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3apa3aКак я уже писал, я просто взял пару недель назад в библиотеке эту книгу, собирался полистать фотографии и почитать, если будет интересно.
Оказалось не только интересно, но и захватывающе, ну и Коля Габалов попросил сканировать фотографии в своём комменте.
А вы же знаете, как трепетно я отношусь к своим настоящим и постоянно комментирующим меня френдам! Я взял и сканировал. Примерно сотенку кадров. Потом обработал в Лайтруме и скадрировал.
Какие пустяки это затраченное время, если нравится процесс и предмет! А леди мне очень нравится. Совсем не потому, что она наполовину русская. Нравится за её талант, искренность, неподдельность, то бишь достоверность.
Когда я служил в армии, кстати, это было в 1979-1980 году в Москве, и я хорошо запомнил ту летнюю Олимпиаду хотя бы потому, что в учебке мне приходилось больше месяца грохотать по утрам на зарядке сапогами по свежеасфальтированному проспекту вдоль Олимпийской деревни, я подружился с лейтенантом-двухгодичником Костей Казаченко (не знаю, жив ли, в соцсетях нет) и мы вели длинные разговоры, а что ещё в рамии делать, и он мне говорил о том, как влюблён в Алису Фрейндлих.
Мне тогда это показалось странным. Как можно быть влюблённым в изображение? Ведь ясно же, что никогда в наших жизнях ни я не встречу Хелен, ни Костя не встретил Фрейндлих, хотя я и не знаю, а вдрюк?
Короче, с моей стороны нет ни любви, ни обожания, ни поклонения. Есть отдача должного таланту. Личности. Женщине. Умной. Русской в душе, хотя я так и не знаю, чем эта русскость выражается, вы прочитаете, как она различала её в своём отце...
Это - фотография обложки. Я даже пошёл дальше и сделал скан предисловия в программе распознавания символов. Чего я делать, однако, не в состоянии, это всё сканированное переводить. Хотя и могу, конечно.
Но не буду этого делать, а выложу текст фрагментами на английском.
Те, кто смотрят мой журнал, обычно обладают знаниями, достаточными для того, чтобы прочесть простой текст по-английски. Поэтому, вперёд, друзья. В этом первом посте будет много английского текста, но иногда я буду его перебивать просто подписями на русском, где на английском таких подписей нет.
My father’s Russian ancestry
In the house where I grew up in Leigh-on-Sea there was an old wooden trunk in the basement that had belonged to my grandfather. It was full of tools and paint pots sat on top of it. Scarred with age and dribbles of paint, it was just possible to make out some Cyrillic writing on the side. When my mother died and the house came to be sold, I took the trunk, emptied out the tools and filled its cedar interior with Grandpa’s papers, a yellowing collection of letters written in a tiny, spidery Russian hand, and pages typed on the Cyrillic typewriter Grandpa had brought from Russia, with mysterious diagrams and maps. Somehow these papers had survived my mother’s periodic clear-outs. After shoving them in the trunk, I forgot about them for another ten years.
My grandfather, Pyotr Vassili Mironov, was a proud and loyal member of the Czarist army. In Russia the military class was a whole social structure of its own. Grandpa was a proud and loyal member of that class, coming from military families on both sides. His mother, Countess Kamensky, had married outside the aristocracy, to Vassili Pyotr Mironov (the first-born son of each generation was always given the same two forenames, with the order changing from one genera¬tion to the next), a very successful military man. As the beloved (and undoubtedly very spoilt) only son in a family of seven, it was inevitable that Grandfather would join the army. He served in that brutal Russo-Japanese War of 1904, where the Russians were underarmed and suffered horrible losses. In 1916, having risen rapidly in rank, he was selected to join a small delegation sent to buy military supplies from the British.
To begin with, Pyotr and his family were honoured guests of the British government, living in luxurious quarters within the Russian embassy and enjoying comfort befitting representatives of the Czar; my father attended private school in London. But then came the Bolshevik Revolution, which contrary to Grandpa’s strongly held belief that the people loved the Czar too much for revolution ever to take hold, was not about to go away.
Это - дедушка Хелен, Пётр Васильевич Миронов. Как она пишет, "гордый в своей царской военной форме с медалями, полученными в ходе русско-японской войны".
Pyotr’s pride in nation had prevented him bringing anything from Russia except his typewriter, pictures of the Czar and Czarina, a few pre-revolutionary roubles and his wooden military trunk, made for him on the family estate. As a result, post Revolution, the family were left with no means of support. The only way my grandfather, with his halting, heavily accented English, could earn money was in the time-honoured way of immigrants: as a taxi driver. So the proud, nationalistic, loyal Pyotr Vassili Mironov, descendant of the noble Kamenskys, instead of inheriting the family’s Kuryanovo estates in Russia, became a London cabbie in order to support his wife and children. My father had no choice but to finish his education early and make his own way in the world.
In those post-revolutionary years Grandpa’s mother and sisters wrote to him. Their letters are painful in their careful and stoic descriptions of the deprivations of the Russian people. Then, at the height of the Stalinist purges, it obviously became too dangerous to write, and the letters stopped coming. From 1931 to the 1950s there were no letters, and then a flood.
These were the elegantly handwritten letters that came to reside, along with Pyotr’s memoirs, in the trunk I inherited. Their revelations remained hidden for many years.
It was a question of finding a translator . . .
Then, as these things happen, a flurry of activity. Simon and Olga Geoghan did amazing work on those magical letters and Roger Silverman beautifully translated the memoirs. At last my sis¬ter and I were launched on a voyage of discovery that is not over yet.
The latest chapter has been the incredible discovery, thanks to the work of a researcher called Will Stewart, of a cache of letters from my grandfather, together with pictures of myself and my family, that had been hidden away in the Moscow apartment of a distant relative.
Оказалось не только интересно, но и захватывающе, ну и Коля Габалов попросил сканировать фотографии в своём комменте.
А вы же знаете, как трепетно я отношусь к своим настоящим и постоянно комментирующим меня френдам! Я взял и сканировал. Примерно сотенку кадров. Потом обработал в Лайтруме и скадрировал.
Какие пустяки это затраченное время, если нравится процесс и предмет! А леди мне очень нравится. Совсем не потому, что она наполовину русская. Нравится за её талант, искренность, неподдельность, то бишь достоверность.
Когда я служил в армии, кстати, это было в 1979-1980 году в Москве, и я хорошо запомнил ту летнюю Олимпиаду хотя бы потому, что в учебке мне приходилось больше месяца грохотать по утрам на зарядке сапогами по свежеасфальтированному проспекту вдоль Олимпийской деревни, я подружился с лейтенантом-двухгодичником Костей Казаченко (не знаю, жив ли, в соцсетях нет) и мы вели длинные разговоры, а что ещё в рамии делать, и он мне говорил о том, как влюблён в Алису Фрейндлих.
Мне тогда это показалось странным. Как можно быть влюблённым в изображение? Ведь ясно же, что никогда в наших жизнях ни я не встречу Хелен, ни Костя не встретил Фрейндлих, хотя я и не знаю, а вдрюк?
Короче, с моей стороны нет ни любви, ни обожания, ни поклонения. Есть отдача должного таланту. Личности. Женщине. Умной. Русской в душе, хотя я так и не знаю, чем эта русскость выражается, вы прочитаете, как она различала её в своём отце...
Это - фотография обложки. Я даже пошёл дальше и сделал скан предисловия в программе распознавания символов. Чего я делать, однако, не в состоянии, это всё сканированное переводить. Хотя и могу, конечно.
Но не буду этого делать, а выложу текст фрагментами на английском.
Те, кто смотрят мой журнал, обычно обладают знаниями, достаточными для того, чтобы прочесть простой текст по-английски. Поэтому, вперёд, друзья. В этом первом посте будет много английского текста, но иногда я буду его перебивать просто подписями на русском, где на английском таких подписей нет.
My father’s Russian ancestry
In the house where I grew up in Leigh-on-Sea there was an old wooden trunk in the basement that had belonged to my grandfather. It was full of tools and paint pots sat on top of it. Scarred with age and dribbles of paint, it was just possible to make out some Cyrillic writing on the side. When my mother died and the house came to be sold, I took the trunk, emptied out the tools and filled its cedar interior with Grandpa’s papers, a yellowing collection of letters written in a tiny, spidery Russian hand, and pages typed on the Cyrillic typewriter Grandpa had brought from Russia, with mysterious diagrams and maps. Somehow these papers had survived my mother’s periodic clear-outs. After shoving them in the trunk, I forgot about them for another ten years.
My grandfather, Pyotr Vassili Mironov, was a proud and loyal member of the Czarist army. In Russia the military class was a whole social structure of its own. Grandpa was a proud and loyal member of that class, coming from military families on both sides. His mother, Countess Kamensky, had married outside the aristocracy, to Vassili Pyotr Mironov (the first-born son of each generation was always given the same two forenames, with the order changing from one genera¬tion to the next), a very successful military man. As the beloved (and undoubtedly very spoilt) only son in a family of seven, it was inevitable that Grandfather would join the army. He served in that brutal Russo-Japanese War of 1904, where the Russians were underarmed and suffered horrible losses. In 1916, having risen rapidly in rank, he was selected to join a small delegation sent to buy military supplies from the British.
To begin with, Pyotr and his family were honoured guests of the British government, living in luxurious quarters within the Russian embassy and enjoying comfort befitting representatives of the Czar; my father attended private school in London. But then came the Bolshevik Revolution, which contrary to Grandpa’s strongly held belief that the people loved the Czar too much for revolution ever to take hold, was not about to go away.
Это - дедушка Хелен, Пётр Васильевич Миронов. Как она пишет, "гордый в своей царской военной форме с медалями, полученными в ходе русско-японской войны".
Pyotr’s pride in nation had prevented him bringing anything from Russia except his typewriter, pictures of the Czar and Czarina, a few pre-revolutionary roubles and his wooden military trunk, made for him on the family estate. As a result, post Revolution, the family were left with no means of support. The only way my grandfather, with his halting, heavily accented English, could earn money was in the time-honoured way of immigrants: as a taxi driver. So the proud, nationalistic, loyal Pyotr Vassili Mironov, descendant of the noble Kamenskys, instead of inheriting the family’s Kuryanovo estates in Russia, became a London cabbie in order to support his wife and children. My father had no choice but to finish his education early and make his own way in the world.
In those post-revolutionary years Grandpa’s mother and sisters wrote to him. Their letters are painful in their careful and stoic descriptions of the deprivations of the Russian people. Then, at the height of the Stalinist purges, it obviously became too dangerous to write, and the letters stopped coming. From 1931 to the 1950s there were no letters, and then a flood.
These were the elegantly handwritten letters that came to reside, along with Pyotr’s memoirs, in the trunk I inherited. Their revelations remained hidden for many years.
It was a question of finding a translator . . .
Then, as these things happen, a flurry of activity. Simon and Olga Geoghan did amazing work on those magical letters and Roger Silverman beautifully translated the memoirs. At last my sis¬ter and I were launched on a voyage of discovery that is not over yet.
The latest chapter has been the incredible discovery, thanks to the work of a researcher called Will Stewart, of a cache of letters from my grandfather, together with pictures of myself and my family, that had been hidden away in the Moscow apartment of a distant relative.
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(no subject)
16/2/14 03:47 (UTC)Пожалуйста, Коля. Очень приятно.
16/2/14 13:34 (UTC)Продолжение будет, конечно.
(no subject)
16/2/14 08:55 (UTC)Будет сделано.
16/2/14 13:35 (UTC)Re: Будет сделано.
16/2/14 18:34 (UTC)(no subject)
16/2/14 23:26 (UTC)Спасибо, да, на самом дел интересно.
16/2/14 23:28 (UTC)