Vasili Grossman - from traveling notes - “Good to you!“ (1 - aya part)
“Soviet writer“, 1967.
The first impressions of Armenia - in the morning, in the train. A stone zelenovato - gray, he does not stand firm, not the rock, it - a flat scattering, the stone field; the mountain died, her skeleton was scattered across the field. Time made old, destroyed the mountain, and mountain bones here lie. Along a cloth ranks of a barbed wire last, not at once thought - the train goes along the Turkish border. There is a white lodge, a burro nearby, this is not our burro - Turkish. People are not visible. Asker sleep... The Armenian villages - houses the ploskokryshy, low rectangles put from a large gray stone; there are no greens - instead of trees and flowers around houses the gray stone is densely scattered. Also it seems - houses are put not by people. Sometimes the gray stone comes to life, moves - it is sheep. And they were generated by stones, and they eat, probably, a stone crumb and drink stone dust; around only one stone flat steppe - big, prickly, gray, greenish, black stones. Peasants in a great form of the Soviet working people - in quilted jackets, gray, black; people - as these stones among which they live, persons skin, dark from swarthiness, and from a nebritost. Standing at many the woolen white socks tense on trouser-legs. Women in the gray scarfs wound around the head, closing mouths, foreheads to eyes. And scarfs under a stone. And suddenly one - two women in brightly - red dresses, in red jackets, in red vests, in red tapes, red scarfs. All red - each part of clothes, red in own way, shouts stridently by the special red voice. They are Kurds - wives of century, thousand-year cattle-farmers. Perhaps, it is their red revolt against the gray centuries which passed among a gray stone? The neighbor in a compartment everything compares paradise fertility of Georgia - to stones of Armenia. He is young, ready critically, - if the speech comes about seven the kilometer tunnel, about the way paved among basalt, the neighbor speaks:“ It at Nikolay was constructed“. Then he speaks to me about opportunities to buy dollars, gold tens, reports courses of a currency black market. It is felt: the guy envies those who twist big affairs. Then he tells about the Yerevan master doing metal wreaths with metal leaves. It appears, in Yerevan - even the most modest - come to a funeral two hundred - three hundred people. And wreaths happen a little less, than people. This creator of sepulchral wreaths became the richest person. Then the neighbor treats me with the pomegranate bought in Moscow. And it is expensive - from Moscow to Yerevan - the long, huge country: the fellow traveler on Kursk the station was shaven, and to Yerevan grew with a black hair.
Surprising there was a business. Among Armenians there are a lot of fair-haired, gray-eyed, blue-eyed. I saw fair-haired rural children, charming four-year-old blue-eyed, zolotogolovy Ruzana. At the Armenian men and women persons of classical, antique beauty, meet an ideal oval, straight small noses, almond-shaped blue eyes. I met with high cheek-bones, with flat noses, with a little slanting section of eyes, met snub-nosed, saw Armenians with the extended, sharp faces, with noses, improbable by the size, sharp, hooked. I met brunettes, blue from blackness, coal eyes, saw Jesuit thin lips, saw full, vyvorochenny lips of Africans. But, of course, in this huge variety there is the main, main national type. Also it is hard to say that adequately bigger surprise - a variety or persistent stability. It seems to me that this variety reflects history of thousand-year invasions, invasions, pleneniye, history of trade and cultural rapprochements, - both ancient Greeks, and terrible Mongols, and Assyrians, and Babylonians, and Persians, and Turkic peoples, and Slavs are reflected in these types of persons. Armenians - the ancient people, the people which endured a set of wars, the people - the traveler, the people, centuries the suffering oppression of aggressors, the people which in fight were finding freedom and again getting to slavery. Perhaps, in it and an explanation of the Mongolian flat noses, blue Greek eyes, the Assyrian blackness, the Persian coal eyes? It is interesting that a variety of light and dark faces, blue and black eyes especially clearly is visible in the Armenian villages living patriarchally it is closed, there, in villages, you will not explain this variety with events recent. Depth of centuries polished a mirror in which the person of a modern armyanstvo is reflected. The same can be told not only about Armenians, but also about Russians, and especially about Jews. Of course, so. Unless the Russian persons, unless near blue-eyed and gray-eyed, snub-nosed are monotonous, with linen hair there do not live hook-nosed hares, “Roma“ as call them, with black southern eyes, with pitch curls; and nearby - the person with the Mongolian cheekbones, with the Mongolian section of eyes, with a flat nose? And Jews! Both black, and hook-nosed, and snub-nosed, and swarty, and blue-eyed, white-headed - persons Asian, African, Spanish, German, Slavic... The history of the people, the more in it is longer than wars, pleneniye, invasions, wanderings, the variety of persons is more. This variety of persons is reflection of century and thousand-year spending the night of winners in the houses won. It is the story about madnesses of the female hearts which ceased to fight thousands years ago, the story about passion of the drunk soldiers excited with a victory, about strange tenderness of overseas Romeo to the Armenian Juliette.
the Train came to Yerevan in the morning on November 3. Nobody met me. I stood under the blue warm sky on the platform, and on me there was a thick woolen scarf, a cloth cap and a new light overcoat - I bought it before departure, as they say, to look in Armenia decently. And it is valid, inspecting me, the Moscow experts on a social life spoke:“ Not brilliantly, but for the translator it is suitable“. In one hand I had a suitcase, there is enough - heavy - I arrived to Armenia for two months, in other hand - a bag with the heavy manuscript, the word-per-word translation of the epic about construction of copper-smelting plant written by the prominent Armenian writer Martirosyan. I translated this manuscript. Cheers stopped, and otsverkat black eyes of meeting, the people hurrying to get in a queue by a taxi, structure Moscow flew - Yerevan spread on a side-track, muddy glasses in rain poteka, dusty green walls of the tired, foamy cars which ran nearly three thousand kilometers departured. Everything was a circle unfamiliar, and heart clenched - the last piece of Moscow escaped me. I saw the big area inclined to the station and the huge half-naked person on a bronze horse - it bared a sword; I understood: this is David Sasunsky. The monument struck with power: the hero, a horse, a sword - everything was huge, full of the movement, forces. I was on the spacious square and is disturbing thought - nobody met me. I all glanced at the square and at a magnificent monument... Now it seemed to me, as the movement put in bronze, both power of a horse, and David Sasunsky`s power are excessive. It is not a bronze legend, it is bronze advertizing of a legend. To go directly to hotel? Without armor will not let in hotel. To trudge on streets of the Armenian capital under the hot sun in a shaggy coat, in a cap, in a warm scarf... Something sad and ridiculous is in shape of the stray person in others city. Dandies laugh, looking as there is across Theatre Square the Yakut uncle in a fur jacket, the transit aunt in valenoks in the stuffy August afternoon. Here I stand in the twilight and a cool in a queue in a left-luggage office. Nylon are not visible here: the sad young woman with the quiet, obedient child, the guy in a peak-cap of a vocational school, the lieutenant with children`s rural eyes, unusual to domestic spaces, behind it the old man with a wooden suitcase... And here I go along the square, and counter erevanets inspect me, the person in a jacket. I went out for a walk, I go to buy bread - an unleavened wheat cake, half-liter, I go to policlinic to accept procedures, nobody guessed that I am a visitor that I am confused and is inexact I remember the address of the only Yerevan acquaintance - the writer Martirosyan. I get on a bus. It is for some reason awkward to appear the person who is not knowing how much is the bus ticket. I give to the conductor ruble, he signs asks whether there is no money more small, I negatively swing the head though in my pocket there are a lot of copper coins. It appears, the price of the ticket Moscow. The first minutes on the street of the unfamiliar city are special minutes, not only months, but also years cannot replace them. Some atomic visual energy, nuclear powers of attention are marked out these minutes by the visitor of people. With shrill sharpness, with pervasive nervousness it absorbs, incorporates, soaks up the huge Universe: houses, trees, faces of passersby, signs, areas, smells, dust, color of the sky, exterior of dogs and cats. These minutes the person, like the Almighty God, makes the new world, creates, builds in himself the city with all areas, its streets, the yards, noblewomen, sparrows, with its thousand-year history, with its food and manufactured goods supply, with the opera, snack bars. This city that suddenly arises from a non-existence, the special city - it differs from what exists in reality, is the city of the person: in it in a special way, it is unique the autumn foliage rustles, in it dust in a special way smells, boys catapult. This miracle of creation is made even not in hours, and in minutes. The person dies, and with him the only, unique world created by it perishes: the Universe with the oceans, mountains, with the sky. These oceans and the sky are amazingly similar to those billions that exist in the heads of other people, this Universe is amazingly similar to that only which exists in itself, besides people. But these mountains, these sea waves, this grass and this pea soup have in themselves something unique, the only thing which arose throughout infinity of time, the shades, rustles, the splash of a wave is the Universe living in soul of the person who created it. And here I, sitting in the bus, going along the square, looking at the modern houses built from pink and zheltovato - a gray tufa, with naturalness and grace the reproducing drawings and contours of ancient Armenian structures, created the special Yerevan - extraordinary similar to that only that was actually, extraordinary similar on the fact that there lived in the heads of thousands of people walking today on these streets and at the same time Erevanov other than all millions, my unique city. In it autumn leaves of plane trees in a special way rustled, in it sparrows in a special way shouted. Here a main square - four buildings from a pink tufa: the hotel of “Intourist“ “Armenia“ where there live visitors to see the homeland foreign Armenians; The Council of a national economy knowing the Armenian marble, basalt, a tufa, copper, aluminum, cognac, electricity; The Council of ministers made on architecture - and post office where then it is disturbing my heart when obtaining general deliveries clenched. There is a boulevard where without restraint, on - Armenian; sparrows among brown leaves of plane trees shout; here the marvelous Armenian market - heaps yellow, red, orange, white and Xing - black fruits and vegetables, a velvet of peaches, the Baltic amber of grapes, stone it is red - orange, pryshchushchy juice a persimmon, grenades, chestnuts, a mighty half-meter radish, churchkhela garlands, hills of cabbage and a dune of walnuts, fiery pepper, fragrant and spicy greens. I already knew that the academician Tamanyan created the architectural style of new Yerevan repeating style of ancient structures and churches. I know that the traditional ancient ornament revived on modern buildings represents a grapes brush, the head of an eagle... Then already erevanets showed me the best creations of architects of Armenia, showed the street of mansions - each of them a small architectural masterpiece. But did not show me - it is uninteresting the old structures of Yerevan and the Yerevan courtyards hiding behind facades of hramopodobny new houses, behind facades of the stocky buildings of the nineteenth century which stepped to Yerevan together with the Russian infantry. I saw them in the first Yerevan day. Courtyard! Here soul, interior of Yerevan... Flat roofs, ladders, lestnichka, corridors, balconies, terraces and terrask, plane trees, a fig, the curling grapes, little tables, small benches, transitions, galereyka - all this is coped, merged, one enters another, there is one of another... Tens, hundreds of ropes, like arteries and nervous fibers, are connected by balconies and galereyka. On ropes the huge, multi-color linen of erevanets - here they, sheets on which dark-browed husbands and women sleep, here they, spacious as sails, brassieres of mothers - heroines, shirts of the Yerevan little girls, underpants of the Armenian aged men, trousers of babies, diapers, ceremonial lacy covers dries. Courtyard! A live organism of the city with the removed integuments - human life is visible here: both tenderness of heart, and nervous flashes, and consanguinity, and power of an association. Old men count the beads, slowly exchange smiles, children ozorut, braziers smoke - in copper Tazy quince and peach jam cooks, steam is above troughs, green-eyed cats look at the hostesses plucking hens. Nearby Turkey. Nearby Persia. Courtyard! In it link of times - present when four motors of the SILT - 18 plane deliver from Moscow to Yerevan in three and a half hour, and time a caravan - sheds, camel tracks... And here I stand, I erect the Yerevan - I mill, I split up, I absorb, I involve a pink tufa, basalt, asphalt and a cobble-stone, glass of show-windows, monuments to Abovyan, Shaumyana, Charentsu, faces, a dialect, mad speed of the passenger cars driven by mad drivers... I see today`s Yerevan with its plants, its extensive quarters of new multi-storey buildings for workers, with its magnificent opera theater, with precious storage of books - Matenadaran, with magnificent pink schools, with scientific institutes, with harmoniously and gracefully built building of Academy of Sciences. This Academy is glorified by the lucid Armenian scientific minds. I see Ararat - it rises in the blue sky, softly. gently outlined, it as if grows from the sky, but not from the earth, was condensed from clouds and heavenly blue. On this snow, it is bluish - the white, shining under the sun mountain was watched by eyes of those who wrote the bible. The Yerevan dandies love suits of black color... Supply here good: in shops there is a lot of oil, sausage, meat. Oh the Armenian maidens and very young young women are also good! Surprising business: costs to the old woman, to the grandfather to raise a hand - and drivers stop buses; people are kind and compassionate here. On sidewalks there are charming erevanka, knock high thin heels, and a row dandies in hats conduct the lambs bought by a holiday, lambs go on the sidewalk, knock hooves, and ladies knock fashionable heels, and a circle architecture, neon light, lambs feel the death, some rest legs, and dandies, being afraid to soil suits, push them, the lambs full of agonal melancholy lay down on the sidewalk, and dandies in hats, being afraid to be soiled, lift them; lambs in agonal melancholy pour black peas... Women with kind faces bear for paws of hens, turkeys, small heads of birds hang down down, became numb, probably, very much hurt, and birds curve necks that though to reduce a little the sufferings before death. Their round pupils look without reproach at Yerevan, in the heads which their small began to spin, grown dim arises too, the city is under construction of a pink tufa... I, the lord, the creator, go across Yerevan, I build it in the soul, that Yerevan to which Armenians contain two thousand seven hundred years, in what Mongols and Persians interfered, to what there came the Greek merchants and Paskevich`s army entered, that which did not exist three hours ago. And here the creator, the almighty lord feels alarm, begins to look around uneasily... Whom to interrogate? Among the people surrounding me many do not understand in Russian, I hesitate to address them, language of the lord is held down. Here I enter the yard. But where there, it is not our desert Russian yard, it is east vnutrenny yard; tens of eyes address me. I hasty go outside. But soon I enter the yard again. My alarm grows, I do not think any more that in the east the yard is soul, life heart. But it is valid, so it also is, and I go outside again. I perplexed smile and look back. But everywhere life! To me not to poetry. And here the decision is born - I jump in the thin tram, I buy the ticket for three kopeks. I took seat on a bench, and for a while calms down to me. I any more not the lord, not the creator, I am a slave to low desire. It held down my proud brain. And here proskrezhetat wheels, the tram does sharp turn. The street ran low, around waste grounds, clay taluses. The conductor searchingly glances at me. Here she passed on the car to the leader, quickly started talking to it on - Armenian. Probably, it shares with it the suspicions: what is necessary for the strange person of the tram, wearing spectacles at a final stop, among clay taluses and waste grounds? Now the leader from where - that from - under lands will seem the militiaman will approach me. What will I tell them? The visitor, the Muscovite, I get acquainted with Yerevan? And to what waste grounds and dumps were necessary for acquaintance to Yerevan? Honestly, it is strange - checked things of people, in the afternoon proshlyalsya on streets, he did not go to establishment to note business trip, he did not make attempt to get a job in hotel, in the House of the collective farmer, in the room of mother and child. It appeared on the suburb of the city where there are dumps and holes. Yes, it is really strange. No, no, it is not strange any more, here everything is already clear. Then, driven into the corner, I at last will open the reason which brought me on the suburb of the capital of Armenia. But nobody will believe my confession - I lay so much, pretended that the truth will seem ridiculous: the experienced saboteur shucked, the old wolf got confused finally. The tram reached a final stop, I disappeared among taluses and holes, nobody detained me.
Ya lived in Armenia two months; I carried out nearly a half of all term in Yerevan. But life in Yerevan did not give me new literary acquaintances. I arrived to Yerevan, knowing the writer Martirosyan and the translator Gortenziyu who prepared the word-per-word translation of the martirosyanovsky book about copper-smelting plant and left Yerevan, being familiar with Martirosyan, his family and the translator Gortenziya. Two times or three Martirosyan acquainted me on the street with the friends - writers, but these acquaintances were limited to semi-minute nods. However, one of writers inquired whether I am going to republish “D`Arshiak`s Notes“. And I - that believed that I, like Platon, will begin to give the conversation not only the Yerevan artists of a feather and brush, but also scientists: astronomers, physicists, biologists. Further conversations with the old woman - the person on duty along a corridor in hotel - business did not go. She sympathized with me: all day long the traveler worked, was not unsteady drunk along hotel corridors, did not sing by a hoarse voice at two o`clock in the morning of songs, accompanying himself on a bayan, did not drive to himself in number of maids. The naive old woman from hotel believed that all this is connected with my high moral qualities, and, probably, did not consider my poverty, diseases and age. I was consoled in several the fact that I asked somehow Martirosyan about stay in Armenia of Mandelstam. Lovely and touching details about Mandelstam`s life in Armenia were known to me, I read the Armenian cycle of verses of Mandelstam. I remembered its expression “basenny Armenian Christianity“. However Martirosyan did not remember Mandelstam. Martirosyan, at my request, specially rang round some poets of the senior generation - they did not know that Mandelstam was in Armenia. Martirosyan told me that he vaguely remembers the thin big-nosed person, probably very poor, twice Martirosyan treated him with a dinner and wine; having drunk, big-nosed read some verses, - on all visibilities, it was Mandelstam. Well, clearly, I thought. Mandelstam`s verses are fine, it is poetry, it is music of words. Can be even, it is too poetry, too music of words. Sometimes it seems to me that in poetry of the twentieth a century, it is as if brilliant there was it, became less hot warm power and all-consuming humanity which marked out poetic geniuses of the last century. As if the poetry from a bakery got over in jewelry store and great bakers were succeeded by great jewelers. Perhaps, therefore verses of some remarkable poets of the present are so difficult, they defend with this complexity from the Parisian platinum meter, a measure of all souls and things. But in Mandelstam`s verses bewitching music, and some of his poems - among the best of Blok written by Russians after death sounds. Though, speaking frankly, and Blok not my idol, and he did not create a measure of souls and things - sacred rye bread, and in its poetry a lot of things are created not by marvelous hands of the baker, but the thinnest ability of the jeweler, - but of course some of his verses, some of his lines among the best that is written by poets after 1838 and 1841. And though Mandelstam did not bear all great freight of the Russian poetry on the shoulders, he is a true and wonderful poet. The chasm separates it from poets imaginary. And here my familiar erevanets do not remember its stay in Armenia. Here from all this everyday history I passed to thoughts of objects of the general. In many Yerevan museums I saw portraits of the Decembrists degraded in soldiers and leaving service in Erivani of that time. I read that the Russia`s first statement “Woe from Wit“ was carried out by these soldiers, they also played female roles. I read as the Armenian intellectuals of the fact that in Yerevan, earlier than in St. Petersburg and Moscow, Griboyedov`s comedy was put were proud. It is possible to remember hundred years that in a dusty remote place of the Volga town of Kamyshin of veins the sent, poor, hardly living Nalbandian that in St. Petersburg lived in misery, was imprisoned Tumanyan and that Korolenko came to gate of prison in day of release of Tumanyan. And here memory of the Georgian exile living in Ukraine in Myrgorod, and memory of the Ukrainian wanderer Skovoroda, and of the penal Ukrainian living in Caspian sand the soldier does not die. Here live, work in the heads of mountaineers, schoolboys, students without growing dull, without weakening, endure change of times, world-wide - historical accidents verses of the disgraced lieutenant of the Tenginsky regiment, verses of the disgraced outdoor adviser from St. Petersburg. Live, the important and good deeds tied by exiled students, Korolenko, Tang - Bogoraz, disgraced Kropotkin work in a taiga, in the tundra of Yakutia; stories, verses, tales of what is necessary also for important all people sank down in human souls for ever; live, triumph at schools and institutes, in saklyas, log huts, yaranga... Here it, the free, kind, ineradicable “rusifikatorstvo“ made by Pushkin, Dobrolyubov, Herzen, Nekrasov, Tolstoy, Korolenko! But how many was the deputies and generals, the valid privy councilors, velmozhny representatives of the state, state science and literature who completely left the Caucasian memory... I thought of century communications of people, people, cultures that arise here so - in log huts, at stages, in camps, in soldier`s barracks. These communications are the strongest, hardy. These words that pisana at a dim oil lamp and chitanny in a log hut, on prison and barracks plank beds, in the smoked little room, also knit a ligature of unity, love and mutual respect of the people. They are those arteries and veins on which eternal blood runs. And the life surface, noisy, fruitless, fills as soapsuds, those people who also are soapsuds: crack, rustle and pass into nothingness. And right there those communications lie nearby that is tied and put by bricklayers, carpenters, tinmen, coopers, the peasant`s old women. Here it came, the pot of the Russian borsch, and became on a table in the Armenian house. Here it, Armenian prochesnochenny hash that in the serious, concentrated silence is eaten by bearded men - Molokans! Here everything is interesting: both susceptibility and conservatism. Thousands of labor receptions occurring side by side decades, centuries do not get used to life, do not find a response in work, life of the neighbor: the Russian peasant and the Armenian peasant bake bread in different furnaces, and bread their different; stubborn the Russian does not want is the unleavened wheat cake baked in the tandoor, and is indifferent to the high white bread which left the Russian furnace, the Armenian man. And tens of another matters, things, working receptions were adopted by them each other, enriched with them the life and labor skill. And here Paskevich`s soldier, knocking heavy boots, measured from edge to the region Armenia and came back home, brought a new, unprecedented way to lay bricks, to square the stone borrowed by it bricklayers - Armenians. Also were not necessary for this “armyanization“ of a rifle and a gun - laughed, clapped each other on a back, one winked, another told:“ Well, it is sensible“, smoked - and all. And here the communications started in Soviet period - communications of workers and engineers at plants and factories, communications of the Armenian and Russian students, scientists in university audiences and libraries, in laboratories scientifically - research institutes, communication of the Russian and Armenian agronomists, agriculturists, wine makers, communication of astronomers, communication of physicists. In the mountain settlement of Tsakhkadzor I made the first walk as the foreigner. Passersby peered into me. The water folding column, the old men sitting under a stone fencing and counting the beads Dzhigits of the twentieth century has women the drivers who were making a din at snack bar doors, - all stopped when I, shuffling the feet and feeling awkward from general attention, trudged among stone one-storeyed lodges. I passed, people silently exchanged glances. I went down the street and saw how curtains at windows moved, - the new Russian visitor appeared in Tsakhkadzore. Then I was studied, developed - everything that was learned serving in the literary house of creativity, it became known to all: I handed over the passport of a registration, I refused to eat hash, I do not speak on - Armenian, I from Moscow, am married, two children. I am a translator, came to translate the book of the writer Martirosyan. The translator is not young, but the translator drinks cognac, very nasty plays on billiards, the translator often writes letters. He walks and is interested in old church on the suburb of the settlement, in Russian calls to the Armenian dogs and cats. It came into the rural house where the old woman baked an unleavened wheat cake in the tandoor, - the translator did not know on - Armenian, the old woman did not know words in Russian. He laughed, showed what is interested in how bake an unleavened wheat cake. The old woman laughed too when from a kizyachny smoke the visitor began to cry. Then the old woman put a small bench on a floor, the visitor sat down on a small bench, and the silk kizyachy smoke was above his head. The Moscow person began to admire how the old woman rolled in air, rolled in air, dough. It threw a leaf of the test up and caught it on the given hands with thumbs up, dough by force of own weight became more thinly and gradually turned into a thin leaf. The visitor admired the movements of the old woman: they were smooth and fast, careful and self-confident, seemed beautiful, ancient dance. Really, this dance was ancient, one years with baked bread. And shaggy, in a fragmentary quilted jacket, the seventy-year-old old woman felt at once that the visitor from Moscow, gray-haired, wearing spectacles, admires how it rolls dough, bakes an unleavened wheat cake. And it was very pleasant to it, became it cheerfully and sadly. Then her daughter and the son-in-law, long ago not shaven, with a blue bristle came, the granddaughter in pink pajama trousers came, dragging for herself the sledge. And the old woman laughed with them, imperatively shouted something on - Armenian, and brought to the translator on a plateau of dry greenish cheese. Cheese seemed moldy, but was very tasty: sharp and fragrant. To the translator of a distance of a hot unleavened wheat cake, taught to wrap cheese in an unleavened wheat cake, then it was given a milk mug. And when it left with eyes, red from a kizyachny smoke, the dog barking at its arrival slightly wagged to it a tail - from it smelled to a habitual dog of bitterness. And the old woman`s daughter, thin, black, and the old woman`s son-in-law, unshaven, thin and black, and the old woman`s granddaughter with anthracitic eyes stood at a stone fence and waved to it following. Then the Moscow visitor went to mail and wanted to send a letter avia, but it turned out that by mail there are no necessary envelopes, - it was hard to find out all this business as black-eyed girls by mail did not speak in Russian. Therefore all shouted, swung hands and laughed. Next day it walked on the mountain road, reached a cemetery, there the old man dug a grave, the translator shook the head, and the old man grievously waved a hand, threw not finished smoking cigarette and again began to dig. In the same day the Muscovite passed by a water folding column and wanted to help the woman to bring to the house a bucket with water. But the woman felt shy, looked down and went with a bucket, without having looked back, and the translator stood, on - silly having spread wide hands. In the same day it long stood near the bricklayers building around a schoolyard a fencing from a pink tufa. Bricklayers upholstered a stone, squared sides, adjusted stones in a fencing, young women in wadded trousers, with the heads and faces which are rolled up by scarfs cooked clay porridge. When splinters of a pink stone got to the visitor, eyes of women fun-lovingly gleamed from - under scarfs. In the same day the translator had conversation with an ishachok and a lamb, going on the sidewalk towards a mountain pasture. He noticed that on sidewalks in the settlement mainly sheep, calfs, cows and horses go. And people and dogs for some reason went to Tsakhkadzore on a pavement. Ishachok at first quite attentively listened to the Russian speech, and then pressed ears, turned the back and wanted to hit the translator with a hoof. Its lovely, good-natured face with a thick nice nose suddenly changed, became angry, bad, the upper lip was wrinkled, huge teeth were bared. And the sheep whom the translator wanted to stroke nestled on a burro, looking for at it protection and protection. There was in it something inexpressibly touching - the sheep an instinct feels that the hand of the person given to her bears death, and here she wanted to be saved from death, looked for at four-footed burros of protection against that hand that she created steel and the thermonuclear weapon. In the same day the visitor bought a piece of children`s soap, toothpaste, warm drops in a selmaga. The translator went towards the house and thought of a sheep. At a sheep light eyes, they some vinogradno - glass. At a sheep a human profile - mysterious, indifferent, stupid. In the millennia shepherds look at sheep. Sheep look at shepherds, and here they became similar. Eyes of a sheep somehow in a special way apart - steklyanno look at the person, so do not look at the person of an eye of a horse, dog, cat... Here such fastidious, aloof eyes inhabitants of a ghetto would look at the Gestapo jailers if the ghetto existed five thousand years and every day throughout these millennia Gestapo men selected old women and children for destruction in gas chambers. My God, my God, as the person long has to beg for forgiveness at a sheep that she forgave him, did not look at it a glass look! What mild and proud contempt in this glass look, what divine superiority innocent herbivorous over the murderer writing books and creating cybernetic cars... The translator repented before a sheep and knew that he will eat her meat tomorrow. There passed a day more and put more. The visitor ceased to feel like an overseas parrot on streets of the mountain settlement. And here people, meeting him, began to greet him. And here he began to greet inhabitants the settlement. He already knew girls from mail, the seller from a selmag, the teacher of physics with a face of the opera villain, night watchman - the melancholic person with the gun, two shepherds, the old man protecting thousand-year walls of the Kichkariysky monastery, he knew Karapeta - Aga, the gray-haired and blue-eyed repatriate from Syria standing at a counter of the rural dining room knew the stately handsome driver Volodya Galosyan, knew the mad old man Andreas, knew the woman feeding turkeys under a fig tree, knew children - drivers from the three-ton trucks rushing like a hurricane on abrupt small streets, - these children had souls of eagles and masterly fingers Paganin. In the literary house I already knew what lovely and kind smile I at the thin cook Katya, knew how it reddens if praise the soup cooked by it. Katya told me that she arrived to Armenia from Zaporizhia, told that the husband her Molokan. It, being confused, told how to it it is strange that at weddings Molokans drink tea and do not touch wine and what strange sect - jumpers. She with advantage told: - Our tsakhkadzorsky Molokans do not jump. Katya has a gentle and kind disposition. A voice, the movements, gait at Katya shy, indecisive. Everything confuses her - her sonny Alyosha, the pupil of the first class here enters, and Katya reddens, looks down. And Alyosha reddens, is slightly heard murmurs when ask him a plain question: you in what class? And the person it is similar to mother - blednenky, blue-eyed, in freckles, with wheaten eyelashes and eyebrows. - Armenians good people, - Katya says and reddens. - Armenians live in peace and friendship. At Armenians respect seniors, - she says and again reddens. But then nevertheless it turns out that Katya considers Armenians as the most ordinary people: there are also drunkards, and fight, and thieves are. People as people, it is not better and it is not worse than ours. - And as for the peasantry, work here very hard, - Katya says and densely reddens. I became familiar with the smuglolitsy matron Roza - she has a dark down over an upper lip, and she always smiles that people could admire her dazzling sugar teeth. Roza in high chromic boots goes, in Russian does not know words, is engaged in work unproductive, always carries with herself the account book, enters in it that was eaten yesterday and what will be eaten tomorrow by creative specialists. I became familiar with the fireman Ivan - he big, white-headed, his face seems cruel, it has light short moustaches, light eyes. It is young, strong, is sometimes gloomy. The person at it round, big, white and ruddy the N for some reason from it seems especially bad. It goes, loudly going big, heavy and high boots. Also he speaks as he goes, slowly, hard, accurately, each word - as a boot. Because, that it fair-haired, light-eyed, white teeth, ruddy, so that he is a Molokan, apparently, that he eats only milk with white millet cereal. But Ivan is a violator of fatherly Molokan laws: drinks “Moscow“, smokes. Having drunk, he got to talking; told how goes to mountains - beats goats, a lynx, killed “badger“ once - a leopard. In his stories there is obviously no reliability iron, but he is not a liar, and here is how the writer - the romantic - the realist for visionaries, the lovely inventor among realists. I am pleasant to Ivan what badly I play on billiards. Almost all people are ambitious, but Ivan especially, without restraint. Having lost game to Martirosyan, Ivan suffers, suffers, and ordinary ambitious men in such cases do not suffer, and are only upset. - Let`s play? - he speaks to me, and in light eyes his thirst of sheep blood. I got acquainted with the cleaner Astroy and with the night watchman old man Arutyun, Astra`s father-in-law. The aster is the beauty. I remembered the Chekhovian story “Beauties“. Here drove off from an inn, long were silent, and suddenly the driver looked back and with admiration told the horseman about the beauty the Armenian - the daughter of the owner of an inn. Yes, the daughter was good at the old Armenian... It is really good! It is so good that there is no wish to describe its beauty. I will tell only that its beauty is expression of her soul - in her silent gait, in its shy movements, in it always the lowered eyelashes, in her hardly noticeable smile, in soft outlines of maiden shoulders, in chastity of poor, almost poor clothes, in the reflected gray eyes and there lives its beauty. Here so the white water-lily arises in the pond shaded by branches of trees among quietly thinking water. This white water-lily is also expression of forest water, expression of the forest twilight, not clear outlines of the plants shipped in water, slidings on still water of white silent clouds, reflections in a pond of a new moon and stars. And all this together: rivulets, backwaters, forest ponds and lakes, canes, a sedge, dawn, declines, strange lonely sighs of the oozy earth, a rustle of trees and rustle Kamyshin, the gurgling somersaults of a water bubble - is also expressed in a white flower to a water-lily. Here and Astra expressed the person, the shape the marvelous world of modest female beauty. And what there in a whirlpool what devils are found, let judges about is the one who, breaking a smooth surface of a pond, climbs bare feet among the cutting sedge, prt on the oozy, warm and cold soaking-up bottom. And I from the coast will admire a water-lily. It seemed to me that nobody notices this my modest, silent admiring, I am always silent, gloomy, and at Astra and doubly. But once my kindest soperevodchitsa, laughing loudly as Taras Bulba, spoke: - Oh also Vasily Semenovich likes ours Astrochka, so and ate it. I made the sour person and shrugged shoulders. Really Astra`s husband is similar to the father, the round-shouldered night watchman Arutyun?. My God, companions and what to me put to all this? Arutyun is sad. At night I silently pass by it in pre-dawn hour when all watchmen of the world sleep, and he looks at me from darkness, his eyes are full of quiet melancholy. I think, he never sleeps - the grief does not allow it to fall asleep. He never to anybody talks, nobody comes to him. Sometimes on the street the cheerful rural grandfather meets to it, and it seems to me - here Arutyun will begin to smile, will stop now, will light, will start talking about lambs and bees, about wine. But is not present, Arutyun goes sutulyas, hard shuffling kersey boots, shipped in the huge melancholy... What it with it? And here it is so strange to think that only several days ago I, the Moscow stranger, for the first time started out in this mountain poselochek about which existence he did not know. - Barev - good, - passers say to me. - Barevdzes - good to you! - I speak and I take off a cap. Around good, good friends. And there are days, and I already know a lot of things about Ivan, about Katya, about Astra, about the old man Arutyuna... How many touching, human not less or maybe it is more darling heavy, awful, awful. Katin the husband is sick, several years lies in a bed, and silent Katya, grieving for the distant homeland, the father, mother, girlfriends, goes behind him, gaining kopeks to indulge it with an apple, a candy. And my entry into life, recognition of life in the mountain settlement went further and further and more and more widely. And almost the fact that my interlocutors very badly knew Russian did not hinder this human movement, instead of one Russian words said others and did absolutely terrible accents, and I translating with Armenian the epic about copper-smelting plant knew two Armenian words - “che“ and “barev“. And to Tsakhkadzore there was the life. In Karapet`s institution - Aga drivers sellers from selmag gathered, teachers, bricklayers, drank grape vodka, sang songs, flashed, rowed, ate lyulya - kebab, pastrami, sulguna cheese, fiery green beans and a green grass to a kindz, drank grape vodka and the hissing Dzhermuk mineral water again. Drunk bragged:“ Dzhermuk“ is better than the Georgian borzhom, sulguna cheese the first was created by Armenians. There is no Armenian cognac better though cognac the French word, and is not present more with pleasure than the Armenian grapes. Georgians learned to fry a shish kebab from Armenians, and to tell the truth, still did not learn. Sometimes on quiet streets of the settlement singing, a thunder of drums was heard - it weddings coped. There passed some more days, and I was invited to the rural house on a visit, to drink vodka. And still every other day I came into library, and the moustached broad-shouldered librarian showed me my book translated to Armenian; I saw that pages of the book swelled up a little and edges of cover are disheveled. What else it is necessary for me? On the street smile to me: “Barev... barevdzes...“ Share with me, tell about a grief, about life. I heard Ivan`s story, and Ivan seeming to me the cruel man cried. I was called on a visit to the country house to drink wine, to talk about life. My book was read in Tsakhkadzore, its pages swelled up a little a little. Means, it was made: I am a person among people here.
My first distant trip was on the lake Sevan. Sevan lies in a scattering of stones. So strange - among stones suddenly you see blue lake water. Sevan is not connected with the stony, dry earth, - here also here nothing the general between a cut light stone and a black velvet on which it lies. Fried thoroughly by heat and winds, stroked by geological weight of time, dry mountains and hills, and among them there is blue water. Usually water and the land are connected, gradually pass each other: crude sand, fenny, champing, all the going-down coast, a juicy grass, canes, willows - their foliage is looked in water, breathes water. And here the fried thoroughly mountain stone in itself, blue water in itself. This high water seems unearthly, it as if separated, exfoliated from the sky, it is so high that is probably closer to it to sky level, than to sea level. And it is even strange that in this blue, transparent and cold water there live fishes; it seemed, under a surface of Sevan birds heavenly have to fly. However, fish here special - serebristo - gray, harmonous, all in star spots - a Sevan trout that fish - the prince means, a trout. In a stone bowl in which Sevan lies people drilled mine, and water flexibly falls to the valley, moves the blue weight turbines, creates light and electric force. In the valley water loses blue, becomes green, gray. Probably, this Sevan blue also turns to the public. All Armenia is filled in with light; the small villages mislaid in mountains, zangezursky ancient caves where until now there live people, are lit with electricity. People lived in these caves for many millennia B.C., before emergence of shumer, it is probable at the time of the stone and bronze weapon. Most of present inhabitants of these caves work in shops of plant of the thinnest instrument making. In the caves lit with electricity there are radio receivers and TVs. Electricity everywhere - it in the movement of motors, electric trains, it in music, in frames of the film drama, in smooth rotation of telescopes on Aragats. Sevan burns the blue body, turns it to the public and warmly. Water level in the lake dropped by fourteen meters, sad is black - the brown lowland acted where there was lake water. The lake leaves a stone bowl. Armenia which is filled in with light of electricity grieves for the perishing Sevan. Recently the project was born to enter the mountain river which will prevent death of the lake into Sevan. But while the blue pearl day by day decreases in sizes, thaws... What will be drawn by artists if Sevan dries? I saw in the Yerevan art gallery, at many restaurants and station halls, in hotel rooms and halls a set Sevanov. I saw Sevan in book illustrations, on post cards, in advertizing of food and industrial goods. When our car, having made the next round, suddenly soared over the lake, we saw the snow ridges of mountains lit with the sun. They seemed light-blue, - probably, mountain snow absorbed a blue of the sky and a blue lake sweats. And on a rough, rough stone dish - black, red, brown - Sevan, blue, almost boundless lay. On the humpbacked island, nowadays from - for lake shallowings connected to the coast, there was an ancient chapel created with unclear to the present person simplicity and perfection. On a legend, this chapel was constructed by the princess Mariam for the young monk whose beauty struck it. In the mornings Mariam from a window of the mountain lock saw the young man of the monk on the island - air is transparent and clear here. Goethe said that he worried about the eighty-year life eleven happy days... To me it is thought that each person for the life inevitably saw many hundreds of risings, declines, saw a rain, a rainbow, lakes, the sea, meadows... But from hundreds of pictures of the nature only two - three with some absolutely especially strange force entered soul of the person, steel for it what steel for Goethe his eleven happy days. Never the cloudlet once lit by a silent decline dies away in memory though hundreds, perhaps, of finer and magnificent declines were forgotten, forever went out; never the summer rain or maybe the very young month reflected in a ryabovaty surface of an April forest stream will be forgotten. Probably, in order that similar or other picture entered the person and became part of his soul and life, besides, that this picture was fine. Something fine, pure has to be during this instant and in the person is as the shared love, an instant of connection, a meeting of the person and the world in which it is happy and unhappy. The world was beautiful this day. And of course, Sevan - one of the most beautiful places on the earth. But I was not good, too I have much heard plenty of stories about Sevan small restaurant “Minute“. Having learned history of the princess in love, I asked: - And where this small restaurant? The meeting with Sevan did not leave, did not sink down in my soul, I with the wingless four-footed lowland worried only about a trout. The matter is that at the beginning of a trip Martirosyan poisoned me with words;“ Not always in “Minute“ there is a trout“. These words disturbed me all road. In Moscow to the mere mortal of a Sevan trout not to eat. They say that it by special high-speed planes is sent from Yerevan to Moscow for supply of embassies. And its catch is very small. Really, offensively to reach Sevan and to learn that this day do not feed with a trout in “Minute“. And maybe, uncountable art images of Sevan reflected to me a meeting with the mountain lake? The role of the artist always seems to us fine, it seems to us that art if it not remeslenno, pulls together us with the nature, it enriches, deepens, it a key. But whether so it? Perhaps, having seen enough of one hundred pictures, I, at last having seen Sevan, thought, as this hundred first picture was created by the next member of the Union of artists. Has to admit that I felt Armenia not such what saw it on Saryan`s cloths. I had to scrape off from the soul bright pleasure saryanovskikh pictures to feel a foggy ancient stone of a tragic Armenian landscape. Perhaps the poetry, painting harm soul, busily serve a spirit template, but not depth of spirit? The restaurant, the one-storeyed wooden house with a terrace, is above the lake, at the foot of the mountain. In a lobby under our legs the deal floor loudly began to creak. We passed to the desert hall, more definitely, not to the hall, and in a zalets, it is simpler - to the spacious, cool room. In the room stood five - six little tables covered with white cloths. Windows of the room left towards the lake, but the room was not light - light was disturbed by the covered terrace surrounding the house. We approached a still-room to a rack: under glass, on big oval and round as ancient fighting boards, dishes lay pickled green and red peppers, various herbs, the blue stuffed eggplants; ledges cognac and wine bottles rose to a ceiling. It it was twisted, drummers, maids of honor and pages - a trout escort. The trout, probably, was behind the half-closed door. In a few minutes the smiling gray-haired bartender took the place behind a rack, and the room was entered by the tall pale young man with a curly, uncombed head of hear. Everyone, having had a look at it, would define in it the poet. The young man was delighted and was even excited, having seen Martirosyan. I was acquainted with the young poet. Further conversation went in Armenian unknown to me. But I understood that this live, fast conversation was important and good. And here we sat down at a little table at a window, have a look at the lake, then turned towards a kitchen door to which the young poet went. Martirosyan briefly informed me: in kitchen there is a fresh, in the morning taken-out from networks trout, there are we it will be boiled, will cook it in Sevan water that impacts to fish special relish. We will drink cognac and the Dzhermuk mineral water. It became silent. Behind a window the blue lake was silent. In an empty zalets we were one. Silently the bartender approached, put on a table a small decanter with zelenovato - the yellow liquid reminding young wine. Martirosyan explained to me: it is special wine vinegar, it is distinguished by soft and gentle taste. Then the silent bartender brought plates with salty pepper, eggplants, herbs. Then the bartender atbore a bottle to cognac, uncorked it, opened a bottle of “Dzhermuk“, poured to us on a glass of chilled water, quietly told several words on - Armenian and silently left. We were silent, was heard as violent, fast vials of mercury gas in the sweating glass crackle. We made on a small drink of water, chewed an ardent grass, fiery pepper, made two drinks of ice water. Everything was silent. Again the bartender approached, inspected a table, then us: so probably organizers of bullfight inspect fighting bulls before letting out them on the arena. The bartender brushed away a napkin from a fresh white cloth conditional crumbs and left for a rack. We were silent. And here it is noisy the kitchen door was opened, very stout, undersized, ruddy, black-eyed woman in a white dressing gown looked out, the reserved, uneasy and laughing man`s and female voices were heard, and the young poet, having thrown the head, highly holding a big white dish over which steam plentifully curled, went to us. Here the same as the person describing a wedding becomes silent when his story reached that place when young people came into a bedroom, and I will become silent during that instant when the dish with a trout was put on a table and Martirosyan poured cognac in shot glasses. Yes, yes, yes - my meeting with the mountain Lake Sevan did not take place, I was wingless, the trout grounded me.
passed Month in continuous and heavy works. It is decided to have a rest, we go to walk as here speak - to feast, to the district of the city of Dilijan. The road goes by Sevan, through the Semenovsky pass, to border of Azerbaijan. In a bottle basket, crude mutton meat, yesterday Arutyun killed a lamb. - Beydny a lamb, - a thin voice told Martirosyan, the initiator of murder. On his conscience hundreds of sheep lives, he loves a shish kebab. In a luggage carrier the driver Volodya stacks dry firewood, skewers - shashlik rapiers. Ladies - Martirosyan`s wife Violetta Minasovna, my soperevodchitsa of Hortensius get on a small glass bus the first; then Martirosyan, the director of the literary house of creativity, the former secretary of a district committee Tigran and I sit down. The road to Dilijan is very beautiful. We passed on the coast of Sevan, by us the Minutka restaurant flashed, but I have not a look in its party. The car went uphill. As habit force is mighty, awful and kind. What only people do not get used to! What chasm lies between the first night of passion and creaking conversation with the wife on education of children! What the general between a strange meeting with the sea and a campaign in stuffy midday on the sea coast behind purchase in a souvenir booth? This chasm is created by a habit. In its seeming monotonous invariance - all-destroying dynamite. The habit destroys everything - passion, hatred, a grief, pain! Nothing resists to it. And here I got used to a Sevan trout, it is more than that - it bothered me. We pass through the village, boys stand across the highway and lift in air of trout. - Let`s buy a trout, we will fry a shish kebab from it, - Martirosyan says. The shish kebab from a trout is new, the skating rink of a habit did not pass on such shish kebab. - Well, let`s buy a trout. Volodya, stop! Young sellers put to us a linking of fish - bodies of dead princesses are still fine, but their eyes are blind, mouths are half-open, bent by a death grimace. - How much? - I ask. - Twenty five rubles old money of a kilogram, - translate with Armenian ladies. My question has theoretical character, I am a guest and it is deprived of the right to pay the restaurant bill, for sparkling water, for the apples bought on a market for the ticket in the trolleybus, for the newspaper, for a stamp. In the beginning it confused me, upset, irritated. But power of a habit is boundless, and already I got used that on the street to me in any way not to spend either ruble, or a five-copeck coin. However, sometimes this serene feeling abandons me - whether not too quickly I got this strange habit and why it began to seem to me pleasant? At a stone wall ten three collective farmers sit, the majority counts the beads. After war the image of the Armenian village sharply changed: thousand-year, ancient, dark and close, dug and the earth of a hut, laid out by the cobble-stone which turned black from a kizyachny smoke disappear, leave, cease to exist. From year to year the number of these ancient huts everything decreases. In many Armenian villages they completely disappeared. They are absent, and they were invariable throughout the millennia. We examine new, light collective-farm houses, then we examine old houses - the stone saturated with smoke holes with the tandoors dug in the earth. There is no doubt that new, light houses it is better old. We come back to the car. Collective farmers surround Martirosyan, conversation goes briskly. Then Martirosyan tells the speech. Surprisingly well the Armenian peasants are able to listen. With such thoughtful look it is possible to listen to the sermon of the apostle. Martirosyan approaches the car, his face briskly. He says that almost all his rural interlocutors read its novel, so got a grasp of the book, got to like her heroes that ask the author to change some cruel destinies: lost two legs during accident to return one leg, ask to recover several dead men. It address, as god, the almighty owner of the world in which there live people created by it. He is an owner of their life and destiny. What high feeling! It is valid happiness - the people created by you became part of the people loved by you. And as nevertheless the people are kind - it never asks to tear off the second leg at the one who became the one-legged cripple. He does not ask to replace the Order of Suvorov handed to the commander, the medal “For Services in Battle“ or the Excellent Cook badge. He does not ask god to collect from the ranking officer who in a metelny icy cold and in hot dust, at a moonlight and by the light of the sun utters truth, only one truth. Yes, the people are generous, it asks from god of indulgence and compassion. Terrestrial gods are writers, artists, composers - create the world just like the. Here Hemingway`s world. And here Gleb Uspensky`s world. Well of course, they different Hemingway describes the people adoring bullfight, exotic hunting, writes the Spanish dinamitchik, fishermen at coast of Cuba, and Uspensky describes the Tula drunk masterovshchina, budochnik, policemen, district petty bourgeoises and rural women. But the worlds - that, the worlds are created not on an image of the Russian woman and not on an image of the fatal handsome of the toreador! The world - that is created just like Uspensky and Hemingway. And this - that and is especially interesting - let Hemingway will occupy the world the Russian budochnik and in a board drunk Tula mechanics, the world will be the same hemingueevsky. And all in it - wet aspens, dirty country roads, dust, pools, houses, the gray autumn Russian sky - will be hemingueevsky. And in stridently - the sad world of Gleb Ivanovich Uspensky stridently - both the blue sky of Spain, and the marvelous handsome man the toreador eating young eels in garlick sauce and sipping grape wine will be sad. To what the terrestrial gods who created the world on a terrestrial image and the similarity are imperfect and weak: Homer, Beethoven, Raphael. That in an image that for similarity - here the blue, shifted in paints sincere world of Roerich: in total in it monotonously blue - both mountains, and people, and snow, and trees, and sparrows. And here world of corners, squares: in total in it corners and squares - both girls and flowers. And nearby strange, curve and slanting world of Picasso. And the strange world of spirals, commas, flourishes is farther. And the foggy philosophical world of Pasternak is farther. Here worlds of significant nonsenses, worlds of senseless significances. Here the worlds obsessed, - one are obsessed with love, others wine, the third - war, the fourth - continuously and involuntarily think. And there are worlds created by ingenious school students, they want to recreate, give that world in circulations that it is printed only in one copy. These are great school students - they write transposition of a world miracle, they are artists - realists... But all these worlds - the worlds of a live image and similarity! And there are absolutely other gods, prompt, usluzhayushchy, gods are waiters, gods “what you will desire“. Their world is inhabited by the paper ghosts painted cardboard and waxworks. It is the world of plywood, a tin and a papya - Masha. These mylno - the puzyrny worlds are always full of harmony and light, the target worlds, in them everything is reasonable. But whose similarity are they? Here in what a question. Yes, the worlds which are created by gods of a feather, gods of a brush and gods of a string and keys just like the are full of imperfections and a nerazumiya, they are underbaked, warped, perekrivlena, they are kuyets, are poor, are sometimes ridiculous, in them an idiotic charm of a primitive and naivety, in them ridiculous insight, the cubical pathos of good, in them lovely vanity and delight before own refinement and beauty, in them a suffering blindness, in them senseless hope, in them tiresome monotony of one paint, in them foolish print diversity. And it is surprising and strange, but in the most mad picture of the most abstract subjectivist who created ridiculous connection of the line, points, spots there is more realism, than in the harmonious worlds worked by the office order. The strange, ridiculous, mad picture is true expression at least of one live human soul. And whose live soul is expressed harmonious, full of natural details, by the world full of corpulent wheat and oak groves erected by request? The perfect worlds do not exist. There are only those ridiculous, strange, crying, singing, truncated and imperfect Universes created by gods of a brush and string who enclosed guilty or innocent blood and the soul in the creations. Possibly, the true Lord, Sabaoth, the creator of the universe, with a smile looks at these worlds. Graphomaniacs, becoming angry about the fact that their works are rejected in editorial offices of magazines, usually speak:“ It is unclear, why my manuscript is not accepted. Recently editor-in-chief published the creation, it - god, the perfect rubbish, is not better than my novel in any way“. In such a way, exactly by these grafomansky arguments Homer and Bach, Rembrandt and Dostoyevsky have to be protected from the Lord`s smile. Not writers and poets, not composers created Eichmann`s soul, ice hell of Antarctica, tarantulas and cobras, senseless failures and senseless cruelty of space, cancer cells, destructive radiation, a malarial bog, near permafrost - fiery sand of Kara Kum. Permissibly will be to ask the divine mocker: on whose image and similarity Hitler, Himmler are created? People did not give to Eichmann soul, they only sewed for him a uniform Auber - a shturmbanfyurer. Many God`s creations covered the nakedness with uniforms of gendarme generals, silk shirts of executioners. Let`s call for modesty of the creator, he created the world in a temper and, without working on draft copies, at once printed it. How many in it contradictions, longueurs, typographical errors, subject discrepancies, excess characters! And masters know how painfully to cut, cut a living tissue in a temper written and in a temper the published book. And here we leave the village.
The first that I saw, having arrived to Armenia, there was a stone. Leaving, I took away a stone image. Here so in a human face not everything is remembered, and its some lines which are especially fully expressing character, soul: whether severe wrinkles, whether mild eyes or maybe dribbling, full lips. And here, it seems to me, not blue of Sevan, not peach gardens, not vineyards of the Ararat valley, but a stone expressed character and soul of the Armenian country. I never saw such stone, so lying stone, and I saw Ridges Urals, the rocks of the Caucasus, a great stone Tian - Shanya. In Armenia strikes not a rocky stone, not what forms mountain peaks, gorges, steep slopes, snow tops. Flat, lying, stone meadows and fields, stone steppes shakes a stone. The stone has no beginning and the end, it lies plainly, densely, hopelessly, beznachalno and infinitely. It seems that here thousands, tens of thousands, millions of masons, apparently, worked that they worked day and night for many years, centuries, the millennia. They are razjyal wedges and hammers huge mountains, shattered them into the splinters suitable for construction of fortifications, huts, temples. It is possible to make the mountain on which top snow will lay down forever of disorder of this huge stone quarry; from this stone quarry it is possible to take out so much construction stone that it will be enough for construction of all terrestrial Vavilonov, beginning from the fact that it was filled up with sand three thousand years ago, and finishing what hoots today on that side of the Atlantic Ocean. But when you look at these black and green stones, you understand who was the mason making them. Time! This stone extraordinary ancient, also seems that it turned black and became green from an old age. The mighty body of basalt was shattered by blows of the millennia. Mountains were scattered, time was stronger than basalt massifs. And already it seems, these are not universal stone quarries, this field of fight between the huge stone mountain and a bulk of time. Two monsters battled on this field, and time won - mountains died, fell the same as mosquitoes, moths, people, dandelions, oaks and birches fell in fight over time. The dead won by time of the mountain lie, the reduced to dust, their skeletons were scattered, their black and green bones roll in the field of the lost fight. Time triumphs, it is invincible. And minutes it seems that in this strange and terrible kingdom the earth will give rise not to life, but death, here instead of a dogrose, a cornel, a grass from the earth black stones grow, April and May do not give rise to flowers here, and only one stone. The stone prt from an earth belly, fills its surface; gloomy, indifferent forces remind that the thinnest muslin of the chernozem, the life muslin hardly - hardly covers the dead space sphere turned from heavy ores and the streamed rocks. Here - that is also visible how the blue and earthly green paradise is casual, fleeting. Here - that true gloom of the earth is visible, is visible without false game and affectedness, without bird`s din, without flower spring and summer cologne, not powdered by live pollen. Here you go among stones on the stone field. Stone bones, it appears, lie on a flat stone bed. Here at all there is no earth. The leg goes on black, greenish, to the red ottsiklevanny, ground stone parquet floor. It smooth and slippery and, apparently, is rubbed with wax. Will sometimes seem - here ahead a piece of the black earth earth, but is not present - it is not the earth, it is a black stone floor. And here red, clay pool. No, it is red plates of a stone parquet, smooth, gleaming, rubbed with wax. The local floor polisher is familiar to me, it and the local mason - time. As are sad, strange, efemerna of a meadow and gardens on a tragic background of history of the ancient people, on a tragic background of the dead, the scattered mountains. And here the bulk of a stone generated at me special feeling to national work of Armenians. The small people began to seem to me the people - a giant. I remembered abundance of fruits which saw in the collective-farm market in day of the arrival to Yerevan, and at the same time I was faced by a silent and relentless stone of Armenia. Only to a giant in power to turn a stone into the most sweet grapes, into juicy hills of vegetables. Peaches and apples of Armenia are ruddy, its stone is unshakable, slopes of its mountains are waterless, dry. Titanic work generated these peach gardens among a hot stone, extorted grape juice from basalt. Once, the young man, I came to work to Donbass. I had to work at the deepest, most gas, hottest mine in the USSR “to the Resident of Smolensk - 11“. Depth of its trunk was eight hundred thirty two meters, and longitudinal on east bias lay at a depth more than a kilometer. I saw work of coalminers, timberers, konogon in the hot and damp depth of “Resident of Smolensk“. I was struck by severe power of the all-Union stokehole. And now, under the blue Armenian sky, looking at the vineyards and gardens of Armenia lying among a stone, I remembered Donbass. For minutes it seemed to me that above vineyards there is smoky glow of great work of blast-furnace operators and steelmakers that the stone of Aragats is split up by miner`s jackhammers, cut drills of coal cutters. What huge, hard and clever work! But this work not only is huge. This work - the testimony of courage, fearlessness of the person. If soldiers are unskilled workers people of war, then people with a hammer, a spade, a plow bears in itself besstrashiye soldier. The small giant comes, threatened on two monsters - mountains and time, the stone of Armenia trembled and began to depart: the hectares of the Armenian earth fought off the enemy, exempted from a stone, recovered by water spread. Water possesses some person, a magic power here. It is really fantastic, the water of life raising the dead. And when you look as on the channels dug among an abrupt stone water moves, spreads on slopes of mountains, addresses by a magnificent miracle of gardens and fields, apparently, that peasants, workers and engineers of Armenia disproved and repealed the Newtonian law of universal inclination, - water as if in itself would clamber up, but does not run down, water as the climber, aspires to mountain tops, goes, walks, creeps on stone hills, groans, snuffles, screws up the face, climbs up the steep slopes specified by it fearlessness of the person. And the small giant constantly creates the Herculean feat. Streams of mountain water turn into streams of light, the dead scattering of a stone addresses to houses full of live din. The silk gray network of roads laid down on mountains, hills and valleys of Armenia. To the person it is inherent to come. Approach is a strategy of human culture. The person steps on bogs and ocean open spaces, on ices, on diseases, on forests, on permafrost, the person got on the sky. The small giant tirelessly and fearlessly steps on a waterless stone of Armenia. The small giant drives water up mountain more abruptly, and this water gives rise to wheat and grapes from a stone, it pulls down mountain water to valleys and cuts electricity fire from water. The small giant recovers a dead stone, and that becomes a live crystal, it turns ore lumps into the ringing copper. It hollows thickness of the millennia and collects ancient honey in Matenadaran`s cool. The small giant, upershis during hrustky snow of Aragats, drills a bottomless barrel of parsecs and, having overcome space dregs, peers into Universe pupils. Smoky glow of sleepless work costs in cloudless blue of the Armenian sky. But the small giant not only works, he likes to drink and have a snack. He drinks and has a snack, and having drunk, he dances, rustles and sings songs. The car drove to the Russian village, and suddenly there were visions and images of Penza, Voronezh and Eagle - bearded uncles, white-headed boys in torn print shirts navypusk, in the worn-out adult valenoks, log huts with weak-sighted windows, and even in a dog brekh, in a gait of roosters Russia was felt.
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