Babushka

Babushka



Babushka had many grandchildren; and she liked to think of them while she painted. Rocking, humming lullabies bleak as siberian winter, she painted rosaries, mystery to mystery, decade to decade. And her beads shone like sunlight, minute brush strokes steady.

Gregor - she painted the Joyful, angel's greeting and still Mary a glance of white and blue. Svetlana - she moved on to the Visitation, magnificat and the child in the womb leapt. (She tinted shadow; the wan infant in its cocoon glowed.) For dear Raisa - her thoughts fell there often - and she was painting the Glorious, and Christ rose beyond all reason or hope, stone cracked and crumbling behind his gleaming halo.

Her beads clicked. With a sigh, she straightened the string, winding round her feet and lay drying beads still, linked across her paper-strewn knees. The end hung loose...for Babushka's beads never had their crucifix. She left that to others, if they would.

She was weary of the triumphant. Now she turned dry Aves away, their decade finished and Paters gleaming; she paused at the eighth.

Sorrowful. Thinking of her grandchildren, she painted on: Sorrows, scourging, crowning, carrying ... Ivan, she smiled, beginning to paint the crucifixion.

Babushka painted her beads brilliant, bloody shades now - sans Christ. One could not fit his tortured figure; one shouldn't.

She recalled little Vanka in his crumple-collared shirt, asleep on poor Sonya's lap, hands fisted in her dark skirt as he slept, slept through Easter mass, holding her. She recalled him clever and earnest, waiting on her porch with schemes for Halloween. She recalled his hope of the priesthood, and the fall that kept him confined to the hospital for months.

Oh no, poor dear Vanka - no chasuble, cope or espicopacy for you. Her hand slipped, slightly, shaking...crimson paint marked her hand. But the bead was unmarred, and the cross on it stood bleak and stark as on that Friday an eternity ago.

Poor dear Vanka... Abstractedly, she dabbed at her hand. She recalled him asking, asking about her rosaries and why she never fixed a corpus or cross to them herself. Vanka, dear - I never liked you, she thought.

She woke with morning sun a'slant across her face and the rosary beads askew over her skirt, tangled in one fist. Her paint had dried out. The rocker felt like a knot in her back, creaking, bars pressed through cushions and she couldn't remember her dreams. Of Russia, she knew, of shadows on the tundra and the spires over Petersburg - of snow, black wood, of tales
with Baba Yaga or with gulag dreads...

No, no, she told herself, no.

This was a new land. This was her small front room, draped with Old World things. This was her life draped with chicken-leg shadows.

Putting beads and rosary aside, she rose on aching legs and made tea. Strong, black tea; and the room and through the kitchen - she returned to her rocker and strung the beads across her lap.

For Raisa, she thought, and her fingers found the unfinished Joyful. She painted the Nativity, bead by bead - the star, piercing-pure; a cave and hay; a baby's human and divine face; and wise men, bearing gifts. Gold. Frankincense. Myrrh.

She recalled Raisa asking questions, quietly, and waiting with her dark eyes down. She recalled the girl's lithe frame, and hand-stands, vaults, games on the front lawn. Dear Raisa - she smiled, and the fissured lines in her face drew dark shadows down her features - dear Raisa, standing with the silver, thirteen and growing, silver medal like Bethlehem's star on her chest.

Babushka painted well and skillfully. Sometimes she sold her rosaries. Sometimes not. But she never sold the thought-through ones, never sold her granchildren's memories or their fates.

Mat moya, she murmured. Everyone, she recalled her mother saying, everyone plays a part here. Sometimes we walk the darker lanes. Sometimes the lighter. Devushka, think. Some walk Christ's joy, beginning;some walk his end; some stand somewhere in between. She spread the rosary on the scored tabletop. You see? It's why we call them mysteries.

And old Babushka nodded, thoughtfully. Da. It was so. Pravda.

She was painting another when she got the news, painting a Glorious Ascension. Gregor came, out of breath to tell her. For she'd never had a television, never watched.

Raisa had won the Gold in Beijing.

And she was painting another when Gregor came a second time. No longer out of breath, ashen-grey as winter skies, he walked in tentatively and stopped.

"Da, Grisha? What?"

Ivan was dead.

And Babushka rocked on, a faint smile drawing shadows through her wrinkles. This time, her hand didn't slip. For she was painting a Crucifixion.

"How? Poor little Vanka..." she shook her head, "How?"

I gave it a quick read-through, Imp, and it's a lovely little sketch - sad, but it does paint a picture. You know, I was confused at first, with the title. Babushka? But in Ukrainian a 'babushka' is a head-scarf. ^_~

Doubtless this was the product of being abroad in Eastern Europe. ^_^

I liked this very much, Imp - I'll be back, hopefully soon, to give you a decent crit on it. Until then, the word from the dreaming end is that it's wonderful. You always have such a knack for characterisation.

Dream Deep wrote:I gave it a quick read-through, Imp, and it's a lovely little sketch - sad, but it does paint a picture. You know, I was confused at first, with the title. Babushka? But in Ukrainian a 'babushka' is a head-scarf. ^_~

Doubtless this was the product of being abroad in Eastern Europe. ^_^

I liked this very much, Imp - I'll be back, hopefully soon, to give you a decent crit on it. Until then, the word from the dreaming end is that it's wonderful. You always have such a knack for characterisation.

Oy, don't worry about critiquing - especially not with piano guild matters on your mind. ^_^ It's brief enough to not be in need of agonising, fine-tooth comb critiquing. ^_~

Ha, babushka and Babushka. #_# I suppose that's in illustrative instance of the same problem I had in Croatia - the same words with bloody different meanings. ^_~ Baba and Babushka in Russian, of course, are ways of saying 'grandmother' or 'old woman' - as you doubtless picked up if you didn't know. ^_^



IMP

Imp wrote:Ha, babushka and Babushka. #_# I suppose that's in illustrative instance of the same problem I had in Croatia - the same words with bloody different meanings. ^_~ Baba and Babushka in Russian, of course, are ways of saying 'grandmother' or 'old woman' - as you doubtless picked up if you didn't know. ^_^

Baba znachit 'grandmother'...
Babushka znachit 'head scarf. ^_~

Or at least in Ukrainian. But I figured out what you were saying from the first lines, obviously - the story gets it across, even without a translation of every non-english word as a footnote.

That's the problem with Eastern European languages. They lull you into a false sense of security. ^_~

... You're right, in any event - it's short enough not to need an extreme crit, but it certainly deserves a better and more in-depth commentary than 'it's a lovely little sketch'. ^_^ So with that in mind I shall be back (after the Guild), hopefully with something marginally more helpful to say. ^_^

Lovely, Imp. Simply lovely.

Was she painting the Mysteries? I caught a few key words in there, but I wasn't sure. They seemed out of order, but I suppose that is of little importance.

And we all have to make sure the emphasis on 'Babushka' is on the first syllable. ^_^ At least that was what my Russian instructor hounded us mercilessly on.

I was also wondering if perhaps the names had some significance? I know they are Russian and there are some shortened versions, but do they have any symbolism hidden in there? Maybe? No?

Priveet! Tse ne booyvaye - prawda. Ya doomayoo tse harazd. Harniy, bezperechno.

Hopefully at least some of that tanlge of ukrayninskoyoo is a bit close to the Russian. ^_~

I reread this four times, Imp, and I'm fighting the urge to read it a fifth. This is beatiful as pure story: well-written, well-imagined, and excellently-paced. You have every small detail so honed down, every small nuance of culture and age so well-illustrated that there's very little [constructive] criticism that I can offer. You know, I think I like this better than even Fallowdell. You're going to have to stop posting these sketches, Imp... if they keep getting much better by the general trend in which they've been heading, you're going to make the rest of us give up the craft for good. ^_^ But I enjoyed it through and through; I wouldn't be surprised if you got this published. It is truly absolutely lovely, to be redundant with the first posts.

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And now for the technicalities (though they're far and few in between):


Babushka had many grandchildren; and she liked to think of them while she painted.

[I think the semi-colon is out of place, there. ... Semi-colons are used to represent a conjunction between two or more clauses, da? And in the context of what you have written, here, I think a mere comma would serve the sentence better. But it's a nice opening - short, to the point and intriguing.]


Gregor - she painted the Joyful, angel's greeting and still Mary a glance of white and blue. Svetlana - she moved on to the Visitation, magnificat and the child in the womb leapt. (She tinted shadow; the wan infant in its cocoon glowed.) For dear Raisa - her thoughts fell there often - and she was painting the Glorious, and Christ rose beyond all reason or hope, stone cracked and crumbling behind his gleaming halo.

[There are a few mistakes in grammar and spelling, just typos here... For instance, in the first sentence, I believe that angel's should be angels' due to the plural. [...] I got the impression throughout that Raisa was the favorite, and interesting contrast to Ivan, whom she had never liked... but more on that further on. Beautiful description of 'the Glorious', and Christ rising.]


She recalled little Vanka in his crumple-collared shirt, asleep on poor Sonya's lap, hands fisted in her dark skirt as he slept, slept through Easter mass, holding her. She recalled him clever and earnest, waiting on her porch with schemes for Halloween. She recalled his hope of the priesthood, and the fall that kept him confined to the hospital for months.

[The best bit in the entire sketch. ^_^ It feels so vivid, especially the memory of Vanka asleep at mass, the color of Sonya's skirt, etc. It's one of those images that open the door to an entire flood of images - the impression of numerous characters, locations and a style of life and faith born out of one, single image. Great techinque on that point. One more thing, though, you mention Halloween - it felt a bit out of place, a bit too modern or Western for such a story. It felt as if it caught up the flow of the paragraph, but that's up to you, really.]


Poor dear Vanka... Abstractedly, she dabbed at her hand. She recalled him asking, asking about her rosaries and why she never fixed a corpus or cross to them herself. Vanka, dear - I never liked you, she thought.

[The repetition of 'asking, asking' here parallels the 'slept, slept' two paragraphs up very nicely. I was going to point out the repetition as something to avoid, but in this way I think it fits the tone perfectly. And here: 'I never liked you?' A grandmother would say that of her grandson? It's an interesting concept and doubtless an interesting backstory. That dynamic is something that you could certainly play off of, if you ever choose to extend this (which you should do, by the way ^_~). In the first line, Abstractedly is a bit of a mouthful. A good word to apply in this instance, but it feels awkward in the sentence. Perhaps just something more along the lines of 'Distracted' or 'Abstractly'? 'Absently, even?]


She woke with morning sun a'slant across her face and the rosary beads askew over her skirt, tangled in one fist. Her paint had dried out. The rocker felt like a knot in her back, creaking, bars pressed through cushions and she couldn't remember her dreams. Of Russia, she knew, of shadows on the tundra and the spires over Petersburg - of snow, black wood, of tales
with Baba Yaga or with gulag dreads...

[In the first line here, 'a'slant' stands out, but in a good way. It's a nice contrast, and a nice parallel to the 'askew' in the same sentence. In places, this piece struck me as almost poetic - it has a beautiful style, and unique. (You'll laugh, but Baba Yaga made me think inexplicably of Arkady Renko and the phone conversations from Chernobyl with his unsuspecting charge ^_~).]


This was a new land. This was her small front room, draped with Old World things. This was her life draped with chicken-leg shadows.

[Nice reference here again to her 'Old World things'... once again it paints the picture admirably. ... But 'chicken-leg shadows'?]


She recalled Raisa asking questions, quietly, and waiting with her dark eyes down. She recalled the girl's lithe frame, and hand-stands, vaults, games on the front lawn. Dear Raisa - she smiled, and the fissured lines in her face drew dark shadows down her features - dear Raisa, standing with the silver, thirteen and growing, silver medal like Bethlehem's star on her chest.

[Again, an entire backstory and an entire life hinted at, implied but never explained in trite reminiscing fashion. Dear Raisa, I imagine here again must be her favorite... and the reference to the star of Bethelehem is very well-placed. That was another strong point about this piece, how effortlessly you've managed to weave culture and religion into such a short sketch. Wrazhayoochiy, honestly - you have such talent with this, Imp.]


Mat moya, she murmured. Everyone, she recalled her mother saying, everyone plays a part here. Sometimes we walk the darker lanes. Sometimes the lighter. Devushka, think. Some walk Christ's joy, beginning;some walk his end; some stand somewhere in between. She spread the rosary on the scored tabletop. You see? It's why we call them mysteries.

And old Babushka nodded, thoughtfully. Da. It was so. Pravda.

[Babushka's memories are so painfully Old World, so... ach, there's no way to express it. You have a deep and wonderful character here; it's hard not to love her. She's the epitome of the sweet old Russian grandmother - a concept made all the more interesting, again, by her relationship with her grandchildren (and more specifically, Ivan).]


"How? Poor little Vanka..." she shook her head, "How?"

[This is a small and almost invisible suggestion, but I thought I'd put it out there. After 'she shook her head', you might want to consider replacing the comma with a period, to give it more of a tone of finality - then the last sentence is one word, and a question at that. It seems as if it would sum up the theme of mysteries and suffering throughout rather nicely. But again, that's a very small thought.]

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I love this, Imp - though admittedly my opinion might be more than a little bias towards things of Eastern Europe. ^_^ But it was absolutely beautiful. You might do something with this further on? ... The next novel after Tov, maybe? But it's too much to hope for. If you were to carry on with every short sketch that I asked that question for, you would never finish Vetreniy, let alone anything else. ^_~ Lyrical, poetic, religious, Old World and flooded with such deep imagery, this is honestly only worthy of praise. There's such emotion in it, such age, and all so bare and yet just under the surface.

I'm speechless. It's better four times through, than on the first time - and even on the first time, I have to say: this is the best piece I've read in a very long time, perhaps one of the best I've read on the site. No impish inclinations to burn it or bury or anything of the sort, hear? Otherwise I would have to retaliate - maybe send you back to Paris to converse with the jaded waiters. ^_^


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(Critted for the CCF

Thanks so much, DD. ^_^'' Your thoughts, impressions are always appreciated - naturally, the Eastern European propensity that deep dreamers and imps share in common make it more than helpful to exchange ideas and thoughts. ^_^

I've no remark or bone to pick, so to speak, with the critique. You've hit it on some technical difficulties... I'll have to go over those.

DD wrote:[Nice reference here again to her 'Old World things'... once again it paints the picture admirably. ... But 'chicken-leg shadows'?]

Ach, haven't you ever read the fairy tale of Vasilissa and Baba Yaga? o0' ^_~ Or even poor Arkady Renko and his conversation - Baba Yaga's house stood on chicken legs. ^_^


Tri - Yes, she was painting the Mysteries - but they weren't necassarily in order. She skipped around rather a bit, depending upon her thoughts and which grandchild.

As to names and symbolism, I hadn't any in mind. Ivan, naturally, is 'John' in English - one of the four Evangelists, plain, common name; Svetlana implies light, I suppose...Raisa - well, not intentionally. ^_^' You might find some, I suppose, but it would be like finding allegory in Tolkien. ^_~

My thanks on all points, for the crit. ^_^

(Ee da, your Russian prof. had that right, I think. ^_~)



IMP

Heh, no Vasilissa and Baba Yaga for me in my childhood. Plenty of Sloviakian lullabies, but no fairy tales. I vaguely recalled the mention of the 'chicken legs' from Wolves Eat Dogs - but then, I wasn't sure if there was actually a connection intended or if the correlation was a mistake on my part. ^_^

Oh, and another thing. Here:

DD wrote:In the second sentence of the paragraph, you've a typo in magnificent.

Er - that was my mistake.

I read over it too fast when I was taking notes. 'Magnificat' it is, sorry about that. ^_~

Green = Comment/Correction
Black = Review

*

Babushka had many grandchildren; and she liked to think of them while she painted.

I think the beginning sentence sets the scene with the image of an old woman reflecting while she painted. Something I like to do—no grandchildren though.

Rocking, humming lullabies bleak as siberian winter, she painted rosaries, mystery to mystery, decade to decade.

Wouldn’t ‘Siberian’ need to be capitalised?

Her beads clicked. With a sigh, she straightened the string, winding round her feet and lay drying beads still, linked across her paper-strewn knees.

How long is the necklace or is it not a necklace if its about her feet? I’m a little confused here.

Oh no, poor dear Vanka - no chasuble, cope or espicopacy for you. Her hand slipped, slightly, shaking...crimson paint marked her hand.

Might be wrong in thinking this but the thought of Vanka—Ivan?—seems to affect her.

Of Russia, she knew, of shadows on the tundra and the spires over Petersburg - of snow, black wood, of tales with Baba Yaga or with gulag dreads...

Baba Yaga bony legs, from the stories? Can’t remember much of it but she was scary.

This was her life draped with chicken-leg shadows.

Another reference to Baba Yaga, the house with the chicken legs?

*

Hello Imp!

Something I didn’t understand was:

The end hung loose...for Babushka's beads never had their crucifix.

But the bead was unmarred, and the cross on it stood bleak and stark as on that Friday an eternity ago.

Is this Babushka’s beads? I thought she didn’t have the crucifix or is it the painting?

I especially liked the mention of Baba Yaga, maybe Babushka told her grandchildren the story and is part of her memories as much as the paintings are, and also to her motherland.

Nothing much else to pick out here.

Myth

... came across this picture the other day, and it immediately made me think of Babushka. Well, it's from, ah, Romania, but close enough, da? ^_~

Ack, Imp, you are simply beautiful with your words. This was very impressive, and it gave such a vivid image of a lady of the old world, in a new world, and her children, and them dying. At one point I thought of my great grandmother, though she is Polish. ^_~ I'm sure it is the same, though, you sit around on your own thinking of your children and their children until they come and visit and give you news?

I really enjoyed this. Thankfully, I knew what babushka meant. How? I am not sure.

You amaze me. ^_~

This is a truly exceptional piece. Your style is distinct; your story is touching. It's not the best from this site, though, but I can't find any fault with it. It's more of a mixture of anecdotes about an aged women, crumbling in her own Old World beliefs by the new, updated world that she rests in.

I liked the running thread of Christian symbolism and the final episodes of the story, though what truly made this story for me is the characterization you produce by combining words and describing Babushka using original descriptions. I especially liked "draped with chicken-leg shadows".

Excellent job, overall. I didn't help you, but I hope I raised your self-esteem.