In VN¡¯s story Solus Rex (1940) Prince Fig, as he speaks to K, says that he seeks only drob¡¯ prekrasnogo (the fractions of beauty), leaving tseloe (the integers) to the good burghers, and mentions Galatea (the statue carved of ivory by Pygmalion, which then came to life):
"§¹§ä§à §Ø, §Þ§à§Ý§Óa ¨C §á§à§ï§Ù§Ú§ñ §á§âa§Ó§Õ§í. §´§í §Ö§ë§× §Þa§Ý§î§é§Ú§Ü ¨C §Ú §Õ§à§Ó§à§Ý§î§ß§à §Ü§âa§ã§Ú§Ó§í§Û §Þa§Ý§î§é§Ú§Ü §Ó §á§â§Ú§Õa§é§å, - §äa§Ü §é§ä§à §Þ§ß§à§Ô§à§Ô§à §ä§í §ã§Ö§Û§éa§ã §ß§Ö §á§à§Û§Þ§×§ê§î. §Á §ä§Ö§Ò§Ö §ä§à§Ý§î§Ü§à §à§Õ§ß§à §Ùa§Þ§Ö§é§å: §Ó§ã§Ö §Ý§ð§Õ§Ú §Ó §ã§å§ë§ß§à§ã§ä§Ú §âa§Ù§Ó§âa§ä§ß§í, §ß§à §Ü§à§Ô§Õa §ï§ä§à §Õ§Ö§Ýa§Ö§ä§ã§ñ §á§à§Õ §ê§å§Þ§à§Ü, §Ü§à§Ô§Õa §Ó§ä§à§â§à§á§ñ§ç, §ã§Üa§Ø§Ö§Þ, §à§Ò§Ø§Ú§âa§Ö§ê§î§ã§ñ §Óa§â§Ö§ß§î§Ö§Þ §Ó §ä§×§Þ§ß§à§Þ §å§Ô§Ý§å §Ú§Ý§Ú §¢§à§Ô §Ù§ßa§Ö§ä §é§ä§à §á§à§â§å§éa§Ö§ê§î §ã§à§Ò§ã§ä§Ó§Ö§ß§ß§à§Þ§å §Ó§à§à§Ò§âa§Ø§Ö§ß§Ú§ð, - §à, §ï§ä§à §ß§Ö §Ó §ã§é§×§ä, §ï§ä§à §á§â§Ö§ã§ä§å§á§Ý§Ö§ß§Ú§Ö§Þ §ß§Ö §Ù§à§Ó§×§ä§ã§ñ; §Ü§à§Ô§Õa §Ø§Ö §é§Ö§Ý§à§Ó§Ö§Ü §à§ä§Ü§â§à§Ó§Ö§ß§ß§à §Ú §ä§â§å§Õ§à§Ý§ð§Ò§Ú§Ó§à §å§Õ§à§Ó§Ý§Ö§ä§Ó§à§â§ñ§Ö§ä §Ø§Ö§Ýa§ß§Ú§ñ, §ßa§Ó§ñ§Ùa§ß§ß§í§Ö §Ö§Þ§å §ä§â§Ö§Ò§à§Óa§ä§Ö§Ý§î§ß§í§Þ §ä§Ö§Ý§à§Þ, - §ä§à§Ô§Õa §Ý§ð§Õ§Ú §ßa§é§Ú§ßa§ð§ä §ä§â§å§Ò§Ú§ä§î §à §Ò§Ö§ã§á§å§ä§ã§ä§Ó§Ö! §ª §Ö§ë§×: §Ö§ã§Ý§Ú §Ò§í §Ó §Þ§à§Ö§Þ §ã§Ý§å§éa§Ö §ï§ä§à §Ùa§Ü§à§ß§ß§à§Ö §å§Õ§à§Ó§Ý§Ö§ä§Ó§à§â§Ö§ß§Ú§Ö §á§â§à§ã§ä§à §ã§Ó§à§Õ§Ú§Ý§à§ã§î §Ó§ã§Ö §Ü §à§Õ§ß§à§Þ§å §Ú §ä§à§Þ§å §Ø§Ö §à§Õ§ß§à§à§Ò§âa§Ù§ß§à§Þ§å §á§â§Ú§×§Þ§å, §à§Ò§ë§Ö§ã§ä§Ó§Ö§ß§ß§à§Ö §Þ§ß§Ö§ß§Ú§Ö §ã §ï§ä§Ú§Þ §Ò§í §á§â§Ú§Þ§Ú§â§Ú§Ý§à§ã§î, - §âa§Ù§Ó§Ö §é§ä§à §á§à§Ø§å§â§Ú§Ý§à §Ò§í §Þ§Ö§ß§ñ §Ùa §ã§Ý§Ú§ê§Ü§à§Þ §éa§ã§ä§å§ð §ã§Þ§Ö§ß§å §Ý§ð§Ò§à§Ó§ß§Ú§è¡ §ß§à, §¢§à§Ø§Ö §Þ§à§Û, §Üa§Ü§à§Û §á§à§Õ§ß§Ú§Þa§Ö§ä§ã§ñ §ê§å§Þ §à§ä§ä§à§Ô§à, §é§ä§à §ñ §ß§Ö §á§â§Ú§Õ§Ö§â§Ø§Ú§Óa§ð§ã§î §Üa§ß§à§ß§à§Ó §âa§ã§á§å§ä§ã§ä§Óa, a §ã§à§Ò§Ú§âa§ð §Þ§Ö§Õ §á§à§Ó§ã§ð§Õ§å, §Ý§ð§Ò§Ý§ð §Ó§ã§× ¨C §Ú §ä§ð§Ý§î§áa§ß §Ú §á§â§à§ã§ä§å§ð §ä§âa§Ó§Ü§å, - §á§à§ä§à§Þ§å §é§ä§à, §Ó§Ú§Õ§Ú§ê§î §Ý§Ú, - §Õ§à§Ü§à§ß§é§Ú§Ý §á§â§Ú§ß§è, §å§Ý§í§Òa§ñ§ã§î §Ú §ë§å§â§ñ§ã§î, - §ñ §ã§à§Ò§ã§ä§Ó§Ö§ß§ß§à §Ú§ë§å §ä§à§Ý§î§Ü§à §Õ§â§à§Ò§î §á§â§Ö§Ü§âa§ã§ß§à§Ô§à, §è§Ö§Ý§à§Ö §á§â§Ö§Õ§à§ã§äa§Ó§Ý§ñ§ð §Õ§à§Ò§â§í§Þ §Ò§ð§â§Ô§Ö§âa§Þ, a §ï§äa §Õ§â§à§Ò§î §Þ§à§Ø§Ö§ä §ßa§Û§ä§Ú§ã§î §Ó §Òa§Ý§Ö§â§Ú§ß§Ö §Ú §Ó §Ô§â§å§Ù§é§Ú§Ü§Ö, §Ó §á§à§Ø§Ú§Ý§à§Û §Ü§âa§ãa§Ó§Ú§è§Ö §Ú §Ó §Þ§à§Ý§à§Õ§à§Þ §Ó§ãa§Õ§ß§Ú§Ü§Ö". "§¥a, - §ã§Üa§Ùa§Ý §¬§â., - §ñ §á§à§ß§Ú§Þa§ð. §£§í ¨C §ç§å§Õ§à§Ø§ß§Ú§Ü, §ã§Ü§å§Ý§î§á§ä§à§â, §Ó§í §Ú§ë§Ö§ä§Ö §æ§à§â§Þ§å¡"
§±§â§Ú§ß§è §á§â§Ú§Õ§Ö§â§Øa§Ý §Ü§à§ß§ñ §Ú §Ùa§ç§à§ç§à§äa§Ý.
"§¯§å, §Ù§ßa§Ö§ê§î, §Õ§Ö§Ý§à §ä§å§ä §ß§Ö §Ó §ã§Ü§å§Ý§î§á§ä§å§â§Ö, - ¨¤ moins que tu ne confonde la galanterie avec la Galat¨¦e, - §é§ä§à, §Ó§á§â§à§é§Ö§Þ, §Ó §ä§Ó§à§×§Þ §Ó§à§Ù§âa§ã§ä§Ö §á§â§à§ã§ä§Ú§ä§Ö§Ý§î§ß§à.
"Well, hearsay is the poetry of truth. You are still a boy¡ªquite a pretty boy to boot¡ªso there are many things you won't understand right now. I shall offer you only this observation: all people are basically naughty, but when it is done under the rose, when, for instance, you hasten to gorge yourself on jam in a dark corner, or send your imagination on God knows what errands, all that doesn't count; nobody considers it a crime. Yet when a person frankly and assiduously satisfies the appetites inflicted upon him by his imperious body, then, oh then, people begin to denounce intemperance! And another consideration: if, in my case, that legitimate satisfaction were limited simply to one and the same unvarying method, popular opinion would become resigned, or at most would reproach me for changing my mistresses too often. But God, what a ruckus they raise because I do not stick to the code of debauchery but gather my honey wherever I find it! And mark, I am fond of everything¡ªwhether a tulip or a plain little grass stalk¡ªbecause you see," concluded the prince, smiling and slitting his eyes, "I really seek only the fractions of beauty, leaving the integers to the good burghers, and those fractions can be found in a ballet girl as well as in a docker, in a middle-aged Venus as well as in a young horseman."
"Yes," said K, "I understand. You are an artist, a sculptor, you worship form...."
The prince reined in his horse and guffawed.
"Oh, well, it isn't exactly a matter of sculpture¡ª¨¤ moins que tu ne confondes la galanterie avec la Galat¨¦e¡ªwhich, however, is pardonable at your age.
La Galat¨¦e mentioned by Prince Fig (in the original, Prints Dulya) brings to mind Galatov, in VN¡¯s story Usta k ustam (Lips to Lips, 1931) the unscrupulous editor of Arion. Galatov was modeled on G. Ivanov, the editor of Chisla (Numbers, the magazine in which in 1930 G. Ivanov had published his adverse review of Sirin¡¯s early novels and stories). In his poem Dusha cherstva. I s kazhdym dnyom cherstvey¡ (¡°The soul is hard. And it gets harder every day¡¡± 1928) G. Ivanov complains that he has no power anymore to unite in one creation the odd parts of beauty:
§¥§å§ê§Ñ §é§Ö§â§ã§ä§Ó§Ñ. §ª §ã §Ü§Ñ§Ø§Õ§í§Þ §Õ§ß§×§Þ §é§Ö§â§ã§ä§Ó§Ö§Û.
¡ª §Á §Ô§Ú§Ò§ß§å. §¥§Ñ§Û §Þ§ß§Ö §â§å§Ü§å. §¯§Ö§ä §à§ä§Ó§Ö§ä§Ñ.
§¦§ë§× §ñ §Ó§ã§Ý§å§ê§Ú§Ó§Ñ§ð§ã§î §Ó §ê§å§Þ §Ó§Ö§ä§Ó§Ö§Û,
§¦§ë§× §Ý§ð§Ò§Ý§ð §Ú§Ô§â§å §ä§Ö§ß§Ö§Û §Ú §ã§Ó§Ö§ä§Ñ...
§¥§Ñ, §ñ §Ö§ë§× §Ø§Ú§Ó§å. §¯§à §é§ä§à §Þ§ß§Ö §Ó §ä§à§Þ,
§¬§à§Ô§Õ§Ñ §ñ §Ò§à§Ý§î§ê§Ö §ß§Ö §Ú§Þ§Ö§ð §Ó§Ý§Ñ§ã§ä§Ú
§³§à§Ö§Õ§Ú§ß§Ú§ä§î §Ó §ã§à§Ù§Õ§Ñ§ß§Ú§Ú §à§Õ§ß§à§Þ
§±§â§Ö§Ü§â§Ñ§ã§ß§à§Ô§à §â§Ñ§Ù§â§à§Ù§ß§Ö§ß§ß§í§Ö §é§Ñ§ã§ä§Ú.
The soul is hard. And it gets harder every day.
¡°I perish. Give me your hand.¡± No reply.
I still listen attentively to the noise of branches,
I still love the play of shadows and light¡
Yes, I still live. But what does it matter to me
When I have no power anymore
To unite in one creation
The odd parts of beauty.
In Pale Fire (1962), a novel that has a lot in common with Solus Rex and Ultima Thule (1942), the two stories that look as if they were the chapters of an unfinished novel (VN¡¯s last Russian novel), VN proves that he still can unite in one creation the odd parts of beauty. According to Keats, ¡°a thing of beauty is a joy forever¡± (Endymion¡¯s first line that in VN¡¯s novel Look at the Harlequins! Basilevski translated as Vsegda nas raduet krasivaya veshchitsa*). Keats is the author of On First Looking into Chapman¡¯s Homer, a sonnet alluded to by Shade in Canto One of his poem. Keats¡¯ Ode on a Grecian Urn ends in the lines:
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,¡ªthat is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
In Ultima Thule Sineusov (the artist who just lost his wife) mentions a convict¡¯s task: ¡°to find and gather all these parts, so as to re-create that gravy boat or soup tureen:¡±
§¬§Ñ§Þ§ß§Ú, §Ü§Ñ§Ü §Ü§å§Ü§å§ê§Ü§Ú§ß§í §ñ§Û§è§Ñ, §Ü§å§ã§à§Ü §é§Ö§â§Ö§á§Ú§è§í §Ó §Ó§Ú§Õ§Ö §á§Ú§ã§ä§à§Ý§Ö§ä§ß§à§Û §à§Ò§à§Û§Þ§í, §à§ã§Ü§à§Ý§à§Ü §ä§à§á§Ñ§Ù§à§Ó§à§Ô§à §ã§ä§Ö§Ü§Ý, §é§ä§à-§ä§à §Ó§â§à§Õ§Ö §Þ§à§é§Ñ§Ý§î§ß§à§Ô§à §ç§Ó§à§ã§ä§Ñ, §ã§à§Ó§Ö§â§ê§Ö§ß§ß§à §ã§å§ç§à§Ö, §Þ§à§Ú §ã§Ý§×§Ù§í, §Þ§Ú§Ü§â§à§ã§Ü§à§á§Ú§é§Ö§ã§Ü§Ñ§ñ §Ò§å§ã§Ú§ß§Ü§Ñ, §Ü§à§â§à§Ò§à§é§Ü§Ñ §Ú§Ù-§á§à§Õ §á§Ñ§á§Ú§â§à§ã, §ã §Ø§Ö§Ý§ä§à§Ò§à§â§à§Õ§í§Þ §Þ§Ñ§ä§â§à§ã§à§Þ §Ó §ã§Ö§â§Ö§Õ§Ú§ß§Ö §ã§á§Ñ§ã§Ñ§ä§Ö§Ý§î§ß§à§Ô§à §Ü§â§å§Ô§Ñ, §Ü§Ñ§Þ§Ö§ß§î, §á§à§ç§à§Ø§Ú§Û §ß§Ñ §ã§ä§å§á§ß§ð §á§à§Þ§á§Ö§ñ§ß§è§Ñ, §é§î§ñ-§ä§à §Ü§à§ã§ä§à§é§Ü§Ñ §Ú§Ý§Ú §ê§á§Ñ§ä§Ö§Ý§î, §Ø§Ö§ã§ä§ñ§ß§Ü§Ñ §Ú§Ù-§á§à§Õ §Ü§Ö§â§à§ã§Ú§ß§Ñ, §à§ã§Ü§à§Ý§à§Ü §ã§ä§Ö§Ü§Ý§Ñ §Ô§â§Ñ§ß§Ñ§ä§à§Ó§à§Ô§à, §à§â§Ö§ç§à§Ó§Ñ§ñ §ã§Ü§à§â§Ý§å§á§Ñ, §Ò§Ö§Ù§à§ä§ß§à§ã§Ú§ä§Ö§Ý§î§ß§Ñ§ñ §â§Ø§Ñ§Ó§Ü§Ñ, §æ§Ñ§â§æ§à§â§à§Ó§í§Û §Ú§Ó§Ö§â§Ö§ß§î, ¡ª §Ú §Ô§Õ§Ö-§ä§à §Ó§Ö§Õ§î §ß§Ö§á§â§Ö§Þ§Ö§ß§ß§à §Õ§à§Ý§Ø§ß§í §Ò§í§Ý§Ú §Ò§í§ä§î §à§ã§ä§Ñ§Ý§î§ß§í§Ö, §Õ§à§á§à§Ý§ß§Ú§ä§Ö§Ý§î§ß§í§Ö §Ü §ß§Ö§Þ§å §é§Ñ§ã§ä§Ú, §Ú §ñ §Ó§à§à§Ò§â§Ñ§Ø§Ñ§Ý §Ó§Ö§é§ß§å§ð §Þ§å§Ü§å, §Ü§Ñ§ä§à§â§Ø§ß§à§Ö §Ù§Ñ§Õ§Ñ§ß§Ú§Ö, §Ü§à§ä§à§â§à§Ö §ã§Ý§å§Ø§Ú§Ý§à §Ò§í §Ý§å§é§ê§Ú§Þ §ß§Ñ§Ü§Ñ§Ù§Ñ§ß§Ú§Ö§Þ §ä§Ñ§Ü§Ú§Þ, §Ü§Ñ§Ü §ñ, §á§â§Ú §Ø§Ú§Ù§ß§Ú §ã§Ý§Ú§ê§Ü§à§Þ §Õ§Ñ§Ý§Ö§Ü§à §Ù§Ñ§Ò§Ö§Ô§Ñ§Ó§ê§Ú§Þ §Þ§í§ã§Ý§î§ð, §Ñ §Ú§Þ§Ö§ß§ß§à: §ß§Ñ§Û§ä§Ú §Ú §ã§à§Ò§â§Ñ§ä§î §Ó§ã§Ö §ï§ä§Ú §é§Ñ§ã§ä§Ú, §é§ä§à§Ò§í §ã§à§ã§ä§Ñ§Ó§Ú§ä§î §à§á§ñ§ä§î §ä§à§ä §ã§à§å§ã§ß§Ú§Ü, §ä§å §ã§å§á§ß§Ú§è§å, ¡ª §Ô§à§â§Ò§Ñ§ä§í§Ö §Ò§Ý§å§Ø§Õ§Ñ§ß§Ú§ñ §á§à §Õ§Ú§Ü§à §ä§å§Þ§Ñ§ß§ß§í§Þ §á§à§Ò§Ö§â§Ö§Ø§î§ñ§Þ, §Ñ §Ó§Ö§Õ§î §Ö§ã§Ý§Ú §ã§ä§â§Ñ§ê§ß§à §á§à§Ó§Ö§Ù§×§ä §ä§à §Þ§à§Ø§ß§à §Ó §á§Ö§â§Ó§à§Ö §Ø§Ö, §Ñ §ß§Ö §ä§â§Ú§Ý§Ý§Ú§à§ß§ß§à§Ö §å§ä§â§à §è§Ö§Ý§Ú§Ü§à§Þ §Ó§à§ã§ã§ä§Ñ§ß§à§Ó§Ú§ä§î §á§à§ã§å§Õ§Ú§ß§å ¡ª §Ú §Ó§à§ä §à§ß, §ï§ä§à§ä §ß§Ñ§Ú§Þ§å§é§Ú§ä§Ö§Ý§î§ß§Ö§Û§ê§Ú§Û §Ó§à§á§â§à§ã §Ó§Ö§Ù§Ö§ß§Ú§ñ, §Ý§à§ä§Ö§â§Ö§Û§ß§à§Ô§à §ã§é§Ñ§ã§ä§î§ñ, ¡ª §ä§à§Ô§à §ã§Ñ§Þ§à§Ô§à §Ò§Ú§Ý§Ö§ä§Ñ, §Ò§Ö§Ù §Ü§à§ä§à§â§à§Ô§à §Þ§à§Ø§Ö§ä §Ò§í§ä§î §ß§Ö §Õ§Ñ§×§ä§ã§ñ §Ò§Ý§Ñ§Ô§à§á§à§Ý§å§é§Ú§ñ §Ó §Ó§Ö§é§ß§à§ã§ä§Ú.
Pebbles like cuckoo eggs, a piece of tile shaped like a pistol clip, a fragment of topaz-colored glass, something quite dry resembling a whisk of bast, my tears, a microscopic bead, an empty cigarette package with a yellow-bearded sailor in the center of a life buoy, a stone like a Pompeian¡¯s foot, some creature¡¯s small bone or a spatula, a kerosene can, a shiver of garnet-red glass, a nutshell, a nondescript rusty thingum related to nothing, a shard of porcelain, of which the companion fragments must inevitably exist somewhere ¡ª and I imagined an eternal torment, a convict¡¯s task, that would serve as the best punishment for such as I, whose thoughts had ranged too far during their life span: namely, to find and gather all these parts, so as to re-create that gravy boat or soup tureen ¡ª hunchbacked wanderings along wild, misty shores. And, after all, if one is supremely lucky, one might restore the dish on the first morning instead of the trillionth ¡ª and there it is, that most agonizing question of luck, of Fortune¡¯s Wheel, of the right lottery ticket, without which a given soul might be denied eternal felicity beyond the grave.
In his poem Vsyo neizmenno i vsyo izmenilos¡¯ (¡°Everything is unchangeable and everything has changed¡¡± 1947) G. Ivanov mentions volya (freedom):
§£§ã§× §ß§Ö§Ú§Ù§Þ§Ö§ß§ß§à §Ú §Ó§ã§× §Ú§Ù§Þ§Ö§ß§Ú§Ý§à§ã§î
§£ §å§ä§â§Ö§ß§ß§Ö§Þ §ç§à§Ý§à§Õ§Ö §ã§ä§â§Ñ§ß§ß§à§Û §ã§Ó§à§Ò§à§Õ§í.
§¥§à§Ý§Ô§Ú§Ö §Ô§à§Õ§í §Þ§ß§Ö §Þ§ß§à§Ô§à§Ö §ã§ß§Ú§Ý§à§ã§î,
§£§à§ä §ñ §á§â§à§ã§ß§å§Ý§ã§ñ ¡ª §Ú §Ô§Õ§Ö §ï§ä§Ú §Ô§à§Õ§í!
§£§à§ä §ñ §Ú§Õ§å §á§à §à§ã§Ö§ß§ß§Ö§Þ§å §á§à§Ý§ð,
§£§ã§× §Ü§Ñ§Ü §Ó§ã§Ö§Ô§Õ§Ñ, §Ú §Õ§â§å§Ô§à§Ö, §é§Ö§Þ §á§â§Ö§Ø§Õ§Ö:
§´§à§é§ß§à §Þ§Ö§ß§ñ §à§ä§á§å§ã§ä§Ú§Ý§Ú §ß§Ñ §Ó§à§Ý§ð
§ª §à§ä§Ü§Ñ§Ù§Ñ§Ý§Ú §Ó §á§à§ã§Ý§Ö§Õ§ß§Ö§Û §ß§Ñ§Õ§Ö§Ø§Õ§Ö.
Everything is unchangeable and everything has changed
In the morning chill of a strange freedom.
Many years I¡¯ve been dreaming of many things,
Now I woke up and where those years are!
Here I walk along the autumn field,
Everything is as always and different than before:
It is as though I was set free
But refused the last hope.
The poem¡¯s last word is nadezhda (hope). It seems that Vsevolod Botkin (the American scholar of Russian descent) went mad and became Shade, Kinbote and Gradus after the suicide of his daughter Nadezhda (Hazel Shade of Shade¡¯s poem). As to G. Ivanov, a good poet who wrote bad prose, he has ceased to be ¡°naught¡± but, unlike VN (the author of Lolita whom Ivanov envied), never quite became ¡°unit.¡± He has remained a kind of ¡°human fraction¡± (chelovecheskaya drob¡¯).
§Õ§å§Ý§ñ + §Ó§à§Ý§ñ + §á§à§Ý§Ö + §ã§Ý§Ñ§Ó§Ñ + §Ó§Ú§ß§à = §Õ§à§Ý§ñ + §á§å§Ý§ñ + §Ý§à§Ó§Ö§Ý§Ñ§ã + §ª§Ó§Ñ§ß§à§Ó
§Ó§Ú§ß§à = §Ó§à§Ú§ß = §à§Ó§Ú§ß
§Õ§å§Ý§ñ - fig
§Ó§à§Ý§ñ - freedom
§á§à§Ý§Ö - field
§ã§Ý§Ñ§Ó§Ñ - fame, glory (Slava, 1942, is a poem by VN)
§Ó§Ú§ß§à - wine
§Õ§à§Ý§ñ - part
§á§å§Ý§ñ - bullet
§Ý§à§Ó§Ö§Ý§Ñ§ã - Lovelace, lady-killer
§ª§Ó§Ñ§ß§à§Ó - Ivanov
§Ó§à§Ú§ß - warrior, soldier
§à§Ó§Ú§ß - barn
*A pretty bauble always gladdens us. Just like Galatov in Lips to Lips, Basilevski in LATH (1974) is a recognizable portrait of G. Ivanov.
Alexey Sklyarenko