Henry Lyon Oldie

DO YOU KNOW UKRAINIAN NIGHT?

N. V. Gogol - from the XXI century with love

From the news of e-book publishing:
""Do it yourself!" - the publishing house "Pisar" developed an adaptation program literary text in terms of taste modern reader. Expanding the text space, enhancing the dynamics of events, breaking down into easy paragraphs, drawing on the best examples from bestsellers recent years- at your service…"

Do you know Ukrainian night? Oh, you don't know the Ukrainian night! Take a look at her.

I am the Falcon! I am the Falcon! I'm coming for the bombing!

Watch out! They are on the tail!

Where are the fighters?!

The trails of bullets cut through the darkness. The moon looks from the middle of the sky. The immense vault of heaven resounded, parted even more immensely. It burns and breathes. The glow over the nuclear burial ground, which Dikanka has turned into, made the world shudder. The horses of the riders of the Apocalypse trample the meadows. Their day has come! - a black, murderous day without sun. The earth is all in the silver light of radiation; and the wonderful air is both cool and stuffy, and full of bliss, and moves an ocean of fragrances - burning flesh, singed rubber, soldier's sweat.

Divine Night! Charming night!

Night of swords and spears!

The forests, full of darkness, became motionless, inspired, and cast a huge shadow from themselves.

Ariel! What is there in the darkness?

Oh-oh! It's orcs! They hide in the shadows!

Give them their guts!

Dump them in the pond!

Quiet and calm these ponds; the cold and gloom of their waters is sullenly enclosed in the dark green walls of the gardens. The white faces of drowned men sway at the bottom. Only occasionally does a necromancer magician raise them for a disastrous cause - and swollen, covered with armor from clinging crayfish, implacable corpses go to fulfill the order. They slither like ghosts through the trees. Virgin thickets of bird cherry trees and sweet cherries timidly stretched their roots into the spring cold and occasionally murmur with leaves, as if angry and indignant, when a beautiful anemone - a night wind smelling of the diesel fuel of tanks and the skin of armor, sneaking up instantly kisses them.

The whole landscape is asleep.

Only paratrooper robots do not sleep. Leaving the holds of the Frantic spacebot, they go in a clanking crowd to conquer the Earth. And above everything breathes, everything is wonderful, everything is solemn. And in the soul it is both immense and wonderful, and crowds of silver visions harmoniously arise in its depths. Cities are crumbling. Monsters eat blondes. The elf draws his trusty .45 Colt. The Black Lord brings havoc on the citadel, gripped by fear. Divine Night!

Charming night!

Zombies stretch their hands to the windows of the huts, from where it smells of warm blood. The dead want the realm of death to stretch to the horizon. And suddenly everything came to life: forests, and ponds, and steppes. Lived - but not for long! The majestic thunder of the Ukrainian nightingale is pouring, and it seems that even the moon has heard it in the middle of the sky ... No! this is not a nightingale! This is the thunder of the plasmatrons of the battleship Batyushkov. Descending, it is already ready to join Dikanka to the Russian Space Empire! Neuroemitters covered the area; artificial sleep covers local residents. As if enchanted, the village is dozing on a hill. Even whiter, even better shine with a month of crowds of huts; even more dazzling are their low walls cut out of the darkness. Stacks of hay, set on fire from flamethrowers, burn even brighter.

The songs are silent. Everything is quiet.

pious people are already sleeping. Some partisans in the surrounding forests. Some have turned into mutants. Somewhere only narrow windows shine. In front of the thresholds of other only huts, a belated family makes their late supper.

Your last supper.

Yes, hopak is not dancing like that! That's what I look, everything is not glued. The world collapsed, fighting all around, Cthulhu came out of the depths. What does the godfather say? And well: gop trawl! gop trawl! hop, hop, hop! - this is how a middle-aged man, who has been on a spree, talked to himself, dancing along the street with a machine gun under his arm. - By God, this is not how hopak is danced! Why should I lie! by God, it's not! Come on, in a long line at a platoon of star infantry! And well: gop trawl! gop trawl! gop trawl! hop, hop, hop!

Here's a crazy man! So it shoots at the enemy! It would be nice to have some kind of lad, otherwise an old boar, for children to laugh, dances down the street at night! cried an elderly woman passing by, carrying straw and a rusty sledgehammer in her hand. - Go to your house. Time to sleep long time!

And all who remained alive fell asleep.

Do you know Ukrainian night?

Ukrainian night in the works of Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol (1809-1852), Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky (1893-1930), Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin (1799-1837) and Arkhip Ivanovich Kuindzhi (1842-1910).

Nikolay Gogol
Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka

May night, or drowned woman

II
Head

Do you know Ukrainian night? Oh, you don't know the Ukrainian night! Take a look at her. The moon looks from the middle of the sky. The immense vault of heaven resounded, parted even more immensely. It burns and breathes. The earth is all in silver light; and the wonderful air is cool and stuffy, and full of bliss, and moves an ocean of fragrances. Divine Night! Charming night! The forests, full of darkness, became motionless, inspired, and cast a huge shadow from themselves. Quiet and calm these ponds; the cold and gloom of their waters is sullenly enclosed in the dark green walls of the gardens. The virgin thickets of bird cherry and sweet cherry fearfully stretched their roots into the spring cold and occasionally murmur with their leaves, as if angry and indignant, when a beautiful anemone - the night wind, sneaking up instantly, kisses them. The whole landscape is asleep. And above everything breathes, everything is wonderful, everything is solemn. And in the soul it is both immense and wonderful, and crowds of silver visions harmoniously arise in its depths. Divine Night! Charming night! And suddenly everything came to life: forests, and ponds, and steppes. The majestic thunder of the Ukrainian nightingale is pouring, and it seems that even the month has heard it in the middle of the sky ... As if enchanted, the village is dozing on a hill. Even whiter, even better shine with a month of crowds of huts; even more dazzling are their low walls cut out of the darkness. The songs are silent. Everything is quiet. The pious people are already asleep. Somewhere only narrow windows shine. In front of the thresholds of other only huts, a belated family makes their late supper.

1829-1830

……………………………….

Arkhip Kuindzhi

Ukrainian night

Arkhip Kuindzhi. Ukrainian Night, 1876 State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow

The painting became a turning point in the work of Arkhip Kuindzhi, as art critics who study the artist’s work say. It was in this picture that the artist found his individuality and changed his style. This picture marked the beginning of the mature creative period of Kuindzhi's work.

……………………………….

Vladimir Mayakovsky

Debt to Ukraine

Did you know
Ukrainian night?
No,
you do not know the Ukrainian night!
Here
sky
from smoke
becomes black,
and coat of arms
star five-pointed vtochen.
Where is the vodka
prowess
and blood
Zaporozhye
seethed Sich,
wire harness
pacifying the Dnieper,
Dnieper
will force
leaking to the turbines.
and Dnipro
along the mustache wires
electricity
flows through the hulls.
No way, refined
and Gogol needs it!

We know,
does he smoke
does Chaplin drink;
we know
Italy armless ruins;
we know,
like Douglas
the tie is tipped...
And what do we know
about the face of Ukraine?
Knowledge cargo
Russian
skinny -
those who are nearby
little respect.
Know here
Ukrainian borsch,
Know here
Ukrainian fat.
And from culture
removed foam:
except
two
famous Tarasov -
bulbs
and the famous Shevchenko, -
you won't get anything
no matter how hard you try.
And if they press -
blush with a rose
and nominate
new argument:
take and tell
a couple of curiosities -
jokes
Ukrainian language.
I say to myself:
Comrade Muscovite,
to Ukraine
no jokes.
Learn
this language
on banners -
scarlet lexicons, -
this language
majestic and simple
“You hear, the surrogates have begun to play,
the hour of reckoning has come ... "
Can it be
tattered
hush
words
worn out
"Do you hear"?!
I
I came up with a lot of words for you
weighing them,
I only want one thing -
to become
all
my
poetry words
full-bodied,
like the word "hear".

Henry Lyon Oldie

DO YOU KNOW UKRAINIAN NIGHT?

N. V. Gogol - from the XXI century with love

From the news of e-book publishing:

""Do it yourself!" - the publishing house "Pisar" has developed a program of adaptation of the literary text in relation to the tastes of the modern reader. Expanding the text space, strengthening the dynamics of events, breaking it down into easy paragraphs, attracting the best samples from the bestsellers of recent years - at your service ... "

Do you know Ukrainian night? Oh, you don't know the Ukrainian night! Take a look at her.

- I am the Falcon! I am the Falcon! I'm coming for the bombing!

- Watch out! They are on the tail!

- Where are the fighters?!

The trails of bullets cut through the darkness. The moon looks from the middle of the sky. The immense vault of heaven resounded, parted even more immensely. It burns and breathes. The glow over the nuclear burial ground, which Dikanka has turned into, made the world shudder. The horses of the riders of the Apocalypse trample the meadows. Their day has come! - a black, murderous day without sun. The earth is all in silver light radiation; and the wonderful air is cool and stuffy, and full of bliss, and moves an ocean of fragrances - burning flesh, singed rubber, soldier sweat.

Divine Night! Charming night!

Night of swords and spears!

The forests, full of darkness, became motionless, inspired, and cast a huge shadow from themselves.

- Ariel! What is there in the darkness?

- Oh! It's orcs! They hide in the shadows!

- Ruby!

- When!

- Blow them out!

- Drown them in the pond!

Quiet and calm these ponds; the cold and gloom of their waters is sullenly enclosed in the dark green walls of the gardens. The white faces of drowned men sway at the bottom. Only occasionally does a necromancer magician raise them for a disastrous cause - and swollen, covered with armor from clinging crayfish, implacable corpses go to fulfill the order. They slither like ghosts through the trees. Virgin thickets of bird cherry trees and sweet cherries timidly stretch their roots into the spring cold and occasionally murmur with leaves, as if angry and indignant when a beautiful anemone is a night wind, smelling of the diesel fuel of tanks and the skin of armor, sneaking up instantly, kisses them.

The whole landscape is asleep.

Only paratrooper robots do not sleep. Leaving the holds of the Frantic spacebot, they go in a clanking crowd to conquer the Earth. And above everything breathes, everything is wonderful, everything is solemn. And in the soul it is both immense and wonderful, and crowds of silver visions harmoniously arise in its depths. Cities are crumbling. Monsters eat blondes. The elf draws his trusty .45 Colt. The Black Lord brings havoc on the citadel, gripped by fear. Divine Night!

Charming night!

Zombies stretch their hands to the windows of the huts, from where it smells of warm blood. The dead want the realm of death to stretch to the horizon. And suddenly everything came to life: forests, and ponds, and steppes. Lived - but not for long! The majestic thunder of the Ukrainian nightingale is pouring, and it seems that even the moon has heard it in the middle of the sky ... No! this is not a nightingale! This is the thunder of the plasmatrons of the battleship Batyushkov. Descending, it is already ready to join Dikanka to the Russian Space Empire! Neuroemitters covered the area; artificial sleep covers the locals. As if enchanted, the village is dozing on a hill. Even whiter, even better shine with a month of crowds of huts; even more dazzling are their low walls cut out of the darkness. Stacks of hay, set on fire from flamethrowers, burn even brighter.

The songs are silent. Everything is quiet.

The pious people are already asleep. Some partisans in the surrounding forests. Some have turned into mutants. Somewhere only narrow windows shine. In front of the thresholds of other only huts, a belated family makes their late supper.

Your last supper.

Yes, hopak is not dancing like that! That's what I look, everything is not glued. The world collapsed, fighting all around, Cthulhu came out of the depths. What does the godfather say? And well: gop trawl! gop trawl! hop, hop, hop! - this is how a middle-aged man, who was on a spree, talked to himself, dancing along the street with an automatic armpit.- By God, this is not how hopak is danced! Why should I lie! by God, it's not! Come on, in a long line at a platoon of star infantry! And well: gop trawl! gop trawl! gop trawl! hop, hop, hop!

Here's a crazy man! So it shoots at the enemy! It would be nice to have some kind of lad, otherwise an old boar, for children to laugh, dances down the street at night! cried an elderly woman passing by, carrying straw in her hand. and rusty protazan.- Go to your house. Time to sleep long time!

And all who remained alive fell asleep.

Do you know Ukrainian night?

Gogol Stepanov Nikolay Leonidovich

"DO YOU KNOW UKRAINIAN NIGHT?"

The city was heated by the hot June sun. It was stuffy, dusty, smelled of carbolic acid. Cholera was rampant in Petersburg.

Disturbing rumors circulated around the city. Heaps are poor dressed people gathered in the streets, angrily scolded doctors, pharmacists, officials who were slandering the people. At night, the dead were carried in tarred coffins on black funeral drogs, and more often on simple carts covered with matting. Quarantine and outposts cut off the capital from the rest of Russia.

In these painful summer days Gogol left Petersburg and settled in Pavlovsk at the dacha of Princess Vasilchikova as a mentor to her sick son. The princess lived with her children in the spacious house of her mother Arkharova, occupying a separate outbuilding. A large staff of the Arkharov and Vasilchikov households, hosts, and guests huddled here.

During the day, Gogol worked with a weak-minded, underdeveloped boy, showing him the pictures drawn in the book, and patiently repeating: “This, Vasenka, is a lamb - be ... e ... e, but this is a cow - mu ... u ... mu ... u ... But doggy - how ... ay ... ay ... ”The boy was reclining in an armchair and looked blankly at the teacher with meek, uncomprehending eyes.

But evenings and nights belonged to Gogol. With excitement and excruciating joy, he re-read the sheets written in his small, illegible handwriting, made corrections to them, and again wrote feverishly with a slightly squeaky goose quill. It was created by his "Evenings on a farm near Dikanka". The scorching sun of native Ukraine, the bright plakhty of the maidens, the incessant talk of the fair, the caressing melody folk song, the whisper of the steppe grasses filled the cramped little room with the bed screened off. How far all this is from stiff Pavlovsk, from the fussy and noisy house of the princess, from the condescendingly indifferent, polite and cold people who surrounded him here!

For the princess and her servants, he was just a funny eccentric, a poor teacher, living in this rich aristocratic house for a piece of bread, almost out of mercy.

Sometimes in the evenings he would come to the princess's host, Alexandra Stepanovna, a little scrawny old woman, who busily gave him tea with strawberry jam.

In a low room, against the wall, stands an old-fashioned sofa upholstered in colorful calico, and in front of it round table covered with red paper tablecloth. On the table, under a dark green lampshade, a lamp is burning, brightly illuminating the faces of those present. Thin, with a long and thin nose, with a tuft sticking out above his forehead blond hair Gogol sits down at the table on a high chair. Opposite on the sofa are already three ancient old women. Together, attentively, they knit stockings with iron knitting needles and condescendingly glance over their glasses. At the door, servants, court princesses, huddle together.

It becomes quiet, Gogol slowly lays out the sheets of his manuscript on the table. Unexpectedly in a room with important view, enters a stout young man with lush sideburns in the uniform of a student at Dorpat University. This is the nephew of the princess, Count Vladimir Sollogub, who writes poems and considers himself a sworn writer. Sollogub nods condescendingly to Gogol and sits down at the table.

Well, Nikolai Vasilyevich, start! - says Alexandra Stepanovna, adjusting her glasses on her nose.

Read, - confirms Sollogub, putting a lorgnette to his short-sighted eyes. - I myself write and am interested in literature.

Gogol looks questioningly at Sollogub. A sardonic grin curls his thin lips for a moment. He moves towards the lamp, unhurriedly straightens the pages with his long, thin fingers, and begins to read.

- “Do you know the Ukrainian night? Oh, you don't know the Ukrainian night! Take a look at her. The moon looks from the middle of the sky. The immense vault of heaven resounded, parted even more immensely. It burns and breathes. The earth is all in silver light; and the wonderful air is cool and stuffy, and full of bliss, and moves an ocean of fragrances. Divine Night! Charming night!

In Gogol's voice one can hear some kind of surprise, restrained delight, soulful softness. His brown eyes smile kindly. From time to time he shakes long hair falling on his forehead. Describing midsummer night, he, as it were, shares with the listeners the impressions of summer freshness, blue, dotted bright stars heights, fragrances of Ukrainian gardens...

Suddenly he stops.

- “Yes, hopak is not dancing like that!” he exclaims, looking fervently at the audience.

Why not? - Alexandra Stepanovna asks in confusion, ceasing to move her knitting needles. She thought that Gogol had addressed her. However, he continues as if nothing had happened:

- “So I look, everything is not glued. What does the godfather say?..

And well: gop trawl! Gop trawl! Gop trawl! Hop, hop, hop!"

And the story continues to flow about the lad Levko in love, his freedom-loving comrades, helping him outwit the imperious and stupid head and win the hand of the dreamy beauty Ganna. Heroes folk songs seem to fill a vast, squat room. Pictures of Ukrainian nature, a touching description of the meeting of lovers are interspersed with perky humor of everyday scenes.

Gogol ends the reading by mentioning Hanna, who is sleeping in the silver rays of the moon, and the drunken Kalenik, who is looking for his hut. The listeners, enchanted by the magical vision of the Ukrainian night, are admiringly silent.

Oh, tse garno! - unexpectedly hoarse bass says the coachman Gritsko, who was taken out by Vasilchikova from Ukraine.

The charm of reading is broken. The maids standing in a crowd at the door wipe the tears from their eyes and whisper. Alexandra Stepanovna rises from the sofa and fusses about preparing tea. A Dorpat student warmly shakes Gogol's hand, assuring him that real writer and should take its rightful place in the literature. Gogol silently listens to compliments. His enthusiasm, admiration for the world, which he himself called to life, has already passed, gone out.

People slowly disperse, occasionally snorting, remembering funny jokes, the words of a drunken Kalenik. A steaming samovar and strawberry jam appear on the table.