Rus Articles Journal

Meeting with the past of

Well and, sometimes, it is even useful, having been satiated very much with confused city bustle, this fight for a stomach, without feeling sorry for a stomach, before sad languor in heart, silly and sympathetic on any melancholy, to walk on the Ansleysky hills, in those fruitless places, “where you heart were young“ and to remember where “heart so liked to have a rest for hours“, and the Mary Chavort which “in the darling`s smile, alas, any more not to begin to shine“ 1, and the fact that time already and does not fly, and rushes without restraint forward, seem, in a hurry and you having forgotten behind.

When you will feel on the verge of the next nervous breakdown in everyday infinite fight for the flesh benefits when the eternal TV and habitual glossy magazines suddenly become the continuous irritating fair of vanity of the buffoons having fun there when once in Sunday morning, having looked at the sleepy reflection in splashed by shaving foam a mirror you badly learn in this bloated face with wrinkles from tired eyes and the turning gray temples of, throw everything to hell, and run there where still, appear, you were yesterday. There, where you still, maybe, remained a little. There, where you were happy and unhappy recently where pleasures seem such naive, and sorrows such insignificant. Go to the wood on which, you only recently (already few years to that) so liked to wander. To the small river at which only recently (years fifteen - to twenty that) you fished with patsanvy crucians. To the next hills where you were driven by unclear melancholy with the first feeling of tenderness to that capturing you which also did not notice you (it seems, already in last, unreal life). Walk on almost forgotten lanes of the area from the childhood that almost not to recognize him. Or look from a distance on the school at which you once studied, to something and as - nibud, all at some one thousand years to that. And then, maybe, it will become easier for you, and you will even find some meaning of life. Though, can quite be and vice versa - not the fact.

I, admit, with considerable work tore off myself from a creaking Sunday sofa on which so selflessly spent all days off, driving the next portion of an infinite infopotok in a brain, tired of a civilization. Not to give in to weakness and not to change the long ago ripening desire to make a sortie in places of fighting glory, I have hastily breakfast - swallowed a porridge spoon, and bystrokhonko jerked for a door.

Outside, at the level of the fifth - the sixth floors, a heavy veil May fog densely hung. The sun sadly gleamed from - for lead clouds. On a forehead and cheeks slightly notable veil small, hardly notable drizzle of slowly thawing heavenly milk fell.

(Just imagine, I walked on those yards where my once hotly favourite most human movie “White Dews“, on that Devyatovka`s yards and those White dews was shot. I walked on them, every single day, but understanding of pleasure as before, any more was not went on them. City fatigue and irritation as this fog, hung on my heart and did not think to leave).

I decided to pass across the suburb along railway tracks by two, or even, maybe, three milestones unclear, but quickly somewhere the escaping life. By the recent work which forced me to feel for a while pleasure of life and gave how many - nibud sense, unclear to me, is farther by the house in which I lived nearly seven years and, maybe, to move further, to a nearby prilesok which for those seven years was a faithful listener of my troubles and the Aesculapian of my small vital dramas.

Slowly and unnaturally shortening a step somehow to get a leg on the oiled cross ties, I went by those birches and pines, aspens and crabs by which not one ten times, went quite recently and already so long ago. Recured recent happy times to the memory. Times of changes, when all old and tired behind, and all new and joyful, of course, ahead.

New work from which you not only earn on a daily bread, but also you are engaged in the fact that is the closest to you on light. The new place of residence where you leave, having shaken from itself all freight of the former become obsolete relationship and nedoponimaniye (And here you remember the simple youthful: “To leave everything, to leave to life: all freight of mistakes, disputes, disappointments, alarms empty, hopes, nerastavaniye when it was necessary to leave one thousand times. And what will be - let it pass be what will be, for it what from me will decrease? To leave everything, to leave behind. To leave as behind car windows, you leave dirt of the hackneyed platform when your train gathers the course and you in a moment are carried away forward. What was no. And what will be does not concern you at all more. And your grief is easy, both expectations are light, and persons are suddenly familiar and friendly, and winds coniferous the zhivyashchy stream meets you by the song at a window“). There was new life. Everything was absolutely close - only give a hand.

Here the same ancient log given a high polish by one thousand casual soles thrown through small to a channel which I twice a day climbed up uphill - there for work and with back, from work (so far was warm I did not like to go on the new place by the bus, preferring to reach work on foot on only to the waking-up suburb). And that hillock which overgrew a grass with a fragmentary juniper bush on which I sat three evenings in a row, hesitating to go home where I was waited by mother who arrived on a visit, and was unable to understand up to the end from where this immense melancholy of which so there is a wish to die and so there is a wish to live in me. (Those days, me in a dream Tsvetaeva`s “Requiem“ was for some reason remembered: “How many they fell in this chasm, gaping in the distance. Day when also I disappear from the Earth`s surface will come … And then I again as in the far childhood, suddenly again realized as if having passed some eternal vital blocks and shor in the consciousness, like up to the depth of this awful and greatest thought that day when also me, Me, me will come!!!, such dearest, one and only, on this earth too suddenly will not become … That time this old as the world thought me so shook again that I long could not recover). Then I finally and accurately understood that also I will disappear. Irrevocably and forever. I will pass into nothingness. Also understood still something … Whether the fact that with new life one more head of mine life was finished and that the piece me, such native and such unclear even to itself, without speaking about others, all other, irrevocably and finally sadly came off me and slowly floated in my past which I so did not love and so loved at the same time. With it there were both my troubles, and my expectations, my disappointed hopes there. My youth. My seven years. There was I …

Probably, there was something else, I do not remember any more. Something that foully pressed a breast and forced to sob almost aloud. I repeated Tsvetayeva`s lines again and again, wiped the treacherous tears which were flowing down to me on cheeks calmed down and again began to sob on myself late. The grief was everywhere … approached

Ya the railway bridge and with dexterity of the acrobat scrambled on the steep slope littered by a civilization upward. Same stop. Same chestnut avenue. In the distance same church. It is interesting how that place whose part I was the whole seven years looks and where I was not only a year?

I slowly went on dusty as if not to the Belarusian, but some Asian road, abruptly leading to a bottom. Over the head the huge high sky yawned, and I felt again that delight with which usually on this road I inevitably came back home every day.

Especially impressed this place in the summer, even took the breath away. Happened, you will ascend to the most, chained in asphalt all hill, the highest point and from where the spirit a fascinating look to the bottom opens. And with delight you will see the high strict sky, a huge blue piece resting to you directly against the surprised eyes so they are not enough, an eye to capture it all at once, all entirely. And the dusty, sun-scorched highway which is abruptly taking down. Also it is unknown whom the Asian aelantusa similar to palm trees put at a roadside. And all this creates almost surreal picture with unclear conviction that somewhere ahead still surely there has to be the southern sea, and you strain the hearing to hear a measured rustle of uneasy waves - so in air smells of a heat, the blue sky and the sea. Here and this time, despite the beginning of May as soon as I appeared there, me as in the childhood, right there a wish arose at the sea and so that drearily drained in in the pit of the stomach.

I carefully approached a sharp fork which had at the same time that native and others house in which there passed my first seven years on the hospitable Belarusian earth. Already from far away I saw carelessly open gate which I painted with the brown paint found in master`s granaries. Numerous sawn birch chocks covered the earth which is turned out outside everywhere. A centenary birch in height five floors everything is cut. As cut also all other apple-trees and pears in a garden - at all did not regret. I knew that the owner favourably sold a site under some construction, and now all former life on it was liable to destruction. Old obediently gave way new, and there was in it some hopelessness.

Once this house was both my rescue, and my shelter, and my disappointment, my happiness and my misfortune. Uninhabited, naked, full of construction debris and a little suitable for housing at the beginning, it seemed me rescue from the unfamiliar rough and prudent world. Then warm and native, filled with naive hopes. After cold and hated, turned into the compelled prison from which I continually ran away that then again and again to come back.

Then I wrote to the house:

My ancient house, blind hopes the keeper,
K to you I hurry - let you to me the stranger.
When hypocrites, klikush and vituperators
following threaten Me with a skulachenny hand.

Dawn is far. And all prayers are sung.
I my vessel of innocence is enjoyed.
And still there, at a black edge of Leta
my star in silence burns.

I remember how it is remarkable as it was jubilantly joyful in it as soon as the severe winter came to an end and the real spring came. The garden from cherry, apple-tree, pear trees somehow unexpectedly and suddenly blew up white and pink inflorescences, immersing you in the sea of the exciting spring aromas and being pleasing to the eye. The sun it is vital beat through greens of the branches which directed to the sky, the first bees persistently curled around flowers, under legs the juicy grass rustled, and there was from it such pleasure, such self-affirmation of life that all bad was instantly forgotten, once you got to this Eden, and all good came back with a new force to remain in heart as it seemed, forever.

In the hot summer in the house there were always no more than twenty two degrees. Sunshine, through the lilac bush which expanded to the sizes of a kind tree, since the morning obliquely hit into a big window, painting everything that was inside, in iridescent colors. Behind windows chirped and sviristet in all voices, from a long journey the muffled sounds of an ubiquitous celebration of fussy life reached, and inside there was a rest and tranquil Buddhist pleasure.

And now it stood there, so lonely and alone, cluttered up with something at low powder as if on the lonely island around which waves the earth which is turned out by lumps outside rose and unless could not speak …

For some minute I was late at gate. The house in the distance in which I spent seven years of the life as I went out for a walk for a minute, seemed to me thrown, sad, almost deserted. However, this my got agitated imagination is possible forced me to think quite so, and I hurried to move further, without allowing myself to give in to the nostalgia which was quickly rising to a throat …

Never come back to those places where you once were. Were happy or unhappy. Just were. And there, where you want to find again on what your heart suddenly began to miss. Where to you it was so good. Where you look for meetings with the past. The matter is that all of us time try to return not on the earth on which we once lived. Not to houses, people on whom as it seems to us, we began to miss. And even not in, emasculated by selective memory, happy, or not really, the past. The matter is that we always try to return to ourselves. To ourselves that, former what we once were. Younger and happy. Full of hopes and disappointments. Expectations and troubles. We as if hope to return at that time, and there, - about a miracle! - to suddenly meet itself, for about ten years - twenty are younger as if got stuck in that time. Our nostalgia it as if attempt to acquaint us the presents with us last, and to touch us of that time.

Never come back to those places where you once were. Finally, you will be always disappointed because yourself there as do not look for, you will not find any more...

(However, the beginning of this opus, opposite, apparently, convinced that it is necessary to return there, on the Ansleysky hills. The devil only knows. Then, maybe, it is also necessary - I do not give ready recipes).

I turn woodward. There, where I went in search of truth and myself kind one hundred times. Same places. Only the young fir-tree growth at a prilesk became even higher, stronger, having closed the green wall even huge, meter three - four in height, a boulder on which once and we with the daughter clambered to examine to the district from height (and I perfectly remember time, and, seemingly, it when these fir-trees and birches were from me a rostochok).

I walked on familiar twisting footpaths, passed one lake, the second, and with unclear pleasure felt how long the familiar grief on the past to me did not come back any more. I got a bit tired, and fatigue - the best remedy for any melancholy, let also the lightest. It is no wonder that our ancestors occupied with affairs essential as that questions of livelihood and a survival, were not familiar with intellectual morbid depression and universal melancholy: physical work and fatigue from it won against everything. However, it is good or badly, it is hard to say.

Having estimated that from the house in depth of the wood, in total, I passed not less than six - seven kilometers, and even it is more, I decided to come back home, otherwise to put on my old shoes which I decided for Sunday walk on hills and beetroots, finally will not sustain, and I should come back barefoot.

I came back home tired and calmed down. Gorged on with pleasure of a holodnik of own invention. Made which - that on the house, and happy lay down for a minute to have a rest imperceptibly to roll down in a deep after-dinner sleep in multi-colored dreams.

1. Fruitless places where I heart was young, Ansleysky hills,
Storming you the cold of the revolting winter is dressed by a shaggy shadow. there is no
former light places where heart so liked to have a rest for hours, of
to you, Mary, for me in the darling`s smile not to begin to shine any more.

Somebody wrote J. Byron to memory of the childhood and the first awkward love.