Evenings on a farm near Dikanka collection. Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol

A person who would not know the works of N.V. It will be very difficult to find Gogol in our country (and throughout the CIS). And is it worth doing? One of the writer’s most popular masterpieces is “Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka.” Even those who have not read the book have probably seen films or musicals based on stories from this publication. We invite you to study an extremely abbreviated retelling of each work. “Evenings on a farm near Dikanka” (summary) - for your attention.

The secret to the success of works: what is it?

Of course, each person has his own tastes and preferences. But, oddly enough, this collection of stories is liked by both older people and young people. Why is this happening? Most likely, due to the fact that Gogol was able to combine mystical plots, humor and adventures, as well as love stories, in one book. In fact, this is a win-win recipe for success! So, “Evenings on a farm near Dikanka.” The summary will allow you to understand whether it is worth tuning in to read the book in its entirety!

Please note that this book is a collection consisting of two parts. Therefore, we will try to outline in a few sentences what each story is about.

“Evenings on a farm near Dikanka”: a summary of the first part

In the story about the fair in Sorochintsy, the reader can have a lot of fun enjoying the adventures of Cherevik, his charming daughter Parasia, her admirer Grytsko, the enterprising Gypsy and the contentious Khivri, Cherevik’s wife. We can understand that love can work miracles, but immoderate libations and adultery ultimately turn out to be adequately punished!

“The Evening on the Eve of Ivan Kupala” is a story filled with mysticism and some kind of gloomy romance. The plot revolves around Petrus, who is in love with Pedorka, whose wealthy father is not particularly keen to give his daughter as a wife to a poor man. But here, as if it were a sin, he undertakes to help the unlucky lover. Of course, not for nothing. The devil demands a fern flower for his help. Having committed a murder, the young man obtains what Satan wanted from him. But this does not bring him happiness. Petrus himself dies, and his gold turns into skulls...

“May Night, or the Drowned Woman” is a story about how pure love, courage and resourcefulness overcome injustice, even those committed many years ago.

From the story “The Missing Letter” we learn that even devils can be defeated in a card game. To do this, you need to cross the playing cards with sincere faith. True, it is not a fact that after this your spouse will not start dancing every year, completely not wanting to.

“Evenings on a farm near Dikanka”: a summary of the second part

We also learn that it is quite possible to saddle the Devil and fly on it, and courage and enterprise will help to conquer even the most unapproachable beauty! I wonder if this only happens on Christmas Eve?

“Terrible Revenge” is a story that is truly scary! Of course, how can you guess in advance that your wife’s father is a sorcerer? By the way, the story also mentions very real historical figures!

The collection also contains a story about how the ardent desire of an elderly relative (aunt) to arrange the personal life of her nephew (Ivan Fedorovich Shponka) can significantly change a monotonous and measured existence! Is it only for the better?

"Enchanted place." This story tells about the adventures you can get into, even in old age. Eh, you shouldn’t mess with evil spirits!

Happy and fun reading!

"Evenings on a farm near Dikanka - 01 Preface"

Stories published by pasichnik Rudy Panko


Part one


Preface


“What kind of unprecedented thing is this: “Evenings on a farm near Dikanka”? What kind of “Evenings” is this? And some beekeeper threw it into the light! Thank God! They haven’t stripped the geese for their feathers yet and put their rags on paper! There are still not enough people, all sorts of ranks and rabble, their fingers were stained in ink! The hunt also made the beekeeper drag himself along after the others! Really, there is so much printed paper that you can’t quickly think of something to wrap it in.”

My prophetic listened, heard all these speeches for another month! That is, I say that our brother, the farmer, should stick his nose out of his remote place into the big world - my fathers! It’s just like what happens sometimes when you go into the chambers of a great master: everyone surrounds you and starts to fool you. It would be nothing, let it be the highest lackey, no, some ragged boy, look - rubbish, who is digging in the back yard, and he will pester; and they will start stamping their feet from all sides. “Where, where, why? went, man, went!..” I’ll tell you... But what can I say! It’s easier for me to go twice a year to Mirgorod, where neither the judge from the zemstvo court nor the venerable priest have seen me for five years, than to appear in this great world. But it seemed - don’t cry, give me an answer.

Here, my dear readers, don’t be told in anger (you may be angry that the beekeeper speaks to you simply, as if to some matchmaker or godfather), - here on our farms it has long been the custom: as soon as the work in the field will end, the man will climb up to rest on the stove for the whole winter, and our brother will hide his bees in a dark cellar, when you no longer see cranes in the sky or pears on the tree - then, just evening, probably somewhere in the end The streets are lit with lights, laughter and songs are heard from afar, the balalaika is strumming, and sometimes the violin, talking, noise... These are our vespers! They are, if you please, similar to your balls; I just can’t say that at all. If you go to balls, it is precisely to twirl your legs and yawn in your hand; and here a crowd of girls will gather in one hut, not at all for a ball, with a spindle, with combs; and at first they seem to be busy: the spindles are noisy, songs are flowing, and each one does not even raise an eye to the side; but as soon as the couple with the violinist arrives at the hut, a scream will rise, a shawl will start, dancing will begin and such things will happen that it is impossible to tell.

But it’s best when everyone huddles together in a tight group and starts asking riddles or just chatting. My God! What they won’t tell you! Where antiquities won't be dug up! What fears will not be caused! But nowhere, perhaps, were so many wonders told as at the evenings with the beekeeper Rudy Panka. Why the laity called me Rudy Pank - by God, I don’t know how to say. And it seems that my hair is now more gray than red. But we, if you please, do not get angry, have this custom: when people give someone a nickname, it will remain forever and ever. It used to be that on the eve of a holiday, good people would gather for a visit, in Pasichnik’s shack, sit down at the table - and then I ask you to just listen. And that is to say that the people were not at all just a dozen, not some peasant peasants. Yes, maybe someone else, even higher than the beekeeper, would have been honored by a visit. For example, do you know the clerk of the Dikan church, Foma Grigorievich? Eh, head! What kind of stories he could tell! You will find two of them in this book. He never wore a motley robe, such as you will see on many village sextons; but come to him on weekdays, he will always receive you in a robe made of fine cloth, the color of chilled potato jelly, for which in Poltava he paid almost six rubles per arshin. From his boots, no one in our whole village can say that the smell of tar can be heard; but everyone knows that he cleaned them with the best lard, which, I think, some man would happily put in his porridge. No one will also say that he ever wiped his nose with the hem of his robe, as other people of his rank do; but he took out from his bosom a neatly folded white handkerchief, embroidered along all the edges with red thread, and, having corrected what needed to be done, folded it again, as usual, into a twelfth share and hid it in his bosom. And one of the guests... Well, he was already so panicked that he could at least now dress up as an assessor or subcommittee. Sometimes he would put his finger in front of him and, looking at the end of it, would go on to tell a story - pretentiously and cunningly, like in printed books! Sometimes you listen and listen, and then thoughts come over you. For the life of me, you don’t understand anything. Where did he get those words from! Foma Grigorievich once wove him a nice tale about this: he told him how one schoolboy, learning to read and write from some clerk, came to his father and became such a Latin scholar that he even forgot our Orthodox language. All words are twisted. His shovel is a spade, his woman is a babus. So, it happened one day, they went with their father to the field. The Latin guy saw the rake and asked his father: “What do you think it’s called, dad? “Yes, and with his mouth open, he stepped on the teeth with his foot. He didn’t have time to compose himself with an answer when the hand, swinging, rose and grabbed him on the forehead. “Damned rake!” - the schoolboy shouted, grabbing his forehead with his hand and jumping an arshin, “how the devil would have pushed their father off the bridge, they fight painfully!” So ​​that’s how! I also remembered the name, my dear! Such a saying did not please the intricate storyteller. Without saying a word, he stood up, spread his legs in the middle of the room, bent his head a little forward, put his hand in the back pocket of his pea caftan, pulled out a round, varnished snuff-box, snapped his finger on the painted face of some Busurman general, and, taking a considerable portion tobacco, ground with ash and lovage leaves, brought it to his nose with a yoke and pulled out the whole pile with his nose on the fly, without even touching his thumb - and still not a word; but when he reached into another pocket and took out a blue checkered paper handkerchief, then I just muttered to myself, almost like a proverb: “Don’t throw pearls before swine”... “Now there will be a quarrel,” I thought, noticing that Foma Grigoryevich’s fingers were just about to kick the gun. Fortunately, my old woman guessed Place a hot knish with butter on the table. Everyone got down to business. Foma Grigorievich’s hand, instead of showing the shish, reached out to the knish, and, as always, they began to praise the craftswoman and hostess. We also had one storyteller; but he (there’s no point in even remembering him by nightfall) dug up such terrible stories that the hairs were running all over his head. I didn't put them here on purpose. You will also scare good people so much that, God forgive me, everyone will be afraid of the beekeeper like the devil. It would be better if I live, God willing, until the new year and publish another book, then it will be possible to fear people from the other world and the divas that happened in the old days in our Orthodox side. Among them, perhaps, you will find the fables of the beekeeper himself, which he told to his grandchildren. If only they listened and read, and I, perhaps, - I’m just too damn lazy to rummage through - can get enough of ten such books.

Yes, that was it, and I forgot the most important thing: when you, gentlemen, come to me, then take the straight path along the main road to Dikanka. I put it on the first page on purpose so that they could get to our farm faster. I think you've heard enough about Dikanka. And that’s to say that the house there is cleaner than some pasichnikov’s kuren. And there’s nothing to say about the garden: you probably won’t find anything like this in your St. Petersburg. Having arrived in Dikanka, just ask the first boy you come across, herding geese in a soiled shirt: “Where does the beekeeper Rudy Panko live?” - “And there it is!” - he will say, pointing his finger, and, if you want, he will take you to the very farm. I ask, however, not to put your hands back too much and, as they say, to feint, because the roads through our farmsteads are not as smooth as in front of your mansions. In his third year, Foma Grigorievich, coming from Dikanka, came to the hole with his new tarataika and a bay mare, despite the fact that he himself was driving and that from time to time he wore store-bought ones over his own eyes.

But as soon as you come to visit us, we will serve you melons such as you may not have eaten in your life; and honey, and I’ll take care, you won’t find anything better on the farmsteads. Imagine that as soon as you bring in the honeycomb, a spirit will flow throughout the room, it’s impossible to imagine what kind: pure, like a tear or expensive crystal, which happens in earrings. And what kind of pies will my old woman feed me! What pies, if only you knew: sugar, perfect sugar! And the oil just flows over your lips when you start eating. Just think, really: what masters are these women! Have you, gentlemen, ever drunk pear kvass with sloe berries or varenukha with raisins and plums? Or have you ever eaten putra with milk? My God, what kind of dishes there are in the world! If you start eating, you will be full and full. The sweetness is indescribable! Last year... However, why did I really blab?.. Just come, come quickly; and we’ll feed you in such a way that you’ll tell everyone you meet and those who cross you.

Pasichnik Rudy Panko.


Just in case, so that they do not remember me with an unkind word, I am writing down here, in alphabetical order, those words that are not clear to everyone in this book.


Bandu "ra, instrument, type of guitar.

Bato"g, whip.

Pain, scrofula.

Bo'ndar, cooper.

Boo "blick, round pretzel, ram.

Storm "k, beets.

Bukhane"ts, small bread.

Vinnitsa, distillery.

Galushki, dumplings.

Hungry man, poor man, poor man.

Gopa"k, Little Russian dance.

Turtle-dove, Little Russian dance.

Di "vchina, girl.

Girlish, girls.

Dija", tub.

Dribushki, small braids.

Domovi"na, coffin.

Du'la, shish.

Duka"t, a type of medal, is worn around the neck.

Knowing choir, knowledgeable, sorceress.

Zhinka, wife.

Zhupa"n, a type of caftan.

Kagan"ts, a kind of lamp.

Staves, convex planks, from which the barrel is made.

Knish, a type of baked bread.

Ko"bza, musical instrument.

Como"ra, barn.

Bark "highlight, headdress.

Kuntu"sh, ancient outer dress.

Cow, wedding bread.

Ku'khol, clay mug.

Bald didko, brownie, demon.

Luka, tube.

Maki'tra, a pot in which poppy seeds are ground.

Makogo'n, pestle for grinding poppy seeds.

Malachy, whip.

Mi"ska, wooden plate.

Young, married woman.

Na'imyt, hired worker.

Na"ymychka, hired worker.

A donkey, a long tuft of hair on his head, wrapped around his ear.

Ochi"pok, a kind of cap.

Pampu"shki, a dish made from dough.

Pasichnik, beekeeper.

Let's cut it, guy.

Pla"khta, women's underwear.

Pe'klo, hell.

Re-purchase, trader.

Frightened, frightened.

Little pees, Jewish curls.

Povetka, barn.

Half-tabe, silk fabric.

Pu "shaking, food, a kind of porridge.

Rushni"k, wiper.

Sweater, a kind of half-caftan.

Sindy chicks, narrow ribbons.

Sweets, donuts.

Svo"lok, crossbar under the ceiling.

Slivyanka, plum liqueur.

Smokka, mutton fur.

Sore throat, abdominal pain.

Sopi"lka, a type of flute.

Stus"n, fist.

Haircuts, ribbons.

Troycha weave, triple lash.

Damn it, guy.

Khutor, a small village.

Hu"stka, handkerchief.

Tsibu'la, onion.

Chumaks,” transport workers traveling to the Crimea for salt and fish.

Chupri"na, forelock, a long tuft of hair on the head.

Shi"shka, a small bread made at weddings.

Yushka, sauce, slurry.

Yatka, a type of tent or tent.

Nikolai Gogol - Evenings on a farm near Dikanka - 01 Preface, read the text

See also Gogol Nikolai - Prose (stories, poems, novels...):

Evenings on a farm near Dikanka - 02 Sorochinskaya Fair
I find it boring to live in my house. Oh, take me out of the house, there's a lot of thunder...

Evenings on a farm near Dikanka - 03 Evening on the eve of Ivan Kupala
A true story told by the sexton of the church Foma Grigorievich was haunted...

Stories published by pasichnik Rudy Panko

PART ONE

PREFACE

“What kind of unprecedented thing is this: “Evenings on a farm near Dikanka?” What are these “Evenings”? And some beekeeper threw it into the light! God bless! They haven’t yet stripped the geese of their feathers and turned their rags into paper! There are still a few people, of all ranks and rabble, who have their fingers dirty in ink! The hunt also prompted the beekeeper to drag along after the others! Really, there is so much printed paper that you can’t quickly think of anything to wrap it in.”

I heard, my prophetic heard all these speeches for another month! That is, I say that our brother, the farmer, should stick his nose out of his remote place into the big world - my fathers! It’s the same as sometimes happens when you enter the chambers of a great master: everyone surrounds you and starts to fool you. It would be nothing, even if it’s already the highest lackey, no, some ragged boy, look - rubbish, who is digging in the back yard, and he will pester; and they will start stamping their feet from all sides. “Where, where, why? let's go, man, let's go!.." I'll tell you... But what can I say! It’s easier for me to go twice a year to Mirgorod, where neither the judge from the zemstvo court nor the venerable priest have seen me for five years, than to appear in this great world. But he showed up - don’t cry, give me an answer.

Here, my dear readers, don’t say this in anger (you may be angry that the beekeeper speaks to you simply, as if to some matchmaker or godfather), - here on our farms it has long been the custom: as soon as the work in the field will be over, the man will climb up to rest on the stove for the whole winter, and our brother will hide his bees in a dark cellar, when you will no longer see cranes in the sky or pears on the tree - then, only in the evening, probably somewhere in the end the streets are lit up, laughter and songs are heard from afar, the balalaika is strumming, and sometimes the violin, talking, noise... These are our vespers! They are, if you please, similar to your balls; I just can’t say that at all. If you go to balls, it is precisely to twirl your legs and yawn in your hand; and in our house a crowd of girls will gather in one hut, not at all for a ball, with a spindle, with combs; and at first they seem to be busy: the spindles are noisy, songs are flowing, and each one does not even raise an eye to the side; but as soon as the couples with the violinist come into the hut, a scream will rise, a shawl will start, dancing will begin and such things will happen that it is impossible to tell.

But it’s best when everyone huddles together in a tight group and starts asking riddles or just chatting. My God! What they won’t tell you! Where antiquities won't be dug up! What fears will not be caused! But nowhere, perhaps, were so many wonders told as at the evenings at the beekeeper Rudy Panka’s. Why the laity called me Rudy Pank - by God, I can’t say. And it seems that my hair is now more gray than red. But we, if you please, do not get angry, have this custom: when people give someone a nickname, it will remain forever and ever. It used to be that on the eve of a holiday, good people would gather for a visit, in Pasichnikov’s shack, sit down at the table, and then I just ask you to listen. And that is to say that the people were not at all just a dozen, not some peasant peasants. Yes, maybe someone else, even higher than the beekeeper, would have been honored by a visit. For example, do you know the clerk of the Dikan church, Foma Grigorievich? Eh, head! What kind of stories he could tell! You will find two of them in this book. He never wore a motley robe, such as you will see on many village sextons; but come to him on weekdays, he will always receive you in a thin cloth robe the color of chilled potato jelly, for which in Poltava he paid almost six rubles per arshin. From his boots, no one in our whole village can say that the smell of tar can be heard; but everyone knows that he cleaned them with the best lard, which, I think, some man would happily put in his porridge.

If we talk about the first books of Nikolai Gogol, and at the same time exclude from mention the poem “Hanz Küchelgarten”, which was published under a pseudonym, the cycle Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka is Gogol’s first book, which consists of two parts. The first part of the series was published in 1831, and the second in 1832.

In short, many people call this collection “Gogol’s Evenings.” As for the time of writing these works, Gogol wrote Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka in the period 1829-1832. And according to the plot, these stories seem to have been collected and published by the pasichnik Rudy Panko.

A brief analysis of the cycle Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka

The cycle of Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka is interesting because the events taking place take the reader from century to century. For example, "Sorochinskaya Fair" describes the events of the 19th century, from where the reader finds himself in the 17th century, moving on to reading the story "The Evening on the Eve of Ivan Kupala." Further stories "May Night, or the Drowned Woman", "The Missing Letter" and "The Night Before Christmas" concern the time of the 18th century, and then the 17th century follows again.

Both parts of the cycle Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka are united by the stories of the clerk’s grandfather Foma Grigorievich, who seems to combine the past times, the present, true and fables with the events of his life. However, speaking about the analysis of Evening on a Farm near Dikanka, it is worth saying that Nikolai Gogol does not interrupt the flow of time on the pages of his cycle; on the contrary, time merges into a spiritual and historical whole.

What stories are included in the series Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka

The cycle includes two parts, each of which contains four stories. Please note that on our website in the section

Preface

“What kind of unprecedented thing is this: “Evenings on a farm near Dikanka”? What are these “Evenings”? And some beekeeper threw it into the light! God bless! They haven’t yet stripped the geese of their feathers and turned their rags into paper! There are still a few people, of all ranks and rabble, who have their fingers dirty in ink! The hunt also drove the beekeeper to drag himself after the others! Really, there’s so much printed paper that you can’t quickly think of anything to wrap it in.”

My prophetic listened, heard all these speeches for another month! That is, I say that our brother, the farmer, should stick his nose out of his remote place into the big world - my fathers! It’s just like what happens sometimes when you go into the chambers of a great master: everyone surrounds you and starts to fool you. It would be nothing, let it be the highest lackey, no, some ragged boy, look - rubbish, who is digging in the back yard, and he will pester; and they will start stamping their feet from all sides. “Where, where, why? let's go, man, let's go!.." I'll tell you... But what can I say! It’s easier for me to go twice a year to Mirgorod, where neither the judge from the zemstvo court nor the venerable priest have seen me for five years, than to appear in this great world. But he showed up - don’t cry, give me an answer.

Here, my dear readers, don’t say this in anger (you may be angry that the beekeeper speaks to you simply, as if to some matchmaker or godfather), - here on our farms it has long been the custom: as soon as work in the field will end, the man will climb up to rest on the stove for the whole winter, and our brother will hide his bees in a dark cellar, when you no longer see cranes in the sky or pears on the tree - then, only in the evening, probably somewhere in the end The streets are lit with lights, laughter and songs are heard from afar, the balalaika is strumming, and sometimes the violin, talking, noise... These are our vespers! They are, if you please, similar to your balls; I just can’t say that at all. If you go to balls, it is precisely to twirl your legs and yawn in your hand; and here a crowd of girls will gather in one hut, not at all for a ball, with a spindle, with combs; and at first they seem to be busy: the spindles are noisy, songs are flowing, and each one does not even raise an eye to the side; but as soon as the couples with the violinist come into the hut, a scream will rise, a shawl will start, dancing will begin and such things will happen that it is impossible to tell.

But it’s best when everyone huddles together in a tight group and starts asking riddles or just chatting. My God! What they won’t tell you! Where antiquities won't be dug up! What fears will not be caused! But nowhere, perhaps, were so many wonders told as at the evenings with the beekeeper Rudy Panka. Why the laity called me Rudy Pank - by God, I don’t know how to say. And it seems that my hair is now more gray than red. But we, if you please, do not get angry, have this custom: when people give someone a nickname, it will remain forever and ever. It used to be that on the eve of a holiday, good people would gather for a visit, in Pasichnik’s shack, sit down at the table, and then I ask you to just listen. And that is to say that the people were not at all just a dozen, not some peasant peasants. Yes, maybe someone else, even higher than the beekeeper, would have been honored by a visit. For example, do you know the clerk of the Dikan church, Foma Grigorievich? Eh, head! What kind of stories he could tell! You will find two of them in this book. He never wore a motley robe, such as you will see on many village sextons; but come to him on weekdays, he will always receive you in a robe made of fine cloth, the color of chilled potato jelly, for which in Poltava he paid almost six rubles per arshin. From his boots, no one in our whole village can say that the smell of tar can be heard; but everyone knows that he cleaned them with the best lard, which, I think, some man would happily put in his porridge. No one will also say that he ever wiped his nose with the hem of his robe, as other people of his rank do; but he took out from his bosom a neatly folded white handkerchief, embroidered along all the edges with red thread, and, having corrected what needed to be done, folded it again, as usual, into a twelfth share and hid it in his bosom. And one of the guests... Well, he was already so panicked that he could at least now dress up as an assessor or sub-committee. Sometimes he would put his finger in front of him and, looking at the end of it, would go on to tell a story - pretentiously and cunningly, like in printed books! Sometimes you listen and listen, and then thoughts come over you. For the life of me, you don’t understand anything. Where did he get those words from! Foma Grigorievich once wove him a nice tale about this: he told him how one schoolboy, learning to read and write from some clerk, came to his father and became such a Latin scholar that he even forgot our Orthodox language. All words are twisted. His shovel is a shovel, his woman is a babus. So, it happened one day, they went with their father to the field. The Latin guy saw the rake and asked his father: “What do you think this is called, dad? “Yes, and with his mouth open, he stepped on the teeth. He didn’t have time to compose himself with an answer when the hand, swinging, rose and grabbed him on the forehead. “Damn rake! - the schoolboy shouted, grabbing his forehead with his hand and jumping an arshin, - how, the devil would push their father off the bridge, they fight painfully! So that's how it is! I also remembered the name, my dear! The intricate storyteller did not like such a saying. Without saying a word, he stood up, spread his legs in the middle of the room, bent his head a little forward, stuck his hand into the back pocket of his pea caftan, pulled out a round, varnished snuff-box, snapped his finger on the painted face of some Busurman general, and, taking a considerable a portion of tobacco, ground with ash and lovage leaves, brought it to his nose with a rocker and pulled out the whole bunch with his nose on the fly, without even touching his thumb - and still not a word; Yes, when I reached into another pocket and took out a blue checkered paper handkerchief, then I just muttered to myself almost a proverb: “Don’t throw your pearls before swine”... “Now there will be a quarrel,” I thought, noticing that Foma’s fingers Grigoryevich was just about to get hit. Fortunately, my old woman thought of putting a hot knish with butter on the table. Everyone got down to business. Foma Grigorievich’s hand, instead of showing the shish, reached out to the knish, and, as always, they began to praise the craftswoman and hostess. We also had one storyteller; but he (there’s no point in even remembering him by nightfall) dug up such terrible stories that the hairs were running all over his head. I didn't put them here on purpose. You will also scare good people so much that, God forgive me, everyone will be afraid of the beekeeper like the devil. It would be better if I live, God willing, until the new year and publish another book, then it will be possible to fear people from the other world and the divas that happened in the old days in our Orthodox side. Among them, perhaps, you will find the fables of the beekeeper himself, which he told to his grandchildren. If only they listened and read, but I, perhaps, - I’m just too damn lazy to rummage around - can get enough of ten such books.

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