Where are you going, books? Porcelain Angel in memory of Burns

Fate sometimes makes unexpected and pleasant surprises. Well, who could have known that in a small second-hand bookshop of the Trinity Suburb - the historical part of Minsk, I would have an amazing meeting.

Oh, that special smell of second-hand bookstores! There the clock slows down and eternity looks at you from the yellowed pages of heavy folios, from the worn down steps of the ladder for the upper bookshelves, from a small wall mirror in an old frame.

The old salesman in a shabby robe looked at me frowningly and asked dryly:

- Can I help you with anything?

I absently stroked the cracked roots of books. Suddenly a small volume of Burns's poems literally fell into my palm. I flinched. Exactly the same was in our house, in an embossed cover under the tapestry. The tapestry cover depicted a flirtatious lady in a powdered wig and an enthusiastic gentleman. Lord, how many poems I memorized from this book, how much sincere joy and a bright smile gave me the unsophisticated lines of a little Scotsman.

“No, child, this book is not for sale,” the seller’s raspy voice interrupted my memories. - It's my book.

- Yes, I just - I was embarrassed. - I was like that in my childhood. I love his poems.

- Ltd! - stretched the old man, it seemed to me with respect. “Do you know Burns?” Then wait a second.

He stepped out from behind the bar and walked slowly towards me.

“You love Burns,” he said thoughtfully. - What do you know about him?

“Well ...” I drawled. - Great English and Scottish poet. Pride of Scotland. Born in 1759 on January 25, died at the age of 37, believed to be from drinking in 1796. He wrote ballads, poems, poems, hymns. His poems were very popular among the people. He even invented a famous stanza, “Burnsov”, close to folk songs.

“All right,” the old man interrupted. - What is your profession?

- Philologist.

- Well, I thought so. The language is honed, like a textbook syplet.

I felt a light injection of pride.

- Well, I do not know what interests you.

- Man he was! - suddenly the old man cried out unexpectedly in a thin, even shrill voice. - Person. And his life was far from sugar, dear. You say he died from drunkenness. So when you write with your heart, my dear, there is little left of him. Necessarily both a small glass, and another, and the third you will pass. But as he wrote!

And the old man, to my amazement, in pure English began to recite to me "My Heart's In The Highlands" (In the mountains, my heart).

In the mountains, my heart ... Until now I'm there.
On the trail of a deer flying over the rocks.
I'm driving a deer, scaring a goat.
In the mountains is my heart, and I myself am below.

Goodbye my homeland! North, farewell, -
Fatherland glory and valor of the land.
Over the white light of persecution
I will forever remain your son!

Yes, I have never heard a more brilliant speech about the life and work of Robert Burns! The old man sprinkled with facts from the biography of the poet, as if playing with colorful ribbons!

I learned from him that January 25 is a national holiday in Scotland, celebrated with a solemn dinner (with the traditional order of dishes sung by the poet (the main thing is hearty pudding Haggis) introduced to the music of Scottish bagpipes and preceded by reading the corresponding poems of Burns. He was born into a family a peasant, in dire poverty, and from early childhood was forced to work on a par with adults.

- Drank!!! - exclaimed the old man. - And how not to drink when inhuman physical labor in adolescence, congenital rheumatic heart disease, diphtheria, constant need, so much so that 2 weeks before death, I almost fell into a debt trap. Well, the truth is, the monk did not live, that is, that is. Three illegitimate daughters and 5 children from marriage to the beloved Jean Armor. And on the day of his funeral, July 25, 1796, his fifth son was born. Imagine the day of the funeral of the father! A great man was, indeed, a popular poet. How many songs on his poems folded! In England - he, in France - Beranzhe, and in Russia - Yesenin. Yes, you look, look ...

Besides me, there were no other visitors in the store. Alas ... Books everywhere are gradually being pushed aside by electronic data carriers. Booksellers have a lot of free time. Unfortunately.

The old man picked up a book and opened it on the mortgaged page. A sharp old man's nail in it was noted:

“Take Burns. Is it because he is great because the old songs of his ancestors lived in the mouths of the people, that they sang them, so to speak, back then, when he was in the cradle, that he grew up among them as a boy and became like the high perfection of these samples, that he found in them that living basis, based on which, could go on? And yet, is it not because he is great, that his own songs immediately found susceptible ears among his people, that they then sounded to him from the mouth of the reapers and knitters of sheaves, that they were greeted by his cheerful comrades in the squash? Here it really could have happened. ”

“This is what Goethe said about him,” the old man smiled. - Sorry, I tired you. But I have lived a lot in the world, I see people and I know that your soul is feeling. Therefore, it was a shame that you about Burns as a pea on the textbook syplet. Do not be so ... And how many songs in his poems folded! And no one, no one translated it better than Marshak, so that no one could speak it. The main thing is to convey the spirit, the music of the verse, and not to blindly follow the words ... You know, the first stamp with a portrait of Burns was released not in England, but in the Soviet Union. Yes Yes! A funny incident happened then. There was such a member of the English Parliament, Emrys Hughes, and so he wrote.

The old man took out a yellowed newspaper clipping from a folder and read the following to me:

“In 1959,” writes E. Hughes, “I happened to be in Moscow at the anniversary evening dedicated to the 200th anniversary of the birth of Robert Burns. When the official part ended, the Soviet Minister of Communications approached me and handed me an envelope with stamps. Each stamp had a portrait of a Scottish bard. Frankly, I experienced an acute sense of shame at that moment. The minister, of course, felt quite legitimate pride: why not, stamps with a portrait of Burns were issued in Russia, but not in England! I was ready to fall through the ground, although my fault was not in it. In order not to suffer from the consciousness of a wounded national pride alone, I decided to shame the then British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan, since he too was at that time in Moscow. At a reception at the English Embassy, ​​I handed him my present — two stamps with a portrait of Burns. With a puzzled glance at them, Macmillan asked: “What is this?” “Russian stamps issued in honor of Burns,” I replied. “You can stick them on the envelope and send a letter to our minister of mail saying that Russia has overtaken the UK in this matter.”

The acute episode was not in vain. This is convincingly shown by the strange release date of the first English brand with a portrait of Burns. She appeared on the day of the poet's 207th birthday. "

“That's it, honey.” And you: born, died, “Burns stanza” ... But I suppose you do not know that the song “There is no rest in my soul” from the movie “Office Romance” is also written by Burns?

“No,” I laughed. - I just know it.

The old man sighed and suddenly his eyes were moistened. He spoke softly:

In the fields under the snow and rain,
My dear friend, my poor friend,
I would cover you with a raincoat
From the winter blizzards, from the winter blizzards.

And if the flour is destined
You fate, you fate,
I am ready for your sorrow to the bottom
Share with you, share with you.

And if they gave me a lot
The whole globe, the whole globe,
With whatever happiness I owned
You alone, you alone.

I froze. This was my favorite poem by Burns and Gradsky's romance to these poems.

“Look at the breadth of the soul,” said the old man. - “And if I could give me an entire lot The whole globe of the earth / With whatever happiness I owned you alone” I need this heart. And immense talent to express this heart. Not everyone can ...

He paused, then became hard, and suddenly, as dry as at first, said:

- Sorry, tired of you. Thank you heartily for listening.

- No, that you! I was really very interested.

- Yes?! - he perked up. - Well, thank you. Wait a minute No, I will not give the book, it is mine, but take this as a memory of Minsk.

He gave me a small desk calendar with views of the evening Minsk.

- And further. Take this.

In the palm of his hand was a small portrait of Burns in an oval frame made of brown leather and a tiny porcelain angel with folded wings.

- This is in memory of today's conversation. Such talk is rare at this time. Do not read now, do not know, do not want to know. Thanks you. And may this angel keep you.

My throat tightened. I wanted to say something, but the old man waved his hand and walked behind the bar.

The day was clear, snowless, frosty. I squeezed porcelain angel in my hands, but in my heart I continued to sound:

And if they gave me a lot
The whole globe, the whole globe,
With whatever happiness I owned
You alone, you alone.

The breadth of the soul, as well as the ability to love, as well as spiritual culture are timeless.

Not to lose ...

Watch the video: The Night Before Critmas (November 2019).


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