In one of the villages of ancient Armenia there lived a strange artist named Manug. Sometimes he painted a handsome person as a freak, and sometimes he portrayed a weak person as a hero. Many people didn't like him. And they took revenge as best they could: either they would hurt his children, or they would kill a sheep. And a sheep is to a poor man what a flock is to a rich man...
Manug worked fiercely and a lot. But no one wanted to buy his paintings. The more he worked, the poorer he became. Any potter or blacksmith lived better than this artist. Manug began to think that people needed pots more. The artist’s wife asked in bewilderment:
- Why did the Lord punish me? Others have husbands like husbands: they sow, plow, and reap. And this one only knows what to paint...
Thoughts and loneliness drove the artist to the mountains. One day on the rocks Manug met a potter.
- Good light, brother Hovhannes. Why did you jump? And are you afraid? - You’re not some kind of animal, why be afraid of you? - Everyone is avoiding me. I decided that you too... - People don’t like those who don’t work. - Hovhannes, Hovhannes, may your house be exalted! I work day and night. I work like an ox. And you say these words to me. “This is not work.” You bend the straight ones, straighten the crooked ones. I would draw like everyone else. - Like everyone else - it’s easier. It's harder to be yourself. But let's not quarrel, brother Hovhannes. After all, you make pots that are not like everyone else’s. Because you are an artist. - But they take my pots, but not your paintings. That means you’re going to the wrong place. — Hovhannes, I’m not teaching you how to sculpt pots better. Although I could. But for some reason everyone teaches artists. “Teach me?” Potter - pottery?! – he was indignant. “Why did you climb the mountains?” – Manug smiled. – Did you look for clay? You have a whole mountain of it in your yard. Your pots are always in great demand. No, you came to look at the herbs. In each piece of paper you look for something unfamiliar and say to yourself: “It’s already happened.” I have seen a lot of things you have created.
“Tell me,” the potter whispered for some reason. “Because you’re going the wrong way.” The mountains have given you everything - and don’t ask for more. Go to people. To my grandson. Take a closer look. The baby, blowing bubbles, struggles with the diapers that have entangled him: the desire for freedom develops from childhood. The child has a large head and thin legs.
You will create it, rejoice and be sad again. Then at the festival, where people sing, laugh, dance, you will be surprised how many slender girls there are in the village. And among them is one, with a shyly proud look, a flexible neck, black braids down to her toes - the one you have been looking for all your life. And a thin-walled jug will be born to you. Not a jug - youth. Voiced, he sings himself. Create it, and no one will be happier than you.
Everyone is tired, Hovhannes, they are tired of everything. And you will forget how happy you were when you found a new pattern, shade, curve... You will begin to look in a new way for a jug that has not yet been created, to look for the meaning of your life. You will stop when you find it, in front of the gray-bearded grandfather. With your head buried in your shoulders. Calloused hands. With worn-out feet, as if rooted to the ground. With feet that have walked hundreds of miles. The old man's back bent under the weight of years. In the eyes there is the depth of the skies and the grandeur of the mountains. The strength of old age is wisdom. And where there is wisdom, there can be no shouting: the old man is in no hurry to distribute what he has accumulated to random people. You will see him, and as if lightning will illuminate you - how to connect the depth of the sky with the greatness of the mountains through a bent back, worn-out knotty arms and legs, compressed wisdom of lips, so that through him - alone - you can convey the hardworking people... That's when you will create a big jug. Not a jug is the result of your life.
Hovhannes immediately wanted to give gifts to the artist. But he didn't know how or with what. Hastily said:
- In the village they think of you as crazy. But you are a clairvoyant! You unravel thoughts and see right through people. I immediately found what I had been looking for for years. There’s one thing I can’t figure out: why don’t you draw icons? - Hovhannes! God must be sought, found, understood! And not to invent it - I want to see it, to ask why there is so much evil in the world. - Then I would paint the rich as they want. Why are you distorting them? So you starve both your wife Mairam and your children, Manug. - Hovhannes jan, it was in vain to say about the children. And what about a wife? There is never enough for them. The gift is given to few. A few, but for everyone. Do I dare to sell what is not only mine? Even for the sake of the children. When they grow up, they will understand. “Don’t be angry, Manug jan, I didn’t ask to be offensive.” Better look at our mountains. Do you see how many stones there are? The dream of my life is to get rich, buy carts in all the villages and use them to bring land from the valleys to cover the ledges.
The artist shuddered. He fixed his eyes on the kind face of Hovhannes, as if seeing him for the first time, hugged him with a jerk, turned sharply and ran to his old house. And soon the artist’s wife saw a picture: a hero was fighting a monster. And his face looked like a potter.
Mairam hastened to make her neighbors laugh. Neighbors – their neighbors. Soon almost the entire village was laughing until they cried. Almost everyone he met now shouted to the potter:
- Wow! Brave Hovhannes! Long life, savior! Hurry up to take the lightning sword, the enemy is coming towards us!..
Small, frail, lame Hovhannes, with his head bowed, burned with shame. He could not hide anywhere from mockers. Cursed:
- Be a black day when you meet in the mountains, Manug! So that your family may dry up! So that your sun goes out! Why, the heartless one, did you laugh at the old man? Why made him a laughing stock.
The people's laughter did not bother Manug. He thought: “They are not laughing at me. They are simply unaccustomed to the truth. They don’t see themselves, they don’t know, they don’t understand. And the artist’s duty is to help them rise. Even if I live worse than a shoemaker, don’t I know how to become rich? But for this you have to bend your heart. Deception is different from deception. The merchant's deception left hundreds impoverished. Entire generations are affected by the artist’s lies. May my children forgive me. When they grow up, they will understand...”
A knock interrupted his thoughts. Unheard of! The prince entered the low door, accompanied by servants.
— Good afternoon, Manug! Good afternoon, warbed! Show me, show me what you do to people. They say you are a master at laughing at them? - May your coming be for good, prince. I write my relatives as I see them. And it seems to them that they are better or worse. Because of this and resentment. Even the kindest Hovhannes curses me...
The prince began to look at the paintings. From one of the paintings a peasant looked at him defiantly. “In the eyes of my peasants there is humility. They are bent by need. And the poorer, the more humble. Why daring?
The prince frowned, but restrained himself. I stopped in front of another picture: a Turk, a Byzantine and a Persian were hunting a doe. A bloody trail stretched from the wounded deer, similar to the outline of Armenia. The prince quickly turned away. And here I saw a portrait of a young man known for his ugliness. The young man lived by alms, but he never rejoiced, thanked or was baptized, even if they gave generously. In the portrait, he spiritually looked at the ray of sun that cut the dark cloud in two.
After examining a few more paintings, the prince again approached the portrait of the young man. The sublime image captured him.
“If you write no worse than me, the reward will be worthy.”
The artist looked piercingly into the handsome face of the prince. And he shuddered: he read almost all the vices on the handsome face of the ruler. He answered firmly:
- No! I can’t write you like that! - What, do I have to become hunchbacked for this? – the prince grinned. “The hump of a young man is the torment and hope of the people.” And you, prince, are hunchbacked. But your hump is vices and atrocities.
The prince burst out laughing.
- No! I can’t write you like that! – the artist repeated, turning his gaze to the portrait. “Manug, you are poor because you are stubborn.” But your children are no worse than others,” and a tight wallet fell at the artist’s feet. “Whoever brings the truth is not rich.” Take the wallet, prince, I’m an unimportant flatterer,” he had not yet finished speaking when his wife, Mairam, burst in.
She grabbed the wallet, pressed it to her withered breasts and looked at her husband with hatred:
- No, you will draw! There is not a person in the village to whom we do not owe. I ask for the sake of the children, not for myself. Give in for once! If you don’t give in, don’t! I’ll pay off the debts right away, and you and the prince will pay off yourselves...” and irritably slammed the door.
Prince Manug wrote with disgust. The palette fell. Brushes broke. The prince sat patiently in front of him. The servants stood aside with respectful shadows.
When all the hands were broken, the prince sent a servant to get new ones. With other brushes that had no past, things were not so constrained. They licked all the colors in a row like obedient dogs.
After several new moons, the prince took the portrait. After this, orders from famous names began pouring in...
Days, weeks, years began to spin like millstones, increasing the artist’s income and gray hair. And it’s strange: the less Manug worked, the richer he became. Overseas craftsmen built him a palace. In his stable there were horses of the best breeds. Manuga's wife was drowning in silks. The daughters shone with jewelry. The sons casually threw gold coins. And the nobles vying with each other invited Manug to visit. He went to all sorts of celebrations in silence. He ate and drank in silence. Before he could get up from one table, he was seated at another. And again wine, toasts, cheerful music, which sounded like a funeral lament for the artist. No one knew that Manug stopped seeing people as they are. Now I saw them the way they wanted to look. Light hands were pulled down by the weight of wallets. Flattery clouded the once piercing eyes. My hands became greasy from greasy kebabs. Manug looked with hatred at his wife, who pushed him on this path. He also disliked children, whom wealth raised to be lazy and arrogant. They squandered money that reeked of their father’s humiliation.
And soon a pestilence struck the people. The disease swept through the villages like a fierce cloud: those who were strong were weakened, those who were weak died. People remembered God and hurried to churches. They began to slaughter cattle in the name of the Almighty. But frail Hovhannes did not get sick. Several more shepherds have not fallen ill. The potter thought: why not? Having guessed, he gathered everyone who could still walk. He brought him to mountain meadows, where he looked for new forms for his jugs. The old man said to the exhausted people:
“If heaven is powerless, we will save ourselves.” The shepherds herded sheep here and did not fall ill. I picked these herbs and didn’t get sick. They are healing! Let's collect herbs. We will give juice to the weak and sick. Let those who rise to their feet save others.
They fought for life for a long time. The terrible disease has finally subsided. The people were healed and Hovhannes was glorified. The ashug composed a song about him. Then they remembered the picture of Manuga: a hero is fighting a monster, and his face looks like a lame potter. The priests recognized him as a saint. The painting was hung in a prominent place in the church. She became an icon. And the crowd, which had previously laughed at her, now prayed for her with tears.
Since the peasants saved the Manuga family, the spacious palace has become cramped for him. One night he couldn't stand it anymore. He left the chambers and headed towards the mountains. But the mountains greeted him with hostility: the rain lashed furiously, the wind fiercely resisted, knocking him off his feet. Manug slid towards the abyss. He fell and expensive clothes got dirty. As he rose, the wind bent, bent, and threw him onto the stones. Manug thought bitterly as he wiped away the blood: “I bought earthly goods, giving in return my magical gift. I gave it up and became exhausted. In poverty, I drew strength from the mountains, and now the mountains weaken me..."
Having not overcome the climb in the harsh mountains, Manug returned back by dawn. The peasants were already harnessing the oxen. The frozen children helped them.
“And mine are still sleeping - tired of dancing and feasting. And they will sleep for a long time... Yes, and I am put to sleep. How could I have passed by the cry of poverty before!” “And suddenly I heard the potter’s voice behind me:
“Manug doesn’t see anyone now.” He now has golden eyes!..
Manug shrank from the insult - he knew it was deserved - and ran to the old house. Knocked down the boarded up door. He grabbed the broken brushes that had once served him faithfully. He pressed it to his chest. And he said to the brushes, like fallen soldiers:
“Since I betrayed you, the souls of the dispossessed have become inaccessible to me.” I was bought by wealth, which deforms my children, stole my gift. Now I’m deceiving people no worse than anyone else. But you can deceive without gilded eyes. So let the one who leads him go blind
Manug fell onto the palette with dried paints. The palette was covered in blood—the artist’s last paint.
Translated from Russian · original on wisdomlib.ru