Andrey Bely

A man with sapphire eyes, erupting words into the world and filling the world with words

In 1905, sitting at Blok in Shakhmatov, Andrei Bely was thinking about how to burn the noble nests, which he called the "clopins." I thought about bombs - weapons of the Socialist -Revolutionaries. When Moscow University shut up in its walls, preparing to hold the siege of the hunters, and in the laboratories of the chemical faculty made sulfuric acid to pour it from the roofs on their heads - he slipped into the gate and slipped out of them, being coherent and collector of money. And he walked along the night, dangerous Moscow with a “bulldog” in his pocket, preparing to shoot away from the pogrom, and when it all ended, he found that the revolver was faulty.

The energy beat in him and beat him - the nervous energy of a person with sapphire eyes, speaking one hundred words per minute, erupting the words into the world, filling the world with words.

Its long revolutions rolled a living and people like noisy shafts. The word as a mania, a conversation as ecstasy - so he lived, he was like that. He once spoke with Alexander Blok from seven pm to seven in the morning - twelve hours in a row. And all the time, all the time, on every round of his twisted into a spiral, ascending from the complexity to the complexity of life - he found out the relationship.

It was for him a sweet poison, a delightful torment - to find out relationships with men, with women, with friends, with poets. From Moscow, he specially went to Petersburg to sort things out with Blok and his wife. From St. Petersburg he returned to Moscow to rush to clarify relations with Bryusov. From Russia in 1922 he went through the defeated, defeated Europe to Switzerland, to finally find out relations with his wife Asya Turgeneva, with whom he parted in 1916. He was just some kind of Gargantua of clarification of relations and long conversations, he crashed to people in apartments, so that, shining with proteins on a face dark from mental pain, talking about himself, talking about others in relation to himself. Khodasevich, whom he once in a row with terrible pressure and repeating details told his story, fainted.

He said about himself that “scattered, and - sees; Speaks smoothly, a - by; What is healed into - that is silent about that; The word is a bicycle on which, without falling, lugs in life; And the legs are wounded. ”

Not only legs, all of it was wounded, all was in thorns, spikes and thorns of our incomprehensible world in which he did not know how to live and settle down. He wrote poetry and novels, knew how to give lectures, but did not know how to get the most simple things: to bring water, fasten the jacket, and the galoshas falling from his feet faded him: what to do? People pressing each other's shoulders to climb into a tram or break through to the checkout, caused him horror. He was afraid of Khamov, avoided, and that is why he was all the time on them. “I can't live! Why is I guilty that it is so arranged that I can’t tear out the benefits of myself; And I do not know how to slip out of the rules. I can't live. "

Its absent -mindedness was phenomenal, a lot of things he did in absent -mindedness. Then, on a walk, he clung to the girl and dragged along, then he poured soup from the inkwell, then he was furious, unable to stick his head into the sleeve of the shirt, then, when farewell, he gallantly kissed the man’s hand, thinking that it was a woman.

The triangle was his life figure. At first he created a platonic triangle with Margarita Morozova and her husband, millionaire Mikhail Morozov; He wrote to her mystical letters, and called him a centaur. Then it was a triangle with a block and love of Dmitrievna, a painful triangle in which he brought himself - or did she bring it? Or did everyone bring everyone? - Almost to madness and illness. How much strength he put into this love, how many times he was already sure that she leaves the bloc to him and they go to Italy, and even once in a rented apartment where they met, sitting next to her on the bed, took out a turtle crest from her hair - but no! And there was also a triangle with Bryusov and Nina Petrovskaya, in the hand of which the revolver finally founded; He put the partners in the triangle and on the line of suicide on the line of murder. But this, having passed through half the European Europe, in Switzerland, formed a strange triangle with Asia Turgeneva and Anthroposof Dr. Steiner-another defeat, another catastrophe of his life.

A black mask with lace and a satin red long domino - so he saw death, in this form she had to come to him, so he was waiting for her until he was cured of love and said about L.D.: “Doll”. But the bitterness remained - he knew about her novels. Not with him, not with him! Doll! And during the hours of despair he walked around the apartment in this black mask.

The language that he thought, felt and spoke, was something extraordinary and even fabulous. As soon as the sun was not called, and Bely called it fat.

The word "seriously" wrote in the letters "Serios", so he heard. Instead of “capricious” - he will say “capriches”, instead of “streets” - “ulchcons”. Do you and I have a blue morning? He has the blue. How good his “manpoints” are and how good and tangible is his “tight shortness”. When people sit silently and smoke, he is called - "Gather with a bark without words." We have slide and slush, always in the singular, and we are dragging on it, and his people spray slopes, and you see how they fly from under the halosh spray in all directions. And the one who, by responsibility goes to visit, is “puffed up by meaningless TET-A-Tats” in his language.

But this personal, sharp and accurate, soft and harsh tongue was only a minus of a hundredth step on the way to the tongue of the future, which he foresaw and heard, but could not put into sounds and words, because he understood that the human larynx did not ripen yet. And there will be everything in it, there will be a noise of waves and singing of birds, there will be a buzz of air and rustling of leaves, and all the bestial voices will also be in the future synthetic, which he spoke with expanding shining eyes, itself shining and open to vulnerability at that moment.

His vulnerability was terrible. With all, he was on “you”, including cabmen, sellers and a boy who brought him water. He cried over the old man-prisoner who dragged his suitcase.

This vulnerability, along with a bald head, shining eyes and something childish in the expression of an adult, in the twenties unsettled Soviet as a magnet, attracted the boor of different sexes and a kind to him, which it was joyful to be crawling over him. They mocked this strange man in a hat and a long coat, and he ran away from them in horror and despair: Hama ... rude. The last such boor in his life was the Bolshevik Kamenev, who wrote a preface to his book, in which he called the life of the white "tragifars in the back of the story." In horror and shame, he ran from the store to the store, bought his book and pulled out a preface from it. The consequence was a stroke.

Every thing that fell into his hands, he necessarily turned over to look at her from the back. He wanted to know the back of the book, suitcase, tram ticket, figurines, toys. He saw ravines like air mountains overturned in the ground. Sometimes, at bad moments, the reverse side turned out to be bad infinity, as in the Berlin boarding house at the Anhaltsky station, where he went along the corridor and found that the apartment had no end, because new corridors were leaving for other corridors, where people of the reverse side looked at him hostilely. And he again felt that the world he got into was not accepting him.

Excited, inexorable, waterfall, pouring in words, every second living in nervous excitement, with a buzzing swarm of words in his head, with a tick and current of feelings in the heart, he suddenly squatted near the interlocutor’s chair and sat so, without ceasing to speak. He loved such a pose. In his youth, reading poems, he could suddenly lie on the floor or climb under the table and read from there. This list of his oddities is not exhausted. In Berlin of 1922, he drank in a biased beer and fell in love with a pale quiet girl at a counter. He struck her with loud speeches and crazy erudition, which allowed him for hours without pauses, drunk from beer, to talk about Kant, Conte, Poincare, Steiner, Ivanov, Meterlinka, Rickert, Gautman and himself. Poor Marichen considered him a professor. “He was now like an unlucky drinking - either an inventor or a professor without a department” (Boris Zaitsev).

He put on glasses to hide behind them. Glasses are like a mask. But he could not hide himself, his life all the time extracted from behind the mask, blew up, thrown away, twisted, carried away. Then he scattered his hands against the wall - they crucify me! I am Christ! - Then, right from the stage, he threatened the writer Tishchenko that “insulting him by action”, then rushed around the room, pouring out the streams of words about what he didn’t say that he wanted to say because they didn’t hear what he wanted to say, but did not say. And he covered his bald head with a soft round cap.

Everything flown from orbit, Russia flew off orbit, and Andrei Bely flew with it with orbit, who, during a viscous night clock in the Berlin boarding house Krampe, folded figures from cubes presented by someone, shouted poems into the window and in his head talked with Christ.

Like Blok, a white figure seemed to him over the mud of unrequited streets and above the dark dumps of life, not concerned with bare feet of the earth. He lived passionately, passionately, he lived absurdly, he lived drunk, he lived crazy, in the despair of his continuously consuming life disaster, he lived in a rupture among himself and himself. He doubled in himself, was himself his shell, into which he himself pounded his hands and feet and shouted screaming terrible, which is not the case, not you, not going there. "Oh, surround - people, people: / Save me from me."

"Inside Andrei Bely, an idiot Boris lives." So he determined the two of which he consisted.

That white took the idiots into the circulation, and even the idiot turned white into the wilds of the most tholen thoughts, into dark quagmers of suffering. Sometimes they merged, Dead Student Andrei and the son of Professor Boris, and, having taken a liter on his chest, dancing. In the twenties, in the age of jazz, a bald poet with the eyes, which someone called overturned, frantically and tirelessly danced in the Berlin Pivniks Shimmy and Foxtrot. It was impossible to stop him, the music was embarrassed by him, and he, to the horror of the Germans, bend and trembled with his whole body, fought and shook, like in the Paduchi, threw his knee with his big legs. He himself believed that he was dancing well. These dances were neither Shimmi nor Foxtrot, but were some Khlystoy worships in the nightly taverns of Emigrant Berlin. His wife explained the dances "as a consciously chosen remedy not to go crazy."

Beson nights, when he spoke everything in a foreign apartment for hours and spoke about the turbulence of his life, exhausted, dreaming of the owners, shnaps and bear and Khlystov dancing in dark -handed birchtubes and thoughts about Christ, sliding with white legs above the dirt, brought him to the brink, beyond which he was no longer Andrei Bely. All this was called in his language - self -terraz. He had such a word. At a banquet, before leaving for Russia, where writers and poets of Russian emigration gathered to see him off, he stood at the head of the table - huge, gloomy, with shining eyes and, clenching his fist, announced that he was going for crucifixion, redeem the sin of all those present here. For everyone-for crucifixion along a bumpy, painful, unbearable life he rides, rides on the very bicycle that he once spoke about in the old years, with wounded legs, with a bleeding heart and with a ski head, over which his light gray hair flying with a whisk.

Homeland

*Sob, the stormy element,

In the pillars of thunder fire!

Russia, Russia, Russia -

Madly, burning me!*

*In your fateful devastation,

Into your deaf depths -

Winging perfume streams

Their light -haired dreams.*

*Do not cry: bow your knees

There - in hurricanes of lights,

In the thunder of seraphic singing,

In the flows of space days!*

*Dry deserts of shame,

Sea of ​​undeveloped tears -

A beam of a luggular gaze

He will warm the descended Christ.*

*Let in the sky - and the rings of Saturn,

And the milky ways silver, -

Piles phosphorically violently,

The earth is a fire kernel!*

*And you, the fire element,

Madly, burning me

Russia, Russia, Russia -

Messiah of the coming day!*

August 1917, cook

Hospital

*I see again -

Gloomy - you ...

But - not caustic, but cold: I forgot.

From a nobive, spiritual depth

You look calmly in everything that was before.

I, in the hassle

Languishing,

Loving from the hassles

I am an extended light to me,

I, suffocated, in the distant you -

I get stuck intently. You look with unimportant.

Oh, this long

Dream:

Outside the windows sunset.

Chamber number six, items gray heap,

Patients with a sleepless moan, my sick leave;

And aching pain, and mice is a brisk rustle.

Throwing -

By day,

For months, years ...

Freak the cold ...

Illness, death, hunger ...

And - beating in horror in heavy anger there,

Snocking in the air, crushing bones Hammer ...

Changed

Life,

Empty, passerby swarm -

The disappearance of the native native.

Disappearance, my eyes close

With a harsh hand, with an icy hand.*

January 1921, Moscow

*You are a shadow of shadows ...

I won’t call you.

Your face -

Cold and evil ...*

*I swim there - for the haze of days - I call,

Behind the haze of days - no, not you: the former, -

Which I am tearing

(once again),

Which is in which

Once it rises, -*

*Which is again diamond -

Diamond stars, stars of love, lowers.*

*So in the leaves of LIP,

Sprinked - light

Trembling, crushing

Like a sprayed glass;*

*So - in sound -leafy straits of years

He runs with a silver memory: Sail ...*

*So in young

Spring breeze

Whitening is inflated

Lamb;

So above the water I settled in a breeze

Guessor of bewildered bugs ...*

*Soul, you are light.

Others - (not and no!) -

In the elements of years:

Mind of light ...

Others - no ... lost poet,

Find her, lost somewhere.*

*For ghosts of years -

The intercess is not unprofitable;

On it is a soul

Lost somewhere ...*

*You, I will hug myself, trembling,

In trembling bewildered light.*

February 1922, Berlin