the servant leaned in the saddle, - I am a relative of Khoja Nasreddin. I am his cousin. We spent childhood years together.

Hodja Nasreddin, having finally strengthened his suspicions, did not answer. The servant leaned towards him from the other side.

His father, two brothers and an uncle died. You must have heard, traveler?

Khoja Nasreddin was silent.

What atrocity on the part of the emir! exclaimed the servant in a hypocritical voice.

But Khoja Nasreddin was silent.

All Bukhara viziers are fools! - the servant suddenly said, trembling with impatience and greed, for a large reward was relied on from the treasury for the capture of freethinkers.

But Khoja Nasreddin was stubbornly silent.

And our bright emir himself is also a fool! - said the servant. - And it is still unknown whether Allah exists in the sky or does not exist at all.

But Khoja Nasreddin was silent, although the poisonous answer had long hung on the very tip of his tongue. The servant, deceived in his hopes, with a curse hit the horse with a whip and disappeared around the bend in two leaps. Everything was quiet. Only dust, kicked up by hooves, curled and gilded in the motionless air, pierced by slanting rays.

“Well, after all, a relative has been found,” Khoja Nasreddin thought mockingly. “The old man did not lie to me: indeed, there are more spies in Bukhara than flies, and one must be more careful, because the old saying says that the offending tongue is cut off along with the head.”

So he rode for a long time, now darkening at the thought of his half-empty purse, now smiling at the memory of the fight between the toll collector and the arrogant rich man.

CHAPTER FIVE

Having reached the opposite part of the city, he stopped, entrusted his donkey to the care of the teahouse owner, and himself, wasting no time, went to the tavern.

It was crowded, smoky and steamy, there was noise and din, the stoves were burning hot, and their flame illuminated the sweaty, bare to the waist cooks. They hurried, shouted, pushing each other and giving cuffs to the cooks, who, with crazy eyes, darted around the whole tavern, increasing the crush, hubbub and commotion. Huge cauldrons gurgled, covered with dancing circles of wood, and a rich steam thickened under the ceiling, where swarms of countless flies swirled with a buzz. Oil hissed and splashed furiously in the dove-gray haze, the walls of the heated braziers glowed, and the fat, dripping from the skewers onto the coals, burned with a blue stifling fire. Here they cooked pilaf, fried barbecue, boiled offal, baked pies stuffed with onions, peppers, meat and tail fat, which, after melting in the oven, appeared through the dough and boiled with small bubbles. Khoja Nasreddin found a place with great difficulty and squeezed himself in so tightly that the people whom he squeezed with his back and sides grunted. But no one was offended and did not say a word to Khoja Nasreddin, and he himself was certainly not offended. He always loved the hot crush of bazaar taverns, all this discordant hubbub, jokes, laughter, shouts, hustle, friendly sniffling, chewing and champing hundreds of people who, after a whole day of hard work, have no time to understand food: indestructible jaws will grind everything - and veins , and cartilage, and the tinned belly will accept everything, just give it so that there is a lot and cheap! Khoja Nasreddin also knew how to eat thoroughly: he ate three bowls of noodles, three bowls of pilaf and, finally, two dozen pirozhki, which he ate through force, true to his rule never to leave anything in a bowl, since the money was paid anyway.

Then he climbed to the exit, and when, working with all his might with his elbows, he finally got out into the air, he was all wet. His limbs were weakened and exhausted, as if he had just been in the bath, in the hands of a hefty washerman. With a sluggish step, heavy from food and heat, he hastily reached the tea house, and when he got there, he ordered tea for himself and blissfully stretched out on the felt mats. His eyelids closed, quiet pleasant thoughts swam in his head: “I have a lot of money now; it would be nice to put them into circulation and open some kind of workshop - pottery or saddlery; I know these crafts. Enough of me, in fact, to wander. Am I worse and more stupid than others, can't I have a kind, beautiful wife, can't I have a son whom I would carry in my arms? I swear by the beard of the prophet, this loud-mouthed boy will become a notorious rogue, I will try to convey my wisdom to him! Yes, it's decided: Khoja Nasreddin is changing his hectic life. To begin with, I must buy a pottery workshop or a saddle shop…”

He started counting. A good workshop cost at least three hundred tangas, while he had one hundred and fifty. Cursing, he remembered the pock-marked servant:

“May Allah strike the blindness of this robber, he took from me just that half, which is now lacking for a start!”

And luck again hastened to help him. "Twenty tangas!" - someone suddenly said, and after these words Khoja Nasreddin heard the sound of bones thrown on a copper tray.

On the edge of the platform, at the very hitching post, where the donkey was tied, people were sitting in a dense ring, and the teahouse owner stood above them, looking over their heads from above.

"A game! Khoja Nasreddin guessed, rising on his elbow. - We need to look at least from a distance. I myself, of course, will not play: I'm not such a fool! But why not look smart person for fools?"

He got up and walked over to the players.

Foolish people! he said in a whisper to the teahouse keeper. - They risk the latter in the hope of gaining more. And didn't Mohammed forbid money games for Muslims? Thank God, I am free from this pernicious passion... How lucky, however, this red-haired player: he wins the fourth time in a row... Look, look - he won for the fifth time! O fool! He is seduced by the false specter of wealth, while poverty has already dug a hole in his path. What? ... He won for the sixth time! .. I have never seen a person so lucky. Look, he bets again! Truly, there is no limit to human frivolity; He can't win in a row! This is how people die, believing in false happiness! Should have taught that redhead a lesson. Well, let him only win the seventh time, then I myself will bet against him, although in my heart I am an enemy of all money games and would long ago have banned them in the place of the emir! ..

The red-haired player rolled the dice and won for the seventh time.

Khoja Nasreddin decisively stepped forward, parted the players and sat down in the ring.

I want to play with you,” he said to the lucky man, took the dice and quickly, with an experienced eye, checked them from all sides.

Khoja Nasreddin in response took out his purse, put twenty-five tangas in his pocket just in case, and poured out the rest. The silver rang and sang on the copper tray. The players met the bet with a slight excited hum: a big game was about to begin.

The redhead took the bones and shook them for a long time, not daring to throw them. Everyone held their breath, even the donkey stuck out its muzzle and pricked up its ears. There was only the sound of bones in the fist of the red-haired player - nothing else. And from this dry thumping, weary weakness entered Hodja Nasreddin's stomach and legs. And the redhead kept shaking, holding the sleeve of his robe, and could not make up his mind.

Finally he threw. The players leaned forward and immediately leaned back, sighing all at once, with one chest. The redhead turned pale and groaned through clenched teeth.

There were only three points on the dice - a sure loss, because a deuce is thrown as rarely as a twelve, and everything else was good for Hodja Nasreddin.

Shaking the bones in his fist, he mentally thanked the fate that was so favorable to him that day. But he forgot that fate is capricious and fickle and can easily change if she gets too bored. She decided to teach the self-confident Khoja Nasreddin a lesson and chose the donkey, or rather, his tail, adorned at the end with thorns and burdocks, as her tool. Turning his back to the players, the donkey waved his tail, touched his master's arm, the bones jumped out, and at the same moment the red-haired player with a short, strangled cry fell onto the tray, covering the money with him.

Khoja Nasreddin threw out two points.

For a long time he sat, petrified, soundlessly moving his lips - everything swayed and swam before his fixed gaze, and a strange ringing was in his ears.

Suddenly he jumped up, grabbed a stick and began to beat the donkey, running after him around the hitching post.

Cursed donkey, O son of sin, O stinking creature and the disgrace of all living on earth! shouted Khoja Nasreddin. - Not only do you play dice with your master's money, but you also lose! May your vile skin peel off, may Almighty Allah send you a hole on the way so that you break your legs; when will you finally die and I will get rid of the contemplation of your vile muzzle?!

The donkey roared, the players laughed, and the redhead, who finally believed in his happiness, was the loudest of all.

Let's play some more,” he said, when Khoja Nasreddin, tired and out of breath, threw away his stick. - Let's play again: you have twenty-five tangas left.

At the same time, he put forward his left leg and slightly moved it as a sign of disdain for Khoja Nasreddin.

Well, let's play! - answered Khoja Nasreddin, deciding that now it doesn't matter: where one hundred and twenty tangas are lost, there is no point in regretting the last twenty-five.

He threw carelessly, without looking, and won.

For all! - suggested the redhead, throwing his loss on the tray.

And Khoja Nasreddin won again.

But the redhead did not want to believe that happiness turned its back on him:

So he said seven times in a row, and all seven times he lost. The tray was full of money. The players froze - only the sparkle in their eyes testified to the inner fire that devoured them.

You cannot win in a row if Satan himself does not help you! - exclaimed the redhead. - You must lose sometime! Here on a tray of your money is one thousand six hundred tangas! Do you agree to throw one more time at everything? Here is the money that I have prepared to buy goods for my shop tomorrow at the market - I bet this money against you!

He took out a small spare purse full of gold.

Put your gold on the tray! exclaimed Khoja Nasreddin, excited.

Never before has there been such a big game in this tea house. The teahouse owner forgot about his long-boiled kumgans, the players were breathing heavily and intermittently. The redhead was the first to throw the dice and immediately closed his eyes, he was afraid to look.

Eleven! they all shouted in unison. Khoja Nasreddin realized that he was dead: only twelve could save him.

Eleven! Eleven! - the red-haired player repeated in frantic joy. - You see - I have eleven! You lose! You lose!

Khoja Nasreddin, growing cold, took the dice and was about to throw them, but suddenly stopped.

Turn back! he said to the donkey. - You managed to lose on three points, now manage to win on eleven, otherwise I will immediately take you to the knacker's yard!

He took the tail of the donkey in his left hand and hit himself with this tail on his right hand, in which the bones were clamped.

A universal cry shook the teahouse, and the teahouse owner himself clutched his heart and, exhausted, sank to the floor.

There were twelve points on the dice.

The redhead's eyes bulged out of their sockets, glazed over his pale face. He stood up slowly and exclaiming:

"Oh, woe to me, woe!" - staggered out of the teahouse.

And they say that since then he has not been seen again in the city: he fled into the desert and there, terrible, overgrown with wild hair, wandered in the sands and thorny bushes, constantly exclaiming: “Oh, woe to me, woe!” - until finally it was eaten by jackals. And no one took pity on him, because he was a cruel and unjust man, and did much harm by outplaying gullible simpletons.

And Khoja Nasreddin, having packed the won wealth in saddlebags, hugged the donkey, kissed the warm nose tightly and treated him to tasty, fresh cakes, which surprised the donkey a lot, because just five minutes before that he had received something completely different from his owner.

CHAPTER SIX

mindful wise rule that it is better to stay away from people who know where your money is, Khoja Nasreddin did not linger in the tea house and went to the market square. From time to time he looked around to see if they were watching him, for the faces of the players and the teahouse owner himself did not bear the stamp of virtue.

He was happy to ride. Now he can buy any workshop, two workshops, three workshops. And so he decided to do it. “I will buy four workshops:

A pottery, a saddle, a tailor's and a shoemaker's, and I will put two craftsmen in each, and I myself will only receive money. In two years I will get rich, I will buy a house with fountains in the garden, I will hang golden cages with songbirds everywhere, I will have two or even three wives and three sons from each ... "

He plunged headlong into the sweet river of dreams. Meanwhile, the donkey, not feeling the reins, took advantage of the owner’s thoughtfulness and, having met a bridge on the way, did not go along it, like all other donkeys, but turned to the side and, running up, jumped straight across the ditch. “And when my children grow up, I will gather them and say...” Khoja Nasreddin thought at that time. - But why am I flying through the air? Has Allah decided to turn me into an angel and gave me wings?”

At that very moment, sparks falling from his eyes convinced Khoja Nasreddin that he had no wings. Flying out of the saddle, he plopped onto the road, two fathoms ahead of the donkey.

When he got up with groans and groans, all smeared with dust, the donkey, affectionately moving his ears and keeping the most innocent expression on his muzzle, approached him, as if inviting him to take his place in the saddle again.

O you, sent to me as a punishment for my sins and for the sins of my father, grandfather and great-grandfather, for, I swear by the righteousness of Islam, it would be unfair to punish a person for his own sins alone! Khoja Nasreddin began in a voice trembling with indignation. - Oh, you despicable cross between a spider and a hyena! Oh you who...

But then he stopped, noticing some people sitting nearby in the shade of a dilapidated fence.

Curses froze on the lips of Khoja Nasreddin.

He understood that a person who finds himself in a ridiculous and irreverent position in the sight of others should himself laugh louder than anyone at himself.

Khoja Nasreddin winked at those seated and smiled broadly, showing all his teeth at once.

Hey! he said loudly and cheerfully. - Here I flew nicely! Tell me how many times I turned over, otherwise I myself did not have time to count. Oh you rascal! - he continued, good-naturedly patting the donkey with his palm, while his hands itched to give him a good blow with a whip, - oh, you little rascal! He is like this: you gape a little, and he will definitely do something!

Khoja Nasreddin burst into merry laughter, but noticed with surprise that no one echoed him. Everyone continued to sit with bowed heads and darkened faces, and the women holding the babies in their arms wept quietly.

"Something is wrong here," Khoja Nasreddin said to himself and came closer.

Listen, venerable old man, - he turned to the gray-bearded old man with a haggard face, - tell me what happened? Why don't I see smiles, don't hear laughter, why do women cry? Why are you sitting here on the road in the dust and heat, isn't it better to sit at home in the cool?

It’s good for someone who has a house to stay at home, the old man answered mournfully. - Oh, passerby, don't ask - grief is great, but you still can't help. Here I am, old, decrepit, now I pray to God to send me death as soon as possible.

Why such words! - Hodja Nasreddin said reproachfully. - A person should never think about it. Tell me your grief and do not look that I am poor in appearance. Maybe I can help you.

My story will be short. Just an hour ago, the usurer Jafar walked along our street, accompanied by two Emir guards. And I am indebted to the usurer Jafar, and my debt expires tomorrow morning. And now I am expelled from my house, in which I have lived all my life, and I no longer have a family and there is no corner where I could lay my head ... And all my property: house, garden, cattle and vineyards - will be sold tomorrow by Jafar.

How much do you owe him? asked Khoja Nasreddin.

A lot, passerby. I owe him two hundred and fifty tangas.

Two hundred and fifty tangas! exclaimed Khoja Nasreddin. - And a man wishes himself death because of some two hundred and fifty tangas! Well, well, stand still, - he added, turning to the donkey and untying the saddle bag. - Here you are, venerable old man, two hundred and fifty tangas, give them to this usurer, kick him out of your house and live out your days in peace and prosperity.

Hearing the ringing of silver, everyone started, and the old man could not utter a word, and only with his eyes, in which tears sparkled, thanked Khoja Nasreddin.

You see, but you still didn’t want to talk about your grief,” said Khoja Nasreddin, counting out the last coin and thinking to himself: “Nothing, instead of eight masters, I will hire only seven, that’s enough for me!”

Suddenly the woman sitting next to the old man threw herself at Khoja Nasreddin's feet and held out her child to him with a loud cry.

Look! she said through her sobs. - He is sick, his lips are dry and his face is burning. And he will die now, my poor boy, somewhere on the road, for I have been kicked out of my house.

Khoja Nasreddin glanced at the child's emaciated, pale face, at his transparent hands, then looked around at the faces of those sitting. And when he peered into these faces, wrinkled, wrinkled with suffering, and saw eyes dimmed from endless tears, it was like a hot knife pierced into his heart, an instant spasm seized his throat, blood rushed in a hot wave to his face. He turned away.

I am a widow,” the woman continued. - My husband, who died six months ago, owed the usurer two hundred tangas, and according to the law, the debt passed to me.

The boy is really ill,” said Khoja Nasreddin. - And you should not keep him in the sun at all, because the sun's rays thicken the blood in the veins, as Avicenna says about this, which, of course, is not good for the boy. Here's two hundred tangas for you, come back home as soon as possible, put a lotion on his forehead; here's another fifty tanga for you so you can call the doctor and buy some medicine.

I thought to myself: “You can do just fine with six masters.”

But a huge bearded mason collapsed at his feet, whose family was to be sold into slavery tomorrow for a debt to the usurer Jafar of four hundred tavgas ... "Five masters, of course, are not enough," thought Khoja Nasreddin, untying his bag. Before he had time to tie it, two more women fell on their knees in front of him, and their stories were so plaintive that Khoja Nasreddin, without hesitation, endowed them with enough money to pay off the usurer. Seeing that the remaining money was barely enough to support the three masters, he decided that in this case it was not worth contacting the workshops, and with a generous hand he began to distribute money to the rest of the debtors of the usurer Jafar.

There were no more than five hundred tangas left in the bag. And then Khoja Nasreddin noticed another person aside who did not ask for help, although grief was clearly written on his face.

Hey you, listen! called Khoja Nasreddin. - Why are you sitting here? You don't owe a usurer, do you?

I owe him,” the man said dully. “Tomorrow I myself will go in chains to the slave market.

Why have you been silent until now?

O generous, beneficent traveler, I do not know who you are. Is it the holy Bohaeddin who came out of his tomb to help the poor, or Harun al-Rashid himself? I did not turn to you only because even without me you have already spent a lot, and I owe the most - five hundred tangas, and I was afraid that if you give me, then there will not be enough for old men and women.

You are fair, noble and conscientious,” said Khoja Nasreddin, touched. “But I am also fair, noble and conscientious, and I swear you will not go to the slave market tomorrow in chains. Hold the floor!

He poured all the money out of the saddle bag down to the last tanga. Then the man, holding the hem of his dressing-gown with his left hand, embraced Khoja Nasreddin with his right arm and sank down in tears on his chest.

Khoja Nasreddin looked around at all the rescued people, saw smiles, a blush on their faces, a sparkle in their eyes.

And you really flew off your donkey, - suddenly said a huge bearded mason, laughing, and they all laughed at once - the men in rough voices, and the women in thin ones, and the children began to smile, stretching out their little hands to Khoja Nasreddin, and he himself laughed the loudest .

ABOUT! - he said, writhing with laughter, - you still do not know what kind of donkey it is! This is such a damned donkey! ..

No! interrupted a woman with a sick child in her arms. - Don't talk like that about your donkey. This is the smartest, most noble, most precious donkey in the world, it has never been equal and never will be. I agree to take care of him all my life, feed him with selected grain, never bother with work, clean with a comb, comb his tail with a comb. After all, if this incomparable and like a blooming rose donkey, filled with nothing but virtues, had not jumped over the ditch and thrown you out of the saddle, O traveler, who appeared before us like the sun in the darkness, you would have passed by without noticing us, but we wouldn't dare stop you!

She's right, the old man remarked sagely. - We owe our salvation in many respects to this donkey, which truly adorns the world with itself and stands out like a diamond among all other donkeys.

Everyone began to loudly praise the donkey and vied with each other to thrust tortillas, fried corn, dried apricots and peaches. Donkey, waving his tail at the annoying flies, calmly and solemnly accepted the offerings, but still blinked his eyes at the sight of the whip, which Khoja Nasreddin surreptitiously showed him.

But time went on as usual, the shadows lengthened, the red-footed storks, screaming and flapping their wings, descended into the nests, from where the greedily opened beaks of the chicks stretched towards them.

Khoja Nasreddin began to say goodbye.

Everyone bowed and thanked him:

Thank you. You understood our grief.

I wouldn’t understand,” he replied, “if I myself, as recently as today, lost four workshops where eight most skilled craftsmen worked for me, a house and a garden in which fountains beat and golden cages with songbirds hung on trees. I still don't understand!

The old man mumbled his toothless mouth:

I have nothing to thank you, traveler. This is the only thing I took when I left the house. This is the Koran, the holy book; take her, and let her be your guiding light in the sea of life.

Khoja Nasreddin belonged to sacred books without any respect, but not wanting to offend the old man, he took the Koran, put it in a saddle bag and jumped into the saddle.

Name, name! they all shouted in unison. - Tell us your name so that we know whom to thank in prayers.

Why do you need to know my name? True virtue does not need glory, but as for prayers, Allah has many angels informing him of pious deeds ... If the angels are lazy and negligent and sleep somewhere on soft clouds, instead of keeping track of everything pious and everything blasphemous affairs on earth, then your prayers will not help anyway, for Allah would be simply stupid if he believed people at their word, without requiring confirmation from trusted persons.

One of the women suddenly gasped softly, followed by the second, then the old man, startled, stared wide-eyed at Khoja Nasreddin. But Khoja Nasreddin was in a hurry and did not notice anything.

Farewell. May peace and prosperity be upon you.

Accompanied by blessings, he disappeared around a bend in the road.

The rest remained silent, in the eyes of all shone one thought.

The old man broke the silence. He said poignantly and solemnly:

Only one person in the whole world can commit such an act, and only one person in the world knows how to talk like that, and only one person in the world carries in himself such a soul, the light and warmth of which warms all the unfortunate and destitute, and this person is he, our …

Be quiet! - quickly interrupted the second. “Or have you forgotten that fences have eyes, stones have ears, and many hundreds of dogs would have rushed in his wake.

I'd rather have my tongue torn out than I'd say his name out loud somewhere! - said a woman with a sick child in her arms.

I will be silent, - the second woman exclaimed, - for I agree to die myself rather than give him a rope by accident!

So everyone said, except for the bearded and powerful bricklayer, who was not distinguished by sharpness of mind and, listening to conversations, could not understand why the dogs should run in the footsteps of this traveler, if he was not a butcher and not a seller of boiled offal; if this traveler is a tightrope walker, then why is his name so forbidden to pronounce aloud, and why does a woman agree to die rather than give her savior a rope so necessary in his craft? Here the bricklayer became completely confused, began to sniff heavily, sighed noisily and decided not to think any more, fearing to go crazy.

Khoja Nasreddin had meanwhile gone far away, and the emaciated faces of the poor were all before his eyes; he remembered the sick child, the feverish flush on his cheeks, and his lips parched in the heat; he remembered the gray hairs of an old man thrown out of his native home - and rage rose from the depths of his heart.

He could not sit still in the saddle, jumped off and walked beside the donkey, kicking away the stones that fell under his feet.

Well, wait, pawnbroker, wait! he whispered, and an ominous fire flared up in his black eyes. - We will meet, and your fate will be bitter! And you, emir, - he continued, - tremble and turn pale, emir, for I am. Khoja Nasreddin, in Bukhara! O despicable leeches that suck the blood of my unfortunate people, greedy hyenas and stinking jackals, you will not be blessed forever and the people will not suffer forever! As for you, usurer Jafar, let my name be covered with shame forever and ever, if I do not get even with you for all the grief that you cause to the poor!

You read the text of Leonid Solovyov's story: The Tale of Hodja Nasreddin: A Troublemaker.

Classics of literature (satire and humor) from the collection of stories and works of famous authors: writer Leonid Vasilyevich Solovyov. .................

All day the sky was covered with a gray veil. It became cold and deserted. The dull treeless steppe plateaus with burnt-out grass made me sad. Went to sleep...

I was waiting for this meeting and therefore I immediately guessed: this is the legendary Nasreddin-Khoja ...

This further piqued our curiosity. Immediately we go to the specified village. Today it is also called Nasreddin-Khoja. And at the time when Nasreddin was born there, her name was Hortu.

Three kilometers from the road leading to Ankara, a roadside sign made us turn sharply to the southwest.

Khoja Nasreddin met the thirty-fifth year of his life on the way. He spent more than ten years in exile, wandering from city to city, from one country to another, crossing seas and deserts, spending the night as it was necessary - on bare ground near a meager shepherd's fire, or in a cramped caravanserai, where in the dusty darkness they sigh and itch until morning. camels and muffled tinkling of bells, or in a fumed, smoky teahouse, among water carriers lying side by side, beggars, drovers and other poor people, who at dawn fill the market squares and narrow streets of cities with their piercing cries. Often he managed to spend the night on soft silk pillows in the harem of some Iranian nobleman, who just that night went with a detachment of guards to all the teahouses and caravanserais, looking for the tramp and blasphemer Khoja Nasreddin in order to impale him .. Through the lattice of the window one could see a narrow strip of sky, the stars were turning pale, the pre-morning breeze rustled lightly and tenderly through the foliage, on the windowsill merry doves began cooing and cleaning their feathers. And Khoja Nasreddin, kissing the weary beauty, said: "Wait," she answered, clasping her beautiful hands around his neck. "when I spent two nights in a row under the same roof. I must go, I'm in a hurry. "Go? Do you have any urgent business in another city? Where are you going to go?" the first caravans set off. Can you hear the camel bells ringing! When I hear this sound, it's like genies move into my legs, and I can't sit still! - Leave, if so! said the beauty angrily, trying in vain to hide the tears glistening on her long eyelashes. - Do you want to know my name? Listen, you spent the night with Khoja Nasreddin! I am Khoja Nasreddin, a disturber of the peace and a sower of discord, the very one about whom heralds shout every day in all squares and bazaars, promising a big reward for his head. Yesterday they promised three thousand fogs, and I even thought about selling my own head myself for such a good price. You laugh, my little star, well, give me your lips for the last time. If I could, I would give you an emerald, but I don't have an emerald - take this simple white pebble as a keepsake! He pulled on his tattered dressing gown, burned in many places by the sparks of the road fires, and moved away quietly. Outside the door snored a lazy, stupid eunuch in a turban and soft shoes with upturned toes - a negligent guardian of the main palace of the treasure entrusted to him. Farther on, stretched out on rugs and felt-cloths, the guards snored, resting their heads on their naked scimitars. Khoja Nasreddin crept past on tiptoe, and always safely, as if becoming invisible for the time being. And again the white stony road rang, smoked with the hooves of his donkey. Above the world in the blue sky the sun shone; Khoja Nasreddin could look at him without squinting. Dewy fields and barren deserts, where camel bones half covered with sand, green gardens and foamy rivers, gloomy mountains and green pastures, heard the song of Khoja Nasreddin. He drove farther and farther, not looking back, not regretting what he had furnished and not fearing what lay ahead. Yu Ah in the abandoned city forever remained to live the memory of one. The nobles and mullahs turned pale with rage when they heard his name; water carriers, drovers, weavers, tinkers and saddlers, gathering in teahouses in the evenings, told each other funny stories about his adventures, from which he always emerged victorious; the languid beauty in the harem often looked at the white pebble and hid it in a mother-of-pearl chest, hearing the steps of her master. -- Whew! - said the fat nobleman, and, puffing and puffing, began to pull off his brocade robe. - We are all completely exhausted with this accursed vagabond Khoja Nasreddin: he has angered and stirred up the whole state! Today I received a letter from my old friend, the respected ruler of the Khorasan district. Just think - as soon as this vagabond Khoja Nasreddin appeared in his city, the blacksmiths immediately stopped paying taxes, and the keepers of the taverns refused to feed the guards for free. Moreover, this thief, the defiler of Islam and the son of sin, dared to climb into the harem of the Khorasan ruler and dishonor his beloved wife! Truly, the world has never seen such a criminal! I regret that this despicable ragamuffin did not try to get into my harem, otherwise his head would have stuck out on a pole in the middle of the main square a long time ago! The beauty was silent, secretly smiling—she felt both funny and sad. And the road kept ringing, smoking under the hooves of the donkey. And the song of Khoja Nasreddin sounded. For ten years he traveled everywhere: in Baghdad, Istanbul and Tehran, in Bakhchisarai, Echmiadzin and Tbilisi, in Damascus and Trebizond, he knew all these cities and a great many others, and everywhere he left a memory behind him. Now he was returning to his native city, to Bukhara-i-Sheriff, to Noble Bukhara, where he hoped, hiding under a false name, to rest a little from endless wanderings.

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