Museum complex of Gabdulla Tukay. Museum complex of Gabdulla Tukay Tales of Tukay Shurale

There is an aul near Kazan called Kyrlay.
Even the chickens in that Kyrlay can sing... Wonderful land!
Even though I didn’t come from there, I kept my love for him,
He worked on the land - he sowed, reaped and harrowed.
Is he reputed to be a big village? No, on the contrary, it’s small
And the river, the pride of the people, is just a small spring.
This forest side is forever alive in memory.
The grass spreads out like a velvety blanket.
The people there never knew either cold or heat:
In its turn the wind will blow, and in its turn the rain will come.
From raspberries and strawberries everything in the forest is motley,
You pick a bucket full of berries in a single moment,
Often I lay on the grass and looked at the heavens.
The endless forests seemed like a formidable army to me,
Pines, lindens and oaks stood like warriors,
Under the pine tree there is sorrel and mint, under the birch tree there are mushrooms.
How many blue, yellow, red flowers are intertwined there,
And from them the fragrance flowed in the sweet air,
Moths flew away, arrived and landed,
It was as if the petals were arguing with them and making peace with them.
Bird chirping and ringing babble were heard in the silence
And they filled my soul with piercing joy.
There is music, and dancing, and singers, and circus performers,
There are boulevards, and theaters, and wrestlers, and violinists!
This fragrant forest is wider than the sea, higher than the clouds,
Like the army of Genghis Khan, noisy and powerful.
And the glory of my grandfather’s names rose before me,
And cruelty, and violence, and tribal strife.
Summer forest I depicted, - my verse has not yet sung
Our autumn, our winter and young beauties,
And the joy of our celebrations, and the spring Sabantuy...
O my verse, don’t disturb my soul with memories!
But wait, I was daydreaming... There is paper on the table...
I was going to tell you about the tricks of the Shural.
I’ll start now, reader, don’t blame me:
I lose all reason as soon as I remember Kyrlay.
Of course, in this amazing forest
You will meet a wolf, and a bear, and a treacherous fox.
Here hunters often see squirrels,
Either a gray hare will rush by, or a horned elk will flash.
There are many secret paths and treasures here, they say.
There are many terrible animals and monsters here, they say.
There are many fairy tales and beliefs circulating in our native land
And about genies, and about peris, and about terrible shurals.
Is this true? The ancient forest is endless, like the sky,
And no less than in the sky, there may be miracles in the forest.
I will begin my short story about one of them,
And - such is my custom - I will sing poetry.
One night, when the moon glides shining through the clouds,
A horseman went from the village to the forest to get firewood.
He arrived quickly on the cart, immediately took up the ax,
Here and there, trees are being cut down, and all around is a dense forest.
As often happens in summer, the night was fresh, humid,
Because the birds were sleeping, the silence grew.
The woodcutter is busy with work, you know he’s knocking, knocking,
For a moment the enchanted horseman forgot.
Chu! Some kind of terrible scream is heard in the distance.
And the ax stopped in the swinging hand.
And our nimble woodcutter froze in amazement.
He looks and doesn’t believe his eyes. Who is this? Human?
A genie, a robber or a ghost, this crooked freak?
How ugly he is, involuntarily takes over fear.
Ios is curved like a fishhook,
Arms and legs are like branches, they will intimidate even a daredevil.
The eyes flash angrily, burning in the black hollows.
Even during the day, let alone at night, this look will frighten you.
He looks like a man, very thin and naked,
The narrow forehead is decorated with a horn the size of our finger.
His fingers are half arshin long and crooked, -
Ten fingers are ugly, sharp, long and straight.
And looking into the eyes of the freak that lit up like two fires,
The woodcutter asked bravely: “What do you want from me?”
“Young horseman, don’t be afraid, robbery doesn’t attract me,
But although I am not a robber, I am not a righteous saint.
Why, when I saw you, did I let out a cheerful cry?
Because I'm used to killing people with tickles.
Each finger is adapted to tickle more viciously,
I kill a man by making him laugh.
Come on, move your fingers, my brother,
Play tickle with me and make me laugh!”
“Okay, I’ll play,” the woodcutter answered him.
Only on one condition... Do you agree or not?
“Speak up, little man, please be bolder,
I will accept all the conditions, but let’s play quickly!”
“If so - listen to me, how to solve -
I don't care. Do you see a thick, big and heavy log?
Forest spirit! Let's work together first,
Together you and I will carry the log onto the cart.
Did you notice a large gap at the other end of the log?
Hold the log there tightly, all your strength is needed!..”
The shurale glanced sideways at the indicated place.
And, not disagreeing with the horseman, the shurale agreed.
His fingers were long and straight and he placed them in the mouth of the log...
Sages! Do you see the simple trick of a woodcutter?
The wedge, previously plugged, is knocked out with an axe,
By knocking out, he carries out a clever plan in secret. —
Shurale does not move, does not move his hand,
He stands there, not understanding the clever invention of people.
So a thick wedge flew out with a whistle and disappeared into the darkness...
The fingers of the shurale got pinched and remained in the gap.
Shurale saw the deception, Shurale screamed and yelled.
He calls his brothers for help, he calls the forest people.
With a repentant prayer he says to the horseman:
“Have mercy, have mercy on me! Let me go, horseman!
I will never offend you, horseman, or my son.
I will never touch your entire family, O man!
I won't offend anyone! Do you want me to take an oath?
I will tell everyone: “I am a friend of the horseman. Let him walk in the forest!”
It hurts my fingers! Give me freedom! Let me live
on the ground! What do you want, horseman, for profit from the torment of the shurale?”
The poor fellow cries, rushes about, whines, howls, he’s not himself. ;
The woodcutter doesn’t hear him and is getting ready to go home.
“Won’t the cry of a sufferer soften this soul?
Who are you, who are you, heartless? What's your name, horseman?
Tomorrow, if I live to see our brother,
To the question: “Who is your offender?” - whose name will I say?
“So be it, I’ll say, brother. Don't forget this name:
I’m nicknamed “The Thoughtful One”... And now it’s time for me to hit the road.”
Shurale screams and howls, wants to show strength,
He wants to break out of captivity and punish the woodcutter.
"I will die. Forest spirits, help me quickly!
The villain pinched me, he destroyed me!”
And the next morning the Shurales came running from all sides.
“What's wrong with you? Are you crazy? What are you upset about, fool?
Calm down! Shut up! We can't stand the screaming.
Pinched in the past year, what are you doing this year? are you crying? "

Summer. Hot weather. If you jump into the river - grace!
I love diving and swimming and hitting the water with my head!
I play like this and dive like this for an hour, or even an hour and a half.
Well, now I'm freshened up, it's time for me to get dressed.
He went ashore and got dressed. It's quiet everywhere, not a soul.
An involuntary fear creeps through in this sunny wilderness.
I don’t know why on the bridge, I looked back in sadness...
The witch, the water witch appeared on the board!
A witch scratches her tousled braids over the water,
And in her hand a bright golden comb sparkles.
I stand, trembling with fear, hiding in the willow tree,
And I follow the wonderful comb that burns in her hand,
The merman combed her wet braids,
She jumped into the river, dove, and disappeared into the depths of the stream.
I quietly climb onto the bridge, emerging from the thick foliage.
What is this? The witch forgot her wonderful golden comb!
He looked around: empty, deaf on the river, on the shore.
I grab the comb and run headlong straight to the house.
Well, I’m flying, not feeling my legs, and I’m rushing like a fast horse.
I'm covered in cold sweat, I'm burning like fire.
I looked over my shoulder... And the trouble is, there is no salvation:
The witch, the water witch, is chasing after me!
- Don't run! - the demon shouts. - Wait, thief! Stop!
Why did you steal my comb, wonderful golden comb?
I run, and the witch follows. The witch follows, I run.
Someone to help!.. Quiet, deaf all around.
We reached the village through pits and gullies.
Then all the dogs stood up and began to cry at the witch.
Woof! Woof! Woof! - without getting tired, dogs bark, puppies squeal,
The merman got scared and quickly ran back.
I caught my breath and thought: “The trouble is over!
Water witch, you’ve lost your comb forever!”
I entered the house: “Mother, I found a wonderful golden comb.”
Give me something to drink, I ran quickly, I was in a hurry to get home.
The golden magic comb is accepted silently by the mother,
But she herself is trembling, afraid, and it’s impossible to understand why.
The sun has set. Okay, I'm going to bed.
The day has gone out.
And a cool and hay evening spirit entered the hut.
I'm lying under the blanket, I feel nice, I feel warm.
Knock and knock. Someone is knocking on our window glass.
I’m too lazy to throw off the blanket, too lazy to get to the window.
The mother, hearing, trembled and woke up from her sleep.
- Who knocks in such darkness! Get out, come on in!
What happened to you at night? You'll be lost!
- Who am I? Water witch! Where is my golden comb?
Just now your son, your thief, stole my comb!
I opened the blanket slightly. The moonbeam shines in the window.
Oh, what will happen to me! Oh, where should I go!
Knock and knock. Go away, demon, so that the devil can take you away!
And water - I hear - pours from long and gray hair.
Apparently, I am not destined to own the glorious booty:
The mother threw the comb to the witch and slammed the window.
We got rid of the witch, but we were unable to sleep.
Oh, she scolded me, she scolded me, oh, my mother scolded me!
Remembering the ominous knock, I burn with shame.
And I stopped touching other people’s things forever.

Once upon a time there lived a man, and his wife lived with him.
Their peasant life was always poor.
Here is their entire farm: one ram and a goat.
The ram was very skinny, the goat was thin.
One day a man says: “Look, wife,
The market price for hay has risen.
The ram and the goat will just eat you and me,
Let them go wherever they want.”
The wife answered: “I agree, man,
And cattle have long been of little use.
Let the ram and goat leave the yard,
It’s not the right time to feed the idlers.”
What will the ram do? What will the goat do?
Is it possible to contradict the owner to his face?
Sew one big bag for two
And a ram and a goat go wandering into the fields.
Went. They are walking in the fields. They go, they go.
They see neither white nor black here.
How long or how short did they have to go -
Suddenly they meet a wolf's head on the way.
Seeing this, the friends suddenly became frightened.
It is difficult to guess whose fear was greater.
Trembling, the two of them stand at the head
And they whisper: “Here, we’ll take her in the bag.”
The goat said: “Hit, ram! You are stronger."
The ram responds: “Strike, you beard, be brave.”
Even though they have moved it, they are afraid to take it in their hands,
Where do they both get the courage from?
A ram and a goat stand for a long time,
But they won’t touch your head with your hand.
Then, holding his head by the tips of his ears,
They quickly put her in a big bag.
They go, they go, they go, and their path is long,
Suddenly they see a light flickering in the distance.
The ram says: “It’s time for us to rest.
Aida, goat, follow me, let's sleep until the morning!:
Wolves will not come to us for this light,
They won’t guess that we fell asleep here.”
So the friends agreed among themselves.
The goat said: “Aida, the ram, follow me!”
But only when we came closer to the light
Poor tramps, this is what they found nearby:
Five or six large wolves settled down decorously in a row
And the porridge is carefully cooked over the fire.
Friends are neither alive nor dead now,
They are scared, I am scared for them.
Everyone says to the wolves: “Great, gentlemen!”
(As if there was no trace of timidity in them.)
And the wolves are happy with them, a find anywhere -
For wolves, a ram and a goat are delicious food.
“We’ll eat them, they say, since they came to us...
We accidentally found meat for the porridge!”
The goat says: “Why be discouraged?
Now we are ready to give you plenty of meat.
What the hell should you watch? Don't regret a piece
And take the wolf’s head out of the bag!”
The ram performed everything exactlywithout further words
And he immediately sent all the wolves into shock:
So a wolf's head is a terrible sight for wolves!
The goat is angry and knocks its hooves.
The goat shouts: “Miki-ke-ke, miki-ke-ke!
We have twelve heads hidden in a bag.
How not to scold you, you ignorant fool,
Bigger head Get it out of the bag!”
Instantly my ram recognizes the goat's invention
And he gives the same head a second time.
Now five or six wolves are completely scared,
Their eyes are fixed and they don’t move anything.
Why should they, five or six wolves, think about coughing?
Everyone wants to run to other places.
But how can they escape? And what is the solution?
This is what five or six wolves are thinking about now.
The oldest wolf gets up and tells them,
Seasoned and gray-haired, you have seen different senses:
“I’ll go get some spring water for a while,
I’m afraid that the porridge will become dry.”
The wolf walked into the water. No wolf. No water.
Has any trouble happened?
There is no sign or trace of the older wolf.
The wolves wait in vain: he is gone forever.
Now there is even greater fear among the wolves:
Their oldest wolf disappeared into the thick bushes.
Another one gets up behind him and goes to get water:
“I’ll find the eldest and bring him with me!”
It is clear that he, like before, will run away
No wonder he looks so cowardly.
Four wolves wait, hour after hour goes by.
And none of the wolves moves their tail.
Then, rushing out of their seats,running after each other
And there are no wolves around the fire.
So smart friends drove out the wolves.
Everyone is cheerful now: the goat, the ram and me.
Now the ram and goat moved closer to the fire
And they eat porridge, delicious cooking.
They then lie down to sleep on the soft grass.
Nobody will touch them: in the forest there is peace and quiet.
And at dawn, friends, the light began to dawn a little,
With the bag and head they set off into the world again.
The goat was brave, the ram was great,
Everything turned out well, and the fairy tale ends here.

I am proud of our youth: how brave and how smart!
She seems to glow with enlightenment and knowledge.
Striving for progress with all my soul, full of new wisdom,
Divers of the seabed - that's what we need!
Let the clouds be gloomy above us, thunder will strike, it will rain,
And the dreams of youth will fall to our earth.
Streams of water will rustle along the peaks and valleys.
The battles for freedom will break out! shaking the firmament.
Let our people firmly believe with all their tormented souls:
The daggers will soon shine, the day of the holy struggle is near.
And let him not wear a ring with an empty frame:
Real diamonds are our faithful hearts!

One day we woke up in the fifth year,meeting the dawn,
And someone called us:work, holy one, fulfilling the covenant!
Seeing how low the star burns in the morning sky,
We understood: the night was over, the day's suffering had begun.
We were pure in soul, our faith was bright,
But we were still blind, the dirt had not yet left our faces.
Therefore, we could not distinguish friends from enemies,
Shaitan often seemed to usthe most worthy son of the earth.
Without intention, each of us sometimes did something bad,
May the way to the eighth vault of heaven open for us
Dzhabrail. Friends, no matter what it was, it’s gone forever
dark. Get to work! We need clarity: clarity of the eye and clarity of mind.

If the sun rises from the West, we will be finished -
This is what the sage predicted in the sacred books.
The sun of clear science has now risen in the West.
Why is the East hesitating, why is the brow frowning in doubt?

(From the poem “The Hopes of the People in Connection with the Great Jubilee”)
We laid a trail on Russian soil,
We are a pure mirror of past years.
We sang songs with the people of Russia,
There is something common in our everyday life and morality,
Years passed one after another, -
We always joked and worked together.

Our friendship cannot be broken forever,
We are strung on a single thread.
We fight like tigers, the burden is not a burden for us,
We work like horses in peacetime.
We are faithful children of a united country,
Should we really be powerless?

Here is the city teahouse,
She is the sons of the bai
Full, full, full, full.

They walk wide
They drink beer, cut themselves in the ass, -
It's easy to go on a spree at the expense of fathers!
Who else, if not me, should suffer?
Here with Duchess cigarettes
The company of the hanger is smoking,
The demon of depravity took possession of them
Who else, if not me, should suffer?
Ignorance has no end,
The world of magazines is unknown to them,
Sleep embraced them in the prime of life.
Who else, if not me, should suffer?
I left.
But I still feel sorry for him
I'm sorry a hundred times, and a thousand times sorry for him.
And I walked into the snowstorm your way,
Just leaving him a kind word...

Oh feather!
Let grief disappear, shine with the light of joy!
Help, we will go with you along the right path!
We, mired in ignorance, we, lazy for a long time,
Lead us to a reasonable goal - our long shame is heavy!
You raised Europe to heavenly heights,
Why have we, the unfortunate ones, fallen so low?
Are we doomed to be like this forever?
And must they drag out their lives in hateful humiliation?
Call the people to study, let your rays burn!
Explain to the fools how harmful the black poison of darkness is!
Make sure that black is considered black here!
So that white is recognized only as white - without embellishment!
Despise the insults of fools, despise their curses!
Think about the people's welfare, think about your friends!
The glory of our future days, O pen, is your gift.
And, doubling the power of vision, we will go forward with you.
Let our years not last in the kingdom of inertia and darkness!
May we emerge from the darkness of the underworld into the kingdom of light!
Mohammedans from all over the world groan from year to year, -
Oh, why were our people punished by black fate?
O pen, be our support and our greatness!
Let the path of poverty and grief disappear forever!

I like the arch of your thin eyebrows,
Unruly curls of dark curls.
Our quiet speeches that attract the heart,
Your eyes are as clear as emerald.
Your lips, which are sweeter than heavenly kavsar,
Whose smile is like a sweet gift to those living.
I love your slimness, the beauty of your movements, -
Without a corset, any thinness in the belt.
And especially the breasts - they are so tender,
Like two spring suns, two bright moons.
I love to hug you by your white necks,
I love to freeze in your young arms.
Oh, how touching this “Jim”, this “mime”
In your sweet babble: “dusty” and “dzhanym”!
You are no less lovable to me than beauty,
Proud chastity and purity.
And your brocade kalfak is so dear to me,
I just look at him and I don’t feel like myself.
So if ishan il blessed hazret
I'll ever be given a ticket straight to heaven,
But if, Guria, coming out to meet you, like you,
He won’t decorate his head with a kalfak
And he won’t say to me: “Hello, janim!” - I won't come in
In this paradise, may I fall into the abyss of hell!
It's only your ignorance that I don't like,
What keeps you in seclusion, in darkness, in silence.
I don’t like mullahs’ wives either,
They know how to deceive you so cleverly.
They love you if you babysit their children,
Well, wash the floors - they will love you more.
You all take a lesson from ignorance.
Living in darkness is our teaching!
Your school is with the calves nearby, in the corner.
You sit, muttering “ijek”, on the floor.
By nature you are gold, there is no price for you.
But they are doomed to wallow in ignorance.
You spend your life in blindness, and - alas! -
Your daughters are just as unhappy as you.
You seem to be a selling commodity on earth,
You wander like a herd, obedient to the mullah,
But you are not sheep! Believe me, I'm right
That you deserve everyone human rights!
Isn't it time to break away from these shackles!
Isn't it time for you to leave these clutches!
And don’t believe Saidash, he’s drunk with anger,
He is an ignoramus, the khan is above all ignoramuses.

Theater is both a spectacle and a school for the people,
To awaken the hearts of people - that is his nature!
He does not allow you to turn onto the unrighteous path,
He leads us to the light, opening the right path for us.
Exciting and funny, he forces again
Think about the past and the meaning of what you experienced.
On the stage, seeing his true appearance,
You will laugh and cry at yourself.
You will find out: your life is bright or impenetrable,
This is right about her, and this is wrong about her.
If you want to develop worthy traits, -
This way you will be enriched with new wisdom.
And if you are good, then only you'll become better,
And if you are a savage, you will rise from the darkness.
There are no ranks in the theater, it’s like this:
You are a master or a slave - the theater doesn’t care!
He is pure and majestic, he attracts to bright heights.
Free and wide, he is holy and independent.
He is a temple of good morals, he is a palace of knowledge,
A mentor for minds, a healer for hearts.
But he should observe one condition:
To teach the native people with patience and love,
And then pluck only the fruit from the tree of wisdom,
When he gains beauty and maturity.

There are two roads in this world:
if you go first -
You will be happy, and the second -
only knowledge will you find.
Everything is in your hands: be wise, but live,
depressed by evil
And when you want happiness -
be ignorant, be an ass!

Mother tongue is the holy language, the language of father and mother,
How beautiful you are! The whole world in your wealth I have comprehended!
Rocking the cradle, my mother revealed you to me in song,
And then I learned to understand my grandmother’s fairy tales.
Native language, native language, I boldly walked into the distance with you,
you elevated my joy, you enlightened my sadness.
Native language, together with you for the first time I prayed to the creator:
- Oh God, forgive my mother, forgive me, forgive my father.

Children! Are you probably bored at school?
Perhaps you are languishing in captivity?
As a child, I used to get bored,
My thought called for freedom.
I have grown up. Dreams come true: look,
Here I am an adult, my own master!
I will go out on the road - without end, without edge
An easy life having fun playing.
I will joke, be naughty, laugh:
I am big, I have no one to fear!
Having decided so, I entered life with hope.
I turned out to be, alas, ignorant.
There's no freedom on my road
There is no happiness, my legs are tired of walking.
I wandered for a long time in search of fun,
Only now did I see the purpose of life.
The goal of life is high hard work.
Laziness and idleness are the worst vices.
Fulfilling my duty to the people,
This goodness is the holy goal of life!
If suddenly I feel tired,
Seeing that I have a lot left to go through,
In my dreams I return to school,
I yearn for my “captivity”;
I say: “Why am I an adult now?
And did he move away from the school shrine?
Why don't anyone caress me?
I’m not called Apush, but Tukay?”

The child loved to read so much, he wanted everything so greedilyknow,
That it was difficult to measure success with a simple mark"five",
I wrote everything I was told, read poems from different books,
This student was awarded a diploma of commendation.
And if from childhood a boy is happy with learning and books,
He will also deserve many different awards in life.

Gabdulla Tukay

There is an aul near Kazan called Kyrlay.
Even the chickens in that Kyrlay can sing... Wonderful land!

Even though I didn’t come from there, I kept my love for him,
He worked on the land - he sowed, reaped and harrowed.

Is he reputed to be a big village? No, on the contrary, it’s small
And the river, the pride of the people, is just a small spring.

This forest side is forever alive in my memory.
The grass spreads out like a velvety blanket.

The people there never knew either cold or heat:
In its turn the wind will blow, and in its turn the rain will come.

From raspberries and strawberries everything in the forest is motley,
You can pick a bucket full of berries in a single moment!

Often I lay on the grass and looked at the heavens.
The endless forests seemed like a formidable army to me.

Pines, lindens and oaks stood like warriors,
Under the pine tree there is sorrel and mint, under the birch tree there are mushrooms.

How many blue, yellow, red flowers are intertwined there,
And from them the fragrance flowed into the sweet air.

Moths flew away, arrived and landed,
It was as if the petals were arguing with them and making peace with them.

Bird chirping, ringing babble were heard in the silence,
And they filled my soul with piercing joy.

I depicted the summer forest, but my verse has not yet sung
Our autumn, our winter, and young beauties,

And the joy of our celebrations, and the spring Saban-Tui...
O my verse, don’t disturb my soul with memories!

But wait, I was daydreaming... there's paper on the table...
I was going to tell you about the tricks of the Shural!

I’ll start now, reader, don’t blame me:
I lose all reason, as soon as I remember Kyrlay!

Of course, in this amazing forest
You will meet a wolf and a bear, and a treacherous fox.

There are many fairy tales and beliefs circulating in our native land
And about gins, and about peris, and about terrible shurals.

Is this true? The ancient forest is endless, like the sky,
And no less than in heaven, perhaps in the forest of miracles.

I will begin my short story about one of them,
And - such is my custom - I will sing poetry.

One night, when the moon glides shining through the clouds,
A horseman went from the village to the forest to get firewood.

He arrived quickly on the cart, immediately took up the ax,
Here and there, trees are being cut down, and all around is a dense forest.

As often happens in summer, the night was fresh and humid;
Because the birds were sleeping, the silence grew.

The woodcutter is busy with work, you know, he knocks, knocks,
The enchanted horseman forgot for a moment!

Chu! Some terrible scream is heard in the distance,
And the ax stopped in the swinging hand.

And our nimble woodcutter froze in amazement.
He looks and doesn’t believe his eyes. Who is this person?

The genie, the robber or the ghost of this crooked freak?
How ugly he is, it involuntarily takes over fear!

The nose is curved like a fishhook,
Arms and legs are like branches, they will intimidate even a daredevil!

The eyes flash angrily, burning in the black hollows.
Even during the day, let alone at night, this look will frighten you!

He looks like a man, very thin and naked,
The narrow forehead is decorated with a horn the size of our finger.

The fingers on his hands are half arshin long,
Ten fingers, ugly, sharp, long and straight!

And, looking into the eyes of the freak that lit up like two fires,
The woodcutter asked bravely: “What do you want from me?”

“Young horseman, don’t be afraid, robbery doesn’t attract me,
But although I am not a robber, I am not a righteous saint.

Why, when I saw you, did I let out a cheerful cry? -
Because I’m used to killing people with tickles!

Each finger is adapted to tickle more viciously,
I kill a man by making him laugh!

Come on, move your fingers, my brother,
Play tickle with me and make me laugh!”

“Okay, I’ll play,” the woodcutter answered him.
Only on one condition... do you agree or not?”

“Speak up, little man, please be bolder,
I will accept all the conditions, but let’s play quickly!”

“If so, listen to me, whatever you decide, I don’t care.
Do you see a thick, big and heavy log?

Forest spirit. Forest sheep. Let's work together.
Together you and I will carry the log onto the cart.

You will notice a large gap at the other end of the log,
Hold the log there tightly, all your strength is needed!”

The shurale glanced sideways at the indicated place,
And, not disagreeing with the horseman, the shurale agreed.

He put his long, straight fingers into the mouth of the log.
Sages! Do you see the simple trick of a woodcutter?

The wedge, previously plugged, is knocked out with an axe,
By knocking out, he carries out a clever plan in secret.

Shurale does not move, does not move his hand,
He stands there, not understanding the clever invention of people.

So a thick wedge flew out with a whistle and disappeared into the darkness...
The fingers of the shurale got pinched and remained in the gap!

Shurale saw the deception, Shurale screams and yells,
He calls his brothers for help, he calls the forest people.

With a repentant prayer he says to the horseman:
“Have mercy, have mercy on me, let me go, horseman!

I will never offend you, horseman, or my son,
I will never touch your entire family, O man!

I won’t offend anyone, do you want me to take an oath?
I will tell everyone: “I am a horseman’s friend, let him walk in the forest!”

It hurts my fingers! Give me freedom, let me live on earth,
What do you want, horseman, for profit from the torment of the shurale?”

The poor fellow cries, rushes about, whines, howls, he’s not himself,
The woodcutter doesn’t hear him and is getting ready to go home.

“Won’t the cry of a sufferer soften this soul?
Who are you, who are you, heartless? What's your name, horseman?

Tomorrow, if I live to see our brother,
To the question: “Who is your offender?” - whose name will I say?
“So be it, I’ll say, brother, don’t forget this name:
I’m nicknamed “The Inspired One”... And now it’s time for me to hit the road.”

Shurale screams and howls, wants to show strength,
He wants to break out of captivity and punish the woodcutter.

"I will die! Forest spirits, help me quickly,
The villain pinched me, he destroyed me!”

And the next morning the Shurales came running from all sides.
“What's wrong with you? Are you crazy? What are you upset about, fool?

Calm down, shut up, we can't stand the screaming.
Pinched in the past year, why are you crying this year?”

The fairy tale “Shurale” by the Tatar writer Gabdulla Tukay (1886–1913) is written on folklore material rich in poetic images. Folk art generously fed the poet's inspiration throughout his short creative career.

There are many miracles and funny stories in Tukay's fairy tales. Water witches inhabit lakes, and in the dense forest the forest undead are at ease and free, preparing intrigues for an unwary person. But all his shurales, genies and other forest spirits do not have the character of a mysterious force that darkens people’s lives; rather, they are naive and trusting forest creatures, in a clash with which a person always emerges victorious.

In the afterword to the first edition of Shurale, Tukay wrote:

“...we must hope that talented artists will appear among us and draw a curved nose, long fingers, a head with terrible horns, show how the fingers were pinched by the shurale, and paint pictures of forests where goblins were found...”

Seventy years have passed since the death of the wonderful Tatar poet, since then many artists have strived to fulfill his dream.

1. Gabdulla Tukay - Gabdulla Mukhamedgarifovich Tukai (April 14, 1886, Kushlavych village, Kazan district, Kazan province - April 2, 1913, Kazan). Tatar national poet, literary critic, publicist, public figure and translator.
On April 20, 1912, Tukay arrived in St. Petersburg (stayed 13 days) to meet with Mullanur Vakhitov, later a prominent revolutionary. (see more about the trip to St. Petersburg: chapter 5 from the book “Tukai” by I.Z. Nurullin)
In his life and work, Tukay acted as a spokesman for the interests and aspirations of the masses, a herald of the friendship of peoples and a singer of freedom. Tukay was the founder of new realistic Tatar literature and literary criticism. Tukay's first poems appeared in the handwritten journal Al-Ghasr al-Jadid (New Age) for 1904. At the same time, he translated Krylov’s fables into Tatar and offered them for publication. ()

2. Poem "Shurale" - poem by the Tatar poet Gabdulla Tukay. Written in 1907 based on Tatar folklore. The ballet “Shurale” was created based on the plot of the poem. In 1987, Soyuzmultfilm produced the animated film Shurale.
The prototype of Shurale existed not only in Tatar mythology. U different nations Siberia and Eastern Europe (as well as the Chinese, Koreans, Persians, Arabs and others) had a belief in the so-called “half people”. They were called differently, but their essence remained almost the same.
These are one-eyed, one-armed creatures to which various supernatural properties were attributed. According to Yakut and Chuvash beliefs, half people can change the size of their body. Almost all peoples believe that they are terribly funny - they laugh until their last breath, and also love to make others laugh, often tickling livestock and people to death. The “laughing” voices of some birds (of the order Owls) were attributed to the halves. The Udmurts use the word "shurali" or "urali" for the eagle owl. And the Mari call the buzzing night bird “shur-locho”, which means “half-dwarf”. An evil forest spirit, having only half a soul, could inhabit people. In the Old Chuvash language, the word “surale” was formed - a person who was possessed by “sura” (half-devil). In northern dialects Chuvash language and in Mari the sound “s” sometimes turns into “sh” - this explains the appearance of “shurele”.
The image of Shurale was very widespread in Tatar and Bashkir mythology. Stories about Shural had many variations. At the end of the 19th century, they were recorded by researchers. One should name the book of the Hungarian scientist Gabor Balint “Study of the language of the Kazan Tatars”, published in 1875 in Budapest, the work of the famous Tatar educator Kayum Nasyri “Beliefs and rituals of the Kazan Tatars”, published in 1880, as well as the collection of fairy tales by Taip Yakhin “Defgylkesel min essabi” ve sabiyat" 1900 edition. One of these options (where resourcefulness and courage are most clearly shown Tatar people) formed the basis of the famous work of Gabdulla Tukay. With the light hand of the poet, Shurale stepped from the realm of superstition into the world of Tatar literature and art. In a note to the poem, G. Tukay wrote: “I wrote this fairy tale “Shurale”, using the example of the poets A. Pushkin and M. Lermontov, who processed the plots folk tales, told by folk storytellers in villages."
The fairy-tale poem of Gabdulla Tukay was a huge success. It was in tune with its time and reflected educational trends in literature: it glorified the victory of the human mind, knowledge, and dexterity over the mysterious and blind forces of nature. It also reflected the growth of national self-awareness: for the first time, the center of a literary poetic work was not a common Turkic or Islamic plot, but Tatar fairy tale, which existed among the common people. The language of the poem was distinguished by its richness, expressiveness and accessibility. But this is not the only secret of her popularity.
The poet put his personal feelings, memories, experiences into the story, making it surprisingly lyrical. It is no coincidence that the action develops in Kyrlay, the village in which Tukai spent his happiest childhood years and, by his own admission, “began to remember himself.” Huge, amazing world, full of secrets and mysteries appears before the reader in pure and direct perception little boy. The poet, with great tenderness and love, sang the beauty native nature, And folk customs, and the dexterity, strength, cheerfulness of the villagers. These feelings were shared by his readers, who perceived the fairy tale “Shurale” as a deeply national work, truly vividly and fully expressing the very soul of the Tatar people. It was in this poem that the evil spirits from the dense forest for the first time received not only a negative, but also a positive assessment: Shurale became, as it were, an integral part native land, its virgin blooming nature, inexhaustible folk imagination. It is not surprising that this bright, memorable image then inspired writers, artists, and composers for many years to create significant and original works of art.

There is an aul near Kazan called Kyrlay.
Even the chickens in that Kyrlay can sing... Wonderful land!

Even though I didn’t come from there, I kept my love for him,
He worked on the land - he sowed, reaped and harrowed.

Is he reputed to be a big village? No, on the contrary, it’s small
And the river, the pride of the people, is just a small spring.

This forest side is forever alive in memory.
The grass spreads out like a velvety blanket.

The people there never knew either cold or heat:
In its turn the wind will blow, in its turn the rain will blow
will do.

From raspberries and strawberries everything in the forest is motley,
You pick up a bucket full of berries in an instant.

Often I lay on the grass and looked at the heavens.
The endless forests seemed like a formidable army to me.

Pines, lindens and oaks stood like warriors,
Under the pine tree there is sorrel and mint, under the birch tree there are mushrooms.

How many blue, yellow, red flowers are there?
intertwined
And from them the fragrance flowed into the sweet air.

Moths flew away, arrived and landed,
It was as if the petals were arguing with them and making peace with them.

Bird chirping and ringing babble were heard in the silence
And they filled my soul with piercing joy.

There is music, and dancing, and singers, and circus performers,
There are boulevards, and theaters, and wrestlers, and violinists!

This fragrant forest is wider than the sea, higher than the clouds,
Like the army of Genghis Khan, noisy and powerful.

And the glory of my grandfather’s names rose before me,
And cruelty, and violence, and tribal strife.

2
I depicted the summer forest, but my verse has not yet sung
Our autumn, our winter and young beauties,

And the joy of our celebrations, and the spring Sabantuy...
O my verse, don’t disturb my soul with memories!

But wait, I was daydreaming... There's paper on the table...
I was going to tell you about the tricks of the Shural.

I’ll start now, reader, don’t blame me:
I lose all reason as soon as I remember Kyrlay.

Of course, in this amazing forest
You will meet a wolf, and a bear, and a treacherous fox.

Here hunters often see squirrels,
Either a gray hare will rush by, or a horned elk will flash.
There are many secret paths and treasures here, they say.
There are many terrible animals and monsters here, they say.

There are many fairy tales and beliefs circulating in our native land
And about genies, and about peris, and about terrible shurals.

Is this true? The ancient forest is endless, like the sky,
And no less than in the sky, there may be miracles in the forest.

4
I will begin my short story about one of them,
And - such is my custom - I will sing poetry.

One night, when the moon glides shining through the clouds,
A horseman went from the village to the forest to get firewood.

He arrived quickly on the cart, immediately took up the ax,
Here and there, trees are being cut down, and all around is a dense forest.

As often happens in summer, the night was fresh and humid.
Because the birds were sleeping, the silence grew.

The woodcutter is busy with work, you know he’s knocking, knocking,
For a moment the enchanted horseman forgot.

Chu! Some kind of terrible scream is heard in the distance.
And the ax stopped in the swinging hand.

And our nimble woodcutter froze in amazement.
He looks and doesn’t believe his eyes. Who is this? Human?

A genie, a robber or a ghost, this crooked freak?
How ugly he is, involuntarily takes over fear.

The nose is curved like a fishhook,
Arms and legs are like branches, they will intimidate even a daredevil.

The eyes flash angrily, burning in the black hollows.
Even during the day, let alone at night, this look will frighten you.

He looks like a man, very thin and naked,
The narrow forehead is decorated with a horn the size of our finger.
His fingers are half arshin long and crooked, -
Ten fingers ugly, sharp, long
and straight.

5
And looking into the eyes of the freak that lit up like two fires,
The woodcutter asked bravely: “What do you want from me?”

“Young horseman, don’t be afraid, robbery doesn’t attract me,
But although I am not a robber, I am not a righteous saint.

Why, when I saw you, did I let out a cheerful cry?
Because I'm used to killing people with tickles.

Each finger is adapted to tickle more viciously,
I kill a man by making him laugh.

Come on, move your fingers, my brother,
Play tickle with me and make me laugh!”

“Okay, I’ll play,” the woodcutter answered him.
Only on one condition... Do you agree or not?

“Speak up, little man, please be bolder,
I will accept all the conditions, but let’s play quickly!”

“If so, listen to me, how do you decide -
I don't care.
Do you see a thick, big and heavy log?
Forest spirit! Let's work together first,
Together you and I will carry the log onto the cart.

Did you notice a large gap at the other end of the log?
Hold the log there tightly, all your strength is needed!..”

The shurale glanced sideways at the indicated place.
And, not disagreeing with the horseman, the shurale agreed.

He put his long, straight fingers into the mouth of the log...
Sages! Do you see the simple trick of a woodcutter?

The wedge, previously plugged, is knocked out with an axe,
By knocking out, he carries out a clever plan in secret.

Shurale does not move, does not move his hand,
He stands there, not understanding the clever invention of people.

So a thick wedge flew out with a whistle and disappeared into the darkness...
The fingers of the shurale got pinched and remained in the gap.

Shurale saw the deception, Shurale screams and yells.
He calls his brothers for help, he calls the forest people.

With a repentant prayer he says to the horseman:
“Have mercy, have mercy on me! Let me go, horseman!

I will never offend you, horseman, or my son.
I will never touch your entire family, O man!

I won't offend anyone! Do you want me to take an oath?
I will tell everyone: “I am a friend of the horseman. Let him walk
In the woods!"

It hurts my fingers! Give me freedom! Let me live
on the ground!
What do you want, horseman, for profit from the torment of the shurale?”

The poor fellow cries, rushes about, whines, howls, he’s not himself.
The woodcutter doesn’t hear him and is getting ready to go home.

“Won’t the cry of a sufferer soften this soul?
Who are you, who are you, heartless? What's your name, horseman?

Tomorrow, if I live to see our brother,
To the question: “Who is your offender?” - whose name will I say?

“So be it, I’ll say, brother. Don't forget this name:
I was nicknamed “Last Year”... And now -
It's time for me to go."
Shurale screams and howls, wants to show strength,
He wants to break out of captivity and punish the woodcutter.

"I will die. Forest spirits, help me quickly!
The villain pinched me, he destroyed me!”

And the next morning the Shurales came running from all sides.
“What's wrong with you? Are you crazy? What are you upset about, fool?

Calm down! Shut up! We can't stand the screaming.
Pinched in the past year, what are you doing this year?
are you crying?