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“НАШЕ ЖИТТЯ”, ГРУДЕНЬ 201 2 WWW. UNWLA.ORG 11 A Sketch from Olha Kobylianska 2012, which has almost run its course, marks 70 years since the death of Olha Kobylianska — one of Ukraine's foremost modernist prose writers, whose works continue to captivate readers with their very conte m- porary feel, passion, and psychological nuance. Best known for her novels, Kobylianska had also aut hored dozens of shorter pieces, many of which o f- fer striking images of women from all walks of life. Her early sketch “The Beggar Woman” brings together several of her favorite themes — nature's capacity to thrill and inspire, the creative work of a writer, and a unique portrait of a woman. In her autobiography, Kobylianska explains that this little piece appeared after her encounter with a young beggar woman in the street. She was so moved by what she saw that she ran back home and i m- mediately sat down to wr ite the sketch. Yet in the writer ’ s imagination, the real - life event became transformed into a true ethical drama and a philosophical reflection on the power of sight and seeing, on art and life. Interestingly, the artist who comes face to face with the be ggar wo m- an in the sketch is a man, and the entire piece is written from a male perspective, which does not become clear in the English translation until the very end. In the cold and dreary December, the glorious landscape drenched in sunshine , which Kobylian - ska paints for us in the opening paragraphs, is a warm reminder of summer. But the joyful communion with nature is completely displaced in the sketch by the dramatic meeting of the male writer and the be g- gar woman. ― Olesia Wallo Olha Kobylians ka THE BEGGAR WOMAN (1888) It was a warm, sunny morning in June. The window of my aesthetically arranged room was opened wide, and I was facing it, seated at my desk. A wild and indescribably beautiful Car p a- thian landscape flaunted its e l f outside my wi n- dow. A gigantic, densely forested mountain, reaching up like a pyramid to the heavens, was flanked by a dark narrow gorge and intricately patterned formations of forested hills and cliffs. The ceaseless rustling of the pine fo rest brought to mind the sea, and everything was bathed in sunlight. There was a superabundance of sunshine everywhere. The verdure of the forest had never a p- peared so fresh, so intense. The cloudless, clear sky had never seemed so gentle, so blue. I i m- m ersed myself totally in that view... I immersed myself! Words are so inadequate... I responded to this incredibly magnificent manifestation of the beauty of nature with every nerve. I devoured it with my eyes; I became into x- icated with the essence of its existence. And, in addition, I knew that the creative energies of my soul had been awoken by her , by nature, that it was she and she alone who had brought them to fruition within me. Fortunate is he who can understand her! I felt an uncontrollable urge to capture on paper an idea that I had long been formulating in my mind. Forcing myself to tear my gaze away from nature, I began to gather my thoughts. They submitted to me, but they also o p- posed me, dispersing themselves, m ocking me... I could not do it! Not far from my home — perhaps a hu n- dred paces away — a beggar woman has been si t- ting since early morning, pleading for alms from passersby. She does not beg in the distinctive manner adopted by people of this kind. And she doe s not sing. She does not even have that be g- gar's tone which a person becomes accustomed to hearing from such creatures, and which has an impact only as long as they are in view. No, her voice does not have that tone. She howls — maintaining a steady rhythm and descending down the scale from the highest to the lowest tones. Halfway through each howl
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