In literature lessons in the 10th grade, the works of Marina Tsvetaeva are studied. In this article you can get acquainted with a complete and brief analysis of “Who is Made of Stone” according to the plan.
Brief Analysis
History of creation- the poem was included in the collection Versta, published in 1922; it was written in 1920 - the most difficult year in Tsvetaeva’s life. Personal tragedies and a creative crisis did not break the poet; she created an optimistic work that proclaimed victory and the triumph of talent.
Subject- the poet and the crowd, misunderstanding, rejection and at the same time the chosenness and greatness of those creating immortal art.
Composition- four stanzas united by a monologue of the lyrical heroine.
Genre- a lyrical poem reminiscent of an ode to a creative free person, to herself.
Poetic size- amphibrachium, giving a smooth, rhythmic sound to Tsvetaeva’s lyrical work.
Epithets– “dissolute curls”, “cheerful foam”, “mortal foam”.
Metaphor– “granite knees”, “sea foam”.
Phraseologism – earth salt, meaning chosenness, superiority in ordinary life.
History of creation
The poem “Who is Made of Stone” was written by Marina Tsvetaeva in difficult years, when her poems were banned, not published, and personal dramas followed one after another. Less than a month had passed since her three-year-old daughter died of hunger, her husband disappeared in exile, and there was no news from him. The poetess herself was in a difficult financial situation, but she tried to hold out against the regime, envious people and enemies. The poem dates back to May 23, 1920, is included in the collection “Versts”, belongs to the cycle of N.N.V. (Nikolai Nikolaevich Vysheslavtsev). The portrait painter Vysheslavtsev was friends with Marina Tsvetaeva, she was passionate about him. By the way, passion soon gave way to disappointment. The collection “Versts” was published in 1922 in a small edition. It is worth noting that the image of the sea, like the element itself, was very close to Tsvetaeva; she loved the sea, just like A.S. Pushkin.
Subject
The theme is the poet and the crowd, isolation, chosenness of the creative personality. For Tsvetaeva, this is one of her favorite topics, to which she returns at all stages of her creative career. The lyrical hero reflects on the fate and will of every person. She sets herself apart from ordinary people who have “petrified” or caved in, adapted (this is what is meant when the poet talks about people made of clay). This work is imbued with optimism and faith in the future. The mischievous, cheerful character of Tsvetaeva’s verse, self-aggrandizement is nothing more than a veil from the pain and suffering that befell Marina Ivanovna. She prophesies her immortality in poetry, in talent, which is the key to her resurrection. The reader sees the image of “sea foam” (symbolizing the poetess), which “silver and sparkles” as bright and unique. The outer side of her life seems unforced and easy, which is exactly what the author wanted. Triumphant over the crowd of envious people and traitors, she asserts her poetic greatness and personal free, serene existence. She wanted her enemies to see her this way, and, despite the pain and many trials, her poetic prediction came true.
Composition
The composition is four stanzas (four verses each). The first two stanzas begin the same way, “Who is created from...”. This anaphora makes the poem similar to the song genre, creates the effect of waves that run onto the shore, disappear, and add rhythm to the sound. In the first quatrain, a kind of introduction occurs: the lyrical heroine introduces herself and reveals her essence. All subsequent stanzas contain oppositions in the “poet - crowd” system. In the last quatrain, the poet exclaims, proclaiming the triumph of his inner raging element of the sea - infinitely free, not subject to time and human laws.
Genre
Lyric poem. It resembles an ode exalting the significance of the poet and his work. The poetic meter is amphibrach, giving a smooth, rhythmic sound to Tsvetaeva’s lyrical work. Alliteration accompanies almost every line of the poem, creating the effect of waves, fluidity, smoothness, splashes.
Means of expression
Epithets: dissolute curls, cheerful foam, mortal foam.
Metaphor: granite knees, sea foam.
Antithesis: coffins and tombstones intended for those “of the flesh”, ordinary people, spiritually poor people are contrasted with a cheerful carefree wave, sea foam (the name Marina means “sea”), which does not disappear and does not die, but breaks through “through every heart, through every network."
Poem test
Rating analysis
Average rating: 4.7. Total ratings received: 18.
“Who is created from stone, who is created from clay...” Marina Tsvetaeva
Who is made of stone, who is made of clay -
And I’m silver and sparkling!
My business is treason, my name is Marina,
I am the mortal foam of the sea.Who is made of clay, who is made of flesh -
The coffin and tombstones...
- Baptized in the sea font - and in flight
Its own - incessantly broken!Through every heart, through every network
My willfulness will break through.
Me - do you see these dissolute curls? -
You can't make earthly salt.Crushing on your granite knees,
With every wave I am resurrected!
Long live the foam - cheerful foam -
High sea foam!
Analysis of Tsvetaeva’s poem “Who is created from stone, who is created from clay...”
After the revolution, Marina Tsvetaeva fully felt all the hardships of life as a Russian intellectual, who was left without a roof over her head and a means of livelihood. During the 5 years that the poetess spent in the plundered and torn apart country before emigrating, she had to mentally say goodbye to her husband, bury her youngest daughter and abandon the idea of reaching people's hearts with the help of poetry. Any other woman in such a situation would probably have broken down, but Marina Tsvetaeva was determined to survive at any cost. In addition, there was still a glimmer of hope in her soul that everything that was happening around was a bad dream that was about to end. It is for this reason that in 1920, a few weeks after the funeral of Irina’s three-year-old daughter, Tsvetaeva wrote the famous poem “Who is created from stone, who is created from clay ...”, full of optimism and faith.
In this work, the poetess very successfully plays on her name, because Marina translated from Latin means “sea.” She draws a parallel with Aphrodite, who emerged from the sea foam, noting: “And I will be silver and sparkle!” Attempts to exalt oneself over other people who are created from stone or clay are associated not only with Tsvetaeva’s desire to assert herself. The poetess turns to the origins of her life, trying to find strength in them in order to overcome numerous difficulties. She is convinced that “coffins and tombstones” are not her destiny. After all, even as a teenager, Tsvetaeva realized that she was endowed with an amazing poetic gift. Therefore, in this poem she tries to proclaim her superiority over others and states: “Through every heart, through every network, my self-will will break through.”
Indeed, the poetess is determined to prove to the whole world that she deserves a better fate. Tsvetaeva discounts only the fact that fate has destined her for difficult trials. The Lord humbles the obstinate, and every attempt by the poetess to prove her importance will be answered with very strong and painful blows. The poetess was already able to feel the first of them after losing her daughter and losing the support of her husband, who ended up abroad after the revolution. She still doesn’t know that she will soon become an emigrant herself. But apparent freedom will not bring her relief, since Tsvetaeva’s work will be even less in demand abroad than in Soviet Russia. Moreover, homesickness will poison the poetess’s comfortable and cloudless life. But all this will happen much later, but for now Tsvetaeva, having overcome herself, confidently declares: “Crushing on your granite knees, I am resurrected with every wave!” She has no idea that after one of these blows she will no longer be able to recover and will make a rash decision to die.
Determine the meter in which M. I. Tsvetaeva’s poem “Who is created from stone, who is created from clay...” is written (give the answer in the nominative case without indicating the number of feet).
Read the lyric work below and complete tasks B8-B12; SZ-S4.
M. I. Tsvetaeva, 1920
What is the consonance of the ends of poetic lines called (flesh - in flight; slabs - broken, etc.)?
Explanation.
This consonance is called rhyme. Rhyme is consonance at the end of two or more words. It is most common in poetic speech and in some eras in some cultures acts as its obligatory or almost obligatory property. Unlike alliteration and assonance (which can occur anywhere in the text), rhyme is determined positionally (by the position at the end of the verse, capturing the clause). The sound composition of a rhyme - or, more correctly, the nature of the consonance necessary for a pair of words or phrases to be read as a rhyme - is different in different languages and at different times.
Answer: rhyme.
Answer: Rhyme
What is the name of a vivid definition that gives the expression imagery and emotionality (“cheerful foam”, “high foam”, “mortal foam”)?
Explanation.
This definition is called an epithet. An epithet is a definition of a word that affects its expressiveness. Expressed primarily by adjectives, but also by adverbs, nouns, and numerals.
Answer: epithet.
Answer: epithet
What artistic device is used in the following lines: “ Who is created from stone, who is created from clay"; " Through every heart, through every network"?
Explanation.
This technique is called repetition. Let's give a definition.
Repetition is a stylistic figure that consists of the deliberate repetition of the same word or speech structure in a visible area of the text. Lexical repetitions of various types are widely used to add expressiveness to a literary text.
Answer: repeat.
Answer: Repeat
Indicate the name of the stylistic device based on the repetition of the same consonant sounds in a line (“And I silver and sparkle!”).
Explanation.
This technique is called alliteration. Let's give a definition.
Alliteration - repetition in poetic speech (less often in prose) of the same consonant sounds in order to enhance the expressiveness of artistic speech; one of the types of sound recording.
Answer: alliteration.
Answer: Alliteration
How does the inner world of the lyrical heroine of the poem by M. I. Tsvetaeva appear? (Justify your answer.)
Explanation.
In the poem “Who is created from stone, who is created from clay...” M.I. Tsvetaeva deciphers the meaning of her own name. The name "Marina" means "sea". It harmoniously corresponds to the temperament of Tsvetaeva’s lyrical heroine, her mobility, energy and self-will, of which she is so proud. The main thing in the poem is the idea of self-expression, the embodiment of tireless vital energy with which the lyrical heroine throws herself into the sea of life. M.I. Tsvetaeva creates an image of an indomitable element that rages not only in reality, but also in the heart of the lyrical heroine. The heroine is likened to silvery sea foam. She literally merges with it, experiencing a feeling of harmonious unity with the world of the sea elements. The dissolute self-will of the sea font in the poem is contrasted with the salt of the earth, tombstones, granite knees - static, down-to-earth images.
http://lit-helper.com/p_Analiz_stihotvoreniya_Kto_sozdan_iz_kamnya_kto_sozdan_iz_glini____Cvetaevoi_M_I
In what works of Russian poets does the theme of inner freedom sound and in what ways are they consonant with the poem by M. I. Tsvetaeva?
Explanation.
The theme of inner freedom is heard in many works of Russian poets. The lyrical hero of the poem by A.S. Pushkin's "Prisoner", despite his imprisonment, his soul is close to the free eagle. The walls of the prison are able to hold his body, but the inner world remains free and independent. The spirit of the lyrical hero is not broken, he strives to go “where only the wind blows.”
M.Yu. also wrote about internal freedom. Lermontov in the poem "Sail". The image of a sail embodies the poet’s dreams of a free life full of worries. Lermontov's lyrical hero is not afraid of the storm, because his restless soul demands action:
And he, the rebellious one, asks for a storm,
As if there is peace in the storms.
In Marina Tsvetaeva’s poem, an image of the sea element appears, beyond the control of human will. The heroine compares herself to sea foam because she wants to be natural, independent, and internally free.
Lyrical heroes of poems by A.S. Pushkin, M. Yu. Lermontov and M.I. Tsvetaeva are strong, freedom-loving individuals, their inner world is rich, they are able to rise above everyday life.
Explanation.
Amphibrachium is a three-syllable poetic meter in which the stress falls on the second syllable - stressed among unstressed ones - in the foot.
Who is CREATED / from STONE, / who is CREATED / from CLAY.
Answer: amphibrachium.
Answer: Amphibrachium
Who is made of stone, who is made of clay, -
And I’m silver and sparkling!
My business is treason, my name is Marina,
I am the mortal foam of the sea.
Who is made of clay, who is made of flesh -
The coffin and tombstones...
- Baptized in the sea font - and in flight
Its own - incessantly broken!
Through every heart, through every network
My willfulness will break through.
Me - do you see these dissolute curls? -
You can't make earthly salt.
Crushing on your granite knees,
With every wave I am resurrected!
Long live the foam - cheerful foam -
High sea foam!
Marina Tsvetaeva
MEANING, ORIGIN OF THE NAME.
The name Marina is the feminine form of the ancient rare name Marin, which comes from the Latin word "marinus" - sea. A good, reliable and joyful name for an outwardly very simple woman. Its sound paints an image of a soft and integral nature, which, like an elastic wave, confidently draws the brightness of its emotions from the depths of feelings.
NAME DAYS, PATRON SAINTS.
Marina (Margarita) of Antioch, great martyr. The daughter of a pagan priest, she was taught the faith of Christ by her nurse. At the age of 15, she was beheaded after suffering for the faith of Christ (III century), July 30 (17). Marina of Beria (Macedonian), virgin, recluse, reverend. For more than 50 years she labored in the Syrian cave. She died around 450, on March 13 (February 28).
Anastasia and Marina Tsvetaeva with Nikolai Mironov 1912
ZODIAC NAME. Fish.
PLANET. Moon.
NAME COLOR. Sea green, green, combination of light crimson and blue. The main color picture is a crimson sun over a blue sea.
TALISMAN STONE. Nacre.
PLANT. Talnik, lily, maple. This name can also be imagined in the image of strong flowers on elastic stems, swaying only under a strong gust of wind.
ANIMAL. Seahorse, trout.
MAIN FEATURES. Excitability, receptivity, sociability, impatience, impulsiveness.
TYPE. Ice and fire - this is how you can define this nature. A neurasthenic choleric person with an unstable nervous system. She is easily disappointed, any failure drives her to despair.
NAME AND CHARACTER. Marina has an extremely high opinion of herself, and for good reason: women with that name have a mysterious charm and a certain magnetism, against which men are completely helpless. Marina is smart, brave, relaxed. With a highly developed sense of self-esteem. Does not tolerate inattention to his person. She feels a certain isolation, feels lonely, even giving herself to her lover. Marin has a particularly complex character with patronymics Vladimirovna, Matveevna and Andrianovna.
FATE. Marina is the darling of fate. She is one of those women who reveal the secrets of life. From early childhood, Marina becomes an object of worship. At school, boys constantly pay attention to her, try to make friends with her, and make dates. In general, Marina either goes through life quietly and completely unnoticed, or she flies through life noisily, brightly and stormily. However, this flight is short-lived. Marina does not like to feel connected to someone, she does not like limitations - it is as if she is playing with her destiny.
PSYCHE. Marina is a free-spirited woman with imagination; she herself does not know what she will do in a moment. These are “women-children” whom you want to protect and protect. If life becomes too difficult for Marina's sensitive nature, she withdraws into herself. Doesn't always keep his word. May retreat in the face of danger. However, she is capable of subordinating emotions to reason. Therefore, all actions related to her personally are performed prudently and deliberately. Often cultivates melancholy and a feeling of loneliness. Sometimes she revels in her love suffering - without them, life seems colorless to her. Her advantages are hidden and invisible to an indifferent glance. She is even and friendly with those around her, but rarely does anyone manage to achieve spiritual intimacy with her. Marina easily wilts and succumbs to feelings of emptiness and melancholy.
INTUITION. Marina has the highest intuition and excitability, which helps her discover new, unknown to others, sources of joy in life and interest in it. Lives in a mysterious world of “signs” and premonitions.
INTELLIGENCE. She is an intellectual, but she acts so quickly that she often makes huge mistakes. Her memory is so weak that she forgets about everything in the world.
MORAL. Marina needs, first of all, love and tenderness. Strict prohibitions are contraindicated for her character; they can cause harm. In relationships with children, she is impulsive: sometimes she pays maximum attention to them, sometimes she leaves them alone for a long time.
Marina Tsvetaeva, Boris Unbegaun. Favier, 1935
SEXUALITY. Marina is always under the desired siege of fans. Falls in love with handsome, charming and strong men. He can give himself to the gentleman he likes from the very first meeting. She enters into sexual contact driven not only by sensuality, but also by physical passion. However, he often deals with partners who are far from ideal. Denis, Mikhail, Sergey, Gleb, Adrian, Evgeniy and Vladislav are most suitable for her. Marina Vladimirovna is the sexiest.
MARRIAGE. In her soul, Marina cherishes the only one. In marriage, he seeks peace and a financially secure life. The husband will have to constantly pay a lot of attention to her, otherwise tension will arise in the relationship. She does not forgive her husband for cheating on her - even to the point of divorce. A happy marriage can be with Anton, Valentin, Vladimir, Denis, Mikhail and Sergei. Unsuccessful - with Anatoly, Boris, Georgy, Nikolai or Stanislav.
Marina Tsvetaeva, Boris Unbegaun, Georgy Efron. Favier, 1935
HOBBIES. She needs admiration for her, compliments, flowers. The kitchen is able to demonstrate the wonders of culinary art and amaze any guests with the sophistication of its dishes.
FIELD OF WORK. Marina is not very active. This is an excellent mother, a gentle and devoted wife. Interested in medicine and preschool education. As a rule, she chooses the profession of nurse, doctor, engineer, hairdresser, actress.
BUSINESS. She is not very concerned about success in business, because her country is a space of the soul. However, on occasion it can give the matter great scope.
*** “I am the mortal foam of the sea”
On May 31, 1912, the Museum of Fine Arts was opened in Moscow. Newsreels from those years showed how, after the ceremony, Emperor Nicholas II and his family went down to the car. In an embroidered gold uniform, his honorary guardian is accompanied by Ivan Vladimirovich Tsvetaev, professor, philologist, art critic, creator and first director of the Museum named after Emperor Alexander III at the Moscow Imperial University. 24 years ago, the professor had neither money, nor land, nor expensive works of art - he had to start from scratch, but he, obsessed with a noble idea, succeeded. “Our giant younger brother,” Ivan Vladimirovich’s daughters Marina and Anastasia called the Museum.
The eldest, Marina, was by that time less than 20 years old, the youngest Anastasia was 18. Both read poetry in unison and took part in Symbolist studios.
We're quick and ready
We are sharp.
In every gesture, in every look, in every word. –
Two sisters.
Our caress is capricious
And thin
We are from old Damascus -
Two blades.
Away, the threshing floor and the burden of bread,
And oxen!
We are stretched into the sky
Two arrows!
We are alone in the world market
Without sin.
We are from William Shakespeare
Two verses.
“In many ways, we, children of the turn, are incomprehensible,” Andrei Bely said about his generation: “we are neither the “end” of a century, nor the “beginning” of a new one, but a battle of centuries in the soul; we are scissors between centuries; We need to take on the problem of scissors, realizing that neither the criteria of the “old” nor the criteria of the “new” can explain us.” (A. Bely. “At the turn of two centuries.” P. 180).
Both sisters were married: Anastasia to student Boris Trukhachev, Marina to student of the Faculty of History and Philology Sergei Efron. In August of the same year, Anastasia had a son, Andrei, and in September, Marina had a daughter, Ariadne.
Who is made of stone, who is made of clay -
And I’m silver and sparkling!
My business is treason, my name is Marina,
I am the mortal foam of the sea.
Who is made of clay, who is made of flesh -
The coffin and tombstones...
- Baptized in the sea font - and in flight
By your own - constantly broken!
Through every heart, through every network
My willfulness will break through.
Me - do you see these dissolute curls? –
You can't make earthly salt.
Crushing on your granite knees,
With every wave I am resurrected!
Long live the foam - cheerful foam -
High sea foam!
Both – “the last vision of kings” – wrote poetry.
Marina has already published the book “Evening Album” and has prepared the second one, “The Magic Lantern” for printing. Her poetic gift attracted the attention of V. Ya. Bryusov, M. A. Voloshin, N. S. Gumilyov.
“Marina Tsvetaeva (book “Evening Album”) is internally talented, internally original,” wrote N. S. Gumilyov in double issue No. 4–5 of “Apollo” for 1911. – Let her book be dedicated to the “brilliant memory of Maria Bashkirtseva”, the epigraph is taken from Rostand, the word “mother” almost never leaves the pages. All this only suggests the youth of the poetess, which is confirmed by her own lines of confession. Much is new in this book: the bold (sometimes excessive) intimacy is new; new themes, for example, childhood falling in love; new direct, crazy admiration for the trifles of life. And, as one should have thought, all the most important laws of poetry are instinctively guessed here, so this book is not only a sweet book of girlish confessions, but also a book of beautiful poems” (“Letters about Russian Poetry.” P. 121).
December tale
We're too young to forgive
To the one who dispelled the spell on us.
But so as not to be sad about him, who is gone,
We're too old!
The castle was pink, like the winter dawn,
Like the world - big, like the wind - ancient.
We were almost the daughters of a king,
Almost princesses.
My father was a wizard, gray-haired and angry;
We got angry and chained him up;
In the evenings, bending over the ashes,
We conjured;
They drank the blood of a fast deer from the horn,
Hearts were examined through magnifying glasses...
And the one who could believe that there is love,
Seemed stupid.
One evening I came out of the darkness
The sad prince in gray clothes.
He spoke without faith, oh, and we
They listened with faith.
The December dawn looked out the window,
Aleli was given a timid light...
He was asleep and didn’t care
What have we suffered!
We're too young to forget
The one who broke the spell on us.
But to love again so tenderly -
We're too old!
In No. 2 of “Russian Thought” for 1911, in an article entitled “New Collections of Poems,” the master of symbolism V. Ya. Bryusov reported:
“Marina Tsvetaeva represents a rather sharp contrast to I. Ehrenburg. Ehrenburg constantly revolves in a conventional world created by himself, in the world of knights, chaplains, troubadours, tournaments; He speaks more readily not about the feelings that he actually experienced, but about those that he would like to experience. Marina Tsvetaeva's poems, on the contrary, always start from some real fact, from something actually experienced. Not afraid to introduce everyday life into poetry, she takes directly the features of life, and this gives her poems an eerie intimacy. When you read her book, you feel awkward for minutes, as if you had immodestly looked through a half-closed window into someone else’s apartment and spied a scene that strangers should not see. However, this spontaneity, attractive in more successful plays, turns into a kind of “homeliness” on many pages of the thick collection. The results are no longer poetic creations (good or bad, that’s another question), but simply pages of a personal diary, and rather bland pages at that. The latter is explained by the youth of the author, who indicates his age several times.
As long as
My whole life is like a book for me,
– Marina Tsvetaeva says in one place; in another, she defines her verse with the epithet “non-adult”; somewhere else he directly talks about his “eighteen years.” These admissions disarm criticism. But, if in the next books of Ms. Tsvetaeva the same favorite characters appear again - mother, Volodya, Seryozha, little Anya, little Valenka - and the same favorite places of action - a dark living room, a melted skating rink, a dining room four times a day, the lively Arbat, etc., we hope that they will become synthetic images, symbols of universal humanity, and not just fleeting portraits of relatives and friends and memories of their apartment. We will also expect that the poet will find in his soul feelings more acute than those sweet trifles that take up so much space in the “Evening Album”, and thoughts more necessary than the repetition of the old truth: “the arrogance of the Pharisee is hateful.” Undoubtedly talented, Marina Tsvetaeva can give us real poetry of intimate life and can, with the ease with which she seems to write poetry, waste all her talent on unnecessary, even elegant trinkets.
(V. Ya. Bryusov. “Poems of 1911”. P. 365–366).
Laudable parting words from the master of symbolism, meanwhile; What could they mean to a young woman who had just found her poetic voice? Her “Evening Album” is “the way a youth feels a lotus in his blood”: no synthetics in spite of the homeliness of the hearth, nothing epochal, symbolic in defiance of the dark living room, ice skating and the Arbat.
Marina Tsvetaeva responded to the criticism of V. Ya. Bryusov with polemical poems in the collections “The Magic Lantern” and “From Two Books” (1913):
V. Ya. Bryusov
Smile through my “window”
Or they counted me among the jesters, -
You won’t change it, anyway!
“Sharp feelings” and “necessary thoughts”
It was not given to me by God.
We need to sing that everything is dark,
That dreams hang over the world...
- That’s how it is now. –
These feelings and these thoughts
Not given to me by God!
Premium puppy
“Il faut a chacun donner son joujou.”
E. Rostand
It was Christmas Eve 1911 - Moscow, blizzard, with stars in the eyes and on the eyes. On the morning of that day, I learned from Sergei Yakovlevich Efron, whom I soon married, that Bryusov had announced a competition for the following two lines from Pushkin:
But he won't leave Edmond
Jenny is even in heaven.
- I wish you could take the prize - funny! I can imagine Bryusov’s tenderness! Let's say that Bryusov is Salieri, do you know who his Mozart is?
- Balmont?
- Pushkin!
The prize given to me by Bryusov for poems submitted in the last hour of the last day (the deadline was Christmas Eve) - the idea was tempting! But - a verse on the topic! Poem - to order! Verse - at the behest of Bryusov! And the second stumbling block, the most acute one, was that I didn’t know at all who Edmond was, a man or a woman, a friend or girlfriend. If the genitive case: whom-what? - then Edmond came out as a man, and Jenny will not leave him, but if the nominative case: who, what? - then Edmonda is a woman and will not leave her friend Jenny. The stone was removed easily. Someone, laughing and not believing my ignorance, revealed Pushkin to me at the “Feast in the Time of Plague” and confirmed Edmond’s masculinity. But time was lost: Christmas Eve was creeping over Moscow, surrounded by stars and flakes.
Towards darkness, just before the lighting of the Christmas trees, I stood on the corner of Arbat Square and handed over an envelope to a gray-haired messenger in a red hat, with another envelope in it, and another envelope in it. On the outer one was Bryusov's address, on the second (with poetry) the motto (the competition was secret, with the author being revealed only after the prize was awarded), on the third - the same motto; marked: name and address. Something like the ocean-sea, Buyan Island and Kashcheyev’s death in an egg. I sent the “letter” to Bryusov’s house, on Tsvetnoy Boulevard, as a gift for the Christmas tree.
What was the motto? From Rostand, of course:
Il faut a chacun donner son joujou
E. Rostand
What was the verse? Not on the topic, of course, a verse written not at all for Edmond, six months before, to his own Edmond, the verse is not only not on the topic, but the opposite of it and, in its inverseness, suitable.
Here he is:
"But Edmond will not leave
Jenny is even in heaven."
I will cry for earthly things in heaven too,
I used old words at our new meeting
I won't hide it.
Where hosts of angels fly in order,
Where are the harps, lilies and children's choir,
Where everything is calm, I will be restless
To catch your eye.
Seeing off visions of heaven with a smile,
Alone in a circle of innocently strict maidens,
I will sing, earthly and alien,
Earthly tune!
The memory puts too much pressure on my shoulders,
The moment will come - I will not hide my tears...
Neither here nor there - there is no need to meet anywhere,
And we won’t wake up in paradise for meetings!
_______________
I took this verse from the “Magic Lantern,” which was already in production at that time, and was published before the issue, but after the awards were awarded. (“Magic Lantern”, p. 75.)
About a month later - I had just gotten married - one day my husband and I went to the publisher Kozhebatkin.
– Congratulations, Marina Ivanovna!
Me, thinking about marriage:
- Thank you.
“You took the first prize, but Bryusov, having learned that it was you, decided, due to your youth, to award you the first of the two second prizes.”
I laughed.
You had to receive prizes at the “Island of Free Aesthetics”. The details have been erased. I only remember that when Bryusov announced: “No one received the first, but the first of the two second ones was Ms. Tsvetaeva,” bewilderment passed through the hall, and a grin crossed my face. Then they read, it seems to Bryusov, the poems that were “awarded” (Khodasevich, Rafalovich, myself) - “received approval”, I don’t remember whose. The prizes themselves were handed out not on the stage, but at the entrance table, at which his sweet, shy wife, Zhanna Matveevna, who always smoothed everything out as much as possible and so won against the backdrop of Bryusov’s rigidity, wrote something in and out.
The prize - a personalized gold token with a black Pegasus - was awarded directly to Bryusov - from hand to hand. Although not in a handshake, hands met! And I, threading it through the chain of the bracelet, loudly and cheerfully:
– So, I’m now a prize-winning puppy?
The audience's answering laughter and Bryusov's kind, sudden, wolfish smile. “Smile” is a convention, just a sudden discovery and the same disappearance of teeth. Not a smile? Smile! Just not ours, the wolf's. (Grind, grin, snarl.)
Then for the first time I realized that Bryusov was a wolf.
(M. Tsvetaeva. “Hero of Labor”. P. 27–29)
V. Ya. Bryusov
I forgot that the heart in you is only a night light,
Not a star! I forgot about this!
What poetry is yours from books?
And out of envy - criticism. Early old man
You are with me again for a moment
Seemed like a great poet...
The first to greet the young talent was the “eternal wanderer on an endless journey” Maximilian Voloshin. In December 1910, his article “Women’s Poetry” appeared in the newspaper “Morning of Russia”, comparing the poems of a seventeen-year-old Moscow high school student with the work of well-known poets of that time (Lyubov Stolitsa, Adelaide Gertsyk, etc.). The high school student won: “Marina Tsvetaeva’s “non-adult” verse, sometimes unsure of itself and breaking like a child’s voice, is able to convey shades that are inaccessible to more adult verse. You feel that this non-adult verse is capable of much that we, adults, have nothing to dream about.”
“The entire article,” recalled M. Tsvetaeva, “is the most selfless hymn to women’s creativity and the seventeenth anniversary.”
“A woman herself does not create language, and therefore in those eras when the elements of speech are being created, she remains silent. But when the language is created, she can express in it and find words for shades less perceptible than a man is capable of. Women's lyrics are deeper. But it is less individual. This is much more the lyricism of the race, rather than the lyricism of the individual. The significance of the poetry of the poetesses I have named is given by the fact that each of them speaks not only for herself, but also for a great many women, each is the voice of one of the undercurrents that spiritualize the feminine element, the voice of feminine depth.” (M. A. Voloshin. “Women’s Poetry”).
On his first visit to Trekhprudny Lane to the Tsvetaevs, Max asked Marina to take off her cap and glasses - an artist! – he couldn’t wait to see the shape of the head:
- The head, after all, this is the most important thing for a poet!..
To my poems, written so early,
That I didn’t even know that I was a poet,
Falling off like splashes from a fountain,
Like sparks from rockets
Bursting in like little devils
In the sanctuary, where sleep and incense are,
To my poems about youth and death,
- Unread poems!
Scattered in the dust around the shops,
Where no one took them and no one takes them,
My poems are like precious wines,
Your turn will come.
Then there was a conversation about Paris, Rostand, Napoleon the First, the Second, Sarah Bernhardt: after all, they lived by it.
-Have you never loved Baudelaire? Do you know Arthur Rimbaud?
- I know, I didn’t love, I will never love, I love only Rostand and Napoleon I and Napoleon II - and what a shame that I’m not a man and didn’t live then to go with the First to St. Elena and the Second to Schönbrunn.
– Do you know how long we talked? Five o'clock, I came at two, and now it's seven. I'll come again soon.
The "peddler of ideas" leaves.
An empty hallway, the creaking of the front door, the creaking of the walkway under the steps, the gate...
“When you love a person,” she will tell you in “Modern Notes” (Paris. 1933. No. 52–53), “you always want him to leave so that you can dream about him.
Living about living
A day later I open the letter: poems:
My soul is so joyfully attracted to you!
Oh, what grace blows
From the pages of the Evening Album!
(Why an album and not a notebook?)
Why does the black cap hide
Clean forehead and glasses on your eyes?
I noted only the look of submissiveness
And an infantile oval cheek.
I'm lying here today - neuralgia,
Pain is like a quiet cello...
Your words are good touches
And poetry, the winged swing of a swing,
Lull the pain: wanderers,
We live for the thrill of longing...
Do they touch my temples in the dark?
Your book is news from there,
Morning good news.
I have not accepted a miracle for a long time,
But how sweet it is to hear: there is a miracle!
Bursting with delight (the first good poems in my life, I dedicated a lot, but bad ones) and only with great difficulty repressing my smile—not a word to my family, of course! - at the end of the day I go to my only friend, who is twenty years older than me and to whom I, naturally, already told the first meeting. Still in the hallway I silently hand out poems.
Is reading:
- “The soul is so joyfully attracted to you - Oh, what grace blows - From the pages of the Evening Album - Why an album and not a notebook?”
Interrupting:
– Why an album? To this you will answer him that you write in a notebook at the gymnasium, and in an album at home. In Smolny we all had albums for poetry.
Why does the black cap hide
A clean forehead and glasses on your eyes?
And, you see, he also noticed, and it’s really strange: such a young girl, and suddenly she’s wearing a cap! (However, shaved would be even worse!) And those terrible glasses! I always told you... - “I only noted the submissive look and the infantile oval of the cheek.” - But this is very good! Infant! That is, extremely infantile! “I’m lying here today - neuralgia - Pain like a quiet cello - Your words touch kindly - And poetry, the winged swing of a swing - Lull the pain. Wanderers, - We live for the thrill of longing...” - Yes! Just for the thrill of melancholy! (And suddenly, from syllable to syllable becoming more and more gloomy and on the last one, like a cloud):
Whose cool and gentle fingers
Do they touch my temples in the dark?
Well, you see - fingers... Ugh, what disgusting! I'm telling you: he's just taking advantage of the fact that your father is not at home... It always starts like this: fingers... My friend, return this letter to him with the underlined lines and add: “I come from a decent home and in general...” He still needs to know, that you are your father's daughter... This is what it means to grow up without a mother! And you (hesitation), perhaps, really, out of an excess of feelings, in complete innocence, stroked his... on... his temple? I warn you that they don’t understand this at all, they don’t understand it that way at all.
- But - firstly, I didn’t stroke him, and secondly - even if - he was a poet!
- So much the worse. One poet was also in love with me, so I had to throw him – Yuliy Sergeevich – down the stairs.
So I left with this uncomfortable vision of the future: the massive Maximilian Voloshin flying from our narrow mezzanine staircase - to our hall.
(M. Tsvetaeva. “Living about living things.” P. 165–167)
Max Voloshin
They come to us when
We don't see pain in our eyes.
But the pain came - they are no longer there:
There is no shame in a cat's heart!
It's funny, isn't it, poet,
Train them for domestic roles.
They flee from the slave lot:
There is no slavery in a cat's heart!
No matter how you beckon, no matter what you call,
No matter how you pamper yourself in a cozy lounge,
One moment - they are free:
There is no love in a cat's heart!
“The voice is the most captivating and elusive thing in a person,” said M. A. Voloshin:
“The voice is the inner cast of the soul.
Each soul has its own basic tone, and each voice has its own basic intonation. The elusiveness of this intonation, the impossibility of grasping it, fixing it, or describing it constitute the charm of the voice.”
In the poetry of A. Akhmatova, M. Tsvetaeva, O. Mandelstam, S. Parnok, as Koktebel’s “Zeus-like giant” recognized, the fusion of verse and voice sounded naturally and freely: “In their poems, everything became a voice. All their charm is only in their voice. It almost doesn’t matter what words they utter, you just want to listen to the very sounds of their voices, so fresh and new in their intimacy” (M. A. Voloshin. “Voices of Poets.” P. 545).
In Koktebel, in the house of M. A. Voloshin, M. I. Tsvetaeva stayed in 1911, 13, 15 and 17. Poems from the new book of poems “Versta,” “so different from her first semi-children’s books,” sounded in his ears long before their publication in 1922.
– Marina Tsvetaeva: now the voice of a reasonable child, now broken and daring, now with deeply national and long womanly notes (M. A. Voloshin. “Voices of Poets.” P. 770).
And so, loaded on a camel’s hump,
On the good side - a hundred percent care,
Let's set off - the camel is humble and proud -
Do unfixable work.
Under the dark weight of camel bodies -
Dream about the Nile, rejoice in the puddle,
As the lord and as the Lord commanded -
Carry your cross like God, like a camel.
And they will be in the glow of desert dawns
The humps are sick, the merchants are wondering where,
What kind of illness suddenly attacked
For a kind, obedient camel?
But, without a single look of pleading,
Forward, forward, with burnt lips,
Until the Promised Land
A big hump will not stand over humps.
In August 1909, an incident occurred with Baudelaire’s translator, a passionate symbolist, and “scattered poet” Lev Lvovich Kobylinsky (Ellis) (1879–1947). He was caught red-handed cutting out pages from library books. Thu; these were for books and readings; Ellis, who liked to mar the fields with a rain of exclamation marks and pencil inserts, cut them out; his friend and associate Andrei Bely described this:
“He ruined a page in my book “Northern Symphony” and a page in my book “Blizzard Cup” with clippings; a museum attendant happened to see him carving; and when Ellis left, as was customary, leaving his briefcase of work with all the clippings, the attendant took the briefcase to the head of the reading room, a book fanatic, Kvaskov; Ellis was given a severe reprimand: of course, for sloppiness, and not for theft; and deprived him of the right to work in the museum. Kvaskov spoke with indignation about this fact; some newspaperman got wind of it; the enemies of “Libra” inflated the incident to horror; sloppiness was dubbed the name of theft; one would think, reading the newspapers, that Ellis had been systematically stealing valuable manuscripts for years. Minister Casso, having read a note about the “theft” in the museum, took advantage of this opportunity to push the director, Professor Tsvetaev, out of his seat (they had scores to settle); he demanded: let the matter proceed.
Now about Tsvetaev: this latter hated Ellis; Ellis came to his apartment almost every day to preach symbolism to Marina and Asya, his daughters; and dad was horrified by the influence of this “decadent” on them, especially since they developed the most left-wing aspirations for this inert Octobrist: they then called themselves anarchists; In the professor's mind, Ellis fed their tendencies: not to give a damn about dad. On the other hand: the lady with whom dad fell in love was head over heels in love with Ellis; and here and there – the professor’s “decadent” stuck out on the road; He took out his insult as director of the Rumyantsev Museum. And besides everything: he wanted to get out of it in front of the minister who did not like him; he demanded the strictest investigation, with a tendency to blame Ellis.
The result of examining the books Ellis read in the museum (over many years) was devastating for Tsvetaev: except for two pages cut out from the “Symphonies” in full view of the attendants, leaving his briefcase in their hands (instead of taking away the briefcase with the “stolen "), - no traces of “theft”, which was not in the plan; Ellis should “steal” when he was robbed by the editors of a meager fee, when all his life he robbed himself by giving his fee to the first person he met and then sat without lunch. Later, Nylender had to take money from Ellis in order to save it for dinners.
And the “venerable” Professor Tsvetaev wanted to declare this man a malicious thief.
Personal revenge and servility to Casso, from whom even moderate professors fled in horror, turned the gray-haired “professor” into an indirect participant in the slander; While disaster was unfolding over Ellis, the commission investigating the “crime” remained sternly silent, strengthening the idea of many that there must be material for an indictment.
Ellis was hit by: the minister’s personal scores with Tsvetaev, and the latter’s hatred, and the hatred of almost all writers for the “Vesov” manifestos; a theft notice was printed on the front page; it spread across dozens of provincial newspapers in two days; but refutations were not published; two months later, the ruling of the arbitration court, which removed the slander from Ellis, was printed in petit on the fourth page of “Russian Vedomosti”; and remained not reprinted by other newspapers; and the fact that the judicial investigation dropped the “case” of Ellis following the investigation of the museum commission, and the fact that the arbitrators (Muromtsev, Lopatin and Malyantovich) found Ellis not guilty of theft, did not change the opinion: it was not the “thief” who was executed , - employee of the magazine “Libra”.
I will not forget the days spent in Moscow; I rushed about for a week: from A. S. Petrovsky to the sculptor Krakht, from Krakht to S. A. Polyakov, to “Scales”; from “Scales” to the museum; from there - to Ellis, to Shpett, to Astrov; Ellis was dragged to investigations every day: to a commission at the museum; and the element, which I called the “train bastard,” went on a rampage in all Russian newspapers, appealing to the base instincts of the sensation-hungry crowd; the viper slogan: “They are all like that” was heard almost on the street, where the employees of “Vesi” were eaten with their eyes; I saw a picture of a crowd killing Vereshchagin (“War and Peace”); We were outright outlawed, especially when the law stopped the matter, and somewhere in Kharkov, Kyiv, etc. they continued to write:
- “Ellis is a thief!”
(A. Bely. “Between two revolutions.” P. 330–331)
Poems about Moscow
- Moscow! - How huge
Hospice!
Everyone in Rus' is homeless.
We will all come to you.
The stigma disgraces the shoulders,
There is a knife behind the boot.
From far, far away
You will still call.
On convict brands,
For every pain -
Baby Panteleimon
We have a healer.
And behind that door,
Where are the people going -
There is the Iberian heart
Chervonnoe is burning.
And hallelujah flows
To the dark fields.
I kiss your chest
Moscow land!
Then, in the summer of 1909, Marina studied French literature courses in Paris. She was just beginning to “live the way I write: exemplary and concise, as God commanded and my friends do not command.” Ellis, the first poet in her life, received letters:
"Paris, June 22, 1909
Dear Lev Lvovich! Today I had Aiglon and your letters under my pillow, and I had dreams about Napoleon and about my mother. I want to tell you this dream about my mother. We met her on one of the noisy streets of Paris. I walked with Asya. Mom was as always as she was a year before her death - a little pale, with too dark eyes, smiling. I remember her face so clearly now! They started talking. I was so glad to meet her in Paris, where it is especially sad to always be alone. - “Oh mom! - I said, “when I look at the Champs Elysees, I am so sad, so sad.” And I seemed to be blocking the sun with my hand, but in reality I didn’t want Asya to see my tears. Then I began to beg her to meet Lydia Alexandrovna. “More than anyone in the world, Mom, I love you, Lydia Alexandrovna and Ellis” (“And Asya?” flashed through my head. “No, Asya is not needed!”) “Yes, Lydia Alexandrovna seems to have inflammation of the cecum.” , said mom. - “How beautiful you are, mom! “I said in delight, “what a pity that I don’t look like you, but like…” I wanted to say “dad,” but I was afraid that my mother would be offended, and finished: “I don’t know who!” I am so proud of you". “Well,” my mother laughed, “I’m beautiful!” Especially with a pointed nose!” Only then did I remember that my mother had died, but I wasn’t at all afraid. - “Mom, make sure we meet you on the street, even for a minute, come on, mom!” “This is impossible,” she answered sadly, “but if sometimes you see something good, strange on the street or at home, remember that it was me or from me!” Then she disappeared. I don’t know how much time has passed. Noisy street again. Cars, trams, omnibuses, cabs, carriages, chatter, noise, masses of people. Suddenly I feel like someone is chasing me. Mother? But I'm afraid that means it's not her. Something white overtakes me, grabs me and strangles me. I cross the street. There's a tram right at me. I leave the rails, go in the opposite direction, and the tram follows me.
Having finally freed myself from him, I see a car on alert, waiting to see where I’m going to move in order to rush after me. Then I begin to understand that something is wrong here. I see that someone found out our agreement with my mother and wants to incite me against my mother, wants me, frightened by the pursuit of things and unpleasant surprises, to finally say: “Leave me alone!” I also realized that my mother was powerless to warn me and was now suffering. I move to another sidewalk. It's getting dark. Three people stand near the wall with posters - a little old woman, a child and an old man. I start talking about mom, but the old woman doesn’t understand anything, doesn’t hear. I'm starting to think that I only think I'm talking. What if I stand in front of her and move my lips? As soon as I thought this, it became clear to me why she couldn’t hear me, but still I mentally continued my phrase, which ended with the words “destroy.” My old woman at the same moment takes chalk out of her pocket and writes “destroy” on the wall, that is, the word I did not utter. Then I start asking her: “Did you know mom? Did you love her?” “She was petty, clingy,” the old woman hisses, “my dove, believe me.” There is something ingratiating, cunning and at the same time timid in her whisper. Then I turn to the young lady standing behind me - tall, in a blue dress and pince-nez - and in a fallen voice I ask her: “What do you think about mom?” “She had a lot of books, that’s why everyone envies her,” the young lady answers vaguely. - “Mom was straight like a rope stretched across a bow! - I shout in a voice ringing and choking with indignation and enormous effort - she was too direct. The bent bow was too bent and, straightening, tore it!”
(M. Tsvetaeva. Letters. T. 6. P. 31–33)
Jumping over three steps
We run up the steep stairs
It's always spring on our mezzanine
And gold.
Where is the impossible chaos -
Where exactly did the thunder strike?
Over this heap of notebooks
Also with a feather.
Above this horde of barrel organs,
Cardboard dolls and animals,
Half-gnawed lambs,
calendars,
Indescribable boxes
With things not to suit every taste,
Empty bottles without stoppers,
glass beads,
Whose dazzling grapes
Clinquantes, clatantes grappes -
Ringing nails entangle
For our hats.
We sit down - we look - we know - we love,
And we feel, without taking our eyes off,
That we will destroy ourselves for him,
And he is for us.
Two horses on fire and in soap -
Here we are! - Catch it when you're not lazy! -
We talk about how we lived
Yesterday.
About how they ran around the hall
Tonight under the moon,
And what and how they told him
Then in a dream.
And how - and we are already in ecstasy! -
For our indomitable spirit
The authorities of our two gymnasiums
There are two of us chasing.
Like we'll never get married,
- So the three of us will remain! -
Oh, we'll never get married,
Let's die soon!
How life has been for us a long time ago -
Gambling cloth: - vivat!
Follow John - to heaven, follow Don
Juan - to hell.
(M. Tsvetaeva. “The Sorcerer”)
Thanks to Ellis, Marina Tsvetaeva entered the literary circles of Moscow. She later described her meetings with him in the poem “The Sorcerer” (1914), but after the incident with the library books, her father forbade the “scattered poet” to appear in his house.
– Maybe dad will go to St. Petersburg for a few days. If this happens, we will notify you.
Professor I.V. Tsvetaev, the son of a poor rural priest, who studied at the torch, acquired the collections of Egyptologist V.S. Golenishchev for the Museum of Fine Arts and was involved in their transportation to Moscow. After his departure, his daughters Marina and Asya met with some very strange young people... Why didn’t they bother to complete at least the gymnasium course of study?
“I failed in family life, but I succeeded in serving the Motherland,” he will say in the midst of celebrations on the occasion of the opening of the Museum, now named after A.S. Pushkin. He refused the government apartment that he was entitled to as a director and turned it into four apartments for small employees.
And so they remained in modern times: I.V. Tsvetaev is the spirit of the Museum, manufacturer-philanthropist Yu.S. Nechaev-Maltsov is the body of the Museum. I.V. Tsvetaev died a year later, without completing his scientific work on the temples of Ancient Rome, but leaving the Museum to Moscow, and Marina to Russia.
Poems about Moscow
Red brush
The rowan tree lit up.
Leaves were falling
I was born.
Hundreds argued
Kolokolov.
The day was Saturday:
John the Theologian.
To this day I
I want to gnaw
Roast rowan
Bitter brush.
