Growing up with an angry father

How A Father's Aggression Can Impact Their Daughter's Development (and what to do about it)

It comes as no surprise that aggressive parenting can negatively affect a child’s development; if it persists, this can lead to psychological conditions, poor peer relations and low self-esteem, all of which can continue into adulthood. It’s common to see these dysfunctional coping mechanisms in Adults who have suffered from childhood aggression, which developed in their formative years as a means of survival. In this article, Growing Girl examines this aggression fathers often display and its effects, why it occurs, and how fathers can seek support.

What is aggression?

Aggression—whether verbal, physical, or both—is a reactionary and impulsive response with the intention to harm another individual. In the household specifically, the primary target could be anyone – the mother, child or any other family member. Even if a dad’s aggressive behavior is not directed to his daughter, the consequences are generally the same.

Fathers often feel that their parental role is to be the primary financial provider for the family and to accept all the burdens that come with this, regardless of the effect it may have on their psychological and physical well-being to do so. High-stress jobs with long, demanding hours can become a natural trigger for such aggressive outbursts if one continually operates with little rest or down-time. Unfortunately, most fathers often feel this is something that’s given, though recent research and case studies show otherwise. A father’s role as a parent extends far beyond his financial contribution; each father has a responsibility to take care of his own psychological well-being first in order to be able to nurture and foster the well-being of his children.

To get a professional’s insight into the matter, The Growing Girl sat down with Dr. Jamie Rishikof, a child and adolescent psychologist and expert in strained family dynamics who helps to shed light into the aggressive father/witness daughter dyad.

Poor Anger Management turns into Outbursts of Rage

The ‘what triggers the rage’ question is complicated and different for everyone. What’s more relevant is the poor emotional regulation displayed in response to the trigger, that leads to outbursts of rage. What eventually happens with a poorly regulated temper is once the rage subsides, the father usually finds himself apologizing. He’s aware that his response was irrational but can’t help it. ‘This is the last time’ is a promise the dad often makes, although this is never the case.

Now 38 years old and happily married, Elizabeth JS remembers her dad physically and verbally abusing her mom and his girlfriends throughout her child and adolescent life. She recalls hiding in closets to shield herself from the violence, and on several occasions even called the police on her own father. While his love for his daughter was unconditional, Elizabeth was often exposed to her dad getting into full blown fist fights with other men on family ski trips and was subjected to his inappropriate yelling in public places. “He could never manage his anger, often turning to drinking and violence although he never directed any aggression towards me”. The indirect exposure nonetheless left its mark. Elizabeth states that, among other negative consequences, her struggles with body issues and emotional eating are likely to be attributed to her dad’s uncontrolled rage and the resulting fear this instilled in her.

While a father’s rage might not necessarily be directed to his daughter, the fear is internalized by the daughter. Acting out as a result of fear and shame is a common reaction of girls with aggressive dads.

Research shows, in fact, that a turbulent childhood can lead to dysfunctional eating and body image issues resulting from the shame it causes.

A Cross-Generational Pattern

How fathers respond to stressors was likely picked up by how their own father and grandfather coped with difficult situations before them. A father’s inappropriate responses to anger such as physical violence and verbal outbursts often disguised and justified discipline are usually learnt from the male figures in his family.

There is strong evidence for this argument. Men who do seek therapy for their anger issues will often state that their own fathers had a bad temper and resorted to physical or verbal aggression. It’s rarely a question of love; rather, it’s about the poor coping skills of previous generations which were modeled as normal behavior.

Help Exists

Experts agree that offering support to someone struggling with aggression is the missing link in preventing life-long dysfunctional behaviors in their victims. If you’re a father who can’t control feelings of rage, who has found himself often saying “This is the last time” but being unable to break the pattern, assistance from a family therapist or counselor is the next step. If you don’t know where to start, speak with a trusted doctor or local health care professional who can offer guidance and make a referral. As confirmed by Dr. Rishikof:

Seeking support to change this behavior is the best gift fathers can give to themselves and their family.

The Growing Girl is a dedicated Dads of Daughters column on child development, informing readers on the latest science and findings from leading experts in the pediatric and behavioral sciences.

Dr. Jamie Rishikof is a child and adolescent psychologist based in Wellesley, Massachusetts. Dr. Rishikof’s clinical training focuses on child and adolescent therapy and parent consultations to address strained family dynamics.

A father's aggression, Adult survivors, Body image, Coping skills, Fathers and daughters, Female child development

My Father’s Rage Still Impacts My Adult Relationships

Lifestyle

by Elizabeth Broadbent

Updated: Oct. 9, 2019

Originally Published: Oct. 7, 2019

Image Source/Getty

My father was angry. Again. He worked long hours, or did other things, and when he came home, he was usually exhausted, and he was angry. That anger shrapneled everywhere: anything might set it off, from dishes left on the counter to shoes on the floor to papers on the kitchen table.

He abhorred mess and disorder. But I have ADHD. I would be told, for example, to let the dogs in, but I’d forget to wipe their paws. Muddy footprints would smear across the kitchen floor. They terrified me; I knew what would happen. I’d frantically scrub at them, but I knew I wouldn’t do it well enough. And I wouldn’t. He was already angry, and that anger would suddenly swing in my direction.

I do not speak to my father anymore, for unrelated reasons — he’s toxic, and we don’t allow him in our sons’ lives because of his chronic unreliability. But decades later, I still have not escaped his anger. I carry it with me. It terrorizes me to this day, to the extent that it damages my marriage.

There is something that happens to someone’s face when they’re angry. Anger twists the face; anger changes it. A person’s eyes may widen or narrow; their brows draw down. If you are forced to stare at them because you must “Look at me when I talk to you, goddammit!” you can make them blur into a meaningless shape when you don’t blink. I had to look and I could not cry. If I cried, I would be yelled at that I had better stop, or he would “give me something to cry about.” This is not the way to stop a child from crying. I got scared. His anger rose. The vicious cycle continued. I could not escape. I can’t emphasize this enough: as a child, I had no power to get away from his anger.

It terrorizes me to this day, to the extent that it damages my marriage.

I’d hear my full name screamed from downstairs: “ELIZABETH ANN, GET DOWN HERE!” and I would know. I wouldn’t know what I did, but I’d know that something had set my father off, and I was about to bear the brunt of it. I hate my full name to this day because of it. I learned to hide when he came home. I learned to watch for signs: for his anger at something else. That anger meant that, sooner or later, I would enrage him. It didn’t matter how good I tried to be. He would find something.

Today, my husband gets angry sometimes. He doesn’t get angry often. He’s a level-headed man, generally, a kind one. But like everyone, he gets frustrated. Often he has a long day at work as a teacher. He currently suffers from chronic pain, and some days, he simply can’t do it anymore and loses his temper. Usually it happens because the house is messy, and he’s the one who has to clean it. He already cleaned it yesterday, and the kids have already destroyed it again. Or one of the kids is whining, and they won’t stop, and he’s getting frustrated with the number of things people are demanding him to do at once.

And he snaps.

His snapping is not what anyone would call yelling. His voice doesn’t raise; only his tone changes. His voice speeds up; it develops a mean, frustrated edge. He doesn’t say the types of things my father did: “Do you have a hole in your head?” or “Don’t you have any common sense?!” In fact, my husband’s anger is very, very rarely directed at me. It doesn’t matter. To me, anger shrapnels.

When someone — a male someone — becomes angry, this anger will eventually fall on me. It doesn’t matter what I do. Whatever they decide to direct their anger towards will eventually become, somehow, my fault. Or they will find some fault with me, and I’ll bear the brunt of whatever’s coming. So, instinctively, when my husband gets frustrated or mad, I freeze. My voice gets higher in pitch. I shut down. I make myself small; I look down and busy myself with my phone, trying to make myself as small as possible. The anger, I fear, will come for me next.

I inevitably crumple into tears and tell him I’ll do whatever, just please please stop yelling. I will do anything as long as the yelling will stop.

But sometimes I snap back. He’s my husband. He’s not my father. I gather my courage and yell back at him. I yell at him to stop yelling at me when he’s only asked me to do something, when he’s made a request, or simply changed his tone. I didn’t yell at you! he’ll protest. You did! I yell back. I only changed my tone. This is not yelling. You don’t understand what yelling is.

No, darling. I understand all too well what yelling is. I carry it around with me every day, and every single raised voice sounds like yelling. When my children fight, I have put my hands over my ears and screamed at them to stop it. When my husband and I actually do fight, and he raises his voice for real, I inevitably crumple into tears and tell him I’ll do whatever, just please please stop yelling. I will do anything as long as the yelling will stop. I will agree to anything.

This is what I carry with me from my childhood. It’s been 30-something years, and it has started innumerable fights with my husband. He feels as if he can’t show any anger or frustration. His emotions are invalid. “I’m not allowed to have emotions,” he snaps at me. “You’re the only one allowed to have emotions in this house. How do you think that works out for me? I’m not allowed to get mad at the dogs, because you end up cowering. How do you think that makes me feel?”

Pretty shitty. Even I admit that.

But I don’t know how to stop. I hear an angry male voice and I freeze. You can’t condition your way out of that. There’s no way to immunize yourself against it. I’m suddenly small and frightened again, sure it’s coming.

I have forgiven my father many, many things in my life. But the way his anger has impacted me for the rest of my life, with this gut reaction to an angry male voice?

No. I haven’t forgiven that.

This article was originally published on Oct. 7, 2019

Mtsyri - Lermontov. Full text of the poem - Mtsyri

A few years ago,
Where, merging, they make noise,
Embracing like two sisters,
The streams of Aragva and Kura,
There was a monastery. From behind the mountain
And now he sees a pedestrian
Pillars of collapsed gates,
Both towers and church vault;
But there is no smoking under it
Fragrant smoke from the censer,
Singing is not heard at the late hour
Praying monks for us.
Now one gray-haired old man,
The ruins of the half-dead guardian,
Forgotten by people and death,
Sweeps dust from the tombstones,
Which the inscription speaks of
About the glory of the past - and about that,
How, dejected by his crown,
Such and such a king, in such and such a year,
Handed over his people to Russia.

And God's grace descended
On Georgia! She bloomed
Since then in the shade of her gardens,
Without fear of enemies,
3a on the edge of friendly bayonets.

Once a Russian general
was driving from the mountains to Tiflis; nine0007 He was carrying a prisoner child.
He fell ill, could not endure
Labors of a long journey;
He seemed to be about six years old,
Like a chamois of the mountains, shy and wild
And weak and flexible, like a reed.
But in him a painful illness
Then developed the mighty spirit of
His fathers. He languished without complaint
He languished, even a faint moan
Did not fly out of children's lips,
He rejected food with a sign
And quietly, proudly died.
Out of pity, one monk
looked after the Sick, and he remained within the walls of
Guardians,
Saved by friendly art.
But, a stranger to childish pleasures,
At first he ran from everyone,
Wandered silently, alone,
Looked, sighing, to the east,
Driven by obscure longing
On the side of his native.
But after captivity he got used to it,
He began to understand a foreign language,
He was baptized by the holy father
And, unfamiliar with the noisy light,
Already wanted in the bloom of years
To pronounce a monastic vow,
Suddenly one day he disappeared
On an autumn night. Dark forest
Stretched around the mountains. nine0007 For three days all the searches for him
Was in vain, but then
They found him unconscious in the steppe
And brought him back to the monastery.
He was terribly pale and thin
And weak, as if long labor,
He experienced illness or hunger.
He did not answer the interrogation
And every day he became noticeably sluggish.
And his end was near;
Then a black came to him
With exhortation and supplication;
And, having proudly listened, the patient
He got up, gathering the rest of his strength,
And he spoke like this for a long time:

“You listened to my confession
You came here, thank you.
Everything is better in front of someone
Lighten my chest with words;
But I did no harm to people,
And therefore my deeds
It's a little good for you to know,
Can you tell the soul?
I lived a little, and lived in captivity.
Such two lives in one,
But only full of worries,
I would trade if I could.
I knew power only of thought,
One but fiery passion:
She, like a worm, lived in me,
I gnawed my soul and burned it.
She called my dreams
From stuffy cells and prayers
To that wonderful world of worries and battles,
Where rocks hide in the clouds,
Where people are as free as eagles.
I fed this passion in the darkness of night
Nurtured with tears and longing;
Her before heaven and earth
I now loudly acknowledge
And I do not ask for forgiveness.

Old man! I heard many times,
That you saved me from death -
Why? . Gloomy and lonely,
Torn sheet by a thunderstorm,
I grew up in gloomy walls
A child with a soul, a monk with a destiny.
I couldn't say
the sacred words "father" and "mother" to anyone.
Of course, you wanted, old man,
So that I could wean myself in the monastery
From these sweet names -
In vain: their sound was born
With me. And I saw others
Fatherland, home, friends, relatives,
But I didn’t find
Not only sweet souls - graves!
Then, without wasting empty tears,
In my soul I swore an oath:
Though for a moment someday
My flaming chest
To press another with longing to the chest,
Although unfamiliar, but dear.
Alas! now those dreams
Died in full beauty,
And how I lived, in a strange land
I will die a slave and an orphan.

The grave does not frighten me:
There, they say, suffering sleeps
In cold eternal silence;
But it is a pity to part with my life.
I'm young, young... Did you know
Rampant youth dreams?
Or didn't know, or forgot,
How I hated and loved;
How the heart beat faster
At the sight of the sun and fields
From a high corner tower,
Where the air is fresh and where at times
In a deep hole in the wall,
A child of an unknown country,
A young dove cuddled up
Sitting, frightened by a thunderstorm?
Now let the beautiful light
I hate you; you are weak, you are gray,
And you have lost the habit of desires.
What is the need? You lived, old man!
You have something in the world to forget,
You lived - I could also live!

Do you want to know what I saw
At will? - Lush fields,
Hills covered with a crown
Trees growing all around,
Noisy fresh crowd,
Like brothers in a circular dance.
I saw heaps of dark rocks,
When the stream separated them.
And I guessed their thoughts:
It was given to me from above!
Stretched in the air for a long time
Their stone embraces,
And they yearn to meet every moment;
But the days are running, the years are running -
They will never come together!
I saw mountain ranges,
As bizarre as dreams,
When at dawn
They smoked like altars,
Their heights in the blue sky,
And cloud after cloud,
Having left their secret lodging for the night,
Directed the run to the east -
Like a white caravan
Stray birds from distant lands!
In the distance I saw through the fog,
In the snows burning like a diamond,
The hoary unshakable Caucasus;
And it was easy for my heart
, I don't know why.
A secret voice told me,
That once I lived there,
And it became in my memory
The past is clearer, clearer ...

And I remembered my father's house,
Our gorge and all around
In the shadow of a scattered village;
I heard the evening rumble
Home of the running herds
And the distant barking of familiar dogs.
I remembered swarthy old men,
In the light of moonlit evenings
Against my father's porch
Seated with dignity;
And the brilliance of mounted sheaths
Long daggers... and like a dream
All this in a vague succession
Suddenly ran before me.
And my father? he is alive
In his battle clothes
Appeared to me, and I remembered
Ringing of chain mail, and the gleam of a gun,
And a proud, unbending look,
And my young sisters...
The rays of their sweet eyes
And the sound of their songs and speeches
Above my cradle... There was a stream running in the gorge.
It was noisy, but shallow;
To him, on the golden sand,
I left to play at noon
And watched the swallows with my eyes,
When they before the rain
The waves touched with their wings.
And I remembered our peaceful home
And before the evening hearth
Long stories about
How people lived in the old days,
When the world was even richer.

Do you want to know what I did
In the wild? Lived - and my life
Without these three blessed days
It would be sadder and gloomier
Your powerless old age.
A long time ago I thought
Look at the distant fields,
Find out if the earth is beautiful,
Find out, for freedom or prison
We will be born into this world.
And at the hour of the night, a terrible hour,
When the storm frightened you,
When, crowding at the altar,
you lay prostrate on the ground,
I ran away. Oh, I'm like a brother
I would be glad to embrace the storm!
I watched the clouds with my eyes,
I caught the lightning with my hand...
Tell me what amidst these walls
Could you give me in return
That brief but living friendship,
Between a stormy heart and a thunderstorm?..

9 I ran for a long time - where, where?
I don't know! not a single star
illuminated the difficult path.
I had fun breathing
into my exhausted chest
Night freshness of those forests,
And only! I ran for many hours
, and finally, tired,
I lay down between tall grasses;
Listened: no chase.
The storm has subsided. Pale light
Stretched in a long strip
Between the dark sky and earth,
And I discerned, like a pattern,
On it are the teeth of distant mountains;
I lay motionless, silent,
Sometimes in the gorge the jackal
Screamed and cried like a child,
And, shining with smooth scales,
The snake glided between the stones;
But fear did not grip my soul:
I myself, like a beast, was a stranger to people
And crawled and hid like a snake.

Down deep below me
A stream amplified by a thunderstorm
Noisy, and its noise is deaf
Angry hundred voices
Won. Although without words
That conversation was intelligible to me,
Incessant murmuring, eternal argument
With a stubborn pile of stones.
Now it suddenly subsided, then stronger
It resounded in the silence;
And so, in the misty heights
Birds sang, and the east
Got rich; breeze
Raw stirred sheets;
Sleepy flowers died,
And, like them, towards the day
I raised my head…
I looked around; I don’t hide:
I became scared; on the edge
of the threatening abyss I lay,
where the angry shaft howled, spinning;
Steps of rocks led there;
But only an evil spirit walked over them,
When, cast down from heaven,
Disappeared in the underground abyss.

God's garden bloomed all around me;
Plant rainbow outfit
Keep traces of heavenly tears,
And curls of vines
Curled, showing off among the trees
Transparent green leaves;
And they were full of bunches,
Like expensive earrings,
They hung magnificently, and sometimes
A shy swarm of birds flew towards them
And again I fell to the ground
And again I began to listen
To magical, strange voices;
They whispered in the bushes,
As if they were talking
About the secrets of heaven and earth;
And all the natures of the voice
Merged here; did not ring out
At the solemn praise hour
Only a human proud voice.
Everything that I felt then,
Those thoughts - they no longer have a trace;
But I would like to tell them,
To live again, at least mentally.
That morning the vault of heaven was
So clear that an angel's flight
A diligent gaze could follow;
It was so transparently deep,
So full of even blue!
I was in it with my eyes and soul
Drowning until the midday heat
Dispersed my dreams.
And I began to languish with thirst.

Then to the stream from a height,
Holding on to flexible bushes,
From slab to slab I did my best,
I began to descend. From under the feet
Breaking off, the stone sometimes
Rolled down - behind him the reins
Smoked, dust curled like a pillar;
Hooting and jumping, then
He was absorbed by the wave;
And I hung over the depths,
But free youth is strong,
And death seemed not terrible!
As soon as I descended from steep heights
I descended, the freshness of mountain waters
Breathed towards me,
And greedily I leaned against the wave. nine0007 Suddenly - a voice - a light sound of steps ...
Instantly hiding between the bushes,
Embraced by an involuntary trembling,
I raised a timid look
And began to listen eagerly: sweetly free, as if he were
Only the sounds of friendly names
He was accustomed to pronounce.
It was a simple song,
But it sank into my mind,
And to me, only dusk comes,
Her invisible spirit sings.

Holding a jug over her head,
A Georgian woman along a narrow path
Went down to the shore. Sometimes
She glided between the stones,
Laughing at her awkwardness.
And her outfit was poor;
And she walked lightly, backwards
The curves of the long veil
Throwing back. Summer heat
Covered with a golden shadow
Her face and chest; and heat
Breathed from her mouth and cheeks.
And the darkness of the eyes was so deep,
So full of secrets of love,
That my ardent thoughts
Confused. I only remember
jug ringing - when the jet
Slowly poured into him,
And a rustle... nothing more.
When I woke up again
And the blood drained from my heart,
She was already far away;
And she walked, even more quietly, but easily,
Slender under her burden,
Like a poplar, the king of her fields!
Not far away, in a cool haze,
Seemed to be rooted to a rock
Two husks as a friendly couple;
Above the flat roof of one
Blue smoke streamed.
I see as if now,
How the door quietly opened...
And shut again! . nine0007 You, I know, do not understand
My anguish, my sadness;
And if I could, I would be sorry:
Memories of those minutes
In me, let them die with me.

Exhausted by the labors of the night,
I lay down in the shade. A comforting dream
I involuntarily closed my eyes...
And again I saw in a dream
an image of a young Georgian woman.
And with a strange sweet longing
My chest ached again.
I struggled for a long time to breathe -
And woke up. Already the moon
was shining above, and one
Only a cloud crept after her,
Like her prey,
Greedy open arms.
The world was dark and silent;
Only with a silvery fringe
The tops of the snow chain
In the distance sparkled before me
Yes, a stream splashed on the banks.
A light in the familiar shakla
Now trembled, then went out again:
In heaven at the midnight hour
So the bright star goes out!
I wanted to... but I didn't dare to go up there
. I have one goal -
Go to my native country -
I had in my soul and overcame
The suffering of hunger, as best he could.
And then along the straight road
He set off, timid and dumb.
But soon in the depths of the forest
I lost sight of the mountain
And then I began to go astray.

In vain in rage at times
I tore with a desperate hand
Blackthorn tangled with ivy:
The whole forest was, the eternal forest all around,
Terrible and thicker every hour;
And with a million black eyes
The darkness watched the night
Through the branches of every bush.
My head was spinning; nine0007 I began to climb trees;
But even at the edge of heaven
It was the same jagged forest.
Then I fell to the ground;
And sobbed in a frenzy,
And gnawed at the damp breast of the earth,
And tears, tears flowed
Into it like combustible dew ...
But, believe me, human help
I did not want ... I was a stranger
For them forever, like a beast of the steppe;
And if even a minute's cry
betrayed me - I swear, old man,
I would pull out my weak tongue.

Do you remember your childhood:
I never knew tears;
But then I wept without shame.
Who could see? Only a dark forest
Yes, the moon that floated in the middle of the sky!
Illuminated by his beam,
Covered with moss and sand,
With an impenetrable wall
Surrounded, in front of me
There was a clearing. Suddenly
A shadow flashed in it, and two lights
Sparks rushed . .. and then
Some kind of animal jumped out of the thicket
and lay down,
Playing, supine on the sand.
It was an eternal guest of the desert -
Mighty leopard. Raw bone
He gnawed and squealed merrily;
He fixed his bloody gaze,
Waving his tail affectionately,
For a full month, and on it
Wool shimmered with silver.
I waited, grabbing a horned bough,
A minute of battle; my heart suddenly
lit up with a thirst for struggle
And blood... yes, the hand of fate
I was led in a different way...
But now I'm sure,
That I could be in the land of my fathers
Not one of the last daring ones.

I was waiting. And in the shadow of the night
He sensed the enemy, and howl
A drawn-out, plaintive, like a groan
He suddenly rang out... and he began
Angrily digging the sand with his paw,
He reared up, then lay down,
And the first frantic leap
Threatened me with a terrible death. ..
But I warned him.
My blow was true and fast.
My reliable bough is like an axe,
His wide forehead was cut through...
He groaned like a man,
And overturned. But again,
Although blood was pouring from the wound
In a thick, wide wave,
The battle began to boil, a mortal battle!

He rushed to my chest:
But I managed to stick it in my throat
And turn it twice there
My weapon... He howled,
He rushed with his last strength,
And we, intertwined like a pair of snakes, hugging each other tightly
friends,
fell at once, and in the darkness
the battle continued on the ground.
And I was terrible at that moment;
Like a desert leopard, angry and wild,
I burned, squealed like him;
As if I myself were born
In the family of leopards and wolves
Under the fresh forest canopy. nine0007 It seemed that the words of people
I forgot - and in my chest
That terrible cry was born,
As if my tongue had been born since childhood
I was not used to a different sound . ..
But my enemy began to faint,
Toss around, breathe more slowly,
Squeezed me for the last time...
The pupils of his motionless eyes
Flashed menacingly - and then
Quietly closed in eternal sleep;
But with a triumphant enemy
He met death face to face,
As a fighter follows in battle!..

You see on my chest
Traces of deep claws;
They haven't overgrown yet
And haven't closed; but the lands
Their damp cover will refresh
And death will heal forever.
Then I forgot about them,
And, once again gathering the rest of my strength,
I wandered into the depths of the forest...
But in vain I argued with fate:
She laughed at me!

I came out of the forest. And now
The day woke up, and the round dance
Parting lights disappeared
In its rays. Foggy forest
Has spoken. In the distance, village
I started smoking. A vague rumble
In the valley ran with the wind ...
I sat down and began to listen;
But he fell silent along with the breeze.
And I cast my eyes around:
That land seemed familiar to me.
And I was afraid to understand
I could not for a long time, that again
I returned to my prison;
What is useless for so many days
I caressed a secret plan,
Endured, languished and suffered,
And why?0007 With the resounding murmur of the oak forests
Knowing the bliss of freedom,
Carrying it to the grave behind you
Longing for the homeland of the saint,
Hopes of the deceived reproach
Shame on your pity! distant bell ringing
There was again in the silence -
And then everything became clear to me ...
Oh, I recognized him immediately!
From the eyes of a child more than once
Chased away the visions of the dreams of the living
About dear neighbors and relatives,
About the will of the wild steppes,
About light, mad horses,
About wonderful battles between rocks,
Where I alone defeated everyone! . .
And I listened without tears, without strength.
It seemed that the ringing came out
From the heart - as if someone
Hit my chest with iron.
And then I vaguely understood,
That I would never make a trail to my homeland
.

Yes, I deserve my lot!
Mighty horse, alien in the steppe,
Dropping a bad rider,
Home from afar
Find a straight and short path...
What am I in front of him? In vain the chest
Full of desire and longing:
That heat is powerless and empty,
The game of dreams, the disease of the mind.
It left its prison seal on me
It left ... Such is the flower
Prison: it grew lonely
And it is pale between damp slabs,
And for a long time young leaves
It did not dissolve, everything waited for the rays
Life-giving. And many days
Passed, and a kind hand
Sadly touched the flower,
And it was transferred to the garden,
In the neighborhood of roses. From all sides
Breathed the sweetness of being...
But what? As soon as the dawn came,
A scorching ray burned it
A flower bred in prison...

And like him,
the fire of the merciless day burned me.
In vain I hid in the grass
My weary head:
Withered leaf with its crown
Thorns over my forehead
Coiled, and in the face with fire
The earth itself breathed to me.
Sparkling fast in the sky,
Sparks whirled, from white rocks
Steam flowed. The world of God slept
In a deaf stupor
Despair heavy sleep. nine0007 At least a corncrake called out,
Or a live trill of a dragonfly
Heard, or a stream
A child's babbling ... Only a snake,
Rustling with dry weeds,
Sparkling with a yellow back,
As if with a golden inscription
Blade covered with loose sand,

Sliding carefully, then,
Playing, basking on it,
Triple coiled;
As if suddenly burned,
She rushed about, jumped
And hid in the distant bushes . ..

And everything was in heaven
Light and quiet. Through the vapors
Two mountains blackened in the distance.
Our monastery because of one
Glittered with battlements.
Aragva and Kura below,
Silver edging
Soles of fresh islands,
Along the roots of whispering bushes
They ran together and easily...
I was far from them!
I wanted to get up - in front of me
Everything began to spin with speed;
I wanted to scream - my tongue was dry
I was silent and motionless...
I was dying. I was tormented by
dying delirium. It seemed to me
That I am lying on the wet bottom
of a deep river - and there was
a mysterious haze all around.
And, I long for eternal food,
Like ice, a cold stream,
Murmuring, poured into my chest...
And I was only afraid to fall asleep, —
It was so sweet, I love it...
And above me, in the sky
The wave crowded to the wave.
And the sun through the crystal of the wave
It shone sweeter than the moon...
And the motley flocks of fish
Sometimes they played in the rays.
And I remember one of them:
She is friendlier than the others
She caressed me. Scale
Was covered with gold
Her back. She hovered
Over my head more than once,
And the look of her green eyes
Was sadly tender and deep...
And I could not be surprised:
Her silvery voice
Whispered strange speeches to me,
And sang, and fell silent again.
He said: “My child,
Stay here with me:
Free life in the water
And cold and calm.

I will call my sisters:
We will circle the dance
We will cheer up the misty eyes
And your tired spirit. nine0005

Sleep, your bed is soft,
Your cover is transparent.
Years will pass, centuries will pass
To the sound of wondrous dreams.

Oh my dear! I won’t hide it,
That I love you,
I love you like a free stream,
I love you like my life…”
And I listened for a long, long time;
And it seemed like a sonorous stream
Merged its quiet murmur
With the words of a golden fish.
Here I forgot. God's light
Faded in the eyes. Crazy delirium
Yielded to impotence of the body…

So I was found and raised...
You know the rest yourself.
I finished. Believe my words
Or don't, I don't care.
Only one thing saddens me:
My corpse is cold and dumb
Will not smolder in my native land,
And the story of my bitter torment
Will not call between the deaf walls
Attention mournful draw
To my dark name.

Farewell, father... give me your hand:
You feel mine is on fire...
Know this flame from a young age,
Hidden, lived in my chest;
But now there is no food for him,
And he burned his prison
And he will return again to the one,
Who in a lawful succession
Gives suffering and peace ...
But what is that to me? — let it be in paradise,
In the holy, transcendent land
My spirit will find shelter. ..
Alas! - in a few minutes
Between the steep and dark rocks,
Where I played as a child,
I would trade heaven and eternity ...

When I start to die,
0007 You led me to be carried
To our garden, to the place where
two white acacia bushes were blooming...
The grass between them is so thick,
And the fresh air is so fragrant,
And so transparently golden
A leaf playing in the sun!
There put led me.
With the radiance of a blue day
I will get drunk for the last time.
You can see the Caucasus from there!
Perhaps from his heights
He will send me a farewell greeting,
He will send with a cool breeze...
And near me before the end
The sound will be heard again! nine0007 And I will begin to think that a friend
Or a brother, leaning over me,
Cleaning with an attentive hand
Cold sweat from the face of death
And that in an undertone
He sings to me about a dear country.
And with this thought I will fall asleep,
And I will not curse anyone!

Mother woke up Zhiltsov in the middle of the night. He slept in a gazebo on a trestle bed, crutches stood at the head. Zhiltsov got dressed and hobbled into the house. Crutches on the rubber floor tread softly along the inner walkways. Zhiltsov remembered his parents' house as tiny, but the family grew, and the house, as if alive, grew, new extensions were added to it, like young shoots. nine0005

In the heart of the house, in the parent's bedroom with tightly closed windows, Zhiltsova was horrified by the closeness, the light of a table lamp, torn to shreds by something. His father's emaciated head sank into the pillow, which curled up at the corners up against the posts of the nickel-plated headboard. He breathed with difficulty, his chest wheezing and gurgling.

Zhiltsov called softly:

— Dad!

Father looked helplessly with a blank look. Zhiltsov leaned over him, slipped his hand under the hot, damp back of his head, smoothed out the downy, too deep pillow. nine0005

“Misha,” my father said distinctly, “bring my father…” Zhiltsov couldn’t believe his ears. He made his father comfortable and sat next to him on the edge of the bed. Bring the priest, please! - Father said louder and angrily and closed his eyes.

The mother sobbed:

— He's talking!

- Don't panic! Zhiltsov warned. - You never know what happens at high temperatures.

The day before, the Zhiltsovs called the district doctor Natalya Fedorovna, a sympathetic and conscientious woman. She had been leading her plot for ten years already, in the village everyone respected her. Grandfather Zhiltsova Natalya Fedorovna, in her own words, knew through and through and even deeper. The usual game was played between them - the grandfather met Natalya Fyodorovna with courtesies, she behaved coquettishly with him. After her visits, the old man always looked like a falcon. But this time, Natalya Fedorovna listened and tapped her patient for longer than usual and determined pneumonia. “A common complication after the flu,” she said, “so far I don’t see anything terrible.” nine0005

“Don’t worry, dad, it will feel better now…” Zhiltsov rummaged around on the shelf with medicine boxes and vials, looking for the medicine he bought in the morning.

Father groaned angrily:

— Go, please. My last will.

Zhiltsov's head was spinning. Father did not go to church, there were no icons in the house. Why does he need a priest? Rave? No, it doesn't. Brad - that would be nothing. And if, God forbid, something with the psyche? Even though it was night outside, Natalya Fyodorovna would have to go. She is her own person, she will not get angry. nine0005

Zhiltsov jumped on crutches to the pavilion, put on a prosthesis and went to start the Zaporozhets.

Natalya Fedorovna lived on the other side of the village. Zhiltsov followed her, and his father's request sounded more and more persistent in his ears. He did not turn to the street where Natalya Fedorovna lived, he went to the city center. There, among the ancient churches, for the sake of which tourists roamed into the city, there was one, also a monument of the 17th century, where a church service was conducted. Behind the cast-iron fence stood century-old lindens, beneath them were white crosses. A pond adjoined the church courtyard, fat carp were found in it. From the pond one could see a rich mansion that had grown up two years ago in a church courtyard. In the city then there were rumors about fraud with the church cash desk. The rumors were soon confirmed. The church authorities recalled the young priest, who had built himself a chic mansion. A quiet, decent old man was sent to replace the money-grubber. Zhiltsov once met him at the pond. A priest in a long gray robe and a straw hat descended from the church down the hill with a heap of woven rugs, walked onto the footbridge, bowed to Zhiltsov, who was sitting with fishing rods in the middle of the pond in a rubber makeshift boat, tucked up the cloak and began to rinse the rough canvases in the pond. It was already September, a gloomy, windy day. Zhiltsov silently mentioned in black words the lively old women that were spinning near the church. They don't really care about the old man. Completely lazy. Other grandmothers with their grandchildren are busy - not to breathe, but these know one thing - to lyakat in the church. nine0005

Zhiltsov stopped the car at the gate of the church fence, pushed back the bolt of the patterned gate, limped through the churchyard to the priest's mansion. Above the porch, a light bulb flickered faintly in a glass bowl covered with midges. Zhiltsov saw the electric bell button, but did not dare to press it - what if the bell is strong, piercing? He tapped his fist on the soft upholstery of the door. Immediately, slapping footsteps were heard inside. Someone in the house, although the night, did not sleep. Some part of the embarrassment he experienced or, to be more precise, shame fell off Zhiltsov. He was ashamed of the upcoming conversation and his request, but now he at least knew that he had not awakened the one who was about to open the door. nine0005

The priest himself opened the door. The old man was wearing a warm undershirt, striped trousers, and fur slippers. With an authoritative gesture, he stopped Zhiltsov's apology.

- You are shorter. What happened? - He listened, putting his hand to his ear, and understood everything from a half-word. — Are you in a car? Wait, I'll get ready now.

The old man left the door open and trotted somewhere into the house. Zhiltsov made out a pigtail on the back of his head, scrawny, like that of girls with delicate hair. The pigtail, seized at the tip by a ribbon, was bent upwards. nine0005

The priest did not get together for long. He came out in a purple silk cassock, with a cross on his chest, in his hands he held a white bundle tied at the four ends. The old man unbraided his braid, thin hair fell down in silver spirals. Zhiltsov realized that the spirals were formed from braiding hair overnight into a tight braid. It became a little funny, because Zhiltsov remembered the same type of perm in women. Walking along the courtyard with the priest, he wanted to take and carry a white bundle, but the old man did not give it - obviously, church objects lay in the bundle. nine0005

It turned out that the priest had heard about his father from someone.

“Your father sets an example for people of an honest working life,” said the old man, getting into the Zaporozhets and, like a woman, pulling out rustling, fragrant silk cassocks from under him, frayed and dusted at the bottom. “However, I didn’t see him in God’s temple even on holidays, which can be considered not only religious, but also traditional, because the same Easter cake has not gone out of the ordinary. Many unbelievers have now become curious about how the service is going. The Bible is read and interpreted in vain. But, as I notice, for the most part young people and some of the intelligentsia are fond of it. Icons are used to decorate dwellings…” The old man paused heavily. “It is all the more bitter that Russian old people, those who were baptized in infancy,” his voice trembled, “show faith in such an inexplicable, I would not say disbelief, but indifference, indifference.