it's not the same

we had been watching Princess Mononoke for a couple of days then, a Miyazaki-anime in which prince Ashitaka struggles to make human beings and animals live together in harmony. she had kept asking me questions about the Japanese. that April day which happened to be her birthday as well, i took out a pair of chopsticks to teach her how to use them. at one point, she became pensive and, after a while, said almost imploring: oh how i wish Ashitaka could come out of the story and be here, with us! 

the intensity of her pleading caught me unawares: i am afraid this is not possible, little one. she looked me in the eye: please, talk to somebody who can take Ashitaka out of the story and bring him here, there must be this someone, somewhere. i lowered my eyes. how i wished that this could be true, that this someone really existed, for her, for all of us. instead, i said, in a sudden moment of inspiration: you know, i have an idea, i can make _you_ part of the story.
 

we took out toys and little chairs and made costumes and re-enacted the entire plot, right there, under the blossoming trees of the garden. we took turns in playing all roles, her face glowing with happiness. at some point, though, she stopped and looked at me, and sweet-bitter sadness glimmered in her eyes: still, it's not the same, not the same...

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somewhere beyond the bitter

come, dear, let's go

LUBOV. What truth? You see where truth is, and where untruth is, but I seem to have lost my sight and see nothing. You boldly settle all important questions, but tell me, dear, isn't it because you're young, because you haven't had time to suffer till you settled a single one of your questions? You boldly look forward, isn't it because you cannot foresee or expect anything terrible, because so far life has been hidden from your young eyes? You are bolder, more honest, deeper than we are, but think only, be just a little magnanimous, and have mercy on me. I was born here, my father and mother lived here, my grandfather too, I love this house. I couldn't understand my life without that cherry orchard, and if it really must be sold, sell me with it!

ANYA. Mother! mother, are you crying? My dear, kind, good mother, my beautiful mother, I love you! Bless you! The cherry orchard is sold, we've got it no longer, it's true, true, but don't cry mother, you've still got your life before you, you've still your beautiful pure soul . . . Come with me, come, dear, away from here, come! We'll plant a new garden, finer than this, and you'll see it, and you'll understand, and deep joy, gentle joy will sink into your soul, like the evening sun, and you'll smile, mother! Come, dear, let's go!

Curtain.

from The Cherry Orchard, by Anton Chekhov

Translated by Julius West, 1916

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the last day in Veliko-Tarnovo

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...

Oh God, Oh God! that it were possible
To undo things done; to call back yesterday!
That time could turn up her swift and sandy glass,
To untell days, and to redeem these hours.

Thomas Heywood

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