THE IRON THEATRE
CHILADZE OTAR
The Iron Theatre first published in 1981 revives the end of 19th and beginning of 20th century in Georgia and explores a conflict of life and art at the edge of new millennium. The plot of the novel is a mix of historical facts, real situations and the author's fantasy. The author frequently breaks the chronological order, to empower the reader to imagine the different situations and events from the different points of view and therefore creates a complete picture of the world that he wants to represent. The novel gained Shota Rustaveli State Prize back in 1983.
The Iron Theatre is an elegant novel about Georgia’s struggle for liberation, a “cocktail” of epic, lyrical prose, and internal monologue, written by a truly great writer. With the publication of this book Georgia returns to the map of world literature.”
On the 30th of August 1907, Ilia Chavchavadze travelled from Tbilisi to Saguramo, accompanied by his wife and valet. His wife had on several occasions tried to persuade him they should not go: “The whole country’s in turmoil! It’s too dangerous…” But Ilia did not share his wife’s concerns and as usually hap-pened he eventually got his way. And why not? A man in his seventies, as Ilia was, has surely earned the right to go wherever he chooses to go in order to get back to his home. And Ilia’s home was nothing less than Georgia itself, and not just some house in Tbilisi, Kvareli or Saguramo. And anyway, no matter how much turmoil his country was in, it was inconceivable that anyone would turn against a father figure such as Ilia was. Summer was coming to an end. Svetit-skhoveli Cathedral resembled a woodpile carved in stone. The carriage was leav-ing Mtskheta. It rolled steadily down the dusty road that ran through the sod-den, silent flood plains. On either side of the road the crickets voiced a tireless, inexhaustible song, and as the hum passed from one to the next it seemed to cloak the weary travellers in a soporific half-silence, the heavy tranquillity of this last, leonine gold day of summer. Both Ilia and his valet, Iakob, carried re-volvers in their pockets; now, though, they gave no more thought to any danger, as they were already pulling into the village of Tsitsamuri, only a stone’s throw from home. Somewhere a turtle dove cooed, unseen. Every now and then the scent of azaleas cut through the dusty air, their flowers flashing yellow before vanishing again, hidden behind bare hillocks. “I have grown old and feeble and my hair is turning grey,” Ilia intoned as he was borne along in the carriage, as if he was reciting one of his own poems, as if at this very moment the words were rising up from his soul, his grief-ridden, sorrowful soul, because Ilia, unlike his wife, was not afraid of his country’s turmoil; no, it was old age he feared, for it troubled him greatly – nay, broke his heart – to think that he should bow out of life at just that time, at the moment when the very thing he had been striving for unceasingly for seventy years, toiling for like some sweat-soaked blacksmith, some ever-vigilant physician, was one way or another finally approaching. That was the reason for Ilia’s distress. “If I were but twenty years younger I might have lived to see my country’s freedom,” he thought, scowling, swaying in time with the carriage that bore him onward. A gnat crawled up his cuff but he did not even have it in him to move his hand slightly, so comfortably was he nestled down amongst his sad thoughts. The carriage juddered to a halt, unexpectedly, awkwardly, almost as if it had not stopped but rather died. The horses let out a fearsome whinny. Iakob leapt down from the carriage and ran for the forest. A gunshot thundered. “What’s happening? What’s happening?” Ilia sprang to his feet to find someone pointing a gun at him. Iakob was lying face down on the ground. “What’s happening? What do you think you are doing?!” Ilia shouted again and suddenly there was a bright light, a lightning flash, and in that instant Ilia saw the whole sequence of events again, just as they had unfolded before: the carriage stopped; the horses whinnied; “coachman” jumped down from the carriage and ran for the forest; Ilia found himself facing the barrel of a gun. But this time Iakob was face down in a pool of blood. And this time he heard his wife scream, and at that moment everything became clear... (See PDF)
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The Iron Theatre is an elegant novel about Georgia’s struggle for liberation, a “cocktail” of epic, lyrical prose, and internal monologue, written by a truly great writer. With the publication of this book Georgia returns to the map of world literature.”
Weekendavisen Newspaper, Denmark
EXTRACT
Translated into English by Elizabeth Heighway
On the 30th of August 1907, Ilia Chavchavadze travelled from Tbilisi to Saguramo, accompanied by his wife and valet. His wife had on several occasions tried to persuade him they should not go: “The whole country’s in turmoil! It’s too dangerous…” But Ilia did not share his wife’s concerns and as usually hap-pened he eventually got his way. And why not? A man in his seventies, as Ilia was, has surely earned the right to go wherever he chooses to go in order to get back to his home. And Ilia’s home was nothing less than Georgia itself, and not just some house in Tbilisi, Kvareli or Saguramo. And anyway, no matter how much turmoil his country was in, it was inconceivable that anyone would turn against a father figure such as Ilia was. Summer was coming to an end. Svetit-skhoveli Cathedral resembled a woodpile carved in stone. The carriage was leav-ing Mtskheta. It rolled steadily down the dusty road that ran through the sod-den, silent flood plains. On either side of the road the crickets voiced a tireless, inexhaustible song, and as the hum passed from one to the next it seemed to cloak the weary travellers in a soporific half-silence, the heavy tranquillity of this last, leonine gold day of summer. Both Ilia and his valet, Iakob, carried re-volvers in their pockets; now, though, they gave no more thought to any danger, as they were already pulling into the village of Tsitsamuri, only a stone’s throw from home. Somewhere a turtle dove cooed, unseen. Every now and then the scent of azaleas cut through the dusty air, their flowers flashing yellow before vanishing again, hidden behind bare hillocks. “I have grown old and feeble and my hair is turning grey,” Ilia intoned as he was borne along in the carriage, as if he was reciting one of his own poems, as if at this very moment the words were rising up from his soul, his grief-ridden, sorrowful soul, because Ilia, unlike his wife, was not afraid of his country’s turmoil; no, it was old age he feared, for it troubled him greatly – nay, broke his heart – to think that he should bow out of life at just that time, at the moment when the very thing he had been striving for unceasingly for seventy years, toiling for like some sweat-soaked blacksmith, some ever-vigilant physician, was one way or another finally approaching. That was the reason for Ilia’s distress. “If I were but twenty years younger I might have lived to see my country’s freedom,” he thought, scowling, swaying in time with the carriage that bore him onward. A gnat crawled up his cuff but he did not even have it in him to move his hand slightly, so comfortably was he nestled down amongst his sad thoughts. The carriage juddered to a halt, unexpectedly, awkwardly, almost as if it had not stopped but rather died. The horses let out a fearsome whinny. Iakob leapt down from the carriage and ran for the forest. A gunshot thundered. “What’s happening? What’s happening?” Ilia sprang to his feet to find someone pointing a gun at him. Iakob was lying face down on the ground. “What’s happening? What do you think you are doing?!” Ilia shouted again and suddenly there was a bright light, a lightning flash, and in that instant Ilia saw the whole sequence of events again, just as they had unfolded before: the carriage stopped; the horses whinnied; “coachman” jumped down from the carriage and ran for the forest; Ilia found himself facing the barrel of a gun. But this time Iakob was face down in a pool of blood. And this time he heard his wife scream, and at that moment everything became clear... (See PDF)
In case of using the information, please, indicate the source.