Sunday, December 03, 2006
Russia's icy heart - Pskov
Famous writer had visited Pskov region and here is the part of his thought published in TimesOnline. Reproduced partly, see full text here.
Russia's icy heart
PSKOV
In the small patch of ground behind a church, three women have been planting seeds. One of them begins making the sign of the cross many times, slowly turning around in a circle. The two other women touch their lips and pray. Praying for the seed to flourish in this stubborn soil. The church was in the middle of a yard of semi-derelict two-storey houses, erected at the beginning of the previous century. Two old men, without shirts, sat in opposite parts of the yard. A young couple sat on the steps leading to one of the houses, a transistor radio blaring beside them. Dogs lay in the dust. Two or three people sat by their windows, gazing down at the scene.
I suspect that it was always like this — dirty, shabby, unkempt. It would have been shabby before the Revolution and after the Revolution. It would have been unkempt during the Soviet period, just as it is now. The nature of a terrain does not change very much. Then two young girls come out and begin to blow soap bubbles. They have been to the baptism of a three-year-old child, held in this church before us. The ceremony had lasted three hours. One girl tells us that the young boy had cried when the water touched his head. No, her companion interrupts, he cried when the oil was put on his legs. Baptism and soap bubbles somehow go together.
A drive out of Pskov takes us to the great Pechory monastery. There is a vista of churches and towers on a hillside, the blue domes and golden domes and silver domes like clouds of stars. We are greeted by the sound of bells, growling bells, menacing bells, yearning bells. The female servants of the monastery reverently sweep every inch of the steps leading to the principal church. The monks look very dirty, but no doubt they are just untidy. Perhaps they consider themselves as nothing before the infinite sweetness of God. And is it possible that some people consider themselves as nothing before the infinite benevolence of the State?
This monastery was also a fortress and a centre of power; as an object of pilgrimage, it still retains some of that power. There are two small shelters where water is pumped from sacred wells — holy water, water of faith. The religion here is a real and enthralling culture.
On the way back to Pskov from Pechory, two small children are waiting by the side of the road for a lift. The little girl, Macha, is accompanied by her brother Zhenya; they are five or six years old. They live six kilometres away. What are you doing by the side of the road? Our mother sent us to the shop, to see if they would give us bread. But they would not give it to us without money. Why does your mother not wash you or clean your clothes? There is no soap in the house. The small boy spoke with great determination — almost defiantly.
Perhaps the size of the country, the extent of the land, breeds a sense of resignation and of hopelessness. Perhaps it is just the “character” of the Russian country people. Smaller places, such as England, encourage practicality and common sense and moderation. These do not seem to be in the Russian character. But it is not so hopeless, after all. The vast spaces inspire expectancy and ardour and idealism. But they can also engender bewilderment and confusion and black humour. There is comedy, for example, in the fact that the traffic police lurk behind bushes in order to catch speeding cars. It may also be comic that they prefer bribes to issuing tickets. The police are paid very low salaries.
Russia's icy heart
PSKOV
In the small patch of ground behind a church, three women have been planting seeds. One of them begins making the sign of the cross many times, slowly turning around in a circle. The two other women touch their lips and pray. Praying for the seed to flourish in this stubborn soil. The church was in the middle of a yard of semi-derelict two-storey houses, erected at the beginning of the previous century. Two old men, without shirts, sat in opposite parts of the yard. A young couple sat on the steps leading to one of the houses, a transistor radio blaring beside them. Dogs lay in the dust. Two or three people sat by their windows, gazing down at the scene.
I suspect that it was always like this — dirty, shabby, unkempt. It would have been shabby before the Revolution and after the Revolution. It would have been unkempt during the Soviet period, just as it is now. The nature of a terrain does not change very much. Then two young girls come out and begin to blow soap bubbles. They have been to the baptism of a three-year-old child, held in this church before us. The ceremony had lasted three hours. One girl tells us that the young boy had cried when the water touched his head. No, her companion interrupts, he cried when the oil was put on his legs. Baptism and soap bubbles somehow go together.
A drive out of Pskov takes us to the great Pechory monastery. There is a vista of churches and towers on a hillside, the blue domes and golden domes and silver domes like clouds of stars. We are greeted by the sound of bells, growling bells, menacing bells, yearning bells. The female servants of the monastery reverently sweep every inch of the steps leading to the principal church. The monks look very dirty, but no doubt they are just untidy. Perhaps they consider themselves as nothing before the infinite sweetness of God. And is it possible that some people consider themselves as nothing before the infinite benevolence of the State?
This monastery was also a fortress and a centre of power; as an object of pilgrimage, it still retains some of that power. There are two small shelters where water is pumped from sacred wells — holy water, water of faith. The religion here is a real and enthralling culture.
On the way back to Pskov from Pechory, two small children are waiting by the side of the road for a lift. The little girl, Macha, is accompanied by her brother Zhenya; they are five or six years old. They live six kilometres away. What are you doing by the side of the road? Our mother sent us to the shop, to see if they would give us bread. But they would not give it to us without money. Why does your mother not wash you or clean your clothes? There is no soap in the house. The small boy spoke with great determination — almost defiantly.
Perhaps the size of the country, the extent of the land, breeds a sense of resignation and of hopelessness. Perhaps it is just the “character” of the Russian country people. Smaller places, such as England, encourage practicality and common sense and moderation. These do not seem to be in the Russian character. But it is not so hopeless, after all. The vast spaces inspire expectancy and ardour and idealism. But they can also engender bewilderment and confusion and black humour. There is comedy, for example, in the fact that the traffic police lurk behind bushes in order to catch speeding cars. It may also be comic that they prefer bribes to issuing tickets. The police are paid very low salaries.
