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 of hard life and intense creative work passed - and proud confidence gave way to complete disbelief: "There is no place for me in the present and 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 poems 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 specific 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.
"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.
***
Grey 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 joys, 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 will love me so much that he will give me potassium cyanide, and will know me so much that he will understand, will be convinced that I will never use it ahead of time. - 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. Attractive (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!
******
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.
Nesterova I.A. Marina Tsvetaeva about herself and her fate // Encyclopedia of the Nesterovs
Consider the work of Tsvetaeva from the standpoint of autobiography.
One - of all - for all - against all!
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 of hard life and intense creative work passed, and proud confidence turned into complete disbelief:
There is no place for me in the present and in the future.
To all of me - not a single inch of the earth's surface, this smallness - to me - in the whole wide world - not an inch (now I stand on my last, uncaptured, only because I stand on it: I stand firmly ...
This is, of course, a conscientious delusion, to a certain extent 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 destiny, the artist leaves, the art remains. Tsvetaeva herself said about this much more precisely: "... there is nothing new in me, except for my poetic responsiveness to the new sound of the air." He did not get lost in the stream of poetic novelties, he was noticed and approved by V. Bryusov, N. Gumilyov, and M. Voloshin. Thanks to this responsiveness, the young poet, fatally trying to oppose himself to the new century, eventually turned out to be an integral part of this century. The creative heritage of Marina Tsvetaeva is great and invaluable for posterity.
Her character was difficult, unstable and uncompromising. Ilya Ehrenburg, who knew her well in her youth, said: "Marina Tsvetaeva combined old-fashioned courtesy and rebelliousness, reverence for harmony and love for spiritual tongue-tiedness, utmost pride and utmost simplicity. Her life was a tangle of insights and mistakes."
However, the recognition of Tsvetaeva's talent is undeniable. Thirteen books published during her lifetime and five more posthumously absorbed only a part of what was written by the poetess. The other part of the poems is scattered among now practically inaccessible publications. Among the created by Tsvetaeva, in addition to lyrics, seventeen poems, eight poetic dramas, autobiographical, memoir, historical-journalistic and philosophical-political prose are of great interest.
In the creative heritage of Marina Tsvetaeva, there are many things that have outlived their time. At the same time, a number of her works belong to a specific era and reflect its details. To the modern generation, they seem incomprehensible, unsuccessful and clumsy. However, it is important to understand that the lack of understanding of a particular work does not make the poet bad. The poetry of Marina Tsvetaeva can only be understood and not understood.
So one of her famous poems Marina Tsvetaeva remembers her grandmothers. One of them was a simple rural hit, the other a proud Polish lady.
I left both grandmothers - a granddaughter:
A laborer - and a white hand!
At first, two souls, two sides of the same coin, were so bizarrely combined in the poetess: an enthusiastic young lady and a masterful obstinate "rebel".
Once Tsvetaeva spoke about her literature: "This is the business of poetry specialists. My specialty is Life." She lived difficult and difficult, did not know and did not seek peace or prosperity. She knew her worth as a person and as a poet, but did nothing to ensure her life and fate as a poet and a person.
Marina Tsvetaeva did not accept and did not understand the October Revolution. It would seem that it was she, with all her rebellious nature, her human and poetic nature, who could find a source of creative inspiration in the revolution. Even though she would not have been able to correctly understand the revolution, its goals and tasks, but she should have at least felt it as a powerful and boundless element.
Despite all of the above, Tsvetaeva was a resilient and strong person. She wrote: "I have enough for another hundred and fifty million lives"! She greedily loved life, and as it should be for a romantic poet, she made high demands on her:
Don't take my blush
Strong as the floods of rivers.
You are a hunter - but I will not give in,
You are the chase - but I am the run.
As a deeply feeling person, Tsvetaeva could not avoid the theme of death in her poetry. This theme was especially loud in her early poems:
Listen! - still love me
For me to die.
However, it is obvious that even then the motive of death was opposed to the pathos and the general major tone of her poetry. She still thought immeasurably more about herself "so alive and real on the gentle earth."
Despite her obvious love of life, fate was cruel to Marina Tsvetaeva. Loneliness accompanied her all her life. But it was not her style to suffer and revel in her own pain. She said ... "Goethe's joy is dearer to me than Russian suffering, and that solitude is dearer to me than Russian throwing." She hid her mental anguish deep in her soul under the armor of pride and obstinacy. In fact, all her life she longed for simple human happiness. M.I. Tsvetaeva once said: "Give me peace and joy, let me be happy, and you will see how I can do it."
Tsvetaev the poet cannot be confused with anyone else. Her poems are immediately and unmistakably recognizable due to their special chant, unique rhythm and uncommon intonation.
The poems of Marina Tsvetaeva are thoroughly saturated with suffering, unfulfilled dreams and deep dedication. The poetess is an amazing example of self-immersion and detachment from the outside world in order to immerse herself in poetry, in her work.
The whole sea needs the whole sky,
A whole heart needs all of God.
Tsvetaeva often repeated: "For me, poetry is home." She owned this house of hers in full, and left it unlike the others: lived-in and warm. Inhabited by passions, original and extremely attractive, generous for everyone who wants to taste the tart Tsvetaeva muse.
“Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva was born in Moscow on September 26, 1892 from Saturday to Sunday, at midnight, on John the Theologian, in the very heart of the city, in a small cozy house along Trekhprudny Lane, reminiscent of the city estate of Famusov times.
She always attached a semantic and almost prophetic meaning to such biographical details, where one feels a boundary, a boundary, a break: “from Saturday to Sunday”, “midnight”, “to John the Evangelist…”.
At the time of her birth, at the end of autumn and on the eve of winter, rowan bears hot fruit - mentioned in various verses, it will become, as it were, a symbol of Tsvetaeva's fate, bitter, broken, doomedly burning with a high crimson fire:
"Hot brush,
The rowan lit up.
Leaves were falling.
I was born.
Hundreds argued
Bells.
The day was Saturday:
John the Theologian.
To me even now
I want to chew
hot rowan,
Bitter brush."
Rowan can rightfully be included in the poetic heraldry of Tsvetaeva.
Tsvetaeva's father came from a poor rural clergy, thanks to his extraordinary talent and "strong" (in the words of his daughter) industriousness, he became an art professor, an outstanding connoisseur of antiquity. It is no coincidence that Tsvetaeva has many mythological images and reminiscences - she may have been the last poet in Russia for whom ancient mythology turned out to be a necessary and familiar spiritual atmosphere.
Mother, Maria Alexandrovna Mein, who came from a Russified Polish-German family, was a gifted pianist, who, however, realized her talent only in the home circle, Anton Rubinstein admired her playing. The musical beginning turned out to be exceptionally strong in Tsvetaevsky's work. Marina Tsvetaeva perceived the world primarily by ear, trying to find for the sound she caught, if possible, an identical verbal and semantic form. Tsvetaeva turned out to be an aeolian harp: the air of the era touched her strings, as if against the visible will of the "performer". Marina and her sister Anastasia Tsvetaeva were orphaned early - their mother died of tuberculosis when the eldest, Marina, was 14, and Anastasia - 12 years old. The father, immersed in science and the creation of the museum, loved children, but did not notice that they were growing up. It is no coincidence that Marina grew up outside of reality: in the world of culture, books, music, dreams, she grew up, in her own words, “past” time.
Marina started publishing at the age of 16. Before the revolution, three books of her poems were published in Russia: "Evening Album" (1910), "Magic Lantern" (1912) and "From Two Books" (1913). In the 1920s, two books were published with the same name "Versts", where the lyrics of 1914-1921 were collected. From the very beginning of her career, Tsvetaeva did not recognize the word "poetess" in relation to herself, calling herself "poet Marina Tsvetaeva."
The external events of pre-revolutionary history had little to do with her poetry. Much later, she would say that "the poet hears only his own, sees only his own, knows only his own."
The First World War and the revolution touched her insofar as they affected the fate of her husband and children.
She met her future husband S.Ya. Efron in Koktebel: Marina went to the deserted beach of Carnelian Bay. There she walked in search of beautiful stones. And on the bench, against the backdrop of the endless sea, sat a handsome young man. He volunteered to help Marina, who, admiring his blue eyes, agreed. Tsvetaeva thought to herself: if he guesses which stone she liked the most and brings it, then she will marry him. The poetess later recalled this acquaintance: “And with a pebble, it came true, because S.Ya. Efron, whom I, having waited for him to be 18 years old, married six months later, opened and handed me almost on the first day of our acquaintance - the greatest rarity! - a Genoese carnelian bead, which is with me to this day.
And one more thing: “In the Crimea, where I am visiting Max Voloshin, I meet my future husband, Sergei Efron. We are 17 and 18 years old. I promise myself that no matter what happens, I will never part with him. In Moscow in 1939, Tsvetaeva confirmed her promise made at the age of eighteen. And that same “carnelian bead” outlived the participants in the events described for a long time: in 1973, it ended up in the hands of their daughter, Ariadna Efron.
Sergei Efron came from a family of Narodnaya Volya. His mother, Elizaveta Petrovna Durnovo, was a well-known noble family, which, however, did not prevent her from sincere desire to help all the disadvantaged join the revolutionary organization "Land and Freedom". Yakov Konstantinovich (Kalmanovich) Efron came from a Jewish family, from the Vilna province. In her future husband, Marina saw the embodiment of nobility and at the same time defenselessness. Contemporaries noted that in Marina's feelings for Sergei there was a lot of motherhood - and Efron needed guardianship and care. Friends and relatives described him in different ways. But most agreed that he was a handsome young man, with a gentle character, who needed the support of his wife.
Anastasia Ivanovna was very fond of her "soft, friendly, charming relative."
Efron, who fell ill with tuberculosis after the death of his mother in 1910, was in poor health all his life. Sergei Yakovlevich could not endure the humid Crimean climate for a long time, so the young people soon moved to the Ufa province, from where they returned to Moscow in the fall of 1911. Tsvetaeva's father was then seriously ill and was being treated at a heart resort abroad. In anticipation of a serious conversation with her father about marriage, Tsvetaeva settled her future husband in her house in Trekhprudny Lane. Some time later, they settled in an apartment in Sivtsevo Vrazhka, where Lilya and Vera Efron, Sergei's sisters, and Elena Ottobal, long ago Voloshina (Pra) from Koktebel, moved in with them. Efron was a year younger than his future wife. At that time he wrote the book "Childhood" and attended the gymnasium. Marina was preparing for publication the second collection of poems "Magic Lantern". The quiet celebration of the wedding of Tsvetaeva and Efron took place on January 27, 1912 in the Palashevskaya Church. Not everyone met this marriage with enthusiasm. The right-wing monarchists Tsvetaev and Ilovaisky did not like the past revolutionary moods and the Jewish origin of the Efrons. Marina herself was happy. Her feelings are reflected in the poem "To Joy", dedicated to her husband. Soon after the wedding, the publishing house "Ole Lukoye", which was founded by a young family, published a book by Sergei Yakovlevich "Childhood" and a collection of Tsvetaeva's "Magic Lantern". The governess of the Tsvetaeva family, S.D. Main (Thio), helped the young people buy a house in Polyanka, in Zamoskvorechye.
In September 1912, Ariadne was born in this house. In 1914, the young couple moved to another house, located in Borisoglebsky Lane, where Tsvetaeva lived until her departure from Russia in 1922.
The first years of their life together were happy. Marina Ivanovna wrote: “I constantly tremble over him. The slightest excitement raises his temperature, he is all feverish thirst for everything ...
For three - or almost three - years of marriage - not a single shadow of doubt in each other. Our marriage is so different from an ordinary marriage that I don’t feel married at all and I haven’t changed at all (I love everything the same and live everything the same as I did at 17). We will never part. Our meeting is a miracle." It is worth noting, however, that by nature they were two different people. Sergei had to serve some idea: first it was Marina, then loyalty to the motherland, then communism. Tsvetaeva also served the word and art. Mark Slonim recalled that Marina really did not love anyone but her husband. Tsvetaeva remained with Efron all her life, following him to her death. However, there were other, sometimes quite unexpected novels in her life. In 1915, Efron went to the front as a volunteer. “A possible reason for such an unexpected act, some biographers call Marina’s romance with the poetess Sofia Parnok and the crisis in the relationship of the spouses. Tsvetaeva and Parnok met in the autumn of 1914 in one of the literary salons. Sofia Yakovlevna was seven years older than Marina Ivanovna. At the time of their meeting, she was already a recognized independent literary critic and a talented poetess. Tsvetaeva instantly fell under her influence. Parnok from her youth until her death had relationships with women, although from 1907 to 1909 she was married to the poet Vladimir Volkenstein. Marina adored her beloved, admired her dark eyes, high forehead, pallor and haughty lips. At the beginning of 1915, Tsvetaeva created the poem “You go your own way ...”, which describes everything that she liked so much in her new friend. Parnok combined, according to Tsvetaeva, "the tenderness of a woman, the audacity of a boy." In the spring of 1915, Marina and Sofia go to Koktebel, where they are joined by Alya with her nanny and sister Anastasia with her son. Meanwhile, Tsvetaeva was fully aware of the gravity of her situation and was torn between feelings for Parnok and for her husband. When the women returned to the capital, it became clear that their relationship had come to an end.
In February 1916, the novel ended. Something went wrong in the relationship with Sofia Parnok, and again loneliness, and again the pain of loss.
The details of the breakup remain unknown. The vicissitudes of their romance, with a certain amount of fiction, are reflected in the Tsvetaevsky cycle "Girlfriend" and "Youthful Poems". These relationships left a mark in the life and work of both poetesses, for Marina Ivanovna they turned out to be an important stage in her poetic and spiritual development.
“Tsvetaeva had two daughters - Ariadna and Irina. Son George in exile. In the famine years of “war communism”, Tsvetaeva was faced with a tragic choice: she did not have the opportunity to feed both girls, and she was forced to give the youngest Irina to an orphanage, where the girl died of starvation.
In addition to life tragedies in the first years of the revolution (the unknown fate of her husband, domestic disorder, hunger, the death of Irina), Tsvetaeva is also experiencing a creative drama: both of her books, Milestones, turned out to be incomprehensible to readers, even Osip Mandelstam, who loved and deeply appreciated Marina, in the article “Literary Moscow” more than harshly responded to her poems. All this strengthened Tsvetaeva's sense of her own uselessness in Russia. But the main reason for her emigration was the desire to reunite with her husband.
In May 1922, Tsvetaeva emigrated. In emigration, Marina was painfully lonely - without Russia, Russian land, outside the emigrant environment. She dedicates poems to the Russian people, to the events of contemporary Russian history, speaks admiringly of Mayakovsky, Pasternak, Yesenin. For its utmost sincerity and humanity, for subjective honesty, it pays with the fact that it was no longer printed in the émigré press, limiting the opportunity to earn a living and depriving every creator of contact with the reader, which is necessary for every creator. Alienation of Tsvetaeva from the emigrant environment was also associated with the position taken by her husband. Involved in a number of scandals, S.Ya. Efron was forced to flee France. Emigration recoiled from the wife of the “agent of Moscow”. Only a narrow circle of her friends remained faithful to the disgraced exile.
The question arose about returning to Russia. M.I. Tsvetaeva understood what difficulties awaited her at home, but nevertheless decided to return. In this act, the main features of Tsvetaeva, a poet and a person, were again manifested: loyalty, courage, high concepts of honor.
She thinks first of all about her loved ones: she thinks that she will be able to help the family, that her son “will be fine” in Russia. Her life credo is expressed in a letter to her Czech friend A. Teskova: "You can't leave a person in trouble, I was born with this." The crazy and cruel world of the "iron" age swept over her throat like a noose. Arrested husband and daughter. Goslitizdat delays the book of poems. "Prosperous" poets release ironic hairpins in her address, avoiding any kind of help. Blok, Gumelev, Yesenin, Mayakovsky and Mandelshtamp are no longer alive. As in the years of "war communism", there is nothing to live on.
From the beginning of the Great Patriotic War, Tsvetaeva was completely confused, she was afraid that she would not be able to feed her son. In early August, she, together with a group of writers, went to a small town on the Kama Yelabuga. Tsvetaeva was ready to do anything to get at least some work.
- On August 26, she wrote an application to the Literary Fund with a request to hire her as a dishwasher. But even this was denied to her.
- On August 31, 1941, the great Russian poet Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva voluntarily passed away. In one of the suicide notes - the lines: "Forgive me - I could not stand it."
