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A FAVORITE LITTLE BIRD...

My Pushkin

Marina Tsvetaeva

A little later, when I was six and in my first year of music in the Zograf-Plaksina School of Music in Merzlyakovsky Lane, there was a Christmas play, a public evening, as it used to be called in those days. They put on a scene from Rusalka, followed by Rogneda, and,

“Now we’ll flit over the garden

Where Tatyana encountered him…”[1]

A bench. On the bench, Tatyana. Then Onegin comes but does not sit down: she rises. Both are standing. And he alone speaks all the time, a long time, while she does not say a word. And here I realize that the red cat, Avgusta Ivanovna, and the dolls are not love, that this is love: when there is a bench, she is seated on the bench, then he comes, and speaks all the time, while she does not say a word. Mother, after the performance: “Well, Musya, what did you like best?”

“Tatyana and Onegin.”

“What? Not Rusalka, with the mill, and the prince, and the wood goblin? Not Rogneda?”

“Tatyana and Onegin.”

“But how could it be? You did not understand anything in it. What could you understand?”

I am silent.

Mother, triumphantly: “You see, you did not understand a single word, just as I thought. A girl of six! What could you like in it?”

“Tatyana and Onegin.”

“You are an absolute fool and more stubborn than ten asses!” Turning to the approaching director, A.L. Zograf:

“I know her: whatever I ask her, she will now repeat in the cab all the way home: ‘Tatyana and Onegin.’ I really regret bringing her. Not a single child in the world would have liked Tatyana and Onegin out of all the performance—everybody else would have preferred Rusalka, because it’s a fairy tale, it’s easy to understand. I really don’t know what to do with her!”

The director, with great kindness: “But, Musenka, why Tatyana and Onegin?”

My unspoken reply in full:

“Because it is love.”

“She must be seeing the seventh dream by now,” says Nadezhda Yakovlevna Bryusova,[2] our best and oldest student, as she approaches us—and here I find out for the first time that there is a “seventh dream” that measures the depth of somnolence and night.

“And what is this, Musya,” says the director, drawing out of my muff a mandarin orange he has placed there, replacing it inconspicuously (conspicuously!), and taking it out, again, and again, and again…

But I am already completely dumb, petrified, and none of his and Bryusova’s mandarin smiles and no terrifying glares from my mother can elicit a smile of gratitude from me. On our way home (quiet streets, a late hour, a horse-drawn sleigh) mother scolds me: “You put me to shame. You did not say thank you for the mandarin orange. A girl of six, you fell in love with Onegin, like a fool!”

Mother was wrong. I fell in love, not with Onegin, but with Onegin and Tatyana (the more perhaps with Tatyana), with both of them, with love. And later I never wrote anything without first falling in love with the two simultaneously (the more with her than with him): not with the two of them, but rather with their love. With love.

The bench on which they did not sit proved to be a predestination. Neither then nor later did I ever love when the two were kissing, but always when they were parting. I never loved when they were sitting down together, but always when they were taking leave of each other. My first love scene was a non-love scene: he did not love (I realized that), and that’s why he did not sit down; she loved, and that’s why she stood up. They had not been together for a single minute: they did nothing together; they did something quite opposite: he spoke, she was silent; he left, she stayed; so that if the curtain were raised, she would still be standing there, or perhaps sitting again, since she stood up only because he was standing, and afterward collapsed and would now be sitting like this forever.

This first love scene of mine predetermined all the rest, all the passion in me for the unfortunate, the unreciprocated, the impossible love. From that very minute I no longer wanted to be happy, but condemned myself to nonlove.

The whole point was that he did not love her, and she had made such a choice, to the exclusion of any other, only because she secretly knew that he would be unable to love her. (I am telling this now, but I knew it even then; then I knew, and now I have learned how to tell it.) People with this fatal gift of unfortunate love, all of which they shoulder alone, without ever sharing, have a real genius for choosing unsuitable objects.

There was also another thing (not one thing but many) that Eugene Onegin had predetermined in me. If all my life to this very day I have always been the first to write, the first to stretch out my hand and my arms, braving judgment, it was only because at the dawn of my days Tatyana in the book, reclining by candlelight, the loose braid falling across her breast, had done so before my eyes. And if later, whenever I was being abandoned (as I always was), I never stretched out my arms to stop and never even so much as turned my head, it was only because then, in the garden, Tatyana stayed as motionless as a statue.

A lesson in courage. A lesson in pride. A lesson in faithfulness. A lesson in destiny. A lesson in loneliness.

What other nation has such an amorous heroine: brave yet dignified, enamored yet inexorable, clear-sighted yet loving?

There was not a shadow of vindictiveness in Tatyana’s rebuff. This is why her vindication is complete; this is why Onegin stands “as if struck by thunder.”

She had all the trumps in her hand so as to take vengeance, to drive him mad; all the trumps to humiliate him, trample him under foot, abase him to the parquet of that reception room. She did away with all that in a single slip of the tongue: “I love you (why dissimulate?).”

Why dissimulate? Surely, to be triumphant! But why be triumphant? To this question Tatyana can truly find no answer, at least no intelligible answer; and again she remains standing in the enchanted circle of the reception room, as once she stood in the enchanted circle of the garden—in the enchanted circle of her amorous loneliness: not needed then; coveted now; loving and unable to be loved, both then and now.

She had all the trumps, but she did not play them.

Yes, girls, yes! Be the first to declare love, then listen to rebuffs, then marry a distinguished wounded veteran, and then listen to his declaration of love yet concede nothing—and you will be a thousand times happier than that other heroine of ours, the one whose fulfilled desires left her no other choice but to lay down on the railroad track.[3]

My choice between the fullness of desire and the fulfillment of desires, between the fullness of suffering and the emptiness of happiness, was made the day I was born and even before then.

Because, before me, my mother had been influenced by Tatyana. When my grandfather, A. D. Mein, made her choose between himself and her beloved, she had chosen her father and not her beloved, and then she married in an even better fashion than Tatyana did, because “for poor Tanya all lots were equal” whereas my mother drew the heaviest lot: a widower[4] twice her age, with two children, and still in love with the departed. She married to face someone else’s children and the grief for someone else, while still loving, still continuing to love that other one, whom she never sought to meet later and whom, having met him for the first time and by chance at her husband’s lecture, she answered, when asked how she was and whether she was happy: “My daughter is one year old; she is very big and clever; I am completely happy…” (God, how she must have hated me—the big and clever one—at that moment because I was not his daughter.)

Thus, Tatyana had influenced not only my life but the very fact of my existence; had there been no Pushkin’s Tatyana, I would not have come into being.

For this, and this alone, is the way women read poets.

It is significant, however, that mother did not name me Tatyana: she must have taken pity on that girl, for all that.

As far as I am concerned, the entire Eugene Onegin still consists today, as it did in my infancy, of three scenes: that candle, that bench, that parquet. Some of my contemporaries perceive in Eugene Onegin a brilliant joke, almost a satire. Perhaps they are right; perhaps, had I not read it before I was seven—but I read it at an age when there are neither jokes nor satires: there are dark gardens (as we had in Tarusa), there are crumpled bedclothes (as we had in our bedroom), and there is love (as I have in the hollow of my breast).

---

[1] The quotations from Eugene Onegin are taken from Vladimir Nabokov’s translation in the Bollinger Series LXXII. (New York: Pantheon Books, 1964).

[2] Sister of Valery Bryusov.

[3] Anna Karenina.

[4] Marina Tsvetaeva’s father, Ivan Vladimirovitch Tsvetaev (1846-1913), philologist and art historian, professor at the University of Moscow, director of the Rumyantsev Museum and founder of the Alexander III Museum of fine arts in Moscow, now the Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts.

STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND

Sorry to have the long hiatus from the exilicism. August in France is wonderful; I travelled a good bit and also enjoyed an empty Paris during the compulsory holidays. I will update with a few selections, promise.

For now, I am back in Memphis while I file for my carte de séjour, a 2-3 month process. It must be filed for in the US and in person at the consulate in Atlanta, as I am a resident of Tennessee. (Much to my chagrin.) The proverbial "THEY" say that one way to test if someone is really ready for permanent living in France is if they can deal with the red-tape without donning a suicide helmet. (I also promise to make a post about suicide helmets. Don't read it if you don't get dark humor.) I am very frustrated, but I think it has more to do with espresso withdrawals than bureaucracy.

One of the first things I noticed upon arrival in America was the TALKING. Everywhere, there were people TALKING and I could UNDERSTAND EVERYTHING! My first example is two women in their mid twenties, in line behind me in customs:

WOMAN 1: where did you get those jeans??? SOOOO cute!!!

WOMAN 2: TARGET!!!!! Can you believe it? And feel them, they are so SOFT!

WOMAN 1: Oh my GOD- they ARE! And, they look just like "Sevens!"

WOMAN 2: I KNOW. I just love Target. I mean everything is so CUTE, and I can't afford $150 for a pair of jeans, so yes, Target is the place for me.

WOMAN 1: Who can these days? And not just the economy, but we have to think of Africa and all.

Now, I could make lots of probably more useful and less cynical observations about this particular conversation, including the fact that I have been just as guilty of such speeches. But it was really strange to me to be overhearing such "banter." And I do not actually believe that the French (in my particular case) or whichever peoples one has returned from the midst of, to be any less insipid. But I did forget all about chit-chat. And I must admit that my antisocial tendencies have been extraordinarily pleased to be oblivious of the fact of chit-chat. In my time there, I have learned to understand French quite well, but I have to pay attention. If I don't pay attention, all the talking happening around me is just noise. It could easily be interchanged with sirens or traffic or church bells. I am not forced to be at the auditory whims of whomever happens to be standing within ten feet of me, and I have come to discover how much I really enjoy that. In Paris, I can always be in my own reverie, whenever I feel like checking out into imaginationland. (Yet another worthwhile post topic, I assume.)

Right after I went through customs I made a beeline for the doors to have the requisite smoke. My body had been deprived of nicotine for about 10 hours- 8 1/2 for the flight time and the rest consumed by lines- and I came outside near where one can valet their car. The valet boys were all standing around doing was I was about to do. I had to smoke 3 or 4 cigarettes in a row to make up for that time, so I was standing there nearly 20 minutes. It might be funny, but I won't relate that conversation as it would mainly consist of all the symbols on the number pad of the keyboard and dashes and references to ladies' body parts. Needless to say, I was no more encouraged about the state of affairs.

When I did make it back to Memphis, it was bittersweet. Bitter because nothing is the same, and sweet because nothing is the same. Per this posting's title, I intend to treat my time here as a "Fair Witness," something that with practice, could be a generally useful skill. For now, I'll work on finding a little job, a comfortable couch to sleep on, and keep at my French, in absentia.

BASTILLE DAY

My Bastille Day consisted of watching the military parade on TV while having tea. Pity, yes, but the fear of large crowds haunted me. It was perfect though because as my main interest was in the calvary, we knew the appropriate time to run downstairs and go around the block to where the calvary men were staging. So, I got to see them and all their beautiful horses in all their glory. At first, when we approached, the men were standing holding their mounts; then, the call to mount was sounded and everyone got back on, was ordered to unsheathe their swords and make the formation. The horses stood calm enough, but as soon as the Captain started to move his mount forward, there was a great scurrying of hooves on the cobbles, much rearing and clattering as the horses tried to gain their footing on the street. They assembled, and rode off to end the parade and escort the President to his garden party. (The calvary opens and closes the parade.) It was rather impressive.

We went back home, watched the final moments of the parade on the TV, and went to walk the dog and have a coffee. Coffee turned into lunch, and as we were near the Invalides, there were a lot of soldiers from various regiments milling about. It was interesting because Bruno knows a lot about military history, and so he was explaining to me the different uniforms, their uses and significances: how it came to be that some wore long tails of horsehair from their helmets (to protect the back from being slashed by an enemy sword), the evolution of having three buttons at the cuff of the sleeve (i forget that one), and of course the colorful manners in which a uniform signifies rank. After dinner, we went and watched the fireworks they shot from the Eiffel Tower. It was very beautiful.

MORE FROM DAN AND ERIN...

Here are some photos from the fancy camera!

DAN AND ERIN IN PARIS

I did not take a lot of photos, but here are a couple from my phone.  I left the photography to Dan's fancy camera and his less-developed Lareau shakes.  Here, Dan gets a little revenge of Kate from the last time they were in Paris and she refused him the nutella crepe.  And Noé has a cotton candy the size of his torso!  (This caused about an hour and a half of manic behaviour, followed by nearly instantaneous sleepiness at the dinner table- so much so that Marc and I were forced to take turns carrying him home...)  After picking Dan and Erin up from the train station, we dropped their luggage by their hotel and proceeded to the Eiffel Tower.  I had planned that we walk the Seine down to Notre Dame, to see everything that lies between, but it began to rain, and so we all huddled into a cab.  The kids were terribly behaved, so when we arrived at Notre Dame to meet Marc and Iris, I was very much relieved for a little back-up.  Marc did a great job of taking the reins from there, showing a few secret things around the cathedral, and finding a great place for dinner.  I was pretty exhausted, I must say, but it was so nice to be with family that I wasn't bothered.  I was sad that Dan and Erin didn't have more time, as the next day I began a two-week vacation, so it would have been excellent for showing Paris, but I hope that they had enough of a taste to want to help organize a Lareau family trip for next summer.  Dan, please send the pictures from your camera!  I'll post them here, and hopefully more people other than Kate can be jealous enough to take a flight...

BORDEAUX

Last weekend I went to Bordeaux.  The south of France is very nice, as it seems southern regions typically are.  I arrived late from Paris, walked a bit, and retired.  In the morning, I began my day:

breakfast, writing...
city centre
beautiful fountain, homage to the Roman heritage of Bordeaux

the Garonne River, wide and reminiscent of the ol' Mississippi...

near the square where I lunched and ended up with terrible sunburn
one of the old gates of the city
the opera

On Sunday, I went to the country house of a friend.  We had a wonderful lunch and generally relaxed.  I picked these little berries, which are tart and delicious.  I forget how to spell their name...


a typical French country house
12th century church in the the village of the gite
last train back to Paris...

I very much enjoyed Bordeaux, and a rest from Paris.  Besides the wine, it is a fun city, with lots of history and culture.  Highly recommended!  

LUCIE'S 13th BIRTHDAY

Lucie turned 13 last week, and on Saturday, we celebrated with a lunch.  Early in the morning, Bruno and I went to the neighborhood organic market.  It was a really beautiful day out.  We walked through the park next to the Seine with the dog, enjoying the early sun, and all the wonderful things at the market.  Sorry there are no photos of that, but I don't think the vendors really like it when you take pictures.  I picked out a hoard of flowers to make Lucie a bouquet, which turned into two bouquets, because my eyes were a bit bigger than my vases.  Then we clamored everything home, and the children were awake, and fighting, and we cooked, and everyone had a generally marvelous time.  Somehow, I missed getting a photo of the birthday girl, but anyways, you get a look at a traditional French lunch.  And thanks to my friend Eralda and her blog, The Split Pea, for the inspiration of close-up food photography.  I need a better camera...  Enjoy!  ... I sure did...

THE SOCIETY FOR THE ADVANCEMENT OF CULTURAL ECONOMY

I think that my little postmodernism project will now proceed from this title.  There are vacancies for groupies if anyone is interested.  Right now I am reading Jean Baudrillard's Simulacra and Simulation.  In he says, 

"The great event of this period, the great trauma, is this decline of strong referentials, these death pangs of the real and of the rational that open onto an age of simulation... It is into this void that the phantasms of a past history recede...  to resurrect the period when at least there was history, at least there was violence (albeit fascist), when at least life and death were at stake... Therein objects shine in a sort of hyperresemblance that makes it so that fundamentally they no longer resemble anything, except the empty figure of resemblance, the empty form of representation.  It is a question of life and death: these objects are no longer living or deadly."

In asking, "how far is too far?" we are limited by what he is talking about here, and it gets to what I think is one of the big problems with postmodernism, that because we are nearly refusing to define anything, how can we even begin to address what is what... And if we don't know what is what, or don't have the tools to say so, how can we say how far is too far, what "too far" is, and, arguably, whether or not we should care if this "line" is breeched?  But it does seem to me that there is a leak in the hull, and if someone doesn't find it, eventually, the direction that we are going is certainly down.  We need these "deadly" objects in order that we be able to say, "Don't go there!  That shit will kill you!"  

It seems to me that as the present economy collapses, we should be aware that something in that system is broken, and focus on what it is that we want to rebuild from the wreckage.  Rather than allowing the momentum of technology and capitalism say where culture goes, culture needs to use the present state of the world as an opportunity to make a radical shift in the direction of civilization.  I think we (specifically my generation, who now, more than ever, is enrolling in art school, thinking that there is another way of life than to study business, taking an interest in politics... although I don't think we are aware of the power we have, that it will be us running the planet, generating the money, in just a decade or so) could potentially transgress this old way.  But we must be able to define "way."  One idea (yes, mine, you thieves) is that it is culture's momentum that should decide where the curious energies of science, technology, and economics should be directed, and not the other way around.  If those aspects of civilization were brought under culture's roof, housed in its ethics of humanism, then what kind of civilization would we be?  I think that potentially this could decrease the discrepancy of Eastern and Western, and add a lot to what it now means to be a consciousness.  Richer, Higher, in my opinion.   

I guess this is pretty idealistic coming from my little mouth, but I'm trying to adapt Chesterton's idea of pessimism/optimism into my workings, so bear with me...

LOVE AND SQUALOR

If this doesn't bring a smile to your face, well....  (I guess we already knew I'm not that funny...)

Napoleon, 1813

Today, Noé and I went to the Musee de l'Armée, or, the Invalides.  The exhibit featuring Napoleon I-III had re-opened, and as he had no school today, it seemed a good way to spend the afternoon.  It is always surprising to me how many details of family trees, battles, and ranks and measures a ten year old boy can have in his little brain.  Relatively uninterested in the survival powers of swords and guns and armor, my little charge guided me through the exhibit, dutifully explaining the dates and purposes and import of everything that we viewed.  I must say, it was the best tour I have ever taken.

I came across a painting there of a young commander.  I think I fell in love.  Something about the painting, from an unknown artist, really captivated me.  I don't know if it is because I saw in his face one of Vermeer's women, or if it was the slightest sneer of his lip, that, combined with the creativity in his eyes I saw some simulacra of a young King David, but it was very moving, hiding in its corner.  I think he died, early, following the figure depicted above...

TIGHTENING THE CIRCLE

Yes, folks, I have indeed joined forces with some of the "literati" here, and we are coming up with some ways to take our machinations public.  It's nothing new, really- or at least I do know it's been done before.  So all you critics of my pretention, just stop reading now, and check back next week for some easy-on-the stomach travel logging.

The purpose of this little group is tackle postmodernism (which those of you who know me are probably too familiar with my late-night whiskey-fueled monologues ranting and reeming its flaws) in a democratic way.  A little *ah-hem* maturity and the rigor bestowed upon me by my philosophy studies demand that I take it far beyond my tendency to preside over barroom discussions, and open the floor for the supporters as well as the denouncers.  One question I keep asking myself, especially as concerns literature, is, "How far is too far?"  While the Shock Wave that seems to be quite prominent in literature these days doesn't exactly offend me, (I am, after all, just as desensitized as the rest of my generation), it does make me curious about the ultimate purpose and effectiveness of all that this traumatism suggests.  I know many of my readers are much more qualified and competent at contributing to this, both formally and informally- so please be thinking on it.  As I feel that I am better qualified to act as mediator of sorts, I welcome commentary here, but also be aware that a publication will hopefully ensue in the fall, in which I will be looking for submissions.  After that, the goal is to host round-table symposium-esq events biannually, the first we are thinking will take place in London in December.  Basically, we want to engage writers, philosophers, scholars, etc. in a conceptual version of TED.  

While this is a very loose sketch of what's taking place here in Paris, be sure a concrete structure is on the horizon, so be ready for intervals from pictures of sailboats and pretty buildings...

DIEPPE

Dieppe is a tiny little town on the Normandy coast.  There is really not much to report, but that was kinda the point of going there.  Hiatus from Paris, and some sea air.  I did eat a delicious moule, and visited a really weird bar.  But mostly, it was just quiet...