I am recovering from winter Tsvetaev. Blue hills near Moscow

They met in 1914. Marina Tsvetaeva was only 22 at the time. She has a husband and a little daughter - Ariadne. Sofia Parnok turned out to be almost 9 years older. Love erupted. In life, various surprises happen. Let's leave out the feelings of the two poetesses. Quite a lot has been written about this. Let's turn to poetry. It is important that as a result of this meeting, a wonderful cycle of 17 poems called "Girlfriend" appeared. This is how the young Marina Tsvetaeva described her attitude towards Sofia. Poems literally radiated from Tsvetaeva's soul from October 1914 to May 1915, for 7 whole months. And no matter what they say - it's a pleasure to read them.

FRIEND

Are you happy? - Don't tell me! Hardly!
And better - let!
You too many, it seems, kissed,
Hence the sadness.
All the heroines of Shakespeare's tragedies
I see in you.
You, tragic young lady,
Nobody saved!
Are you so tired of repeating love
Recitative!
Cast iron rim on a bloodless hand -
Eloquent!
I love you. - Like a thundercloud
Above you - sin -
Because you are caustic and burning
And best of all
For the fact that we, that our lives are different
In the darkness of the roads
For your inspirational temptations
And dark rock
For what you, my demon with a tough forehead,
I'll say sorry
For the fact that you - at least burst over the coffin! -
Don't save!
For this trembling, for that - that - really
Am I dreaming? -
For this ironic charm,
That you are not him.
October 16, 1914

Under the caress of a plush blanket
I call yesterday's dream.
What was it? - Whose victory? -
Who is defeated?
I rethink everything again
I'm messing around with everything again.
In what I don't know the words for
Was there love?
Who was the hunter? - Who is the prey?
Everything is diabolical!
What I understood, purring for a long time,
Siberian cat?
In that duel of willfulness
Who, in whose hand was only the ball?
Whose heart is yours or mine
Did it fly?
And yet, what was it?
What do you want and regret?
I don't know if she won?
Is it defeated?
October 23, 1914

Melted today, today
I stood by the window.
The look is more sober, the chest is freer,
Peaceful again.
I do not know why. Must be
Tired soul,
And somehow did not want to touch
Rebel pencil.
So I stood - in the fog -
Far from good and evil
Drumming softly with your finger
A little tinkling glass.
The soul is not better and not worse,
Than the first comer - this one, -
Than mother-of-pearl puddles
Where the sky spilled
Than a flying bird
And just a running dog
And even a poor singer
It didn't bring me to tears.
oblivion cute art
The soul has already mastered.
Some great feeling
Today melted in the soul.
October 24, 1914

You were too lazy to dress
And I was too lazy to get out of my chair.
- And each of your coming days
My fun would be fun.
especially bothered you
Go so late in the night and cold.
- And each of your coming hour
My fun would be young.
You did it without evil
Innocent and irreparable.
I was your youth
that passes by.
October 25, 1914

Today at eight o'clock
Stremglav along Bolshaya Lubyanka,
Like a bullet, like a snowball
Somewhere sleds raced.
Laughter already...
I froze like this:
Hair reddish fur,
And someone tall is nearby!
You were already with someone else
With her, the sleigh path was opened,
With the desired and dear, -
Stronger than I - desired.
- Oh, je n'en puis plus, j'etouffe! -
You shouted at the top of your voice
Sweeping around
It has a fur cavity.
The world is cheerful and dashing evening!
Purchases are flying out of the clutch ...
So you raced into the snow whirlwind,
Eye to eye and coat to coat.
And there was a violent riot
And the snow fell white.
I'm about two seconds -
No more - after looking.
And stroked the long pile
On his fur coat - without anger.
Your little Kai is cold
Oh Snow Queen.
October 26, 1914

Over the coffee grounds at night
Weeping, looking to the East.
The mouth is innocent and loose,
Like a monster flower.
Soon the month - young and thin -
Will change the scarlet dawn.
How many combs do I give you
And I'll give you a ring!
Young month between branches
Didn't save anyone.
How many bracelets will I give
And chains and earrings!
As from under a heavy mane
Shine bright pupils!
Are your companions jealous? -
Blood horses are easy!
December 6, 1914

How cheerfully shone with snowflakes
Yours is gray, mine is sable fur,
Like we are at the Christmas market
We were looking for ribbons brighter than all.
How pink and savory
I ate too many waffles - six!
Like all red horses
I was touched in your honor.
Like red undershirts - with a sail,
God, they sold us rags,
Like wonderful Moscow young ladies
The stupid woman wondered.
As at the hour when the people disperse,
We reluctantly entered the cathedral,
As in the ancient Mother of God
You paused your gaze.
Like this face with gloomy eyes
Was blessed and exhausted
In an icon case with round cupids
Elizabethan times.
How did you leave my hand
Saying, "Oh, I want her!"
With what care inserted
In the candlestick - a yellow candle ...
- Oh, secular, with an opal ring
Hand! - Oh, my whole misfortune! -
As I promised you an icon
Steal tonight!
Like a monastery hotel
- Bell rumble and sunset -
Blessed as birthday girls
We thundered like a regiment of soldiers.
How can I you - to get prettier to old age -
I swore - and spilled the salt,
As three times to me - you were furious! -
The red king came out.
How you squeezed my head,
Caressing every curl
Like your enamel brooch
A flower chilled my lips.
As I am on your narrow fingers
Led a sleepy cheek,
How you teased me as a boy
How did you like me...
December 1914

Loosely lifted neck
Like a young escape.
Who will say the name, who - summer,
Who is its edge, who is the century?
Curvature of soft lips
Capricious and weak
But a dazzling ledge
Beethoven's forehead.
Delightfully pure
Faded oval.
The hand to which the whip would go,
And - in silver - opal.
A hand worthy of a bow
Lost in silk
unique hand,
Fine hand.
January 10, 1915

You go your way
And I don't touch your hands.
But the longing in me is too eternal,
So that you were the first one I met.
My heart immediately said: "Honey!"
All of you - at random - I forgave,
Knowing nothing, not even a name! -
Oh love me, oh love me!
I see on the lips - gyrus,
By their heightened arrogance,
For heavy superciliary protrusions:
This heart is taken - by an attack!
Dress - silk black shell,
A voice with a slightly hoarse gypsy,
I love everything about you,
Even if you're not pretty!
Beauty, you won't fade over the summer!
Not a flower - you are a stalk of steel,
Worse than evil, sharper than sharp
Carried away - from which island?
You wonder with a fan, or with a cane, -
In every vein and in every bone,
In the form of every evil finger, -
The tenderness of a woman, the audacity of a boy.
Parrying all smiles with a verse,
I open to you and the world
All that we have in store for you
Stranger with Beethoven's forehead!
January 14, 1915

Can I not remember
That smell of White-Rose and tea
And Sèvres figurines
Above the blazing fire...
We were: I am in a puffy dress
From a little golden fire,
You are in a knitted black jacket
With winged collar.
I remember what you came in with
Face - without the slightest paint,
As they stood up, biting their finger,
Tilt your head slightly.
And your forehead is power-hungry,
Under the weight of a red helmet,
Not a woman and not a boy, -
But something stronger than me!
Movement causeless
I got up, we were surrounded.
And someone in a joking tone:
"Get acquainted, gentlemen."
And a hand with a long movement
You put in my hand
And gently in my palm
The shard of ice hesitated.
With someone who looked askance,
Already anticipating a skirmish, -
I was reclining in a chair
Twisting the ring on his hand.
You took out a cigarette
And I brought you a match,
Not knowing what to do if
You look me in the face.
I remember - over a blue vase -
How our glasses clinked.
"Oh, be my Orestes!",
And I gave you a flower.
With gray-eyed lightning
From a black suede bag
You took out with a long gesture
And dropped - a handkerchief.
January 28, 1915

All eyes under the sun are burning,
A day is not equal to a day.
I tell you in case
If I change:
Whose lips you kiss
I'm in the hour of love
Black midnight to whom
I didn’t swear terribly, -
Live like a mother tells a child
Like a flower bloom
Never to one side
The eye does not tell ...
Do you see the cypress cross?
- He knows you -
Everything will wake up - just whistle
Under my window.
February 22, 1915

Blue hills near Moscow
In the air, a little warm - dust and tar.
I sleep all day, I laugh all day, it must be
I'm recovering from winter.
I go home as quietly as possible:
Unwritten poems - no pity!
The clatter of wheels and roasted almonds
I love all the quatrains.
My head is empty,
Because the heart is too full!
My days are like little waves
At which I look from the bridge.
Someone's eyes are too tender
In the gentle air barely warmed ...
I already get sick in the summer
Barely recovered from the winter,
March 13, 1915

I repeat on the eve of parting,
At the end of love
What loved these hands
Your domineering
And eyes - someone someone
They don't give a look! -
Requiring a report
For a casual look.
All of you with your damn
Passion - God sees! -
Requiring retribution
For a random breath.
And I'll say tired
- Do not rush to listen! -
That your soul rose to me
Across the soul.
And I'll tell you again:
- Anyway - the eve! -
This mouth before the kiss
Yours was young.
Look - to look - bold and bright,
Heart - five years old ...
Happy who didn't meet you
On his way.
April 28, 1915

There are names like stuffy flowers,
And the views are like a dancing flame...
There are dark twisty mouths
With deep and wet corners.
There are women. - Their hair is like a helmet,
Their fan smells fatal and subtle.
They are thirty years old. - Why do you, why
My soul is a Spartan child?
Ascension, 1915

I want by the mirror, where is the dregs
And a hazy dream
I ask - where do you go
And where is the shelter.
I see: the mast of the ship,
And you are on deck...
You are in the smoke of the train ... Fields
In the evening complaint...
Evening fields in the dew
Above them are ravens...
- I bless you for everything
Four sides!
May 3, 1915

First you loved
superiority of beauty
Curls with a touch of henna,
The plaintive call of the zurna,
Ringing - under the horse - flint,
Slender jump from a horse,
And - in semi-precious grains -
Two patterned shuttles.
And in the second - another -
A thin eyebrow arch,
Silk carpets
Pink Bukhara,
Rings all over my hand
Mole on the cheek
Eternal tan through blondes
And midnight London.
The third one was for you
Something else cute...
What will be left of me
In your heart, stranger?
July 14, 1915

Remember: all the goals are dearer to me
One hair from my head.
And go to yourself ... - You too,
And you, too, and you.
Fall out of love with me, fall out of love with everyone!
Watch out for me in the morning!
So that I can safely leave
Stay in the wind.
May 6, 1915

AUTUMNATTARUSE

Clear morning is not hot
Meadow running light.
Slowly stretches barge
Way down on Oka.

Several words willy-nilly
All you repeat contract.
Where- then bells in field
Weak are ringing.

AT field are ringing? On the meadow whether?
They are going whether on the threshing?
Eyes on the moment dropped in
AT whose- then destiny.

Blue distance between pines,
dialect and hum on the threshing floor...
And smiling autumn
Our spring.

Life opened up, but all same
Oh, golden days!
How far away they. God!
God, how far away!

(M. Tsvetaeva)

Blue hills near Moscow...

Blue hills near Moscow
In the air, a little warm - dust and tar.
I sleep all day, I laugh all day - I must
I'm recovering from winter.

I go home as quietly as possible:
Unwritten poems - no pity!
The clatter of wheels and roasted almonds
I love all the quatrains.

My head is empty,
Because the heart is too full!
My days are like little waves
At which I look from the bridge.

Someone's eyes are too tender
In the gentle air barely warmed...
I already get sick in the summer
Barely recovered from the winter.

I feel the silver waters of the Oki,
Forest birch silver tongue.

In the lilac shade, blooming like a chamomile,
Tarusa sleeps like an amber dream.
Ignatovskaya mountain behind the aunt's barn
Red-green I see a break.

Anastasia Tsvetaeva. Foreign land. 1941. Dallag

***

Blue shadows creep in;
The day is gone. It's dark in the west.
In this sadness, in this desolation,
What is the earth, what is the sky, everything is one.

In the glades, on the dusty lane -
Nobody nettle grace.
Only on road tracks
The age of the century can be guessed.

I will go to the fences and houses,
To the fishermen sleeping over the river
To the old willows that are overflowing
Proud, human longing.

I pass the forest, go around the ravines
And running, swirling thick dust,
Down to the river, so that in motionless moisture
Do not see - guess yourself.

There, pitted with unsteady circles,
Grabbing a broken branch
It hangs in space, upside down
Turned like a negative

But in the eyes, in the furrowed skin,
In each drop with a rainbow border
Randomly I distinguish nevertheless
The age of the century, my eternal age.

Late 1950s Arkady STEINBERG

In the charm of the Russian landscape
There is genuine joy, but it
Not open to everyone and even
Not every artist is visible.
:::::::::::::
And only when behind the dark thicket of the forest
The evening ray will mysteriously shine,
Ordinary dense veil
From her beauties instantly fall.
:::::::::::::
The forests lowered into the water will sigh,
And, as if through transparent glass,
The whole breast of the river will lean against the sky
And it will light up wet and light.
::::::::::::..
And the clearer the details become
objects located around
The more immense are the distances
River meadows, backwaters and bends.

Nikolay Zabolotsky

City of Tarusa

Cozy, peaceful town;
Above the dove eye,
Far from the hustle and bustle of the earth
He breathes blissful peace.

He is all huddled in the hills,
The keys are babbling on the lowlands,
And dilapidated gray houses
And in the middle - an old cathedral

And the bell tower, like a candle.
In the gardens the rooks are screaming, screaming,
The monotonous cry of a rook ...
Below a wide semicircle
Oki sparkling surface.

And there, beyond the shoals, beyond the meadow,
Forests countless army
Crowding along the coastal mountains
And gently sinks in a gentle haze ...
What expanse and grace!

Here is Shitikov, always alive,
Always cheerful, inspirational,
With your talented hand
Tarusu writes incomparably
In foggy haze and snow
And in bright sunshine.

His solemn willows,
Eyes of a blue twist,
The depth of the surrounding distances -
Everything touches the soul to the bottom.

There is a cemetery among the birches
On the shore, above the mountain slope,
Grave on the edge - in it Musatov
Reposed, filled with secret dreams.
The world is unsolved, rich
He took with him forever...

Here is a frisky Tarusyanka jet,
Burle, sparkle on the stones,
And the bright river enchants
Enticing coolness to yourself.

Here are the piles of the forgotten mill,
Wheels overgrown with grass
Around the shady willows
Bent the branches over the water.

Driftwood, stones, dark pool ...
And a lot of pink flowers
Blossoms along the steep bank
Among the wild thickets of bushes.

The horn screams lingeringly, sharply
And, stirring up the bosom of the waters,
Smoke, hissing, with a seething splash,
The white steamer set sail.

Another minute - turn
He completely closed it...
And again there is silence.
The hot sands are silent.

The forest distance turns blue meekly.
And the sandpipers gently cry.
A boat floats with fragrant hay,
Disturbing mirror of the river.

A.V. Cheltsov 1924

Spring

Who yearns for the beauty of nature,
Who wants to rest their soul
I advise you in Tarusa
Live three weeks in the spring.

V.A.Kaspari 1925

Here I see the Oka River,
I stand on its shore.
She is beautiful and sweet
She is thoughtful and kind.

Walking along the river bank
You will see a lot of beauty.
You will see a small town
You will see Tarusa in all its glory:

Her landscape, her expanses,
Her high shores.
And you will carry through the years
All the charms of her then.

Priymak Sofia 7"B" school №1262

... Tarusa has its own glory ... Perhaps, nowhere near Moscow there were places so typical and touchingly Russian in their landscape ... No wonder since late XIX century Tarusa became a city of artists…

K.G. Paustovsky

No matter how much I had to travel different countries and in our country, I have never met, never seen such a wonderful place dear to my heart as Tarusa.

Svyatoslav Richter

"... The places around Tarusa are truly charming, they are immersed in the purest light air... Tarusa should have been declared a nature reserve long ago..."

K.G. Paustovsky

“The forests all around are burning with an autumn fire. In the mornings, the floodplain of the Oka is filled with blue fog, and then nothing is visible from above, only the tops of the hills stand above the foggy river as red and red islands. Sometimes the distances become cloudy and disappear - the smallest rain begins to fall, and each sheet is dressed with a water film. Then the forest becomes even crimson and juicier, even thicker in tones, as in an old varnished painting ... Grass, fir trees and bushes are woven with cobwebs, and chocolate oak leaves rattle like tin under boots. The tugboats on the Oka are shouting, beacons are lit up in the evenings, tractors are buzzing along the slopes of the hills, and there are such lovely artistic places all around - Aleksin, Tarusa, Polenovo, rest houses all around and such a soft, gentle autumn, although time is already moving towards mid-October ... "

Y.Kazakov

“One of the unknown, but really great places in our nature is located just ten kilometers from the log house where I live every summer,” writes Konstantin Georgievich, “... That great place that I want to talk about is called modestly, as and many magnificent places in Russia: Ilyinsky pool. For me, this name sounds no worse than Bezhin Meadow or Golden Ples near Kineshma... Such places fill us with spiritual lightness and reverence for the beauty of their land, for Russian beauty...

Believe me, I have seen a lot of expanses under any latitudes, but I have never seen such a rich distance as in the Ilyinsky pool, and probably never will.

This place, by its charm and the radiance of simple wildflowers, evokes a state of deepest peace and at the same time a strange desire - if one is destined to die, then only here, on this weak sunny breeze, among this tall grass ...

Every time, going on long trips, I always came to the Ilyinsky pool. I simply could not leave without saying goodbye to him, to the familiar willows, to these all-Russian fields ... No! A person cannot live without a homeland, just as one cannot live without a heart.

K.G. Paustovsky

“At the beginning of the 20th century, Tarusa was a charming town (2000 inhabitants) on the banks of the Oka and the Taruska River flowing into it, among beautiful nature almost untouched by civilization ... Tarusa was good! Nature, that is, rivers, forests and meadows, directly approached Tarusa and somehow imperceptibly passed into its green streets with small wooden houses. Several stone merchant houses were only in the center, and the school house and walls former prison on the hill There were no paved streets, except for the center. Tarusa was all buried in apple orchards. You approach Tarusa by boat or from the Tula coast - even though the city is on the palm of your hand, you can hardly see it because of the garden greenery, only the lighthouses can see the cathedral and the church on Voskresenskaya Gorka. And in the spring, when apple trees bloom, Tarusa flaunts like a bride in a wedding dress.

V. Vatagin

"I won't change Central Russia to the most famous and stunning beauties the globe. I would give all the elegance of the Gulf of Naples with its feast of colors for a willow bush wet from the rain on the sandy shore of the Oka.

K.G. Paustovsky

“I've already lost count of the films I've been in. Many of them have been forgotten, and among the most memorable and most beloved are memories of working on True Friends.

Why? But, believe it or not, the river played in this leading role. The river has brought poetry into our everyday work. The river rallied and made friends with us, the participants in this film.

Early mornings and quiet evenings on the river - what peace they brought with them! And how they taught us to admire the beauty of our native land, how many good thoughts wandered in our heads when our raft slowly floated downstream, and we looked at the wonderful shores that opened before us. Those were good days! And I am convinced that this is possible not only in the film.

Boris Chirkov, actor who starred in the film "True Friends"

Marina Tsvetaeva's poem "Blue Hills near Moscow", written in March 1915, is dedicated to describing the feeling of the poetess at the moment of the departure of winter and the arrival of spring. The period from 1912 to 1917 can be called the last segment of the quiet life of the poetess, when she can fully enjoy life without thinking about her hardships.

Three years have passed since the wedding with Efron, more than 2 years before the revolution, which will divide the family. This spring, Tsvetaeva still feels happy and can pay attention to nature and his condition in it.

Spring replaces winter

The poetess writes that she feels herself recovering from the winter. Against the background of the hills near Moscow, blue from the melting snow, she happily inhales the dust and tar of Moscow streets and sleeps more and more, and does not sleep like that laughs. This is a sign of spring recovery from the illness of winter, when melancholy and silence filled the heart.

I'm recovering from winter.

At this moment of awakening from the sleep of spring, Tsvetaeva is ready to exchange poetry for the aroma of roasted almonds and the sound of wheels on the Moscow pavement. She does not feel sorry for what has not been written, since the awakening of spring is a guarantee later life in which there is a place for poetry as an integral part of her life.

Delight in emptiness

Tsvetaeva's heart is full, which is why her head is empty. Now I do not want to think, there is a desire only to enjoy existence, feeling how the winter melancholy recedes under the onslaught of spring warmth. The poetess now looks at her days as waves, observing her life from the side and not entering into disputes and conflicts with it. Tsvetaeva is 23 years old and she wants to take a break, enjoying the arrival of another spring.

My head is empty,

The spring air is saturated with tenderness, it literally oozes from sprouting greenery and penetrates deep into the soul. In the last quatrain, Tsvetaeva writes that spring is already all in her, she begins to get sick in the summer, barely recovering from hibernation. This is natural for a poetess who takes everything close to her heart and cannot stand still in her thoughts. The air is still warmer, and summer is seen at arm's length. Soon the summer heat will come again, soon the haze will come to the earth again, which will prepare a person for autumn, make him fall in love with the fall of leaves and feel the tenderness of the autumn coolness.

I already get sick in the summer
Barely recovered from the winter.

This poem is considered one of the most calm and "painless" in the work of the poetess. In it, Tsvetaeva does not raise difficult questions, does not scream in lines, but only describes his inner feelings that the awakening spring gives.

Blue hills near Moscow
In the air, a little warm - dust and tar.
I sleep all day, I laugh all day, it must be
I'm recovering from winter.

I go home as quietly as possible:
Unwritten poems - no pity!
The clatter of wheels and roasted almonds
I love all the quatrains.

My head is empty,
Because the heart is too full!
My days are like little waves
At which I look from the bridge.

Someone's eyes are too tender
In the gentle air barely warmed ...
I already get sick in the summer
Barely recovered from the winter.