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About time and myself

Tsvetaeva the prose writer began later than Tsvetaeva the poet, and yet early. Even in her gymnasium years, she wrote her first story “Four” (its text has not been preserved); apparently, she made prose sketches even after that (pages entitled “What was” appear as early evidence of this). Another thing is more important: Tsvetaeva began to keep her diary from the age of ten and continued to keep notes in various notebooks and notebooks all her life. Whether she thought that these records would serve as material for her creativity is hard to say. She just couldn't do without them. And if sometimes there was no time to get to the notebook, Tsvetaeva wrote down a flashed thought, observation or lines of poetry right on the walls of a room or kitchen.

The essay "October in the Carriage", included in our collection, gives a vivid idea of ​​this Tsvetaeva's feature. The duration of the essay is the autumn of 1917; Tsvetaeva returns from Feodosia to Moscow and already on the way she learns that bloody battles have been going on there for several days in a row. In the fumes of a car overflowing with soldiers, under the not too friendly glances of fellow travelers, knowing full well that the “young lady”, who does not eat anything, but does not stop scribbling something in her notebook, looks like a “stranger” - she cannot help but write. It is her Lifebuoy, her straw: so she calms the pain of her heart, which was torn in those hours from anxiety for the fate of her husband ...

In another essay - "Free Passage" - we will meet with the same thing: completely exhausted by foot wanderings through the villages, where she tries to exchange matches and chintz for at least some food, endlessly tired from washing dishes and the floor in the tea room, where she these days, she still won’t fall asleep until she writes down, almost in the dark, lying on the floor, at least a few phrases in her notebook.

This is not writing, but an almost physiological need; "feather! “Otherwise I’ll suffocate!” - so she said about it once.

But it was from such notes that Tsvetaev's prose of the early twenties was born. It is most intimately connected with the concreteness of a living fact; tenaciously, greedily, she captures the details of events and feelings carried away - if they are not grabbed! - unstoppable and insatiable flow of time. It seems that the author here is simply an honest chronicler - only not of events of national importance, but of the private life of a Moscow family that fell into the maelstrom of the Bolshevik plague. However, the circumstances of the historical situation are such that the “chronicler” willy-nilly fall into the field of view of soldiers fleeing from the fronts of the war to their villages, and Red Army soldiers from the food detachment, requisitioning “surplus” food supplies in the villages, and Moscow theatrical people who gathered at the funeral of their idol , and young women sighing in a devastated village over a pink calico, and motley colleagues, by chance gathered in the offices of the People's Commissariat for Nationalities, housed in the former mansion of Count Sologub ... So a personal diary turns into era document, and the fate of a Muscovite - a woman and a mother who has no "connections" and patrons among those in power, rises to the symbol of the most perishing Russia.

In 1923, Tsvetaeva processed her notes and compiled a book of essays, modestly calling it Earthly Signs.

At that time, she was already living outside of Russia, in the Czech Republic, where she left in the spring of 1922 - to her husband. Even after the end of the Civil War, it was impossible for a member of the Volunteer White Army, Sergei Yakovlevich Efron, to return to his homeland, which determined the forced departure of Tsvetaeva from Russia in the spring of 1922. Abroad in those years, many Russian publishing houses arose; and, compiling the book, Tsvetaeva confidently pinned her hopes on them.

But she did not have to publish Earthly Signs: the Berlin publishers, who offered a wonderful fee, at the same time set the author a tough and indispensable condition - the book should be out of print. politicians! This was due to the fact that the sale of books was then calculated for the market of Bolshevik Russia ... Outraged by the demands of the publishers, Tsvetaeva then threw out her anger in a letter to the writer Roman Gul: “Moscow 1917 - 1919 - what am I, in the cradle rocked? I was 24-26 years old<ет>, I had eyes, ears, arms, legs: and with these eyes I saw, and with these ears I heard, and with these hands I chopped (furniture on the firebox of the stove.— I.K.)... and with these feet I walked from morning to evening through the markets and outposts, wherever they carried me!

There is no POLICY in the book: yes passionate truth: biased truth, truth of cold, hunger, anger, Of the year! My youngest girl starved to death in an orphanage - this is also “politics” (a Bolshevik orphanage).<...>Is not political book, not a second. It is a living soul in a dead loop - and yet alive. The background is gloomy, I didn’t invent it.”

Essays occupied a special place in the biography of Tsvetaeva the prose writer, and that was, as it became obvious later, only a stage of development. Tsvetaeva will remain faithful to the documentary basis to the end, in her prose work we will not find a single work with fictional characters and an invented plot. “Fictitious books are not attractive now,” she thought. Documentary "records, live, LIVE ... for me, a thousand times more valuable than a work of art, where everything is altered, fitted, unrecognizable, crippled." And Tsvetaeva creates prose, which is all! - can be called autobiographical, because every time the author speaks openly from the depths personal experience and cherishes his testimonies most of all.

In terms of content, “October in the Carriage”, “Free Travel”, “My Services”, “Death of Stakhovich”, “Attic” are nothing more than a chronicle of a nightmare, written down by an everyday, sometimes almost cheerful pen: a great sense of humor never seems to leave Tsvetaeva, even in the most difficult life circumstances. She is able to joke when the ceiling in her apartment collapses, to have fun about the cat locked in the office of the authorities (its carpets will get it!), To rejoice at the juicy dialect of the common people, overheard in lines and in the village ... Even the horror of the famine of 1918-1921 in these essays appears relaxed; it has become especially clear now that they have been published Notebooks Marina Tsvetaeva. They preserved the chilling details of Moscow life of those years ... But now she is recording "Attic", this is a kind of "One day of Marina Tsvetaeva in Moscow in 1919." After listing the many details that made up that day - the eve of her departure with the children to the fatal Kuntsevo orphanage, where her youngest daughter soon died - she stops anxiously: “I didn’t write down the most important thing: fun, sharpness of thought, explosions of joy at the slightest success, passionate focus of the whole being..."

This is where the reserve of her invisible courage is: standing in lines for roach or for coupons for enhanced nutrition for children, pacing in the November pitch darkness, at five o'clock in the morning, for milk for her daughters at the Bryansk railway station, she is able to look at what is happening, if not with side, then, as it were, from the heights of History, always indifferent to human suffering. This is a feature of Tsvetaeva's worldview, and it rests on the strength of her spirit, which is not afraid, as she herself will say about it, "neither a decree, nor a bayonet." Fortunately, she is able to see what is happening on a special, enlarged scale, and this is precisely the trait that gives metaphysical volume to Tsvetaeva's best poems and prose. “We learned to love: bread, fire, sun, sleep, an hour of free time,” Tsvetaeva wrote in the “most plague, most mortal” year of 1919, “food became a meal, because Hunger, sleep became bliss, because "there is no more strength", the little things of life have risen to the rite, everything has become vital. Iron school, from which heroes will emerge. Non-heroes will perish..."

In the essays that compiled Earthly Signs, there is an almost demonstrative absence of literary devices; before us is almost cursive, devoid of decoration. However, they are read in one breath; everything is held together by the inner energy of the author's narration, extremely relaxed and dynamic. A minimum of descriptions, a maximum of concreteness, a cool rhythm of the phrase, lively dialogues that perfectly convey intonation, the author's remarks, reduced to dramatic laconicism ("I, having flared up" or "he, sharply")...

It is curious that pieces of prose of this kind can also be found in Tsvetaeva's ordinary letters. An example of this is her letters to Eugene Lann at the end of 1920; I will quote only one passage - it is very picturesque, despite the fact that it consists almost entirely of dialogue.

“We are sitting with Alya, writing. — Evening. - The door - without knocking - wide open. Commissariat soldier. Tall, thin, hat. — Years 19.

Are you a citizen?

“I came to draw up a report on you.

He, thinking that I did not hear:

— Protocol.

- Understand.

- By not closing the tap and overflowing the clogged sink, you broke a new stove in 4 No.

- That is?

— Water, flowing through the floor, gradually eroded the bricks. The plate collapsed.

— You bred rabbits in the kitchen.

It's not me, it's someone else's.

- But you are the hostess?

- You must keep it clean.

— Yes, yes, you are right.

- Do you still have the 2nd floor in your apartment?

Yes, mezzanine upstairs.

— Mezzanine.

- Mizimim, mizimim, - how is it spelled - mizi-mim?

I'm talking. Writes. Shows. Me approvingly:

“Shame on you, citizen. You are an intelligent person!

- That's the whole trouble - if I were less intelligent, all this would not have happened - I write all the time.

- What exactly?

- Do you compose?

- Very nice. - Pause.

- Citizen, would you correct the protocol for me?

Let's write. You talk and I will write.

— Uncomfortable, on yourself.

- It doesn't matter - it will be soon! - Writing. He admires handwriting: speed and beauty.

- It is immediately clear that the writer. How can you not occupy the best apartment with such abilities? After all, this is - pardon the expression - a hole!

Alya: Slum.

We write. We subscribe. Politely gives under the visor. Disappears.

And yesterday, at 10 1/2 in the evening - the priests-sveta! - he again.

“Don’t be afraid, citizen, old friend! I'm back to you, there's something to fix here.

- Please.

“So I’ll trouble you again.

- I'm at your service. - Alya, clean the table.

- May be. What do you add to your excuse?

“I don’t know… The rabbits are not mine, the piglets are not mine—and they have already been eaten.”

- Oh, and there was also a piglet? Let's write it down.

— I don't know... Nothing to add...

“Rabbits… Rabbits… And it must be cold in here, citizen.” - It's a pity!

Alya: - Whom - rabbits or mom?

He: - Yes, in general ... Rabbits ... They gnaw everything.

Alya: - And my mother's mattresses were gnawed in the kitchen, and the pig lived in my bath.

Me: Don't write that!

He: - I feel sorry for you, citizen!

Offers a cigarette. We write. Already 1/2 of the twelfth.

“Before, they probably didn’t live like that ...

And, leaving: “Either an arrest or a fine of 50 thousand. “I will come myself.”

Alya: With a revolver?

He: - This, young lady, do not be afraid!

Alya: You don't know how to shoot?

He: - I know how, I know how, but ... - sorry for the citizen!

Why not prose?

The style of Tsvetaev's prose will still change. Multidimensionality, pictorial brightness, linguistic richness of the text will appear in it. But that will happen later.

Observing the chronology of Tsvetaev's work - and violating the biographical one - we will now have to speak mainly about the poet's childhood years. The fact is that the urgent need for their resurrection and comprehension matured in Tsvetaeva by the mid-thirties.

In the nearly fifteen years that have passed since the writing of the essays discussed above, much has changed. One by one, people with whom Tsvetaeva had been friends for a long time, met, whom she appreciated, about whom she had something to tell, began to pass away. This is how her original prose requiems appeared - to Valery Bryusov ("Hero of Labour"), Maximilian Voloshin ("Living about the Living"), Andrei Bely ("The Captive Spirit"). And Tsvetaeva the prose writer got a taste lyrical prose with its broad powers of the author's beginning, the possibility of digressions, retrospections, free "reflections about".

It was still too early to sum up her own life results for the forty-year-old Tsvetaeva, but the time to “stop and look back” has come. In April 1933, she received a letter from Russia informing her of the death of her half-brother Andrei. This served as an impetus for a new series of autobiographical essays by Tsvetaeva - those in which she resurrected the atmosphere of her parents' house and the entire "Staro-Pimenov - Tarusa - three-pond" world in which she grew up and loved. “I am eating according to the unrequited debt of the heart,” says one of Tsvetaeva’s letters of this time.

She herself has been living since the end of 1925 already in France, on the outskirts of Paris. Surrounded by a wall of loneliness, buried, in her own words, under the "ashes of emigration", she, going into memories, created for herself something like a "microclimate", in which it was easier for her to breathe, think, live ...

Even earlier, in an essay dedicated to the artist Natalia Goncharova (1929), Tsvetaeva expressed her conviction that the key to understanding any personality must be sought in the childhood years of this person. “Seeking in the current Goncharova,” she wrote, “go to her childhood, if you can, to infancy. There are roots. In childhood, Tsvetaeva believed, the natural, elemental forces of a person express themselves in the most relaxed, primordial way. The child himself does not yet realize them, and therefore "childhood is the time of blind truth." Further development is only the straightening of the spring. The “blind truth” will be replaced by “seeing power”, but the basis of the personality will remain the same features and inclinations that were manifested with naive openness in the child.

Another thing Tsvetaeva insisted on was the persistence of life's first impressions. Children's experiences leave a particularly deep trace in the artist's biography, with his heightened impressionability. That is why, in order to better understand the work of the master, it is necessary to see his early years - a significant time in the formation of the inner essence of man.

The prose of Tsvetaeva herself generously provides us with material for reflection of this kind. She turned to early years his life not only in works written directly about childhood (“Mother and Music”, “Mother's Tale”, “Father and His Museum”, “Devil”, “Khlystovki”, “My Pushkin”), but also in those where other people stand in the center - in "The House at the Old Pimen", in "The Story of a Dedication", in "The Captive Spirit" ... As a result, Marina Tsvetaeva's childhood years are outlined in her own prose, if not in detail, then brightly - with facets, as if snatched from the darkness of the departed by a powerful searchlight beam.

Extraordinary richness of spiritual life under seven and seven years old The child strikes the reader here more than anything else. The universe that fits in her own chest, Tsvetaeva recreated in almost every prose work with exciting details, while, it seems, she did not even come close to exhausting the topic.

Today we have an interesting opportunity at our disposal: to compare childhood memories left by two sisters - Marina and Anastasia Tsvetaeva. The younger sister is Anastasia Ivanovna, who lived extremely long life(99 years old!), - began to write memoirs already in advanced years and almost before last days she supplemented her own and supplemented them with new chapters. We owe her an innumerable multitude of facts, details, names, episodes, dates, which her unique memory readily presented to her. At the same time, two circumstances cannot but strike the eye when reading these memoirs. And above all, that Anastasia Tsvetaeva is captured by her long past, as if by an obsession; the abundance of details is dictated by the fact that everything is infinitely dear to her in the distant land of childhood, every memory is joy. Try to count how many times here we will meet the words "happiness", "bliss", "rapture" - you will lose count! Because everything is happiness, everything is happiness. Happiness to run down the wooden stairs to the hall where the Christmas tree stands, happiness to find a long-lost ball, happiness of expectation, bliss of meeting, intoxicating smell of old things in the hallway, joy of the spring sky ... It's not about the reasons at all!

Other - in the prose of the elder sister. She certainly retained a tenderness for the house in Trekhprudny Lane of old Moscow, as well as for the Tarusa expanses where the Tsvetaev family spent the summer months. But just as obvious is the fact that her childhood past did not fascinate her. Resurrecting old years, she never succumbed to the temptation to recreate the sweet moments of childhood joys. Something else occupies her there, by no means the restoration of everyday authenticity. That is why the outside world is written out there differently than in the memoirs of the younger sister - with a few sharp, abruptly laid strokes; Marina Tsvetaeva is more of a master of color than meticulous detail. In the foreground, every time she has not the external - the internal: dramas and joys of the child's soul hidden from prying eyes.

Resurrecting old years, she is more than anything else busy searching for herself today in that little girl who secretly read "Gypsy" in the room of her elder sister Valeria, and in the July heat on the Tarusa balcony copied poems into a homemade notebook. In each episode, she seems to want to find out: what grew out of that case? And from this kidney? From this meeting?.. Peering into the kaleidoscope of everyday particulars, she selects first of all those from which clear threads extend to today.

reflection, comprehension of the lived and experienced - the deep nerve of mature Tsvetaev's prose. Joseph Brodsky said in his own way about this feature of her memoirs: “this is not“ when-still-nothing-is known ”- the childhood of an inveterate memoirist. This is “once-everything-is-known”, but “nothing-has-began yet” – the childhood of a mature poet, caught in the middle of his life by a cruel era.

Anastasia Tsvetaeva stubbornly pedaled in her memoirs on the inner similarity of the sisters. Well, they really had a lot in common - mainly in the emotional sphere. But just the comparison of memories makes it possible to see especially clearly the bizarre interweaving of the kindred with the foreign - in characters and in the very type of personality. Marina is quick-tempered, Asya is soft; the older one is always annoyed by everyday life, Asya does not notice him. Marina is closed, Asya just needs to share any joy and sorrow with others. From an early age for Marina, torment is to hold in her hands anything but a pen; everything goes well in the hands of the youngest: she knows how to cut and bind books, sew a seam and pack a suitcase ... The feast of the Christmas tree is coming: the youngest joyfully jumps around Christmas surprises; Marina sits buried in a book she has been given, not seeing or hearing anything around...

But this is already enough for the sisters' memories to be strikingly different! And if you read them carefully, it is difficult to get rid of the impression: as if two different childhoods passed at the same time, in the same house, with the same parents! One is filled with unconditional happiness, the other is too heavily seasoned with bitterness...

In Tsvetaeva's prose, which is mainly devoted to meetings with Osip Mandelstam ("The Story of a Dedication"), there is a very characteristic scene related to Marina's childhood.

"Round table. Family circle. Sunday pies from Bartels on a blue serving platter. One for each.

- Children! Take it!

I want meringue and take an eclair. Embarrassed by the clairvoyant look of my mother, I lower my eyes and completely fail them, with:

You fly my zealous horse
Through the seas and through the meadows
And shaking his mane
Take me there!

- Where to go? - They laugh: mother (triumphantly: a poet will not come out of me!), Father (good-naturedly), brother's tutor, Ural student (hoo-hoo!), Laughs for two years older brother (following the tutor) and for two years younger sister(following mother); just not laughing older sister Valeria, a seventeen-year-old college girl, is in defiance of her stepmother (my mother). And I - I, red as a peony, stunned and blinded by the blood that hit and clogged in my temples, through boiling, not yet shed tears - at first I am silent, then I yell:

- Far away! There - there! And it’s very shameful to steal my notebook and then laugh!”

Well, isn't it a strange situation, in fact! A wonderful family - and a wounded child in the very heart. Ivan Vladimirovich Tsvetaev, professor at Moscow University, creator of the Alexander III Museum of Fine Arts, always fascinated by some extremely important matter for everyone, is gentle, kindest person; his wife Maria Alexandrovna is an outstanding pianist who did not make an artistic career only because her excessively strict father did not allow her to do so. She also plays the guitar, sings beautifully, writes pictures and poems, knows several languages, and is also a fan of noble kings and heroes. And yet, with all that, they laugh! How much more humane, it seems, would even be to flog a child with a belt, in the old fashioned way! But not for anything. And the elders, of course, understand this. They understand, but laugh merrily - over the innermost secret of a shy girl. It never occurs to sweet, kind, intelligent parents for a moment how unbearable this pain of hers is, how painfully sharpened all the feelings of this child from birth. It doesn’t occur to them that this unsmiling, ruddy plump woman is destined for the future of a brilliant poet...

However, not quite so. The girl was only four years old when Maria Alexandrovna wrote in her diary: “The eldest keeps walking around and mumbling rhymes. Maybe my Marusya will be a poet?..” But she wrote it down and forgot. And all the same, she gave her daughter paper only musical notes, so she scratched lines and rhymes with scribbles on randomly found paper scraps.

In the eyes of her mother, the girl is simply stubborn and stubborn. “Other children are like children, but this one ... is more stubborn than ten donkeys!” she complains angrily to the director of the music school. On that day, she was annoyed by her daughter's answer: when asked what she liked most about the concert that had just ended, the girl answered: "Onegin and Tatyana." "As? Not a Mermaid, not ... "-" Onegin and Tatyana ". “I know her,” the mother said to the director, “now she will repeat all the way in a cab to all my questions: “Tatyana and Onegin! I'm just not happy I took it. Not a single child in the world would have liked Tatyana and Onegin, everyone would have preferred The Mermaid, because it’s a fairy tale, of course. I don't know what to do with her!"

The mother was angry for no reason: a six-year-old girl told her honest truth. What was she to answer if, in fact, she was most seduced that evening by the love scene of Pushkin's heroes? Say what is expected of her? She could, and she already knew what she was waiting for, but she couldn't. She didn't learn to do it later.

That was not stubbornness at all. From an early age, this girl seemed to listen to what she was born with. It was as if she knew something about herself that she could not change. Not so much depended on her will: she herself was in the grip of some kind of irresistible force, which it is pointless to resist and sweetly obey, a force to which, as Tsvetaeva herself said, you are “betrayed like sold out.” Scrawling on music paper, this child only made its way to a dim light in the distance, doing something that could not do.

Tsvetaeva's autobiographical prose allows us to trace the stubborn energy with which this child created his own miraculous fortress of the spirit. How persistently he pushed her limits, how stubbornly and patiently, clenching his teeth, he walked way. Early discernment one's own and someone else's perhaps one of the most striking qualities of this child. "Adult" books are hidden from her - she secretly learns Pushkin's "Gypsies", reads "The Captain's Daughter" with bated breath and learns the words of romances sung by her older sister Valeria; goes to the first communion and, horrified by his own blasphemy, keeps talking to himself about the devil; falls in love with a tutor and is the first, like Pushkin's Tatiana, to write him a letter...

And all this secret, incredibly spacious world of the soul - the world of secret loves, devils, rhymes, fears, hopes - is carefully kept from prying eyes.

She goes her own way, and this is nothing but the way of calling.

“You fly, my zealous horse... Take me there!” Satisfied with themselves, the adults then brought the girl to tears, but if only they knew, they would have guessed, allowed for a minute that that horse would later go through all the poetic notebooks of Marina Tsvetaeva! A winged horse flying over towers, over mountains ... - both in verse and in poems. "Take me there!" So, exactly what - there! Even then it was difficult for her to name the address more precisely, but the direction was clear: above everyday life, above the hustle and bustle of everyday life, “above nitrous, above rustiness” ... It was an unclear, but strong pull, on a verbal level, a pull there , I do not know where, devotion to that, I do not know to whom. Akin to the craving that a baby unconsciously feels, reaching for its mother's breast.

There is an important slip in the essay "The House at Staryi Pimen". The author notes here unexpectedly related traits that brought the mother, Maria Alexandrovna, closer to Ilovaisky, the father of the first wife of Ivan Vladimirovich Tsvetaev. “They were something remotely similar,” it says here. "My mother would have been more suitable for him as a daughter than his own." And then - a harsh characterization of the pedantic intelligent Ilovaisky in his relationship with children: "... the evidence of his eyes was one: his parental authority and the infallibility of his decrees."

Maternal power in the Trekhprudny house was of the same order. In this house there were paintings, books, music, marble busts of the gods, the cult of work. There was not only simplicity and cordial closeness between children and parents. “Be my mother as simple with me as other mothers with other children...” - Tsvetaeva’s sigh in My Pushkin. What is this but a sigh of heartfelt rejection experienced too soon!

When Marina Tsvetaeva grows up, her name will be entered in a literary encyclopedia (two years before her death) and she will be offered to write an autobiography. She agrees. Takes the pen in hand. And now - among the most important of her self-characteristics we read: “I am my mother’s eldest daughter, but my beloved is not me. She is proud of me, she loves the second. Early resentment at the lack of love.

Which means: Marina Tsvetaeva lived with this wound all her life. Isn't that why she has so many idols from an early age - unattainable, long gone to another world: the artist Maria Bashkirtseva, and the unfortunate son of Napoleon ("Eaglet"), and Napoleon himself, especially of the time when, abandoned by everyone, he languished from loneliness on the island of St. Helena. Is it not from there that Tsvetaeva's insatiable thirst for love, her Himalayas of love, addressed even to someone who is still only born in a hundred years! And this generosity of self-giving: “Hands are given to me - to extend both to everyone! / Do not hold on to a single one! ”, These immensities of feeling: “Half a life? - All to you! / To the elbow? - There she is!"

In Tsvetaeva's prose of the thirties, large and small plots are embodied by a writer who was never satisfied with outer side phenomena, whether it be a private life case or a colorful figure of a contemporary.

Life at home in Trekhprudny Lane, episodes of the Tarusa summer, images of father, mother, sister under Tsvetaeva's pen acquire multidimensionality, exceeding their empirical level. And we can say that the peculiarities of this excess contain all the originality of Tsvetaeva the artist ... Her attention is always directed deep into, to the source; the obvious occupies her, but as a path to what is hidden behind it. What is there - behind the evidence of a particular case, if you do not run past with the haste of a person who does not have time to go anywhere? Is it only everyday life?.. But everyday life is voluminous and multidimensional!

It would be difficult to retell Tsvetaev's sketch of "Khlystovka": there is literally nothing to cling to. Only three or four scenes precede the central episode: little Marina with her father, mother, brother and sister come for haymaking to the "khlystovkas" - not far from their Tarusa dacha - and they jokingly offer the girl to stay with them forever.

Only and everything. But the inner richness of this little work could be envied by the author of another poem. However, it is precisely poems, and not short stories, because everything that is being discussed here acquires weight and meaning due to the lyrical feeling of the author. It is his power to resurrect the blissful summer in the Moscow region, permeated through with the sun, the smells of cut grass, apples, berries - a visually vivid piece of childhood with its fabulous abundance of impressions. But behind the visually vivid, the reader sees the characters of the mother and father, difficult family relationships Tsvetaev; it is clear who is leading here, who is suffering, but the main thing here is: the quivering world of a little girl who, with her offended heart, experiences every word of a harsh mother - and feels: these “whips” - pullets in white scarves on their heads - are her love... At home they are always unhappy with her, but here ...

Inside a short, outwardly insignificant episode, the tragedy of a child fits, with a painful acuteness of feeling his loneliness and abandonment. This is how Tsvetaeva sees the world: it is always a complex world in which so many contradictory things are intertwined! One has only to look closely ... “When others talk about their lives,” she wrote in one of her letters, “I am always surprised at poverty - not events, but perceptions: two, three episodes: school (usually not listed before school),“ the first love”, well, marriage or marriage ... - Well, what about the rest? The rest is either not listed, or it was not. - Boring. It's scarce. It's boring..."

This is how two passions merge in Tsvetaev's prose work of the mature period. For the desire to recreate the past, to keep it from a traceless failure into oblivion, clearly competed in the author of autobiographical prose with another comparable in strength. That was passion for life a passion for reflection and observation on its laws and its mysteries, on the very "origins of life and being," as she called it. Prose, which was born as memories of departed people and the past time, provided a convenient opportunity to express the riches of the accumulated spiritual and spiritual experience, and this opportunity increasingly captured Tsvetaeva. That is why there are no everyday trifles for her: they are insignificant only as long as you glide over them with an unseeing gaze. One has only to linger, to stop - "Oh, this chair in Valeria's room ... But past, past, otherwise it will lead us too far ..." - she writes. And it is quite clear that if it were not necessary to rush past, if it were possible not to rush, we would learn something that is by no means mundane and everyday: within the framework of everyday life, Tsvetaeva's associations never fit. In her perception, any life detail, any accidentally heard word, especially a human personality, is always a kind of hieroglyph that is worth looking at, listening to, pondering. And unhurried deciphering it will certainly lead to the clarification of many things. Through the reality of certainty, a phenomenon emerges, through a face - a face, through being - being. So we are faced with an organic feature of Tsvetaeva's worldview, which determined the philosophical nature of her prose.

This is a special philosophicity. It is not stuck to the text by some kind of moralizing appendage, but is closely connected with the living concreteness of a fact or situation, growing out of them, feeding on them.

The ratio of the "documentary basis" and the author's reflections in this prose, as a rule, is the opposite of what characterizes, say, the autobiographical prose of Bunin ("The Life of Arseniev") or Paustovsky ("Distant Years"). “House at Old Pimen”, “Devil” or “Khlystovki” were written as a free reflection “about” the chosen plot - with chronological interruptions, digressions, inclusions of “side” themes, etc. The author is open leads narration, and no canons of the prose form restrain it. We will not find any plot, no growth of events, no climax in her works.

In the Russian tradition, Tsvetaeva's autobiographical prose of the thirties is rather close to Boris Pasternak's Safe Conduct. V. Kaverin at one time subtly noticed the features of this work, drawing attention to the fact that in his text “reflections enter without a reasonable pretext, flash, fly into the mind of the reader like ball lightning, which can explode, or can calmly fly out the window, striking everyone with the mere fact of its existence. Transitions from the personal to the universal are on almost every page. The same improvisational approach to generalizations is also found in the mature Tsvetaeva. Expanded or fleeting, they permeate the narrative, saturating it to the utmost - and sometimes even oversaturating it...

This feature immediately distinguishes the autobiographical prose of the thirties from those essays with which the work of Tsvetaeva the prose writer began. The documentary, factual basis has taken a more modest place here, giving way to reflection and comprehension.

Let me remind you in the end that Brodsky highly valued this side in the work of Marina Tsvetaeva and believed that in her person we are faced with one of the most interesting thinkers of the 20th century.

"Be like children" - this means: love, pity, kiss - everyone!
I am not a woman, not an Amazon, not a child. I am a being!

Therefore, no matter how you fight! - I'm allowed to. And a deep - basic - sense of innocence.
Changing myself (for the sake of people - always for the sake of people!) I never manage to - change myself - i.e. finally change yourself. Where I have to think (because of others) about an act, it is always aimless - started and not finished - inexplicable, not mine. I remembered A exactly and I don’t remember B, - and immediately instead of B - my hieroglyphs, inexplicable to anyone, clear only to me.

Boris Chaliapin Portrait of M.I. Tsvetaeva 1933
***
Alya: “There is silence in your soul, sadness, severity, courage. You know how to climb such peaks that no man can climb. You are kind of burned out. I can't think of a suitable endearing word for you."
***
Alya: “Mom, you know what I'll tell you? You are the soul of poetry, you yourself are a long verse, but no one can read what is written on you, neither others, nor you yourself - no one "
***
Ah, I understand that more than anything in the world I love myself, my soul, which I throw into the hands of everyone I meet, and the skin, which I throw into all third-class carriages - and nothing is done to them!
***
What is me?
Silver rings all over the arm + forehead hair + quick walk +++ ..
I am without rings, I am with an open forehead, dragging along with a slow step - not me, the soul with the wrong body, it doesn’t matter, like a hunchback or a deaf-mute. For—I swear to God—nothing about me was a freak, everything—every ring! - a necessity, not for people, for your own soul. So: for me, who hates to draw attention to myself, always hiding in the darkest corner of the hall, my 10 rings on my hands and a cloak of 3 capes (then no one wore them) were often a tragedy. But for each of these 10 rings I could answer, I cannot answer for my own low heels.

***
Yesterday I read in the "Palace of Arts" (Povarskaya, 52, Sologub's house, - my former - first! - service) "Fortuna". I was received well, of all those who read-one-applause. I read well. At the end, I stand alone, with casual acquaintances. If you didn't come, you'll be alone. Here I am just as alien as among the tenants of my house, where I have been living for 5 years, as in the service, as once in all 5 foreign and Russian boarding schools and gymnasiums where I studied - as always, everywhere.
***
White hair.
A day later, at Nicodemus, Charles exclaimed: “Marina! Where do you get gray hair from?
By the way, my hair is blond, light blond-golden. Wavy, cropped, as in the Middle Ages for boys, sometimes curly (always on the side and back). Very thin, like silk, very alive - all of me. And in front - I noticed this spring - one, two, three - if you move apart - and more - ten hairs - completely gray, white, also twisting at the end. - So strange. I'm too young to say out of pride that I like it, I'm really glad for them, as proof that some forces mysteriously work in me - not old age, of course! - or maybe my - tirelessly - working head and heart, all this my passionate, hidden under a carefree shell, creative life. - As proof that even for such an iron health as mine, there were iron laws of the spirit.

***
About the rudeness of his nature:
I have never been happy with flowers as a gift, and if I ever bought flowers, then either in the name of someone (violets-Parma-Duke of Reichstadt, etc.) or right there, without reaching the house, I brought it to someone.
Flowers in a pot must be watered, worms removed from them, more dirty tricks than joy, flowers in a glass - since I will certainly forget to change the water - emit a disgusting smell and, thrown into the stove (I throw everything into the stove!), do not burn. If you want to make me happy, write me letters, give me books about everything, rings - whatever you like - only silver and large ones! - a calico on a dress (better than pink) - only, gentlemen, not flowers!
***
I practice in the most difficult thing for myself: life in strangers. A piece does not go down the throat - it does not matter whether it is with friends, or, as it is now, in a dirty village, with rude peasants. Do not eat, do not read, do not write. One cry: "Home!"
***
When they love me, I bow my head, when they don’t love me, I raise it! I feel good when they don't like me! (more-i)

***
Walking along the platform while waiting for the train, I thought that everyone has friends, relatives, and acquaintances. Everyone comes up, greets, asks about something - some names - plans for the day - and I'm alone - and no one cares if I don't sit down.
***
When I'm with people who don't know that I'm me, I apologize with all my being for existing - somehow redeem! Here is the explanation of my eternal laughter with people. I can't - I can't stand - I forbid that people think badly of me!
***
I perfectly understand Ali and Seryozha's attraction to me. Beings of the moon and water, they are attracted to the solar and fiery in me. The moon looks out the window (loves one), the sun looks into the world (loves everyone).
The moon is looking - in depth, the sun goes on the surface, dances, splashes, does not sink.
***
All of me is in italics.

Marina Tsvetaeva. Picture. 1931
***
Idleness is the most yawning void, the most devastating cross. That's why I - maybe - do not like the countryside and happy love.
***
Will I ever find a man who loves me enough to give me potassium cyanide and knows me so much that he understands, is convinced that I will never use him ahead of schedule. - and therefore, having given, he will sleep peacefully.
***
I don't need someone who doesn't need me. Superfluous to me is the one to whom I have nothing to give.
***
What is missing in me that I am so little loved?
Too 1st grade? - contrary to all the verbal 18th century. don't take it by the chin!
So: and in the 3rd grade - 1st grade! (need: in the 3rd-4th, then fun!)
Well, and for the "noble"?
Hypocrisy is what I lack. After all, I immediately: “I understand very little in painting,” “I don’t understand sculpture at all,” “I’m a very bad person, all my kindness is adventurism,” and they believe in a word, they take a word, not considering that I am after all, I’m talking to myself. But one thing should be noted: never anyone with me - not a hint of familiarity. Maybe: my - in advance - surprised, serious, uncomprehending eyes

M. I. Tsvetaeva. Portrait by M. Nachman. 1915
***
I don’t like everything, people just blame my “earthly signs”. Repels the backbone, not the leather belt, the rib, not the belt around, the forehead, not the hair over, the hand, not the ring on. It repels my impudent ability to rejoice in a belt, a bang, a ring beyond the reflection in their views, my complete disregard for this repulsion, I repel.
***
Unsuccessful meetings: weak people. I always wanted to love, I always passionately dreamed of obeying, entrusting myself, being outside my will (self-will), being in reliable and gentle hands. Weakly held - that's why she left. They didn’t love it, love it, that’s why they left.
***
I had a name. I had looks. Attracting attention (I was told all this: “the head of a Roman”, Borgia, the Prague boy-knight, etc.) and, finally, although I should have started with this: I had a gift - and all this put together - but I must have forgotten something else! - didn’t serve me, hurt me, didn’t bring me even half? and a thousandth of the love that is achieved by one naive female smile.

Marina Tsvetaeva V. Syskov 1989
***
I did not know a person more timid than I, having been born. But my courage was even greater than my timidity. Courage: indignation, delight, sometimes just the mind, always the heart. So I, not knowing how to do the most “simple” and “easy” things, the most complex and difficult ones, could.
***
In front of a cold window. I think what I loved most in my life was comfort. He is irretrievably gone from my life.
***
I, loving nature, it seems, more than anything in the world, did without its descriptions: I only mentioned it: the vision of a tree. All of it was the background - to my soul. Also: I allegorized it: birch silver. Brooks are alive!
******
Oh my God! A whole minute of bliss! But is this not enough even for the whole human life?

L. Levchenko (Eremenko) M.I. Tsvetaeva. (Pencil)
***
Only the very rich can be gifted.
***
Done, Marina! I get married - in blue, I lie in a coffin - in chocolate!
***
How many prejudices have already disappeared! - Jews, high heels, polished nails - clean hands! - washing your hair every other day .... only the letter yat and a corset remain
***
The male! What a disturbance in the house! Probably worse than a baby.

More than half a century ago, a very young and still unknown Marina Tsvetaeva expressed her unshakable confidence:

Scattered in the dust at the shops

(Where no one took them and does not take them!),

My poems are like precious wines

Your turn will come.

Years have passed difficult life and the most tense creative work- and proud confidence gave way to complete disbelief: "There is no place for me in the present and in the future." This, of course, is an extreme and misleading, explained by the loneliness and confusion of the poet, who knew the power of his talent, but failed to choose the right path.

The fate of what is created by the artist is not reduced to his personal fate: the artist leaves - the art remains. In the third case, Tsvetaeva said much more precisely: "... there is nothing new in me, except for my poetic responsiveness to the new sound of the air." Marina Tsvetaeva is a great poet, she turned out to be inseparable from the art of the present century.

Tsvetaeva began to write poetry from the age of six, to be published from the age of sixteen, and two years later, in 1910, without taking off her gymnasium uniform, secretly from her family she released a rather voluminous collection - "Evening Album". He did not get lost in the stream of poetic novelties, he was noticed and approved by V. Bryusov, N. Gumilyov, and M. Voloshin.

Tsvetaeva's lyrics are always addressed to the soul, this is a continuous declaration of love for people, for the world in general and for a particular person. And this is not humble, but bold, passionate and demanding love:

But today I was smart;

Rozno went out on the road at midnight,

Someone was walking with me

Calling names.

And whitened in the fog - a strange staff ...

Don Juan did not have Donna Anna!

This is from the Don Juan series.

Often Tsvetaeva wrote about death - especially in youthful poetry. This was a kind of sign of a good literary tone, and the young Tsvetaeva was no exception in this sense:

Listen! - still love me

For me to die.

By nature, Marina Tsvetaeva is a rebel. rebellion and

Her poetry:

Who is made of stone, who is made of clay, -

And I'm silver and sparkle!

I care - treason, my name is Marina,

I am the mortal foam of the sea.

In another poem, she adds:

Admired and admired

Seeing dreams in broad daylight

Everyone saw me sleeping

No one saw me sleepy.

The most valuable, the most undoubted thing in the mature work of Tsvetaeva is her inextinguishable hatred of "velvet satiety" and all sorts of vulgarity. Once from impoverished, hungry Russia to well-fed and elegant Europe, Tsvetaeva did not succumb to her temptations for a minute. She did not betray herself - a man and a poet:

Bird - I'm a Phoenix, I sing only in fire!

Support my high life!

I burn high - and I burn to the ground!

And may the night be bright for you!

Her heart yearns for the abandoned homeland, that Russia that she knew and remembered:

Russian rye bow from me,

Niva, where the woman is stagnant ...

Friend! Rain outside my window

Troubles and blessings in the heart ...

And the son must go back there, not to be all his life

Renegade:

Neither to the city nor to the village -

Go, my son, to your country...

Ride, my son, go home - forward -

To your land, to your age, to your hour...

By the 30s, Marina Tsvetaeva had already quite clearly realized the boundary that separated her from the white emigration. She writes in a draft notebook: “My failure in emigration is that I am not an emigrant, that I am in spirit, that is, in air and in scope - there, there, from there ...”

In 1939, Tsvetaeva regained her Soviet citizenship and returned to her homeland. It was hard for her seventeen years spent in a foreign land. She had every reason to say: "The ashes of emigration ... I'm all under it - like Herculaneum - and life has passed."

Tsvetaeva dreamed for a long time that she would return to Russia as a "welcome and awaited guest." But it didn't work out that way. Her personal circumstances were bad: her husband and daughter were subjected to unreasonable repression. Tsvetaeva settled in Moscow, took up translations, prepared a collection of selected poems. The war broke out. The vicissitudes of the evacuation sent Tsvetaeva first to Chistopol, then to Vlabuga. It was then that that “supreme hour of loneliness” overtook her, about which she spoke with such deep feeling in her poems. Exhausted, having lost her will, on August 31, 1941, Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva committed suicide. But poetry remains.

Opened the veins: unstoppable,

Irreversibly gushing life.

Bring bowls and plates!

Every plate will be small,

The bowl is flat. Over the edge - and past -

Into the black earth, feed the reeds.

Irrevocable, unstoppable

Irreversibly whipping verse.

And forever the same -
Let the hero in the novel love!

All women lead into the mists.

Chosen ghetto. Shaft. Ditch.
Don't expect mercy.
In this most Christian of all worlds
Poets are Jews.

If born winged -
What are her mansions - and what are her huts!

I know everything that was, everything that will be,
I know the whole deaf-mute secret,
What's on the dark, on the tongue-tied
The language of the people is called - Life.

And if the heart breaks
Removes stitches without a doctor, -
Know that from the heart - there is a head,
And there is an ax - from the head ...

Emperor - the capital,
Drummer - snow.

Some without curvature -
Life is expensive.

Do not love the rich - the poor,
Do not love, scientist - stupid
Do not love, ruddy - pale,
Do not love, good - harmful:
Golden - copper half!

Do not be ashamed, the country of Russia!
Angels are always barefoot...

Let the young people not remember
About a hunched old age.
Let them not remember the old
About blessed youth.

Heart - love potions
The potion is the best.
Woman from the cradle
Someone's mortal sin.

The whole sea needs the whole sky,
A whole heart needs the whole of God.

And the indifferent - God will punish!
It's scary to walk on the soul alive.

Indefinitely the ship does not sail
And do not sing the nightingale.

I bless the daily work,
I bless the nightly sleep.
Lord's mercy - and the Lord's judgment,
Good law - and stone law.

The world is sad. God has no sadness!

... Forever in blind man's buff
Playing with reality is bad.

All on the same road
Drogs will drag -
At an early, late hour.

Woe, woe, salty sea!
You will feed
You will drink
You will spin
You will serve!
Bitterness! Bitterness! Eternal flavor
On your lips, oh passion! Bitterness! Bitterness!
Eternal temptation -
More final fall.

Hussar! - Still not finished with dolls,
- Ah! - in the cradle we are waiting for the hussar!

Children are tender riddles of the world,
And the answer lies in the riddles themselves!

Valor and virginity! This union
Ancient and wondrous, like death and glory.

Friend! Indifference is a bad school!
It hardens the heart.

There are more important things in the world
Passionate storms and labors of love.

There is a certain hour - like a dropped load:
When we tame pride in ourselves.
The hour of apprenticeship is in everyone's life
Solemnly inevitable.

Woman from the cradle
Someone's mortal sin.

For the prince - the family, for the seraphim - the host,
Behind each - thousands of people like him,
To stagger - on a living wall
Fell and knew that - thousands of shifts!

Beast - lair,
Wanderer - the road
Dead - drogi.
To each his own.

Know one thing: that tomorrow you will be old.
The rest, baby, forget it.

And her tears - water, and blood -
Water, - in blood, in tears washed!
Not a mother, but a stepmother - Love:
Don't expect judgment or mercy.

And so will the moons melt
And melt the snow
When this young one rushes by,
A lovely age.

Every verse is a child of love
Beggar illegitimate,
Firstborn - at the rut
To bow to the winds - laid.

Who is in the sand, who is in school.
To each his own.
On people's heads
Leisa, oblivion!

Who did not build houses -
The earth is unworthy.

Who doesn't owe friends -T
from hardly generous to girlfriends.

Lighter than a fox
hide under clothes
How to hide you
Jealousy and tenderness!

Love! Love! And in convulsions and in the coffin
I will be alert - I will be seduced - I will be embarrassed - I will rush.

People, believe me: we are alive with longing!
Only in anguish we are victorious over boredom.
Will everything move? Will it be flour?
No, flour is better!

We sleep - and now, through the stone slabs
Heavenly guest in four petals.
O world, understand! Singer - in a dream - open
Star law and flower formula.

Do not love the rich - the poor,
Do not love, scientist - stupid,
Do not love, ruddy - pale,
Do not love, good - harmful:
Golden - copper half!

One half of the window is gone.
One half of the soul showed up.
Let's open it - and that half,
And that half of the window!

Olympians?! Their eyes are asleep!
Celestials - we - sculpt!

Hands that are not needed
Dear, serve - the World.

... Washes away the best blush Love.

Poems grow like stars and like roses
Like beauty - unnecessary in the family.

The evening is already creeping, the earth is already in the dew,
Soon the starry blizzard will freeze in the sky,
And under the ground we will soon fall asleep,
Who on earth did not let each other fall asleep.

I love women that they were not shy in battle,
Those who knew how to hold a sword and a spear, -
But I know that only in the captivity of the cradle
The usual - female - my happiness!

In a dialogue with life, it is not her question that matters, but our answer.

You can joke with a person, but you can't joke with his name.

Women talk about love and are silent about lovers, men - vice versa.

Love in us is like a treasure, we don’t know anything about it, it’s all about the case.

To love is to see a person as God intended him and his parents did not realize him.

For the complete coherence of souls, the coherence of breath is needed, for what is breath, if not the rhythm of the soul? So, in order for people to understand each other, it is necessary that they walk or lie side by side.

There are meetings, there are feelings when everything is given at once and there is no need to continue. Continue, because it is to check.

Every time I find out that a person loves me, I am surprised; he does not love me - I am surprised, but most of all I am surprised when a person is indifferent to me.

Love and motherhood are almost mutually exclusive. True motherhood is courageous.

Love: in winter from cold, in summer from heat, in spring from the first leaves, in autumn from the last: always - from everything.

Betrayal already points to love. You can't betray a friend.

The body in youth is an outfit, in old age it is a coffin from which you are torn!

Goddesses married gods, gave birth to heroes, and loved shepherds.

Our best words are intonations.

Creativity is a common cause, created by solitary people.

The future is an area of ​​legends about us, just like the past is an area of ​​divination about us (although it seems the other way around). The present is only a tiny field of our activity.

For a happy person, life should rejoice, encourage him in this rare gift. Because happiness comes from happiness.

Wings are freedom only when they are open in flight, behind their backs they are heaviness.

How delightful is the preaching of equality from the prince's lips - so disgusting from the janitor's.

Favorable conditions? They are not for the artist. Life itself is an unfavorable condition.

In the Orthodox Church (temple) I feel the body going to the ground, in the Catholic Church I feel the soul flying to the sky.

A woman who remembers Heinrich Heine the moment her lover enters loves only Heinrich Heine.

Kinship by blood is rough and firm, kinship by election is subtle. Where it is thin, it breaks there.

The curve takes out, the straight line drowns.

- Know yourself! - I knew. And that doesn't make it any easier for me to know the other. On the contrary, as soon as I begin to judge a person by myself, misunderstanding after misunderstanding turns out.

I love the rich. I swear and affirm that the rich are kind (because it costs them nothing) and beautiful (because they dress well).

If you can't be a man, or handsome, or noble, you have to be rich.

Our children are older than us, because they have longer, longer life. Older than us from the future. Therefore, sometimes they are alien to us.

The girls of that circle almost exclusively lived by feelings and arts and thus understood more about the affairs of the heart than our most lively, most sober, most enlightened contemporaries. (About Pushkin's time).

Sport is a waste of time for a waste of energy. Below the athlete is only his spectator.

Each book is a steal from one's own life. The more you read, the less you know how and want to live on your own.