“I am Marina’s daughter”

What can a seven-year-old child write about in a diary? What does the snow think when it flies to the ground; how Blok reads his poems; about a mother who “is angry and loves”… Unusual lines from the diary kept by Ariadna Efron, daughter of Marina Tsvetaeva, from 6 to 9 years old.

My mother

She has light brown hair that curls down the sides. She has green eyes, a hooked nose, and pink lips. She has a slender height and hands that I like. Her favorite day is the Annunciation. She is sad, fast, loves Poetry and Music. She writes poetry. She is patient, always endures to the extreme. She is angry and loves. She doesn’t want to live the way she does. She goes to some markets with some purses and jugs. She is nearsighted. She is always in a hurry to do something. She has some useless services. She has a big soul. Low gentle voice. Quick walk. Marina’s hands are all in rings. Marina reads at night, her eyes are almost always mocking. They always have words and letters written on them that last only one second and appear again and again. She doesn’t like to be pestered with some stupid questions. She then gets very angry. Sometimes she walks as if lost, but suddenly she wakes up, starts talking and again goes somewhere. She used to have many friends. But then they began to leave it little by little, just because we have nothing.

If the sorceress came now

If a sorceress appeared now and asked me what I want, I would say: “I want my parents and I to live until the world goes out” …

My second desire is this: “I would like Russia to be the most courageous, loud country, so that everyone praises it, loves it, comes to watch and praise and shout in unison:“ Hooray! .. ”I would like all the culprits to come, knelt before Russia, kissed her feet. (Earth.)

I would like (as under Don Juan) husbands to lower silk ladders from the windows for their wives.

What makes it snow

Snow comes from love and sorrow to the cold World. Snow is made from various solar clouds and the cloth of the Lord. In my opinion, God sends snow to the earth for the happiness of children and adults. For the delight of the snow and its celebration … Snow, when it flies to the ground, thinks: “How happy I am!” The snow, as it flies here, feels the urge to spread its arms like wings and be ready for a light, gentle fall. The snow is bold. Whenever he flies down, he feels jubilation, cheers, victory and tenderness. Snow is a sincere, faithful, truthful, tender love for the Angels, God, silence and all the world, the world and death. Snow has a soul.

My seventh birthday

Marina talked to me about my seventh birthday. She asked me: “Alya. You will be glad if one day I tell you: “Alya. Are you seven years old today? I answered: “No, I feel sorry for six years.” Then, recollecting himself: “Although it will be possible to imagine that I am only six years old.” “Why, Alechka, imagine six years.”

After breakfast we went to our room. Leaning down next to Marina, I looked around incredulously and saw that in the middle of the room stood a stool, transformed into a table. There are books on it and on two plates there are apples, a cake and a few cakes …

Me and Marina

I am Marina’s daughter. She turned twenty-seven yesterday, and I recently turned seven, only seven. I remember. When I was little, I was 2, 3 years old, we had a poodle that would dangle around my chair during breakfast. Then I had a wide “my” room – the Nursery. I played in it, I ate in it, I slept in it, I was sick in it. I remember. I used to be bathed every day. Marina sat me down and gave me tin birds. I kissed all the birds and laid Marina’s head on mine (Ah. How much time has passed. – As many as 7 years, the 8th is coming. And how happy we were then). Often I yelled when they poured water on my head, and assured me that soapy water would get into my nose and mouth. Then Marina took her on her knees to her room, where a wonderful blue chandelier always burned in the evenings.

Marina has changed very little since I remember her. It seems that only dresses and brooches have changed. Earlier at that time, I didn’t understand Love in the same way as I understand it now, at this difficult time. Ah, Marina, you are my constant.

Marina Tsvetaeva “Letters 1905-1923”

So the letters of Tsvetaeva, scattered through archives, private collections, rare and scattered publications, as well as her poems, the turn has come to gather under one cover. More precisely, in a three-volume edition – after all, Marina Ivanovna’s letters, addressed to dozens of contemporaries, have survived a lot, a lot.

Block Evening

We leave the house on a bright evening. Marina explains to me that A. Blok is as great a poet as Pushkin.

… A wooden, elongated face, dark eyes lowered, a dull dry mouth, a brown complexion, all somehow elongated, a completely dead expression of the eyes, lips and whole face. (Block could be put in a coffin, eyes closed, but he still hasn’t changed.) Block! I already love him.

“Misty Morning,” reads A. A. Blok. “As the boy shuffled, he gives a bow. Goodbye! And the token clinked on the bracelet. What a memory!” (These lines remained in my memory from an early age and will remain forever).

I don’t remember any more verses in melody, but I can convey in prose: “Your face lies on a table in a gold frame in front of me. And sad memories of you. You went into the night in a dark blue cloak. And I remove your face in a gold frame from the table. A. A. Blok reads “bells”, “rings”, ending in “s”. Reads woodenly-restrainedly-abbreviated. Yes, I knew them at birth. Very harsh and dark. “You coldly press your silver rings to my lips.”

At that time I was standing on the head of some black statue, whose face was more alive than that of Blok himself. My Marina, sitting in a modest corner, had a formidable face, compressed lips, as if she were angry. In general, there was no joy in her face, but there was delight.

If you don’t like it, don’t read it…

I’m offended. You think it’s very nice when a letter about your own mother is called a pancake. I thought that everyone has a right not to be thrown out when he shows a letter.

Dear Marina! I try to write better. I hope that I will eat well and be able to go with you to Sollogub’s House. You are not here now. In vain you think that I am lazy. I can write as much prose as you want. Do you really want me to spoil a few pages with unfortunate verses? Thank you for allowing me to write prose. Thank God that you can love me.

Parting

Oh my 8 years! I regret the last day of the Old Year, I regret the last day of my old frayed years. O my old devotees of 8 years! Oh 8 years! It’s 10 o’clock now, you have 2 hours left. Only 2 hours. Friend! Faithful friend to death. Your life is cruelly short! Year! Day! Hour! Moment! And everything is almost the same! Oh! There is no cure. Goodbye. Goodbye, 8 years old. I love and always faithful.

Your Alya

For more details, see “The Book of Childhood. Diaries of Ariadne Efron 1919-1921 “(Russian Way, 2013).

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