Glehni Rahula

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Once, during one of the many strolls that common people are so prone to make on sunny, autumn days, I had stumbled upon an interesting place. Everything seemed strange about it. It was a tiny piece of land that claimed to be “a park,” and a cemetery at the same time. The feeling of strangeness was further amplified by it being the park in the middle of a district consisting entirely of private residences – as if the park appeared there by chance. But what is more likely, is that the houses appeared around the park, and not the park among them.
   

                                            pictures are by the author, Maksim Kamrõš

An entrance had a plate with a description. It turned out to be the grave of a one named Carolina Henriette Marie Berg, a wife of Nikolai von Glehn. N. von Glehn was a prominent nobleman at the turn of the century in Estonia; he built a lot, including Glehn Castle, and wanted to bury his wife in a poetic place. Two other members of the Glehn family were also buried in that place: two grandchildren of Nikolai von Glehn, Maria (1902) and Ulrich (1904) (Põldmäe 29). When the nobleman was coming up with the idea of park's project, he desired to see the park from Glehn Castle every morning. Unfortunately, I cannot tell whether it is still possible with the passage of time or not, but the park was possible to see from one of the castle's towers at the time of park's completion.

After I had entered the park, I did not see the cross – as it is proper for any Christian grave – and ventured deeper into the park/resting place. The kids were swarming around the park under the gaze of their anxious mothers, while I was enjoying the day.



The park, even though so small, is divided into the sections that are connected together by the bridges of rock blocks, small ponds – around them. The territory is dense with numerous old trees and mosses. As it is usual with European parks, the ducks are frequently here.

       


 Some bridges were broken up by time and natural forces, so I had to jump on the other side or go through thick bushes to reach the tucked-away corners. No one did raking in the park, and the still fresh, autumn grass was looking at me not without being obstructed by the leaves of shining goldness.


Finally, after spending some time on figuring out the location of the grave, I went closer to it. It was just a usual monument, in a sense: an old white cross had been put on top of the bulk of rocks, special lanterns and a bouquet of withered daisies lay at the base of the grave. Now, the grave of the noblewoman and her grandchildren is much more simpler in appearance, than it used to be when it was built. If I would compare this final resting place with something, it would be the tomb of The Unknown Warrior in Westminster Abbey: no one really knows who the noblewoman was, and as the grave of the soldier is surrounded by the red poppies, in an indication of mourning, so is the old cross surrounded by our favourite maples, aspens and spruces of the old. The cultivated oasis of nobler trees is going to keep the souls of the buried in peace.

                                                                                                        Maksim Kamrõš

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