March 25, 2023

She is 50 years old, in general, it is not the age for a loving woman, like 20 and 100 years old, what does it matter if you love, and no one knows yet that she is Margarita, and even a novel about a teacher, nobody about her teacher he has read it, he is deeply hidden, and it is unknown if he will ever be born again. But the eyes, for some reason the eyes see.

Chekhova, Olga, 36 years old, on August 27, 1904, more than a month later, when her husband, Chekhov, Anton, 44 years old, left: “I live as if you come to me again, look at me with Your amazing radiant eyes , pet me, call me your dog. My dear, where are you?!… But there is no death yet. (O. Knipper-Chekhova. Memoirs and articles.)

No death, no “Masenky, this morning I saw you again in a dream. I was lying on my bed, White Guard sheets and a mass of postcards, unusually beautiful, in shades of orange and green, were scattered on the blanket. You were in the middle room. Then I remembered that after all you died, how can it be? And I decided to quickly turn on the lamp near me to check. I grabbed the cord with the plug, quickly plugged it into the socket, but the lamp did not lights up. And you were already walking from the window. And I clearly saw you, your face, your figure, a special skin color, bright eyes, as clear as never happens in a dream. You kissed me several times on the shoulder. and I he asked: “Are you okay?” warm, – I said: “God, how happy I am.” You kissed me again and asked: “Are you happy that I am faithful to you?” From happiness, I opened my eyes and he laughed It was unbelievably warm.” Eight years later, Bulgakova Elena, January 8, 1948, Moscow. (L. Yanovskaya.)

What does it take to deserve it? And you deserve it? Maybe just lucky for two, well, what does not happen? Or a splash, a mist, an accident in ordinary life? It’s possible? Should it always be like this? We don’t know how it should be. We make our way, trying to find eternity, to prove that it exists, perhaps to feel it, and to always be there, together with those we love. Just – lots of love. We love so much that our imagination comes true. Or not the imagination? Could it really be reality?

While they are writing. Whether today, half a century ago, or already, it’s scary to say, seven decades, it doesn’t matter. Time, our time, seems to be one.

Bulgakova Elena, June 29, 1955, Moscow, 15 years later: “I dreamed in the morning that Misha was in Riga and he sent me a postcard. He was crying with happiness.” (L. Yanovskaya.) Did she write this? Who guides our dreams? Who makes you come out like this, line by line: “It seems strange to me now that I write to you, but I want this, I really want it. And when I write to you, it seems to me that you are alive and somewhere waiting for my letter. , dear , gentle, let me tell you sweet and tender words, let me stroke your silky soft hair, let me look into your kind, radiant and gentle eyes.

Anton Chekhov and Olga Knipper, 1902. Photo: Wikipedia

Olga Chekhova, August 19, 1904, Moscow.

The next day, August 20, 1904 “My dear, my dear, where are you now! In Yalta, at first I felt you everywhere and everywhere: in the air, in the greenery, in the rustle of the wind. During the walks, It seemed to me that your transparent figure of light with a wand walks near or far from me, walking without touching the ground, in the bluish haze of the mountains.And now I can directly feel your head next to my cheek.

It is not known how everything works there, but they love you, they see you, they meet you even after you cease to be

September 11, 1904, three months later. “My dear, my dear, my gentle, how long have I not talked to you! I was ragged, restless, the way you did not love me. Yours, I would listen to your heart and gently caress me – remember? My Antonchik, do you where are you? Will we really never see each other? It can’t be. I have so much pain in my soul that there is no child. I would have collapsed for everything, I can feel it. How you would love him! At least dream about it!

That’s all. We don’t know where these women are, where are the ones they loved, if they exist or not, or if they are just words that are also being. But maybe they are. Maybe we all are. Yes, you can live there, it’s hot there and we are there with the ones we love. It was, is and will be. Nobody knows. Or maybe the one who wrote this at least once knows: “Listen to the silence,” Margarita said to the teacher, and the sand whispered under her bare feet, “listen and enjoy what you were not given in life, silence. . there is your eternal home, which was given to you as a reward. I can already see the Venetian window and the climbing grapes, it rises to the ceiling. I know that at night those whom you love, whom you care about and who will not alarm you, will come to you, play for you, sing to you, you will see the light in the room when the candles are lit… You will fall asleep with a smile on the lips.

We do not know if they exist or if we exist. Whether we will, no one knows. But how we want it to be forever! The eternal home and the one who will say in it: “But you can’t scare me away anymore. I’ll take care of your dream.” It sounds, of course, like a spell, and it even sounds strange. But everyone knows: it can happen! Us. eternal home. Together. And yet I will take care of your dream. Forever and ever.

Source link

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *