1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

This time no printed review followed, but "in the mountains" (of his steep soul) "the rebound" lasted — his whole life.

*

I'm not flattering myself. Briusov in the experience of my feelings, more precisely: in the youthful experience of enmity, Briusov meant incomparably more to me than I did —to his world-weary experience. First of all, for me, he was Briusov (a solid entity), who didn't like me; for him I was —X, who didn't like him and meant something only because I didn't like him. I didn't like Briusov, but he didn't like one of these young poets, a woman for that matter, and he disdained women in general. I felt no disdain for him — neither then, when he was at the summit of his fame, nor later, when he lay under its ruins. I know this because of the excitement with which I now write these lines, an infallible excitement, communicated to us only by greatness. I was brash — yes, I was brazen—yes, disdainful — no. And, perhaps, I was both brash and brazen only because I didn't know how else (didn't want?) to display my own sense of rank, which I feel very strongly. In a word, if I were to carry our encounter into the walls of a school, I was brazen to the director, the rector, but not to the teacher. There was a certain reverence in my brashness, in his offendedness — only irritation. The significance of enmity corresponds directly to the significance of the object. For that reason, in this non-love affair the winner (for the only prize any of our feelings may claim — is their own maximum) — was I.

V

"The Family of Poets"

That same winter of 1911-12, between one rhymed attack and the other, I was invited to read somewhere — at the "Society for Free Esthetics" I think it was. (All the young poets of Moscow were supposed to read.) I remember a green room, not the main one, but the one where everyone waited to go on stage. A thick black male group of poets, and, a head above them, actually heading them up — Briusov.

"And this is the poetess Marina Tsvetaeva. But since 'we're all friends in the family of poets,' we can dispense (a turn to me) with the hand

shakes."

(Didn't this presage the Soviet "handshakes are canceled"; for the Soviets — it was because of scabies, but what was BriusoVs reason?)

Targeting the only person I knew in the entire group — Rubanovich, I approached and shook his hand in greeting, then moved on to his closest neighbor: "Tsvetaeva," then to the neighbor's neighbor, then to the neighbor's neighbor's neighbor and so on in a circle until I had greeted all of them — except Briusov. This took a certain amount of time —after all, there were about twenty people —particularly since, though quick by nature, I transformed the pro forma into feeling, a routine into a rite. "Silence reigned" in the room. I introduced myself: "Tsvetaeva." Briusov waited. Shaking the twentieth hand, I humbly left the circle and stood to one side, innocently, almost like a schoolgirl. The staccato of Briusov's broad-muzzled bark sounded simultaneously.

"Now, gentlemen, may we begin?"

*

What did Briusov want with his "family of poets"? Were we such good friends that it wasn't worth shaking hands? Did he want to free me from twenty alien hands in my one hand? Himself— from five minutes of inaction? Was he trying to spare the beginner her supposed shyness?

Perhaps it was one of the above, or perhaps everything together, but more likely it was his subconscious dislike of close, human (and, therefore, obligating) acquaintance through the palm of the hand. A wolPs leap back upon spying another breed. A nose for difference. Instinct.

So from then on it was an exchange of nods. Each time it became later and later for the hand. You have to admit that having greeted one another dryly for ten years in a row, it's rather awkward, even indecent, to suddenly up and shake hands.

I never did find out what kind of palm Briusov had.

VI

Prize Puppy

Ilfaut a chacun donnersonjoujou.

—E.Rostand

It was Christmas Eve of 1911 — a blizzardy Moscow night, with stars in the eyes and stars falling on the eyes. That morning I found out from Sergei Yakovlevich Efron, whom I would soon marry, that Briusov had announced a competition on the following two lines of Pushkin:

But Jenny never will abandon

Edmond, even in heaven.

"What if you took the prize — how amusing! I can just imagine how moved Briusov would be! If Briusov is Salieri, do you know who his Mozart is?"

"Balmont?"

"Pushkin!"

A prize given to me by Briusov for a poem presented at the last hour of the last day (the final deadline was Christmas Eve)—that was a tempting idea! But —a poem on a theme!* A poem —on commission! A poem —at Briusov's behest! And the second stumbling block, the hardest—was that I didn't have the slightest idea who Edmond was, a man or a woman, a boyfriend or girlfriend. If it was in the genitive case: "whom-of what" —then Edmond was a man, and Jenny would never abandon him; if it was the nominative case: "Who-what" —then Edmonda was a woman and would never abandon her girlfriend Jenny. The block was removed easily. Someone, laughing, incredulous at my innocence, opened Pushkin's Feast in Time of Plague, thus confirming Edmond's masculinity. But the time had passed: Christmas Eve crept over Moscow in stars and snowflakes.

In the darkness, just before the lighting of the trees, I stood on the corner of Arbat Square and handed an envelope to a gray-haired messenger in a red hat; inside that envelope was another, inside which there was yet another envelope. On the outside one was Briusov's address, on the second one (with the poem) a motto (the competition was anony-

*Now I think differently. (M.Ts.)

mous, the author's name revealed only when the prizes were awarded), on the third —the same motto, with a note: the name and address. It was something like the kingdom beyond the seas and the story of Kashchei's Death in the Egg. I sent the "missive" to Briusov's house on Tsvetnoi Boulevard as a present for the Christmas tree.

What was the motto? From Rostand, of course:

"II faut a chacun donner son joujou"* — E. Rostand

What was the poem like? It wasn't on the theme, of course, it wasn't written about Edmond at all, but six months earlier, about my own Edmond, a poem not only not on the theme, but its opposite, and fitting in its oppositeness.

Here it is:

But Jenny never will abandon

Edmond, even in heaven.

My shoulders are sore bowed with recollections,

I'll cry about this earth in heaven too.

Old words and feelings I won't hide,** when

We meet anew.

Where there are hosts of angels sleekly flying,

Where harps and lilies lull a children's choir,

Where all is restful, calm — resdess then,

I'll seek your gaze.

Smiling, I'll bid farewell to heaven's visions,

Alone among aloof and faultless maids,

I'll sing, terrestrial, a stranger,

The earth's refrain!

My shoulders are sore bowed widi recollections,

I'll not conceal the tears that flood my eyes,

Not here, nor there — I need no visitations,

And not for visits will we wake in paradise!

I took this poem from Magic Lantern, which had already been typeset and would appear in print before the prize ceremony, but after the jury's decision. (MagicLantern, p. 75.)

*NB! A competition to Briusov, for example. (M.Ts.)

**'Won't repeat" would have been better. (M.Ts.)

A month later — I had just gotten married—my husband and I happened to drop by to see the publisher Kozhebatkin.

"Congratulations, Marina Ivanovna!"

I, thinking about marriage:

'Thank you."

"You got the first prize, but when Briusov found out that it was you he decided to give you the first of two second prizes, since you're so young."

I burst out laughing.

The prizes were awarded at the "Society for Free Esthetics." The details have faded. I remember only that when Briusov announced: "No one received the first prize, the first of two second prizes was received by Miss Tsvetaeva," a certain perplexity spread through the hall, and a grin over my face. Then the poems themselves were read, by Briusov himself it seems, and after those of the "prizewinners" (Khodasevich, Rafa-lovich, me)—were poems worthy of "honorable mention," I don't remember whose. The distribution of the actual prizes took place not on the stage, but at the entry table, behind which sat Briusov's wife, Zhanna Matveevna, who kept writing in something and writing out something; a sweet, shy woman who was always smoothing over things as much as possible and thus came off extremely well against the background of Briusov's cruelty.

The prize — a gold coin engraved with our names, sporting a black Pegasus — was handed out by Briusov himself. Not exactly a handshake, but our hands did meet! Threading it through the chain of my bracelet, I asked in a loud, jolly voice:

"So this means I'm a prize puppy now?"

There was answering laughter from the hall and — kind — sudden — wolflike — a smile from Briusov. The word "smile" — is just a convention, it was simply a sudden exposure and disappearance of the teeth. Not a smile? Yes, a smile! Only not ours, a wolPs. (A grimace, a grin, a gnashing.)

That's when I first guessed that Briusov—was a wolf.

*

If I'm not mistaken, that same evening I saw the poetess Lvova for the first (and only) time. Not very tall, dressed modestly in blue, black eyes-eyebrows-head, vivid rosy cheeks, very much the student from a young ladies' institute, a real girl. A lifting to meet Briusov's bowing. The perfect vision of a man and a woman: to her head-flung-back pride in him — the condescension of his own pride in . A happiness restrained all round with difficulty.

He — was circling her, pursuing.

PART TWO

THE REVOLUTION

I

Lito

My youthful episode with Briusov ended with the prize puppy. From 1912 to 19201 lived outside of literary life — and we didn't meet.

It was the year 1919 — the most plagued, blackest, deathly of all those years in Moscow. I don't remember who it was, perhaps Khodasevich, who advised me to take a book of poems to Lito.* "Lito doesn't print anything, but they buy everything."

I: "Wonderful."

"Briusov runs it."

I: "Wonderful, but less so. He can't stand me."

"You, but not your poetry. I promise you, they'll buy. After all, it will be at least five days of bread."

I copied out YouthfulPoems (1913-16, still unpublished) and Mileposts I (published by Gosizdat in 1922) and, taking my then five-year-old daughter Alya in my right hand and the manuscript in my left, I went to try my luck at Lito. On Nikitskaya St., was it? Briusov wasn't there; someone was, and I handed the manuscript over to him. I handed it over and everything vanished — the poems and I.

About a year passed. I went on living, the poems lay there. I remem-

*Literary Department. (M.Ts.)

bered them with invariable hostility, as one remembers something loaned, not requested in time, and therefore —no longer mine. Nonetheless I somehow pulled myself together. I went to Li to: it was empty: Budantsev was there. "I came to find out about two books of poems submitted approximately a year ago." A slight embarrassment and, helping him out: "I would really like to get the manuscripts back — after all, nothing worked out, did it?"

Budantsev, joyously: "It didn't work out, didn't work out, between you and me — Valery Yakovlevich was very much against you."

"Here even a little is enough. But the manuscripts still exist, don't they?"

"They exist, they exist, just a minute I'll return them."

"Marvelous. These days that's more than a poet can ask."

And so, home again with the manuscripts. At home I open them, leaf through them, and —oh surprise!—the second Briusov autograph in my life! Three entire lines of review — in his own handwriting!

"M. Tsvetaeva's poems, as they weren't published in time and do not * reflect the corresponding contemporaneity, are useless." No, there was something else, as always, I remembered the high note — the end. I have the visual impression of precisely three lines of BriusoVs cramped, miserly, anxious handwriting. What could have been in those other one and a half lines? I don't know, but it wasn't any worse. This review, together with some of my other papers, is with friends in Moscow. The continuation of BriusoVs Roman formula was the spacious Russian statement (this time typed) of his admirer, follower and adherent —S. Bobrov. "Nauseatingly gushy verbiage on the subject of her own death." This is about Youthful Poems, about Mileposts I remember only one word, and even then not exactly; I can see it written, but I can't read it, something like "gnosiological," but referring to the meter. "The poems are written in a heavy, indigestible, 'gnosiological' iambs." Briusov set the theme, Bobrov digested it, and in the end — I had the manuscript in hand.

In 1922, Gosizdat, in the person of the communist censor Meshcheriakov, turned out to be more tractable and more magnanimous.

*

(Having written the word "censor," I suddenly realized: how well the very Roman sound of the word corresponds to Briusov! Censor, mentor, dictator, Cerberus.)

*

Later, when I ran into Budantsev, he begged me, fervently and touchingly, to return the reviews:

"You weren't supposed to read them, it was my oversight, they'll make me pay for it!"

"Forgive me, but this is my titre de noblesse, Tiutchev's patent of nobility, an honorary ticket everywhere poetry is honored."

"Copy them and return the originals!"

"What? How could I give up a Briusov autograph? The autograph of the author of Fiery Angel? (Pause.) Give it away, when I could sell it? I'll go abroad and sell it there—you can tell Briusov that!"

"And the Bobrov review? At least give Bobrov back!"

"I'll keep Bobrov for company. Three lines of Briusov—cost such and such, and they get four pages of Bobrov into the bargain. You can tell that to Bobrov."
I made a joke of it and remained intransigent.