Mtskheta (featuring Vasily Peskov as author)
Many people may never have heard this name, but anyone who has read Lermontov's poem Mtsyri can visualize the spot where the two mountain rivers in the Caucasus converge.
Where merge Aragva and her twin,
Kura, and fast rush onward, in
Times past, a lonely cloister stood;
By fields, a dense and o'ergrown wood
Encircled 'twas ... A wayfarer,
Toiling uphill, will see what were
A gate and gateposts once and, too,
A church . . . Today, no incense to
Its round dome coils, nor do a prayer
The humble monks chant, hoarse-voiced there.
Translated by Irina Zheleznova.
Here they are, the Kura and the Aragva, and there is the monastery above them. If the monastery were alive it would have regarded the poet who stood over a century ago as a late-com-ing visitor to the site, for it is one thousand four hundred years old. Looking up from the river bank you see it crowning a high mountain like a natural continuation of it, both majestic and indomitable. Some prayed in wonder at the sight of it, while others were inspired to take up their pens. At various times Alexander Dumas, Maxim Gorky, Tchaikovsky and Alexei Tolstoi all visited it.
Enveloped in mountain mists lies Mtskheta at the confluence of the Aragva and Kura
At the foot of the mountain the Kura and the Aragva glitter in the twilight. It seems as if two streams of molten silver are flowing out of the two valleys. A small town nestles at the spot where they converge. The old church on the mountain is a child compared to this most ancient settlement on earth. Five thousand years ago this was a "thriving, densely-populated town" of warriors.
Five thousand years is an unfathomable period of time. It is interesting to note that the Tbilisi atomic reactor is located near the spot where some ancient wine vessels were discovered. Five thousand years lie between them.
The little town of Mtskheta, former capital of Georgia, was an ancient trading center. It has lived through countless wars, known rulers both wise and foolish, great masons, poets and bandits, paganism and Christianity, conquest by Romans, Arabs, Turks and Mongols and, finally, lived to see the treaty with Russia that was to preserve the nation.
Four hundred and fifty years ago the town conceded its position as the capital to Tbilisi and now lives on beside it as an ancient, revered sage. The visitor's cursory eye cannot glimpse much of the history of the old capital, but scholars and archeologists have discovered much of great interest. One can begin digging under any house here and soon come up with some treasure.
Many ancient towns are lifeless museums. Mtskheta was spared this fate, though it is often called an "open-air museum", for every stone, every chapel, monument, turn and bend are like pages out of a history book. However, it is a bustling town. From the monastery on the hill one can read the signs on the shops through a pair of binoculars. A new dorm for sportsmen rises beside a little house built a thousand and five hundred years ago. A bath house that is two thousand years old is adjacent to one heated by sun-powered batteries. Still, everything, even that which is most recent, is fated to become a part of the past, A hydroelectric power station was built in the vicinity in the 1920s. According to the GOELRO plan for the electrification of Russia, this was to be the second largest power station in the country. It produced enough energy to run all of Georgia's industrial plants. Its output has not changed, but today this is an old granny, capable of supplying no more than the energy needed for the republic's television sets.
There is very little contemporary construction. This is the result of a wise approach to the town's main assets. Given our modern building methods, the ancient stones would soon be crushed and lost beneath some modern concrete structures, as was the case in other towns. Mtskheta has been preserved. It is a Mecca for tourists, artists, architects and archeologists.
It is best to look down upon the town from the top of the mountain in evening, when the crowd of sightseers has left and only the watchman and his old black horse remain. The distant mountains are like golden waves washing away from the river bank. Dusk obscures the little houses, and only two churches rise distinctly to reign over the water. The evening sky remains light for quite a while and the clouds are like golden banners stretched across a crimson wash. The monastery walls loom black. A dull hum rises from the town, and the watchman's steps and the passing cars on the road provide the background sounds and a very real feeling of Time, enternal, without beginning or end.
An ancient tunnel through the mountain leads to the river. The entrance has been blocked with stones now for fear that some sightseer may be caught in an avalanche. We took the path down the mountainside and crossed the river to stroll through the streets of Mtskheta at night.
"...A wayfarer, toiling uphill, will see what were a gate and gateposts once and, too, a church..."
Every city takes on a new appearance at night, but here we also heard singing. We followed the sound until we came to the singers and ended the day in a house as unusual as the town itself. Candles were burning in wrought-iron candle-sticks. Vessels hollowed out of the trunks of lindens and used for pressing grapes stood by a wooden wall beside some barrels. Garlands of garlic and onions hung from hooks. The town's folk singers and dance group were celebrating their victory at a contest held in Tbilisi. We were immediately invited to join them at the long table. There was wine from a barrel, goat cheese, corn pudding, tomatoes, roast lamb on skewers, fresh pears and greens. But, most important, there was singing.There were the ancient Georgian folk songs, some very slow and melancholy, others quite naughty, and some that were accompanied by furious dancing with everyone clapping in time. A song that has survived for hundreds of years can convey a lot to people joined round a table, for it comes from the heart, and even if you cannot understand the words, you can feel the sorrow or the joy that created it.