June 1 marks the 100th anniversary of the birth of David Samoilov

“Fifth records” (M.: “Time”, 2002) - this was the name of the two -volume david Samoilov, the poet at all times, which included his diary entries since 1934, when he was 14 years old, until February 1990, the latter was made a few days before his death. But even this outstanding publication cannot be considered complete, while there are no notes in it that today on the pages of Novaya Gazeta is published by the wife of the poet Galina Medvedev. This is a story about love, which has become prose, and poetry, and life.

Someday we will tell
How we live by another landscape,
Where the sea illuminates us
Where he writes in the sand, like a genius,
Wave of traces of their unrest
And suddenly he was erasing, leaning.

"Povarno elegia"

Darling, don't say
Do not talk about it.

"Soldier and Marta"

D.S. - G. M. from Estonia to Moscow, January 1965

No. 1.
It became inexpressibly sad, my dear, after our telephone conversation. So I want the relations of clear and reliable, so tired and do not need these quick climaxes on doping, all this is narcotic and firing that happened to me before-this is not necessary all this where in every fluent intonation, where you can suspect something like that, I am afraid to chills and to physical pain.

You recognized me on some important, apparently, for me a fracture. I am already light and pleasant only in communication, and in a relationship is completely low. And here, probably, it’s completely difficult, because I need you all. Or not needed at all. Sorry, I write you the truth and I do not want to look better than it really is.

You probably have many different moods these days - and sympathy for me, and tenderness and hostility. I can cause all these feelings. I try to put myself in your place all the time, to be you. And so I thought that you would talk to me in the 4th or 5th voice. It doesn’t hurt you, you need to be honest.

You see, I used to be sold in the plots, I could build a summer cottage village on me. And now I’m selling only the whole. And entirely - it is too troublesome and few people need.

You probably don't need it.

I understand this, so I don’t need to spare me and I don’t need to say excess. I pray to God superstitious: love me, and if - no, give me, Lord, to stop you!

D.

No. 2.
I wrote you a long letter. Then Sashka arrived ( his son from his first marriage with O. Vogelson . - Ed. ) Interrupted me. It became even more difficult with him, even more dreary than one. Each word was insincere and forced to him, and everything in me hurt - physical pain, similar to moral, or vice versa.

I took terrible torment to myself - to be with him all the holidays. This phrase sounds blasphemous, but you understand what it means.

I suddenly felt monstrous fatigue after the last three days (that gray day, and yesterday and today).

It would probably be easier if yesterday’s words were not said, but it’s good that they have already been uttered. I can’t write you long and in detail now, and this is not necessary.

I will ask you only a few questions that are enough to say - yes or no.

Do you love me?

Is your intention to connect your life with me seriously?

Should this be done in the very near future?

Are you ready?

Do you imagine all the initial difficulties associated with this?

Are the following difficulties associated with a lack of my character scare you?

All this must be decided immediately. I can’t write like that anymore. I cease to be a poet and means I am losing everything that is interesting in me by others and it is important to me myself.

D.

No. 3.
My dear!

I - a brilliant organizer - could not organize a good mood for myself.

Sasha is sleeping, and everything is somehow sleepy and sad. I do not know how to express my condition or understand it. And I'm even afraid to scare him.

Because you can only understand the past. And I sit and don’t even dare to move, I desperately force what has already gone to last.

The train is coming. And you went a little further than left. And I understand this, because both in me and you have some kind of greed for the future and the ability to get out of the past, and start every day of life first. Maybe that's why we are both (it seems, you too) is kind to the past, because it does not last, does not continue, does not torment, but gave us everything that could give - thanks to him!

Do not consider all this as a waste. On the contrary, you and I may have a relationship or completely truthful, truthful to details (in the main thing we are firm, and the details are confused), or at all. And one of the truth is that we constantly have to part and wait with fear of, what will happen at the meeting.

After all, we can get to each other only for a short time (when you are a stupid, uneducated, and especially love you when you are completely dark). You and I do not know how to get tired. But then we know how to be more-to be together and be apart and in a sense to want this. Is it true? I'm telling the truth.

My dear! Love me. This is a spell. I love you (I love you!) And Varka ( our future daughter . - G. M. ), everything that is already connected with you in me. And longing for you and even separation from you.

Tomorrow morning I will leave in Povy with Sasha and Thomas Cross. A single father with two children is even more convincing. It is a pity that there is no Variki. She would walk with me, holding on to my index finger.

Kiss you.

Your D.

Two poems

Only you

Tallinn - a secret abode,
Year today, year yesterday.
Snow flying, slowly melting
Above the trees and above the tower.

Tallinn is a temporary refuge,
Silent and stereo.
Day outside the windows is quietly squeamish,
The day has passed and the future day.

Tallinn - a secret abode,
The year past and a year past.
The train is slowly approaching
The train, slowly departed.

Tallinn is a temporary refuge,
Sleep snow, careful eyelids ...
Things: Where? Where else?
Really - completely? Forever?

January 5, 1965

Similar - striving for separation,
They are like powerlessness and power.
Cordial with a knock,
Oh my god, I say, oh my God!

How strange and how absolutely
We have both created with you.
Our past is blissful
Blessed, maybe wretched?

In the park that black on white -
Coal in the snow is drawn,
Or maybe - on the headline with chalk,
On white paper - lead.

In the park that is imprinted
In my knotted etching,
In that city is narrow, wandering
And tin gray grated,

In that city - only goodbye

January 1965

On January 10, 1965, sometimes it seems to me that until it’s too late, I have to build another house, that only in another house I can do something else. Maybe this is just an attempt to justify powerlessness and fatigue. And even if not, will there be enough strength? This needs huge forces and time.

And then it is no longer enough for business ... And I already need that there were mind, talent, and a complete return to me in the new house ... Probably, I am an instinctively someone’s talent and for him to make him serve, to draw from them.

All this, apparently, is an empty whim, because I am mortally ill. And yet I do not want to protect myself.

On January 19, 1965, am I really young to some extent?

March 28, 1965 The character of Gali. What do I know about him? She is lazy, like all talented people who are easy to deal with.

Emotionally responsive to every turn of thought and mood. Sensitivity similar to a musical hearing. For me, accustomed to cook in my own juice, this is new and amazing.

True nature.
Free from everyday life.
Good comrade.
Her concepts are the highest.
(...)

Her own feelings were sophisticated to aristocracy. It is difficult, almost impossible to correspond to such an exquisite mental system.

The day enters, the city enters,
The first sadness enters.
And how many bird conversations
Foggy in the morning in the wind!

And I - the phenomenon of the flesh -
I love forever, for centuries,
As in dazzling flight
This is a cloud. Look:

Just a few moments -
And it will turn around, fly away.
Well, love explanations
God will forgive me an tastelessness.

On April 8, 1965, he went to Glyka to her work at the Institute of Art History.

In the midst of a crowded hall in a polyphonic hall with complete detachment from everything that was all, she interpreted with Sergey Averintsev about Blessed Augustine.

Why am I annoying her with everything?

On April 9, 1965, I want her inspired face to shine only for me and for anyone else.

On August 16, 1965, Galya cried at night. An unprecedented case. "All sorry for everyone, my mother, your mother, Sasha, you." Not a word about yourself. From amazement I did not find comforting words.

Twelve years later, the following text was sent from Moscow to Pyarnna - from D. S. - me.

And it’s sorry for everyone and everything. And sorry
Pluted hemisphere,
When one along the dunes, running -
The soul is an unhappy Greek ...
And a seagull takes off in front of her.
And no one else around.

September 16, 1965 Budapest. He called the Galuna. It turns out that she is put in the hospital. She believes that doctors are reinsured. Is it so? Or it is said for my reassurance with the usual firmness of the spirit for her.

On October 15, 1965 , after returning from Hungary, going to Galk, he took Gribanov with his cowardice. She kept with even impenetrable courtesy as a radiant person. In a given tonality, it was not possible to ask about well -being and how everything worked out in the hospital. So he left with nothing.

On November 5, 1965, after the Novomir banquet, a drunken and sprayed tack fell to Galka. Gargained something unintelligible. She quickly cut through dissatisfaction with herself and her position. And until I spoke too much (what I would spare), I put me politely, but firmly.

I love you. I will be with you
All his being, as long as
I will not die. But I will not die
As long as I will be with you

On November 26, 1965, my daughter Barbara was born this morning (...)
Be happy, my daughter Barbara!

December 7, 1965. All these days it was insanely difficult. It was necessary to solve a lot of urgent issues.

In addition, the day of poetry took place. Performance. Poles, Czechs, Hungarians. Meetings, banquets.

And yet in this chaos I felt better than before, because everything finally decided. And there is no need to hide anything from anyone and pretend to anyone.

One thing is bad - I got sick and lying around the third day. Bad well -being and generally a good state of mind.

April 10, 1971. Almost all these days are the house. Strengthened in thoughts about the book. Galya understands me deeply and seriously. Our conversations with her are the most important in life, for they generalize all their lives.

It would be nice if not for money, not worries.

On February 12, 1972, Galya correctly says that even my reader must be able to convince.

On February 29, 1972, the conversation with Galya about the fruitlessness of recent months. She is in many ways right. A lot of effort goes to communication and drunkenness. But I always talked and drank. And when he did not drink and did not communicate, he still did not write better and more.

There is some other mechanism. Or maybe we both exaggerate my possibilities.

The way out of the circle of previous friends, the creation of a new circle, a new self -awareness, and so on what is happening to me, also requires a lot of effort and cannot happen painlessly, no matter how natural all this happens.

Maybe this is a nail.

We can live with hope and love
Without going without getting excited,
And do not listen to judgment
Those who are careing for us.

We will live an empty hope
Rada
A throat of love and kindness,
And listen to yourself a mockery of evil truth,
Which is worse than slander.

February 7, 1974. A big evening in the comauditor, many acquaintances and friends. Everyone is very friendly and kind. At first I read badly - I was afraid to forget. Then, they say, he calculated. Militated the absence of Yevtushenko.

Glaku and I were worried; She is more than me. (...)

Success

December 16, 1975 Galya lives on a feat. Everything rests on it. Tiring the costs of style.

March 25, 1976 I am a more inert nature than Galya. She is the first to feel the urgency of turning to another, to the new. And subtly makes it clear to me.

On September 3, 1978, many persons flashed in Moscow. I drank four days. On the 26th, a daw flew. On the 30th I will be in Pyarn again.

Things with Goslit are somehow settled.

Do not bother me to drink wine
Inspiration lurks in it.
Inspiration. And extension
We are not given to achieve.

Without wine, fate is dark
My lamp fades away.
Death is not a drinking companion,
She calls to sobriety ...

You can live by keeping yourself,
With a sense of self -conservation?
No, you can’t among the battle
Protect yourself from fire!

You really let me live,
So that he does not pay attention
On the intermittence of breathing
And stupid in the heart pain! ..
( Read by phone from Pyarn to Moscow )

On January 2, 1977, in the twelfth year of marriage with unprecedented force, he felt a love of his own wife.

... Our love, our secret.

Our conversations. 1977

D. S. Why, when you were eighteen years old, you didn’t come up to me and said: “I'm your wife”?

G. M. You would not recognize me.

D. S. I did not let anyone so close to my creative laboratory.

G. M. You are simply tired both as a poet, and as a person to be a thing in yourself. The unreason was inhibited and your meeting with a wide reader.

D. S. maybe so. And perhaps not. I lacked internal relaxation.

G. M. Don't tell me. The “Days”, with which your popularity began, is only half written with me, and in the book - integrity and intonation unity.

***

G. M. Remember, by N.Ya. Mandelstam about the fact that Osip Emilievich had poetry and were located nests? And you are radiant. And from one point - several multidirectional meanings. So from the "Povarnuy Elegy" came and saved the "Old Don Juan", "What remains? Late Tyutchev ”,“ He paid for the dislike of Natalia ”,“ Dream of Hannibal ”.

D. S. I did not think about the source and source. He wrote as it was written.

G. M. And you do not need to know about it. The Creator should not see himself through. This would take away his demons to the impulse to action.

D. S. Have you noticed that I have practically no color in poetry?

G. M. But what about “and graphics of landscapes depicted by soot ...”? Exactly in the style of your beloved Bruegel.
But? D.S. But ( further again G. M. ) there is an exception: "Suddenly a red leaf crept into the greens." It's like an explosion.

G. M. is dangerous to solve practical problems with poetic means. This means to endow poetry with absolute power over life in return for complex interaction with it.

Having paid me tribute for patience, just like a comrade Stalin to the Russian people. And at the same time abolishing the initial period of our life, when the difficulties of life buildings were perceived by you as insurmountable and still were allowed and experienced.

However, the gloomy, desperate and non -contact your then condition is reflected in verses.

D. S. They are not printed.

G. M. They are the fact of your public biography and, therefore, are subject to publication and interpretation. You don't know what its possible orientation will be?

D.S. ...

G. M. Here I think the same.

Double

The poet and neighbor Korolev,
Sensing the movement of meaning
He recovered, got up, did not wash,
I felt that the unwells.
And suddenly he saw the universe
Behind the buildings of the neighboring courtyards.

Suddenly I saw in the window
Yourself in the lighting ...
Double is not “I” in me,
And somewhere outside and in the external ...

January 27, 1983 by a half -hearted and missing, returned to Pyarn.

January 29, 1983 I lay down. Very good with Galya and children.
G. - in the best state of love and understanding. She is the only person without whom I cannot live.

I will part with you forever
Forever.
Growing old age -
It doesn’t matter.
Not your trouble, not ours,
And mine.
A empty bowl against me
Being.

On August 11, 1985, in the morning Misha Kozakov read my poems about Beatrice. The cycle - it seems the best that I wrote in recent years. It has free intonation, the verse is simple. Galya is silent, silent, silent !!!

I wrote to her either a letter, or a summary of the letter.

My beloved Galka!

... we have a unique relationship. They were never idyllic, but always intense, spiritual, saturated.

... Remember how the closest and most subtle friends admired or envied.

... I have become a moral authority for the best, progressive part of society. This is our common merit with you!

... You and I are a single whole. This is the only way I can think and feel.

Your D.

Save me. Otherwise, I am completely
Silent.
You can save you
one.
You are doomed to this.

June 16, 1985 - August 15, 1986

For a whole year I was not in myself.
Year of three losses.
Mother's loss.
Loss of a friend ( B.D. Slutsky. - G. M. )
Loss of love.

On August 16, 1986, I hastened to print Beatrice. Now it’s too late to regret it.

I don't know how to repent

Of course, she is attached to me.

August 17, 1986 Galya is a really significant person. Her moral accuracy is natural as breathing. I have to achieve it.

I, in essence, with one of you
Lead a permanent dialogue,
At least I often can't words
To say that I could come up with.
I'm afraid that this story
Will spoil me a lack of words ...
And in essence, only your conscience
I am listing in the middle of the basics.
( From unpublished )

On December 20, 1986, Galya cares about me, as she alone knows how, with mental grace. And I, Bourbon ...

December 21, 1986 (...) Galya by the vocation of the queen. She would never have done state affairs. But she would create the style of the state. And sometimes I would chop my head.

Our conversations. 1987

D.

G. M. "... And in the tower, that high entrance to anyone ..."

D. S. What are you laughing?

G. M. looks very much like you. It is not without reason that you put me in the Old Russian, then in the Peter's era, then you will throw it in the matriarchy. You write out, so to speak, a guarantee of inviolability in suitable social conditions. This energy and for peaceful goals.

D. S. Well, you know, in war as in war.

G. M. War in your head, not in reality.

D. S. I have primary reactions rather sluggish, I light up from the word.

G. M. here and listen to your device, there will be less ballast. Your path to a constructive result is a word missed through a conceptual apparatus. Когда транслируются напрямую скудные, незрелые, несовершенные эмоции, выходят жалобы турка, а не высказывания артиста в силе.

Д. С. Иногда хочется быть кем угодно, только не собой.

Г. М. О том и речь. Ты прибегаешь к спонтанному письму, когда не в форме. За последние годы набралось порядочно текстов, искажающих твое положение в семье и в доме, где ты царишь и правишь бал. Протест против естественного движения жизни, установка «Старость — это вселенское горе» выбили тебя из колеи.

Д. С. Что будет?

Г. М. То же, что бывало не раз. Дописавшись до тупика и расшатав свое душевное равновесие, вернешься в лоно человечности и снова станешь равен своему дарованию.

Д. С. Посмотрим.

Г. М. «Но есть возвышенная старость, что грозно вызревает в нас». Не ты ли это написал? Не пристало пасовать перед собственными предначертаниями.

Последний разговор. 1989

(Из тех, что записаны мною)

Д. С. Если бы я не ушел от Ляли, сидел бы я сейчас у них ( у сына, Александра, и его жены . — Г. М. ) на кухне и мне бы, как тому толстовскому старичку, ставили еду в отдельной миске.

Г. М. Зачем ты думаешь о том, что тебе не грозит?

Д. С. «Мадонна, под твоим крылом пригрелся, под твоею сенью…»

Г. М.
Но, кажется, произошло
Высвечиванье перспективы.
Оказывается — светло,
Оказывается — мы живы».

18 февраля 1990 г. Говорили с Галей о необходимости печатать мою прозу.

Когда бы спел я, наконец,
Нежнейшее четверостишье,
Как иногда поет скворец
Весною в утреннем затишье!

About what? Да как вам объяснить?
Все так нелепо в разговоре.
Ну, предположим, про весну,
Про вас, про облако, про море.

Galina Medvedeva