THE CHERRY ORCHARD OF MYKOLA VINGRANOVSKYI
Mykola Vingranovskyi / wikipedia.org
Mykola Vingranovsky (November 7, 1936 — May 26, 2004) was a Ukrainian writer of the Sixtiers generation, director, actor, screenwriter, and poet. Laureate of the Taras Shevchenko National Prize of Ukraine.
He was called the «steppe Svarog», the «Vingran», the «marshal of literature». Admired for his lightness, but never taken lightly. The man had no index finger on his right hand — yet he never once commented on it. He believed in God, though he didn’t attend church. His poetry was dense: one poem could yield two, and he recited them so powerfully it took your breath away. He debuted alongside Ivan Drach. He received the Shevchenko Prize for his children’s works. For four years, he served as president of the Ukrainian PEN Club. He acted in four feature films and directed four narrative and eight documentary films himself.
BALLET FLATS FROM OLEKSANDR DOVZHENKO
C
herries helped them survive the hunger. His mother sold the berries, and thanks to the cherry orchard, they endured. All around stretched the Mamai steppe. Beyond it began another one — even rougher and more calloused. The boy absorbed the wormwood, the deaf nettle-sage, the foxtail by the riverbank. He studied well and performed in the drama theatre with a clear, metallic voice. He waited for his father to return from the war — a man who had walked through hell and made it back.
In 1955, Mykola enrolled in the Kyiv Institute of Theatre Arts, but less than two weeks into his studies, he was summoned to the rector’s office. Upon entering the room, he found — beside the head — a man lounging on the couch. Strong, dark-skinned, with a cane that served more as a fashion accessory than support. The student had no idea it was Oleksandr Dovzhenko himself. In fact, he had no interest in who directed Earth, Arsenal, Shchors, or Michurin.
They asked him to recite what he had performed at the entrance exams, so he gave them «Honta in Uman» from the poem Haidamaky. Tall and striking, he wore flared sailor pants sent by his brother from Murmansk, a blue vest, and ballet flats. The sole had come loose, so he had wired it together.
He’d been walking like that for a week — no one noticed. But Dovzhenko, with his keen eye, spotted it instantly. He didn’t wait for the recital to end, stood up, and concluded: «Young man, you’re going to Moscow. You’ll study at VGIK». That evening, he visited the director’s home, where 50 karbovanets were already set aside on the shelf — for new shoes.
From that moment on, whatever he wrote, he compared against Dovzhenko. He dedicated to him the heartfelt line: «He stood thoughtfully, leaning on the fence, with the forehead of the Fatherland — my white-haired teacher». At first, he lived in the maestro’s Moscow apartment, which sparked rumors that Mykola was his illegitimate son. The gossip made its way back to his native village.
One damp, snowless winter, the young man came home for Christmas. On the table — dumplings, kutia, and mashed pea patties. The oil lamp, as always, was lit — electricity had yet to arrive. To his right, uncles and aunts; to his left, brothers and sisters. They sat, ate, sang. When he stepped outside to play with the dog Volokhan, his mother quietly followed and asked in a hushed, unfamiliar voice whether it was true he’d been telling everyone he was Dovzhenko’s son. That rumor pained her deeply.
In reality, he lived in dorm room No. 428. There were four beds; his stood by the window. Already then, he wrote poetry that was warm, densely saturated. He quickly became a true star: he played the lead role in the film The Tale of Fiery Years. The script was written by his late teacher, and the director was his widow, Yuliya Solntseva.
It all began with fire and a worn-out woman running through the flames, screaming like a burning bird. All around — agitated black soil, ashes, and a windmill that kept turning by sheer inertia. An ordinary kolkhoz farmer, Ivan Orliuk, became a soldier, marched to Berlin, and upon returning home, stepped onto freshly ploughed land and sowed the first seeds. The film won awards at international festivals in Cannes, London, and Los Angeles — but in Kyiv, it was met with indifference.
Through ravines brown and chestnut-colored
The fogs fell and started to creep,
Mute shadows wandered in
Of blind ash and cinder deep.
What threshold now? There is no door.
What lineage? — I cannot say.
Victory softly kisses
The Widow’s lips, pale and grey.
SHAME ON THE UKRAINIAN NATIONALIST
The young director got a job at a film studio, wrote the script *A World Without War* — and it was stuffed into a drawer. The editors — or more precisely, the editresses — despised the newcomer, claiming he «smelled wrong». Over time, the atmosphere around him warmed; wherever he appeared, crowds would gather to listen to his tales, reflections, and anecdotes — for he was an unmatched storyteller.
He could improvise a whole story on the spot about his «African tan» — or deliver a speech at a Roman symposium of international languages. And he recited poems… He did so with such inspiration and magic that the audience would first tighten like a spring, then burst into applause.
In 1961, his collection *Atomic Preludes* was published. The reception was mixed — after all, the Party dictated the proper way to think and draw conclusions. As a result, villagers passing by his parents’ house would shout: «Shame on the Ukrainian nationalist!» Mykola took it hard — but never stopped rhyming.
Once, he and a colleague went on a tour of creative meetings in Zaporizhzhia. Each reading paid eight rubles. The events were held now in one *Zaporizhstal* workshop, then in another, and in the evenings — in dormitories for the recently de-convoyed. The tight schedule was utterly exhausting; in the morning it was nearly impossible to get out of bed — but not for Mykola. He was unstoppable.
As soon as dawn broke, he would head to the market for chicken eggs. He drank them raw and birthed poems. When he finished, he’d wake his neighbor with a cheerful: «Vasyl, why are you lying there like a dog? Better listen:
This night a bird cry
Into a sky departed.
This night, the snow did fall —
White upon black-hearted.
This night, within the night,
We spoke in hushed emotion…
The Christmas bread smelled sweet and bright,
The frost-lit panes were glowing…
Sometimes after a recital, he would ask for «a tear» — a small drink — but there was no glass. So he’d down another egg and offer the shell. Writing poetry came hard; each word had to be hunted down — it had to strike. There were days, even months when nothing «wove itself» at all — and that was his greatest torment. He couldn’t create under pressure; forced words turned foul and loathsome.
Inside, he trembled from all that went unsaid. In those moments, he found solace in water, forest, thunderstorm, and the road. And, of course — the steppe. Only he could notice how «the pear tree with its pears pressed itself to the window», how «the frozen puddles turn to glass», and how «the morning star breathes in wormwood». He could speak of haystacks as thoughts, of chick-star constellations, of a headless sunflower, of volleyball-player trees that breakfasted on earth and clouds.
Of the sun-warmed, calloused steppe, of nightingales turned gray from song, and of summer — boiling over with resin. In his world, a filly sniffed the fog, the wind scattered autumn acacia seeds across the plains, August lay beneath a currant bush, sunflowers embraced horses, and devils kneaded Christmas dough beneath the willow thickets.
WHEN THE SOUL FEELS «SKY-BLUE»…
He also knew how to love. His first marriage was to a flight attendant. They met high in the sky, lived together for nearly ten years, and had a son named Andriy. During that time, another feeling appeared — one that remained virtual. A twenty-year-old student, Svitlana Yovenko, wrote a poem titled «In the blue sky, in the blue cooling sky…» and passed it along to the already well-known poet Mykola Vingranovskyi.
The artist read it and, in response, created «In the blue sky I sowed a forest». Between the lines, he skillfully concealed his feelings, sowing not only familiar oaks and birches but also dreams in the blue clay:
My oak walking stick, my evening stride,
And you beside me, and birds, and the blades,
On the road and the sky above us — of you,
And the sea — of you… the road is wide.
Later, he met a cardiologist named Oleksandra Bilynkevych. At the time, she was married to the son of writer Iryna Wilde — but love proved stronger than promises and vows. They married at a fairly mature age: the groom was thirty-nine, the bride — thirty-eight. He had a son, Andriyko; she had a daughter, Yaryna.
Oleksandra was an intellectual, a true lady — a little reserved in relationships, balanced and composed. Mykola was a whirlwind. Expressive in gestures, intonations, and thoughts. Filled to the brim with powerful energy. They lived together for twenty-nine years. He never tired of confessing his love to her:
This woman I love. That is my sorrow.
That is my worry and concern.
In fear, I ended night; in fear began the day.
From fear to fear, this love must burn.
He believed that love demands more effort because it lies deep within — while hostility and hatred float on the surface.
SEAMLESS SILENCE
His wife wrapped him in calm and care (in everyday life, the poet was utterly helpless). She adored the moments when he was at work. Before sitting down to write, he would wander the rooms for a long while, scan the windowpanes, shave with precision, shower, and then jog lightly through the living room. He’d explain, «Can’t you see I’m sneaking up on the desk?»
Then he’d sit down and caress each word with his eyes, warm it in his palms, savor it — because there could be no «seams» between the words and sentences. While working, he paid no attention to the background household noise — the sizzle of a frying pan or the hum of the washing machine — but the moment a spoon hit the floor, he’d leap up.
«What happened?» he’d ask. Oleksandra would freeze on the spot, and he would return to his work, in which «the heavy barley with its honeyed whisker tickled the bee by the paw…» He wrote exclusively with a ballpoint pen, although a dozen perfectly sharpened pencils stood upright in a jug. Later, he mastered the computer and was quite pleased about it — but still preferred to rhyme by hand.
He was never in a hurry: unnecessary fuss was no virtue. He walked slowly, packed slowly for trips, ate slowly, even when hungry. He preferred simple peasant food: boiled potatoes and vegetable salad (cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, homemade oil), into which he always crumbled bread and waited until it soaked up the juices. He would also order potato and dill dumplings, mamaliga with cracklings, and colostrum. He adored cherry blossoms and the scent of quince.
He had the gift of seeing beauty in the simple. One day, someone sent him a decorative pumpkin from the village. He solemnly placed the little squash on an embroidered napkin and wouldn’t let the composition be disturbed for years. Another time, returning from a film shoot on the Southern Bug River, he spotted thistles. He demanded the car be stopped immediately — to capture those spiky flowers on film.
He recorded the sound of wax dripping on a voice recorder. For children, he embroidered not rhymes but sonnets — because only a genius could perceive such things:
Beneath the speckled, long-eared bushes,
Where stubble pricks the barefoot tread,
Hares roll with their front paws, pushing
Cabbage from the gardens to the field ahead.
TRAVELS THROUGH UKRAINE
In everyday life, he spoke exclusively in Ukrainian. He would often ask his niece, «Where did you pick up words like os’do and ondo?» He loved visiting the village and sleeping outdoors: he’d lay a sheepskin coat under the grapevines or out on the melon patch and fall asleep counting the stars. He admired the steppe and sang «Dumy moyi, dumy…» — with a beautiful, strong voice.
Every year, he eagerly awaited his «wanderings», but instead of seaside holidays, he chose the Ros River. He prepared for his trips in advance: studied the map of Ukraine, planned a route, and thought through the menu. Into the basket went: tourist’s breakfast, salted peanuts, sprats, a knife, and a bottle opener.
He pitched a tent — but never slept in a sleeping bag, preferring the ground beneath a tree. He’d lie there and direct the camp, telling who should gather firewood, tend the flames, or go fishing.
From every trip, he brought back a broom or a sieve. And, of course — new poems:
The river pauses for a rest,
Licking cold from stone’s embrace,
And from the colt’s hooves comes the press
Of foggy hooves in a ghostly race…
Or this one:
Come, let us go into the garden —
I’ll show you a place where the wind sleeps
On the knees of apple trees,
And a hunched Milky Way’s descent
Illuminates the flowers’ fragrant eyes.
I’ll show you plums on the branches,
Pierced in silence as they fall.
The pear, with yellow fists clenched tight,
Holds tender yolks of tasty sun.
THE LAST CHERRIES
In the end, his legs gave out: pain gripped his calves (arteriosclerosis of the leg vessels was progressing), and gout tormented him. He didn’t complain, only now and then would ask his wife, «When will it go away?» Then came more frequent bouts of atrial fibrillation and bone pain — and the worst diagnosis was confirmed. He lay in bed, marveling at how those same legs had once run after a football.
He reflected: «My root is dark, rough, knotted, chopped and twisted by life — the root of those ancestors of mine who long ago fled misfortune in Ukraine to the Wild Field, and there became the Buzky Cossacks».
In 2004, the cherry trees bloomed once more — but sadly, for Mykola Vingranovskyi, it was the last time.
…The winter garden whitened beneath the raven.
Eyes stood still in a dry-paned frame.
Dusk deepened. The hour neared seven.
Life lay silent, like a field sown with grain.
When copying materials, please place an active link to www.huxley.media
Select the text and press Ctrl + Enter
