I am still languishing with longing for desires ... (collection) Text. “Your sweet look, full of innocent passion”: Tyutchev and his beloved women

Fedor Ivanovich Tyutchev was never known as a womanizer, he simply fell in love with women, they reciprocated him and he sang of his beloved in beautiful lyrical poems.

The first arrow of Cupid overtook Theodore, as the poet was called, in the spring of 1823. In Munich, where he was a freelance official at a diplomatic mission, the 23-year-old poet was subdued by the young Countess Amalia Lörchenfeldor (Krudener). The 15-year-old beauty already had experience with men, knew how to manage them and was one of the ladies of the heart of Pushkin, Heine and the Bavarian King Ludwig.

Amalia was touched by the modesty and courtesy of the young poet, and they walked for a long time around Munich and its picturesque environs. In 1824, Fedor dedicated the verse to Amalia “Your dear look, innocent passion full ... ”, and dared to ask for her hand. However, Amalia's parents considered the young man, who had neither wealth nor title, not the best match for their daughter, and after some time they married her to a more mature and wealthy colleague of Tyutchev, Baron Alexander Kryudener.

offended in better feelings the poet could not forget the beautiful Amalia, and twelve years after their separation, he immortalized his love for her in the poem “I remember the golden time ...”. They remained friends throughout their lives.

However, their friendship did not prevent Tyutchev from secretly marrying Eleanor, the widow of diplomat Alexander Peterson, in 1826. The poet's chosen one came from the old county family of the Bothmers and was three years older than him. Eleanor had four sons from her first marriage. She gave birth to three more daughters, being married to Tyutchev.

The family life of Fyodor Tyutchev with Eleanor Peterson lasted twelve years, the first seven of which turned out to be happy for the poet. The next five years of their marriage became a real test for Eleanor, who continued to love Fyodor, despite his high-profile affair with the wife of Baron Fritz Dernberg.

The new passion of the poet Ernestine Dernberg, the daughter of a Bavarian diplomat, was different good upbringing and was known the most beautiful woman Munich. Tyutchev was carried away by her, especially since his legal wife by that time had turned into a somewhat plump domestic matron, who was interested exclusively in the house, her husband and children, and was also jealous.

Fyodor Tyutchev's romance with Ernestina Dernberg was publicized, and Eleanor attempted suicide by stabbing herself repeatedly in the chest with a masquerade dagger. Tyutchev was transferred to work in the city of Turin. Loving Eleanor forgave her husband and persuaded him to move to Russia. However, after some time, Tyutchev returned to Europe. His wife in 1838 went for her husband on a steamer along with three little daughters. There was a fire, and Eleanor had to save her children.

Strong mental and physical stress affected the health of the unfortunate woman, and she died in the arms of her beloved husband. Shocked by the death of his wife, Tyutchev turned gray overnight. Tyutchev immortalized his love for Eleonora ten years after her death in the poem “I am still languishing with longing for desires ...”.

And on next year after the death of his wife, the poet married his beloved Ernestine Dernberg. Smart and educated Ernestina was so close to Tyutchev that she quickly won the affection of his children and gave birth to the poet's daughter Maria and sons Dmitry and Ivan.

Tyutchev described his earthly love and unearthly passion for Ernestine in verse: “I love your eyes, my friend ...”, “Dream”, “Upstream of your life”, “She was sitting on the floor ...”, “The executing God took everything from me …" and etc.

Over the course of 11 years married life Chu Tchev repeatedly cheated on his wife and finally lost interest in her, having met a new muse - Elena (Lyola) Deniseva. Elena was 23 years younger and came from an impoverished noble family.

Not only Fedor Ivanovich, who never parted with his lawful wife, suffered from their romance, but Lyolya herself, condemned by society for a broken marriage. The position of Tyutchev's young mistress in society was strange: she herself remained the "maiden Denisyeva", and her children bore the name Tyutchev, but did not have a noble coat of arms.

The duality of the situation, frequent childbirth, the need and contempt of society so undermined Elena's health that she fell ill with consumption. Their painful and so meaningful romance in Tyutchev's life, lasting 14 years, ended abruptly ... Lelya Denisyeva died in the poet's arms two months after the birth of her last child.

Tyutchev survived his beloved for nine years and died in Italy. AT last way he was escorted by his legal wife Ernestina Fedorovna.

I met you - and all the past
In the obsolete heart came to life ...

One look at these lines - and the motive of the romance immediately sounds in my head. Easy, from memory, we continue:

I remembered the golden time -
And my heart felt so warm...

It seems that we have known these verses all our lives, and the story told in them seems quite simple: once the poet loved a woman, and suddenly meets her, most likely by chance, after a long separation.

The story is really simple. Youthful love, parting, chance meeting. And the separation is really long - almost a quarter of a century, and the meeting is accidental. And everything is resurrected: both charm, and love, and "spiritual fullness", and life itself is filled with meaning. And it is hard to imagine that the poet is already 67 years old, and his beloved is 61. And one can only admire such strength and purity of feelings, such an ability to love, such admiration for a woman.

It was Clotilda Bothmer, the younger sister of Eleanor, the first wife of Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev; her initials are placed in the title of the poem. Between two meetings with this woman, the poet experienced both youthful love, and the family happiness of her husband and father, and a fatal passion, and the bitter loss of loved ones. The love story of Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev is full of drama, insane passion, fatal mistakes, mental anguish, disappointment and remorse. The poet in his poems does not name the names of his beloved women, they become for him the center of being, the axis on which the whole world rests; and each time the love interest turns into not only a merger kindred spirits, but also a fatal duel:

Love, love - says the legend -
The union of the soul with the soul of the native -
Their union, combination,
And their fatal merger,
And ... a fatal duel ...

(predestination)

First love came to Fyodor Tyutchev in Munich, where he served as a freelance official at the Russian diplomatic mission. The "young fairy" - Amalia Maximilianovna Lerchenfeld (later in marriage - Baroness Krudener) - was only 14 years old, and the poet was 18. They walked around the city, made trips along its ancient suburbs, to the Danube, exchanged chains for pectoral crosses ("I remember time is golden...). However " Golden time"romantic walks and childishly pure relationships did not last long. The proposal for marriage was rejected by the relatives of the young lover: an untitled Russian diplomat, who is in Germany on a freelance basis, not rich and still too young, was preferred a more successful party. Tyutchev's experiences - resentment, bitterness, disappointment - are reflected in a sad, aching heart message:

Your sweet gaze, full of innocent passion,
Golden dawn of your heavenly feelings
Could not - alas! - propitiate them -
He serves them as a silent reproach.
These hearts, in which there is no truth,
They, oh friend, run like sentences,
Your love of an infant's eye.
He is terrible to them, like the memory of childhood.
But for me this look is a boon;
Like life is the key, in the depths of the soul
Your gaze lives and will live in me:
She needs him like heaven and breath.
Such is the grief of the spirits, the blessed light;
Only in heaven does he shine, heavenly;
In the night of sin, at the bottom of the terrible abyss,
This pure fire, like a hellish flame, burns.

("Your sweet gaze, full of innocent passion")

But there was another meeting many years later. Amalia, no longer stopping before the norms of decency, came to the dying Tyutchev without an invitation and returned the kiss promised during the exchange of neck baptismal chains.

In Munich, Tyutchev met his new love– Eleanor Peterson (née von Bothmer). She was the widow of a Russian diplomat, three years older than Tyutchev, and had four sons from her first marriage. Unusually beautiful, feminine, sensitive, she idolized her husband and gave him several happy years and three daughters: Anna (1829), Daria (1834) and Catherine (1835). In January 1833, into the life of Tyutchev, like a stone thrown from a mountain - by whom was it thrown - by omnipotent Fate or blind Chance? - a new great love burst in, entailing trials and problems ...

Having rolled down from the mountain, the stone lay down in the valley.
How did he fall? Nobody knows now -
Did he fall from the top by himself,
Was it cast down by someone else's will?
Century after century passed:
No one has yet resolved the issue.

The all-consuming insane passion for the young and lovely Ernestine von Dernberg (née von Pfeffel), combined with official duties and a sense of family duty, causes the poet's languor, irritation, and desperate longing. However, these trials and problems were destined to end. real tragedy: as a result of an accident in the most severe torment, Eleanor died. The poet kept a tender memory of her for the rest of his life, and on the 10th anniversary of Eleanor's death he wrote:

Still languishing longing desires.
I still long for you with my soul -
And in the darkness of memories
I still catch your image ...
Your sweet image, unforgettable,
He is before me everywhere, always,
unattainable, immutable,
Like a star in the sky at night...

(“I am still languishing with longing for desires ...”)

So, six years after meeting and insane passion, Ernestine became the second wife of the poet.

I love your eyes my friend
With their fiery-wonderful play,
When you suddenly raise them
And, like lightning from heaven,
Take a quick circle...
But there is a stronger charm:
Downcast eyes,
In moments of passionate kissing,
And through lowered eyelashes
Gloomy, dim fire of desire.

(“I love your eyes, my friend…”)

This woman inspired Tyutchev to create such masterpieces love lyrics, as “With what negligence, with what longing in love ...”, “Yesterday, in the dreams of the enchanted”, “I don’t know if grace will touch ...”, “December 1, 1837”, “She was sitting on the floor ...”. She bore him three children: Maria (1840), Dmitry (1841) and Ivan (1846). In September 1844, under the influence life circumstances Tyutchev decided to return to St. Petersburg. The second, Russian, life of Fyodor Ivanovich began. Tyutchev is 41 years old.

Life in Russia turned out to be difficult for the family: constant financial difficulties, an unusual climate, unsettled, compared to European, life; and most importantly - children, their own, tiny, with childhood illnesses and almost adult stepdaughters with new adult problems. Ernestina Fedorovna never got used to St. Petersburg, nor was she fascinated by successes in the "fashionable world"; willingly letting her husband shine in the aristocratic living rooms, she took care of the children, the house with pleasure, read a lot and seriously, and later lived for a long time in the Tyutchev family estate in the Oryol province. Fyodor Ivanovich began to languish, get bored, rush out of the house ... He felt cramped inside the family circle.

Like a pillar of smoke
shines in the sky! -
Like a shadow below glides
elusive!..
"Here is our life, -
you said to me,
Not light smoke
shining in the moonlight
And this shadow running from the smoke ... "

(“Like a pillar of smoke…”)

In such a state of mind and heart, Tyutchev found his acquaintance with Elena Denisyeva. Elena Alexandrovna was a beautiful, courageous, temperamental woman; the affair with her developed rapidly and passionately. Scandal and public condemnation followed.

What did you pray with love
What, as a shrine protected,
The fate of human vanity
Betrayed to reproach.
The crowd came in, the crowd broke in
In the sanctuary of your soul
And you were involuntarily ashamed
And the secrets and sacrifices available to her.
Ah, if only living wings
Souls hovering above the crowd
She was rescued from violence
Immortal human vulgarity!

("What did you pray with love")

A proud young woman who challenged secular society, accomplished a feat in the name of love and died in a desperate struggle for her happiness - such is the heroine of Denisiev's cycle of poems. Tyutchev understood how fatal their love turned out to be for her.

Oh, how deadly we love
As in the violent blindness of passions
We are the most likely to destroy
What is dear to our heart!
…..
Fate's terrible sentence
Your love was for her
And undeserved shame
She lay down on her life!

("Oh, how deadly we love...")

The poet's soul was torn between two beloved women. Both Ernestina and Elena were, as it were, the centers of his two different lives, two at the same time existing worlds. Experiencing a deep grateful feeling for his wife, he nevertheless could not put an end to his relationship with Elena, which in one of the poems of 1859, addressed to Ernestina Fedorovna, he called "spiritual swoon":

I don't know if grace will touch
Of my painfully sinful soul,
Will she be able to rise and rise,
Will spiritual fainting go away?
But if the soul could
Here on earth find peace
You would be a blessing to me -
You, you, my earthly providence! ..

(“I don’t know if grace will touch”)

However, affection, a sense of duty and gratitude to his wife could not force out of the poet's soul such a dramatic, but tender love for Elena Denisyeva.

Oh, how in our declining years
We love more tenderly and more superstitiously ...
Shine, shine, parting light
Last love, evening dawn!
Half the sky was engulfed by a shadow,
Only there, in the west, radiance wanders, -
Slow down, slow down, evening day,
Last, last charm.
Let the blood run thin in the veins,
But tenderness does not fail in the heart ...
Oh, last love!
You are both bliss and hopelessness.

(Last love)

The denouement of this tense dramatic situation was tragic. Desperately defending her right to happiness with her beloved, Elena Alexandrovna is already in adulthood decided on a third child, but died in childbirth. The year before, Tyutchev had written a poem in which, for the first time in fourteen years of his fateful romance, he acknowledged its sinfulness:

When there is no God's consent,
No matter how she suffers, loving, -
The soul, alas, will not suffer happiness,
But he can hurt himself...

(“When there is no God’s consent…”)

The death of a loved one deeply shocked the poet, own life as if it had lost its meaning; he was seized with despair, he was even close to insanity.

Oh, this South, oh, this Nice! ..
Oh, how their brilliance disturbs me!
Life is like a shot bird
Wants to get up but can't...
There is no flight, no scope -
Broken wings hang
And all of her, clinging to the dust,
Trembling with pain and impotence ...

(“Oh, this South, oh, this Nice! ..”)

The feeling of suffering and guilt was aggravated by the tragedy in the family: one by one, four children died, and soon a brother.

Fedor Ivanovich, already mortally ill, addressed his last words of love to his wife Ernestina:

The executing God has taken everything from me:
Health, willpower, air, sleep,
He left you alone with me,
So that I can still pray to him.

The day of the poet's death fell on July 15, 1873. Twenty-three years before, on the same day, July 15, the last romantic poet met his last love- Elena Deniseva ...

1820s
Your sweet gaze, full of innocent passion ...

"Do not give us the spirit of idle talk!"
So from today
You by virtue of our condition
Please don't ask me for prayers.

Early 1820s

Spring greetings to poets

The love of the earth and the charm of the year,
Spring is fragrant to us!
Nature gives a feast to creation,
Goodbye feast gives sons! ..
Spirit of strength, life and freedom
Raises, envelops us! ..
And joy in the heart spilled,
As a response to the triumph of nature,
Like God's life-giving voice!
Where are you, sons of Harmony?..
Here! .. and bold fingers
Touch the dormant string
Heated by bright rays
Love, joy and spring!
0 you whose eyes are so often sanctified
Reverence with tears
Nature's temple is open, singers, before you!
Poetry has given you the key to it!
In your soaring high
Don't ever change!
And the eternal beauty of nature
There will be no secret or reproach for you! ..
Like a full, fiery flowering,
Washed Aurora in light,
Roses shine and burn
And Zephyr - joyful flight
Their aroma spills -
So spill the sweetness of life
Singers, follow you!
So flutter your, friends, youth
By bright happiness flowers! ..

<Апрель 1821>

Tears

I love, friends, caress with the eyes
Or the purple of sparkling wines,
Or fruits between sheets
Fragrant ruby.
I love to watch when creation
As if immersed in spring,
And the world fell asleep in fragrance
And smiles in a dream! ..
I love when the face is beautiful
Zephyr with a kiss flames,
That curls silk voluptuous,
Then the cheeks dig into the dimples!
But what are all the charms of the Paphos queen,
And grape juice, and the smell of roses
Before you, holy source of tears,
Dew of the divine morning star! ..
Heavenly beam plays them
And, refracted by fire drops,
draws rainbows alive
On the thunder clouds of life.
And only a mortal eye
You, angel of tears, touch your wings -
The fog will dissipate with tears
And the sky of seraphim faces
Suddenly develop before the eyes.

Opponents of wine

(Just like wine gladdens the heart of a person)

Oh, people's judgment is wrong,
What a sin to drink!
Sound mind dictates
Love and drink wine.
Curse and woe
Head to the disputants!
I am help in an important dispute
Holy call.
Our great-grandfather, seduced
A wife and a snake
The fruit ate the forbidden
And rightfully driven away.
Well, how can you not agree?
That grandfather was to blame:
What to seduce with an apple,
Having grapes?
But honor and glory to Noah, -
He acted smart
Quarreled with water
And took up the wine.
No quarrel, no reproach
Didn't drink a glass.
And often bunches of juice
He poured into it.
Good attempts
God himself blessed
And as a sign of favor
I made a covenant with him.
Suddenly I didn’t fall in love with the cup
One of the sons.
Oh fiend! Noah stood up
And the villain went to hell.
So let's get drunk
Drink out of devotion
So that in God's together with Noah
Sanctuary to enter.

Early 1820s

Great about verses:

Poetry is like painting: one work will captivate you more if you look at it closely, and another if you move further away.

Little cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creak of unoiled wheels.

The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is that which has broken.

Marina Tsvetaeva

Of all the arts, poetry is most tempted to replace its own peculiar beauty with stolen glitter.

Humboldt W.

Poems succeed if they are created with spiritual clarity.

The writing of poetry is closer to worship than is commonly believed.

If only you knew from what rubbish Poems grow without shame... Like a dandelion near a fence, Like burdocks and quinoa.

A. A. Akhmatova

Poetry is not in verses alone: ​​it is spilled everywhere, it is around us. Take a look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life breathe from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.

I. S. Turgenev

For many people, writing poetry is a growing pain of the mind.

G. Lichtenberg

Lovely verse like a bow drawn through the sonorous fibers of our being. Not our own - our thoughts make the poet sing inside us. Telling us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens in our souls our love and our sorrow. He is a wizard. Understanding him, we become poets like him.

Where graceful verses flow, there is no place for vainglory.

Murasaki Shikibu

I turn to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to blank verse. There are too few rhymes in Russian. One calls the other. The flame inevitably drags the stone behind it. Because of the feeling, art certainly peeps out. Who is not tired of love and blood, difficult and wonderful, faithful and hypocritical, and so on.

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

- ... Are your poems good, tell yourself?
- Monstrous! Ivan suddenly said boldly and frankly.
- Do not write anymore! the visitor asked pleadingly.
I promise and I swear! - solemnly said Ivan ...

Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "The Master and Margarita"

We all write poetry; poets differ from the rest only in that they write them with words.

John Fowles. "The French Lieutenant's Mistress"

Every poem is a veil stretched out on the points of a few words. These words shine like stars, because of them the poem exists.

Alexander Alexandrovich Blok

The poets of antiquity, unlike modern ones, rarely wrote more than a dozen poems during their long lives. It is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, for each poetic work of those times, the whole Universe is certainly hidden, filled with miracles - often dangerous for someone who inadvertently wakes dormant lines.

Max Fry. "The Talking Dead"

To one of my clumsy hippos-poems, I attached such a heavenly tail: ...

Mayakovsky! Your poems do not warm, do not excite, do not infect!
- My poems are not a stove, not a sea and not a plague!

Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky

Poems are our inner music, clothed in words, permeated with thin strings of meanings and dreams, and therefore drive away critics. They are but miserable drinkers of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Don't let his vulgar groping hands in there. Let the verses seem to him an absurd lowing, a chaotic jumble of words. For us, this is a song of freedom from tedious reason, a glorious song that sounds on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.

Boris Krieger. "A Thousand Lives"

Poems are the thrill of the heart, the excitement of the soul and tears. And tears are nothing but pure poetry that has rejected the word.