Born in Moscow to an artistic family, Tsvetaeva began practicing poetry at the age of 6 and published her poetry collection "Twilight Commemorative Album" at the age of 18, which attracted the attention of the Russian poetry scene. The 1920s were one of the most turbulent periods in Russian history, and Tsvetaeva was naturally unable to escape the predicament imposed on her by the times. In 1917, her husband, Seryosha, was conscripted into the army and was never heard from as soon as he left. Soon after, the youngest daughter Irina died of starvation in the nursery during the great famine, leaving only the eldest daughter Aria to live with her. Even in such difficult times, she did not interrupt her writing, leaving behind a large number of masterpieces in her life, praising romance, enthusiasm and rationality in poetry. Brodsky, the Nobel laureate in literature, once gave her a high evaluation: "In our century, there is no greater poet than Tsvetaeva." ”
As the daughter of Tsvetaeva, Aria has been suffering with her mother since she was a child and has been with her mother for the longest time during her exile. They are not only mother and daughter, but also close friends in life, and the most powerful spiritual support for each other. Wherever they went, the two were accompanied by shadows, and the poet Balmont was deeply impressed by this: "This mother and daughter, more like two sisters, were born into the poet's soul, trying to completely get rid of the mediocre reality, living freely in fantasy, witnessing this spirit can not help but be moved, under similarly difficult conditions, replaced by others, will be dejected, waiting for death in poverty and illness ..."
Tsvetaeva once wrote a poem for the young Aria: "In the harsh future, you have to remember our past: I – your first poet, you – is my best poem." "What kind of mother is Tsvetaeva outside of her status as a poet?" How does she accompany and teach her children? In Aria's memoir for her mother, "In Memory of Marina Tsvetaeva", we are able to see Tsvetaeva as a mother through vivid details of life. From a very young age, Aaliyah realized that her mother had a special and different personality. Surprisingly, the mother never talks to her daughter about her age, regardless of whether she can accept it, like talking to her peers. Sometimes, young Aaliyah couldn't fully understand that her mother would be angry about it. In the eyes of ordinary people, Tsvetaeva as a mother may be too harsh. She taught Arya to read at four, to write at five, to write a diary at six, and by the time she was seven, the little girl was as precocious as her mother and showed a talent for poetry.
This year marks the 80th anniversary of Tsvetaeva's death, and on Mother's Day, Interface Culture (ID: BooksAndFun) excerpts from Aria's memoirs to honor this unusual mother, poet. In the article, Aria reviews her impressions of her mother when she was young, and many of the teachings are still fresh in her mind. Because the mother never lowered her level and accommodated her children, Aria had the ability to overcome difficulties and think independently, and fought against the harshness of the external world with her young body.
<h3>
The Earliest Memories (excerpt).</h3>
Text | Ariadna Avron translated | Gu Yu
Looking back on the scenes of my childhood, it is not like a vague dream, but the first vivid real experience in life, a series of discoveries - first to discover the things around you, and later to discover the self in life.
At its earliest source, the world was not yet large or small, good or bad, but an indisputable existence, outside of comparison and evaluation. There is also a new pair of childlike eyes in the world, staring at everything that can be seen, but not seeing itself, because these two eyes grow on the face of a little girl. The little girl seemed to be hiding in the depths of her pupils, until one day she saw another girl in the mirror, who looked exactly like herself, and suddenly realized the existence of "I", knowing that the child in the mirror was exactly the same as herself. The girl in the mirror is not very good-looking: light hair, frowning, wearing a striped flannel dress, wearing a pair of leather shoes with buttons on her feet, deliberately stomping her feet, spitting out her tongue, making an ugly appearance, and deserves to go to the corner of the wall to punish the station. Standing there, still stomping her feet and sticking out her tongue, until her mind flashed, she suddenly realized that the girl in the mirror was herself. At that moment she became calm, and with a little curiosity "I" walked to the mirror, caressed the image, touched it very friendly, like stroking Jack the curly-haired dog, stroking it, and gently saying, "How cute!" ”
This happened later, and before that, only the mother knew what to do, and the scope of activities was arranged by the mother, whose name was Marina. Everything depends on the mother, what the child should do during the day and night, when to take the toy out of the cabinet, when to put it back, have to follow her wishes ("play" toys, I will not, damage the toy - and not allowed), in fact, the toy is not interesting, and then replaced by Marina to lead me outside to play, which is really exciting - but before going out often wear hoods, scarves, leg guards, rubber shoes, gloves, wear warm pants, but also buckle hooks, buckles, buttons, Endlessly fastening buttons, all of which annoys small children, and if it's not so much trouble, it's even happier!
<h3>"She tells stories or explains anything, it's never superficial</h3>."
When I was lying in the cradle as a baby, Marina nurtured me with her innate qualities: the ability to overcome difficulties, the ability to think and act independently. She tells stories or explains anything, never superficial, superficial, often more profound, beyond the depth of children's understanding, in order to allow young children to rely on their own intelligence to solve the problems they encounter, perhaps, not only to solve the problem, but even to surpass. She taught me to speak in coherent, clear language about what I saw, heard, felt, or thought. Never lower the level, accommodate the child, but tirelessly try to improve the child's understanding, in order to reach a pole, let the wisdom of adults and the child's advanced understanding, let the adult's personality and the child's personality, at this pole converge.
After completing certain commands, overcoming any difficulties, performing well, giving rewards, not giving candy or other gifts, but reciting fairy tales aloud, going out for a walk together, and inviting you to her room to "be a guest". It is not allowed to run there "casually". The room seemed to be diamond-shaped, with many corners, with an Elizabethan chandelier hanging from the ceiling, a wolf skin next to the low sofa, which looked a little scary, but I wanted to see it; when I walked into that room, I was always a little timid, but I liked it in my heart... I remember my mother leaning down hurriedly to greet me, her face close to mine, the scent of "Corsican jasmine", the sound of her clothes creeping and her clothes, as if she still retained the habit she had developed as a child, sitting on the floor with two long legs crossed, and sitting on a chair or a sofa very rarely. The two of us talked, and then she recited aloud, read fairy tales, read narrative ballads by Lermontov and Zhukovsky... I can recite these stories and poems very quickly from beginning to end, and it feels as if the content can be understood. Yes, before the age of six, reading aloud "Lofty ideals will not yield, the ideal weather vane is loud and noisy", I thought that "wind vane" was a man who dared to resist, bent in the middle of the sails, still loyal to the Tsar, refusing to yield, but there was no such additional beautiful imagination in the narrative ballad.
Sometimes, Marina would take out her grandmother's record player with copper needles, put the needle on the turntable, shake the handle vigorously, and the record would emit the tone of a small step or Grosfar dance, the melody was clear, the sound was not loud, like spring raindrops; as many records as there were, there were as many tunes.
I remember listening to a record by Valia Pennina and Vijalitseva one day, and her voice was suddenly low, sad, suddenly bold and high-pitched! Marina actually told me, a little girl who was not yet four years old, about the impression of the latest concert, as if it was Talking about Penninga's concert.
"She was young and beautiful, and she sang and made all the listeners drunk like a person! Dukes, officers, and rich men fell at her feet, willing to give her titles, property, madness for her, duels for her... Unexpectedly, things have changed, and even you know that the time has come, and her beautiful era has become a cloud of smoke! She is old; beauty, wealth, honor are gone... Only the sound remains... What about those admirers? Worshippers have scattered everywhere, some have become old and heavy, many have passed away... But she's still singing — but not many people want to appreciate it, her generation is dead, and as for the grandchildren's generation, they will never be obsessed with the songs that their grandparents once obsessed with! But she insisted on one last farewell concert. When she wore a long black dress on stage, her body was fat, full of white hair, and she was indeed old! Looking at the looks, I can't find a trace of the past, and all I add is wrinkles. Sitting in the hall were only a few last loyal spectators... From these bad old men, who can still recognize the hussar officers and the attentive beautiful men? But a few ghosts came to the concert hall to meet a ghost for the last time. The ghost is singing, one romantic song after another, singing their favorite songs, for these songs, they hold her, lift her up! Ghosts – they used to love! Ghosts – loved them in the past! She was saying goodbye to them, goodbye to life, goodbye to her love... The time for the concert was long over, the accompanying band was gone, and the staff extinguished the chandeliers in the hall one by one. Suddenly, it became empty. But she still didn't want to go. She refused to leave! The song blurted out and poured out of her chest – and she sang! Sing alone in an empty dark hall. Darkness and song, song in the darkness. Singing – beyond the darkness! ......”
Marina looked at my face and sat down, and she asked:
"Do you understand?"
"Got it," I replied, laughing involuntarily. "The old lady sang, sang, sang, sang, the old men were all gone, and the lights went out."
"You go!" Marina said after a moment of silence. "You're still too young. Let's go to the baby room! ”
So I left my mother and went to the nursery to meet the babysitter, to see the "fierce bear" and "pants silk".
Poor Marina! This happens often, even to the adults she talks to – especially adults! - Often I can't understand the meaning of her words!
Yet the song in the darkness strikes the heart—perhaps, precisely because it is not immediately audible, it is immediately felt, just as many of Marina's works, like riddles, are difficult to comprehend quickly.
Now I think: Maybe it's here, the image of this old lady Tsegon singing in an empty, dark hall, containing the original idea of Tsvetaeva's tragic lyric poem "Sivira"?
Like a gray boulder,
Family ties are severed from the times,
Your body --
It is the cave of your voice.
"My mother didn't look like a mother at all"
</h3>
Again, my ridiculous experience has to do with ridiculous things.
The first time Marina took me to the circus to see a performance, at first I didn't know where to look, just stared at the lighted box, worried about the people sitting there, afraid that they would fall down; somehow, I felt that I could only climb into the box from the outside, there was a ladder outside, and climbing the ladder was dangerous and scary; but we were so lucky to be able to sit here! Marina twisted my face with both hands and showed me the venue: Look here! But I still thought of the illuminated box; when the tiger and the roaring lion suddenly appeared in front of me, I did not look at the terrible animals, but at the trainers, whose clothes reminded me of the college uniforms, the same clothes that my father and his classmates wore: teasing tigers and lions on the field, stepping on tumbling white barrels, jumping around on silver boxes, shouldn't that person be Seryosha? Why do college students wave their whips to drive tigers and lions out? Since they were driven to the field, why did they bombard them again?
Look, some people ran to the round field, bouncing and turning their heads, and the clothes they wore were strange and surprising: some were wearing fat and large coats, holding glittering fir branches, and some were wearing short shoulders and fat bloomer pants, and their faces were painted with green oil. They screamed in sour voices, exaggerated, clumsy, and at the same time very flexible, tearing and fighting each other for a while, and hugging each other in a while, reminiscent of those "street children", I was an "obedient and obedient girl", I could only see them from the window and imagine how they played. clown! clown! Their performances are much more fun than the wild children on the street, because – it's funny! Some clowns jumped around, fighting and wrestling "for no reason", others pushed and shoved, kicked with their feet, swept their legs and stumbled, slapped each other, and each action caused the audience to laugh. In addition, they kept having accidents: suddenly the pants fell off, suddenly the shoulders were cracked, suddenly the sleeves were broken, suddenly the hat flew, suddenly the stomach exploded, and suddenly a big hole was exposed in the ass; the chair they sat on suddenly moved to the side, causing them to fall on their heads, and the ground under their feet suddenly cracked and cracked, frightening them to shout!
I was fascinated, at first with a smile on my face, then a laugh, and finally a laugh, like all the audience— all the audience, except Marina.
She twisted my face with her iron palms, no longer watching the performance on the field, she felt angry, lowered her voice, and said flatly: "Listen, you have to remember: people who laugh at the misfortunes of others are either fools or badass, often fools and badass." It is not ridiculous that a person has been deceived; it is not ridiculous that a person has been splashed with dirty water; it is not ridiculous that a person has been tripped by someone else; it is not laughable that a person accidentally dropped his pants; it is despicable that a person is slapped. Such laughter — it's a sin. ”
I immediately understood these words, remembered them in my heart, and did not dare to forget them for the rest of my life. In the years that followed, remember what my mother said, and no longer laugh at the clowns, and do not laugh at those who are like clowns.
When I stumbled upon the fact that I could already recognize the alphabet, Marina taught me to read words, not to divide the words into syllables, but to read the whole word at once, "silently" at the beginning, and then read it aloud. She shoved a pen into my hand, which had never written a single letter that was crooked and twisted, and instead of mechanical typing practice according to the rules, I had to form the letters myself along a line, and connect the words into sentences. This kind of training makes me have to think a lot about what I'm writing and how to write it. Marina's teaching methods eliminate the factor of negative imitation once and for all and train children to learn creative thinking. Instead of the boring example sentences, immediately turn to writing, memorizing a paragraph, writing essays; the ordinary exercise books used by the students become diaries; grammar learns only much-needed, less complicated rules. The ability to memorize regularly strengthens memory, first of all visual ability, that is, observation, which is a talent that most children are born with, but unfortunately will soon be lost...
Bravely abandoning some of the transitional links that connect with each other from the teaching chain, before I was four years old, Marina taught me to read—to read quickly, to think as I read, to write at the age of almost five—to write, and at the age of six or seven—to start keeping diaries, to take notes, to write coherently (using old-fashioned spelling), and to be grammatical.
Since the time when I began to "write" coincided with the time of the outbreak of the revolution, and half a century had passed, it might be interesting to look at these notes again.
"My mother
My mother was weird.
My mother didn't look like a mother at all. Mothers always appreciate their children and usually like other people's children, but Marina does not like children.
Her light brown hair was bent and drooping from the sides. She had turquoise eyes, a high bulge in the bridge of her nose, and rose-colored lips. Her figure and arms are well proportioned, which I like.
Annunciation – is her favorite holiday. She is often worried, quick-witted, and loves poetry and music. She writes poetry. She can endure, often to the limit. She also loves to get angry. She was always in a hurry to get out of the house to get somewhere. She has a big heart. The voice is gentle. Walking is fast. Marina's hand had been wearing a ring. Marina reads at night. Her eyes almost always had a mocking look. She doesn't like it when people ask stupid questions to tangle with her, and she gets angry when she encounters that.
She occasionally wandered as she walked, but soon woke up, started talking, and walked again to where she was going.
December 1918"
Excerpts and images from the book "In Memory of Marina Tsvetaeva: Memories of My Daughter" are abridged from the original text, and the subtitles are drafted by the editor and published with the permission of the publisher.