Dedicated to the 100th anniversary of the Great October Socialist Revolution
Read the first part here.
Psychics and clairvoyants in the corridors of the highest echelons of power have always aroused constant interest. There were many seers at all times who served those in power. And even the most powerful and influential rulers always listened to them. There are plenty of such examples. This is Jacob Bruce during the time of the Russian emperor Peter the Great, this is Grigory Efimovich Rasputin, during the time of the last Russian emperor Nicholas II, and before him Philip Nizier - Atel Vasho, this is Wolf Messing and Georgy Gurdjieff during the time of J. V. Stalin, this is June during the LI Brezhnev, this is Anatoly Kashpirovsky during perestroika. As a rule, such people appear in turbulent times or at the juncture of eras. Power and mysticism have become so fused that they have become almost synonymous.
In the magazine "Steps of the Oracle" No.-6 for 2015 on pages 6 - 8 under the heading "The Journey of the Dilettante", an article was written entitled "Magic and Politics", in which there was a subtitle "TWICE DEAD", which described the close relationship between Stalin and Gurdjieff. I quote it in full: “It is known that JV Stalin did not trust anyone. However, he always listened to the opinion of astrologers. It began in childhood, when the occultist Gurdjieff, who later became a famous occultist, was sitting at the same desk in the seminary with the future leader, who from an early age was fond of magic and even studied with Tibetan lamas. He also suggested in 1917 Soso Dzhugashvili to change the horoscope, arguing that it is impossible to become a leader with such a natal chart. And Stalin changed the year of his birth. In this regard, there is a very interesting opinion of the Moscow psychic Anfisa Zhanimova: “If a person took on someone else's horoscope and someone else's fate, then he had to die twice. What actually happened: first, Stalin-Dzhugashvili died as a person, and the second time - as a great Soviet figure. Then he was taken out of the Mausoleum, where he was lying next to Lenin, and was buried a second time."
I want to note that the students and supporters of GI Gurdjieff's teachings sharply deny the very fact that Gurdjieff and Stalin met, moreover, they assert and are fully convinced that Gurdjieff and Stalin never met and never crossed paths in real life. They have full reason for this, since none of the books of Geogry Gurdjieff contains even the slightest hint that they could have known each other and ever intersect in life. However, in April 2017, I visited the Transcaucasia, in particular Georgia, where I visited the Stalin Museum in the city of Gori (Stalin's homeland). During a tour of the museum, I asked the guide a direct question: "Do you have any information about the acquaintance and friendship between George Gurdjieff and Joseph Stalin?" To which I received a direct response from a museum employee: “According to the latest data we have,Gurdjieff and Stalin knew each other, but there are no official documents that would confirm their acquaintance."
It seems to me rather strange that both studied at the spiritual Orthodox Tiflis seminary and under no circumstances did they meet there. This is unlikely, but I can’t say anything for sure. Let the reader draw his own conclusions from reading the diary entries of Gurdjieff himself. So, a word to the diary of Georgy Ivanovich Gurdjieff.
“I passed the entrance examinations to the seminary without difficulty and got excellent marks in all subjects. Forgive me for being immodest: I had no doubts about success in these exams. I was well prepared, I knew much more in each subject than the program required. In addition, I was two or three years older than those who entered with me, that is, a certain life experience, a sense of independence, self-confidence gave me advantages over rivals in exams. And the competition was considerable: three people per seat.
So, it happened!
Promotional video:
On August 31, 1897, all the seminarians were gathered in the assembly hall for a solemn prayer service to mark the beginning of the new academic year. Before the service, I experienced an incomprehensible, some kind of painful excitement. It depressed me because I could not understand the cause of this state. After all, everything is good! I have been accepted into seminary, my material problems are solved. I already have new friends, also freshmen; Four of them two days ago I invited to visit, we spent a wonderful evening over tea with oriental sweets. Abram Elov amazed everyone with his erudition and collection of old books. Lord! What else do you want, boy? Youth, the beginning of study in such a famous educational institution, independent life in a beautiful southern city on the banks of the stormy Kura, surrounded by green mountains, new friends … You are full of energy and plans. You are rich … So where does this oppressive state of mind come from at the solemn prayer service?
The service was going on, the mighty bass of Father Nikanor, the rector of the seminary church, sounded, interrupted by psalms sung by the choir; around I saw young, concentrated faces, and many of them glowed with happiness, delight, a sense of belonging to the righteous cause to which we were going to devote our lives. I met the approving, satisfied look of the rector of the seminary, who was standing in the group of teachers, - he nodded at me and smiled …
And I … The dark, tormenting excitement that gripped me before the prayer service, now, during the service, intensified, increased, filled my whole being to the brim; my temples suddenly snapped, I was seized with fear, horror, confusion, which - now I know for sure - a person experiences in moments of mortal danger. And finally, I felt, or - how to put it more accurately? - determined the source of my condition: someone stubbornly looked at me, the right cheek and ear felt hot. This happens when the heat from the stove touches the face. But it was a special warmth - it oppressed, dulled, suppressed the will. I turned abruptly - and immediately recognized him …
In front of a small dais near the blank wall of the assembly hall, on which stood the priest, the seminary teachers and the rector, guests of honor (among them there were several high-ranking military men, judging by the epaulettes and orders on their uniforms), we lined up in rows, and "he" stood behind, across the row, slightly to the right and intently, without blinking, he looked at me. Sharp-sighted eyes, seeming black at a distance, hypnotized - for several moments I could not, did not dare to look away …
Yes Yes! It was he! The one I saw as an adult on a shimmering white square in a cave in Tibet. Now, on a young, handsome face, hard and cold, those features that had been ingrained in my memory were only outlined, but outlined clearly: an oblong outline, mountain ash on the cheeks, the lower part of which and the chin was hidden by a short thick black beard, trimmed neatly, with obvious diligence; large straight nose, hanging slightly over the mouth; tightly compressed lips, short mustache, also neatly trimmed; black eyebrows in a tense, capricious fracture. And beneath them those eyes … They did not want to let me go.
Finally, a barely perceptible smile slipped across the stranger's face, and he turned away. It immediately became easier for me: the aching in my temples immediately stopped, something black, heavy, pressing melted in me. I sighed deeply, and the festive world that existed around me was restored: the faces of the seminarians, inspired and excited, the thick, solemn bass of Father Nikanor, the psalms that the boys' choir selflessly sang; in high lancet windows - the rays of the sun …
Yes, around me was the same joyful Divine peace sent down to people for happiness. But for me it was already a different world. Concerns, intense studies, days and often nights over books, everyday worries - in a word, everything that filled my life to the utmost for the last year pushed aside what was my purpose in this life. Behind my back was that powerful medium who had to save humanity by building a world just society with equal opportunities for all inhabitants of the Earth. This is what the Great Initiate from Shambhala said. But for this to happen, I must find the throne of Genghis Khan and give his magical power to the new Messiah …
I do not remember how the solemn prayer ended - I found myself in the park, which surrounded the old seminary building, built of red brick and remotely resembling a medieval castle in its outlines.
The last day of summer … It was hot, sunny, windy. I slowly walked along the alley under the mighty chestnuts, the crowns of which have grown over my head. Heat, languor, wind noise in spreading crowns. Only in those rare moments, when the wind died down, complete, absolute silence fell on the ground, not a single bird's voice.
At the end of the alley there was a dilapidated arbor overgrown with grapes, and black berries on dense clusters were covered with a bluish thin film. There were two wooden benches in the gazebo, the brown paint on them peeling off, some of the boards rotted.
I sat down on a bench, gently leaned on its shabby back, stretched out my legs. Immediately a large bright red dragonfly flew in and sat on the toe of my boot, fluttered its transparent wings and froze, as if it had turned into a statue. Only her bulging multi-colored eyes slowly rotated. What grace! What absolute perfection!
Quite a long time passed in this way. I admired the dragonfly and thought … What to do? How to proceed? Approach him? Introduce yourself? Speak? About what?..
Here it is necessary to make a small digression. Several months have passed since the night when the ancient map of Tibet appeared in my hands. All these months I have been thinking about what lies ahead for me, about my destiny. And although everyday affairs, worries, above all preparation for the entrance exams to the seminary, seemed to overshadow everything that was associated with the old map, not a day passed without me thinking about it. One evening I decided to initiate Abram Elov into my secret. After all, he is my faithful, devoted friend. And older than me. We had dinner, Abram, absentmindedly chewing food, was immersed in reading some old tome in a shabby leather binding (his usual occupation), I was ready to utter the first phrase: "Abram, I want to consult with you …" - and at that moment in me, in my mind, in my head or in my heart - I don’t know how to say for sure,- sounded, and I recognized this voice- “Shut up! It's only yours. Only you yourself must act and make decisions. " I froze, instantly covered in cold sweat. Auditory hallucination? "Yes, only you yourself!" - inexorably sounded in me again, and I realized that this was not a hallucination. Elov did not notice anything - he was completely immersed in his reading.
"So can I tell a stranger what I have to do for him?" - I thought, frozen and waiting. But the voice inside me was silent …
I did not notice how the dragonfly flew away. A strong wind rose, made a green storm in the treetops. I picked some grapes and tossed them into my mouth. They turned out to be sour, even bitter - the vines around the gazebo turned wild. It sank in my temples - anxiety, fear, uncertainty returned to me again. It seemed that I was immersed - or I was immersed - in the state of mind that overcame me during the solemn prayer service in the seminary assembly hall. A hand fell on my shoulder and instantly burned the thin fabric of my shirt with heat. Ya turned sharply. He stood behind me. We were separated by the low fence of the gazebo. A smile parted his hard lips. Only the mouth was smiling, the dark eyes were strained, there was something sucking, absorbing in their gaze. And I could not resist this look, I turned away.
- Hello, George! - There was a smell of good, expensive tobacco in his breath; the teeth were small and chipped. ” And I was waiting for you. ” There was satisfaction in his voice and power was felt.
"Above me? Well, no really! " - I thought and said coldly:
- Hello.
- Come on right away to "you". - He smiled friendly. - After all, we have a lot together. Right?
I said nothing.
- So that? Are we on you? There was pressure in his voice.
- As you wish.
- Come on! - He removed his hand from my shoulder (later, at home, in the place where she was lying, I found a red spot, as if from a slight burn. It disappeared overnight). - Do you mind if I sit down next to you?
- I beg! - I was gaining a certain calmness, freedom; the aches in the temples disappeared. But this word - "Please" - said not me. Rather, I said, but together with someone else inside my consciousness. Our voices merged into one.
He walked into the gazebo, sat down next to me and also stretched out his legs, copying my pose. In this I saw a mockery and got angry. Strange … The sudden anger finally returned my calmness and confidence.
The silence dragged on. The wind seems to have died down.
“There is grace,” he said. Now for me it was an ordinary person. - Like in paradise. I come to this gazebo sometimes, in moments of inspiration. Poetic lines are well composed here.
- Do you write poetry? I asked, stressing the "you".
He glanced quickly at me sideways. In his gaze flashed something like anxiety. Now I understand: the one to whom I was obliged to hand over the throne of Genghis Khan, or rather his strength, felt that he was losing power over me.
However, he said quite calmly (this young man, my age, clearly knew how to control himself):
- Yes, sometimes, by inspiration, I write poetry. And now, this very minute, I composed. Do you want to listen?
- Want.
- A short poem … Thought! Poetic embodiment of one thought. "Dragonfly" is the name of the poem.
“So he watched me for a long time! - I thought. - Maybe I was on the heels."
He began to read, breathlessly, with passion and pressure, uttering guttural sounds (we spoke Georgian). The rhythm of these verses still sounds in me. Here is their approximate translation into Russian:
Dragonfly! You bask in the sun
And you shine with your wings.
But why do you live, dragonfly?
What is the use of you to a person?
There is no benefit!
So, dragonfly, you must be destroyed
How useless, mindless creature!
Everything that does not bring good and benefit to a person, Must be destroyed!
- Like? he asked, it seemed to me jealous.
- Not! - I answered sharply.
He frowned. And, again overcoming himself, said calmly, with notes of sarcasm in his voice:
¦- As the Russians say, there is no dispute about tastes. - He smiled bitterly. - And in my opinion, they argue. What do you think?
I agreed with HIM:
- Yes, they argue about tastes.
A satisfied smile crossed his face. And again there was silence. I broke it:
- You said: "I was waiting for you." What does it mean?
There was a pause, and, looking at my interlocutor, I saw how all the features of his face tensed, he obviously involuntarily, without controlling himself, leaned forward. This is how a person looks from the outside who listens to a distant voice and cannot fully understand what is being said to him. I guessed!.. Or rather, he felt, realized: he was listening to the voice that sounded inside his consciousness. Finally, leaning back on the bench and breathing deeply with evident relief, he said:
- George! Let's not play hide and seek. We on this Earth are connected with you by an indissoluble common common goal, and the Higher Forces called us to achieve it. "He paused, his face tensed again." And the result of our common efforts touches the fate of all mankind. "A pause. A gust of strong wind blew across the frozen peaks of the chestnuts.
“Maybe,” I said.
- Once … More precisely, recently, several months ago, I had a prophetic dream … I was shown you …
- By whom? I interrupted impatiently.
- An old man … an initiate …
- He was in white clothes?
- Yes, he was in white clothes …
- He was sitting by the fire?
- Yes, he was sitting by the fire. - Something mechanical appeared in the voice of my interlocutor. He seemed to have turned to stone, his eyes were frozen, glazed.
- And that fire burned in the cave?
- That's right … In a huge cave …
- And how was I shown to you?
- How is it shown?.. I don't know … I don't remember … No! Wait!.. Now.”He stared with a frozen, glazed gaze at the dense branches of chestnuts on the other side of the alley. He clearly saw something. ” Yes! - He literally choked with a sigh of relief, and the tension released him, he became the same. - You were sitting by the fire next to the old man. I was ordered to look at you and remember your face. I obeyed the order. I have remembered you for the rest of my life and today during the prayer service I immediately recognized you! There, in a cave that appeared in a prophetic dream, your name was called to me - George Gurdjieff. And it is said: "From him you will receive a cosmic power that will help you to fulfill your mission on Earth."
- Do you know what your mission is? I asked.
- Yes I know! - followed by a firm answer. - But tell me, what will be the cosmic force that you are called to hand over to me?
- It is concluded … - Probably half a second remained before the end of the phrase started: "… in the throne of Genghis Khan." But in my mind an imperious order sounded: "Shut up!" And then, in my voice, we continued to speak together with the one who again guided my will: - It is too early to answer this question of yours. - I fell silent and met the surprised-wary glance of my new acquaintance. - At first, this is “something”, which contains the power, you need, you need to find, find … - I said.
“And that place,” he interrupted me quickly, “where is this“something”, is it indicated on the map that you had in your hands in that cave, by the fire?
I said nothing.
- We go in search together! - he exclaimed. - We will definitely …
- Not! On that path you are not given to go with me …
He seemed to know this because he easily agreed:
- Good. But I will help you prepare for this long journey!
“Maybe,” I whispered.
Probably, we said to each other everything that we had to say, and there was instant relief: it seemed that there was a sense of joy and celebration for no reason. Only the whole body was weak.
We looked at each other almost friendly.
- You also entered the first year? - I asked. - But you were not in the exams.
- Not! - he laughed. - I'm already in my third year. In the ninety-fourth he graduated from the spiritual school in Gori. I come from there. And immediately left for Tiflis to take the entrance examinations to the seminary. My parents sleep and see me as a priest. Especially the mother.
- What is your name? I asked. He laughed, holding out his hand to me.
- Let's get acquainted! - The handshake was strong, energetic, tenacious. - Joseph Dzhugashvili.
In the evening he invited me to his place: "Let's have supper, let's talk." The one who, having received the throne of Genghis Khan, had to save humanity, rented a small room in a dilapidated house, in some unnamed alley of the old city. It was necessary to get to him through narrow back streets, passages, stone stairs, through cluttered courtyards, where dried yellow grass grew between polished time and people, clothes were dried on long ropes, children were running, busy with their noisy games, women were loudly discussing the latest news; there were tart smells of roast lamb, hot spices, fruits.
Joseph walked in front, occasionally turning around, said:
- Soon.
Or:
- You and I are in the very center of the people's life of the so-called petty-bourgeois class of Georgian society.
And suddenly he asked:
- You also refused to live in their barracks?
- Which barracks? - I did not immediately understand.
- Ptskhe! - He involuntarily grimaced and spat through chipped teeth. - Well, at the seminary, "common house." Also brick, two-story. There are cell rooms. Seminarians live in two or three people each. Only graduates have separate rooms. In general, according to the charter of our almshouse, all seminarians must live with it "from" and "to". It is our liberal rector who allows anyone who has the opportunity to rent an apartment. ” He spat again and said with an incomprehensible sudden anger: “I can't stand liberals!
Finally we arrived. The room that Dzhugashvili rented was in an old, typically Tiflis, densely populated house.
- Straight commune, - bitterly threw my new … how to say - friend, owner? I do not know…
His dwelling with a separate entrance consisted of a small entrance hall, the attractions of which were a copper, long-uncleaned washbasin with an enamel basin under it (muddy soapy water froze in it) and a kerosene stove with a smoked window, and a rather spacious, austerely furnished room: a table by a bare window (it overlooked a wasteland overgrown with bushes and the ruins of either a church or a stone house), a couch covered with a thick woolen blanket, two mismatched chairs and a shabby wardrobe. It seems that everything. I remember I was amazed at the complete lack of books in this dwelling. Bare walls, no pictures. Only on the windowsill, in a frame under glass, was a photograph of a middle-aged woman, stern, withdrawn in appearance, in a black scarf tied low over her eyes.
“Mom,” Joseph said, and his voice grew soft.
The question about my father was about to come off my lips, but "The one who …" (perhaps more than once in my notes I will call him this way: "The one who …") got ahead of me:
- My father is a shoemaker. Well, I would have a reputation for a good master, - there was contempt in his voice. - But no. Drinks without measure. It fully justifies the Russian proverb "drinks like a shoemaker." Not! - went back to the Georgian Joseph. - To have his card next to my mother? Never! - It seems that a wave of black, evil feelings began to rise in him, and with an instant effort of will he suppressed it. Sit down at the table. We will have supper and talk.
The supper was, like an apartment, ascetic. However, how to say … A large jug of cool wine ("Khvanchkara," he said, "is my favorite"), young sheep's cheese, a warm flatbread (Joseph went downstairs somewhere for it, I heard him talking to someone, judging by the voice, he was with the old man; when he returned, he said: “A baker lives down here, he has a small bakery.” He narrowed his eyes angrily: “Private trader, petty bourgeoisie …”), walnuts, an oblong yellow melon cracked from ripeness and flowing fragrant juice.
We drank a glass of wine, it was really great.
- Eat, dear. - He began the meal with a slice of melon, and dripped juice from his mustache. - And let's define the main thing from the very beginning … You have to go on a long journey to find "something" - for me. So?
-So…
- And here's the main question: what do you need for this?
- The conviction that this is the purpose and meaning of my life! I exclaimed passionately.
- Are you convinced?
- Yes, I'm convinced!
We drank another glass of wine. Sheep cheese melted in my mouth. Joseph's neighbor, a baker, a representative of the petty bourgeoisie, was probably a master of his craft - his cake was excellent.
“Conviction alone,” the landlord said somewhat condescendingly and with notes of edification in his voice, “is clearly not enough. What for your trip … - He thought. - I suppose, to Tibet … What else do you need?
“He knows everything! - flashed through my mind. - And the fact that the power he needed is contained in the throne of Genghis Khan - too."
And again I almost let it slip. A fleeting smile full of irony slipped across the face of "The One who …"
“We also need people, faithful companions.” For some reason I hurried. “About five or six people who will be ready to share with me all the hardships of the path …
- Will they know your purpose? - interrupted Joseph.
“No… I don’t know… Perhaps so: they cannot be fully initiated….
- And rightly so! - the future savior of mankind laughed. - Why dedicate? We'll pay well and they'll do everything right. And then it will be seen … - He thought hard - his face tensed, his features turned to stone. But then I heard a sigh of relief - obviously some decision had been made. - You will need horses, donkeys to transport everything you need: weapons, clothing, other equipment. You will need money for all sorts of unforeseen expenses. Oriental people love gifts. He burst out with a sudden loud laugh. “In other words, your campaign … a successful campaign … requires a lot … a lot of money! Do you agree with me?
- Yes, I agree, - I replied and thought: "All my savings will not be enough."
Iosif Dzhugashvili stood at the window, his back to me, looking at something in the vacant lot. Then he said barely audibly:
- Will not be enough…
“Does he read my mind? No … It seemed …"
Joseph turned sharply to me - his eyes were motionless, his pupils dilated.
- We, Georgy, will get the money for your trip! We will get as much money as needed.
I could not take my eyes off his mesmerizing eyes. My will was absent, I was paralyzed - at that moment I was in his power. He accompanied me. We went down from the old city to the center of Tiflis, walked along the Kura embankment, filled with a noisy crowd, it was a sultry Sunday evening. The conversation was now about nothing. I felt an incomprehensible weakness, absent-mindedness, sometimes I could not immediately understand what he was asking me about. I experienced such a state for the first time in my life.
Saying goodbye to me, Joseph said:
- In the next few days I will introduce you to several of my comrades. Do not think that in our blessed seminary there is peace and grace. We are not sitting idly by here. ” And, bending over to my ear, he whispered: “We must fight against the Russian autocracy, with their dominance in the Caucasus! Do you agree with me?
I was stunned by what I heard, but I also whispered, almost submissively:
- I agree. What next…
It is extremely difficult for me to tell about three years of my life in Tiflis. I kind of split in two. The first two years I studied diligently at the seminary, I was constantly among the first, which made my parents and the teachers of the seminary, headed by the rector, who, according to Joseph Dzhugashvili, a liberal, incredibly happy. However, I myself more and more understood, felt, realized: being a priest is not my calling, not my path. Already in my first year I realized this and did not leave the Orthodox spiritual school only because of my parents: I was afraid to upset them, realizing, nevertheless, that I was only delaying the inevitable. And I plunged headlong into what Joseph was doing with passion and ebullient energy - the political struggle, and in an incomprehensible way, as if from the sidelines, watched the changes that were taking place in me, in my worldview.
It cannot be said that I was completely alien to the interest in the political life of the Russian Empire, of which I was listed. I read Russian newspapers and magazines, local and coming from Moscow and Petersburg; sometimes I took part - more as a listener, though - in political disputes; I felt social injustice enough, sometimes painfully, saw with my own eyes the Russification of the Caucasus and Transcaucasia, reacted sharply to the unfair or, most often, stupid actions of the Russian administration in the so-called national question. However, all this was for me in early youth and in the first years of independent life only as a kind of background against which my spiritual development took place, where the main issues were the questions of the universe, God, the problems of good and evil on a universal scale, the painful questions of man's destiny on earth, the riddle of death, the world of the surreal,esoteric, occult.
And from the very first acquaintance with "The one who …" everything changed: political, revolutionary passions completely captured me. I plunged into a completely different, violent, dangerous life. It all started with an underground meeting of the Mesame-Dasi group, the first Georgian Social Democratic organization, created, it turns out, back in 1892. This group, to whose secret meetings I got - Iosif Dzhugashvili was its leader - was a "Marxist minority", the embryo of the future revolutionary party of the Bolshevik persuasion in the Transcaucasus.
“Everyone else is at Mesame-dasi,” Joseph said to me, when we, in the middle of the night, observing all precautions, were returning from this meeting, which literally stunned me, “a cowardly trash. They, you see, take the position of "legal Marxism": no violence, no extreme manifestations of class clashes. Their narrow-minded ideal is bourgeois nationalism, parliamentary methods of struggle within the framework of the law. Nothing! - He involuntarily raised his voice and immediately again switched to an evil whisper: - We will laugh at them. And all this intelligent audience will cry bitterly. Very bitter!..
This gathering itself took place, oddly enough, in the aristocratic district of Tiflis, in a luxurious house, and its young owner (parents were away, traveled around Europe), picturesquely handsome, with a pale haughty face framed by a black beard, in a Circassian coat, soft boots, with a thin waist, whom everyone called Dodik, treated those present with an exquisite dinner - many dishes were unknown to me - and served the whole noisy company by a silent, impassive footman, also young and somehow imperceptibly similar to the hospitable Dodik. A total of about fifteen people gathered, and Joseph, introducing me as his friend and like-minded person, "for whom I can vouch with my head," introduced me to his closest associates; memory has retained only two surnames - Tsulunidze and Ketskhoveli. What were the names of the others, three or four more, I forgot. I remember one thing: everyone is young,temperamental, bearded, impatient. All of them were united by hatred, some kind of black malice towards "enemies" and towards those who did not agree with them. At the meetings, names, parties or organizations, industrial enterprises, banks were called. Then everything was analyzed and criticized from the standpoint of "class struggle", "exploitation of the working people", "national oppression", "solidarity of the proletariat of all countries" and so on. It often sounded: destroy, expose, nail to a pillory, do not stop before the victims on the way to the intended goal … Eyes sparkled, faces burned, emotions overflowed, and, I think, loud speeches were heard in neighboring houses, although it was already midnight.parties or organizations, industrial enterprises, banks. Then everything was analyzed and criticized from the standpoint of "class struggle", "exploitation of the working people", "national oppression", "solidarity of the proletariat of all countries" and so on. It often sounded: destroy, expose, nail to a pillory, do not stop before the victims on the way to the intended goal … Eyes sparkled, faces burned, emotions overflowed, and, I think, loud speeches were heard in neighboring houses, although it was already midnight.parties or organizations, industrial enterprises, banks. Then everything was analyzed and criticized from the standpoint of "class struggle", "exploitation of the working people", "national oppression", "solidarity of the proletariat of all countries" and so on. It often sounded: destroy, expose, nail to a pillory, do not stop before the victims on the way to the intended goal … Eyes sparkled, faces burned, emotions overflowed, and, I think, loud speeches were heard in neighboring houses, although it was already midnight.do not stop before the victims on the way to the intended goal … Eyes sparkled, faces burned, emotions overflowed, and, I think, loud speeches were heard in neighboring houses, although it was already past midnight.do not stop before the victims on the way to the intended goal … Eyes sparkled, faces burned, emotions overflowed, and, I think, loud speeches were heard in neighboring houses, although it was already past midnight.
Only the owner of the house, Dodik, did not take part in the discussions. He, lounging comfortably in an easy chair, sipped from a glass of thick dark wine, listened attentively to the speakers, and smiled absently. He was clearly enjoying himself, apparently taking the action as a fun performance in his home theater. The Charidze family, the owner of the huge business "Georgian tea", will cost a lot for the "fun" of the younger son of Dodik. 1920 is not beyond the Caucasus Mountains …
Disputes by disputes, but the underground members did not forget about the feast either. And there was no end to long Georgian toasts. One day, after a florid, playful toast “to lovely women,” someone said:
- Shouldn't we, comrades and gentlemen, go to Madame Rosalia's establishment?
- For such events, - said a very gloomy revolutionary, overgrown with a reddish beard, - I have no money in the party treasury.
After a small, somewhat embarrassing discussion, the offer to visit Madame Rosalie's establishment, "where beauties are cleaner than Parisians," was rejected - albeit without much enthusiasm.
"The one who …" whispered in my ear:
“Our cashier is also from the seminary. My classmate. There are six from our almshouse. Eagles! The time will come when you will see them in action.
Indeed, I saw the "eagles" in action - however, two years later. But even before those street clashes with the police, in which the closest associates of Joseph Dzhugashvili (he himself did not take part in the direct revolutionary action) were the direct instigators of the riots, I closely recognized them in "practical" revolutionary work. They led underground Marxist circles, distributed leaflets, held May events in the vicinity of Tiflis (in compliance with the strictest rules of secrecy), and read forbidden political literature. Then, for the first time, I also studied some of Lenin's work, I don't remember the title, a thin brochure, signed - Tulin. The article struck me with its bloodthirstiness, but I will not hide it - fascinated me, and all this, similar to the dangerous cruel games of adults, captured me.
The first changes that happened to me were noticed by Abram Elov. One day at dinner - it was in February or March 1898 - he asked me:
- Tell me, Goga, what's going on with you? I choked on a sip of tea:
- What are you talking about?
- You do not notice anything behind yourself?
- Abram! Do not talk in riddles! - I got mad.
- You have become angry, intolerant, irritable. You are always in a hurry somewhere. Abandoned our favorite books. When did you and I last talk about ancient Armenian philosophy?
I was silent … By this tirade of a friend I was taken by surprise.
- You read some nonsense. I'm sorry … You left a skinny little book on the table. I looked in. Socialist nonsense, nonsense, a call to violence and blood. Do you believe in this …
I didn't let him speak further. Something exploded in me, a hot wave covered my head, I shouted, not remembering myself:
- Don't you see how the common people live under the yoke of the exploiters and the rich? Can't you see the social injustice that reigns around us? And what about the national oppression of the Russian autocracy? Don't you and I experience it ourselves? Only irreconcilable class struggle, only revolution …
I shouted something like that. A red mist, dry and hot, covered my eyes. Finally, through him, Abram's sad, sympathetic look came to me, and I heard his quiet, calm voice:
- You are ill, Goga. Dangerously ill. I don't know what your ailment is called, but its germs are deadly. Do you want to change the world for the better by violence? After all, you and I have read so many wise, great books. And when the past is examined in them, there is a single conclusion in these works. Maybe now you can make it yourself?
I was silent…
- This conclusion is as simple as two or two: violence in history only leads to an increase in violence, shed blood leads to even greater bloodshed.
I wanted to say something, to object, but Abram Elov stopped me with a sharp gesture of his hand (he is always so soft, docile …):
- Shut up! I don't want to listen to you, Goga! You need to seriously think about everything that happens to you, before it's too late. And who are the people under whose influence you fell? Understand …
I wanted to argue again, but was again stopped by the same gesture:
- Everything, everything! Now you will not say anything worthwhile. Chill out. Think calmly about everything.
And Abram, without finishing his supper, got up, left the room and carefully closed the door behind him. Unfortunately, this topic no longer came up in our conversations - there was simply no time left for it: at that time Elov was already going to Moscow to continue his education. And he left soon. Our relations were interrupted for several years and resumed only at the height of the First World War - we met in St. Petersburg in the fall of 1916, parted again, but, as before, being friends, and our correspondence has not stopped to this day. And then in the living room of my cozy apartment on Molokanskaya Street, at a table with an uneaten dinner, I was left alone and for the first time thought: really, what happened to me? And what is happening now? Then I did not have the answer to these questions … Now I know them.
Some powerful forces, bubbling with fierce energy, which, perhaps, are inherent in every person, were awakened in me. They only sleep for the time being. However, they may never wake up. Everything depends on the owner, the owner of these forces. So I think now. And these forces are evil, intolerance, irritation, greed and an insatiable desire for power.
God! How easy it is now to judge oneself, that twenty-year-old, when life has been lived and everything is behind!..
And at that time, these forces were disguised in the clothes of the struggle for justice, for the happiness of ordinary people, and although I sometimes felt vague anxiety, for short periods I plunged into mental discomfort, on the whole I was captured by new burning passions and was satisfied with the way my life was developing under the leadership of "The one who …". Having found the throne of Genghis Khan, I had to transfer to him an incredible occult power. I did not doubt this for a minute. But a strange thing! In the first two years of my life in Tiflis, what was entrusted to me by the Teacher, the Great Initiate of Shambhala, seemed to darken and recede into the background. And in the foreground was participation in the political struggle under the leadership of Joseph Dzhugashvili.
Now I know: that was the way too. The path to the throne of Genghis Khan …
And here I must say the following. I did not reveal the secret of the throne to Abram Elov. Three knew her at that time: I, Sarkis Poghosyan (at parting in Bombay, I confessed to him, and Sarkis blessed me to fulfill the highest destiny sent down to me by fate, vowing to keep this secret to the grave); the third was now Joseph Dzhugashvili. If I, as before Sarkis, had confessed to Abram too!.. Maybe everything would have turned out differently? And - with full conviction I can say now - world history in the twentieth century would not have been so bloody. Especially for Russia.
August 1900.
In August 1900 (it was, if my memory serves me, Saturday) I saw the "eagles" "The one who …" in action. I had just returned from Kars - the summer holidays were on - in a depressed, heavy mood: at home there was a difficult explanation with my father. I told him that in September I would not return to seminary, clergy was not my calling, I was convinced of this, I choose the path of a political fighter for the interests of the oppressed working masses. It was with these words that I presented my position to my father. My father listened to me calmly, never interrupting. And I got a monologue, and the official presentation of the "position" was compensated by passion and pathos, which were really bursting with me. Finally I fell silent.
- All? - asked the father.
“That's it,” I confirmed with relief.
- You've been replaced, - said the father. - Leave. I do not want to see you. I only believe in one thing: what my mother and I and Mr. Bosch have invested in you, and what you have achieved yourself, cannot go to dust. An eclipse has come over you. Your mind is clouded and your heart is hardened. I do not know the reason for this, you know it. So figure it out yourself. You are already quite an adult. And know: if you remain as you are now, do not appear on the doorstep of your home again - you will no longer have a father here. ” He hesitated a little and added: “There will be no mother either.
So we parted that time, and it is not difficult to imagine what state of mind I was in when I arrived in Tiflis.
So, Saturday in August 1900, late morning; In the heat, in the red-hot, whitish sky, the mercilessly scorching sun seems to have frozen. Not a single breath of wind. It's stuffy …
I absentmindedly lay out the things from the travel chest on the table and sofa, and in my ears I have my father's voice: "… don't come back home anymore …"
Hurried steps on the porch, an energetic, impatient knock on the door.
- Not locked!
On the threshold - Joseph Dzhugashvili. Fast, impetuous, in the eyes - rage and a dark flame, he is all - a clot of energy and will. He does not let me open my mouth, speaks quickly, choking on the words:
- Throw everything! Let's go!
- Where? What for?
- We took them to the streets!
- Whom?
- Railway workers!.. Workers' workshops and depots! While the demonstration … But everything is prepared for the strike. Yes, let's go!
And already on the move, when we almost ran to the center of the city, he, predatory looking around, shouted:
- The main thing is to arrange a clash with the police and gendarmes!..
- Arrange? - I wonder.
- Yes! Yes! Arrange! - He laughed nervously. - A little bloodletting is necessary …
I stopped in amazement.
- Bloodletting?
- Exactly! - "The one who …" laughed again, showing uneven teeth. - Don't you know the lines of the Russian revolutionary poet: "The matter is solid when blood flows under it!" Why are you standing with a pillar? We'll skip everything!
And here we are in the center of Tiflis, on the Kura embankment. This is my first time seeing a revolutionary demonstration … I'm shocked …
- Were in time!.. - Joseph Dzhugashvili whispers and, grabbing me by the elbow, drags me under the walk-through arch of the gate of a small stone house (I manage to notice that, despite the heat, all the windows in it are tightly closed).
From the gateway we watched what was happening. A column of railway workers was walking along the street, all in dark shirts and boots. Gloomy, decisive faces. And - this was especially striking - not a single exclamation, only the measured hum of steps on the stone paving stones. No, it was not only the railwaymen who were walking. I saw among them the uniforms of students' jackets, next to the men were young women in long, floor-length skirts, and theirs too - how unusual! - gloomy, even spiteful faces.
Someone carries a red flag, someone posters: "An eight-hour working day!", "Trade in shops - under the control of the trade union!", "Open a sanitary post in the depot!" All these posters are in Russian. But here - in Georgian: "Long live free Georgia!", "Down with autocratic oppression!", "Down with the tsar's satraps!" A nervous chill begins to beat me. Again posters: "Death to Tsarism!", "Workers of all countries, unite!", "Comrades! To the barricades!"
- Look! Look!..- squeezed my hand "The one who …", and I felt the scorching heat of his palm.- Mine!..
Yes, I recognized Joseph's "eagles" at once. There are three of them, bearded, swift, in shirts and boots, like railway workers. Arising out of nowhere, they ran along the column and shouted:
- Comrades! There are gendarmes and Cossacks in the lanes!
- Do not intimidate us!
- Beat!..
And already the cries from the column of demonstrators:
- Beat!..
- To arms!
- Beat the bourgeois!
I saw one of the "eagles" throw a heavy cobblestone into the window of a jewelry store. Glasses crackled, shattered to smithereens. And everything got confused: screams, stamping of feet, somewhere else the ringing of broken shop windows. From an alley on the Kura embankment, Cossacks on snoring horses did indeed appear, waving whips. A roaring crowd surrounded them …
- They are killing! - there was a heart-rending cry.
At the wall of the house on the opposite side of the street, an elderly man with a bloody face slowly sank to the ground …
- So! So!..- Iosif Dzhugashvili whispers next to me.
My heart was burning with heat, a pink-red mist covered my eyes. I grabbed his hand:
- Let's run! We must be close to our own!
- What are you?.. - He pulled his hand away. - Crazy? I’m almost illegal! Police bloodhounds are looking for me everywhere …
Indeed … I forgot to say: back in May last year, Joseph Dzhugashvili was expelled from the seminary "for the propaganda of Marxism" - so it was said in the decree signed by the "liberal rector". Joseph went into an illegal position, he had to change his apartment.
- Then I'm alone!
I rushed into the thick of the dump, in the center of which I saw one of the "eagles" (his name was Alexander Kunadze) - his face was also broken, thick, seemingly black blood flowed down his beard. Dzhugashvili shouted something after me, but I did not hear that, only his last phrase reached my consciousness:
- In the evening, be sure to be with me!
And here I am in the midst of a collision. Together with other demonstrators, immediately losing sight of Kunadze, I pulled an obese Cossack with a tight, red, bearded face off the saddle (he goggled his meaningless eyes in amazement and stunned), and we kicked him, with bitterness and pleasure, with our feet, and he first, hunched over, huddled into a ball, just sniffed, covering his head with his hands, and suddenly shouted in an unexpectedly high, squeaky voice:
- Brothers! Have pity-ah!..
But we continued to beat, and I was all in the grip of hatred, dark anger and incomprehensible, unknown to me before, dark voluptuousness … I beat, beat, beat my defenseless victim, already only mooing under our blows, and on the cobblestones it darkened in ragged clots, filthy blood. I hated, I hated! Hated!.. Long live free labor! Death to the oppressors of the working people and their hirelings!.. I saw how, approaching the screaming crowd, swinging their fists, pushing their horse muzzles - pinkish foam flew to the sides with a rod, - three Cossacks rushed to their defeated comrade, wielding right and left whips. Everything else happened unnaturally quickly. A shadow fell on me, turning around - I had just kicked a Cossack who was no longer moving - I saw before me the brown sweaty chest of a horse,somewhere above - her grinning muzzle, but I did not have time to see the rider: the horse was dancing under him, I saw a whip in my hand, and its whistling blow struck the void very close to my head. And then the horse quickly reared up, I managed to make out a shiny horseshoe on its hoof (as if specially polished for such an occasion …). And a tough blow from the second horse's hoof hit my head. There was no pain - only, perhaps, surprise: I am easily, in free soaring, flying somewhere, and everything around me rapidly fades, plunges into darkness. And a tough blow from the second horse's hoof hit my head. There was no pain - only, perhaps, surprise: I am easily, in free soaring, flying somewhere, and everything around me rapidly fades, plunges into darkness. And a tough blow from the second horse's hoof hit my head. There was no pain - only, perhaps, surprise: I am easily, in free soaring, flying somewhere, and everything around me rapidly fades, plunges into darkness.
… I opened my eyes and could not understand anything. Where I am? What happened with me? In my head - a measured and soothing rumble, it was moving away, then approaching - so the waves of the sea roll over the sandy shore. I did not feel any pain, only dry mouth and a little nausea.
It turns out that I was lying on an old cotton blanket - it was all in holes, rubbed. He lay in the garden, because a tent of dense green branches stretched over his head, and fruits hung on them in bright yellow balls. "Cherry plum" - I thought and felt that I was terribly thirsty. My head turned out to be tightly tied with a piece of cloth, I felt it and was surprised: no, it doesn't hurt. But this touch instantly returned my memory. First I saw a sweaty horse chest in front of me, then a front horse leg with a gleaming, it seems, brand new horseshoe. And everything turned in reverse in my buzzing head, right up to the cool stone gateway, from which Iosif Dzhugashvili and I watched the still peaceful, silent demonstration of railway workers. Then I remembered the defeated Cossack, whom I, along with others, kicked, and this horrified me. I drove away from myself the memory of the sound of the blows of my boots on the body of the Cossack, deaf, smacking - but these unbearable sounds I heard again and again. Everything went cold inside me: “Was it really me? No, it's impossible!.. "But memory again quickly spins the tape with pictures backwards: a railroad worker with a bloody face slowly slides down the wall, a jewelry store window is smashed, posters flutter over the heads of the demonstrators, and everything ends in a stone gateway:" Look ! Look! " - squeezes my hand "The one who …". A railroad worker with a bloody face slowly slides down the wall, a jewelry store window is smashed, posters flutter over the heads of the demonstrators - and everything ends in a stone gateway: “Look! Look! " - squeezes my hand "The one who …". A railroad worker with a bloody face slowly slides down the wall, a jewelry store window is smashed, posters flutter over the heads of the demonstrators - and everything ends in a stone gateway: “Look! Look! " - squeezes my hand "The one who …".
… An unfamiliar old woman bent over me - a swarthy face, cut with deep wrinkles, gray hair tucked under a dark kerchief; attentive, compassionate, calm and patient eyes.
- Woke up, son? she asked in Armenian.
- Where I am?
- They brought you … Probably your friends. Do not be afraid. The police do not come to us. Here, have a drink. "She handed me a cool earthenware jug covered with damp sweat." Young wine, quite light.
I eagerly, without stopping, drank the entire jug to the bottom (now I think: more in my life I have never drunk such a fertile, magical young wine). I drank and felt that my strength returned to me, my head brightened, the noise in my ears subsided. I rose easily from my bed.
- You should still lie down, son. Relax.
- No, I feel quite healthy. Thanks for everything. I will never forget either you or your guilt,”I said and met the gaze of this old Armenian woman. I also kept it in my memory for the rest of my life. There was sympathy, compassion, sorrow in this look. And - condemnation.
- Should I take this path? I asked.
- Yes. She will lead you to the vegetable gardens. And then you have to go past a small cemetery and a chapel. No one has been buried there for a long time. Only goats graze.
After taking the first few steps, I stopped - it got dark in my eyes, my head started spinning, I swayed to the side. I looked around - the old woman was looking after me.
“Take your time,” she said quietly.
- Yes. I'm careful. Goodbye!
“God bless you, son.” She baptized me. “And I conjure: do not shed blood - neither your own nor your enemies.
Soon I passed an abandoned cemetery with a dilapidated chapel. Goats really grazed on it in the dead grass among the graves. "Where?" I asked myself. And almost instantly I heard the voice of Joseph Dzhugashvili. - "In the evening, be sure to be with me!" At that time, "The One Who …" was working at the observatory on Mount David. There he also had a small apartment of two rooms. We, underground workers, revolutionaries, often met at his place in the evenings, under the guise of friendly feasts, we held our secret meetings there, made plans, listened to our leader. I must say that Dzhugashvili was never verbose, which cannot be said about his Georgian associates.
On that memorable evening, I got to it quite late, the lilac August twilight was already thickening over Tiflis, the first timid stars appeared in the sky, from behind the distant mountains a still pale, transparent moon appeared, as if some invisible giant had bitten off its edge.
Joseph was very happy about my arrival:
- You're the first! Well done! He ignored the bandage around my head. However, I did not receive a wound, only a huge bump above my forehead. The horse knocked me down and stunned me with a strong blow with a horseshoe. - Let's get together and discuss our booze. Everything seemed to work out wonderfully well. Until then, drink some wine.
Two large jugs were waiting on the table of the underground workers.
- Here - tsinandali. Here is my favorite khvanchkara.
I didn't feel like drinking anymore, and I refused.
- As you wish, friend! Then I am in splendid isolation.
Joseph poured himself a full glass of khvanchkara and drank it in one gulp. It seems that without me he has more than once kissed his favorite drink: his eyes glittered feverishly, he quickly, noiselessly walked around the cramped room from corner to corner and somehow imperceptibly resembled a predatory dangerous animal that was trapped in a cage and rushing to freedom.
- I can smell it, George, I can smell it! - he said excitedly. - We are on the eve of big events. Just not to miss the moment! And what is the most important thing in our struggle? Tell me: what is the most important thing?
I didn't know what was most important. I just never thought about it. Coming close to me, breathing wine into my face, he gazed intently, without blinking, into my eyes (I did not dare to look away) and whispered:
- Power! Power seizure! - and again silently ran around the room. - But where did they all disappear?
Meanwhile, it was already completely dark outside the window, the black southern sky was strewn with rare stars. There were very few of them. Probably because a bright moon had already risen high above the horizon, which now seemed a little pink.
An hour has passed. Second. Nobody came. "The one who …" was already quite drunk and raging. I had never seen him before in such a frenzied, unbridled rage: he rushed about the room, slammed the empty jug in which the khvanchkara used to be on the floor, and fragments flew in all directions. He screamed, splashing saliva:
- Jackals! Cowardly jackals! Smelly dead rats! Frightened by the first fight! Hid in the corners! I hate it! Strangle! I will kill!..
And suddenly, stumbling upon my astonished, frightened look, he immediately calmed down. His face was covered with small beads of sweat, and Joseph wiped it off with the sleeve of his shirt.
“I'm sorry,” he said quietly, calmly, peacefully. “The nerves were loose. Our work with you is solid nerves. Second hour of the night. Stay with me. You will sleep here on the sofa. I’ll give you my mother’s down pillow. Such a sweet pillow!.. You will have sweet dreams. Girls will dream, dear! - "The one who …" laughed loudly. - If you dream, imagine, on the bank of a mountain stream. They take off their clothes to take a dip, and you peep from behind the bushes.
And then I made up my mind … I had long wanted to ask him about it, but in front of strangers - and strangers were almost always there - I was ashamed, I myself cannot understand why.
“Joseph,” I said, “I don't feel like sleeping at all.
His already sleepy face was filled with alertness and interest.
- And what do you want? he asked, yawning.
I knew that a telescope of the latest design was recently installed at the observatory - a magnification of hundreds of times! As a teenager, I first looked at the night sky through Father Bosch's home telescope, which only brought space tenfold closer, and the overwhelming impression has not yet been erased from my memory. And if - hundreds of times?..
- A new telescope has been installed at the observatory?
- Yes, it is. - The tension disappeared, the interest remained. - Brought from England.
- I could?..
- Clear! - Joseph interrupted me … . - You can! Let's go! - He got up heavily, without looking back, went to the door.
I hurriedly followed him. And we found ourselves on the porch of his apartment, plunged into a warm, quiet night.
- It's amazing! - He spoke thoughtfully, it seems, more to himself. - Why do you all have a craving to stare through a telescope into the sky, into this nonsense and emptiness? Curiosity? No … - Joseph, it seems, shook his head in distress. - There is something else … Come on, let's go! I am the telescope caretaker. It is necessary to check the serviceability of devices, monitor the air temperature. AND! Long storytelling, boring. I have access to the telescope at any time of the day. ” We were already walking along a narrow alley, which steadily climbed to a two-story building under a rounded roof that seemed dark blue in the moonlight. “I guess.” His voice was sarcastic, even contemptuous. “In this chaos and nonsense,” Dzhugashvili made a movement with his hands, as if embracing the heavenly sphere, “you are trying to find the meaning of life, God, answers to all sorts of so-called great questions. Immortality … The life of the soul … Lousy intellectual nonsense! Nonsense! There is nothing and no one there! Answers to all questions of human life are here! Only here on earth. And nowhere else. Because there, - "The one who …" jabbed his finger into the sky, - there is nothing and no one! Nothing! And no one!
- And the stars? - I stammered in complete daze. - The sun? Planets?
We were already at the door of the main observatory building, which housed the telescope. And suddenly Joseph, coming close to me, shouted in my face:
- This is a mirage! Do you understand? - His eyes were mad. - Mirage!
An elderly, sleepy soldier with a rifle, the bayonet of which was amazing in its length, appeared in the doorway. It was the telescope's night guard. Joseph instantly calmed down, as if at the touch of an invisible magic wand, said something quietly to the soldier, he indifferently nodded his shaggy head and, scratching himself, disappeared through the doorway.
- Sometimes in the middle of the night, - Joseph said, and now only boredom was in his voice, - there is no electricity. We’ll find out if you’re lucky or not.”He flipped an invisible switch in the darkness. The hallway lit up with a bright light. Let's go!
We found ourselves in a circular room with a domed ceiling. And in the center of it, with its pipe directed at an angle to the wall, stood a telescope.
- Come on throughout the program, if you are here, - said Joseph casually - Sit here. - I followed the order, sitting on a rotating chair like a piano in front of the telescope. - Look: this lever on the panel. Movement along the scale - an increase of ten times, fifty, one hundred … And so on up to three hundred times. Limit. This lever is the vertical movement of the telescope, this one is horizontal. The fixed position of the telescope itself allows you to view one quarter of the entire circumference of the firmament. To inspect the next quarter of the vault, you need to move the telescope itself to its sector. But we, Georgy, will not do this. One quarter is enough for you. Overhead! - He suddenly gave a short, angry laugh. - Fun!
- What are you laughing at? I asked.
- I have you, my dear, very impressionable. I have been watching you for a long time, - he grinned, - as well as all my comrades in arms. - He suddenly choked from the sudden rush of rage and did not whisper, but hissed: - Jackals! - And he stopped himself: - Okay! Let's figure it out. So that's it. Once our scientists brought a rich Arab, a sheikh not a sheikh, to gaze through a telescope … That's not the point! And where did they dig it from? Well, they put the guest on the chair you are currently occupying … It was a full moon. They pointed the telescope at our … What do the poets call it? Mysterious, magical, magical and other night luminary. I don't know how many times the increase was set. And they say to this dense sheikh … And he is all in white to the toes, a white turban. They say: look! Well, this fool also put his eye to the eyepiece. At first I froze, just petrified. Then only: “Wai! Wai!"- and splashes his hands. And suddenly, as he screamed: “Shaitan! Shaitan! " Headlong into the door, bruised his forehead. They barely caught him in the park. And he is violent: he fights, bites. I had to tie. And where do you think this curious sheikh is now?
- How should I know? - I said, already feeling the catch.
- In the yellow house, along with other psychos. Somewhere in Russia. In the Arab homeland he was abandoned because he tasted the temptation of the infidels. So the official letter from their embassy said. All! As the Russians say, the nightingale is not fed with fables. However, George, draw your own conclusions: be careful and don't get over-excited by unexpected impressions. The telescope is aimed at the moon, magnification is one hundred and fifty times. And I, while you will contemplate other worlds, will take a nap in this chair. - A large old chair, the velvet back of which was wiped to the holes, stood against the wall. - How to regulate the movement of the telescope up and down and left and right, you know. See the red button on the left side of the eyepiece?
- I see. - I did not recognize my voice: he hoarse and sat down.
- Press. And … enjoy!
I pressed the red button and clung to the telescope's eye … No, my tongue is weak, I cannot find the words to accurately convey what I saw on that unforgettable night and what I experienced. Yes, the telescope was aimed at the Moon, and the companion of the Earth, magnified one hundred and fifty times, appeared before me as huge, wise and - most importantly! - a living heavenly creature. That's right: alive! This is the first thing that I experienced, I realized, although I understand that there is no rational explanation for these feelings. These gigantic pink plains with circles of craters - probably frozen volcanoes, mountain ranges, lowlands, mysterious streaks, similar to the beds of dried rivers … Yes, everything seemed to be deserted, lonely, without any movement - could not but be inspired by the kind eternal Reason. But I felt that the Moon is alive, she also looks at me, and something common, one unites us. I began to peer into the largest crater,and … I don't know, I can't find the words. I frantically moved the zoom level control to its limit. The entire night star could no longer fit into the eyepiece. Now only a three-hundredfold enlarged crater of the volcano was in front of me, and it was not a crater, but a ghost … The living eye looked at me meaningfully and invitingly. Yes! Yes! - inviting! And now I can only translate the meaning of this look: "We will meet again!.." I felt that I was approaching some dangerous line, for another moment, for a few seconds … The instinct of self-preservation pushed my hand - the living eye of the Moon disappeared from my field vision.and the zrak … The living eye looked at me meaningfully and invitingly. Yes! Yes! - inviting! And now I can only translate the meaning of this look: "We will meet again!.." I felt that I was approaching some dangerous line, for another moment, for a few seconds … The instinct of self-preservation pushed my hand - the living eye of the Moon disappeared from my field vision.and the zrak … The living eye looked at me meaningfully and invitingly. Yes! Yes! - inviting! And now I can only translate the meaning of this look: "We will meet again!.." I felt that I was approaching some dangerous line, for another moment, for a few seconds … The instinct of self-preservation pushed my hand - the living eye of the Moon disappeared from my field vision.
No, the shock continued: now the starry abyss of the Universe opened before me - I saw thousands of thousands, millions of millions of twinkling, pulsating stars, their rotating clusters - unknown galaxies were from all directions, and from end to end that sector of the celestial sphere that was accessible to my gaze, in a white scattering, crossed the Milky Way. “My Galaxy, my homeland! - flashed through my mind. - And I am a living particle of this beautiful, shining, perfect, endless world …"
Lord! Well, how can I convey in words what I felt, experienced then? Delight, amazement, joy of being, mixed with an incomprehensible painful sadness, as if I was to blame for someone loved by me … And also: a feeling of fusion, unity with the living and eternal world, which, having opened up to me, is only three hundredfold approach! - was Harmony, Perfection, Love. Tears flowed from my eyes, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of happiness and guilt that must be expiated … My condition was close to that which I experienced one night after my father's speech at the ashug competition, when for the first time the questions of life and death, human destiny arose in my consciousness in the face of the mysterious night sky. On that August night at the observatory, in the face of the Universe spread out before me, these same feelings were intensified many times over. May be;three hundred times? Powerful, abrupt changes were taking place in me. How do you define them? Probably it was an epiphany and cleansing. A certain veil fell from my eyes, and from my heart - an exorbitant weight. “I have to get back on my way,” sounded in my mind. I forgot where I am, how much time has passed since the moment I saw the new sky and the new Universe. I forgot about Joseph Dzhugashvili. Remembering him, I - for some reason - felt horror, fear. My heart beat frantically, with frequent beats, and these beats echoed in every cell of my body. I, tearing myself away from the telescope (there and then a beautiful, divine, boundless world collapsed), turned around abruptly …- sounded in my mind. I forgot where I am, how much time has passed since the moment I saw the new sky and the new Universe. I forgot about Joseph Dzhugashvili. Remembering him, I - for some reason - felt horror, fear. My heart beat frantically, with frequent beats, and these beats echoed in every cell of my body. I, tearing myself away from the telescope (there and then a beautiful, divine, boundless world collapsed), turned around abruptly …- sounded in my mind. I forgot where I am, how much time has passed since the moment I saw the new sky and the new Universe. I forgot about Joseph Dzhugashvili. Remembering him, I - for some reason - felt horror, fear. My heart beat frantically, with frequent beats, and these beats echoed in every cell of my body. I, tearing myself away from the telescope (there and then a beautiful, divine, boundless world collapsed), turned around abruptly …turned around abruptly …turned around abruptly …
No, "The One Who …" did not doze in the old chair. His posture was tense, looking at me, he leaned forward all over, and again in all his appearance there was something of a predatory beast. And it looks like this beast was preparing to jump. I was struck by his eyes: two glowing coals were looking at me. There was fire in his eyes, but color … They were green glowing coals. We looked at each other long enough. I coped with myself: there was no longer fear and horror. Without looking away, I looked straight into his eyes.
- Well, - I felt that he had to make a huge effort to speak calmly, - and what are you there, - the word “there” was stressed, - saw?
- I saw God.
Having said this, with my heart, mind, soul, I felt: these are the only true words that express the essence of what I have just experienced.
- How? - He laughed rather unnaturally. - Consider, my dear: if you are a Marxist, your religion is atheism.
- This is your religion - atheism.
Leaving my chair, I quickly walked to the door.
- George! Come back now! - His words sounded like an order. - Let's talk. Can you hear me? Come back!
But I didn’t obey. I was in a hurry to my home through the night Tiflis, the late autumn dawn was already waking up over the distant mountains. My thoughts were frightened. Back on your way … What does this mean? First of all, to return to my father - he determined the main direction of my earthly movement and growing up. Confusion gripped me. And the throne of Genghis Khan? After all, reaching it is my destiny. And having received the throne, hand it over to "The one who …".
I felt … Desire? Order? Necessity? I felt the need to immediately see the map hidden in my cache, which marked the path to the coveted Fifth Tower of Shambhala, which contains the throne of Genghis Khan.
It was twenty minutes past three when I found myself in my large - and now so lonely - apartment. I do not know how to explain this, but from the very beginning of my "revolutionary activity" I did everything so that I never had any conspiratorial gatherings. And the inclinations, especially from Joseph Dzhugashvili, were: “Listen, friend! You have a wonderful place! And spacious, like a bourgeois”. But I was firm and adamant: "It is dangerous, the owner works in the Tiflis gendarmerie." And that was true. Only there was no danger: the owner of the house in which I rented an apartment, served as an accountant in the gendarmerie, he was a reserved, lonely, completely apolitical man, moreover, deaf; he was not at all interested in how and what his guest lived, who came to him, as long as he accurately paid the rent. But my new friends believed:dangerous … The instinct of self-preservation?
It had long dawned outside the window, but I drew the curtains and lit a kerosene lamp. The map was kept, rolled up in a tube, on the mezzanine in the bedroom, behind the bundles of old magazines "Zarya Armenii", which, going to Moscow, Abram Elov left me: "Look through. There you will find many interesting things about the history of Armenia and the entire Caucasus."
I took out the map, took it out of the parchment, unfolded it and, having smoothed it, laid it on the table, under the bright circle of light that the kerosene lamp threw at it, and … Before me lay, of course, the very map that I often looked at, and then the time is different … renewed: all the designations became clearer, sharper: rivers, mountains, road lines and the main one, leading through Tibet, to the mountains, to the Roman numeral V. As if everything were brightly circled with fresh ink. (Now I vaguely remember that then I even smelled this mascara …) But the most incredible thing was that three symbols appeared on the map - cities or villages that had not existed before: Padze, Saiga and Nagchu. After all, before there were only Nimtsang and Prang. And these three new names were also mapped with fresh black ink.
The room was completely silent, only the old clock on the wall ticked monotonously. Frozen, I looked at the map and waited. But no voice sounded in my mind.
However, in me a joyful, even jubilant feeling grew, widened, gradually filling my whole being: news! Sign! Reminder and instruction … A call to fulfill a duty, a destination on which the fate of humanity depends!..
From that moment on, my life split again: now I was constantly thinking about the upcoming campaign for the throne of Genghis Khan, I decided to use all my means for it, made a list of seven people, my friends, in Kars and Alexandropol. (Of the new Tiflis acquaintances, there was no one in him.) And I waited … I could not understand why "The one who …" never once reminded me of this campaign. From our first conversation in the old gazebo in the seminary park - never! For two years - not once !!! Talk to him first? But something was stopping me. I waited, often catching myself feeling that someone else was waiting with me …
Meanwhile, underground revolutionary "work" that took up all my strength, wore down, hardened me again. In her fever, which Joseph knew how to cause in some special way, days, weeks, months flew, disappeared somewhere without a trace … This was the painful split of my life at that time, which gave rise to discomfort, irritation, and self-dissatisfaction in my soul. Unbelievable, but it was like this: on sleepless nights (it was then that I knew the severity and hopelessness of insomnia, the lot of an unclean conscience, which later had to be overcome with great efforts) - so, on sleepless nights, I worked out a plan for a campaign into the bowels of Tibet, to the Fifth Tower of Shambhala, and during the day I rushed to an underground printing house, hurried to the workers' outskirts of Tiflis, where they were waiting for me in a safe apartment with leaflets. Hurry! Hurry! The revolution is hurryingthe lazy horse of Russian history must be spurred on. Already evening? I am late for a secret meeting held by Joseph Dzhugashvili in the village of Tskheba near Tiflis. They were two completely different people: I am a nocturnal one and I am a “revolutionary”, who fit in one body shell. But I was wrong about "The one who …" - he has not forgotten anything.
Six months have passed since the day of the demonstration of the Tiflis railroad workers and since the night when I saw through a telescope the Universe, magnified three hundred times. And from that early morning, who showed me a new map with a route to the throne of Genghis Khan.
March 1901.
It was evening, ending on a rainy March day in 1901. It seems to have come at the end of the month. I was sitting at home over a fascinating book on the history of Armenian writing. I had already left the walls of the theological seminary, having completed two courses, but the future of a professional revolutionary - in complete secrecy from Joseph Dzhugashvili - was also rejected by me, although I decided not to break with Joseph and his entourage abruptly, immediately (I remained a convinced opponent of the Russian autocracy), especially since something much more fundamental connected me with "The One who …"
At the same time, there was a reconciliation with his father. Now I often came to Kars and lived with my parents for a long time. I told my father, first, that I will never become a revolutionary because I reject violence in the struggle for a better world. And secondly: “I, father, choose your path: I want to find my faith. And now I am convinced that what I am looking for, what is close to me, is in the East. And this is the teaching of the Sufis …”And my father, feeling, as I saw, great relief, blessed me. But my Sufi road is a separate topic. And, perhaps, if Providence wills, I will return to her later. Or others will do it - my students.
So, I was immersed in my favorite reading, which completely absorbed me. I didn't even hear footsteps on the porch steps. There was a gentle knock on the door.
- Come in! Not locked, I said.
Our "messenger" Agapius, a fidgety, nervous, pimply teenager of about fifteen, appeared in the room.
- Koba said: immediately to him! - Koba - that was now the underground nickname of Joseph Dzhugashvili. Having visited Batumi and Poti on party affairs, he brought her from there. - Hurry! - Agapy's squeaky voice (he was half Greek, half Russian) sounded notes of “The one who …” - he imitated him in everything.
- To the observatory? I asked.
- Not! You can't go there. Let's go! I will conduct!
On the southern outskirts of Tiflis, in a labyrinth of narrow, dirty, winding and intersecting streets, inhabited mainly by Greeks, we got about an hour later, pretty wet in the cold rain. I found Joseph in a small closet, half of which was occupied by an iron bed and a small table; the whole room was littered with Dzhugashvili's things, which had been brought here in a hurry. Joseph, with a gloomy frown, was sitting on a stool in the middle of his, as I understood, new dwelling, and his frozen figure, and the expression of annoyance and anger on his also frozen face, were the personification of extreme irritation and confusion. Briefly, glancing gloomily at me, he muttered to Agapy for some reason in Russian (in this language he spoke with a monstrous accent):
- Ides! We need to talk.
Agapius silently disappeared.
- What happened? I asked.
- Yesterday the police searched my apartment in the observatory. I was not at home. "Joseph spat out a long stream of saliva, yellow from tobacco, through his chipped teeth." That saved me. Otherwise I would have already been in jail. In short, from this morning I am finally in an illegal position. I'll live here, with our comrade, - he looked back at the door. - A reliable man … two weeks, maybe a month, I will settle all urgent matters. And, most likely, for a long time, until everything calms down here, I will leave Georgia.
- Where are you going? I asked.
- George! You are asking unnecessary questions. Okay! Now - about the main thing. You, like me, have a long road ahead. Moreover - immediately.
- And you also can't ask - where?
Koba smiled.
- Can. They are waiting for you in St. Petersburg.
- Are they even waiting?
Joseph winced in annoyance. And suddenly he asked:
- Tell me, does such a name tell you something - Badmaev? Peter Alexandrovich Badmaev?
I strained my memory. Badmaev … It seems that there was a small note about him in the Medical Bulletin magazine.
- Doctor? - I asked. - It seems to be Tibetan medicine …
- Well done! - Dzhugashvili interrupted me impatiently. - What else do you know about him?
- Virtually nothing.
- Then - on! Study it during the night. "He handed me a rather thick stack of clippings from magazines and newspapers." Then I picked up for you everything I could get about him …
- Joseph, without blinking, looked at me. I was already well aware of this hypnotizing look. “From Mr. Badmaev, we can get a subsidy for the business for which fate brought me together.
- I shuddered as if from a shot. A chill ran through my body.
- Yes! Yes! Money … Big money for your long trip. You understand me?
- Understand…
- We will discuss everything in detail tomorrow. Comrades will come to me now. And tomorrow morning, at ten o'clock, I'm waiting for you. Go! Read it! No - study!..
Soon I was at my place. How I needed Abram Elov that night! Or let Sarkis Poghosyan appear in the room. I needed wise advice, a look at the situation from the outside. I spent the night over the pages given to me by Joseph Dzhugashvili. I read them over and over …"
Read the continuation here.
The diary was read by a member of the Russian Geographical Society (RGO) of the city of Armavir Sergey Frolov
