Lara Biyuts's Blog

Б.Акунин (B.Akunin), Vremena goda" (citation concerning the 26th of July) : "26 июля, пятница. Годовщина основания крестоносцами Иерусалимского королевства. День поминовения священномучеников Панкратия и Кирилла. Сегодня день рождения Давида, ему исполняется двадцать девять лет. Я приглашена на банкет в Яхт-клуб – с «джаз-раутом», лодочным катанием и барбекю (новая американская мода), вечером будет китайский фейерверк."

* * *

Born under the sign of Lion. The lion of the name of Lipen (липень) :)


read more in 2012 :

https://revueblanche.blogspot.com/2012/07/26july.html

My OnlyЭйдан Грэм
* Go mbeannai Dia mo ghra! *
The finest songs I sing are thine,So whole my heart to you belongs;I praise my darling line by line -The finest things I sing are thine!For any sin of mine - don't rime, For all my rhymes absolve my wrongs.The briGHtest songs I sing are thine,So whole my soul to you belongs!God bless my Love, my only crime...

© GalaXY Hunter
Ton âme
Эйдан Грэм
* Нету душе твоей равного... всё же
Юной листвы прелесть ранит похоже.
Ветр околдованно гимны поёт
Призрачно-зыбкой вуали апреля -
В хрупкость влюблён, и от нежности млея...
В строках к тебе слышен отзвук тех нот. *


Je sais à quoi ton âme ressemble, je le sens.
А la verdure à peine visible de printemps,
Dont la tendresse caresse mon coeur par sa clarté,
Doucement le blesse par sa jolie fragilité.

Ces nuages de brume verdâtre sont si ravissants,
Leur charme frêle dure, malheureusement, si peu de temps!
Le vent bourru leur chante d'amour, tout épaté
De leur raffinité, épris de leur beauté.

Mais cettes petites feuilles, helas, vont devenir trop grands,
Va disparaître leur fragile calinite...
Le vent n'aime donc que ça - par sa perte attristée,

Lui, l'en tête, il attendra en esperant
Quand elles seront telles transparentes et éthérées
Comme l'âme d'un homme que j'aime - et que j'aimerai.

© GalaXY Hunter
P.S. шестистрочие-эпиграф вполне себе самостоятельно, просто делит с сонетом ссылку, тему и настроение))

Kelebrin Eredel
Эйдан Грэм

* мы вместе - пусть сейчас ты далеко.
увидеть жажду?... это так легко!
закрыл глаза - и память дарит вмиг
любви моей хрустально-нежный лик... *

Kelebrin Eredel, l’hote des champs de minuit,
Tu es l’alliage etranger du terrestre et du ciel,
L’etincelle de l’argent, le silence dans le bruit,
Si semblable а l’organe doux chantant pres de l’autel.

Tu es seul, mais partout; dans les perles de la pluie,
Aux rayons du soleil je te vois, mon ange grêle.
Ta beauté envoûtante est celle d'une fraîche nuit,
La songerie enjôleuse, Kelebrin Eredel.

Le demi-elfe et demi-homme, éthéré et charnel,
La hantise ravissante qui m'inspire en même temps
Les pensees si sublimes et l’envie sensuelle.
Le mortel ordinaire... le sorcier très puissant!

Tu n'as pas de pareils, tu es beau sans reproche,
Mon étoile du berger, si lointain et si proche.

© GalaXY Hunter
P.S. катрен, взятый "эпиграфом" - абсолютно самостиен)) но весьма близкородственен сонету духом)

Qch un peu de jésuite...
Эйдан Грэм

Parfois je pense qu'il me faut t'oublier,
Que cet amour n'a point l'avenir.
C'est imbécile sans avoir tant t'aimer,
Et ma raison m'ordonne le finir...

Mais si je t'aime, c'est le Dieu qui l'enviait,
Il voudrait voir pouvais-je tout subir.
Et Son envie, comme je peux le nier?
Comment je peux pas l'accomplir?

Nos vies, nos âmes sont unies, nous sommes liés...
L'envie du Dieu est certes mon désir.
C'est mon destin - je me lui suis confié,
Je lui obéis avec grand plaisir!

Puisque se passe rien sans Sa permission -
C'est à Son gré j'ai cette passion.

© GalaXY Hunter

Mon bien-Aimé
Эйдан Грэм

Dans ce monde existe le seul visage
Que sans cesse je voudrais regarder,
Dont exquis comme d'ange les linéaments -
C'est le tien, surement, mon bien-aimé.

J’aime ses traits cristallins et limpides,
Cette merveille d'une beauté raffinée,
Son teint tendre pâle, à peu près livide,
Celui d'elfe m'enchante, mon bien-aimé.

Te contempler est le grand festin
De jouissance pour mon âme affamée...
On dit que chacun a son destin -
Alors, tu es le mien, mon bien-aimé!

Cheri, ca ne peut pas s'exprimer
Comme je t'adore, mon bien-aimé.

© GalaXY Hunter



Revue Blanche: forgotten literary figures: forgotten literary figures. From time to time, we at Revue_Blanche call attention to some forgotten literary figures. However, this au...

forgotten literary figures. From time to time, we at Revue_Blanche call attention to some forgotten literary figures. However, this author, known as GalaXYHunter, cannot be named one of them, one of now-unfamiliar literary figures, because he is our contemporary, and yet, his long time-out in his creative work makes him somewhat forgotten. His last self-published poetry is dated 2011 which is all I know of him. GalaXY Hunter writes in Russian, English, French, Italian. In my next blog entry there will be his French poetry. He writes about himself : Эйдан ГрэмGALAXY HUNTER[...а просебятинки не будет)) ни в рифму, ни без рифмы.я - в моих стихахи прозе. читайте) надеюсь, в удовольствие! раздумье...и эстетическое наслаждение) - если не всё вместе, то хоть что-то одно)))]NB-1! да, Хантер я. GalaXY Hunter (Galaxy_Hunter, galaxy-hunter, GH). именно так просьба подписывать авторство моих текстов - а его настоятельно прошу указывать при мною написанном, а не "забывать" - если вы размещаете их на своих личных веб-страничках, форумах etc. а Эйданом Грэмом не множьте сущности сверх необходимого)я позволяю копировать и публиковать мои тексты в интернете только при соблюдении правил копилефта, они несложные и не кусаются)) - всего лишь указание авторства и активная ссылка на страницу оригинала. и, конечно, при условии некоммерческого их использования.NB-2! иллюстрации с логотипом GH принадлежат автору и его фотошопу)) ровно в той мере, насколько нам удалось сделать неузнаваемыми исходники (ссылки на оригиналы которых обязательно приводятся на страницах моих веб-альбомов и при каждом плэйкасте с моим коллажем).и ссылки на страницы оригиналов коллажей - и авторство - также обязательны. имейте уважение к тому, что понравилось))P.S. сугубо для пользователей playcast.ru - только с моего письменного согласия. и никак иначе, ни полстрочки. dixi.NB-3! ...а всё)) ну, разве что для связи:skype - galaxy.hunter
Today, some things from his poetry in Russian, gay-themed, gay-romance, are published solely in virtue of our formal program of forgotten literary figure protection :) :
Я вещий Зверь... le Chant du DragonЭйдан Грэм
Я вещий Зверь. И прокажённый...Мои стигматы, Страсть и Пламя,Клеймил ты нежными губами -На струнах нервов обнажённых.Ведьмак...
Привык я к сказочным полётам.Но ты исчез - я стал бескрылым...И проживая вновь - как Было,Травлюсь полынно-горьким мёдом.Вот так...
Душой, изорванной на клочья -Клыками грёз-воспоминаний,Хрипеньем слов-и-многоточий -Я наг...
Зовёт волшебник мой - внимаю;И в обертонах-междустрочьеЛовлю намёки, заклиная -Дай знак!...
© GalaXY Hunter
Я отдам в хорошие руки нимб... halo-weenЭйдан Грэм* I ain’t gonna be a(s) saint! *
Я отдам в хорошие руки нимб.Он б/у - но почти не ношен.Потому что сплошными "негоже!"Лучезарное это гало(Между прочим, я о нём - не просил)Оказалось ужасно мало...И пугало крылатую лошадь -Ну, а мне Пегий друг дороже!Отдаю в хорошие руки нимб.
Он украсит немало голов...Не мою! Ты простишь мне, Боже?Не люблю я узду и вожжи.Не терплю и шор - ореол слепил,Затрудняя выбор моих! дорог -А не только взор затмевал другим.Ну, а мне ясный взгляд дороже.В общем, так - слишком жмёт одёжка,Украшенье достойных голов!
Чтоб его носить, нужно быть святым.Я - иной. Потому отложенНаилучший из божьих даров(Дуракам - или Очень Хорошим).
Заби-рай-те!
© GalaXY Hunter
La melanFolie... рондель с кодойЭйдан Грэм
Невидимым облаком серым,Непролитыми дождями -Туман из убитых желанийКлубится над всей суеТеррой.Над нами.
И душит! Прах умолчаний,Обеты, не ставшие делом -Невидимым облаком серым...Прольётся оно дождями?Над нами?...
А если душа прикипелаК несбывшимся ожиданьям -Их мёртвый плен ощущаемНезримыми путами тела;Невидимым облаком серымНад нами...
© GalaXY Hunter
Расстрельный списокЭйдан Грэм
Не жги мосты - а жги тетради,В которых дней расстрельный список,Имён расстрельных...Тебя не хватит -Обратно вымостить дороги:И разрешить себе всех тех,Кого когда-то запретил.И если ты свои границыИ вето чертишьНа воде -Не таковы круги у времени,Они не зримы и не знаемы,Но между ними -Не перейти.
Те имена из "группы риска"?Да ты боялся -А не жил.
Ещё, лишив себя друзей,Кичишься твёрдостью своей.Гордишься чем?Своей боязнью?
Ты измерял их мерой страха -А не безмерностью любви -Тех, с кем хотел быНе расставаться.
А вот представь -Что это тыВсего лишь буквы в чёрном списке.Был взвешен -И ненужнымПризнан.
Да-да, ТакоеМожет Быть.
Найди сожжённые дороги:Под слоем пепла одностороннийБлагих намерений настил -И он привёл тебя туда,Где безопасно, как в каземате,Где, на запретыЖизнь потратив,Взамен-то многоНакопил?
© GalaXY Hunter
Высший пилотажЭйдан Грэм
* burn briGHter, bury it hiGHer! *
Когда хочется просить маму,Чтоб обратно родила, да подальше -Ярче, ярче улыбайтесь, ярче!Это - высший пилотаж. Драмы.
© GalaXY Hunter

we at Revue Blanche are fond of cats. Read the citations from the book
LÀ-BAS (DOWN THERE) by J.K. HUYSMANS (1891) --

Bed was a good place, he added, smiling, for he saw his cat, a creature with a perfect time sense, regarding him uneasily as if to remind him of their common convenience and to reproach him for not having prepared the couch. Durtal arranged the pillows and pulled back the coverlet, and the cat jumped to the foot of the bed but remained humped up, tail coiled beneath him, waiting till his master was stretched out at length before burrowing a little hollow to curl up in.

CHAPTER VI
Next morning Durtal woke later than usual. Before he opened his eyes there was a sudden flash of
light in his brain, and troops of demon worshippers, like the societies of which Des Hermies had spoken, went defiling past him, dancing a saraband. "A swarm of lady acrobats hanging head downward from trapezes and praying with joined feet!" he said, yawning. He looked at the window. The panes were flowered with crystal fleurs de lys and frost ferns. Then he quickly drew his arms back under the covers and snuggled up luxuriously.
"A fine day to stay at home and work," he said. "I will get up and light a fire. Come now, a little courage—" and—instead of tossing the covers aside he drew them up around his chin.
"Ah, I know that you are not pleased to see me taking a morning off," he said, addressing his cat, which was hunched up on the counterpane at his feet, gazing at him fixedly, its eyes very black.
This beast, though affectionate and fond of being caressed, was crabbed and set in its ways. It would tolerate no whims, no departures from the regular course of things. It understood that there was a fixed hour for rising and for going to bed, and when it was displeased it allowed a shade of annoyance to pass into its eyes, the sense of which its master could not mistake.
If he returned before eleven at night, the cat was waiting for him in the vestibule, scratching the wood of the door, miaouing, even before Durtal was in the hall; then it rolled its languorous green-golden eyes at him, rubbed against his trouser leg, stood up on its hind feet like a tiny rearing horse and affectionately wagged its head at him as he approached. If eleven o'clock had passed it did not run along in front of him, but would only, very grudgingly, rise when he came up, and then it would arch its back and suffer no caresses. When he came later yet, it would not budge, and would complain and groan if he took the liberty of stroking its head or scratching its throat.
This morning it had no patience with Durtal's laziness. It squatted on its hunkers, and swelled up, then it approached stealthily and sat down two steps away from its master's face, staring at him with an atrociously false eye, signifying that the time had come for him to abdicate and leave the warm place for a cold cat.
Amused by its manœuvres, Durtal did not move, but returned its stare. The cat was enormous, common, and yet bizarre with its rusty coat yellowish like old coke ashes and grey as the fuzz on a new broom, with little white tufts like the fleece which flies up from the burnt-out faggot. It was a genuine gutter cat, long-legged, with a wild-beast head. It was regularly striped with waving lines of ebony, its paws were encircled by black bracelets and its eyes lengthened by two great zigzags of ink.
"In spite of your kill-joy character and your single track mind you testy, old bachelor, you are a very nice cat," said Durtal, in an insinuating, wheedling tone. "Then too, for many years now, I have told you what one tells no man. You are the drain pipe of my soul, you inattentive and indulgent confessor. Never shocked, you vaguely approve the mental misdeeds which I confess to you. You let me relieve myself and you don't charge me anything for the service. Frankly, that is what you are here for. I spoil you with care and attentions because you are the spiritual vent of solitude and celibacy, but that doesn't prevent you, with your spiteful way of looking at me, from being insufferable at times, as you are today, for instance!"
The cat continued to stare at him, its ears sticking straight up as if they would catch the sense of his words from the inflections of his voice. It understood, doubtless, that Durtal was not disposed to jump out of bed, for it went back to its old place, but now turned its back full on him.
"Oh come," said Durtal, discouraged, looking at his watch, "I've simply got to get up and go to work
on Gilles de Rais," and with a bound he sprang into his trousers. The cat, rising suddenly, galloped across the counterpane and rolled itself up into the warm covers, without waiting an instant longer.
"How cold it is!" and Durtal slipped on a knit jacket and went into the other room to start a fire. "I shall freeze!" he murmured.
Fortunately his apartment was easy to heat. It consisted simply of a hall, a tiny sitting-room, a minute bedroom, and a large enough bathroom. It was on the fifth floor, facing a sufficiently airy court. Rent, eight hundred francs.
It was furnished without luxury. The little sitting-room Durtal had converted into a study, hiding the walls behind black wood bookcases crammed with books. In front of the window were a great table, a leather armchair, and a few straight chairs.

(from LÀ-BAS by J.K. HUYSMANS. Translated by KEENE WALLACE [Transcriber's note: Original published 1891, English translation privately published 1928.])

green peace for ever.всегда охреновевая от стихотворения А. Блока «Болотный попик» (Пузыри Земли), я написала это маленькое эссе на английском на blog.co.uk, лет 10 разад. Творческие люди наших дней, художники, абсолютные уроды, если упустили образ персонажа этого стихотворения и ни разу не создали, не развили культовый персонаж из его темы. Сейчас, поздно. Время упущено.
A long time ago (April, 1905), in the land far far away from yours, St Petersburg, an outstanding poet by the name of Alexander Blok wrote a poem whose title may be translated as “The Little Priest of Marshland” or “The Marsh Little Priest.” This is the poem’s ending in my translation:
…He takes off his hat and praysfor the blade of grass that swaysfor every animal’s bad pawand for the Pope.Don’t fear the quagmire --the little black cope can save everywhere.
Reading the poem I though why the name Marsh Little Priest? And I quickly could answer the question: in Russian the “duckweed” (болотная ряска) that covers stagnant water is the word that can be translated as “the little cope” or “the little vestment” or “the little cassock”. So, as I think, the Poet says to himself: if there is the little vestment of a priest, then there should be the little priest (болотный попик) himself, a mythical, fantastic creature akin to an elf or a woodgoblin or brownie or nix, who dwells in the marshland, saying his prayers among the hillocks and stagnant water all over with duckweed. And the Poet invents the Marsh Little Priest. The poem that depicts this fairy entity and his environment is from the cycle of poems with the title Bubbles of the Earth. In THE TRAGEDY OF MACBETH by William Shakespeare we can read: “BANQUO. The earth hath bubbles as the water has, And these are of them. Whither are they vanish’d?” And the city of St Petersburg, as my reader knows, was built on the marshland. Original:Болотный попикНа весенней проталинкеЗа вечерней молитвою — маленькийПопик болотный виднеется.
Ветхая ряска над кочкойЧернеетсяЧуть заметною точкой.
И в безбурности зорь красноватыхНе видать чертенят бесноватых,Но вечерняя прелестьУвила вкруг него свои тонкие руки.Предзакатные звуки,Легкий шелест.
Тихонько он молится,Улыбается, клонится,Приподняв свою шляпу.
И лягушке хромой, ковыляющей,Травой исцеляющейПеревяжет болящую лапу.
Перекрестит и пустит гулять:«Вот, ступай в родимую гать.Душа моя радаВсякому гадуИ всякому зверюИ о всякой вере».
И тихонько молится,Приподняв свою шляпу,За стебель, что кланится,За больную звериную лапу,И за римского папу.
Не бойся пучины тряской —Спасет тебя черная ряска,
(17 April, 1905)
для особо одаренных, tак выглядит болотная ряска, from author Jasoncg :

https://www.dpreview.com/galleries/1131858405/photos/2616073/frog-in-the-duckweed

https://revueblanche.blogspot.ru/2012/07/26july.html

http://www.the-criterion.com/red-wraith/


from CAPTIVATING STORIES
OMR (One Minute Reads)
By
Pat Ritter

A Long Long Time Ago In A Far Off Place

A baby boy born to Irish parents on 26th July 1860, this child’s life began a journey which channelled into Australian history.
Joe Ryan grew to twelve years old when he decided to become a shearer. His parents disagreed with this occupation and needed him to help them on their farm growing potatoes. On a still night he decided to leave his family to seek his dream to be a shearer. He left a note for his family stating his claims to become a shearer after informing them he loved them both.
Before daybreak arose across the horizon Joe’s plan to become a shearer developed in his mind when he met a Shearing Contractor who promised him a job as ‘tar boy’. Over the next decade he worked in various shearing sheds taking him to Cunnamulla in outback Queensland. Instantly he fell in love with the town and fellow shearers. His common place of residence whilst staying in Cunnamulla he rented a room at Ma’s Guest House. She treated him like a son she never had.
Joe travelled to shearing shed after shearing shed displaying his skills with blade shears. At one shearing shed he met a beautiful lady and fell in love at first sight; unfortunately his love, the daughter of the property owner where he sheared. This beautiful lady felt the same about Joe. She told her father who denied her from ever seeing Joe again. ‘No daughter of mine is ever going to marry a shearer.’ He’d say.
Alas Joe and Hannah wanted to be together so without the wishes of her father she decided to stay with Joe. Unfortunately in 1890 shearers formed a union to have their wages and working conditions improved, Hannah’s father formed a pastoral association to hold off the shearer’s claims.
To stake their claim ‘The Great Shearer’s Strike of 1890’ where shearers from across Australia stopped shearing sheep until their claims accepted. This strike went on for five months.
Property owners hired non-union shearers to shear their sheep. Shearing sheds burnt to the ground, non-union shearers punished. Because of lack of money by the shearers they stopped the strike to return to work.
Joe Ryan is my great grandfather and Hannah my great grandmother - Joe the instigator of the strike in Cunnamulla being imprisoned for four months for his part in the strike.

© Copyright Pat Ritter - 2013
http://patritter.com.au/ 
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/606072

Tidings from Lara Biyuts, this blog writer.
Something new, something old. Life is beautiful, but Shades Calling, from time to time.
One of my stories is published and available for free on Kindle.
Contemporary, paranormal. Welcome reviewers !

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MF94810



Thanks to my Estonian Facebook friends, I finally found the final resting place of my great grandfather (1887-1956).

http://www.kalmistud.ee/haudi?filter_maetud_eesnimi=Maetu+eesnimi&filter_maetud_perenimi=bijuts&action=maetud&popup=0&yldotsing=1&filter_maetud_kalmistu=


On the Net, for several years, I’ve been looking for my father’s far cousins, namesakes and our surname’s origin, with this last unknown to me as well as to my late father, and I succeeded. In my online research I proceeded from the fact that my great grandfather’s cousins, who lived in St Petersburg, where he lived too, came from villages near the city of Minks and the city of Grodno in Belarus. The name of this village sounds exactly as our surname. The village Biyuts is near the city of Vitebsk.
For my all namesakes. This is what I found on a Belarusian online forum about our surname' origin, information in Russian and Polish, about the village Biyuts in 3 differents spellings:

По книге "Виленская губерния: Полный список населенных мест со статистическими данными о каждом поселении, сост. И.И. Тошкевич, Вильно, 1905г." в деревне Биюти (или, как писали раньше, Биюци) Посоповского общества Мядельской волости Вилейского уезда Виленской губернии проживал 121 человек, из них мужского пола было 45 человек, женского пола - 76 человек. Ближайшая железнодорожная станция, Поставы, находилась в 18 верстах, волостное правление - в 16 верстах. Расстояние до уездного города (Вилейки) - 58 верст, площадь земельных угодий деревни - 143 десятины. Как и повсюду в этих краях, среди жителей деревни были, вероятно, люди православного, римско-католического и иудейского исповедания (последние мне, правда, не встречались; кроме того, о деревне нет упоминания на еврейских поисковых ресурсах). Своей церкви в этой деревне, по-видимому, не было, и я предполагаю, что православные ее жители окормлялись в церкви деревни Груздово, расположенной в паре километров к северо-востоку.
В настоящее время деревня Биюти входит в состав Юнковского сельсовета Поставского района Витебской области Республики Беларусь. В телефонном справочнике Поставского района перечислены только два ее жителя..по телефонной книге в дер. Биюти указаны сейчас две фамилии - Боровко и Мацкевич.
но составлена книга И.И. Иошкевичем. В оригинале написано I.I. Iошкевичем. в 1850 году в дер. Биюци Груздовской плебании Мядзельского с/общества по ревизской сказке числится государственных крестьян 8 мужчин и 12 женщин, при этом всего две фамилии Папко и Петкевич.
В польском списке 1921 года именуется Bijucie (гмина Miadziol Дуниловичского повета).
Деревня Биюти и ее обитатели В межвоенное время принадлежала Польше. wojewodztwo wilenskie Виленское воеводство, powiat postawski Поставский повет, gmina wiejska Hruzdowo гмина сельская Груздово
Виленская губерния была образована в 1795 г. после третьего раздела Речи Посполитой и присоединения к Российской империи литовских и западно-белорусских земель.

forum.vgd
4 ноября 2006 8:22 -- в метриках Юшковичской церкви за 1872 г. мне в восприемниках попадался Игнатий Змеевский из деревни Биюц. Это Вилейский уезд, Мядельская волость.

Груздовская (греко-униатская) церковь, 1836 года (Ф.915 О.1 Д. 23):
4 октября - Фома Мацкевич, вдовец из д. Пожарцев, Лугайский прихожанин, обвенчался с вдовою Юлианою ПОДГАЙСКОЙ из БИЮЦ, Груздовской прихожанкою. Одним их свидетелей был Стефан ПОДГАЙСКИЙ.
8 ноября - Иосиф Змеевский, младенец (так в метрике!) из Груздово, Лугайский прихожанин, обвенчался с девицею Агафией Мословской. Одним из свидетелей был Игнатий ПОДГАЙСКИЙ из БИЮЦ.
К сожалению, в метриках нет ни возраста молодоженов, ни информации об их родителях.

интересным источником, в том числе и генеалогической информации в том числе и по Виленской губернии: Акты, издаваемые Комиссиею Высочайше учрежденною для разбора древних актов в Вильне. - Вильна, 1865-1898
Акты представляют собой 39 томов с документами земских, городских, подкоморских и копных судов Бресткой, Гродненской и Виленской губерний, а также с декретами Главного Литовского Трибунала, а также тематические тома с документами по истории Церковной Унии в России, по истории бывшей Холмской епархии, о литовских боярах, с "инвентарями" ряда имений и т.д.
Практически все тома (начиная с 3-его) снабжены именными, географическими и предметными индексами!!!, что конечно же облегчает поиск.
Тома 8-10 содержат документы (акты, декреты на русском и/или польском/белорусском языках) Виленских Земского и Городского Судов, а также акты Виленского Магистрата и Магдебургии. Каждый том - это приблизительно 150-200 документов за 16-17-18 века.
Тома 11-13 и 15 содержат декреты Главного Литовского Трибунала (до 1686 года).
Том 20 - Акты (1529-1804), касающиеся города Вильны.

7 февраля 2007 - из описанных в оп.1 дд. 3 (1869) - по всем церквям, 4 - 7 (1870-1873) - по Старо-Мядельской и Юшковской. Подгайских неt. В 1872-м в записях по Юшковской ц. есть упоминание прихожанки из д.БИЮЦ, родившей ребенка вне брака, но больше крестьян из этой деревни неt.

This is a picture of the village, 55'' north latitude, 27'' east longitude:

As I said more than once, on different sites, Eric Stanislaus Stenbock (1860-1895) is author of a vampire story, one of the only two which I appreciate. Talking of turnskin stories, I have to say that Stenbock’s story “The Other Side: A Breton Legend” (1893) is one of my two of choice as well. Literature is a matter of taste. Read the story here:
https://onedrive.live.com/view.aspx?cid=ac0c01aafd56c514&page=view&resid=AC0C01AAFD56C514!440&parId=AC0C01AAFD56C514!139&app=Word
The other story of a turnskin is “Lokis” (1869) by Prosper Mérimée (1803-1870). Set in Lithuania, it is the horror story of a man who seems to be half bear and half man. Plot (Wiki): It is set in rural Lithuania. The plot revolves around a young man who is suspected to be half-human half-bear, since he was born after his mother was mauled (and, as believed by peasants, raped) by a bear. The title is a misspelling of Lithuanian lokys for “bear”. As such, the plot may be classified into a werewolf theme. Through the novel, the protagonist, Michel/Lokis, manifests signs of animal-like behavior until he finally kills his bride by a bite to her throat and runs away into the forest on his wedding night. The screen version of the story see here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HP-Ctpy9fQI
One of nicest and poetic movies I ever saw. I appreciate it with the careful attitude towards literature and theme.The movie on Horrorpedia:
https://horrorpedia.com/2013/12/16/lokis-aka-lokis-rekopis-profesora-wittembacha/
My “Extraordinary Story of a Turnskin” is available here:

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/259119

read fiction by Lara Biyuts
CACTUS FLOWER -- FERN FLOWER
“However, the flower is closely guarded by evil spirits and anyone who finds the flower will have access to earthly riches, which have never benefited anyone, so the decision to pick the flower or leave it alone is left up to the individual.” (Wikipedia)
I
St John’s Eve, by nightfall. The sound of the Moonlight Sonata flowed from the opened window of the Manor. The big old garden was full of dark shadows -- underneath the trees, in the midst of the lush clumps of lilacs, on the lawns and pathways. Light spots of white flowers over the parterre of the house; the dewy grass glittered green in dark. The old house and landscape of the estate, full of crepuscular significance, modern allusions and old legends, seemed awaiting a miracle on the night in the late 19th century.  All windows were opened as well as the paned door to the terrace, but the lit room was the only. The gray limestone house looked white with windowpanes gleaming. Coming into the dark rooms, the moonbeams slid over the walls, cast lacy shadows on the floor and let see that the house was empty. Everyone was out, on the warm night, except the old tutor who feared frogs and dew, and who stayed to play piano in solitude. Jasmines along the front of the house and along the broad staircase. Enjoying the aroma of jasmines, a human figure was standing on the small square between the house and the group of old lime-trees and pines in the beginning of a big alley. The cigar in the human’s hand was almost gone. “What’s become of them all?” the man asked to himself, “Where’re they hanging about?” At that instant, he realized something, turned and went to the alley, leaving the light and music behind.   The sanded path gritted beneath his tread; leaves rustled in the breeze overhead. Darkness underneath the lime-trees, only a glowworm in the grass on the left of the pathway... Lo!  A voice. He heard someone’s saying his name at a distance of a yard. Two or more females talked sitting on a bench, most likely. Only an old lime-tree was between him and the talkers. He paused to listen to. The voice that said his name belonged to Trudy, cousin of his schoolmate on a visit at the Manor; the second belonged to his cousin Eulampia.Eulampia said, “Why to talk about Alex? The question is you. I no longer know what to think of you.”  “I no longer know what to think of myself!..” Trudy said, “Do you think I can think all right?”  “Formerly, your problem was that you could not fall in love with anybody. Now, when you are in love… Are you in love -- once and for all?”  “I am. Once and for all!”   “Why do you do all in your power to show him that you aren’t? Why do you tease him?”   “Do I tease him?”  “You smile. You know that you do. He could fall in love with you…”  “He? In love? With me? Are you sure?” “Why not? But he nicknamed you Cactus Flower.”“Did he?!.. Villain.”“Really, I take your feelings.” “Villain and milksop.”“Trudy, you are moody. If I were you, I’d…”  The lime-tree’s branches rustled, moving like a living creature’s paws.  “Who’s that?!” the talkers said.  Silence. The dark shade was frozen behind the lime-tree. The glowworm was shining green in the grass, with the red light of the thrown out cigar nearby.  The talk resumed. “It all is very nice, but it doesn’t make my problem easier.”  The moonbeam fell on the bench, gliding over the white dresses of the two damsels, making their faces shining white. The dark shade watched them.   A cloud veiled the moon; the alley became dark again. Two white silhouettes on the bench. The talkers’ voices began sounding cheerful.  Trudy said, “I’ve gathered herbs.”  “What kind of herbs?” Eulampia said. “One should gather thirteen kinds of herbs for the night -- keeping silence -- and put the herbs under the pillow. When abed, one should keep silence too. Thinking of anything. If I see him in my sleep, well then… Ah, it’s time!” “What, we are going there together? Nobody else?” Eulampia’s voice rang with notes of hesitation. “Yes, we together. Nobody should know!” Trudy said excitedly.“To the Old Pond?” Eulampia said.  “Yes. We’ll go through the lower gate and leave it open. If they see it, they’ll think we’ve gone to the well. But we’ll go round the Park and then to the Pond.”    “Secretly? All right, but it’s very damp there, and two ditches on the way.”   “There are the best ferns. That’s why the Pond is special! I always believed that there are water-nymphs. Though I don’t believe…”  Silence. The dark shade left the umbrage of the lime-trees and went towards the Manor.
II
Overgrown with reeds, the Old Pond had much water in the center, with the moon’s reflex. Old branchy birch-trees were there on the high side of the Pond, with the thick forest surrounding them and the Pond. Only one meadow spread uphill going towards the estate. Both the Pond and the forest were in a deep hollow, and at the hour, the hollow was full of a silvery steaming mist. In the umbrage of the old birch-trees, two silent shades were so dark and motionless that they could be taken for two stumps or trees. Only the red light of the indispensable cigar betrayed belonging of one of the shades to the great tribe of smokers in general and young smokers in particular. “Here they come, at long last!” the smoker said.  Indeed, a distant snapping of dry twigs got louder; a moment more and light spots of the white dresses appeared on the top of the high Pond side. “How nice! How nice here!” Trudy’s voice cried out.  Eulampia said, “It’s too damp. We have to gather skirts up to knees!”  Someone’s laughter behind the birch-tress.  “Eulampia, did you hear that?”  “No, why?”  “Someone’s laughter.”  “It only seemed to you. Well… Where are we going?”  “To the forest on the other side of the Pond. Wait a moment… I want to take the glowworm. Look at it, how beautiful it glitters, over there, in the sedge!” Trudy came down and leaned over the Pond. It was difficult to get the glowworm, because it was deep in the dewy grass, that’s why Trudy never saw what happened on the top of the Pond side.
III
Hearing a small screech and footfall sound, she thought, “Eulampia stepped on a frog.” Next, it was too quiet around. “Eulampia!” Eulampia’s voice responded from a distance, somewhere in the forest. Trudy cried out, “Where are you going without me?” Silence. The silvery fog swirled over the dark waters, sprawling between the trees, where the fog was unusually white and taking perpetually and fluently various obscure shapes. Some weird shades seemed to get waving into a big garland, moving and rising, seeking to part and fly away. It seemed like a dreadfully white water-nymph could come out of the drowsy waters any time now, twinkle green glassy eyes and begin to shake glittering water drops off her long green tresses. It seemed that a wood-goblin that lurked in the black boughs of the dry birch-tree could start screeching, any minute… But a strange drawling cry was heard in the thicket and died away.  With her pit-a-pat heart, Trudy ran up the Pond side, quickly, though it was somewhat difficult, and she looked round. She was alone. Actually, it seemed to her that a dark shade glimpsed behind a tree – but it could be merely a play of her imagination. A distant screech of an owl. Trudy gave a start and hastened to the forest.She believed Eulampia was on the other side of the Pond where the ferns grew thickly and wonderfully. “To her, to her! It’s fearsome to be here, alone…” It was dark and damp on her way in the forest. Fallen leaves rustled underfoot; the dark starlit sky hardly could be visible between the crowns of old tress. The pathway went through dense thickets. “Eulampia!” her clear voice sounded in the silence of the night. A strange wild screech instead of a reply -- once again, from another side… Trudy ran forward, through the thicket. What’s that? What a fearsome dark figure with an ugly head?.. It’s but an old stump, mossy all over. But… over there, ahead, it’s not a stump. Someone’s standing! Something tall and white is standing motionless and awaiting… The closer, the longer it looks. It cannot be Eulampia or the other human. What it is?.. It’s only a view of a glade between two old aspens!The water-meadow sagged under her feet. Hummocks overgrown with cowberry shrubs and tussocks of fern here and there. A marsh! Sweat dewed her brow. The moon had vanished, and the sky was dark with bright stars. The forest was like a dark wall around; the thick fog was swirling over the glade, and its white streaks flowed towards the forest to disappear between trees. Dozens of glowworms were shining over the moss-grown hummocks. Suddenly, in the silence, a bell rang. The brassy sound came from a distant village. It has announced a beginning of a midnight mass. That’s the midnight, the magic hour when water-nymphs came from dark waters, when the legendary Fern Flower bloomed somewhere in a dense thicket, and when a sly wood-goblin prowled around screeching from time to time… Here, Trudy saw a tall dark shade on the glade. The shade moved. It moved towards her! Getting closer, closer, approaching her! On the instant, at her feet, in the middle of a fern, a bright red sparkle flashed. The Fern Flower? It’s blooming? It’s not but a fib? Fearing to look back, trembling all over, she leaned and held her hand out… “Don’t touch it! It can hurt!” a voice said behind her back.   If it was a wood-goblin’s voice, then the wood-goblin sounded rather familiar. “It’s you?! Nothing more?” she said with notes of irony in her tone. She pretended so skillfully that it did credit to her self-possession, especially at the moments when she was nearly swooning with agitation. The wood-goblin sounded polite and quite himself, when he explained by saying, “I’m forcing my way.”  However, there were no further explanations. The Old Pond proved to be nearby. Both Eulampia and her companion, Alex’s schoolmate, were nearby too, turning up as though from nowhere.“All looked obscure on the weird night, moving in some extraordinary way. Aren’t you ashamed, Eulampia?”  “Why? You should tell where you’ve been!”  “Actually, you are a wrong person to be told about anything.” Alex, the smoker with no cigar, said, “A wood-goblin fooled Trudy.” Trudy said, “Did you drop your nasty cigar into the fern?” He said, “I forced my way -- what was left to me to do, in the shrubs and ferns? Playing pranks on you was an absolute must, tonight. This is the Summer solstice. Joie de vivre.”
The End
more stories is in the book "Crepuscular Rays" by Lara Biyuts :
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/538323
free read :

http://revueblanche.blogspot.com/2015/04/blood-flower.html