Russian epics to print. Russian epics

Chapter 12 Life in Literature. Epics were modern authors and heroes of small forms Under the thunder of cannons, under the sound of sabers from Zoshchenko, Babel was born. "People's" epigram of 1924 The only problem that a writer can really try to solve and which always

Bylina "Ilya Muromets and the Nightingale the Robber"

Whether from that city from Murom,

From that village and Karacharova

A remote, burly, kind fellow was leaving.

He stood at matins in Murom,

And he wanted to be in time for dinner in the capital

Kyiv city.

Yes, he drove up to the glorious city

to Chernigov.

Is it near the city of Chernihiv

Caught up with something black-black,

And black-black, like a black crow.

So no one walks around here as infantry,

No one rides on a good horse here,

The black raven bird does not fly,

The gray beast does not roar.

And drove up like a great powerhouse,

He somehow became this great powerhouse,

He began to trample on a horse and began to prick with a spear,

And he beat this great power.

He drove up under the glorious near Chernigov-grad,

The peasants came out and here Chernihiv

And they opened the gates to Chernigov-grad,

And they call him the governor of Chernigov.

Ilya says to them and these are the words:

- Oh, the peasants, you are from Chernigov!

I'm not going to you in Chernihiv as a governor.

Show me the straight path

I drive straight to the capital city of Kyiv.

The peasants spoke to him in Chernigov:

- You, a remote burly good fellow,

Hey you, glorious hero and Holy Russian!

The straight road is jammed,

The path was choked up, muddied.

And on the right path along the straight path

Yes, no one walked by the infantry,

No one rode a good horse.

Like that one at the Dirt, at the Black one,

Yes, near the birch, near the curse, 1

Yes, by that river near Smorodina, 2

At that cross at Levanidov3

The nightingale the robber sits on a damp oak,

Sitting Nightingale the Robber, Odikhmantiev's son.

And then the Nightingale whistles like a nightingale,

He screams, the villain-robber, in an animal way.

And whether it is from the whistle of a nightingale,

And whether it is from the cry of an animal

All those grass-ants gobble up,

All the azure flowers crumble,

Dark forests all bow to the ground, -

And that there are people - then all are dead.

By a straight path - there are five hundred versts

And by the roundabout path - a whole thousand.

He let down a good horse and a heroic one,

He went along the straight path.

His good horse and heroic

From mountain to mountain began to jump,

From hills to hills began to jump,

Small rivers, let a small lake between my legs.

He drives up to the river to Currant,

Yes, to that he is to Dirt, he is to Black,

Yes, to that birch to curse,

To that glorious cross to Levanidov.

The Nightingale whistled like a nightingale,

The villain-robber shouted like an animal -

So all the grass-ants entwined,

Yes, and the azure flowers crumbled,

The dark woods all bowed to the ground.

His good horse and heroic

And he stumbles on the roots -

And th as an old Cossack and Ilya Muromets

Takes a silk whip in a white hand,

And he beat the horse on the steep ribs,

He said, Ilya, these are the words:

- Oh, you, the wolf's satiety and the grass bag!

Ali you don't want to go, or you can't carry?

What are you on the roots, dog, stumbling?

Have you heard the whistle of a nightingale,

Have you heard the cry of an animal,

Have you not seen the blows of the heroic ones?

And here is the old Cossack and Ilya Muromets

Yes, he takes his tight, bursting bow,

In his he takes in white hands.

He pulled a silken string,

And he put a red-hot arrow,

He shot at that nightingale the robber,

He knocked out his right eye with a pigtail,

He lowered the Nightingale and on the damp earth,

Fastened it to the right to the stirrup

damask,

He took him across the glorious open field,

I took a nightingale past the nest.

Bylina "How Ilya from Murom became a hero"

In ancient times, lived near the city of Murom, in the village of Karacharovo, a peasant Ivan Timofeevich with his wife Efrosinya Yakovlevna.

They had one son, Ilya.

His father and mother loved him, but they only cried, looking at him: for thirty years Ilya has been lying on the stove, not moving his hand or foot. And the hero Ilya is tall, and his mind is bright, and his eyes are sharp-sighted, but his legs do not wear, like logs lie, do not move.

Ilya hears, lying on the stove, how the mother cries, the father sighs, the Russian people complain: enemies attack Russia, trample the fields, people are killed, orphans are children. Robbers prowl along the paths, they do not give people either passage or passage. The Serpent Gorynych flies into Russia, drags the girls into his lair.

Bitterly, Ilya, hearing about all this, complains about his fate:

- Oh, you, my unsteady legs, oh, you, my uncontrollable hands! If I were healthy,

So the days went by, the months rolled by...

Once upon a time, father and mother went to the forest to uproot stumps, tear out roots, and prepare the field for plowing. And Ilya lies alone on the stove, looking out the window.

Suddenly he sees - three beggar wanderers are coming up to his hut.

They stood at the gate, knocked with an iron ring and said:

- Get up, Ilya, open the gate.

- Evil jokes you, strangers, joke: for thirty years I've been sitting on the stove, I can't get up.

- And you get up, Ilyushenka.

Ilya rushed - and jumped off the stove,

stands on the floor and does not believe his own luck.

- Come on, take a walk, Ilya.

Ilya stepped once, stepped another - his legs hold him tightly, his legs carry him easily.

Ilya was delighted, he could not say a word for joy. And the passers-by say to him:

- Bring me some cold water, Ilyusha.

Ilya brought a bucket of cold water.

The wanderer poured water into the ladle.

Drink up, Ilya. In this bucket is the water of all rivers, all lakes of Mother Russia.

Ilya drank and felt the heroic strength in himself. And the Kaliki ask him:

- Do you feel a lot of strength in yourself?

“A lot, strangers. If I had a shovel, I would plow the whole earth.

- Drink, Ilya, the rest. In that remnant of the whole earth there is dew, from green meadows, from high forests, from grain-growing fields. Drink.

Ilya drank and the rest.

- And now you have a lot of power in you?

“Oh, the passing Kaliki, there is so much strength in me that if there were a ring in the sky, I would grab it and turn the whole earth over.

“There is too much strength in you, you need to reduce it, otherwise the earth will not bear you. Bring some more water.

Ilya went through the water, but the earth really does not carry him: his foot in the ground, in a swamp, gets stuck, he grabbed the oak tree - the oak tree is out, the chain from the well, like a thread, was torn to pieces.

Already Ilya steps quietly, and under him the floorboards break. Already Ilya speaks in a whisper, and the doors are torn off their hinges.

Ilya brought water, the wanderers poured more ladles.

- Drink, Ilya!

Ilya drank the well water.

- How many strengths do you have now?

- I have half strength in me.

- Well, it will be with you, well done. You will be, Ilya, a great hero, fight, fight with the enemies of your native land, with robbers and monsters. Protect widows, orphans, little children. Only never, Ilya, do not argue with Svyatogor, his land carries through force. You do not quarrel with Mikula Selyaninovich, his mother loves him - the damp earth. Do not go to Volga Vseslavevich, he will not take it by force, so by cunning-wisdom. And now goodbye, Ilya.

Ilya bowed to the passers-by, and they left for the outskirts.

And Ilya took an ax and went to reap to his father and mother. He sees that a small place has been cleared of stump-roots, and his father and mother, exhausted from hard work, are sleeping soundly: people are old, and the work is hard.

Ilya began to clear the forest - only chips flew. Old oaks with one stroke bring down, young with a root from the earth tears. In three hours he cleared as much fields as the whole village could not master in three days. He ruined a great field, lowered the trees into a deep river, stuck an ax into an oak stump, grabbed a shovel and a rake and dug up and leveled the wide field - only know to sow with grain!

Father and mother woke up, they were surprised, delighted, with a kind word they remembered the old wanderers.

And Ilya went to look for a horse.

He went out of the village and sees: a peasant is leading a red, shaggy, mangy foal. The whole price of a foal is worthless, but the peasant demands exorbitant money for him: fifty and a half rubles.

Ilya bought a foal, brought it home, put it in the stable, fattened it with white wheat, soldered it with spring water, cleaned it, groomed it, put fresh straw on it.

Three months later, Ilya Burushka began to lead out into the meadows at dawn. The foal rolled in the dawn dew, became a heroic horse.

Ilya led him to a high tyn. The horse began to play, dance, turn his head, shake his mane. He began to jump back and forth over the tyn. He jumped over ten times and did not touch his hoof. Ilya put a heroic hand on Burushka - the horse did not stagger, did not move.

“Good horse,” says Ilya. He will be my true friend.

Ilya began to look for a sword in his hand. As he squeezes the hilt of the sword in his fist, the hilt will crush, crumble. Ilya has no sword in his hand. Ilya threw swords to the women to chip a torch. He himself went to the forge, forged three arrows for himself, each arrow weighing a whole pood. He made himself a tight bow, took a long spear, and even a damask club.

Ilya got dressed and went to his father and mother:

- Let me go, father and mother, to the capital city of Kyiv to Prince Vladimir. I will serve Russia with my native faith-truth, protect the Russian land from enemies-enemies.

Says old Ivan Timofeevich:

“I bless you for good deeds, but I don’t have my blessing for bad deeds. Defend our Russian land not for gold, not out of self-interest, but for honor, for heroic glory. In vain do not shed human blood, do not cry mothers and do not forget that you are a black, peasant family.

Ilya bowed to his father and mother to the damp earth and went to saddle Burushka-Kosmatushka. He put felts on the horse, and sweatshirts on the felts, and then a Cherkasy saddle with twelve silk girths, and with the thirteenth iron, not for beauty, but for strength.

Ilya wanted to try his strength.

He drove up to the Oka River, rested his shoulder against a high mountain that was on the shore, and dumped it into the Oka River. The mountain blocked the channel, the river flowed in a new way.

Ilya took a rye crust loaf, lowered it into the Oka River, the Oke River himself said:

- And thank you, mother Oka-river, for giving water, for feeding Ilya of Muromets.

In parting, he took with him a small handful of his native land, mounted a horse, waved his whip ...

People saw how Ilya jumped on a horse, but they did not see where he rode. Only the dust rose in a column across the field.

Bylina "Svyatogor the Bogatyr"

The Holy Mountains are high in Russia, their gorges are deep, the abysses are terrible. Neither birch, nor oak, nor aspen, nor green grass grow there. Even a wolf won't run through there, an eagle won't fly by - even an ant has nothing to profit from on the bare rocks.

Only the hero Svyatogor rides between the cliffs on his mighty horse.

The horse jumps over the abyss, jumps over the gorges, crosses from mountain to mountain.

The old one travels through the Holy Mountains.

Here the mother fluctuates - damp earth,

Stones fall into the abyss

Rapid rivers pour out.

The bogatyr Svyatogor is taller than a dark forest, props up the clouds with his head, gallops over the mountains - the mountains stagger under him, he will drive into the river - all the water from the river will splash out. He rides for a day, another, a third, he stops, he pitches his tent, he lies down, sleeps, and again his horse wanders through the mountains.

It is boring for Svyatogor the hero, it is dreary for the old one: in the mountains there is no one to say a word to, no one to measure strength with.

He would go to Russia, take a walk with other heroes, fight with enemies, shake his strength, but the trouble is: the earth does not hold him, only the stone cliffs of Svyatogorsk under his weight do not collapse, do not fall, only their ridges do not crack under his hooves heroic horse.

It is hard for Svyatogor from his strength, he wears it like a heavy burden, he would be glad to give half of his strength, but there is no one. I would be glad to do the hardest work, but there is no work on the shoulder. Whatever he takes with his hand, everything will crumble into crumbs, flatten into a pancake.

He would begin to uproot the forests, but for him the forests are like meadow grass. He would move mountains, but no one needs it ...

And so he travels alone through the Holy Mountains, his head is oppressed from melancholy ...

“Oh, if only I could find earthly traction, I would drive a ring into the sky, tie an iron chain to the ring, pull the sky to the earth, turn the earth upside down, mix the sky with the earth — I would spend a little power!

But where is it - craving - to find!

Once Svyatogor rides along the valley between the cliffs, and suddenly - a living person is walking ahead!

An unprepossessing little man is walking, stomping on his bast shoes, carrying a saddle bag on his shoulder.

Svyatogor was delighted: he would have someone to say a word to, - he began to catch up with the peasant.

He goes to himself, in no hurry, but Svyatogorov's horse gallops with all his might, but he cannot catch up with the peasant. A peasant is walking, not in a hurry, throwing his bag from shoulder to shoulder. Svyatogor is galloping at full speed - all the passer-by is ahead! He walks at a pace - you can’t catch up with everything!

Svyatogor shouted to him:

— Hey, passer-by fellow, wait for me!

The man stopped and put his bag on the ground. Svyatogor jumped up, greeted him and asked:

“What is that burden you have in that purse?”

- And you take my purse, throw it over your shoulder and run with it across the field.

Svyatogor laughed so hard that the mountains shook: he wanted to pry his purse with a whip, but the purse did not move, he began to push with a spear - it would not move, he tried to lift it with his finger - it did not rise ...

Svyatogor got down from his horse, took his handbag with his right hand - he didn’t move it by a hair.

The hero grabbed the purse with both hands, jerked with all his strength - only raised it to his knees. Look - and he himself went knee-deep into the ground, not sweat, but blood flows down his face, his heart sank ...

Svyatogor threw his handbag, fell to the ground - a rumble went through the mountains and valleys.

The hero barely caught his breath:

“Tell me, what do you have in your purse?” Tell me, teach me, I have never heard of such a miracle. My strength is exorbitant, but I can’t lift such a grain of sand!

- Why not say - I will say; in my little purse all the thrust of the earth lies.

Svyatogor lowered his head:

- That's what the earth's thrust means. And who are you and what is your name, a passer-by?

- I'm a plowman, Mikula Selyaninovich.

- I see, good man, your mother loves you - damp earth! Can you tell me about my fate? It's hard for me to ride through the mountains alone, I can't live like this anymore in the world.

- Go, hero, to the Northern mountains. There is an iron forge near those mountains. In that forge, the blacksmith forges the fate of everyone, and you will learn about your own fate from him.

Mikula Selyaninovich threw his purse over his shoulder and walked away.

And Svyatogor jumped on his horse and galloped to the Northern Mountains.

Svyatogor rode and rode for three days, three nights, did not go to bed for three days - he reached the Northern Mountains. Here the cliffs are still naked, the abysses are even blacker, the deep rivers are more turbulent...

Under the cloud, on a bare rock, Svyatogor saw an iron forge. A bright fire burns in the forge, black smoke pours out of the forge, ringing and knocking all over the district goes.

Svyatogor went into the forge and saw: a gray-haired old man was standing at the anvil, blowing the bellows with one hand, and with the other he was beating the anvil with a hammer, but nothing was visible on the anvil.

- Blacksmith, blacksmith, what are you forging, father?

- Come closer, lean lower!

Svyatogor bent down, looked and was surprised: the blacksmith forges two thin hairs.

— What do you have, blacksmith?

- Here are two hairy hair, hair with hair owl - two people and get married.

- And who does fate tell me to marry?

- Your bride lives on the edge of the mountains in a dilapidated hut.

Svyatogor went to the edge of the mountains, found a dilapidated hut. The hero entered it, put a gift on the table - a bag of gold. Svyatogor looked around and saw: a girl was lying motionless on a bench, all covered with bark and scabs, her eyes did not open.

It became a pity for her Svyatogor. What is it that lies and suffers? And death does not come, and there is no life.

Svyatogor pulled out his sharp sword, wanted to hit the girl, but his hand did not rise. The sword fell on the oak floor.

Svyatogor jumped out of the hut, mounted a horse and galloped to the Holy Mountains.

Meanwhile, the girl opened her eyes and sees: a heroic sword lies on the floor, a bag of gold is on the table, and all the bark has fallen off her, and her body is clean, and her strength has arrived.

She got up, walked along the mountain, went beyond the threshold, bent over the lake and gasped: a beautiful girl was looking at her from the lake - and stately, and white, and ruddy, and clear eyes, and fair-haired braids!

She took the gold that lay on the table, built ships, loaded them with goods and set off on the blue sea to trade, to seek happiness.

Wherever you come, all the people run to buy goods, to admire the beauty. Her fame spreads throughout Russia.

So she reached the Holy Mountains, the rumor about her reached Svyatogor. He also wanted to look at the beauty.

He looked at her, and the girl fell in love with him.

- This is the bride for me, for this I will woo!

Svyatogor also fell in love with the girl.

They got married, and Svyatogor's wife began to tell about her former life, how she lay covered with bark for thirty years, how she was cured, how she found money on the table.

Svyatogor was surprised, but did not say anything to his wife.

The girl quit trading, sailing the seas, and began to live with Svyatogor on the Holy Mountains.

It is impossible to determine the exact age of this or that epic, because they have evolved over the centuries. Scientists began to write them down en masse only after 1860, when a still living tradition of performing epics was discovered in the Olonets province. By that time, the Russian heroic epic had undergone significant changes. Like archaeologists removing one layer of soil after another, folklorists freed texts from later "layers" in order to find out how epics sounded a thousand years ago.

It was possible to establish that the oldest epic stories tell about the clash of the mythological hero and the Kyiv hero. Another early plot is dedicated to the matchmaking of a hero to a foreign princess. The most ancient heroes of the Russian epic are Svyatogor and Volkh Vseslavevich. At the same time, people often introduced contemporary actors into archaic plots. Or vice versa: the ancient mythological character, at the behest of the narrator, became a participant in recent events.

The word "epic" came into scientific use in the 19th century. In the people, these stories were called old. Today, about 100 stories are known, which are told in more than 3,000 texts. Epics, epic songs about the heroic events of Russian history as an independent genre developed in the X-XI centuries - in the heyday of Kievan Rus. At the initial stage, they were based on mythological subjects. But the epic, unlike the myth, spoke about the political situation, about the new statehood of the Eastern Slavs, and therefore, instead of pagan deities, historical figures acted in them. The real hero Dobrynya lived in the second half of the 10th - early 11th centuries and was the uncle of Prince Vladimir Svyatoslavich. Alyosha Popovich is associated with the Rostov warrior Alexander Popovich, who died in 1223 in the battle on the Kalka River. The holy monk lived, presumably, in the XII century. At the same time, the merchant Sotko, who turned into a hero of the Novgorod epics, was mentioned in the Novgorod chronicle. Later, the people began to correlate the heroes who lived at different times with a single epic era of Prince Vladimir the Red Sun. In the figure of Vladimir, the features of two real rulers at once merged - Vladimir Svyatoslavich and Vladimir Monomakh.

Real characters in folk art began to intersect with the heroes of ancient myths. For example, Svyatogor, presumably, fell into the epic from the Slavic pantheon, where he was considered the son of the god Rod and the brother of Svarog. In the epics, Svyatogor was so huge that the earth did not carry him, because he lived in the mountains. In one story, he met with the warrior Ilya Muromets (“Svyatogor and Ilya Muromets”), and in the other, with the tiller Mikula Selyaninovich (“Svyatogor and Earthly Traction”). In both cases, Svyatogor died, but, remarkably, not in battle with young heroes - his death was predetermined from above. In some versions of the text, dying, he transferred part of his strength to the hero of the new generation.

Another ancient character is Volkh (Volga) Vseslavievich, born from a woman and a snake. This werewolf, a great hunter and sorcerer is mentioned in Slavic mythology as the son of Chernobog. In the epic "Volkh Vseslavievich", Volkh's squad set off to conquer a distant kingdom. Having penetrated the city with the help of witchcraft, the warriors killed everyone, leaving only young women for themselves. This plot clearly refers to the era of tribal relations, when the ruin of one tribe by another was worthy of chanting. In a later period, when Russia repelled the attacks of the Pechenegs, Polovtsy, and then the Mongol-Tatars, the criteria for heroic prowess changed. The defender of the native land, and not the one who waged the war of conquest, began to be considered a hero. In order for the epic about Volkh Vseslavievich to correspond to the new ideology, an explanation appeared in it: the campaign was against the tsar, who allegedly planned to attack Kyiv. But even this did not save Volkh from the fate of the hero of a bygone era: in the epic "Volga and Mikula", the werewolf sorcerer lost in cunning and strength to the same peasant Mikula, who appeared in the epic about Svyatogor. The new hero again defeated the old one.

Creating a heroic epic, the people presented outdated stories in a new light. So, at the heart of later epics of the 11th, 12th and 13th centuries lay the motif of matchmaking reworked in a new way. In tribal relations, marriage was the main duty of a man who entered adulthood, as many myths and tales told about. In the epics “Sadko”, “Mikhailo Potyk”, “Ivan Godinovich”, “Danube and Dobrynya woo a bride to Prince Vladimir” and other heroes married foreign princesses, just as in ancient times brave men “got” a wife in a foreign tribe. But this act often became a fatal mistake for the heroes, leading to death or betrayal. It is necessary to marry our own and generally think more about the service, and not about personal life - such was the attitude in Kievan Rus.

Each significant event for the people was reflected in epics. The surviving texts mention realities from the era and, wars with Poland and even with Turkey. But the main place in the epics, starting from the XIII-XIV centuries, was occupied by the struggle of the Russian people with the Horde yoke. In the 16th-17th centuries, the tradition of performing epics gave way to the genre of historical song. Until the 20th century, the heroic epic lived and developed only in the Russian North and in some regions of Siberia.

Epics, Russian folk epic songs-tales, arose as an expression of the historical consciousness of the Russian people of the ΙΧ-ΧΙΙΙ centuries, in the process of existence they absorbed the events of a later time. They tell mainly about the heroes - the defenders of the motherland; reflected the moral and social ideals of the people. Northern Slavic legends or ancient Russian northern epics are performed in one voice, usually to short tunes of a declamatory-narrative warehouse, southern epics are choral, in music they are related to the broadly chanted Don songs.

All known epics according to their place of origin are divided into: Kyiv, Novgorod and later all-Russian. Epics are epic songs about Russian heroes; Slavic epic tales reflect the history of their lives, their exploits and aspirations, feelings and thoughts. Each of the epic songs speaks mainly about one episode in the life of one hero, and thus a series of songs of a fragmentary nature are obtained, grouped around the main representatives of Russian heroes.

Epic verse and versification of Russian oral folk poetry are quite multifaceted. There are three types: spoken verse (proverbs, sayings, riddles, jokes, etc.) - purely tonic, with paired rhymes, without any internal rhythm (paradise verse); recitative verse (epics, historical songs, spiritual verses) - non-rhyming, with feminine or (more often) dactylic endings, at the heart of the rhythm is a tactician, sometimes simplified to a chorea, sometimes loosened to an accent verse; song verse (“drawn-out” and “frequent” songs) - the rhythm is closely connected with the melody and fluctuates between a relatively clear chorea and very complex, not fully explored options.

In ancient times, including the Paleolithic, there are inscriptions made in Old Slavic syllabic writing, the so-called “Makosh runes”, “Rod runes” and “Mary runes”, that is, various types of Slavic writing associated with the corresponding Slavic deities. The word "runes" was also used on many medieval inscriptions.
The name "Makosh runes" connects writing with the most ancient and most powerful Slavic goddess - Makosh, from whom all the other gods of the Slavic pantheon originated. The runes of Makosh were distinguished by a sacred character and were most likely intended not for the population, but for the priests. It is impossible to read Makosh runes, especially those connected into ligatures, these texts require a clue, like puzzles. The runes of Makosh were used everywhere in Russia during the grand princely period, but they are gradually falling out of use, and in different cities at different times. Thus, in Kyiv they give way to the Cyrillic alphabet as early as the 10th century, while in Novgorod they exist invariably until the 19th century.

The runes of the Sort are called proto-Cyrillic, that is, a letter that preceded the Cyrillic alphabet. The runes of the Family originated, apparently, from the runes of Makosh and were used to sign products, primarily the temple of the Family, for which it got its name. This letter existed in the form of secret inscriptions (pictocryptography), fit into drawings throughout Europe until the middle of the ΧΙΧ century. Saints Equal-to-the-Apostles Cyril and Methodius, on the basis of the runes of Rod, by adding Greek and compound letters, created in the ΙΧ century AD a Slavic Christian letter, named after the first brother in Cyrillic.

The runes of Mary are the most mysterious type of ancient Slavic writing. Presumably, this is not a special font, but a clue to the meanings of the written words. Mara was the goddess of death and disease, and her cult was very strong during the Paleolithic. The runes of Mary should mean something not just secret, but also somehow connected with the afterlife. It should be noted that it was the mythical power of Mary over the afterlife that gave the temple of Mary a very real power over contemporaries, so that this particular temple performed the most important social functions in the Slavic communities.

Dobrynya

I’ll take a sonorous, yarovchatye harp and set the harp in the old fashion, I’ll start an old-fashioned, old-fashioned story about the deeds of the Slavic Russian hero Dobrynya Nikitich. Silence to the blue sea, and obedience to kind people.

In a glorious city, in Ryazan, there lived an honest husband Nikita Romanovich with his faithful wife Afimya Alexandrovna. And to the delight of his father and mother, their only son grew up, young Dobrynya Nikitich.

Here Nikita Romanovich lived for ninety years, lived and got on, but passed away.

Afimya Alexandrovna was a widow, Dobrynya was an orphan of six years. And at the age of seven, Afimya Alexandrovna sent her son to learn to read and write. And soon, soon, his diploma in science went: Dobrynya learned to read books smartly and wield an eagle feather more quickly.

And for twelve years he played the harp. He played the harp, composed songs.

The honest widow Afimya Alexandrovna looks at her son and is overjoyed. Dobrynya grows broad in the shoulders, thin in the waist, black sable eyebrows, sharp-sighted falcon eyes, fair-haired curls curl in rings, crumble, his face is white and blush, exactly poppy color, and he has no equal in strength and grip, and he himself is affectionate, courteous.

Dobrynya and the snake

And now Dobrynya grew up to full age. Heroic grips awakened in him. Dobrynya Nikitich began to ride on a good horse in an open field and trample kites with a frisky horse.

His dear mother, the honest widow Afimya Alexandrovna, said to him:

“My child, Dobrynushka, you don’t need to swim in the Pochai River. Pochai is an angry river, it is angry, ferocious. The first jet in the river cuts like fire, sparks fall from the other jet, and smoke pours from the third jet. And you don’t need to go to the distant mountain Sorochinskaya and go there to snake holes-caves.

Young Dobrynya Nikitich did not listen to his mother. He went out of the white-stone chambers into a wide, spacious courtyard, went into a standing stable, led out the heroic horse and began to saddle: first he put on a sweatshirt, and on the sweatshirt he put felt, and on the felt - a Cherkasy saddle, decorated with silks, gold, tightened twelve silk girths . The buckles at the girths are pure gold, and the pegs at the buckles are damask1, not for the sake of bass-beauty2, but for the sake of strength: after all, silk does not tear, damask steel does not bend, red gold does not rust, the hero sits on a horse, does not age.

Then he attached a quiver with arrows to the saddle, took a tight heroic bow, took a heavy club and a long spear. The young man called in a loud voice, ordered him to be escorted.

It was visible how he mounted a horse, but not how he rode away from the yard, only a dusty smoke1 curled a pillar behind the hero.

Dobrynya traveled with a steamer across an open field. They did not meet any geese, or swans, or gray ducks. Then the hero drove up to the Pochai River. The horse near Dobrynya was exhausted, and he himself became wise under the baking sun. I wanted a good fellow to swim. He dismounted from his horse, took off his traveling clothes, ordered the couple to drag the horse and feed it with silk grass-ant, and he himself, in one thin linen shirt, swam far from the shore.

He swims and completely forgot that mother was punishing ... And at that time, just from the eastern side, a dashing misfortune rolled up: the Serpent-Gorynishche flew in with three heads, twelve trunks, eclipsed the sun with filthy wings. He saw an unarmed man in the river, rushed down, grinned:

“You are in my hands now, Dobrynya. If I want, I'll burn you with fire, if I want, I'll take you alive, I'll take you to the Sorochinsky mountains, into deep holes into snakes!

The Snake-Gorynyshche pours sparks, burns with fire, manages to grab the good fellow with its trunks.

And Dobrynya was agile, evasive, he dodged the snake's trunks and dived deep into the depths, and emerged right at the shore. He jumped onto the yellow sand, and the Serpent flies behind him.

The good fellow is looking for heroic armor, than he can fight with the Serpent-monster, and he did not find either a couple, or a horse, or military equipment.

The little fellow of the Serpent-Gorynishcha was frightened, he ran away and drove away the horse with armor.

Dobrynya sees: things are not right, and he has no time to think and guess ... He noticed on the sand a hat-cap of Greek soil, and quickly filled his hat with yellow sand and threw that three-pound cap at the opponent. The Serpent fell on the damp ground. The hero jumped up to the Serpent on his white chest, he wants to kill him. Then the filthy monster pleaded:

- Young Dobrynushka Nikitich! Don't beat me, don't execute me, let me go alive, unharmed. We will write notes between ourselves with you: do not fight forever, do not fight. I will not fly to Russia, ruin villages with villages, I will not take people full of people. And you, my elder brother, do not go to the Sorochinsky mountains, do not trample the little serpents with a frisky horse.

Young Dobrynya, he is gullible: he listened to flattering speeches, let the Serpent go free, on all four sides, he quickly, soon found a couple with his horse, with equipment. After that he returned home and bowed low to his mother:

- Empress mother! Bless me for the heroic military service.

Mother blessed him, and Dobrynya went to the capital city of Kyiv. He arrived at the prince's court, tied his horse to a chiseled pillar, to that gilded ring, he himself entered the white-stone chambers, laid the cross in the written way, and bowed in the learned way: he bowed low on all four sides, and to the prince and princess in person . Kindly Prince Vladimir met the guest and asked:

“You are a burly, burly good fellow, whose clans, from what cities?” And how to call you by name, to call you according to your homeland?

- I am from the glorious city of Ryazan, the son of Nikita Romanovich and Afimya Alexandrovna - Dobrynya, the son of Nikitich. I came to you, prince, to the military service.

And at that time, Prince Vladimir's tables were pulled apart, the princes, boyars and mighty Russian heroes were feasting. Prince Vladimir Dobrynya Nikitich sat at the table in a place of honor between Ilya Muromets and Alyosha Popovich, brought him a glass of green wine, not a small glass - one and a half buckets. Dobrynya took chara with one hand, drank chara for a single spirit.

And Prince Vladimir, meanwhile, walked around the dining room, proverbially the sovereign pronounces:

- Oh, you goy, mighty Russian heroes, I do not live in joy today, in sorrow. Lost my beloved niece, young Zabava Putyatichna. She walked with her mothers, with the nannies in the green garden, and at that time the Zmeinishche-Gorynishche flew over Kyiv, he grabbed Zabava Putyatichna, soared above the standing forest and carried it to the Sorochinsky mountains, into deep snake caves. If only one of you, children, would be found: you, the princes of your knees, you, the boyars of your neighbor, and you, the mighty Russian heroes, who would go to the Sorochinsky mountains, rescued from the full of snakes, rescued the beautiful Zabavushka Putyatichna, and thereby consoled me and Princess Apraksia!

All the princes and boyars are silent in silence. The larger one is buried for the middle one, the middle one for the smaller one, and there is no answer from the smaller one. This is where Dobrynya Nikitich came to mind: “But the Serpent violated the commandment: don’t fly to Russia, don’t take people in full, if you took it away, captivated Zabava Putyatichna.” He left the table, bowed to Prince Vladimir and said these words:

- Sunny Vladimir, Prince of Stolno-Kyiv, you throw this service on me. After all, the Serpent Gorynych recognized me as a brother and swore not to fly to the Russian land for a century and not to take it in full, but he violated that oath-commandment. I have to go to the Sorochinsky mountains, to rescue Zabava Putyatichna.

The prince brightened his face and said:

- You consoled us, good fellow!

And Dobrynya bowed low on all four sides, and to the prince and princess in person, then he went out into the wide courtyard, mounted his horse and rode to Ryazan-city.

There, he asked his mother for blessings to go to the Sorochinsky mountains, to rescue Russian captives from the full of snakes.

Mother Afimya Alexandrovna said:

- Go, dear child, and my blessing will be with you!

Then she gave a whip of seven silks, gave an embroidered white-linen shawl and spoke to her son these words:

- When you fight with the Serpent, your right hand will get tired, it will grow mad, the white light in your eyes will be lost, you wipe yourself with a handkerchief and dry your horse. It will remove all your fatigue as if by hand, and the strength of you and the horse will triple, and wave a seven-silk whip over the Serpent - he will bow to the damp earth. Here you tear-cut all the snake's trunks - all the snake's strength will be depleted.

Dobrynya bowed low to his mother, the honest widow Afimya Alexandrovna, then mounted a good horse and rode to the Sorochinsky mountains.

And the filthy Serpent-Gorynishche smelled Dobrynya halfway across, flew in, began to shoot with fire and fight and fight.

They fight for an hour or so. The greyhound horse was exhausted, began to stumble, and Dobrynya's right hand waved, the light faded in his eyes.

Here the hero remembered his mother's order. He himself wiped himself with an embroidered white-linen handkerchief and wiped his horse. His faithful horse began to jump three times faster than before. And Dobrynya lost all his fatigue, his strength tripled. He seized the time, waved a seven-silk whip over the Serpent, and the Serpent's strength was exhausted: he crouched down to the damp earth.

Dobrynya tore-chopped the snake trunks, and in the end he cut off all the heads of the filthy monster, chopped them with a sword, trampled all the snakes with his horse and went into the deep holes of the snake, cut and broke the strong constipation, let out a lot of people from the crowd, let everyone go free.

He brought Zabava Putyatichna into the world, put him on a horse and brought him to the capital city of Kyiv. He brought him to the princely chambers, there he bowed in a written way: on all four sides, and to the prince and princess in person, he started a speech in a learned way:

- By your command, prince, I went to the Sorochinskiye mountains, ruined and fought the snake's lair. He killed the Snake-Gorynishch himself and all the little serpents, set the dark people free and rescued your beloved niece, the young Zabava Putyatichna.

Prince Vladimir was glad, happy, he hugged Dobrynya Nikitich tightly, kissed him on the sugar lips, seated him in a place of honor, he himself spoke these words:

- For your great service, I favor you with a city with suburbs!

To celebrate, the prince of honors started feasting on all the boyar princes, on all mighty glorified heroes.

And everyone at that feast got drunk, ate, glorified the heroism and prowess of the hero Dobrynya Nikitich.

Alyosha Popovich Jr.

In the glorious city of Rostov, at the cathedral priest of Father Levonty, a single child grew up to comfort and delight his parents - the beloved son Alyoshenka.

The guy grew up, matured not by the day, but by the hour, as if the dough on the dough was rising, poured with strength-fortress. He began to run outside, play games with the guys. In all childish fun-pranks, he was the ringleader-ataman: brave, cheerful, desperate - a violent, daring little head!

Sometimes the neighbors complained:

“I won’t keep you in pranks, I don’t know!” Take it easy, take care of your son!

And the parents of the soul doted on their son and in response they said this:

“You can’t do anything with daring-strictness, but when he grows up, he matures, and all pranks and pranks will be removed as if by hand!”

This is how Alyosha Popovich Jr. grew up. And he got older. He rode a fast horse, and learned to wield a sword. And then he came to the parent, bowed at the feet of his father and began to ask for forgiveness-blessing:

- Bless me, parent-father, to go to the capital city of Kyiv, to serve Prince Vladimir, to stand at the outposts of the heroic, to defend our land from enemies.

“My mother and I did not expect that you would leave us, that there would be no one to rest our old age, but it is apparently written in the family: you work in military affairs. That is a good deed, and we bless you for good deeds!

Then Alyosha went to the wide yard, went into the standing stable, led out the heroic horse and began to saddle the horse.

First, he put on sweatshirts, put felts on the sweatshirts, and on the felts a Cherkasy saddle, tightened the silk girths tightly, fastened the gold buckles, and the buckles had damask studs. Everything is not for the sake of beauty-bass, but for the sake of the heroic fortress: after all, silk does not rub, damask steel does not bend, red gold does not rust, the hero sits on a horse, does not age.

He put on chainmail armor, fastened pearl buttons. In addition, he put on a damask breastplate on himself, took all the armor of the heroic. In the cuff, a tight bow, bursting, and twelve red-hot arrows, he took both a heroic club and a long-sized spear, girded himself with a treasure-sword, and did not forget to take a sharp knife-dagger. The boy shouted in a shrill voice:

“Keep up, Evdoki fly, follow me right behind me!”

And they only saw the daring of the good fellow, how he sat on a horse, but did not see how he rolled away from the yard. Only a dusty smoke rose.

How long, how short, the journey continued, how much, how little time the road lasted, and Alyosha Popovich arrived with his steamer Yevdokimushka in the capital city of Kyiv. They stopped by not by the road, not by the gates, but galloped through the city walls, past the coal tower to the wide princely courtyard. Here Alyosha jumped off the horse’s goods, he entered the princes’ chambers, laid the cross in the written way, and bowed in the learned way: he bowed low to all four sides, and to Prince Vladimir and Princess Apraksin in person.

At that time, Prince Vladimir had a feast in honor, and he ordered his faithful servants to seat Alyosha at the stove post.

Alyosha Popovich and Tugarin

There were no glorious Russian heroes at that time in Kyiv.

The princes have gathered for the feast, the princes have come together with the boyars, and everyone is sitting gloomily, their riotous heads have hung, their eyes have sunk into the oak floor ...

At that time, at that time, with a noise, a roar of the door on the heel, Tugarin the dog was swinging and entering the dining room.

The growth of Tugarin is terrible, his head is like a beer cauldron, his eyes are like bowls, in his shoulders there is an oblique fathom. Tugarin did not pray to images, he did not greet the princes, the boyars. And Prince Vladimir and Apraksia bowed low to him, took him by the arms, put him at the table in a large corner, on an oak bench, gilded, covered with an expensive fluffy carpet. Russell-sprawled in a place of honor Tugarin, sits, grins with his whole wide mouth, mocks at the princes, boyars, scoffs at Prince Vladimir. Endovami drinks green wine, washed down with standing mead.

They brought swan geese and gray ducks baked, boiled, fried to the tables. Tugarin put a loaf of bread on his cheek, swallowed a white swan at once ...

Alyosha looked from behind the baking post at Tugarin the impudent man, and said:

- My parent had a gluttonous cow: he drank swill from a whole tub until it burst!

Those speeches did not come to Tugarin in love, they seemed offensive. He threw a sharp knife-dagger at Alyosha. But Alyosha - he was evasive - on the fly grabbed a sharp knife-dagger with his hand, and he himself sits unharmed. And he spoke these words:

- We will go, Tugarin, with you in the open field and try the strength of the heroic.

And so they sat on good horses and rode into an open field, into a wide expanse. They fought there, fought until the evening, the sun was red until sunset, no one was hurt. Tugarin had a horse on wings of fire. Soared, Tugarin rose under the shells on a winged horse, and he manages to seize the time to hit Alyosha with a gyrfalcon from above and fall. Alyosha began to ask, to say:

- Rise, roll, dark cloud! You spill, cloud, with frequent rain, flood, extinguish Tugarin's horse's wings of fire!

And, out of nowhere, caused a dark cloud. A cloud poured down with frequent rain, flooded and extinguished the fiery wings, and Tugarin descended on a horse from the skies to the damp earth.

Here Alyoshenka Popovich, Jr., shouted in his stentorian voice, as if playing a trumpet:

“Look back, bastard!” After all, Russian mighty heroes are standing there. They came to help me!

Tugarin looked around, and at that time, at that time, Alyoshenka jumped up to him - he was quick-witted and dexterous - waved his heroic sword and cut off Tugarin's head with a buoy.

On that duel with Tugarin ended.

Fight with the Basurman army near Kyiv

Alyosha turned the prophetic horse and went to Kyiv-grad. He catches up, he catches up with a small squad - Russian vershniki1. Friends ask:

“Where are you heading, burly good fellow, and what is your name, called by your fatherland?”

The hero answers the combatants:

— I am Alyosha Popovich. He fought and fought in the open field with the praiser2 Tugarin, cut off his violent head, and now I’m going to the capital city of Kyiv.

Alyosha rides with combatants, and they see: near the city of Kyiv, the Basurman army stands. Surrounded, overlaid with city walls from all four sides.

And so much power of that unfaithful one has been caught up that from the cry of the infidel, from the neighing of the horse and from the creak from the cart, there is a noise, as if a basurman rider-bogatyr is driving around the open field with thunder, yelling in a loud voice, boasting:

“We will wipe Kyiv-city from the face of the earth, we will burn all the houses and God’s churches with fire, we will roll the brand, we will cut down all the townspeople, we will take the boyars and Prince Vladimir in full and force us to walk in the horde in shepherds, milk the mares!

As Alyosha's fellow travelers-combatants saw the innumerable strength of the Basurmans, they heard the boastful speeches of the praising riders, restrained their zealous horses, became gloomy, hesitated. And Alyosha Popovich was hot-assertive. Where it is impossible to take by force, he swooped down there. He shouted in a loud voice:

- You are a goy-thou, good squad! Two deaths cannot happen, but one cannot be avoided. It’s better for us to lay down our heads in battle than for the glorious capital city of Kyiv to experience shame! We will attack an uncountable army, we will free the great Kyiv city from misfortune, and our merit will not be forgotten, it will pass, a loud glory will sweep about us: the old Cossack Ilya Muromets, son of Ivanovich, will hear about us. For our bravery, he will bow to us - whether not honor, not glory to us!

Alyosha Popovich, Jr., with his brave retinue, attacked countless enemy hordes. They beat the infidels like they mow grass: sometimes with a sword, sometimes with a spear, sometimes with a heavy battle club. Alyosha Popovich took out the most important hero-praiser with a sharp sword and cut it - broke it in two. Then horror-fear attacked the enemies. The opponents could not resist, fled wherever their eyes looked. And the road to the capital city of Kyiv was cleared.

Prince Vladimir found out about the victory and, with joy, started a feast, but did not invite Alyosha Popovich to the feast. Alyosha was offended by Prince Vladimir, turned his faithful horse and went to Rostov-grad, to his parent.

Alyosha, Ilya and Dobrynya

Alyosha is staying with his parent, at the cathedral priest Levonty of Rostov, and at that time the glory-rumor rolls like a river overflows in a flood. They know in Kyiv and Chernigov, there is a rumor in Lithuania, they say in the Horde that they are blowing a trumpet in Novgorod, how Alyosha Popovich, Jr. ...

Glory flew to the heroic outpost. The old Cossack Ilya Muromets also heard about this and said this:

- You can see the falcon in flight, and the good fellow - on the trip. Today Alyosha Popovich Jr. was born among us, and the heroes in Russia will not be transferred forever and ever!

Here Ilya got on a good horse, on his shaggy bouffant, and rode along the straight road to the capital city of Kyiv.

At the princely court, the hero dismounted from his horse, he himself entered the white-stone chambers. Here he bowed in a learned way: on all four sides he bowed from the waist, and to the prince and princess in person:

“Hello, Prince Vladimir, for many years with your princess and Apraksia!” Congratulations on your great victory. Although there were no heroes in Kyiv at that time, but the innumerable Basurman army-force was defeated, fought, the capital city was rescued from misfortune, adversity, paved the way to Kyiv and cleansed Russia of enemies. And that is the whole merit of Alyosha Popovich - he was young for years, but he took it with courage and dexterity. And you, Prince Vladimir, did not notice, did not honor him, did not invite the princes to your chambers and thereby offended not only Alyosha Popovich, but all Russian heroes. You listen to me, the old one: start a feast - honor the feast for all the glorious mighty Russian heroes, invite the young Alyosha Popovich to the feast, and in front of all of us give honor to the good fellow for services to Kyiv, so that he will not be offended by you and would continue to carry military service.

Prince Vladimir Krasno Solnyshko answers:

“I will start a feast, and I will invite Alyosha to the feast, and I will honor him. Who will be sent as ambassadors, invited to the feast? Unless you send us Dobrynya Nikitich. He has been an ambassador and served in the embassy, ​​he is learned and courteous, he knows how to behave, he knows what and how to say.

Dobrynya came to Rostov-city. He bowed low to Alyosha Popovich, he himself said these words:

“Let’s go, daring good fellow, to the capital city of Kyiv, to the affectionate Prince Vladimir, eat bread and salt, drink beer with honey, there the prince will welcome you.”

Alyosha Popovich Jr. answers:

- I was recently in Kyiv, they didn’t invite me to visit, they didn’t treat me, and there’s no need for me to go there again.

Dobrynya bowed low in the second bow:

“Do not hold grudges-wormholes in yourself, but sit on a horse, and let’s go to a feast of honors, where Prince Vladimir will honor you, reward you with expensive gifts. The glorious Russian heroes also bowed to you and called you to the feast: the old Cossack Ilya Muromets called you first, and Vasily Kazimirovich called you, called Danube Ivanovich, called Potanyushka Lame and I, Dobrynya, call you honor by honor. Do not be angry with the prince at Vladimir, but let's go to a cheerful conversation, to a feast of honors.

“If Prince Vladimir had called, I wouldn’t have stood up and wouldn’t have gone, but as Ilya Muromets himself and the glorious mighty heroes are calling, then it’s an honor for me,” said Alyosha Popovich, Jr., and sat on a good horse with his good squad, they went to the capital city of Kyiv. They stopped by not by the road, not by the gates, but the policemen galloped through the walls to the one to the prince's court. In the middle of the courtyard they jumped off zealous horses.

The old Cossack Ilya Muromets with Prince Vladimir and Princess Apraksia went out onto the red porch, met the guest with honor and honor, led them under the arms to the dining room, to a large place, they put Alyosha Popovich in a red corner, next to Ilya Muromets and Dobrynya Nikitich.

And Prince Vladimir walks around the ward in the dining room and orders:

- Youths, faithful servants, pour a cup of green wine and dilute it with standing honey, not a small bowl - a bucket and a half, bring a cup to Alyosha Popovich, bring a cup to Ilya Muromets to a friend, and serve Dobrynushka Nikitich a third cup.

The heroes rose on frisky legs, drank spells for a single spirit, and fraternized among themselves: they called the elder brother Ilya Muromets, the middle brother Dobrynya Nikitich, and the younger brother they named Alyosha Popovich. They hugged three times and kissed three times.

Here Prince Vladimir and Princess Apraksia began to honor Alyoshenka, to favor: they unsubscribed, granted a city with suburbs, awarded a large village with suburbs.

- Hold the gold treasury as needed, we give you precious clothes!

Young Alyosha got up, got up on his feet and exclaimed:

- I was not the only one who fought the Basurman army - an innumerable force. Vigilantes fought and fought with me. Here they are rewarded and favored, but I don’t need a city with suburbs, I don’t need a large village with suburbs and I don’t need precious clothes. Thank you for the bread and salt and for the honors. And you, Prince Vladimir of Stolno-Kyiv, let me, with the cross brothers Ilya Muromets and Dobrynya Nikitich, walk without duty, have fun in Kyiv, so that the ringing-ringing can be heard in Rostov and Chernigov, and then we will go to the heroic outpost to stand , we will defend the Russian land from enemies!

Here Alyoshenka clapped his hand and stamped his foot:

— Ehma! Don't worry, godfather!

Here the glorious mighty heroes praised Alyosha Popovich, and at that feast ended.