EVENING AT THE CONSERVATORY
(An entrée courtesy of my, at that point, seven-year-old daughter Alya)
A text in which not a single punctuation mark has been altered from the original (a note by M. Tsvetayeva).
Nikitskaya, 8. Evening at the grand hall of the Conservatory. A dark night. We steel up Nikitskaya towards the Grand Hall of the Conservatory. Marina will be reading there and many other poets as well. Finally, we have arrived. We wander around for a long time seeking the little poet V.G. Shershenevich. At last, mom runs into an acquaintance, who leads is into a tiny room where everyone who's supposed to be reading that night was already seating around. Old man Bryusov was sitting there with his stone face (after the evening I slept covered by his his coat). I asked Marina to play piano for a bit, but she doesn't dare to. Soon after we enter I began reading mom's poetry to Bryusov, but she held me back. Some man with permed-up hair and a blue shirt approached mom. He had the appearance of a rude, inconsiderate person. He said: "Someone informed me that you're planning on getting married." - "Well, please tell these oh-so-well-informed people on my behalf that when I sleep all I ever dream of is to again meet Seryojha, Alya's dad." The man left. Soon enough the first bell began to ring. Budantsev then came up to my mom and escorted her onto the estrada. I went with her. An estrada resembles a stage. A row of chairs stands there. That's where Mariana and I sat along with a great number of other people. The first to come up was Bryusov. He read out some introductory words, but I wasn't really paying attention to them, because they seemed a bit too difficult for my limited comprehension. The next to come out was the Imaginist Shershenevitch. He read out something about a head. On top of the head sits a whole botanical garden, atop the botanical garden stands a conical church steeple-head, while atop the steeple sit I and am staring into the insides of a woman, through the opening at her base, as if into a cup. Poor, poor cars. They resemble a flock of geese: that is, resemble a triangle. Spring, oh, spring; but how rejoice in it all the automobiles. And everything else was sort of in that vein.
The next one to start reading out poems was Beyusov. After he finished, a little woman with curvy teeth came out. She wore a torn-up sweater abd had a very meek face. She most definetely neither had any wings, nor furs, nor even a hide. She clutched in her hands her emaciated body and was incapable of either taming it for herself, nor letting it go. Finally, they called up mom. She set me down into the spot where she was sitting moments before and went up to the readers' table. While staring at her everyone began to laugh. (Probably because she was holding a purse). She read out poems about Stepan Razin. She read very clearly, without using any foreign words. She stood there, carrying herself like an angel. Meanwhile, the entire crowd that filled the hall gazed at the reading woman in the very same manner in which a hawk or an owl gazes upon a defenseless bird. One of the imagists of some kind said: "Check this out. In the upper rows sit all the "lonely ones". They keep together in a flock." She read in a fairly soft voice, never very loud. There was even one man who stood up and walked closer to the estrada (stage). Stepan Razin: three short poems about the way he loved some cute Persian gal. Then his dream in which she came to him to retrieve her little shoe which she dropped on the ship. Then, when mom was finished, she bowed to everyone, which is something no one would ever do. There was a burst of hand-splashing for her, which was short, but the applause came from every single person in the room. Marina, then, again sat down in her spot and placed me upon her lap. After her a certain young man with a dark complexion who was sitting right next to us the whole time proceeded to read out a drama. The beginning: at the circus, right beneath the ceiling, a dancer girl hangs from the thinnest of ropes, while beneath her, in the arena, stands a hunchback and praises her. "Alya! Let's leave this place! This will go on for a very long time." -"No, Marina, let's stick around and see what happens." Marina kept on asking me and I finally agreed. We exited and passed into a secreted-away room. There was nobody inside except for some woman who had just recently first arrived into the city from a village. With an utterly nightingaling disposition to my appearance I sat down in a chair and mom suggested that I lay down while no one else had yet come through. I agree with great pleasure. I laid down. The village women suggested that I ought to be covered by something and Marina covered me up with someone's winter coat. Soon after I laid down the entire crowd of poets tumbled into the room, though the room only contained fourchairs. People would sit atop of tables, windowsills and, though I could vaguely hear that they would even situate themselves atop of the piano,, would merely stretch out my legs. Next to my more uncovered hand my mom got settled next to some incredibly malnourished, thin poetess. "She is sleeping." - "No, her eyes are open.'' - "Alya, are you sleeping?" - "Nnooo." White points, little heads, manly men, children, houses, snow... A round garden with grey rows of planted plants. A black fence. A grey onion-shaped church steeple with a cross. And right beneath the botanical garden a red triangular cup. This is all just me dreaming up the poetry of that madman Shershenevich.
Suddenly coming to, I throw down from my body the makeshift winter-coat blanket padded with wolf furs. Mom is totally suffocated by my legs. The poets are pacing around, sitting on the floor. I sit down upon the couch. Mom becomes overjoyed that I am letting other get some space as well. Two people stand by the table. One of them is wearing a short summery coat, another in a wintertime doha coat. Suddenly, the short one rushes towards the door through which a short man with long ears has moments earlier entered. "Seryojha, my sweet darling Seryojha, where did you come from?" - "I haven't eaten anything in eight days." - "But where have you been, our sweet Seryojha?" - "They gave me half of an apple over there. They don't even celebrate Sundays. There wasn't even a piece of bread over there. Just barely broke through and out of there. So cold. For eight days didn't take off my underwear. Oh, but how I want to eat!" - "Oh, my poor poor boy! But how did you manage to break out of there?" - "Someone managed to work it out on my behalf." Everyone surrounded him and kept asking questions. Soon enough mom received ten Soviet ones and we began to get ready for a long foot trek. I started to look for my furry gloves and my hood. Finally, we got outfitted and set out. We exited using some kind of a convoluted secret passageway through a dark yard of the Grand Conservatory. We left. All along the Nikitskaya street stand streetlamps. A primus glows somewhere in a window. A dog barks. I keep falling down while we walk, all-the-while conversing with Bryusov. Storefronts with dolls inside of them are all illuminated. Some of them also contain books. I said: "Bryusov is a rock. He resembles the grandfather of Lord Fauntenroi. The only one who is capable of loving him is a creature like Fauntenroi. If he was ever taken to court, he would speak truth as if it was a lie and lies as if they were the absolute truth.