Life years (1877-1932)
The last 10 years of life Voloshin
almost continuously lived in his house in Koktebel. This place is popular with Soviet writers, who loved to rest in the Crimea, and Voloshin
, no, no yes and frequented by fellow writers. So, in July 1932 by Voloshin
drove Nicholas Chukovskij (son Korney Chukovsky). A few days before that Voloshin
had a stroke (something like a stroke).
"Max, unusually thick, raspolzshiysya, sitting in a wicker chair - remember H. Chukovskij .- He was breathing loudly. He spoke to me, but all his words I did not understand - after the impact, he began to speak indistinctly. Alone Stepanovna Mary (wife Voloshin
) understand it, and throughout our conversation served us as a translator.
For all that he was fully conscious. When I told him that his poems will go to the "New World", his face flushed with joy. Again and again, almost inarticulate sounds he asked me to repeat I brought news. * A few days later he had a second stroke and he died.
He lay in the garden in front of his home in the opened coffin. The coffin seemed almost square - so wide and fat was Max. His face was calm and kind - a gray beard covered the chest. We learned that he be buried on a high hill above the sea, overlooking the entire valley Koktebel. The coffin was placed on the cart, and the little procession reached through the sun-scorched steppe. To the foot of the hill was three kilometers, but we have made a much bigger way, as the rounded hill range - from the other side of the hill climb was easier. Yet the horse to climb the hill could not, and about two hundred meters up, we had to carry the coffin at the hands.
This proved very difficult. Max in a coffin was surprisingly heavy, and the male mourners turned out to be only five ... The sun burned mercilessly, and reached the top, we were barely alive from exhaustion. Hence, we saw a bluish-purple mountains and headlands, fringed with white foam of the surf, and all of a spacious, filled with air cavity Koktebel valley and distant Voloshins
house with a wooden tower, and even dolphins, moving the chain across the bay. The hot air rang with cod crickets in the dry grass. The grave diggers have dug a hole, the coffin lid, and dropped in a light-red dry clay. Reader Artobolevsky, tall, thin, in black urban lounge suit, read a poem over the grave of Baratynsky "On the Death of Goethe:
. Appeared, and the old man closed his great
. Eagle eyes alone;
. Passed away peacefully, then made
. In the limit of all earthly earthly!
. Above the marvelous tomb do not cry, do not be sorry,
. With the genius of the skull - a legacy of worms ...
. We trudged down the hill "