Prishvin about love ege. Mikhail Prishvin and Valeria Liorko: waiting for a life-long love

LOVE

When a person loves, he penetrates into
the essence of the world.

The white hedge was covered with needles of frost, red and golden bushes. The silence is such that not a single leaf will move from the tree. But the bird flew by, and a flap of the wing was enough for the leaf to break off and, whirling, fly down.

What happiness it was to feel the golden leaf of the hazel tree, covered with white lace of frost! And this cold running water in the river ... and this fire, and this silence, and the storm, and everything that exists in nature and that we don’t even know, everything entered and united in my love, embracing the whole world.

Love is an unknown country, and we all sail there each on our own ship, and each of us is a captain on our own ship and leads the ship in our own way.

I missed the first powder, but I do not repent, because before the light a white dove appeared to me in a dream, and when I then opened my eyes, I realized such joy from the white snow and the morning star, which you do not always recognize when hunting.

That's how gently, blowing his wing, he hugged the face of the warm air of a flying bird, and a delighted person rises in the light of the morning star, and asks, like a small child: stars, moon, white light, take the place of the white dove that has flown away! And the same in this morning hour was the touch of understanding my love, as the source of all light, all the stars, the moon, the sun and all the illuminated flowers, herbs, children, all life on earth.

And at night it seemed to me that my charm was over, I no longer love. Then I saw that there was nothing else in me, and my whole soul was like a devastated land in the deep autumn: the cattle were stolen, the fields were empty, where it was black, where there was snow, and on the snow - traces of cats.

What is love? Nobody really said this. But only one thing can be truly said about love, that it contains a striving for immortality and eternity, and at the same time, of course, as something small and in itself incomprehensible and necessary, the ability of a being seized by love to leave behind more or less durable things. ranging from small children to Shakespearean lines.

A sportswoman in trousers and a white coat, her eyebrows are shaved into a thread, her eyes are beautiful, like those of rams. She arrives exactly at 8 1/2, measures the pulse and begins the exercises. In the morning I always think well, and I think about my own, and I do the exercises without thinking, I look at her and, like she, so am I, like she, so am I.

That's what I was thinking today, spreading my hands over the score, clenching my fists and crouching. I thought that L. in the spiritual world was for me the same as this athlete in gymnastics. I, gradually looking at L., noticing the methods of her service to me, almost mechanically began to serve her as well as I could.

So she teaches me love, but I must say that, of course, it came to me a little late, and that's why she is so impressed. Generally speaking, this is not a new thing: good families have long been brought up through mutual service.

And perhaps, among all nations, and even among the most savage, in their own way, in a savage way, there has always been the same physical culture of goodness or service of one person to another.

My friend! You are my only salvation when I am in misfortune ... But when I am happy in my deeds, then, rejoicing, I bring you my joy and love. And you answer - what kind of love is dearer to you: when I am in misfortune or when I am healthy, rich, and glorious, and I come to you as a winner?

Of course, - she answered, - that love is higher when you are a winner. And if in misfortune you cling to me in order to be saved, then you love it for yourself! So be happy and come to me a winner: it's better. But I myself love you equally - in sorrow and in joy.

A small ice floe, white on top, green on top, swam quickly, and a seagull swam on it. While I was climbing the mountain, it became, God knows where, in the distance, where you can see the white church in curly clouds under the magpie kingdom of black and white.

Large water overflows its banks and spreads far. But even a small stream hurries to the big water and even reaches the ocean.

Only stagnant water remains for itself to stand, go out and turn green.

So is the love of people: a big one embraces the whole world, it makes everyone feel good. And there is simple, family love, running in streams in the same beautiful direction.

And there is love only for oneself, and in it a person is also like stagnant water.

THE IMAGINARY END OF THE NOVEL. They were so indebted to each other, so delighted with their meeting that they tried to give away all their wealth stored in their souls, as if in some kind of competition: you gave, and I gave more, and again the same on the other side, and until neither of them had anything left of their stocks. In such cases, people who have given everything of their own to another consider this other to be their property and this torment each other for the rest of their lives.

But these two, beautiful and free people, having once found out that they had given everything to each other, and there was nothing more for them to exchange, and there was nowhere higher for them to grow in this exchange, embraced, kissed each other tightly and parted without tears and without words.

Be blessed, wonderful people!

The death of a current man. The lead hit him in the side and hit his heart, but he must have thought that it was his opponent who had hit him, because he jumped up and fell, and his wings were already flapping in agony, and he, tearing out the sound of love from his throat, was current ...

In her everything was found for me, and through her everything came together in me.

The woman stretched out her hand to the harp, touched it with her finger, and from the touch of her finger to the string sound was born.

So it was with me: she touched - and I sang.

A change in the life of a birch since the first bright and still cold pre-spring ray shows the virgin whiteness of its bark.

When a warm beam heats up the bark and a large sleepy black fly sits on a white birch bark and flies on; when the inflated buds create such a chocolate-colored crown density that the bird will sit down and hide; when, in a brown density on thin twigs, occasionally some buds open like surprised birds with green wings; when an earring appears, like a fork with two or three horns, and when suddenly on a good day the earrings become golden and the whole birch is golden; and when, finally, you enter a birch grove and the green transparent canopy embraces you, then from the life of one beloved birch you will understand the life of the whole spring and the whole person in his first love, which determines his whole life.

No, friends, I will never agree with this that the first man in paradise was Adam. The first person in Paradise was a woman, and it was she who planted and made the garden. And then Adam came to the arranged garden with his dream.

We often see that a man is something and a woman is excellent. This means that we do not know the hidden dignity of this man, appreciated by a woman: this love is selective and, probably, is true love.

If a woman interferes with creativity, then you need to work with her, like Stepan Razin, and if you don’t want to, like Stepan, then you will find your own Taras Bulba, and let him shoot you.

But if a woman helps create life, keeps a house, gives birth to children, or participates in creativity with her husband, then she should be revered as a queen. It is given to us by severe struggle. And maybe that's why I hate weak men.

The person you love in me is, of course, better than me: I'm not like that. But you love, I will try to be better than myself.

Do you know that love when you yourself don’t have anything from it and won’t, but you still love everything around you through this, and you walk through the field and meadow, and pick up colorful, one to one, blue cornflowers smelling of honey, and blue forget-me-nots.

If you think about her, looking straight into her face, and not somehow from the side, or "about", then poetry runs right to me like a stream. Then it seems as if love and poetry are two names for the same source. But this is not entirely true: poetry cannot replace all love and only flows out of it like a lake.

Love is like big water: a thirsty one comes to it, gets drunk or scoops it up with a bucket and carries it away in its measure. And the water keeps running.

For some reason, it seems to us that if these are birds, then they fly a lot, if they are fallow deer or tigers, then they constantly run and jump. In fact, birds sit more than fly, tigers are very lazy, fallow deer graze and only move their lips.

So are people too.

We think that people's lives are filled with love, and when we ask ourselves and others - who loved how much, and it turns out - that's so little! That's how lazy we are too!

Everyone is doing something...

Isn't it a matter of putting two lives into one?

The beginning of love is in attention, then in election, then in achievement, because love without work is dead.

At last he came, my unknown friend, and never left me again. Now I no longer ask where he lives: in the east, in the west, in the south or in the north.

Now I know: he lives in the heart of my beloved.

Honey and poison of love

Yuri Ryurikov

Love is... a manifestation of the immortal principle in a mortal being.

It is the light of eternity in the present moment...

When a person loves, he penetrates the essence of the world.

M. M. Prishvin

Love. Either this is a remnant of something degenerate, which was once huge, or it is a part of what in the future will develop into something huge, but in the present it does not satisfy, it gives much less than you expect.

A. P. Chekhov

"To the core of the world"?

“Pass onto the stage.

Answer please.

He fell in love with her and began to look at himself in a new way. Now he did not consider himself a nonentity, of little ability, a slave of his superiors and life circumstances.

He began to feel the world in a new way. He began to feel a terrible responsibility for his every act. The world is in crisis, it is strange and incomprehensible, and only he can do something with it...

Once she almost got hit by a car, but he jerked her out from under the wheels. She did not see the car and was offended by his rudeness. He said in a rush that he loved her and would pull her out of the fire.

After that, she changed, pity appeared in her eyes, and she began to avoid him. She was irritated by his feeling. She felt that she had no right to be carelessly happy if someone was unhappy through her fault. Her conscience tormented her, he prevented her from being happy, and she asked him if he agreed to friendship. He got offended...

1. Do you consider his feeling to be love?

2. Did she act right if she did not like him and his love did not flatter her?

3. What should he do now?

Written by a girl

(Moscow, April, 1982, House of Culture of Moscow State University).

What if you try to answer these questions yourself? And twice: now, right away and, say, after the chapter “The Soul of Love”. Whose answers remain the same, those who have firm views on love, a clear position; those who change - those have a clear craving for self-deepening, a soul open to other people's truths ...

Over all times

Aphrodite of Cnidus, this great sculptural poem of love, was sculpted by Praxiteles in the 4th century BC. e.

Aphrodite was not without reason the goddess of love and beauty - for the Greeks, love and beauty were inseparable. And she is all overflowing with this abundant beauty of body and spirit.

She is tall, long-legged, she has heavy - for us - arms and shoulders, a small head, large eyes and lips, a soft and elongated oval face. She has high hips, a high waist, beautiful and high-set breasts, and in all this there is some kind of higher power, Olympic grace. But this is still beauty without grace, without that soaring lightness that is in Nike and which is now included in the new ideals of beauty.

She stands, leaning on one leg, and her body arches from this smoothly and musically. It was as if a slow wave had passed over her waist, over her hip and down her leg, passed and left its curve there. Born from a wave, she carries her slow and calm beauty.

She is all natural, all peaceful: she is naked, but she stands calmly, there is no constraint in her posture. She is not afraid that her nakedness can terrify someone. She is not afraid that she herself can be defiled by someone's gaze.

Aphrodite, as it were, lives in a special world - a world of normal, not perverted feelings. She lives for a simple human look, which will see in her both her ethos - an expression of her spiritual greatness, and her eros - an expression of her love attraction, will see their harmony, their beauty.

And from the fact that she is above both hypocrisy and voluptuousness, she, as it were, raises those who look at her to herself, as if she cleanses them, transfers to them a particle of her beauty, harmony, a particle of her special - natural - attitude to the world. It contains a special ideal, full of enormous values, and it seems to attach to it those who look at it. And probably, here, in addition to direct pleasure from looking at her, lies her eternity, her humanistic strength.

Aphrodite of Knidos is the goddess of harmonious spiritual and bodily love. She absorbed her highest values, and perhaps this is why she has inexhaustibility, unattainability, which happens in harmony, ideally. This, apparently, is not a portrait, but a dream - a dream of that union of love and peace, which does not exist in life itself. This is the first utopia of love in the world - divine love, but also human, an ideal, perhaps for all time. Because the harmony between love and the world, probably, can only be transient, it will always, apparently, be oppressed by their discord - unless the world is reorganized according to the laws of love ...

Several keys to the book

Towards a new civilization

Love is like a monarch among feelings, the most alluring of all, but also the most deceitful, the most disappointing. It gives the strongest pleasure and the strongest pain, the sharpest happiness and the heaviest anguish. Its poles and contrasts merge into a mass of unique combinations, and which of these combinations falls to a person, this is how he sees love.

Love changes all the time, and especially at the turn of the times, when one era breaks out of another, when human relationships, feelings, and views are dramatically redrawn. This is probably why there have always been heated discussions around love and, perhaps, there will always be heated debates. They are still going on, and this is natural: in love, many new things are emerging today - obscure and semi-clear, and the newer this new one is, the more controversy it causes.

Love and family are the intersection of all world forces that govern life, a mirror of all the changes that are taking place in humanity. And in order to truly understand what is happening in love and in the family, one must probably understand what is happening in the foundations of civilization, in the depths of social life: personal destinies can only truly be comprehended through planetary prisms.

In our time, obviously, a radical change in the earth's civilization is taking place. Mankind has found itself in a strategic position unprecedented in history. It begins to rise to such heights that it could only dream of in utopias and fairy tales; but under his feet such abysses open up that he has never seen before.

The main foundations of the current civilization are called into question. Where is the scientific and technological revolution leading us - to dead ends or to new expanses? What gives people and what takes away the great migration of peoples to super-cities, these anti-oases in the midst of nature? Won't cut-off from nature regenerate us, won't it kill the natural man in people? And how to make humanity stop being a predatory civilization that devours the planet?

Three swords of Damocles are now hanging over humanity, and we realize each next one worse than the previous one. This is the sword of atomic death, the sword of ecological death and the sword of people's egoization, their moral degeneration. All of them are forged by the main foundations of the current civilization: the industrial and technical base of mankind, the type of settlement - the current city, the very position of man in the way of mass civilization. It is these foundations that lead to the murder of nature and the suicide of mankind, and they, apparently, will have to be radically reorganized, to create an entirely new civilization.

And above all, humanity needs a radically new industrial base. The current base is built on the principle of "at least the grass will not grow after us." Only 1-3 percent of the raw materials that industry extracts are turned into things, objects, and 97-99 percent go to waste. Every year we remove 100 billion tons of raw materials from the body of the planet - and 97-99 billion are thrown into the poisoning of nature. By the end of the century, mankind will produce three times more - 300 billion tons per year, and almost all of this avalanche - 290-297 billion per year - will poison the earth, air, and water. That is why, like an ambulance, humanity needs a fundamentally new industrial base - waste-free, environmentally friendly, not destroying nature.

The second foundation of civilization, which is just as destructive for us, is today's living environment, human settlement. The present village is cut off from culture; there is no soil in it for the flourishing of man, for his deep and versatile life. A city, especially a large one, destroys people's health, their nerves and morals; he separates, egoizes them, turns them into a crowd in the streets and into loners at home. The city, in addition, is the main poisoner of the biosphere: it is in cities that almost all of today's industry is concentrated.

From childhood, we are taught that nature must be loved and protected, try to preserve its values, which are so necessary for man. And among the many great Russian writers who touched on the theme of nature in their works, one still stands out against the general background. We are talking about Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin, who was called the "old man-forester" of Russian literature. Love for this writer arises even in the elementary grades, and many carry it throughout their lives.

Man and nature in the work of Mikhail Prishvin

As soon as you start reading the works of Mikhail Prishvin, you immediately begin to understand their features. They do not have any political overtones that his contemporaries loved so much, there are no bright statements and appeals to society. All works are distinguished by the fact that their main value is a person and the world around him: nature, life, animals. And the writer tries to convey these artistic values ​​to his reader so that he understands how important unity with nature is.

Once Prishvin said: "... I write about nature, but I myself only think about people." This phrase can be safely called a backbone in his stories, because in them we see an open and thinking person, who talks about true values ​​with a pure heart.

Despite the fact that Prishvin survived several wars and a revolution, he did not stop praising a person for his desire to know life from all sides. Of course, love for nature stands apart, because not only people, but also trees and animals speak in his works. All of them help a person, and such help is mutual, which emphasizes unity.

Another great writer, Maxim Gorky, spoke very accurately about Mikhail Mikhailovich in his time. He said that none of the Russian writers did not meet such a strong love for nature. Indeed, Prishvin not only loved nature, he tried to learn everything about it, and then pass this knowledge on to his reader.

Reflections on the purity of the human soul

Mikhail Prishvin sincerely believed in people, trying to see only the good and positive in them. The writer believed that over the years a person becomes wiser, he compared people with trees: "... so people are, they endured everything in the world, and they themselves become better until their death." And who, if not Prishvin, who survived the heavy blows of fate, should know about this.

The writer put mutual assistance at the basis of human relations, because a person had to always find support in his friends and relatives. He said: "The highest morality is the sacrifice of one's personality in favor of the collective." However, Prishvin's love for man could only be compared with his love for nature. Many works are written in such a way that each phrase hides a deep meaning, an argument about the subtle relationship between man and nature.

"Pantry of the Sun"

Mikhail Prishvin wrote many works in his life that still amaze with their deep meaning. And "The Pantry of the Sun" is rightfully considered one of his best creations, because in this work we look at the wonderful world through the eyes of two children: brother and sister Mitrasha and Nastya. After the death of their parents, a heavy burden fell on their fragile shoulders, because they had to manage the entire household themselves.

Somehow the children decided to go to the forest for cranberries, taking the necessary things with them. So they reached the Fornication swamp, about which there were legends, and here the brother and sister had to part, because "a rather wide swamp path diverged with a fork." Nastya and Mitrasha found themselves face to face with nature, they had to go through many trials, the main of which was separation. Nevertheless, the brother and sister were able to meet each other, and the dog Travka helped Mitrasha in this.

The "Pantry of the Sun" gives us the opportunity to find out how closely man and nature are intertwined. For example, at the time of the dispute and parting of Mitrasha and Nastya, the melancholy mood was transmitted to nature: even the trees that had seen a lot in their lifetime groaned. However, Prishvin’s love for people, his faith in them gave us a happy ending to the work, because the brother and sister not only met, they were also able to fulfill their plan: to collect cranberries, which “grow sour and very healthy for health in swamps in the summer, and harvest them late autumn."

The life of Mikhail Prishvin developed calmly and, to a certain extent, predictably: he was born into a merchant family, studied at the Yelets Gymnasium, then at the agronomic department of the University of Leipzig, returned to Russia, served as a zemstvo agronomist in Klin, worked in the laboratory of the Petrovsky Agricultural Academy (the current Academy named after I. Timiryazeva), publication of agronomic works. It would seem - how successful everything is!

And suddenly, at the age of 33, Mikhail Prishvin suddenly quits his service, buys a gun and, taking only a knapsack and notebooks, goes on foot to the North, "to the land of fearless birds."
Travel notes of this seemingly incomprehensible journey will form the basis of his first book.

Then new travels will follow (he went and traveled all over the North, central Russia, the Far East, Kazakhstan) and new books will be published. What made Prishvin change his measured and calm life so drastically, what “pitfalls” turned its course?

In the "hidden" "Diaries" of Prishvin there is a mention of one seemingly insignificant episode from a distant childhood. When he was a teenager, the maid Dunyasha, a mischievous adult girl, really liked him. Already in adulthood, Prishvin recalls that at the most desperate moment, when intimacy could arise between them, he seemed to hear an invisible “patron”: “No, stop, you can’t!”

“If that happened,” he writes, “I would be a different person. This quality of the soul, which manifested itself in me, as a “denial of temptation”, made me a writer. All my peculiarity, all the origins of my character are taken from my physical romanticism. A long history left an imprint on Prishvin's whole life, shaped his nature.

Childish fright was further manifested by excessive internal self-control whenever it came to his relationships with women. The first unsuccessful experience often leads to the fact that subtle and romantic natures begin to give preference only to sublime and pure, platonic love.

While studying in Leipzig, Prishvin heard from one of his acquaintances: “You are so similar to Prince Myshkin - amazing!” The women with whom he spoke immediately caught this similarity, the features of idealizing relations with them, “secret romanticism” really became a feature of his character, representing for many a mystery of his soul. And he was convinced that intimacy between a man and a woman is possible only with strong mutual love.

In 1902, during a short vacation in Paris, 29-year-old Prishvin met Varenka - Varvara Petrovna Izmalkova, a student at the Faculty of History at the Sorbonne, the daughter of a major St. Petersburg official. Their three-week, stormy, but platonic romance left a deep mark on Prishvin's romantic soul and revealed the contradictions that tormented him.

The tender relationship of the two lovers ended in a break, and through his fault, Prishvin repeatedly repeats this in different years in his diaries: “To the one I once loved, I made demands that she could not fulfill. I could not humiliate her with an animal feeling - that was my madness. And she wanted an ordinary marriage. The knot was tied over me for life.

Even after 30 years, Prishvin cannot calm down. He asks himself again and again, what would happen if that youthful love ended in marriage? And he himself answers: "... now it is clear that my song would have remained unsung." He believes that it was the torment and suffering from an unresolved contradiction that made him a real writer.

Already an elderly man, he will write that he missed that one minute of bliss bestowed on him by fate. Again, he seeks and finds an important justification for this fact: “... the more I look into my life, the clearer it becomes to me that I needed She only in her inaccessibility, necessary for the disclosure and movement of my spirit.”

After returning to Russia after studying, Prishvin works as an agronomist and seems to be sociable, active and active around him.

But if someone could look into his soul, they would understand that before him is a deeply suffering person, forced by virtue of the romantic nature of nature to hide his torments from prying eyes and pour them out only to the diary: “It was very wrong for me - such a struggle between animal and spiritual, I wanted marriage with a single woman. But what about the main contradiction of life - the desire for sublime and spiritual love and the natural, carnal desires of a man?

One day he met a peasant woman with beautiful sad eyes. After a divorce from her husband, she was left alone with a one-year-old child in her arms. It was Efrosinya Pavlovna Smogaleva, who became the first wife of Prishvin.

But, as expected, nothing good came of this marriage “out of desperation”. “Frosya turned into the worst Xanthippe,” the relationship between the spouses did not work out from the very beginning - they were too different in their mental makeup and upbringing. In addition, the wife did not meet Prishvin's high requirements for love. However, this strange marriage lasted almost 30 years. And so, in order to get away from his mental anguish, to limit communication with his grumpy wife, Prishvin went to wander around Russia, with the greatest dedication he took up hunting and writing, "trying to hide his grief in these joys."

Returning from his travels, he continued to suffer from spiritual loneliness and, tormenting himself with thoughts of his first love ruined by himself, saw in his dreams the lost bride. “Like all great monogamists, I still waited for her, and she constantly came to me in a dream. Many years later, I realized that the poets call her the Muse.

Quite by chance, Prishvin learns that Varya Izmalkova, after graduating from university, began working in one of the Paris banks. Without hesitation, he sends her a letter, where he admits that his feelings for her have not cooled down, she is still in his heart.

Varenka, apparently, also cannot forget her romantic passion and decides to make an attempt to renew their relationship, and maybe even unite lives. She comes to Russia and makes an appointment with Prishvin.

But the incredible is happening. And many years later, the writer bitterly recalled the “shameful moment” of his life, when, out of absent-mindedness, he mixed up the day and missed the appointment. And Varvara Petrovna, not wishing to understand the situation, did not forgive this negligence. Returning to Paris, she writes an angry letter to Prishvin about the final break.

In order to somehow survive this tragedy, Prishvin again sets off to wander around Russia and writes wonderful books that bring him wide popularity.

But the feeling of hopelessness, longing for the only Woman in the world, dreams of love and family happiness do not leave him. “The need to write is the need to get away from loneliness, to share my grief and joy with people ... But I kept my grief to myself and shared only my joy with the reader.”

So a whole life passed in throwing and internal torment. And finally, in his declining years, fate presented Mikhail Prishvin with a truly royal gift.

1940s. Prishvin is 67 years old. For several years now he has been living alone in a Moscow apartment in Lavrushinsky Lane, obtained after much trouble; his wife is in Zagorsk, he, of course, visits her, helps with money.

Habitual loneliness is brightened up by two hunting dogs. “Here is the desired apartment, but there is no one to live with ... I am alone. He lived his long married life as a “half-monk”…”

But then one day a woman appears in Prishvin's house - a secretary, whom he hired on the recommendation of a writer friend to put his long-term diaries in order. His main requirement for an assistant is special delicacy, given the frankness of diary entries.

Valeria Dmitrievna Liorko is 40 years old. Her fate is somewhat similar to the fate of Prishvin. In her youth, she also experienced great love.

The first meeting took place on January 16, 1940. At first they didn't like each other. But already on March 23, a significant entry appeared in Prishvin’s diary: “In my life there were two “star meetings” - the “morning star” at 29 and the “evening star” at 67. There are 36 years of waiting between them.”

And the May entry, as it were, confirms what was written earlier: “After we got together, I finally stopped thinking about traveling ... You lavished gifts of your love, and I, like a minion of fate, accepted these gifts ... Then I quietly, barefoot I went to the kitchen with my feet and sat there until the morning, and met the dawn, and realized at dawn that God had created me as the happiest person.

Prishvin's official divorce from his wife was difficult - Efrosinya Petrovna made scandals, even complained to the Writers' Union. Prishvin, who could not stand conflicts, came to the secretary of the Writers' Union and asked: "I am ready to give everything, leave only love." The Moscow apartment goes to his wife, and only then does she agree to a divorce.

Prishvin is happy for the first time in his life, he forgot about trips and wanderings - a long-awaited beloved woman appeared who understood and accepted him for who he is.

In his declining years, Prishvin finally felt what family warmth and joy of communicating with a person close in spirit is.

Another long 14 years of their life together will pass, and every year on January 16, on the day of their meeting, he will make an entry in his diary, blessing fate for an unexpected and wonderful gift.

On January 16, the last year of 1953 in his life, he writes: "The day of our meeting with V. Behind 13 years of our happiness ...".

During these years, Prishvin worked hard, prepared his diaries for publication and wrote a large autobiographical novel, Koshcheev's Chain.

Incredibly, Mikhail Prishvin died on January 16, 1954 - in one day the meeting and separation came together, the circle of life closed.

Sergey Krut

Elena SANDETSKAYA

Mikhail Prishvin: “... I affirm that people have great love on earth”

The mother seeks permission for her son to leave for Germany, where Mikhail continued his education at the University of Leipzig. And shortly before receiving his diploma, he goes to friends in Paris, where his “fatal” meeting with the Russian student of the Sorbonne Varvara IZMALKOVA took place. Love falls on him. The relationship began swiftly, passionately and ... just as quickly ended.

The flame of unfulfilled love ignited him as a writer, and he carried him to old age, to the hour when, at the age of 67, he met a woman about whom he could say: “This is She! The one I've been waiting for so long." Together they lived for 14 years. These were years of real happiness in complete unanimity and unanimity. Valeria Dmitrievna and Mikhail Mikhailovich told about this in their book “We are with you”.

All his life, PRISHVIN kept a diary, which absorbed everything that the writer experienced. Here are some of his thoughts on love:

“... There is such a special fear of closeness to a person, based on the general experience that everyone is fraught with some kind of personal sin and does his best to hide it from prying eyes with a beautiful veil. When meeting a stranger, we also show ourselves to him on the good side, and so, little by little, a society of hiders of personal sins from prying eyes is created.

There are naive people here who believe in the reality of this conventionality between people; there are pretenders, cynics, satyrs who know how to use conventionality as a sauce for a tasty dish. And there are very few who, not satisfied with the illusion that hides sin, are looking for ways to sinless rapprochement, believing in the secrets of the soul that there is such He or She, who can unite sinlessly and forever and live on earth as forefathers before the fall.

In truth, heavenly history repeats itself and still countless: almost every love begins with paradise.

“... If a woman interferes with creativity, then it is necessary with her, like Stepan Razin, and if you don’t want to, like Stepan, then you will find your own Taras Bulba, and let him shoot you.

But if a woman helps create life, keeps a house, gives birth to children, or participates in creativity with her husband, then she should be revered as a queen. It is given to us by severe struggle. And maybe that's why I hate weak men."

“... When people live in love, they don’t notice the onset of old age, and even if they notice a wrinkle, they don’t attach any importance to it: that’s not the point. So, if people loved each other, then they would not do cosmetics at all.

“... So, every love is a connection, but not every connection is love. True love is moral creativity.

“... Do you know that love when you yourself don’t have anything from it and won’t, but you still love everything around you through this, and you walk through the field and meadow, and pick up colorful, one to one, blue cornflowers smelling of honey , and blue forget-me-nots.

“... I affirm that on earth people have a great love, one and boundless. And in this world of love, destined for man to nourish the soul in the same measure as air for blood, I find the only one that corresponds to my own unity, and only through this correspondence, unity, from one side and the other, do I enter the sea of ​​\u200b\u200buniversal love human.

That is why even the most primitive people, starting their short love, will certainly feel that it is not only for them, but for everyone to live well on earth, and even if it is obvious that a good life does not come out, it is still possible for a person and should be happy. So, only through love can one find oneself as a person, and only through a person can one enter the world of human love: love is virtue.

“... Every untempted young man, every uncorrupted and not overwhelmed by need man contains his own fairy tale about the woman he loves, about the possibility of impossible happiness. And when, it happens, a woman appears, then the question arises:

“Is it not SHE who came, the one I was waiting for?”

Then the responses follow:

- It's like she is!

- No, not her!

And then, it happens, very rarely, a person, not believing himself, says:

- Is she?

And every day, confident in his actions and easy communication during the day, he exclaims: “Yes, this is SHE!”

And at night, touching, he enthusiastically accepts the miraculous current of life and is convinced of the phenomenon of a miracle: the fairy tale has become reality - this is SHE, undoubtedly SHE!

“... Oh, how trivialized the French “look for a woman”! In the meantime, this is the truth. All the Muses are vulgarized, but the sacred fire continues to burn in our time, as it has been burning since time immemorial in the history of man on earth. So my writing, from beginning to end, is a timid, very bashful song of some creature singing in the spring choir of nature the only word: “Come!”

Love is an unknown country, and we all sail there each on our own ship, and each of us is a captain on our own ship and leads the ship in our own way.

“... It seems to us, inexperienced and learned from novels, that women should strive for lies, etc. Meanwhile, they are sincere to such an extent that we cannot even imagine it without experience, only this sincerity, sincerity itself, is not at all similar to our concept of it, we mix it with the truth.

“... At night I thought that love on earth, that same ordinary love for a woman, specifically for a woman, is everything, and here God, and any other love within its boundaries: love-pity and love-understanding - from here.

“... I think with love about the absent Lyalya. It is now becoming clear to me, as it has never been, that Lyalya is the best thing that I have ever met in my life, and any thought about some kind of personal “freedom” must be discarded as absurdity, because there is no freedom greater than that which is given love. And if I always be at my height, she will never stop loving me. In love, one must fight for one's height and thereby win. In love, you need to grow and grow yourself.

I said:

- I love you more and more.

“After all, I told you from the very beginning that you would love more and more.

She knew it, but I didn't. I brought up in myself the idea that love passes, that it is impossible to love forever, and that it is not worth the trouble for a while. This is where the division of love and our common misunderstanding lies: one love (some kind) is passing, and the other is eternal. In one, a person needs children in order to continue through them; the other, intensifying, unites with eternity.

“In love, you can reach everything, everything will be forgiven, but not a habit ...”.

“... The woman stretched out her hand to the harp, touched it with her finger, and from the touch of her finger to the string, a sound was born. So it was with me: she touched - and I sang.

The most surprising and special thing was my complete absence of that teasing image of a woman that impresses at the first meeting. I was impressed by her soul - and her understanding of my soul. Here there was a contact of souls, and only very slowly, very gradually passing into the body, and without the slightest rupture into soul and flesh, without the slightest shame and reproach. It was the embodiment."

"- My friend! You are my only salvation when I am in misfortune ... But when I am happy in my deeds, then, rejoicing, I bring you my joy and love, and you answer - what kind of love is dearer to you: when I am in misfortune or when I am healthy rich and famous, and I come to you as a conqueror?

“Of course,” she replied, “that love is higher when you are a winner.” And if in misfortune you cling to me in order to be saved, then you love it for yourself! So be happy and come to me a winner: it's better. But I myself love you equally - in sorrow and in joy.

“... What is love? Nobody really said this. But only one thing can be truly said about love, that it contains a striving for immortality and eternity, and at the same time, of course, as something small and self-evident and necessary, the ability of a being engulfed in love to leave behind more or less durable things. from small children to Shakespeare's lines."

How much tenderness and light in these wise thoughts of Mikhail PRISHVIN. It is a pity that the truth of true love is not revealed to everyone.