Summary of the story of the ghoul tolstoy. Ghoul book read online. Other retellings and reviews for the reader's diary

05.03.2021

Rated the book

Fear is an internal state caused by a threatening real or perceived disaster.
Wikipedia

And fear has its own evolution. For example, at the premiere of The Exorcist, people were said to go crazy with fear. Now we all have become so brave and, to put it more correctly, sophisticated, that I can’t even imagine what needs to be shown to cause such mass panic ...
The same is the case with "Ghoul". Once scary, now it's naive. But that alone doesn't make it any worse. First, the plot is still interesting. No worse than modern horror stories. Secondly, language. There is even nothing to say here, most modern writers are far from Alexei Konstantinovich. And most importantly - an indescribable atmosphere, at the same time tender and mysterious, which only real writers can create. And now there are few.
I have not yet read reviews of "Ghoul", but I think that the work might not be liked precisely by this naivety, old-fashionedness, language, which now seems to someone to be too ornate. But the fact that Tolstoy is still being read still speaks volumes.
So what should be the work to please the modern reader?
Our days. Secular party. A young man, the main character, notices in the corner a silent gray-haired young man in a black leather cloak, from under which a strange-looking weapon sticks out. A young man with a fanatical gleam in his eyes points out to the hero a strange family: a very beautiful stepmother with an equally incredibly handsome gentleman. The stepdaughter is pale, modest and beautiful with a lively and tender beauty.
As a result, the gray-haired young man turns out to be a vampire hunter, the stepmother and the gentleman, of course, are vampires. And the hero and his beautiful stepdaughter have unrestrained sex, after which she changes into a latex suit, they join the gray-haired young man and smash vampires all over the Earth. The nuances may be different. Only beauty, a leather coat and black latex are required.

Rated the book

You call them, God knows why, vampires, but I can assure you that they are real Russian name: ghoul

Starting to read this story by Alexei Tolstoy, I counted on horrors like "The Family of the Ghoul". I had such a prejudice. And at the beginning it seemed to me so: The mysterious stranger tells the main character that there are many ghouls at the ball who have already died and he himself was present at the burial. Well, you must admit an intriguing beginning, by all signs of a Gothic novel. Moreover, as the plot developed, more and more details and secrets surfaced from the stories of the Mysterious Man.

I was surrounded by a crowd of porcelain dolls, faience tangerines and clay Chinese women, who shouted: "Long live our emperor, the great Antonio-Fu-Tsing-Tang!" - started to tickle me. In vain I tried to get rid of them. Their little hands got into my nose and ears, I laughed like crazy.

The merry-go-round, in which the characters and the protagonist of the story are involved, became more and more untwisted. The history of the ancient warring families either takes us to Hungary or sends us to Italy, but the denouement takes place in Russia.

There had long been a rumor in the city that he had sold his soul to the devil and that the devil had handed him a stone board with Kabbalistic signs, which until then should give him all earthly pleasures until it was broken. With the destruction of her magical power, the devil, according to the agreement, received the right to take the soul of Don Pietro.

So confusing family ties I haven't seen since Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. I really liked the atmosphere, secrets and the abandoned Palazzo with a bunch of legends and gossip.

“Look, here are our musicians!” Runevsky saw a lot of unfortunate people, chained and on fire. Black devils with goat-faces fanned the fire and drummed on their heads with red-hot hammers. Screams, curses and the clatter of chains merged into one terrible rumble, which Runevsky at first mistook for music.

Rated the book
"Let the grandma suck the blood of the granddaughter"
First of all, I was prompted to re-read "Ghoul" by the upcoming film adaptation of another story by A.K. Tolstoy "The Family of Ghouls". In 2017, the release of the film "Ghouls" is expected. Perhaps, with time, "Ghoul" will also be re-shot, but for now we have a film adaptation of 1991 "Blood Drinkers". But I want spectacles, but the story itself, written by A. Tolstoy, just asks for a big screen: it is very bright, unusual, despite the uncomplicated plot, it may well become an excellent thriller, provided, of course, that the director does not set special effects as an end in itself, and in the end we will not get a g. but like a brand new "Viya". The same hopes apply to the Ghouls.
The story "Ghoul" occupies one of the first places among the best mystical works of Russian classical authors and is quite worthy. Ornate plot, stories within stories, eventually intertwined, understatement, driving the reader by the nose: sometimes it seems that the characters really go crazy and the events are the fruit of their overheated imagination.
And one more thing, I just want to add: if a child does not like to read the classics and considers the entire school curriculum insanely boring, draw his attention to the mystical works of Russian classics. All children love horror films, let them see that the "severe guys" also like to indulge, that it is interesting to read the classics. This thought prompted me to create a selection with such works: Russian mystical prose, which I myself am going to gradually read and reread.

Aleksei Tolstoy is best known as one of the creators of Kozma Prutkov, but the books he published under his own name have gone down in the history of Russian literature. "Ghoul" is a fantastic story. Its action takes place in Russia, but the origins of the incident lead to Italy, where the listeners are transferred by the story of one of the characters. The unreal in the story receives a psychological explanation ... which still leaves us the freedom to decide whether this can be or not. The plot of the story of the classic Alexei Konstantinovich Tolstoy "Ghoul" revolves around Alexander Andreevich Runevsky, who at one of the balls a certain gentleman confided that the hostess of the festival, as well as some of the guests, are actually ... ghouls!

The composition of Krasnorogsky. St. Petersburg. 1841.

In Fischer's privileged printing house.

This small, tasteful, even elegantly published book bears all the signs of a still too young, but nevertheless remarkable talent that promises something in the future. Its content is polysyllabic and full of effects; but the reason for this lies not in a lack of imagination, but rather in her ardor, which has not yet had time to moderate the experience of life and balance with other abilities of the soul. In a certain era of life, we are captivated by one sharp, exaggerated one: then we don’t know the middle in anything, and if we look at life from a cheerful point of view, we see heaven in it, and if from a sad one, then hell itself seems to us in comparison with it. a place of coolness and bliss. This is the most seductive and most uncomfortable time for authorship: there is no end to activity; but on the other hand, all the works of this prolific era in a more mature period of life are given over to fire, as a cleansing sacrifice for the sins of youth. And it’s good for someone who at this time of his life took Pushkin’s poems as his law:

Blessed is he who kept to himself

Souls are high creatures,

And from people, as from graves,

I did not expect a reward for the feat!

... In general, the density and brightness of colors, the tension of fantasy and feelings, the one-sidedness of the idea, the excess heat of the heart, the anxiety of inspiration, impulse and passion are signs of the works of youth. However, all these shortcomings can be redeemed idea, if only the idea, and not the unaccountable passion for authorship, was the inspirer of the young work.

The Ghoul is a fantastic work, but fantastic in appearance: it is imperceptible that it hides any thought in itself, and therefore does not look like the fantastic creations of Hoffmann; however, it can saturate with the charm of the terrible any young imagination, which, admiring the fireworks, does not ask: what is it and what is it for? Let's not recount the content of "Ghoul": it would be very long, and, moreover, readers would not see much from a dry presentation. We will only say that, despite the appearance of the invention, its very complexity and intricacy reveal the power of fantasy in the author; and a masterful presentation, the ability to make something like characters out of one's faces, the ability to capture the spirit of the country and time to which the event belongs, a beautiful language, sometimes even similar to a "syllable", in a word - in everything the imprint of a firm, literary hand - all this makes one hope in the future a lot from the author of "Ghoul". Whoever has talent, in that life and science will do their job, and in the author of the "Ghoul" - we repeat - there is a decisive talent.
V. G. Belinsky

... However, he has a sphere where both sides of his fatal duality converge, where the force of a yet unrealized, but close synthesis acts, - this is an area in which reality and dream, reality and fiction merge. “There is a short interval between sleep and wakefulness,” and during it the world is rebuilt, and how to distinguish what is truth in it and what is vision? Are these nine wolves or nine witches walking through the village at night? Is the song really heard where the vines bend over the pool? Is it just evening, an ordinary evening without a secret, or has a Baba Yaga rode in a mortar and mermaids splashed in the Dnieper? You can accept one or the other; reality imperceptibly turns into a dream, and the poet loves to play with the supernatural, for example, to show (in the Ghoul) the immortality of a human dwelling, the eternal abode of the soul ...
Y. Aikhenwald

... Once, when I returned home, Vasily Petrovich (Botkin) met me with the words: “Count Alexei Konstantinovich Tolstoy was here, who wants to meet you. He asked us the day after tomorrow by the morning train to Sablino, where his horses would be waiting for us to take us to his Pustynka. Here is the letter he left for you."

On the appointed day, a carriage along a special highway took us three versts from Sablin to Pustynka. It must be confessed that in steppe Russia one cannot meet those bright and noisy rivers running among stone banks, which are found everywhere on the Ingermanland coast. I will not dwell on the magnificent estate of Pustynka, built on the picturesque right bank of a mountain river, as I heard, by the famous Rastrelli. The house was filled with everything that taste and luxury could accumulate over time, from Boole's art cabinets to small furniture that could be mistaken for cast metal. I'm not talking about an old acquaintance Vasily Petrovich; but the count and countess, by their unspeakable friendliness and truly lofty simplicity, managed to put me on the most friendly terms with them from the first meeting. Despite the most varied and profound education, the house sometimes showed that comic smile, which was later expressed so sympathetically in the writings of Kuzma Prutkov. I must say that we just found the only guest Alexei Mikhail in Pustynka. Zhemchuzhnikov, the main inspirer of the incomparable poet Prutkov. Jokes sometimes manifested themselves not in words alone, but took on a more tangible, ritual form. So walking with the countess in the garden, I saw in a stone niche a huge frog, the size of a dog, skillfully molded from green clay. To my question - "what is it?" the countess answered with a laugh that this was a whole mystery created by Alexei Mikhailovich, who demanded that others, like him, bring flowers as a gift to his frog. Thus, to this day, I have not penetrated into the secret meaning of the lofty mystery. It is not surprising that in a house visited not by professional, but by completely free artists, plaster wall along the stairs to the second floor was littered with large mythological drawings in black pencil. The count himself was a delicate gastronome, and I noticed how Botkin, mostly in front of everyone, enjoyed excellent meals on London silver platters and under the same artistic lids.

... I cannot but say that from the first day of our acquaintance I was filled with deep respect for this impeccable person. If the poet is such that, according to Pushkin:

And among the children of the insignificant world

Perhaps he is the most insignificant ...

- is able, at the moment of his poetic awakening, to attract and carry us away, then we will not be able to look at the poet without tenderness, who, like Alexei Constant., could never, by his high nature, be insignificant.

What I have to say now does not in essence contradict my views on things, since I know that if I were to speak only about what I understand quite clearly, then in essence I would have to be silent.

At about eight o'clock in the evening, all of us, including the five people mentioned, were sitting upstairs in the countess's small waiting room, which adjoined her bedroom. I knew that Botkin never allowed himself to tell lies, and that anyone who suspected him of distorting the truth would have been cruelly punished by him; and suddenly, in a conversation, the beginning of which I did not catch, Vasily Petrovich turned to the hostess of the house:

“Do you remember, countess, how in this room, under Hume, the table with candles rose into the air and began to swing, and I crawled under it to make sure that there were no threads, strings or the like, but I did not find anything? And then do you remember how that table of yours from its corner went, went and climbed onto this sofa?

“Why don’t we try asking for a table now?” the count said. “The Countess has so much magnetism.

Table-turning had been in use for a long time, and, of course, I jokingly had to take part in it. But never before have serious people in my presence taken this matter so seriously. We sat down at the open card table in this order: the count on one side of the table is opposite me, on his left hand the countess and Zhemchuzhnikov, and opposite them, on right side count, Botkin on the couch. Excited to the extreme by curiosity, I could not stand it and said: “Please, let us remain completely serious in this experience.” I said this internally to the address of my nearest neighbor Zhemchuzhnikov, whom I promised myself to watch closely.

- Whom do you consider capable of frivolity? asked the Countess, and thereby convinced me of the groundlessness of my suspicion.

Touching little fingers, we made a continuous circle of hands on the table. The curtains on the windows were tightly drawn, and the room was quite clearly lit. Two or three minutes after the beginning of the session, I clearly heard a slight rustle behind the curtains of the windows, as if produced by the running of mice on the straw. Of course, I took this noise for a hallucination of intense hearing, but then I felt an undeniable breath from under the table into my palms hanging from the edge. Just as I was about to announce this, the count sitting opposite me quietly exclaimed: “Gentlemen, breeze, breeze. Try to ask, he turned to his wife: they are disposed towards you. The countess abruptly struck the green cloth of the table, and at the same moment a similar blow was heard towards her from under the table.

“I will ask them,” said the count, “to go to Athan. Athan., and he said: alles chez monsieur, adding: they like to be asked in French. Ask them in iambic, he continued.

I knocked and received in response intensely resonant iambic blows. The same thing happened with the dactyl and other meters; but each time the intervals between the blows became longer, and the blows weaker, until they ceased altogether.

I did not understand anything of what was happening under my hands and, probably, I would die without understanding anything ...
A. A. Fet. "Memories"

The ball was very crowded. After a noisy waltz, Runevsky took his lady to her place and began to pace around the rooms, looking at various groups of guests. A man caught his eye, apparently still young, but pale and almost completely gray-haired. He stood leaning against the fireplace, and looked with such attention into one corner of the hall that he did not notice how the hem of his tailcoat touched the fire and began to smoke. Runevsky, excited by the stranger's strange appearance, took advantage of this opportunity to start a conversation with him.

“You must be looking for someone,” he said, “and meanwhile your dress will soon begin to burn.

The stranger looked round, walked away from the fireplace, and, looking intently at Runevsky, answered:

- No, I'm not looking for anyone; It's just strange to me that at today's ball I see ghouls!

- Ghouls? - repeated Runevsky, - like ghouls?

“Ghoul,” the stranger replied very coolly. - You call them, God knows why vampires, but I can assure you that their real Russian name is: ghoul; and since they are of purely Slavic origin, although they are found throughout Europe and even in Asia, it is unreasonable to adhere to the name, distorted by the Hungarian monks, who took it into their heads to turn everything over in a Latin way and made a ghoul out of vampire. Vampire, vampire!- he repeated with contempt, - it's the same as if we Russians were talking instead of a ghost - phantom or revenant!

“However,” Runevsky asked, “how would vampires or ghouls get here?”

Instead of answering, the stranger held out his hand and pointed to an elderly lady who was talking to another lady and looking kindly at a young girl who was sitting next to her. The conversation obviously concerned the girl, for she smiled from time to time and blushed slightly.

Do you know this old woman? he asked Runevsky.

“This is Brigadier Sugrobina,” he replied. - I don’t know her personally, but I was told that she is very rich and that she has a beautiful dacha not far from Moscow that is not at all in the brigadier’s taste.

“Yes, she definitely was Sugrobina a few years ago, but now she is nothing but the most vile ghoul, who is only waiting for an opportunity to get enough of human blood. See how she looks at this poor girl; This is her own granddaughter. Listen to what the old woman says: she praises her and persuades her to come for two weeks to her dacha, to the very dacha you are talking about; but I assure you that it won't be three days before the poor thing dies. Doctors will say it is fever or inflammation in the lungs; but you don't believe them!

Runevsky listened and did not believe his ears.

- Do you doubt it? he continued. - No one, however, can prove better than me that Sugrobina is a ghoul, for I was at her funeral. If they had listened to me then, they would have driven an aspen stake between her shoulders as a precaution; well, what do you say? The heirs were absent, but what business is it for strangers?

At that moment, some kind of original approached the old woman in a brown tailcoat, in a wig, with a large Vladimir cross around his neck and with a distinction for forty-five years of impeccable service. He held a golden snuffbox in both hands and held it out to the brigadier from a distance.

- And this is a ghoul? Runevsky asked.

“Without a doubt,” replied the stranger. - This is State Councilor Telyaev; he is a great friend of Sugrobina and died two weeks before her.

Approaching the foreman, Telyaev smiled and shuffled his foot. The old woman also smiled and dipped her fingers into the state councilor's snuffbox.

- With sweet clover, my father? she asked.

“With sweet clover, madam,” answered Telyaev in a sweet voice.

- Do you hear? said the stranger to Runevsky. “This is word for word their daily conversation when they were still alive. Each time Telyaev met Sugrobina, he brought her a snuffbox, from which she took a pinch, asking in advance if there was tobacco with sweet clover? Then Telyaev answered that he was with sweet clover, and sat down beside her.

“Tell me,” Runevsky asked, “how do you know who is a ghoul and who is not?”

- It's completely unreasonable. As for these two, I cannot be mistaken in them, because I knew them even before death, and (in passing) I was quite surprised to meet them among people to whom they are quite known. It must be admitted that this requires amazing audacity. But you ask how to recognize ghouls? Just notice how they click their tongues when they meet each other. It's not really a clicking sound, but a sound similar to that made by the lips when an orange is sucked. This is their conventional sign, and this is how they recognize and greet each other.

Then a dandy approached Runevsky and reminded him that he was his vis-a-vis. All the couples were already standing in place, and since Runevsky did not yet have a lady, he hastened to invite that young girl whom the stranger prophesied quick death if she agrees to go to her grandmother's country house. During the dance, he had the opportunity to examine her with a note. She was about seventeen; her features, already beautiful in themselves, had an unusually touching expression. One might have thought that quiet melancholy constituted her permanent character; but when Runevsky, talking to her, touched on the funny side of some subject, this expression disappeared, and the most cheerful smile appeared in its place. All her answers were witty, all her remarks striking and original. She laughed and joked without any slander and so sincerely that even those who served as the purpose of her jokes could not be angry if they heard them. It was evident that she was not chasing after thoughts and was not looking for expressions, but that the former were born suddenly, while the latter came of themselves. Sometimes she forgot herself, and then again a cloud of sadness darkened her forehead. The transition from a cheerful expression to a sad one, and from a sad one to a cheerful one, constituted a strange contrast. When her slender and light frame flickered between the dancers, it seemed to Runevsky that he was not seeing an earthly creature, but one of those airy creatures that, as the poets assure, flutter through the flowers during the monthly nights, without bending them under their weight. No girl had ever made such a strong impression on Runevsky; he immediately after the dance asked to be introduced to her mother.

It turned out that the lady who talked to Sugrobina was not her mother, but some kind of aunt, whose name was Zorina and with whom she was brought up. Runevsky found out later that the girl had long been an orphan. As far as he could see, her aunt did not love her; her grandmother caressed her and called her her treasure, but it was hard to guess whether her caresses came from a pure heart? Besides these two relatives, she had no one in the world. lonely position poor girl Runevsky's participation was even more arousing, but, to his regret, he could not continue the conversation with her. The fat aunt, after a few vulgar questions, introduced him to her daughter, a cutesy young lady, who immediately took possession of him.

“You laughed a lot with my cousin,” she told him. “Cousin likes to laugh when she’s in the mood. I have tea, everyone got it from her?

“We didn’t talk much about those present,” Runevsky answered. - Our conversation was more about the French theater.

– Right? But admit that our theater does not even deserve to be scolded. I always miss it when I go there, but I do it for my cousin; Mama doesn’t understand French, and it doesn’t matter to her whether there is a theater or not, but Grandmother doesn’t even want to hear about it. You don't know grandma yet; it is in the full sense of the word - a brigadier. Believe me, she regrets that we no longer powder?

Sofya Karpovna (as the young lady was called), laughing about her grandmother and wanting to dazzle Runevsky with her barb, went on to the other guests. Most of all, she got one little officer with a black mustache, who jumped very high, dancing a French quadrille.

“Look, please, at this figure,” she said to Runevsky. “Is it possible to see anything funnier than her, and is it possible to come up with a surname for her more decent than the one she is proud of: her name is Fryshkin!” This is the most unbearable person in Moscow, and, what is most annoying, he considers himself handsome and thinks that everyone is in love with him. Look, look, how his epaulettes clap on his shoulders! It seems to me that he will soon break through the parquet!

Sofya Karpovna continued to slander each and every one, while Fryshkin meanwhile, assuming an angry look and twisting his mustache, jumped about in the most desperate manner. Runevsky, looking at him, could not help laughing. Sofya Karpovna, encouraged by his cheerfulness, redoubled her slander about poor Fryshkin. Finally, Runevsky managed to get rid of the annoying interlocutor. He approached her fat mother, asked permission to visit her, and struck up a conversation with the brigadier.

“Look, my father,” the old woman said to him affectionately, “go to Zorina, to Fedosya Akimovna, and don’t forget me, a sinner, either.” After all, not everyone is joking with young people! In our time, it was not what it is now: then young people were less smart and listened to the old people more; they didn’t wear scanty tailcoats, but they dressed no worse than yours. Well, not to reproach you, but what do you look like, my father, with your ponytails? A bird is not a bird, a man is not a man! Yes, and the treatment was different; people were more courteous, nothing to say! And the officers didn’t break down at balls, like this Fryshkin, but they fought no worse than yours. That's how my late Ignaty Savelich used to start telling how they went under the Turk, so it's scary to listen to Indo. We, he says, are standing on the Danube, he says, with Count Peter Alexandrovich, and on the other side of the Turk stands; there are few of ours, and almost all of them are beginners, and theirs is a darkness-darkness. Here, from the mother empress, the command came to the count: go, they say, across the Danube and beat the infidel! There was nothing to do, the count did not want to, but he obeyed, crossed the Danube, with him and my Ignatius Savelich. In our time, they didn’t reason, my father: where they were told to go, they went there. So they began to besiege the Basurman fortress, which is called Silistria, but there was not enough strength; Count Pyotr Alexandrovich began to retreat, and they, unbaptized, blocked his path. Pinched him between three armies; here he would have finished his stomach, and my Ignat Savelich with him, if the German, Weisman, had not helped out. He attacked those who were guarding the crossing, and even smashed the adversary, for nothing that he was a German. Ignatiy Savelyich was there too, and the infidels shot him in the leg, while Weisman was completely killed. Well, my father? The count crossed over to his side, and immediately began to prepare again for a battle with non-christians! I will not yield, they say; know ours! That's what, my father, in the old days people were, not your couple, for nothing that they didn’t wear scanty tailcoats, don’t be told to reproach you!

The old woman talked a lot more about antiquity, about Ignat Savelich and about Rumyantsev.

- If you would come to my dacha, - she said to him at the end, - I would show you a portrait of both Count Pyotr Alexandrovich, and Prince Grigory Alexandrovich, and my Ignatius Savelich. I don't live the way I used to live, now is not the time; and guests are always welcome. Whoever remembers me will turn to me in the Birch Grove, and I like it. Semyon Semyonovich,” she added, pointing to Telyaev, “also does not forget me and promised to come to me in a few days. So my Dashenka will stay with me; she is a good child and will not leave her old grandmother; Isn't that right, Dasha?

Dasha smiled silently, and Semyon Semyonovich bowed to Runevsky and, taking a golden snuffbox out of his pocket, wiped it with his sleeve and held it up to him with both hands, taking a step back instead of forward.

“I’m glad to serve, I’m glad to serve, mother Marfa Sergeevna,” he said in a sweet voice to the brigadier, “and even ... if ... in case ... that is ...” Semyon Semyonovich clicked exactly as the stranger described, and Runevsky involuntarily shuddered. He remembered the strange man with whom he had spoken at the beginning of the evening, and, seeing him in the same place, near the fireplace, he turned to Sugrobina and asked her: does she know who he is? The old woman took her spectacles out of her bag, wiped them with a handkerchief, put them on her nose, and, looking at the stranger, answered Runevsky:

- I know, my father, I know; This is Mr. Rybarenko. He is a Little Russian by birth and from a good family name, only he, poor thing, has been crazy for three years now. And all this from a fashionable upbringing. After all, it seems that the milk on the lips has not yet dried up, but it was necessary to go to foreign lands! I staggered there for about two years, and I came with my mind inside out. - Having said this, she turned the conversation on the campaign of Ignat Savelich.

The whole mystery of Mr. Rybarenka's conversion was now explained in Runevsky's eyes. He was crazy, foreman Sugrobina was a kind old woman, and Semyon Semyonovich Telyaev was nothing but the original, who clicked only because he stuttered or because he lacked teeth.

Several days passed after the ball, and Runevsky made a brief acquaintance with Dasha's aunt. As much as he liked Dasha, he felt just as much disgust for Fedosya Akimovna Zorina. She was a woman of about forty-five, remarkably stout, very unpleasant in appearance, and with great pretensions to foppery and society. Her hostility towards her niece, which, despite her efforts, she often could not hide, Runevsky attributed to the fact that her own daughter, Sofya Karpovna, had neither Dasha's beauty nor youth. Sofya Karpovna, it seemed, felt this herself and tried in every possible way to take revenge on her rival. She was so cunning that she never openly slandered her, but took advantage of every opportunity when she could inconspicuously give an unfavorable opinion about her; meanwhile, Sofya Karpovna pretended to be her sincere friend and fervently excused her imaginary shortcomings.

Runevsky noticed from the very beginning that she really wanted to captivate him, and no matter how unpleasant it was for him, he considered it necessary not to show how disgusting she was to him, and tried to treat her as courteously as possible.

The society that visited Zorina's house consisted of people who were not met in higher circles and of whom the majority, following the example of the mistress of the house, spent their time in gossip and slander. Among all these faces, Dasha appeared like a bright bird flying from a flowering side into a dark and untidy chicken coop. But, although she could not help but feel superior to them, it never occurred to her to alienate or neglect people whose habits and upbringing so little agreed with the kind of life for which she was born. Runevsky was surprised at her patience when, out of indulgence for the elderly, she listened to their long stories, which did not interest her at all; he marveled at her constant friendliness towards these ladies and young ladies, of whom most of them could not bear her. More than once he also witnessed how she, with all decent modesty, sometimes with only one look, kept young dandies within the bounds of proper deference when, in conversations with her, they wanted to forget themselves. Little by little Dasha got used to Runevsky. She no longer tried to hide her joy at his visits; her inner feeling seemed to tell her that she could rely on him as a true friend. Her power of attorney increased every day; she had already confided to him sometimes her little sorrows, and finally one day confessed how unhappy she was in her aunt's house.

“I know,” she said, “that they do not love me and that I am a burden; You won't believe how this hurts me. Although I laugh with others and am cheerful, but how often, alone, I weep bitterly!

- And your grandmother? Runevsky asked.

“Oh, grandma is a completely different matter! She loves me, always caresses me and treats me in no other way when we are alone, as in the presence of strangers. Except for my grandmother and my mother's old governess, I think there is no one who would love me! This governess is called Cleopatra Platonovna; she knew me as a child, only with her I can talk about my mother. I'm so glad to see her at my grandmother's in the country; won't you go there too?

“I’ll definitely come, if it doesn’t bother you.”

- Oh, on the contrary! I don't know why, although I've only known you for a few days, it seems to me as if I've known you for so long, so long, that I can't even remember when we first met. Maybe it's because you remind me of my cousin, whom I love like my own and who is now in the Caucasus.

Once Runevsky found Dasha with tearful eyes. Afraid of upsetting her even more, he pretended not to notice anything, and began to talk about ordinary subjects. Dasha wanted to answer, but tears sprang from her eyes, she could not utter a word, covered her face with a handkerchief and ran out of the room.

After a while Sofya Karpovna came in and began to excuse Dasha for the strangeness of her act.

“I myself am ashamed of my sister,” she said, “but she is such a child that the slightest trifle can bring her to tears. Today she really wanted to go to the theater, but, unfortunately, they could not get a box, and this upset her so much that she would not be consoled for a long time. However, if you knew all of her good qualities, you would willingly forgive her for these little weaknesses. I don't think there is a better person in the world than her. Whomever she loves, even commit a crime, she will find a way to excuse him and assure everyone that he is right. On the other hand, about whom she has a bad opinion, she will not leave him alone and will tell everyone what she thinks of him.

Thus, Sofya Karpova, praising poor Dasha, managed to hint to Runevsky that she was cowardly, biased and unfair. But her words made no impression on him. He saw only envy in them, and soon made sure that he was not mistaken in his assumption.

“It probably seemed strange to you,” Dasha told him the next day, “that I left you when you were talking to me; but, really, I could not do otherwise. I accidentally found a letter from my poor mother. It is now nine years since she passed away; I was still a child when I received it, and it reminded me so vividly of the time of my childhood that I could not help crying when I thought about it in your presence. Oh, how happy I was then! How happy I was when I received this letter! We were in the country then, mother wrote from Moscow and promised to come soon. She actually came the next day and found me in the garden. I remember how I escaped from the nanny's arms and threw myself on my mother's neck.

Dasha stopped and was silent for some time, as if forgetting herself.

“Shortly afterwards,” she continued, “mamma suddenly, for no reason, became ill, began to lose weight and wither away, and died a week later. The kind grandmother did not leave her until the very last minute. She spent whole nights sitting by her bed and taking care of her. I remember how on the last day her dress was covered in mother's blood. This made a terrible impression on me, but they told me that my mother had died of consumption and hemoptysis. Soon I moved in with my aunt, and then everything changed!

Runevsky listened to Dasha with great participation. He tried to overcome his embarrassment; but tears appeared in his eyes, and, unable to restrain the impulse of his heart any longer, he seized her hand and squeezed it tightly.

“Let me be your friend,” he cried, “trust me!” I cannot replace the one you have lost, but I swear on my honor that I will be your faithful protector as long as I live!

He pressed her hand to his hot lips, she laid her head on his shoulder and wept softly. Someone's footsteps were heard in the next room.

Dasha gently pushed Runevsky away and said to him in a low but firm voice:

- Leave me; I, perhaps, did badly that I indulged in my feelings, but I cannot imagine that you are a stranger; an inner voice tells me that you are worthy of my power of attorney.

- Dasha, dear Dasha! - exclaimed Runevsky, - one more word! Tell me that you love me and I will be the happiest mortal!

– Can you doubt it? she answered calmly and left the room, leaving him amazed by this answer and wondering if she understood the exact meaning of his words?

Thirty miles from Moscow is the village of Berezovaya Grove. Even from a distance one can see a large stone house, built in the old way and overshadowed by tall lindens, the main decoration of a spacious garden, which is located on a sloping hillock, in a regular French style.

No one, seeing this house and not knowing its history, could have thought that it belongs to the same foreman who tells about the campaigns of Ignatiy Savelich and sniffs Russian tobacco with sweet clover. The building was both light and majestic; one could guess at first glance that it was built by an Italian architect, for it in many ways resembled beautiful villas in Lombardy or in the vicinity of Rome. In Russia, unfortunately, there are few such houses; but in general they are distinguished by their beauty, like real examples of the good taste of the past century, and Sugrobina's house can undoubtedly be called the first of this kind.

One warm July evening, the windows seemed brighter than usual, and even, which rarely happened, wandering lights were visible on the third floor, passing from one room to another.

At that moment, a carriage appeared on the road, which, having reached the dacha, drove through a long alley into the master's yard and stopped in front of the entrance of the house. A Cossack in a tattered dress ran up to her and helped Runevsky out.

When Runevsky entered the room, he saw a multitude of guests, some of whom were playing whist, while others were talking among themselves. The hostess herself was among the first, and Semyon Semyonovich Telyaev was sitting opposite her. In one corner of the room a table was laid with a huge samovar, and an elderly lady sat at it, the same Cleopatra Platonovna, whom Dasha had told Runevsky about. She seemed to be the same age as the brigadier, but her pale face expressed deep sorrow, as if she were burdened by a terrible secret.

At the entrance of Runevsky, the brigadier greeted him affectionately.

“Thank you, my father,” she said, “that you have not forgotten me, old woman. And I was already beginning to think that you would not come at all; sit down next to us, have a cup of tea, tell us what's new in our city?

Semyon Semyonovich made a very original bow to Runevsky, whose character cannot be expressed in words, and, taking his snuffbox out of his pocket, said to him in a sweet voice:

- Won't you tell me? Real Russian, with sweet clover. I don't speak French; this one is much healthier, and besides ... in the discussion of a cold ...

A loud thump of the tongue ended this phrase, and the clicking of the old official turned into an indefinite sucking.

“I humbly thank you,” Runevsky replied, “I don’t sniff tobacco.

But the brigadier threw a displeased glance at Telyaev and, turning to her neighbor, said to her in an undertone:

- What an unpleasant habit Semyon Semyonovich always clicks. If I were him, I would put in a false tooth and talk like the others.

Runevsky listened very absently to both the brigadier and Semyon Semyonovich. His eyes were looking for Dasha, and he saw her in a circle of other girls near the tea table. She received him with her usual affability and with a calmness that might have seemed indifference. As for Runevsky, it was difficult for him to hide his embarrassment, and the awkwardness with which he answered her words could be mistaken for confusion. Soon, however, he recovered; he was introduced to some ladies, and he began talking to them as if nothing had happened.

Everything in the brigadier's house seemed extraordinary to him. The rich decoration of the high rooms, lit by tallow candles; pictures of the Italian school, covered with dust and cobwebs; tables of Florentine mosaics, on which lay untied stockings, walnut shells, and dirty cards—all this, together with the common people's receptions, with the hostess's old-fashioned conversations, and with Semyon Semyonovich's clicking, made up the strangest mixture.

When they took the samovar, the girls wanted to play something and invited Runevsky to sit at their table.

“Let’s guess,” Dasha said. - Here is some book; each of us should take turns opening it at random, and the other should name any line on the right or left side. The content will be a prophecy to us. For example, I am starting; Mr. Runevsky, name the line.

– Seventh on the left side, counting from the bottom.

Dasha read:

– Let the grandmother suck the blood of the granddaughter.

- Oh my god! - cried the girls, laughing, - what does this mean? Read this first so you can understand!

Dasha gave the book to Runevsky. It was some kind of manuscript, and he began to read the following:

How an owl caught a bat,

Clawed her bones,

Like a knight Ambrose with a crowd of daredevils

Going to visit a neighbor.

Though there are many chains and locks at the gate,

The hostess will open the gate to the guests.

“Well, Martha, lead us, where does your old man sleep?

Why are you so pale?

Under the castle, the Danube boils and swirls,

The night will hide the bloody deed.

Do not be afraid, the dead man does not rise from the coffin,

What will be, will be, lead us forward!”

Clouds run in a strip;

It's over, the old man is stabbed,

Ambrose feasts with the crowd.

The moon looks into the bloody waters,

A villain-wife is feasting with Ambrose.

The Danube runs and swirls under the castle,

Above the castle is a flame of fire.

“Cut everyone from young to old!

Well, you yourself let in merry guests!

Sparkling, swirling, reflects the Danube

The whole castle, embraced by fire;

Ambrose says to his daring men:

“It’s time for us to go home, guys!

Do not complain, mistress, and be more cheerful

End of introductory segment.

Alexey Konstantinovich Tolstoy

The composition of Krasnorogsky. St. Petersburg. 1841.

In Fischer's privileged printing house.

This small, tasteful, even elegantly published book bears all the signs of a still too young, but nevertheless remarkable talent that promises something in the future. Its content is polysyllabic and full of effects; but the reason for this lies not in a lack of imagination, but rather in her ardor, which has not yet had time to moderate the experience of life and balance with other abilities of the soul. In a certain era of life, we are captivated by one sharp, exaggerated one: then we don’t know the middle in anything, and if we look at life from a cheerful point of view, we see heaven in it, and if from a sad one, then hell itself seems to us in comparison with it. a place of coolness and bliss. This is the most seductive and most uncomfortable time for authorship: there is no end to activity; but on the other hand, all the works of this prolific era in a more mature period of life are given over to fire, as a cleansing sacrifice for the sins of youth. And it’s good for someone who at this time of his life took Pushkin’s poems as his law:

Blessed is he who kept to himself
Souls are high creatures,
And from people, as from graves,
I did not expect a reward for the feat!

... In general, the density and brightness of colors, the tension of fantasy and feelings, the one-sidedness of the idea, the excess heat of the heart, the anxiety of inspiration, impulse and passion are signs of the works of youth. However, all these shortcomings can be redeemed idea, if only the idea, and not the unaccountable passion for authorship, was the inspirer of the young work.

The Ghoul is a fantastic work, but fantastic in appearance: it is imperceptible that it hides any thought in itself, and therefore does not look like the fantastic creations of Hoffmann; however, it can saturate with the charm of the terrible any young imagination, which, admiring the fireworks, does not ask: what is it and what is it for? Let's not recount the content of "Ghoul": it would be very long, and, moreover, readers would not see much from a dry presentation. We will only say that, despite the appearance of the invention, its very complexity and intricacy reveal the power of fantasy in the author; and a masterful presentation, the ability to make something like characters out of one's faces, the ability to capture the spirit of the country and time to which the event belongs, a beautiful language, sometimes even similar to a "syllable", in a word - in everything the imprint of a firm, literary hand - all this makes one hope in the future a lot from the author of "Ghoul". Whoever has talent, in that life and science will do their job, and in the author of the "Ghoul" - we repeat - there is a decisive talent.

V. G. Belinsky

... However, he has a sphere where both sides of his fatal duality converge, where the force of a yet unrealized, but close synthesis acts, - this is an area in which reality and dream, reality and fiction merge. “There is a short interval between sleep and wakefulness,” and during it the world is rebuilt, and how to distinguish what is truth in it and what is vision? Are these nine wolves or nine witches walking through the village at night? Is the song really heard where the vines bend over the pool? Is it just evening, an ordinary evening without a secret, or has a Baba Yaga rode in a mortar and mermaids splashed in the Dnieper? You can accept one or the other; reality imperceptibly turns into a dream, and the poet loves to play with the supernatural, for example, to show (in the Ghoul) the immortality of a human dwelling, the eternal abode of the soul ...

Y. Aikhenwald

... Once, when I returned home, Vasily Petrovich (Botkin) met me with the words: “Count Alexei Konstantinovich Tolstoy was here, who wants to meet you. He asked us the day after tomorrow by the morning train to Sablino, where his horses would be waiting for us to take us to his Pustynka. Here is the letter he left for you."

On the appointed day, a carriage along a special highway took us three versts from Sablin to Pustynka. It must be confessed that in steppe Russia one cannot meet those bright and noisy rivers running among stone banks, which are found everywhere on the Ingermanland coast. I will not dwell on the magnificent estate of Pustynka, built on the picturesque right bank of a mountain river, as I heard, by the famous Rastrelli. The house was filled with everything that taste and luxury could accumulate over time, from Boole's art cabinets to small furniture that could be mistaken for cast metal. I'm not talking about an old acquaintance Vasily Petrovich; but the count and countess, by their unspeakable friendliness and truly lofty simplicity, managed to put me on the most friendly terms with them from the first meeting. Despite the most varied and profound education, the house sometimes showed that comic smile, which was later expressed so sympathetically in the writings of Kuzma Prutkov. I must say that we just found the only guest Alexei Mikhail in Pustynka. Zhemchuzhnikov, the main inspirer of the incomparable poet Prutkov. Jokes sometimes manifested themselves not in words alone, but took on a more tangible, ritual form. So walking with the countess in the garden, I saw in a stone niche a huge frog, the size of a dog, skillfully molded from green clay. To my question - "what is it?" the countess answered with a laugh that this was a whole mystery created by Alexei Mikhailovich, who demanded that others, like him, bring flowers as a gift to his frog. Thus, to this day, I have not penetrated into the secret meaning of the lofty mystery. It is not surprising that in a house visited not by professional, but by completely free artists, the plaster wall along the stairs to the second floor was covered with large mythological drawings in black pencil. The count himself was a delicate gastronome, and I noticed how Botkin, mostly in front of everyone, enjoyed excellent meals on London silver platters and under the same artistic lids.

... I cannot but say that from the first day of our acquaintance I was filled with deep respect for this impeccable person. If the poet is such that, according to Pushkin:

And among the children of the insignificant world
Perhaps he is the most insignificant ...

- is able, at the moment of his poetic awakening, to attract and carry us away, then we will not be able to look at the poet without tenderness, who, like Alexei Constant., could never, by his high nature, be insignificant.

What I have to say now does not in essence contradict my views on things, since I know that if I were to speak only about what I understand quite clearly, then in essence I would have to be silent.

At about eight o'clock in the evening, all of us, including the five people mentioned, were sitting upstairs in the countess's small waiting room, which adjoined her bedroom. I knew that Botkin never allowed himself to tell lies, and that anyone who suspected him of distorting the truth would have been cruelly punished by him; and suddenly, in a conversation, the beginning of which I did not catch, Vasily Petrovich turned to the hostess of the house:

“Do you remember, countess, how in this room, under Hume, the table with candles rose into the air and began to swing, and I crawled under it to make sure that there were no threads, strings or the like, but I did not find anything? And then do you remember how that table of yours from its corner went, went and climbed onto this sofa?

“Why don’t we try asking for a table now?” the count said. “The Countess has so much magnetism.

Table-turning had been in use for a long time, and, of course, I jokingly had to take part in it. But never before have serious people in my presence taken this matter so seriously. We sat down at the open card table in this order: the count on one side of the table is opposite me, on his left hand the countess and Zhemchuzhnikov, and opposite them, on the right side of the count, Botkin is on the sofa. Excited to the extreme by curiosity, I could not stand it and said: “Please, let us remain completely serious in this experience.” I said this internally to the address of my nearest neighbor Zhemchuzhnikov, whom I promised myself to watch closely.

- Whom do you consider capable of frivolity? asked the Countess, and thereby convinced me of the groundlessness of my suspicion.

Touching little fingers, we made a continuous circle of hands on the table. The curtains on the windows were tightly drawn, and the room was quite clearly lit. Two or three minutes after the beginning of the session, I clearly heard a slight rustle behind the curtains of the windows, as if produced by the running of mice on the straw. Of course, I took this noise for a hallucination of intense hearing, but then I felt an undeniable breath from under the table into my palms hanging from the edge. Just as I was about to announce this, the count sitting opposite me quietly exclaimed: “Gentlemen, breeze, breeze. Try to ask, he turned to his wife: they are disposed towards you. The countess abruptly struck the green cloth of the table, and at the same moment a similar blow was heard towards her from under the table.

I read it for the first time as a child. In the country. My brother persuaded me - he generally adored all kinds of scarecrows. Evening, the lights in the village are flashing, a storm is crawling from behind the forest, tossing and turning... As close as possible to the conditions of the original. I believed in every word. I closed the windows - as I remember now - after the first page. The lights are on everywhere!!! Very atmospheric. The details are thin, everything is in place and not a single one is wasted in vain - only great authors are able to prescribe so carefully. Please note: my grandfather sniffed tobacco. And chewed his lips. I suspected him for three days!

You know, I tried to reread recently - and it turned out strange.

There is no longer that cottage, removable. City, the light is not blinking. But opened - and got a double effect. That old mood came over. She did not experience the fear of childhood. But the memory of the village, the storm and grandfather, that impression...

For that alone, it was worth reading. By the way, I am convinced that only good and strong books can return for a short time to the past. So in my case the story worked like a time machine :wink: For that - 10.

Score: 10

I really didn’t expect such a stunning gothic story from Tolstoy: he dragged in vampires, and madness, and phantasmagoric dreams almost in the style of Hoffmann’s fairy tales, imbued with symbols, and ancient chronicles, and a mansion on a ritual site of antiquity (later by Lovecraft), and a mysterious portrait, and there was a robber, and a wedding, and a detective story ... In general, a rather well-thought-out intricate story. For me, a masterpiece.

I noticed that mystical stories always succeed best of all, in which some typical elements of the genre are successfully intertwined and at the same time the denouement is close to a realistic explanation, which still hides minor misunderstandings. And Tolstoy also wrote everything with skillful irony - the work entertains the reader in all aspects. I don’t know if this was a kind of parody-variation on the Gothic already written earlier, but even with a broad outlook of previous and subsequent mystic authors, “Ghoul” can be perceived as a worthy representative of its genre, offering an original approach to Gothic literature.

A special mention requires a dream based on ancient motifs. The problem here is that Gothic, so to speak, at the beginning of its career, was a departure from the ancient models that classicism was famous for. At the same time, the authors used characters from the era of classicism, instilling in them an interest in occult and mystical teachings, which is also found in the "Ghoul" /strange tablets with mysterious letters/. But the ancient plots themselves were not used (except that the statues of ancient times were demonized or “elfized”), but here there are obvious ancient myths in a dream. But everything falls into place when the place itself (Italy) screams its heritage to us. An interesting move - this has never happened before, English castles stood on Roman foundations, being the heirs of the former Roman Empire.

In general, everything is incredibly powerful and unimaginably talentedly done. And talking about individual aspects and the transformation of familiar motifs is endless.

Score: 10

Classics of mystical literature. The story was written in the middle of the 19th century - much earlier than Stoker's "Dracula", but even now it looks interesting and frightening. Moreover, it is not overseas vampire counts that act in the work, but our own high-society ghouls. "Ghoul" became the first Russian story about vampires ("Vurdalak's Family" by the same Tolstoy, was written earlier, but published only in the 80s of the 19th century) and made a significant contribution to the world development of this topic, brought it to a higher level - this is no longer an imitation of the rather academic “Vampire” by Polidori, a national flavor has been added, a complex, multifaceted plot. The creator of the Encyclopedia of the Vampires, J. Gordon Melton, gave Tolstoy a separate chapter in his major work in recognition of his merits.

Quote from the story:

You call them, God knows why, vampires, but I can assure you that their real Russian name is: ghoul... Vampire, vampire! - he repeated with contempt - it's the same as if we Russians were talking instead of a ghost - a phantom or a revenant!

Tolstoy even gives practical advice- how to expose a vamp ... a ghoul by the characteristic clicking of the tongue.

To all lovers of the vampire theme, Russian gothic and just high-quality literature - it is highly recommended for reading.

Score: 10

From the first lines of the story, I began to overflow with joy and pride. Blame it all interesting story and excellent Russian. I used to think that the first, quite serious, work about vampires was Stoker's Dracula (a common misconception, isn't it?), but I couldn't even think that the Russian classic wrote it much earlier, and the fact that the action, for the most part, takes place in Russia, captivates.

So, I decided to write a short list of the advantages of "Ghoul" over similar later works, but I did not see any shortcomings. The first thing that catches your eye is the style. The narrative is lulling and calm, apart from some digressions in the middle and end of the story, but this is necessary for the plot, and not a penny of the price decreases from this, but only increases. I really liked the fact that Tolstoy did not adapt to "European standards", but wrote a purely Russian history. Interestingly, the word "vampire", which has Hungarian roots, has received worldwide recognition, and now it is used by the total number of writers. But the fact that many peoples had a prototype of a vampire seems to have been forgotten by everyone. Tolstoy did not, unlike the same Stoker, tie his history to religion, although faith in the middle of the 19th century was very strong. In addition, we can observe the story in the story, which takes place in Italy. Rybarenko's story removed all doubts about the genius of the work and only fueled interest in the denouement.

After reading, a big picture emerges from small, very colorful and interesting fragments. It can be called Russian Gothic, mysticism, horror, but the essence will not change. An ingenious work is ingenious beyond the genre framework!

Score: 10

Classics have always been and remain classics, no matter what they say about it. The young nobleman Ranevsky, being filled with love for Dasha, a pure and immaculate creature, is drawn into such events that it’s scary to think. The ghouls and other evil spirits seem to be specifically pursuing Ranevsky, not attacking, but not disappearing from sight either.

Of course, "Ghoul" is not distinguished by Hollywood dashing and recklessness, the plot looks quite sedate and solid. After the first five pages, you are drawn into the story, literally, "with your head." The situations that develop between the inhabitants of the Sugrobina estate give the reader a sense of the presence of otherworldly forces, and the rhymes “Let the grandmother suck the blood of the granddaughter” organically fit into this forcing atmosphere. The pictures of the three friends spending the night in the "devil's house" seem, to me personally, extremely rich and original. Yes, take the same caring griffin or a man in a black domino, for whom it is not difficult to whip a Greek deity.

Tolstoy, describing the truly strange "faces of what is happening", and the relationship between the characters, creates that unique and emotional background that blurs the line between mysticism and reality, fiction and reality. Much will be forgotten: fake relationships and cheap horror films will sink into oblivion, but Alexei Konstantinovich Tolstoy and his creations will live forever! It's my opinion.

Score: 10

Here is an example of domestic mysticism! The story was written in the first half of the 19th century, but how it is read ...

The action takes place under the ringing and fervent slogan "Grandmother will suck the blood of the granddaughter!". There are a lot of adventures and mysteries in the text, the intrigue is stretched for centuries and, to be honest, its end is not visible. And how it is written! What a syllable! Still, A.K. Tolstoy is also the author of the amazing novel Prince Silver.

In fact, Tolstoy has a whole mystical selection - short novels and stories: “Amena”, “Ghoul Family”, “Meeting 300 Years Later” are excellent works. But still, in my inexperienced eye, "Ghoul" is a diamond in this selection! I strongly advise fans of mysticism and horror: do not miss it, read it, get real pleasure!

Score: 9

I read the story when I was in school. Certainly struck, one might even say frightened. Tolstoy managed to create a very mysterious, bewitching atmosphere. Written in the most magnificent language, with some insinuating archaism. Fifteen years ago in our theater there was a performance based on "Ghoul", it was called "The Last Victim of Criminal Love". With pleasure I would go to him again, if they bet. When on a dark stage, lit only by a few candles, a lady in white suddenly appeared to oppressive music and said in a grave voice, “Betrothed to me, Runevsky!”, The whole hall simply squealed with fear.

And the verses, such as those read from an ancient manuscript, are simply a masterpiece! For a long time imprinted in memory.

Score: 10

In comparison with the cult, in some way, Ghoul's Family, this work still loses a little. I think the beautiful language of the 19th century embellishes a simple story more. The ghoul is very confused in the middle, especially where the “story about a story within a story” technique is used (one of the characters talks about his trip to Italy, where new friend told him about the stories that he was told ... Well, you understand?) This can cause an attack of rejection in an unprepared reader.

But a real connoisseur will appreciate the mastery of the style (somewhere - eloquent, and where necessary - remarkably concise), frightening atmosphere and, most importantly, the amazing imagination of the author (in the film, by the way, poorly realized due to lack of budget, sir). Be that as it may, I would recommend this story very carefully to the average reader. Still, it is more suitable for connoisseurs of belles-lettres, rather than a modern horrorman who gorged himself on Western products.

My favorite moment in the book is the splendid poem HOW THE OIL CATCHED THE BAT... The screen adaptation of the story is worth watching if only because of the performance of these poems, which, accompanied by the hypnotic music of Sergei Kuryokhin, are brilliantly read by the actor Andrei Sokolov (Runevsky), unless, of course, Marina Vladi and Donatas Banionis in the title roles are not a sufficient argument for you...

Score: 9

At one time, I liked the story much more than Stoker's Dracula

edit from 04/02/09: well, I confess everything. again began to put minuses. there are hundreds of more stupid reviews - no one notices, but here the cons are immediately.

So, the story "Ghoul" was written in 1841, the most famous novel about vampires, Stoker's cult "Dracula" - in 1897. However, Tolstoy's short story is far superior in horror and realism to "Dracula", more dynamic, more interesting. Perhaps Dracula is deeper and more versatile - but a difference of 56 years is enough time to learn something.

Score: 8

The story is wonderful! This is the debut work of A. K. Tolstoy, the first reading of which was attended by K. N. Batyushkov and V. F. Odoevsky. Probably, this was an imitation of the mystical works of A. A. Perovsky, who is better known under the pseudonym Anthony Pogorelsky and who was the uncle of A. K. Tolstoy. But the imitation turned out to be so magnificent that it’s impossible to call the story that way...

Score: 10

Vissarion Belinsky, an outstanding extreme literary critic, known for his ability to argue with ideological opponents to the point of bleeding from his throat (which in no way detracts from his genius), immediately upon the release of this story, he praised its author for his promising talent, finding fault only with his obvious youth and immaturity, which, as you know, is a temporary phenomenon. Belinsky was extremely rarely wrong, and this time he was not mistaken either: Alexei K. Tolstoy became a famous writer, author of The Prince of Silver, historical dramas and beautiful poems, and in his spare time Kozma Prutkov.

Many great realist writers dabbled in the mystical genre: Pushkin, Lermontov, Gogol, Turgenev, Mérimée, Balzac, Dickens - they all had a hand in it. Tolstoy also went over the vampire theme, he also has a continuation of this story called “Meeting after 300 years” (or is it not a continuation? I won’t lie - I don’t remember exactly), which I can’t get to. But he got to the "Ghoul" at school. When I first read it, I had a fever, my imagination was dulled and inflamed at the same time, what was happening was perceived through some kind of ominous foggy veil, because of which the intricate and multi-layered plot became even more intricate and multi-layered. From the first time, I didn’t understand much at all, but the story only seemed more terrible because of this. Some details are forever engraved in my memory, for example, a description of the hands of one of the otherworldly characters.

In Fischer's privileged printing house.

... In general, the density and brightness of colors, the intensity of fantasy and feelings, the one-sidedness of the idea, the excess of the heat of the heart, the anxiety of inspiration, the impulse and passion are signs of the works of youth. However, all these shortcomings can be redeemed by the idea, if only the idea, and not the unaccountable passion for authorship, was the inspiration of the young work.

The Ghoul is a fantastic work, but fantastic in appearance: it is imperceptible that it hides any thought in itself, and therefore does not look like the fantastic creations of Hoffmann; however, it can saturate with the charm of the terrible any young imagination, which, admiring the fireworks, does not ask: what is it and what is it for? Let's not recount the content of "Ghoul": it would be very long, and, moreover, readers would not see much from a dry presentation. We will only say that, despite the appearance of the invention, its very complexity and intricacy reveal the power of fantasy in the author; and a masterful presentation, the ability to make something like characters out of one’s faces, the ability to capture the spirit of the country and time to which the event belongs, a beautiful language, sometimes even similar to a “syllable”, in a word - the imprint of a firm, literary hand in everything - everything this makes one hope in the future a lot from the author of "Ghoul". Whoever has talent, in that life and science will do their job, and in the author of the "Ghoul" - we repeat - there is a decisive talent.

... I cannot but say that from the first day of our acquaintance I was filled with deep respect for this impeccable person. If the poet is such that, according to Pushkin:

Able at the moment of his poetic awakening to attract and carry us away, then we will not be able to look at the poet without emotion, who, like Alexei Constant.