That the heart is too full. Blue hills near Moscow
Marina Tsvetaeva’s poem “Blue Hills near Moscow,” written in March 1915, is dedicated to describing the poetess’s feeling at the moment of the passing of winter and the arrival of spring. The period from 1912 to 1917 can be called the last segment of the poetess’s quiet life, when she could fully enjoy life without thinking about its hardships.
Three years have passed since the wedding with Efron, more than 2 years until the revolution that will divide the family. This spring, Tsvetaeva still feels happy and can pay attention to the surrounding nature and her condition in it.
Spring gives way to winter
The poetess writes that she feels herself recovering from winter. Against the backdrop of the Moscow hills, blue from the melting snow, she happily inhales the dust and tar of Moscow streets and sleeps more and more, instead of sleeping, she 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 is not written, since the awakening of spring is the key to future life, in which there will be a place for poetry as an integral part of her life.
Enjoying the Emptiness
Tsvetaeva’s heart is full, which is why her head is empty. Now I don’t want to think, I only want to enjoy existence, feeling how the winter blues recede under the onslaught of spring warmth. The poetess now looks at her days like waves, observing her life from the outside and without 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.
The head is so beautifully empty,
The spring air is saturated with tenderness; it literally oozes from the sprouting greenery and penetrates deep into the soul. In the last quatrain, Tsvetaeva writes that spring is already all over her, she begins to get sick in the summer, having barely recovered from hibernation. This is natural for a poetess who takes everything to heart and cannot stand still in her thoughts. The air is still warmer, and summer is at arm's length. Soon the summer heat will return, soon a haze will come to the earth again, which will prepare a person for autumn, make him fall in love with leaf fall and feel the tenderness of autumn coolness.
I'm already getting sick in the summer,
Having barely recovered from the winter.
This poem is considered one of the most calm and “painless” in the poetess’s work. In it, Tsvetaeva does not raise complex questions, does not shout in lines, but only describes her inner feelings that the awakening spring gives.
Blue hills near Moscow,
The air is slightly warm - dust and tar.
I sleep all day, I laugh all day, it must be
I'm recovering from winter.
I'm going home as quietly as possible:
Unwritten poems are not a pity!
The sound of wheels and roasted almonds
Quatrains are dearer to me than all others.
The head is so beautifully empty,
Because the heart is too full!
My days are like small waves
Which I look at from the bridge.
Someone's views are too tender
In the gentle air, barely warmed...
I'm already getting sick in the summer,
Having barely recovered from the winter.
They met in 1914. Marina Tsvetaeva was only 22 years old at that time. She has a husband and a little daughter, Ariadne. Sofia Parnok turned out to be almost 9 years older. Love broke out. Various surprises happen in life. Let's leave the feelings of the two poetesses outside the scope. 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 exactly how young Marina Tsvetaeva outlined 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.
GIRLFRIEND
Are you happy? - You won’t tell! Hardly!
And it’s better - let it be!
I think you kissed too many people
Hence the sadness.
All the heroines of Shakespeare's tragedies
I see in you.
You, young tragic 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
There is a sin over you -
Because you are caustic and burning
And best of all
Because we, that our lives are different
In the darkness of the roads,
For your inspired temptations
And dark rock
For what you, my cool-headed demon,
I'll say sorry
For the fact that you - at least burst over the coffin! -
There's no way to save it!
For this trembling, for that - is it really
Am I dreaming? -
For this ironic charm,
That you are not him.
October 16, 1914
Under the caress of a plush blanket
I induce yesterday's dream.
What was it? - Whose victory? -
Who is defeated?
I'm changing my mind again
I'm tormented by everyone again.
In something for which I don’t know the word,
Was there love?
Who was the hunter? - Who is the prey?
Everything is devilishly the opposite!
What did I understand, purring for a long time,
Siberian cat?
In that duel self-will
Who, in whose hand was only the ball?
Whose heart is it yours or mine?
Did it fly at a gallop?
And yet - what was it?
What do you want and regret?
I still don’t know: did she win?
Was she defeated?
October 23, 1914
Today it melted, today
I stood by the window.
The look is more sober, the chest is freer,
Peaceful again.
I do not know why. It must be
The soul is simply tired,
And somehow I didn’t want to touch
Rebel pencil.
So I stood there - in the fog -
Far from good and evil,
Drumming your finger quietly
On the slightly clinking glass.
The soul is no better and no worse,
Than the first person you meet - this one -
Than mother-of-pearl puddles,
Where the sky splashed,
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 it.
Some great feeling
Today it melted in my soul.
October 24, 1914
You were too lazy to get dressed,
And I was too lazy to get up from my chairs.
- And every day of yours
My fun would be fun.
You were especially embarrassed
Walking so late into the night and cold.
- And every hour of your coming
My fun would be young.
You did it without evil,
Innocent and irreparable.
- I was your youth,
Which passes by.
October 25, 1914
Today, at eight o'clock,
Headlong along Bolshaya Lubyanka,
Like a bullet, like a snowball,
A sled rushed somewhere.
Already ringing laughter...
I just froze with my gaze:
Hair reddish fur,
And someone tall is nearby!
You were already with someone else
With her they opened the sleigh path,
With the desired and dear, -
More desirable than I am.
- Oh, je n'en puis plus, j'etouffe! -
You shouted at the top of your voice,
Smell it in a sweeping manner
It has a fur cavity on it.
The world is cheerful and the evening is dashing!
Shopping is flying out of the muff...
So you rushed into the snowy whirlwind,
Eye to eye and coat to coat.
And there was a fierce riot
And the snow fell white.
I'm about two seconds -
No more - she looked after her.
And stroked the long pile
On your fur coat - without anger.
Your little Kai is cold,
Oh, Snow Queen.
October 26, 1914
At night over the coffee grounds
Cries, looking to the East.
The mouth is innocent and loose,
Like a monstrous flower.
Soon the month is young and thin -
Will replace the scarlet dawn.
How many combs do I give you?
And I’ll give you a ring!
Young moon between the branches
Didn't warn anyone.
How many bracelets will I give,
And chains and earrings!
As if from under a heavy mane
Bright pupils shine!
Are your companions jealous? -
Blood horses are easy!
December 6, 1914
How joyfully the snowflakes shone
Yours is gray, mine is sable fur,
Like we're at the Christmas market
They were looking for the brightest ribbons.
How pink and unsweetened
I ate too many waffles - six!
Like all red horses
I was touched in your honor.
Like red coats - like a sail,
For fear, they sold us rags,
Like the wonderful Moscow young ladies
The stupid woman marveled.
Like at the hour when people disperse,
We reluctantly entered the cathedral,
Like the ancient Virgin Mary
You paused your gaze.
Like this face with gloomy eyes
Was blessed and exhausted
In an icon case with round cupids
Elizabethan times.
How you left my hand,
Saying, “Oh, I want her!”
With what care they inserted
In a candlestick - a yellow candle...
- Oh, socialite, with an opal ring
Hand! - Oh, my whole misfortune! -
How I promised you an icon
To steal tonight!
Like going to a monastery hotel
- The sound of bells and the sunset -
Blessed as birthday girls,
We burst out like a regiment of soldiers.
How can I help you become prettier until old age?
I swore and spilled salt,
Like three times to me - you were furious! -
The king of hearts came out.
How you squeezed my head,
Caressing every curl,
Like your enamel brooch
The flower cooled my lips.
Like me on your narrow fingers
I moved my sleepy cheek,
How you teased me as a boy
How did you like me like this...
December 1914
The neck is raised freely,
Like a young shoot.
Who will say the name, who will say summer,
Who is its edge, who is its century?
The wrinkle of dim lips
Capricious and weak
But the ledge is dazzling
Beethoven's forehead.
Absolutely pure
Faded oval.
The hand to which the whip would go,
And - in silver - opal.
A hand worthy of a bow,
Gone into silk,
Unique hand
A wonderful hand.
January 10, 1915
You're going your own way,
And I don't touch your hand.
But the melancholy in me is too eternal,
So that you are the first person I meet.
The heart immediately said: “Darling!”
I forgave you everything - at random -
Without knowing anything, not even a name! -
Oh love me, oh love me!
I see the lips - gyrus,
By their intensified arrogance,
Along heavy brow ridges:
This heart is taken - by attack!
The dress is a silk black shell,
Voice with a slightly hoarse gypsy voice,
I really like everything about you, -
Even if you are not beautiful!
Beauty, you won’t fade over the summer!
You are not a flower, you are a stalk of steel,
Angrier than evil, sharper than sharp
Taken away - from which island?
You wonder with a fan, or a cane, -
In every vein and every bone,
In the shape of each evil finger, -
The tenderness of a woman, the audacity of a boy.
Parrying all smiles with verse,
I reveal to you and the world
Everything that is prepared for us in you,
Stranger with Beethoven's brow!
January 14, 1915
Can I not remember
That smell of White-Rose and tea,
And Sevres figurines
Above the glowing fireplace...
We were: me - in a fluffy dress
From a little golden faye,
You are wearing a knitted black jacket
With winged collar.
I remember how you came in
Face - without the slightest paint,
How they stood up, biting their finger,
Tilting his head slightly.
And your power-hungry forehead,
Under the weight of a red helmet,
Not a woman and not a boy, -
But something is stronger than me!
A movement without reason
I stood up and they surrounded us.
And someone in a joking tone:
"Meet you, gentlemen."
And with a long movement
You put it in my hand,
And tenderly in my palm
The ice shard hesitated.
With someone looking askance,
Already anticipating a skirmish, -
I was reclining in a chair,
Twisting the ring on my hand.
You took out a cigarette
And I brought you a match,
Not knowing what to do if
You will look me in the face.
I remember - over the 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 they dropped the handkerchief.
January 28, 1915
All the eyes under the sun are burning,
A day is not equal to a day.
I'm telling you in case
If I change:
Whose lips would you kiss?
I'm in love hour
Black midnight, whoever
I swore terribly, -
Live as the mother tells the child
Like a flower to bloom,
Never on anyone's side
There's no telling with the eye...
Do you see the cypress cross?
- He is familiar to you -
Everything will wake up - just whistle
Below my window.
February 22, 1915
Blue hills near Moscow,
The air is slightly warm - dust and tar.
I sleep all day, I laugh all day, it must be
I'm recovering from winter.
I'm going home as quietly as possible:
Unwritten poems are not a pity!
The sound of wheels and roasted almonds
Quatrains are dearer to me than all others.
The head is so beautifully empty,
Because the heart is too full!
My days are like small waves
Which I look at from the bridge.
Someone's views are too tender
In the gentle air, barely warmed...
I'm already getting sick in the summer,
Having barely recovered from winter,
March 13, 1915
I will repeat on the eve of separation,
At the end of love
That I loved these hands
Your bosses
And the eyes of someone
They don’t give you a glance! -
Requiring a report
For a casual glance.
All of you and your damned one
Passion - God sees! -
Demanding retribution
For an accidental sigh.
And I’ll say it again wearily,
- Don’t rush to listen! -
What did your soul do to me?
Across the soul.
And I’ll also tell you:
- It’s still eve! -
This mouth before the kiss
Yours was young.
The look - to the look - is 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 there are glances like dancing flames...
There are dark, twisting mouths
With deep and moist corners.
There are women. - Their hair is like a helmet,
Their fan smells deadly and subtle.
They are thirty years old. - Why do you, why?
My soul is a Spartan child?
Ascension, 1915
I want to be at the mirror, where there is dregs
And the dream is foggy,
I'll ask you where to go
And where is the refuge?
I see: the mast of a ship,
And you are on deck...
You are in the smoke of the train... Fields
In the evening complaint...
Evening fields in dew,
Above them are crows...
- I bless you for everything
Four sides!
May 3, 1915
In the first one you loved
Championship of beauty,
Curls with a touch of henna,
The plaintive call of zurna,
The ringing - under the horse - of flint,
Slender jump from a horse,
And - in semi-precious grains -
Two patterned shuttles.
And in the second - another -
A thin arched eyebrow,
Silk carpets
Pink Bukhara,
Rings all over your hand
Mole on the cheek
Eternal tan through blondes
And midnight London.
The third one was for you
Something else is cute...
- What will be left of me?
In your heart, wanderer?
July 14, 1915
Remember: all heads are dearer to me
One hair from my head.
And go yourself... - You too,
And you too, and you.
Stop loving me, stop loving everyone!
Watch out for me in the morning!
So that I can go out calmly
Stand in the wind.
May 6, 1915
AUTUMNINTARUSE
It's not hot on a clear morning
Meadow
you're running
light.
Slowly
stretches
barge
Down
By
Oke.
Some
words
involuntarily
All
repeat
contract.
Where-
That
bells
V
field
Weak
they are ringing.
IN
field
they are ringing?
On
meadow
whether?
They're going
whether
on
threshing?
Eyes
on
moment
stopped by
IN
whose-
That
destiny.
Blue
distance
between
pine trees,
Talk
And
hum
on
threshing floor...
AND
smiling
autumn
Our
spring.
Life
swung open,
But
All
or
Oh,
gold
days!
How
far away
They.
God!
God,
How
far away!
(M. Tsvetaeva)
Blue hills near Moscow...
Blue hills near Moscow,
The air is slightly warm - dust and tar.
I sleep all day, I laugh all day, I must
I'm recovering from winter.
I'm going home as quietly as possible:
Unwritten poems are not a pity!
The sound of wheels and roasted almonds
Quatrains are dearer to me than all others.
The head is so beautifully empty,
Because the heart is too full!
My days are like small waves
Which I look at from the bridge.
Someone's views are too tender
In the gentle air barely warmed...
I'm already getting sick in the summer,
Having barely recovered from the winter.
I imagine the silver waters of the Oka,
Birch forests silver tongue.
In the lilac shade, blooming like a chamomile,
Tarusa sleeps in an amber sleep.
Ignatovskaya Mountain behind my aunt’s barn
I can see the reddish-green break.
Anastasia Tsvetaeva. Foreign land. 1941. Dallag
***
Blue shadows rush in;
The day has faded. It's dark in the west.
In this sadness, in this desolation,
Both earth and sky are all the same.
In the clearings, on the dusty lane -
Nobody; nettle grace.
Only on road tracks
You can guess the age of the century.
I'll go to the fences and houses,
To the fishermen sleeping above the river,
To the old willows that are overflowing
Proud, human longing.
I pass the forest, go around the ravines
And run, swirling thick dust,
Down to the river, so that in the still moisture
If you don't see, you guess yourself.
There, pitted with unsteady circles,
Grabbing a broken branch,
He hangs in space, upside down
Converted like a negative.
But in the eyes, in the furrowed skin,
In every drop with a rainbow border
At random I still distinguish
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 can see it.
:::::::::::::
And only when behind the dark thicket of the forest
The evening ray will sparkle mysteriously,
Everyday life is a thick veil
Her beauty will fall off instantly.
:::::::::::::
The forests submerged in the water will sigh,
And, as if through transparent glass,
The entire chest of the river will touch the sky
And it will burn moist and bright.
::::::::::::..
And the clearer the details become
Objects located around
The more vast the distances become
River meadows, backwaters and bends.
Nikolay Zabolotsky
Tarusa city
Cozy, peaceful town;
Over the blue Eye,
Far from the bustle of earth,
He breathes blissful peace.
He's all huddled in the hills,
Springs babble through the lowlands,
And dilapidated gray houses,
And in the middle is an ancient cathedral
And the bell tower is like a candle.
In the gardens the rooks are screaming, screaming,
The rook's cry is monotonous...
Below in a wide semicircle
Oka sparkling surface.
And there, beyond the shallows, beyond the meadow,
Countless army of forests
Crowds through the coastal mountains
And gently drowns in a gentle haze...
What vastness and grace!
Shitikov is here, always alive,
Always cheerful, inspired,
With your talented hand
Tarusu writes incomparably
In the foggy haze and snow
And in the bright sunshine.
His solemn willows,
The blue-winding oki,
Surrounding distances depth -
Everything touches the soul to the bottom.
There is a cemetery among the birches
On the shore, above the mountain slope,
The grave is on the edge - Musatov is in it
He rested, filled with secret dreams.
The world is unsolved, rich
He took with him forever...
Here are the frisky Tarusyanka jets,
Burly, sparkling on the stones,
And the bright river enchants,
I beckon to myself with coolness.
Here are the piles of a forgotten mill,
The wheels are overgrown with grass,
There are shady willow trees all around
They bowed their branches over the water.
Snags, stones, dark pools...
And a lot of pink flowers
Blooms along the steep bank
Among the wild thicket of bushes.
The horn screams long and sharply
And, stirring up the bosom of the waters,
Smoke, hissing, with a seething splash,
The white steamer set sail.
Another minute - turn
I completely covered him up...
And again there is silence.
The hot sands are silent.
The forest distance turns blue meekly.
And the waders cry tenderly.
A boat floats with the smell of hay,
Disturbing the mirror of the river.
A.V. Cheltsov 1924
Spring
Who craves the beauty of nature,
Who wants to rest their soul,
I advise him in Tarusa
Live for three weeks in the spring.
V.A.Kaspari 1925
I see the Oka River,
I'm standing on its shore.
She's 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 city
You will see Tarusa in all its glory:
Its landscape, its open spaces,
Its high banks.
And you will carry it through the years
All her charms then.
Priymak Sofya 7 "B" school No. 1262
...Tarusa has its own glory... Perhaps, nowhere near Moscow were there places so typically and touchingly Russian in their landscape... It is not without reason that since the end of the 19th century Tarusa has become a city of artists...
K.G. Paustovsky
No matter how much I have traveled to different countries and our country, I have never met or 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 long ago been declared a nature reserve..."
K.G. Paustovsky
“The forests all around are burning with autumn fire. In the mornings, the Oka floodplain is filled with blue fog, and then nothing is visible from above, only the tops of the hills stand above the foggy river with red and tan islands. Sometimes the distances become cloudy and disappear - the slightest rain begins to fall, and each leaf is covered with a film of water. Then the forest becomes even crimson and juicier, even denser in tones, like in an old painting covered with varnish... The grass, fir trees and bushes are covered with cobwebs, and chocolate oak leaves rattle tinily under the boots. The tugboats on the Oka shout, the buoys light up in the evenings, tractors hum along the hillsides, and all around there are such lovely artistic places - Aleksin, Tarusa, Polenovo, all around there are holiday homes and such a soft, gentle autumn, even though time is already moving towards mid-October...”
Yu. Kazakov
“One of the unknown, but truly great places in our nature is located just ten kilometers from the log house where I live every summer,” writes Konstantin Georgievich, “...The great place that I want to talk about is called modestly, like and many magnificent places in Russia: Ilyinsky Omut. For me, this name sounds no worse than Bezhin Meadow or Golden Reach near Kineshma... Such places fill us with spiritual ease and reverence for the beauty of our land, for Russian beauty...
Believe me, I have seen a lot of open spaces at any latitude, but I have never seen such a rich distance as on the Ilyinsky Whirlpool and probably never will.
This place, by its charm and the radiance of simple wildflowers, evokes in the soul a state of deepest peace and at the same time a strange desire - if one is destined to die, then only here, in this weak sunny heat, among this tall grass...
Every time I was going on long trips, I always came to the Ilyinsky Whirlpool. I simply could not leave without saying goodbye to him, to the familiar willows, to these all-Russian fields... No! It’s impossible for a person to live without a homeland, just as it’s impossible to live without a heart.”
K.G. Paustovsky
“Tarusa at the beginning of the 20th century 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. There were several stone merchant houses only in the center, and a school house and the walls of a former prison on the hill. There were no paved streets except in the center. Tarusa was all buried in apple orchards. You approach Tarusa by boat or from the Tula shore - even the city is at your fingertips, but it is almost invisible because of the garden greenery, only the cathedral and the church on Resurrection Hill are visible as lighthouses. And in the spring, when the apple trees bloom, Tarusa flaunts herself like a bride in a wedding dress.”
V. Vatagin 
“I will not exchange Central Russia for the most famous and stunning beauties of the globe. I will give all the elegance of the Bay 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 have already lost count of the films I have acted in. Many of them have been forgotten, but among the most memorable and most beloved are the memories of working on “True Friends.”
Why? But, believe it or not, the river played a major role in this. The river brought poetry into our daily work. The river united 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”
