The Tale of Hodja Nasreddin: Disturber of the Peace
Leonid Solovyov
Translated by Michael Karpelson
Translit Publishing
www.translit.ca
Copyright © 2009 Michael Karpelson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.
ISBN 978-0-9812695-1-1
Biographical Note
Leonid Vasilyevich Solovyov was born in 1906 in the city of Tripoli, Lebanon, where his parents had been working for the Imperial Orthodox Palestine Society. In 1909, the family returned to Russia; in 1921, it moved to Kokand, Uzbekistan. Solovyov worked for several regional newspapers and, during his travels in Uzbekistan’s Fergana Province, studied regional folklore.
In 1930, Solovyov left for Moscow and enrolled in the literary and screenwriting program at the Institute of Cinematography, graduating in 1932. While living in Moscow, Solovyov wrote a number of novels, short stories, and screenplays. Disturber of the Peace – the first part of Solovyov’s best known work, The Tale of Hodja Nasreddin – was published in 1939. During the Second World War, Solovyov served as a war correspondent and produced several wartime stories and screenplays.
In 1946, Solovyov was accused of conspiring to commit acts of terrorism against the Soviet state. He was interred in several prison camps until 1954, when he was cleared of all charges and released. The second part of The Tale of Hodja Nasreddin, subtitled The Enchanted Prince, was written in the camps and completed around 1950.
After his imprisonment, Solovyov settled in Leningrad. The two parts of The Tale of Hodja Nasreddin were published together for the first time in 1956 and enjoyed a very favorable reception. However, the author’s health began to decline, and he passed away in 1962.
Translator's Note
Although rooted in the many stories and anecdotes about the traditional Sufi figure Nasreddin, Solovyov’s character is unique. A tireless champion of the downtrodden and a thorn in the side of the powers that be, Solovyov’s Hodja Nasreddin inspires the reader with his intelligence, wit, defiance of authority, and love of life. The occasional presence of Soviet overtones in the text does not diminish the reading experience in the least.
The two books of The Tale of Hodja Nasreddin have something to offer to readers of all ages – adventure for the young, philosophy for the more mature, and humor for everyone – and yet they are virtually unknown in the English-speaking world. I hope that this translation of Disturber of the Peace will help introduce Solovyov’s creation to a wider audience.
Dedicated to my family.
The Tale of Hodja Nasreddin: Disturber of the Peace
“‘And I said to him: ‘For the joy of those who live with me on earth, I will write a book – may the cold winds of time never blow on its pages, may the radiant spring of my poems never yield to the mirthless autumn of oblivion!…’ And – look! – the roses in the garden have not yet shed their petals, and I still walk without a cane, while the book ‘Gulistan,’ which means ‘The Rose Garden,’ has already been written by me, and you are reading it…”
“This story has been passed on to us by Abu-Omar-Ah-med-ibn-Muhammad from the words of Muhammad-ibn-Ali-Rifaa, in reference to Ali-ibn-Abd-al-Aziz, who referred to Abu-Ubei-da-al-Hasim-ibn-Selam, who spoke from the words of his tutors, the last of whom cites Omar-ibn-al-Hattab and his son Abd-Allah – may Allah be pleased with them both!”
To the memory of my unforgettable friend Mumin Adilov, who died on the 18th of April, 1930, in the mountain kishlak of Namai from a treacherous enemy bullet, I dedicate this book, in reverence of this pure memory. He had many, many characteristics of Hodja Nasreddin – a selfless love for the people, courage, an honest slyness, and noble cunning – and when I was writing this book, I imagined more than once, in the quiet of the night, that his spirit was standing behind my chair and guiding my pen.
He is buried in Kanibadam. I visited his grave recently; children were playing around the hill, overgrown with spring grass and flowers, while he lay in eternal sleep and did not respond to the summons of my heart…
Part 1
“They tell also of a simpleton who walked along, leading his donkey by the bridle.”
Chapter 1
Hodja Nasreddin met the thirty-fifth year of his life on the road.
He had spent more than ten years in exile, wandering from city to city, from one country to another, crossing seas and deserts, and spending the nights where he could – on the bare earth by a shepherd’s meager fire, or in a packed caravanserai, where the camels scratch and pant in the dusty darkness till morning, jingling their bells quietly, or in a smoky, sooty chaikhana [1], among water-bearers, beggars, and camel drivers lying side by side, along with other poor folk who routinely fill the bazaar squares and narrow city streets with piercing shouts at the break of dawn. Quite often, he managed to spend the night on the soft silken pillows of some Iranian dignitary, who was meanwhile scouring all the chaikhanas and caravanserais with a detachment of guards, searching for the vagrant and blasphemer Hodja Nasreddin in order to have him impaled… A thin strip of sky would appear through the window grating, the stars would turn pale, a morning breeze would ruffle the leaves gently and tenderly, and lively turtle-doves would begin to coo and clean their feathers on the windowsill. Kissing the weary beauty, Hodja Nasreddin would say:
“It is time. Farewell, my incomparable pearl, and do not forget me.”
“Wait!” she would reply, locking her lovely arms around his neck. “Are you leaving for good? But why? Listen – when it grows dark this evening, I will send the old woman to fetch you again.”
“No. I have long forgotten the times when I spent two nights in a row under one roof. I must go, for I am in a great hurry.”
“Go? Have you some urgent business in another city? Where do you intend to go?”
“I do not know. But dawn approaches, the city gates have opened already, and the first caravans have set out on their journey. Can you hear? The camels’ bells are ringing. When this sound reaches my ears, it is as though the djinns themselves possess my feet, and I cannot sit still!”
“Very well then, go!” the beauty would say irritably, trying in vain to hide the tears glistening on her long eyelashes. “But at least tell me your name before we part.”
“You wish to know my name? Listen, then – you have spent the night with Hodja Nasreddin! I am Hodja Nasreddin, disturber of the peace and sower of discord, the same one whose name is daily trumpeted by the heralds in all the squares and bazaars along with promises of a large reward for his head. They offered three thousand tomans [2] yesterday, and I even thought: what if I were to sell my own head at so good a price? You laugh, my little star, so give me your lips quickly one last time. I would give you an emerald if I could, but I do not have an emerald – take this simple white stone instead as a keepsake!”