In the quiet evening: a fairy tale

This little-known novel by the classic of Ukrainian literature Bohdan Lepky reveals the drama of two loving people who according to social "laws" were not destined to be a couple, and penetration into the ruling classes of modern trends. The sad story has a fabulous ending. We still have to fight for happiness!

The text is presented in modern spelling with significant preservation of lexical, phraseological, morphological features inherent in the writer's speech and characteristic of the Galician dialect of the period of writing.

For a wide range of readers.

Book Review: Another Silent Drama, or Vivat Hymena (by Tatiana Digay)

Part One

I

Looked at the autumn leaves. It is never as luxurious as when it is afraid of the first frost. As if to say: - Look how beautiful I am!

Stop winter!

The veranda on which she was sitting was covered with red grapes. He rustled in the wind like a silk dress.

It was as if the veranda was dressed for a fairytale ball. there is a wall. White birches whispered along the wall and young spruces huddled together. Behind the wall was a forest. Leaves flew from the forest like shot birds. One fell to her knees.

“Hornbeam leaves are already flying. Autumn ... And how beautiful! ”... she pinned herself to her chest. "Apparently, to my face ... Autumn ..." "I didn't hear the train pull in." here, on the veranda.

The parquet creaked, several doors opened and a healthy, tall, but already well-gray man appeared on the veranda.

I went to meet him and held out my hand.

- I thought that you are walking over the sea, or sitting at a roll, and you are again in our God-forgotten corner.

has no one to shout at from the morning, then ... boring. It's best for me at home ...

I'm getting old.

- Did you bring me this news? I thought I would get younger listening to your stories, and you: I'm getting older ...

- I said what I thought. And what about you, madam?

- I'm getting old too.

- That's stupid. I don't know what to say.

- It's best not to say anything. We're both getting old ... Sit down and watch. Really, how beautiful here now? Much better than in summer. What a wealth of colors! Especially here, where the sun breaks through the forest wilderness. How every leaf there trembles, as if rejoicing.

- As if remembering how green it was. Satisfaction.

- Only the aspen trembles together.

- Like a human heart, madam.

- And from the linden leaves fall and fall.

- As unfulfilled dreams .. Beautiful, really beautiful autumn.

And better here than over the sea, and much better than summer and spring. Spring is green, stupid, and autumn is thoughtful - she has already survived the summer.

- Like us.

- Like me, dear lady!

- And if not?

- I don't know.

* * *

And they were silent for a moment. The wind really wanted to cover their heads with leaves, but it couldn't. The leaves bounced off the roof over the porch and lay quietly on the path. "And I still love summer," she said. >

- And the vegetables are burning.

- And the bees are swarming ...

Shut up.

- I especially love how the storm pulls in after a long time.

And so, you know, formidable, sinister, with thunder and lightning.

I'm so restless then, so I'm waiting for something.

- We were destined to wait, - he said briefly and

abruptly.

I looked at him and saw a bitter smile on his lips, shaded by a gray mustache.

He heard this look and, blunting his leg, repeated:

- Wait, wait, wait.

The sun ran out on the forest road and laughed with all the force of its colorful imagination.

- How beautiful! She said, squinting her eyes. "You're burning whole, like in a halo." "Don't look at me, only at the beauty of nature." "I'm looking at the beauty." >

- See how the roses burn? They move, tremble, as if breathing, as if they want to open their mouths and say: "how beautiful!".

- And the verbena smells!

- And tobacco!

They leaned over the railing and discovered something new and beautiful in the garden. At once their heads shook ... They trembled ...

The sun smiled once more and hid behind the stumps of the trees.

The evening chill blew from the forest. > - Sorry! She said, straightening her hair. "I'm sorry!" - he said, bowing slightly.

She took the book in her hands and turned it over. He was walking on the veranda.

The leaves no longer flickered, the gorgeous colors of the flowers faded, but the scents intoxicated them.

* * *

- he said, standing impudently in front of her ... he forgot that I was not in myself.

- Are you really so nervous in yourself?

- I walk more than once for hours, like an animal in a cage.

- That's bad.

- Why?

- Denerving.

- Who?

- You.

- I am nervous about loneliness.

- I am also ...

- From that conclusion ...

- Shut up! ... I put my finger to my lips.

Silence. Only the wind rustled the leaves. "Good to tell you, ma'am, shut up!" But how? I'm not a mummy, I'm a living man. It's boring to shout at the servants and talk to the housekeeper about artificial manure. I want another conversation. But with whom? .. And you: "shut up"!

Now she is silent.

- Please tell, with whom? He asked, staring into her deep blue eyes. "Sit down!" She replied, pointing to the wicker armchair beside her. Thanks for that too. - Sit down.

- And, - calm down.

- I'll try, kind lady. At my age, it's not that hard ...

The evening cold has blown.

"It's getting cold," she said, looking for a word to strike up a broken conversation. > - The cold wind of hope has blown. -

Yes, yes.

- Recite further.

- I do not recite, I only say from the heart what the great poet once said. It is strange how the words of great poets never grow old; "Everything is getting old, but they aren't." "That's why they're great," she said, interrupting the conversation. The song wandered along the edge of the forest:

Oh nut, nut, and nut grain,

I loved the girl, I don't know if I'll take it,

Because I don't know if I'll come back.

Hey- hey!

It's "gay!" it was echoed far away, as if it did not come from human breasts, but from forests and reeds - as if fields and reeds sighed with eternal sorrow.

The moon rolled over the forest; not gold, but silver; at once a horn, and there and the whole sickle. And, like a grain from under a sickle, a silver radiance poured out of it.

- You know, ma'am, what? He said at once. - If I were born a second time and was young, I would not want any estates or fame - why are they? - I just want to be a healthy young man and drive horses for the night, to pasture and a song like this, to signal to my beloved girl from the other end, where I am going.

- To run to you when my mother

- Oh, yes! To run out to me ... we would listen together to the night whispering in the fields and forests.

- Look! I didn't know you were such a romantic! You know what I advise you.

- What?

- Don't wait until you are born again, because you can wait a long time, just ...

- Finish it: - "Only".

- You read "Faust"?

- How not?

- So call Mephistopheles to find you some Gretchen, there are many in the world. They are never translated ... Or maybe you ... don't need Mephistopheles ... - she added jokingly.

- You want to be mean, kind lady, but you can't. I'm not looking for Gretchen.

- Why?

- Because I don't want to.

- Don't complain.

- I don't complain. I'm just talking to you sincerely, like a good friend. Who can I talk to sincerely, if not you?

- Thank you for your trust.

- Thank you on my side. But by the way, you know very well why I'm not looking for Gretchen. " - Me?

- Don't be cunning! See what a beautiful evening. Maybe the last one this year. Maybe in a few days, where the last flowers are blooming now, there will be white, winter snow. Close the porch door, Anthony will light a fire in the fireplace, and you, covered with a handkerchief, will stare into the flames, remembering summer and autumn, and perhaps even our current conversation. Why fool yourself? Why don't we talk honestly? .. I'll tell you a fairy tale, not a fairy tale, but the truth, that is, the story I'm going to write.

- You? Story?

- Is this such a strange thing? Who does not write stories today? People don't read poems, because the story is in fashion now.

So imagine that I have nothing to do on long, winter evenings and write a story. You, as a good acquaintance, as the person closest to me - do not mind! - as the person closest to me, I tell its meaning ... Do you want to listen?

- Tell us. I've changed my hearing. - But first I'll bring you a shawl so you don't freeze, okay?

- How attentive you are. Bring it.