A cry from 1837

A cry from 1837

I will tell about the very first event of my life, which influence I can remember and estimate.

1985, winter. Was there a beginning of winter, the middle or the end I will not say. I know that the streets were covered with snow, there was a good frost. I, frequent, it is possible to tell - regular visitor of the older group in the kindergarten, which was called "The Little Mermaid"))).

Somewhere close to this wonderful time, at some crossroads of my childhood, I was met with Alexander Pushkin. He told poems and fairy tales, using the method available to him. There was, something that without words convinced, Alexander Sergeyevich good. Not even so, he's GOOD. I was inclined to trust people and love those who were extolled, for example Pushkin or Lenin. In general, it seemed that the whole information field around me at that time - it's true, the continuous truth.

***

Walking in the evenings with parents was common. We sledding with dad, talked about everything, we are making a snowman’s and played with snow in other ways. My father always spoke unobtrusively about something serious, made him interesting and instructive.

As a result of such conversations, I acquired many life principles. And one evening we went out into the fresh air. In me there lived to the end not conscious, but quite steady positive feelings for Pushkin A. Probably he personified some kind of good.

***

The evening was quiet, fabulous. The snow laid frozen waves, in which from time to time the small bright "fish" played with light, throwing at each other the beams of lanterns, standing nearby like beacons. In all this there was some kind of cold geometry, but even smooth lines were softened by fluffy, smoothly falling snowflakes.

They imparted to the atmosphere some kind of insensible warmth and comfort. We went. All this fabulousness absorbed me more and more. I do not know what my dad felt and I do not remember what he talked about earlier. But in memoirs there comes a moment, when in the middle of this brilliance, line and smoothness very clearly appears the figure of Alexander Pushkin.

***

The conversation turned to Pushkin's death. In my head, like lightning, broke out a conviction that such a person had a "worthy death." But the received information shocked me. Duel. Dad told me slowly, so I managed to present possible results. Dantes appeared as an enemy, not just an enemy of Pushkin, but of all mankind, my enemy. And of course I thought - "Pushkin will win!". The narrator stopped, I waited for the denouement, everything was still shining snow, snowflakes fell, and from the tale my eyes looked at my father and waited for a fairy ending. But Dantes shot first and hit. There was a return shot, but the first was deadly. In my ears ringing - Pushkin lost.

***

Not wanting to believe, I several times asked the pope - "Dantes killed Pushkin?" Awareness of the answer with a ruthless hand opened the curtain of fairy-tale and drew to look at the window of truthfulness. The event that took place in the distant year of 1837, looking into the eyes, persistently reiterated that evil can win. The tale of the all-conquering good gave a crack. The evening was beautiful and wintery. Playful lights of snowflakes, noisy shine and a warm fall. All this still liked me, but it was already saturated with pity for Alexander Sergeevich and a fairy tale, in which it seemed I was living. I became different, but the snow remained the same.

***

This is a story about childhood experiences and memories of them. The fact ,that the events of bygone days can change us. It does not consider who is right and who is to blame for the dispute between Dantes and Pushkin.

Life of some facts that was building in our head will influence to the view of the past and the future.

It's good that they did not tell me then how Lenin died. )))))
Keep doing good, despite the fact that evil often wins. ))