Divine night is enchanting. Ukrainian night: Gogol, Mayakovsky, Pushkin, Kuindzhi
Do you know Ukrainian night? Oh, you don’t know Ukrainian night! Take a closer look at it. The moon is looking down from the middle of the sky. The vast vault of heaven opened up and spread even more vastly. It burns and breathes. The earth is all in a silver light; and the wonderful air is cool and sultry, and full of bliss, and moves with an ocean of fragrances. Divine night! Charming night! The forests, full of darkness, became motionless and inspired, and cast a huge shadow from themselves. These ponds are quiet and peaceful; the cold and darkness of their waters are gloomily enclosed in the dark green walls of the gardens. The virgin thickets of bird cherry trees timidly stretched out their roots into the spring cold and occasionally babble with their leaves, as if angry and indignant, when the beautiful anemone - the night wind, creeping up instantly, kisses them. The entire landscape is asleep. And above everything is breathing, everything is marvelous, everything is solemn. But the soul is both immense and wonderful, and crowds of silver visions harmoniously appear in its depths. Divine night! Charming night! And suddenly everything came to life: forests, ponds, and steppes. The majestic thunder of the Ukrainian nightingale rains down, and it seems that even a month has listened to it in the middle of the sky... As if enchanted, the village is dozing on a hill. Crowds of huts shine even whiter and even better during the month; Their low walls are cut out of the darkness even more dazzlingly. The songs fell silent. Everything is quiet. Godly people are already asleep. Somewhere, narrow windows glow. Before the thresholds of some huts, a belated family makes its late dinner. - Yes, hopak is not danced like that! That's why I see that everything is not going well. What is this godfather telling?.. Well: gop trawl! gop trawl! gop, gop, gop! - This is how a middle-aged man who had been out for a walk talked to himself while dancing along the street. - By God, that’s not how hopak is danced! Why should I lie? By God, it's not like that! Well: gop trawl! gop trawl! gop trawl! gop, gop, gop! - The man has gone crazy! It would be nice if he was some kind of lad, otherwise an old boar is dancing down the street at night to make the children laugh! - cried a passerby elderly woman, carrying straw in his hand. - Go to your hut. It's time to sleep long ago! - I will go! - said the man, stopping. - I will go. I won't look at any head. What does he think didko would have tired of his father! that he is a head, that he pours on people in the cold cold water, and raised his nose! Well, head, head. I am my own head. God kill me! God kill me, I'm my own head. This is what, and not just that... - he continued, approaching the first hut he came across, and stopped in front of the window, sliding his fingers along the glass and trying to find the wooden handle. - Baba, open it! Baba, hurry up, they tell you, open the door! It's time for the Cossack to sleep! -Where are you going, Kalenik? You're in someone else's house! - the girls shouted, laughing, behind him, tossing and turning with cheerful songs. - Shall I show you your house? - Show me, dear young ladies! - Young girls? Do you hear,” one of them picked up, “what a polite Kalenik!” For this he needs to show the house... but no, dance first! — Dance?.. oh, you intricate girls! - Kalenik said drawlingly, laughing and shaking his finger and stumbling because his legs could not stay in one place. -Will you let me kiss you? I’ll kiss everyone, everyone!.. - And with indirect steps he started to run after them. The girls started shouting and began to mix; but then, having gained courage, they ran to the other side, seeing that Kalenik was not too quick on his feet. - There's your house! - they shouted to him, leaving and pointing to a hut, much larger than the others, which belonged to the village head. Kalenik obediently wandered in that direction, beginning to scold his head again. But who is this leader who has aroused such unfavorable rumors and speeches about himself? Oh that head important person in the village. By the time Kalenik reaches the end of his journey, we, no doubt, will have time to say something about him. The whole village, seeing him, takes up their hats; and the girls, the youngest ones, give good afternoon. Which of the boys would not want to be the head! Head open free entrance to all tavlinkas; and the burly man stands respectfully, having taken off his hat, the entire time the head thrusts its thick and rough fingers into his popular print snuffbox. In a secular gathering, or community, despite the fact that its power is limited to a few votes, the head always prevails and, almost of his own free will, sends out whomever he pleases to level and smooth the road or dig ditches. The head is gloomy, stern in appearance and does not like to talk much. A long time ago, a very long time ago, when the great Empress Catherine of blessed memory traveled to the Crimea, he was chosen to accompany him; He held this position for two whole days and was even honored to sit on the box with the Tsarina’s coachman. And from that very time on, he learned to lower his head thoughtfully and importantly, stroke his long, curled mustache and cast a hawk-like glance from under his brows. And from that time on, no matter what they talked to him about, his head always knew how to turn the conversation to how he carried the queen and sat on the box of the royal carriage. The head sometimes likes to pretend to be deaf, especially if it hears something it doesn’t want to hear. The head cannot stand ostentation: he always wears a scroll of black homemade cloth, girdles himself with a colored woolen belt, and no one has ever seen him in another suit, except perhaps for the time of the queen’s passage to the Crimea, when he was wearing a blue Cossack zhupan. But hardly anyone in the whole village could remember this time; and he keeps the zhupan in a chest under lock and key. Widows' Head; but his sister-in-law lives in his house, who cooks lunch and dinner, washes the benches, whitewashes the hut, spins his shirts, and manages the whole house. They say in the village that she is not related to him at all; but we have already seen that the head has many ill-wishers who are happy to spread all sorts of slander. However, perhaps the reason for this was also the fact that the sister-in-law always did not like it if his head went into a field dotted with reapers, or to a Cossack who had a young daughter. The head is crooked; But his lonely eye is a villain and can see a pretty villager far away. Not before, however, he points it at the pretty face until he takes a good look to see if his sister-in-law is looking from where. But we have already said almost everything we need about the head; and the drunken Kalenik had not yet reached half the road and for a long time continued to regal his head with all the choice words that could only fall into his lazily and incoherently turning tongue."Do you know Ukrainian night?"
The city was heating up in the hot June sun. It was stuffy, dusty, and smelled of carbolic acid. Cholera was raging in St. Petersburg.
Alarming rumors circulated around the city. Groups of poorly dressed people gathered in the streets, angrily scolding doctors, pharmacists, and officials who were killing the people. At night, the dead were transported in tarred coffins on black funeral carts, and more often on simple carts covered with matting. Quarantine and outposts cut off the capital from the rest of Russia.
In these difficult times summer days Gogol left St. 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 Arkharov and Vasilchikov servants, hangers-on, and guests huddled here.
During the day, Gogol worked with a weak-minded, underdeveloped boy, showing him pictures drawn in a book and patiently repeating: “This, Vasenka, is a lamb - b... e... e, but this is a cow - mu... u. .. mu... uh... But the dog - wow... ay... ay..." The boy was reclining in a chair and blankly looking at the teacher with meek, incomprehensible eyes.
But the evenings and nights belonged to Gogol. With excitement and painful joy, he re-read the sheets of paper covered in his small, illegible handwriting, made corrections to them, and again feverishly wrote in slightly creaky quill pen. These were created by his “Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka”. Scorching sun native Ukraine, the bright plakhtas of the girls, the incessant chatter of the fair, the caressing melody folk song, the whisper of steppe grasses filled the cramped small room with. bed separated by a screen. How far all this is from prim Pavlovsk, from the bustling 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 for a piece of bread, almost out of mercy, in this rich aristocratic house.
Sometimes in the evenings he came to the princess’s hanger-on, Alexandra Stepanovna, a small, dry old woman, who busily fed him tea with strawberry jam.
In a low room, against the wall there is an old-fashioned sofa covered with colorful chintz, and in front of it round table, covered with a red paper tablecloth. A lamp burns on the table under a dark green lampshade, brightly illuminating the faces of those present. Thin, with a long and thin nose, with a tuft sticking out above his forehead brown hair Gogol sits down on a high chair at the table. Opposite, three ancient old women were already seated on the sofa. Together, carefully, they knit stockings with iron knitting needles and look condescendingly over their glasses. Servants and court princesses huddle together near the doors.
It gets quiet. Gogol leisurely lays out the sheets of his manuscript on the table. Suddenly, a stout young man with lush sideburns, wearing the uniform of a student at the University of Dorpat, struts into the room. This is the princess’s nephew, 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, applying a lorgnette to his myopic eyes. - I write myself and am interested in literature.
Gogol looks questioningly at Sollogub. A sarcastic grin curls his thin lips for a moment. He moves towards the lamp, slowly straightens the sheets of paper with his long, thin fingers and begins to read.
- “Do you know the Ukrainian night? Oh, you don’t know the Ukrainian night! Look at it. The moon is looking from the middle of the sky. The vast vault of heaven has opened up, expanded even more immensely. It burns and breathes. The whole earth is in a silver light; and the wonderful air and cool and sultry, and full of bliss, and moving with an ocean of fragrances. Divine night! Enchanting night!"
In Gogol’s voice one can hear some kind of surprise, restrained delight, and sincere gentleness. His brown eyes smile tenderly. Every now and then he shakes long hair falling on his forehead. Describing a summer night, he seems to share with his listeners the impressions of summer freshness, the blue heights dotted with bright stars, the fragrance of Ukrainian gardens...
Suddenly he stops.
- “Yes, hopak is not danced like that!” - he exclaims, looking fervently at the audience.
Why isn't it so? - Alexandra Stepanovna asks in confusion, stopping moving her knitting needles. She thought that Gogol had addressed her. However, he continues as if nothing had happened:
- “I see, everything is not going well. What is this godfather telling?..
Well: gop trawl! Hop trawl! Hop trawl! Hop, gop, gop!"
And the story continues about the loving couple Levko, his freedom-loving comrades, who help him outwit the domineering and stupid head and win the hand of the dreamy beauty Hanna. Heroes folk songs seem to fill the vast, squat room. Pictures of Ukrainian nature, touching description meetings between lovers are interspersed with the playful humor of everyday scenes.
Gogol ends the reading by finally mentioning Hanna, sleeping in the silver rays of the month, and the drunken Kalenik, looking for his hut. The listeners, enchanted by the magical vision of the Ukrainian night, are silent in admiration.
Oh, it's great! - the coachman Gritsko, who was taken by Vasilchikova from Ukraine, speaks in an unexpectedly hoarse bass voice.
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 gets up from the sofa and fusses around, preparing tea. The Dorpat student warmly shakes Gogol's hand, assuring him that he real writer and should take its proper place in the literature. Gogol silently listens to compliments. His enthusiasm, admiration for the world, which he himself had brought to life, had already passed, faded away.
People slowly disperse, occasionally snorting, remembering funny jokes, words of a drunken Kalenik. A steaming samovar and strawberry jam appear on the table.
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 the Drowned Woman
II
Head
Do you know Ukrainian night? Oh, you don’t know Ukrainian night! Take a closer look at it. The moon is looking down from the middle of the sky. The vast vault of heaven opened up and spread even more vastly. It burns and breathes. The earth is all in a silver light; and the wonderful air is cool and sultry, and full of bliss, and moves with an ocean of fragrances. Divine night! Charming night! The forests, full of darkness, became motionless and inspired, and cast a huge shadow from themselves. These ponds are quiet and peaceful; the cold and darkness of their waters are gloomily enclosed in the dark green walls of the gardens. The virgin thickets of bird cherry trees timidly stretched out their roots into the spring cold and occasionally babble with their leaves, as if angry and indignant, when the beautiful anemone - the night wind, creeping up instantly, kisses them. The entire landscape is asleep. And above everything is breathing, everything is marvelous, everything is solemn. But the soul is both immense and wonderful, and crowds of silver visions harmoniously appear in its depths. Divine night! Charming night! And suddenly everything came to life: forests, ponds, and steppes. The majestic thunder of the Ukrainian nightingale rains down, and it seems that even a month has listened to it in the middle of the sky... As if enchanted, the village is dozing on a hill. Crowds of huts shine even whiter and even better during the month; Their low walls are cut out of the darkness even more dazzlingly. The songs fell silent. Everything is quiet. Godly people are already asleep. Somewhere, narrow windows glow. Before the thresholds of some huts, a belated family makes its late dinner.
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 noted by art critics who study the artist’s work. It was in this painting that the artist found his individuality and changed his style. This painting marked the beginning of Kuindzhi's mature creative period.
……………………………….
Vladimir Mayakovsky
Debt to Ukraine
Did you know
Ukrainian night?
No,
you don’t know Ukrainian night!
Here
sky
from smoke
it becomes black,
and coat of arms
etched with a five-pointed star.
Where is the vodka
prowess
and blood
Zaporozhye
The Sich was seething,
wires reined in
having humbled the Dnieper,
Dnieper
will force
the turbines are leaking.
And Dnipro
along the mustache wires
electricity
flows through the buildings.
Probably refined sugar
and Gogol needs it!
We know,
does he smoke?
Does Chaplin drink?
we know
Italy's armless ruins;
we know,
like Douglas
the tie is marked...
What do we know
about the face of Ukraine?
Knowledge is a load
from the Russian
skinny -
to those who are nearby
little honor.
They know that
Ukrainian borsch,
They know that
Ukrainian lard.
And from culture
skimmed off the foam:
except
two
famous Tarasov -
Bulba
and the famous Shevchenko, -
you won't get anything out of it
no matter how hard you try.
And if they press you -
will light up with a rose
and will nominate
new argument:
will take it and tell
a couple of curiosities -
jokes
Ukrainian language.
I tell myself:
comrade Muscovite,
to Ukraine
no jokes.
Unlearn
this language
on the banners -
scarlet lexicons, -
this language
majestic and simple:
“You hear that the surrogates have begun to attack,
the hour of reckoning has arrived..."
Is it possible
more shabby
hush up
words
well-worn
“Do you hear”?!
I
I came up with a lot of words for you,
weighing them
I only want one thing -
to become
everyone
my
poetry words
full-fledged,
like the word "feel".
Henry Lyon Oldie
DO YOU KNOW UKRAINIAN NIGHT?
To N.V. Gogol - from the 21st century with love
From e-book publishing news:
""Do it yourself!" - publishing house“Clerk” adaptation program developed literary text in relation to tastes modern reader. Expanding the text space, enhancing the dynamics of events, breaking it down into easy paragraphs, attracting the best examples from bestsellers recent years- at your service…"
* * *Do you know Ukrainian night? Oh, you don’t know Ukrainian night! Take a closer look at it.
I am "Falcon"! I am "Falcon"! I'm coming in for a bomb strike!
Beware! They're on your tail!
Where are the fighters?!
Bullet trails ripped through the darkness. The moon is looking down from the middle of the sky. The vast vault of heaven opened up and spread even more vastly. It burns and breathes. The glow over the nuclear burial ground that Dikanka had turned into made the world shudder. The horses of the horsemen of the Apocalypse trample the meadows. Their day has come! - a black, deadly day without sun. The earth is all in the silver light of radiation; and the wonderful air is cool and sultry, and full of bliss, and moves with an ocean of fragrances - burning flesh, scorched rubber, soldier's sweat.
Divine night! Charming night!
Night of swords and spears!
The forests, full of darkness, became motionless and inspired, and cast a huge shadow from themselves.
Ariel! What's there in the darkness?
Ooh! These are orcs! They're hiding in the shadows!
Blow their guts out!
Drown them in the pond!
These ponds are quiet and peaceful; the cold and darkness of their waters are gloomily enclosed in the dark green walls of the gardens. The white faces of the drowned men sway at the bottom. Only occasionally will a necromancer magician raise them for a disastrous task - and the swollen, inexorable corpses, covered in armor from clinging crayfish, go to carry out the order. They glide like ghosts between the trees. The virgin thickets of bird cherry trees timidly stretched out their roots into the spring cold and occasionally babble with their leaves, as if angry and indignant, when a beautiful anemone - the night wind, smelling of the diesel fuel of tanks and the leather of armor, creeps up instantly and kisses them.
The entire landscape is asleep.
Only robot paratroopers do not sleep. Leaving the holds of the spacebot "Furious", they go in a clanging crowd to conquer the Earth. And above everything is breathing, everything is marvelous, everything is solemn. But the soul is both immense and wonderful, and crowds of silver visions harmoniously appear in its depths. Cities are collapsing. Monsters eat blondes. The elf whips out his trusty Colt .45. The Black Lord brings darkness to the citadel, gripped by fear. Divine night!
Charming night!
Zombies stretch their hands to the windows of the huts, from where there is the smell of warm blood. The dead want the kingdom of death to stretch to the very horizon. And suddenly everything came to life: forests, ponds, and steppes. It came to life - but not for long! The majestic thunder of the Ukrainian nightingale rains down, and it seems that even a month has listened to 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, he is ready to annex Dikanka to the Russian Space Empire! Neuroemitters covered the area; artificial sleep covers local residents. As if enchanted, the village sleeps on the hill. Crowds of huts shine even whiter and even better during the month; Their low walls are cut out of the darkness even more dazzlingly. Haystacks set on fire by flamethrowers burn even brighter.
The songs fell silent. Everything is quiet.
Godly people are already asleep. Some are partisans in the surrounding forests. Some have turned into mutants. Somewhere, narrow windows glow. Before the thresholds of some huts, a belated family makes its late dinner.
Your last supper.
Yes, hopak is not danced like that! That's why I see that everything is not going well. The world collapsed, there were battles all around, Cthulhu emerged from the depths. What is this godfather saying? Well: gop trawl! gop trawl! gop, gop, gop! - this is how a middle-aged man who had been having fun talked to himself as he danced down the street with a machine gun under his arm. - By God, that’s not how hopak is danced! Why should I lie? By God, it's not like that! Come on, fire a long line at the star infantry platoon! Well: gop trawl! gop trawl! gop trawl! gop, gop, gop!
The man has gone crazy! So it shoots at the enemy! It would be nice if there was a lad, otherwise an old boar is dancing down the street at night to make the children laugh! - cried an elderly woman passing by, carrying straw and a rusty protazan in her hand. - Go to your hut. It's time to sleep long ago!
And everyone who remained alive fell asleep.
Do you know Ukrainian night?
Current page: 1 (book has 1 pages in total)
Henry Lyon Oldie
DO YOU KNOW UKRAINIAN NIGHT?
To N.V. Gogol - from the 21st century with love
From e-book publishing news:
""Do it yourself!" – the publishing house “Pisar” has developed a program for adapting literary texts to suit the tastes of the modern reader. Expanding the text space, enhancing the dynamics of events, breaking it down into easy paragraphs, attracting the best examples from the bestsellers of recent years - at your service..."
* * *
Do you know Ukrainian night? Oh, you don’t know Ukrainian night! Take a closer look at it.
- I am “Falcon”! I am “Falcon”! I'm coming in for a bomb strike!
- Be careful! They're on your tail!
– Where are the fighters?!
Bullet trails ripped through the darkness. The moon is looking down from the middle of the sky. The vast vault of heaven opened up and spread even more vastly. It burns and breathes. The glow over the nuclear burial ground that Dikanka had turned into made the world shudder. The horses of the horsemen of the Apocalypse trample the meadows. Their day has come! - a black, deadly day without sun. The earth is all in silver light radiation; and the wonderful air is cool and sultry, and full of bliss, and moves an ocean of fragrances - burning flesh, scorched rubber, soldier's sweat.
Divine night! Charming night!
Night of swords and spears!
The forests, full of darkness, became motionless and inspired, and cast a huge shadow from themselves.
- Ariel! What's there in the darkness?
- Oh! These are orcs! They're hiding in the shadows!
- Ruby!
- Koli!
- Blow their guts out!
- Drown them in the pond!
These ponds are quiet and peaceful; the cold and darkness of their waters are gloomily enclosed in the dark green walls of the gardens. The white faces of the drowned men sway at the bottom. Only occasionally will a necromancer magician raise them for a disastrous task - and the swollen, inexorable corpses, covered in armor from clinging crayfish, go to carry out the order. They glide like ghosts between the trees. The virgin thickets of bird cherry and cherry timidly stretched out their roots in the spring cold and occasionally babble with their leaves, as if angry and indignant, when the beautiful anemone - the night wind, smelling of diesel fuel from tanks and the leather of armor, sneaking up instantly, kisses them.
The entire landscape is asleep.
Only robot paratroopers do not sleep. Leaving the holds of the spacebot "Furious", they go in a clanging crowd to conquer the Earth. And above everything is breathing, everything is marvelous, everything is solemn. But the soul is both immense and wonderful, and crowds of silver visions harmoniously appear in its depths. Cities are collapsing. Monsters eat blondes. The elf whips out his trusty Colt .45. The Black Lord brings darkness to the citadel, gripped by fear. Divine night!
Charming night!
Zombies stretch their hands to the windows of the huts, from where there is the smell of warm blood. The dead want the kingdom of death to stretch to the very horizon. And suddenly everything came to life: forests, ponds, and steppes. It came to life - but not for long! The majestic thunder of the Ukrainian nightingale rains down, and it seems that even a month 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, he is ready to annex Dikanka to the Russian Space Empire! Neuroemitters covered the area; artificial sleep covers local residents. As if enchanted, the village sleeps on the hill. Crowds of huts shine even whiter and even better during the month; Their low walls are cut out of the darkness even more dazzlingly. Haystacks set on fire by flamethrowers burn even brighter.
The songs fell silent. Everything is quiet.
Godly people are already asleep. Some are partisans in the surrounding forests. Some have turned into mutants. Somewhere, narrow windows glow. Before the thresholds of some huts, a belated family makes its late dinner.
Your last supper.
- Yes, hopak is not danced like that! That's why I see that everything is not going well. The world collapsed, there were battles all around, Cthulhu emerged from the depths. What is this godfather saying? Well: gop trawl! gop trawl! gop, gop, gop! - this is how a middle-aged man who had been having fun talked to himself while dancing along the street with a machine gun under his arm.- By God, that’s not how hopak is danced! Why should I lie? By God, it's not like that! Come on, fire a long line at the star infantry platoon! Well: gop trawl! gop trawl! gop trawl! gop, gop, gop!
- The man has gone crazy! So it shoots at the enemy! It would be nice if there was a lad, otherwise an old boar is dancing down the street at night to make the children laugh! - cried a passing elderly woman, carrying straw in her hand and a rusty protazan.- Go to your hut. It's time to sleep long ago!
And everyone who remained alive fell asleep.
Do you know Ukrainian night?
