All language subtitles for Беседы с Солженицыным 1998 A

Taissia Zakharovna Shcherbak,

daughter of a Kuban peasant.

A photo made in 1912.

Isaac Semenovich Solzhenitsyn,

from a peasant family.

Stavropol region.

He volunteers
in World War I.

Is decorated for bravery.

This handsome couple,

Isaac and Taissia -

marry in 1917.

Soon Isaac dies.

Sasha, their son.

Sasha Solzhenitsyn

is born

on 11 December, 1918.

In winter,
a harsh season.

THE KNOT

Only a few years ago

Sasha used to go to church
with his mother.

Now the churches
are gone,

he's a Komsomol
member,

he and his mother live
in Rostov...

At school,
he heads his class.

He likes football
and amateur theatre.

He has good friends,

though later many of them
will be forced to betray him.

But this has yet to come.

Sasha Solzhenitsyn
is enthusiastic about Socialism.

He believes Marxism, Leninism
to be the people's fate.

At a very early age,
in his school years,

he becomes aware

It was his first marriage.

Not, perhaps,
a very happy one.

In 1941, with a degree
in Physics and Mathematics

from Rostov University,

he leaves for the front.

An open face.

A Russian, a peasant type,
on the whole.

There are thousands
such faces.

But no longer millions.

It seems he wrote his first
stories at the front in 1942.

An artilleryman.

No coward,

he could have been killed
many times.

His wit and honesty
saved his soldiers' lives,

by the end of war
he was a captain,

with several awards.

He was 27,
alive to all he had to face.

In 1945 he was arrested
right at the command post.

They'd had enough reading
his frank letters to a schoolmate.

From 1945 on, and
for more than fifty years

this man would not have
a single hour of quiet life:

The obtuse regime,
his fatal disease,

the silence of millions
of witnesses,

the envy of the guild,
his exile, his perseverance.

A photo for the outer world,
in a suit...

...lent by the prison.

In 1953

he was assigned
to "eternal residence"

in a remote Kazakh village.

Just think over these words:
"For eternal residence".

He lived here,
at the edge of the desert,

taught at school,

fell ill, secretly continued
to write.

His courage was so great,

his concern for the life
so unselfish,

that in a cancer hospital

he studied oncology,

read very, very much,

and he wrote, wrote, wrote
every day...

It seems as if God looked
after him during all these months

and loving him,

He made him continue
to bear the heaviest burden,

He saved Alexander from death.

Solzhenitsyn would say he was
alive as long as he kept writing.

Natalia Svetlova.

Natalia Dmitrievna Svetlova.

In 1970 she becomes his wife.

She took this photo.

His eyes.

His face.

The small photo is taken by him.

Her face. Her eyes.

Their family would prove
to be uncommonly close.

From 1970 to 1973
three sons were born to them:

Yermolay, Ignat, Stepan.

The photo taken in America,
in Vermont,

after his expulsion
from the USSR.

This provincial American town

gave the Russian family refuge
for 18 years.

Yermolay, Ignat, Stepan

went to an American school,

but every day

their parents
taught them at home:

Physics, mathematics
and Russian.

The adults decided
the boys should be Russian.

They grew up with love
and discipline,

and soon they were
already at their typewriters,

typing their father's works.

One more Vermont photo.

Center, Mitya,

Natalia's son
by her first marriage.

Mitya suddenly died
from heart failure.

A young man, kind,
loved by everybody.

Yermolay's a Sinologist,

Ignat a pianist,

Stepan an architect.

Many parents,
seeing this photo,

will feel heart-ache
thinking of the unfortunate fate

of their own children.

But not many are able
to make a difficult decision

and to stick to it, so as to secure
a decent future for themselves

and their children.

Solzhenitsyn seeks harmony,

but harmony is achieved
only through self-sacrifice.

According to him,
the family

is the most important part
of this harmony.

And there is also work,
and there is his homeland.

His return was
absolutely inevitable,

not because someone
awaited him,

but because he was confident

that he would return to Russia
before he died.

By 1994 he at last accomplished
the dream of his youth:

A book about
the Russian revolution.

And what a book!

Ten volumes of the "Red Wheel".

The reality of the revolution,
extracted from non-existence.

A book for the future.

Like many of his other works,

this book has not been read
by his compatriots.

It went unnoticed.

Who knows -
perhaps they are afraid

to look into their dreary future.

Had they read it,

they might have
avoided such a dreary future.

The Solzhenitsyns
took their things,

packed their enormous library,

their huge archives

and, in the summer of 1994,

left for Russia.

I don't know about you,

but I felt guilty.

I felt guilty that we had
nothing to receive him with,

that we had nothing
to give him.

- He didn't come
for an award.

- He must get something
from society.

- But he does.

Not from the society,
but from life.

It's much more important
to give...

...than to receive.
It makes you much happier.

You reward yourself by giving.
- But he is an artist.

He must receive first.
- He must give.

- He will give anyhow.
He can't do otherwise.

Strange as it seems,
he should receive

a lot more
than he what gives.

- He does.

He gets wonderful letters.

He knows there are many people who

are grateful and who
bow low to him. He knows that.

He doesn't live and work for
rewards, he can't do otherwise.

Anyway, we are happy at home.

- Then may God help you.

- Thank you.

We do feel this help.

- We can't help much.

- You can.

- We helped so little.

In tough times we didn't help.

- We're strong.

- Yes, you are.

But those who saw everything
and did nothing to help,

or the little they could,
what should they do now?

- Many people were trying
to help us, many did help.

Many of them are like
brothers to us, up to now.

They aren't all here,

some are abroad, the people
who saved the archives.

They're our brothers.

In no way do we feel
lonely or offended.

He feels no bitterness.

- I see. He may have no feeling
of bitterness, but we have.

- I have?

- No, neither of you,
but we have.

I remember very well the general
silence when he was banished.

- This is what
they can't forgive.

There are people who know well
that they were silent,

but they respect and love him
for he spoke for them.

But his fellow writers,
the majority of them,

can't forgive just that.

His words made their silence
audible.

Never mind it all.
One can't go beyond one's self.

No doubt.

Since 1917 and until now

people seem to be convulsed.

I'm looking at Natalia,
and listening,

if a floor board will not creak.
It is his study above.

We'll soon go for a walk.

The forest
is all around.

A quiet day.

The summer is over.

How strange.

The intelligentsia,

all the time pondering
over the questions:

"Why?",
"What to do?"

Do not notice the very existence
of their great compatriot

who has already given

his answers
to many questions.

He's been thinking

a lot for a long time
about our life,

he's asked for advice,

he asked many people,
some of whom went very long ago.

I recall:

It probably was Akhmatova
who said about him:

"A torchbearer. Fresh, energetic,
young, happy.

We forget that
such people still exist.

Eyes like jewels. Strict.

Hears himself speak."

Young, happy...

This "young and happy" man

was awarded the Nobel prize
in 1970.

That's it.

He became untouchable,
no matter what they say.

Thank God for that.

Leave him in peace.

Let him write.

In his Nobel lecture he asked:

"What can literature

do against the onslaught
of overt violence?

Remember:
Violence doesn't live alone,

and can't live alone.

It is inevitably interlaced
with lies.

Violence has nothing
but lies to hide it,

and lies have nothing
but violence to keep them up.

Anybody who has ever proclaimed
violence to be his method

must inexorably make lying
his principle.

And the only thing for any
ordinary courageous man to do

is to abstain from lies.

May them - lies and violence -

reign in the world,
but not through myself.

Lies can withstand
many things in the world,

but not art.

When lies disappear,

bare violence will show
its ugliness."

How long winter is...

It predisposes
to sleepy contemplation.

One, two, three,
four months a year...

Centuries after centuries -

winter... winter...
sleep... sleep.

No.

After all, one has at least
to begin reading...

...Stepan Aleksandrovich,

Yermolay Aleksandrovich,
Ignati Aleksandrovich -

they are his true happiness,

his personal happiness.

I hear his steps.

He's walked out of his study,

he's coming
to see me.

- There are mushrooms there.

- Yes, mushrooms.

- Toadstools?

- You know,
I'm not a great expert,

I'm a Southerner.

All my youth there,
I didn't see a single mushroom.

So I'm no expert.

- Then you must be especially fond
of green.

- When I returned
to the Moscow region

from my Kazakhstan exile...

In Kazakhstan...

we always had sun, there was
continual exhausting heat.

- Dryness.

- And when I came to a forest,
after the rain,

I was stupefied...

unable to recover my senses,
to render such beauty.

After a real desert without
anything but camel thorns.

Nothing else.

A cloudy day is such a pleasure,
and such a delight.

I can't live without
direct contact with the earth,

I can't stand
many-storied buildings.

I feel as if
I were in a prison there.

I specially noticed that Abakumov
hated green.

I wonder why?

- Yes, why?

Because he was
an anti-natural man.

- Anti-natural?

- We can walk side by side here.

- Anti-natural...
What does that mean?

- Anti-natural...

Well, it means he
who is against nature.

A cruel scoundrel.

He was not the only one.

- People become so
or are born so?

- Both.

We have...

A tremendous importance...

...must be given to our natural
qualities. Tremendous.

But the way they will develop...

depends on us.
And on circumstances.

- Are there circumstances,
which man doesn't control?

- I think in any case
a lot depends on man.

Not everything,
but a lot.

- Does man realise
that he is a scoundrel?

- No, he doesn't.

- Never?

- No, one can't say so.

The greatest Shakespearean
villains do realize it,

but they always find something
to justify themselves.

Here is a bench,
we can sit down.

- It's wet?

- There'll be two more
benches on the way.

- We can sit here.

- Oh, how good!

- We...

We are highly responsible
for the development

of the innate qualities
nature bestows us.

Yes, highly.

The rationalist belief that only
conditions are to blame,

was something
Dostoevsky laughed at.

There is no justification.

I saw it,

I've been through war,

prison,

cancer hospital,

everywhere conditions
were hard, cruel, incredible.

Yet people behaved differently,

fought in different ways.

- I accept that if a man is cruel,
but has by his side somebody

who is kind, who doesn't
allow him to cultivate cruelty,

then it doesn't develop.

- It's good if there is
a man like that at hand,

but saying there was
no such person at hand

is no sort of justification.

The absence of someone
who could pull me up,

who could help me,

cannot justify my acts.

A man must understand

his own ways by himself,

and he himself must come to
understand his natural capacities.

And then, you see...

It isn't easy at all
for a man

to understand himself.

I must say,

that I look at it
with surprise now,

as I have been granted
longevity.

From 80 years on
one may call it longevity.

In our unfortunate Russia
even 70 is longevity.

It's wrong.

In longevity one finds new

possibilities and capacities

that I can speak about.

One of them is...

that...

recalling one's whole life
again and again,

one discovers things one
had never been able to discern

while life still ran on.

We...

We spend the greater part
of our life in action.

And action prevents us
from a quiet understanding

of any nuances in life.

Old age gives...

some extra space
for the soul

to grasp it all.

This is why we don't
always have the right

to bear judgement
on other's acts.

Just because we
underestimate men

who did not understand
their own acts,

as they had neither the time,
nor the circumstances

to do so.

- Even if their acts
were extremely cruel?

Again this word.

- Yes, I see you emphasize
this very much.

- I'd like to understand,

why the cruelty of man

is something I worry
so much about.

When it must be
so enjoyable,

so gratifying to commit acts
of kindness, to compromise,

to listen to people,
to help.

- Not only this. It is human
to make a career,

it is human to look
for success,

to show one's worth,
to become distinguished,

to satisfy one's aspirations,
to satisfy love, -

dozens of ways,
all this is not yet cruelty.

Don't consider it as cruelty.

It will give you,
how to say,

a flat picture.

Cruelty and kindness are
the two poles, the extremes,

but the whole spectrum
should not be reduced to this.

- Let's go.
- As you wish.

- To the next bench?
- To the next? All right.

The weather is fine, fine.

We're going
to the place,

And here it happened.
I've written a miniature about it.

I'll show you the place.

It's such a pity our friend...

...ordered the remains
sawn off and destroyed.

It was really
incredibly beautiful!

There are two things
of truly perfect beauty,

the Universe and Man.

- He's beautiful?

- Not beautiful, perfect.

He is such a perfect creature,

possessed with so many
vital resources,

so as to overcome
all illness and danger.

It's hard even for an atheist,

who never thinks who he is,
to imagine.

One need not search too far,

it suffices to read about
any function of the body,

how it works.

It's amazing.

Do we live only
from eating and drinking,

and is that the way we
increase our energy? No.

- Then why do we kill
each other so much?

So willingly?

Why do men live
in eternal combat?

- If there were billions
of similar creatures,

they'd be sure
to compete,

just as much.

This is the way of nature.

Even trees strangle other trees
when they grow up.

Would you ask them to strive
for universal peace?

Here we are.
Here was a huge lime.

You see, it's sawn off.

A huge lime.

And the lightning struck it,

and split it in two.

One piece of it fell
on those trees,

the other hung here.

For a day the split part
stood there.

Then it fell
on those trees.

They remained like that
for 2 years.

They were sawn off
just two months ago.

There were pieces of burnt bark
scattered about here.

The lightning passed through
and went into the earth.

- How old was this tree?

- I can't say for sure.
One has to count and count.

- The rings.

Is it true that each ring
is a year?

- Yes, but you must know
how to count them.

You must know what is a ring,
and what isn't.

I wouldn't try.

Sure, we have trees here
that were

already there
before the revolution.

- How old is this tree?

- Who knows...
- 100 years, more?

- I think less, but who knows.

We have such old pines here.

And in Vermont
we had very thick trees.

Maybe from before
the foundation of the USA.

There's another bench.

Let's sit down
to look at the park.

What I like here...

...though it's not a real village,

but still...
- Over there?

- Yes, they have small plots
of land, and cocks.

It's nice that we can hear them
crowing here.

I'm so fond of crowing!
One of the loveliest sounds.

It is so multi-toned, vibrating,

with a complex spectrum,

and there's such...

vitality,

such love of life!

Especially
in the day-time,

I mean the midday crowing.

I'm fond of cocks.

In America I was struck
by two things in nature.

Their pines are strange.

They are not so slender,
not so far-reaching

Here we have bare columns
for 4/5ths of the height,

then the crown.

In America it's quite different:
They have branches lower down.

It's a pine,
but not our kind.

And then,

there are almost
no song-birds in America.

It's incredible.

Here in spring
whole forests sing.

Everything sings.
In America it is silent.

Only two or three birds
sing.

Fine birds,
but none sing.

There's a wonderful blue bird,
a sky-blue bird there.

Lovely,
but it doesn't sing.

There's a pigeon like that -
a melancholy pigeon.

"Tragic pigeon".

Actually, it's not a pigeon.

- Why sad?

Too few birds sing there.

My feelings towards nature were
somehow different in America.

I no longer had the lively
affinity I used to have.

Not a single miniature
was written there.

Not a single one,
during all my 20 years abroad.

I did write them before I was
banished, now I write them again.

Not there.

It's most strange.

The same beautiful sky, the same
clouds, the same light. Why?

Among...

...other features
of longevity, of old age -

it is...

it is a state that depends on...

how you understand
and expect death.

That fear of death
is so typical

not only in the West, -

all prosperous people feel it.

Fear of death obscures
the mind

unless you attain a state,
when you lose all fear

and deliver yourself
unto God's will.

Death is a natural transition

from one state
to another.

- To another life?
- Yes, to another life.

Russian peasants always
understood that and died in peace.

Then...

there's a harmony.

You live those last years
in harmony,

with trust in God,

and in the sort of death
or disease He will send us.

- Should man ask God for it?

- You don't ask for anything,
just live in union with nature.

Why are early deaths
so tragic?

Because when life is interrupted
artificially,

to understand himself,
his life,

to understand anything.
It just cuts him off.

There's also another matter.

Too many people of my age
are already gone.

It creates a feeling
of a semi-desert.

Still other people,
other ages,

you recall them one by one,
and where are they all?

They are no more,
and you miss them.

You see, all religions are
against cruelty, all of them,

but cruelty remains.

That's what they're for:

So that men can have
a shield, a brake.

Repentance was so common
in Russia.

Now it doesn't exist
any more.

Now you'll never make
anybody repent.

I appealed for it

in my article.

Everybody just laughed.

Whatever should repentance
be for?

When in some of my works

I give way to
my own repentance,

the only result is: "Look, look,
he himself is like this."

No one thinks:

"Let me do it myself.
I will try."

Nobody cares.

Today's crooks aren't
expected to repent.

If it were only cruelty...
How about greed?

Is greed a lesser trouble
than cruelty?

Greed destroys the human race.
Greed destroys everybody.

Man can't stop and say:
"That will do.

"I've got enough.

I'm perfectly satisfied."

No, he wants more and more.

Greed is terrible. Terrible.

- How odd. Everyone knows
it's no good,

and yet...
- It isn't 'everyone knows'.

- They know greed
is an evil.

- Well, it is generally considered
as morally condemnable.

We'll take another path,

also narrow enough.

We won't go along the road.
- No.

- We'll turn to the left.

Let's go.
Yes, little by little.

- It must be beautiful in winter.
- Yes, it is.

- Do you get frosts?
- Of course.

Of course. Sometimes - 25 �C.
- It must be quiet...

in the snowy evening,
quiet and peaceful. - Yes.

In Vermont there's
still more snow,

though it is further south.

A savage continent.
When it suddenly begins to snow

it comes down
in huge amounts.

More snow there
than here.

In Moscow, after all,
there are thaws.

- Why does winter
bring a feeling of peace?

- That's only
when you are warm,

not when you have to break
frozen ground with a pick-axe.

- Once it was...

The lowest temperature at which
I have ever worked was -35 �C.

It fell to our lot.

Sometimes they cancelled work at
- 35�C and sometimes at - 40�C.

That day there were
fluctuations of one degree.

We went.

- 35�C, what a horror.

I carried a barrow
with a mate.

- Didn't you curse life?

- No. It was just one such day

when I got the idea for my
"Ivan Denisovich".

Just write about only this,
I thought.

Just one day, when nothing
terrible happened.

Nothing sensational.
Quite a normal day.

That's what I imagined.
- In such a frost?

- 35�C.

It was only once when I worked
at such a temperature.

I was also doing
some stonework,

and I became
rather a good mason.

I would be glad
to go to Ekibastuz,

to see my "lanterns",
as they call them.

Such triangles hang
over workshops there,

and here all is glazed in.

Stepped stonework,

upwards, like that,
and from the other side.

I know where my lanterns are,
I wish I could see how they are.

- Do people know they are yours?
- No.

They wanted to rename
the main lane there

"Solzhenitsyn Avenue."

But it created such a row!

- Why?

- My God! Before I was hated
by the communists, then...

by the Kazakhs,

because I said Kazakhstan
ought to unite with us,

as some regions
were entirely Russian.

They didn't forgive me for that.
Condemned me to death.

- The Kazakhs?

- A Kazakh nationalist organisation.

They can't forgive me.

It's a pity.

I had even a whole Kazakh class,

I was a form master.
All the pupils

were little Kazakhs,

and we got along
very well together.

They were unpretentious boys.

Really, nationalism
fools everybody.

- Beautiful pines.

- Sorry?
- Such beautiful pines.

- You'll see the best ones
from my study.

- A tree is the most perfect thing
in the world.

More perfect than man...

- Yes. - We simply don't know it.
- No, we don't.

- What is this?

What does it tell us?
What does it mean?

This long trunk,

its roots, its crown,
its swinging?

What does it mean to die
standing and not fall?

- Yes, you are right.
It is perfection.

Yes, it is.

THE KNOT