Which university did Nabokov graduate from? Vladimir Nabokov - biography, information, personal life

Veronika Tushnova and Alexander Yashin - two roads of love

Long winters and summers will never merge: they have different habits and a completely different appearance... (B. Okudzhava)

The gloomy earth was frozen, the sky yearned for the sun. It's dark in the morning and dark at noon, but I don't care, I don't care! And I have a beloved, beloved, with the behavior of an eagle, with the soul of a dove, with a cheeky grin, with a childish smile, the only one in the whole wide world. He is my air, he is my sky, everything without him is lifeless and dumb... But he knows nothing about it, he is busy with his own affairs and thoughts, he will pass by and not look, and will not look back, and will not think of smiling at me. Between us lies forever and ever, not distant distances - fleeting years, it is not the great sea that stands between us - bitter grief, a strange heart. We are not destined to meet forever... But I don’t care, I don’t care, but I have a beloved, beloved!

It was thought that everything would last forever, Like air, water, light: Her carefree faith, Her heart’s strength would be enough for a hundred years. Here I will order - And it will appear, Night or day does not count, It will appear from underground, It will cope with any grief, It will swim across the sea. It is necessary - It will walk waist-deep In the starry dry snow, Through the taiga To the pole, Into the ice, Through “I can’t.” He will be on duty, If necessary, A month on his feet without sleep, If only he is nearby, Nearby, Rejoicing that he is needed. I thought Yes, it seemed... How you let me down! Suddenly she left forever - She didn’t take into account the power that she herself gave to me. Unable to cope with grief, I roar loudly and call. No, nothing will get better: It won’t appear from underground, Unless in reality. This is how I live. Am I alive?

Veronika Mikhailovna Tushnova, a famous Soviet poetess, was born on March 27, 1915 in Kazan in the family of Mikhail Tushnov, a professor of medicine at Kazan University, and his wife, Alexandra, née Postnikova, a graduate of the Higher Women's Bestuzhev Courses in Moscow.

Having moved to Leningrad, she completed her studies at a medical institute, which she began in Kazan, married the famous doctor Yuri Rozinsky and gave birth to a daughter, Natalya, in 1939. Tushnova’s second husband is physicist Yuri Timofeev.

Details family life Veronica Tushnova is unknown - much has not been preserved, has been lost, relatives also remain silent.

She began writing poetry early and after the end of the war, during which she had to work in hospitals, she forever connected her life with poetry.

It is not known under what circumstances and when exactly Veronika Tushnova met the poet and writer Alexander Yashin (1913–1968), whom she fell in love with so bitterly and hopelessly and to whom she dedicated her most beautiful poems, which were included in her latest collection"One hundred hours of happiness." Hopeless - because Yashin, the father of seven children, was already married for the third time. Close friends jokingly called Alexander Yakovlevich’s family the “Yashinsky collective farm.”

“The insoluble cannot be resolved, the incurable cannot be healed...” And judging by her poems, Veronica Tushnova could only be healed of her love by her own death.

Lev Anninsky in his article “Veronica Tushnova: “They do not renounce, loving ...” connects the main events in the life of my heroes with 1961:

In 1961 - a passionate, indomitable, almost insane, sometimes deliberately tongue-tied priestess of love, who does not recognize laws and knows no barriers...

They met secretly, in other cities, in hotels, went to the forest, wandered all day, spent the night in hunting lodges. And when they returned to Moscow by train, Yashin asked Veronica to get off two or three stops so that they would not be seen together.

The life of Alexander Yashin - both literary and personal - is not easy. And he had reason to despair (more on that below). I don’t know what events caused the poem “Despair,” dated 1958. Literary persecution for the truth about the Russian village (the story “Levers”)? Fear for the fate of the family associated with this? Love?

Mother of God, don’t blame me, I don’t glorify you in churches, And now, having prayed, I’m not being a fool at all, I’m not lying. It’s just that my strength is no longer there, All the losses and troubles cannot be measured, If the light in the heart fades, At least you have to believe in something. For a long time there has been no peace, no sleep, I live as if in smoke, as if in fog... My wife is dying, and I myself am on the same brink. Do I sin more than others? Why is there grief behind grief? I’m not asking you for a loan, I’m not asking for a ticket to a sanatorium. Let me get out of this mess. From the crossroads, from the impassability, Since no one has helped yet, At least help you, Mother of God.

When I think about Alexander Yashin, all the vicissitudes of his life, his bright Russian character, about his heart, trying to contain all the troubles and sorrows, equally rooting for the fate of the Fatherland and a specific person, one statement by F. M. Dostoevsky comes to mind . In my free interpretation, it sounds like this: the Russian man is broad, but it could be narrowed down. This phrase is not a reproach, it is a statement. It just seems to me that Fyodor Mikhailovich casually, in a few words, explained where he gets the plots for his novels, inexplicable and often incomprehensible to people far from Russia.

This is the background to the appearance of Veronica Tushnova’s last poems - poignant and confessional - the brightest example of female love poetry.

And this is how my heroes appear in the descriptions of people who knew them:

“Veronica has a scorching southern, Asian (more Persian than Tatar type) beauty” (Lev Anninsky)

“Stunningly beautiful” (Mark Sobol)

“A beautiful, black-haired woman with sad eyes (for her characteristic and unusual beauty to the Central Russian eye, she was laughingly called an “oriental beauty”)”

“Veronica was stunningly beautiful! Everyone instantly fell in love with her... I don’t know if she was happy in her life for at least an hour... You need to write about Veronica from the perspective of her shining light of love for everything. She made happiness out of everything..." (Nadezhda Ivanovna Kataeva-Lytkina)

“Veronica Tushnova sat down at my table. She smelled temptingly of good perfume, and like a revived Galatea, she lowered her sculpted eyelids...” (Ivinskaya O. V. “The Years with Boris Pasternak: Captive of Time”)

“...Since childhood, she developed a pagan enthusiastic attitude towards nature. She loved to run barefoot in the dew, lie in the grass on a slope strewn with daisies, watch the clouds hurrying somewhere and catch the rays of the sun in her palms.

She doesn’t like winter, she associates winter with death” (“Russian Life”)

When Veronica was in the hospital in the oncology department, Alexander Yashin visited her. Mark Sobol, long years who was friends with Veronica, became an involuntary witness to one of these visits:

When I came to her room, I tried to cheer her up. She was indignant: no need! She was given evil antibiotics that tightened her lips and made it painful for her to smile. She looked extremely thin. Unrecognizable. And then he came! Veronica ordered us to turn to the wall while she got dressed. Soon she quietly called out: “Boys...”. I turned around and was stunned. A beauty stood before us! I will not be afraid of this word, because it is said exactly. Smiling, with glowing cheeks, a young beauty who has never known any illness. And then I felt with particular strength that everything she wrote was true. Absolute and irrefutable truth. Perhaps this is what is called poetry...

In the last days before her death, she forbade Alexander Yashin from entering her room - she wanted him to remember her as beautiful, cheerful, and lively.

“What a huge impression Alexander Yakovlevich made everywhere he appeared. It was beautiful strong man, very charming, very bright"

“I was quite surprised by Yashin’s appearance, which seemed to me not very rustic, and perhaps not very Russian. A large, proudly set aquiline nose (you won’t find anything like that in all of Pinega), thin sarcastic lips under a red, well-groomed mustache and a very tenacious, piercing, slightly wild eye of a forest man, but with a tired, sad squint...” (Fyodor Abramov)

“... A Vologda peasant, he looked like a peasant, tall, broad-boned, shovel-shaped face, kind and strong... Eyes with a cunning peasant squint, piercingly intelligent” (Grigory Svirsky)

“Why is it possible without millions? Why can’t you do without one?”

Even if you crash, even if you die, you won’t find a truer answer, and wherever our passions lead you and me, there are always two roads ahead - this one and this one, without which it is impossible, like without heaven and earth. (B. Okudzhava)

They say that it was Alexander Yashin who recommended Bulatu Okudzhava to the Writers' Union.

So who is he, the “one and only” who became air and sky for Veronica Tushnova?

Yashin ( real name- Popov) Alexander Yakovlevich (1913–1968), poet, prose writer. Born on March 14 (27 n.s.) in the village of Bludnovo, Vologda region in peasant family. In the years Patriotic War Volunteered for the front and, as a war correspondent and political worker, participated in the defense of Leningrad and Stalingrad and in the liberation of Crimea.

It is to Yashin that the poet Nikolai Rubtsov and the prose writer Vasily Belov owe much of their rise in Russian literature.

After the release of the stories “Levers” and “Vologda Wedding” for the laureate Stalin Prize The doors of publishing houses and editorial offices were closed. Many of his works remained unfinished.

He is loved by an amazing woman, talented, beautiful, sensitive... “But he doesn’t know anything about it, he’s busy with his own affairs and thoughts... he’ll pass by and not look, and won’t look back, and won’t think of smiling at me.”

“It is not accidental that there are two roads on earth - this one and this one, this one strains the legs, this one stirs the soul,” Bulat Okudzhava wrote in his poem.

“A lot of things strained Alexander Yashin’s legs - and civil position, when he, as best he could, asserted in his stories and poems his right to the truth, and a huge family, in which not everything was easy either, and that image of a guardian folk traditions, which the father of seven children, a loving and caring husband, had to follow, moral guideline for aspiring writers

From diary entries 1966:

“For a long time now I have had a desire for creative solitude - this explains the construction of a house on Bobrishny Ugor... My life has become very difficult, joyless in social terms. I began to understand and see too much and I can’t come to terms with anything...

Relocation to Bobrishny Ugor... I laid out my notebooks and looked out the window, I couldn’t see enough. Mother and sister went home in the rain.

And here is the very image that was supposed to establish itself in the minds of readers. V. N. Barakov in the article “The Living Word of Yashin” writes:

Alexander Yashin was a believer; in his apartment he kept icons, a folding bag, and a Bible, which he never parted with; he complied Orthodox posts, lived ascetically, not allowing himself anything unnecessary. In his house on Bobrishny Ugor there is only a hard trestle bed, a desk, and a homemade coffee table - a gift from Vasily Belov.

On Bobrishny Ugor... his soul burned in solitary prayer, because the closest thing to prayer is lyrical poetry.

“In the last days of a severe illness,” says his daughter, “he, raising his hand high, turned over the pages of an invisible book in the air, said that he now knew how to write... And then, when he woke up, he addressed directly many times a day: “Lord, I am coming with You to connect!..”

“People like Yashin,” concludes the poet’s daughter, “led their generation, raised and supported them with their creativity, feeding the moral spiritual foundation in a person...”

But there was another way. On this road of bright, frantic loving life in all its manifestations, many complications awaited the amorous person.

Alexander Yashin has a poem dated 1959 - “You forgave such things...”.

You forgave such things, You were so able to love, You forgot so easily, What others couldn’t forget... ...Only you couldn’t stand a lie, You couldn’t bear one lie, You couldn’t justify it, And you couldn’t understand.

This is probably about his wife, Zlata Konstantinovna, the mother of his youngest children.

And further. A loved one, grieving at the grave of a woman who became his bitter, predicted loss (Tushnova died in 1965), writes in 1966:

But you must be somewhere? And not someone else’s - Mine... But which one? Beautiful? Good? Maybe she’s evil?.. We couldn’t miss you.

Waiting again new love? And then there was the realization: “I didn’t save anyone’s love before the deadline...” (“Otkhodnaya”, 1966).

“And my revelations will turn into the most best poems"- Yashin wrote in 1961. Truly this is so, because in last years his life literally burst through, and I simply advise you to find, read and compare his early and late poems.

And no matter what posthumous monuments are erected to him, no matter what white clothes he is dressed in, the best, miraculous monument to myself, I consider these truthful, frank, life-suffering lines of the poem of the same 1966 “Transitional Issues,” dedicated to Konstantin Georgievich Paustovsky :

By what measure is My absurdity measured? And I don’t believe in God, And I don’t get along with the devil.

This is how fate brought the “woman in the window in a dress” Pink colour”, who chose a “beautiful, but in vain” road, and a man for whom “there are always two roads ahead - this one and this one, without which it is impossible, like without heaven and earth”... Fairy tales say that they lived happily and died on the same day.

“This woman in the window in a pink dress
asserts that it is impossible to live without tears in separation.”
(B. Okudzhava)

...And they tell me: there is no such love. They tell me: live like everyone else! And I won’t let anyone put out their souls. And I live like everyone else will someday live!

But if it were in my power, I would continue the journey forever, because there are many minutes of approaching happiness. better than happiness himself.

I was afraid of you, I had difficulty taming myself to you, I didn’t know that you were my spring, my daily bread, my home!

But you are in another, distant house and even in another city. Someone else's powerful palms lie on a dear heart.

Don’t think, I’m brave, I’m not afraid of offense or grief, whatever you want, I’ll do anything, do you hear, my dear heart?

I only have a few springs left, so give me a choice of what I want: blue-winged fir trees, pine trees, and a birch tree - a white candle.

Don’t blame me for wishing for little, don’t judge that I’m timid at heart. It just so happened - I was late... Give me your hand! Where is your hand?

I don’t need flattering smiles, I don’t need beautiful words, the only gift I want is your dear heart.

I won’t bother you and I’ll pass by like your shadow... Life is so short, and there’s only one spring a year. There the forest birds sing, there the soul sings in the chest... A hundred sins will be forgiven you if you say:

- Come!

I haven’t told you everything yet - do you know how I walk around train stations? How do I study the schedules? How do I meet trains at night?

I speak to you in poetry, I can’t stop. They are like tears, like breathing, and that means I am not lying about anything...

Everything is unusual this summer, strange: the fact that these spruce trees are so straight, and the fact that we feel the forest as a temple, and the fact that we are the gods in this temple!

I light fires and stoke damp stoves, and I admire how you straighten your drooping shoulders, and I watch how the icy crust melts in your eyes, how your cloudy soul dawns and blossoms.

You taught me the patience of a bird preparing for a long flight, the patience of everyone who knows what will happen and silently awaits the inevitable.

Sometimes prickly, sometimes soft beyond measure, sometimes too cheerful, you clumsily hide me from the gaze of sorrowful eyes...

Maybe it will still come true? - I won’t lie - your eyes always seem to me, sometimes pleading, pitiful, sometimes cheerful, hot, happy, amazed, reddish-green.

You live and breathe somewhere, smile, eat and drink... Can’t you really hear at all? Won't you call? Won't you call me? I will be submissive and faithful, I will not cry, I will not reproach. And for the holidays, and for everyday life, and for everything, I thank you.

Don’t be angry with your vagrant bird, I myself understand that this is bad.

It’s just in vain that you drive me away, you often hurt me with unkind words: I won’t be with you for long - just until my last hour.

Days with you, months apart... At first it was like this. You leave, you come, and again and again you say goodbye, then you turn into tears, then into dreams.

And the dreams become more and more sad, and your eyes become more and more dear, and it becomes more and more unthinkable to remain without you! It's getting harder!

She was always the way she wanted: she wanted - she laughed, but she wanted - she was silent... But there is a limit to mental flexibility, and there is an end to every beginning.

You don't like counting clouds in the blue. You don't like walking barefoot on the grass. You don’t like fiber in the fields of cobwebs, you don’t like having the window wide open in your room, your eyes wide open, your soul wide open, so you can wander around slowly and sin slowly.

A falcon swam majestically over the rocky gray cliff; in the rusty and prickly thicket something squealed sleepily. Under the ruddy rowan tree you did not call me beloved, you kissed me without looking me in the eyes, without stroking my tangled strands.

Around me it’s as if there is a fence of other people’s hopes, love, other people’s happiness... How strange - everything without my participation. How strange - no one needs me...

They say: “You know, he left her...”. And without you I am like a boat without oars.

Do you know what grief is? Do you know what happiness is?

I stand like a defendant... And you cry about the past, and you pay for your purity with my life.

Well, you can leave me, you can part with me - nothing from my wealth will be given to anyone else. It is not in your power, as it was, so everything will be. My misfortune will not bring her happiness.

Blaming me alone for all your sins, having discussed everything and thought it over soberly, you wish that I would not exist... Don’t worry - I have already disappeared.

Don't grieve for me, don't grieve - you, and not me, should live in a lie, no one will order me: - Be silent! Smile! - when you even scream. I don’t need to think until the end of my life - yes, say - no. I live without hiding anything, all my pain is in the palm of my hand, my whole life is in the palm of my hand, whatever it is - here I am!

I’m not swimming, I’m going to the bottom, I can’t see three steps ahead, I blame myself, I curse you, I rebel, I cry, I hate... Everyone has a difficult time, torn apart by evil little things. Forgive me this time, and the next, and the tenth, - you gave me such happiness, you cannot subtract it or add it up, and no matter how much you take away, you cannot take anything away. Don’t listen to what I say, being jealous, tormented, grieving... Thank you! Thank you I will never repay you!

Not a prey, not a reward - it was a simple find. That’s probably why I don’t make you happy, because I’m not worth anything. Only my life is short, but I firmly and bitterly believe: if you didn’t love your find, you will love your loss...

I'm standing at the open door, I say goodbye, I'm leaving. I won’t believe anything anymore, write anyway, please! In order not to be tormented by late pity, from which there is no escape, please write me a letter a thousand years in advance. Not for the future, but for the past, for the peace of my soul, write good things about me. I'm already dead. Write!

I say goodbye to you at the last line. WITH true love maybe you'll meet.

One hundred hours of happiness, pure, without deception. One hundred hours of happiness! Is this not enough?

Not renounce loving…

I do not renounce -

Be as before.

It's better to suffer

How life has set...

How could you even think that I was running away from my family? Your lane is not the end of the earth, I am not a needle in a haystack... The world is either thawed or frosty - it’s hard to pull your cart. I was looking for friendship, I didn’t know that I was carrying so many unnecessary tears.

I don't want to meet you. I don't want to love you. It’s easier to pump water all your life and crush stones on the road. It’s better to live in the wilderness, in a hut, where you at least know for sure why your soul is heavy, why you feel melancholy...

Resurrect! Arise! My destiny has broken. All the joys have faded and faded without you. I bow before everything that I didn’t value before. Resurrect! I repent that I loved and lived timidly.

And we will recognize each other there too. I’m only afraid that without a living fire, my hut will no longer seem like paradise, and, looking intently through me, out of a long-standing habit, she is still obedient, kind and trusting, there she will no longer be so in love, so patiently generous.

God give me another piece shagreen leather! I do not want to leave! God give me some more time to live. And women, women look in love, a little crazy and detached, selfless, unprotected...

So what do I want along with everyone else? You just have to die, since the time has come...

Veronika Mikhailovna was dying in severe agony. The poetess passed away on July 7, 1965. Yashin, shocked by Tushnova’s death, published in “ Literary newspaper» obituary and dedicated poems to her - his belated insight, filled with the pain of loss.

In the early 60s on Bobrishny Ugor, near native village Bludnovo (Vologda region), Alexander Yashin built himself a house, where he came to work and experienced difficult moments.

Three years after Veronica's death, on June 11, 1968, he also died. And also from cancer.

In Ugor, according to the will, he was buried. Yashin was only fifty-five years old.

About what was not included in the official biographies.

In my essay “Who is Olga Vaksel, we don’t know...” I already wrote about selective memory and posthumous monuments poets.

In most publications dedicated to A. Yashin, I again see a vague, contextual mention of Yashin’s wives and children from his first marriages. For some reason, Natalya, the fifth child out of seven, is called eldest daughter poet, meaning that the seventh - Mikhail - is her younger brother. In essence, it seems like a trifle, but in fact such selectivity makes you distrust any memories and comments from “interested parties.” I understand that Alexander Yashin represents a movement in literature that presupposes a mythologized, cleansed image of the author. But still... still... I would like to go beyond the canonized image and learn more about real person, whom this amazing woman, sublime and earthly at the same time, loved so boundlessly and hopelessly - Veronica Tushnova.

We learn some facts from the diary of Alexander Yashin (Electronic version of the newspaper “Literary Diary”):

“Yesterday at the Literary Fund I signed up my children for evacuation with the second batch. All unnecessary people are leaving Moscow" (July 8, 1941)

“From my wife yesterday - a postcard. Moved to Nikolsk. This is unpleasant and restless for me. I don’t trust women” (October 11, 1941)

“For the third day now, I have been tormented by some kind of anxiety, a premonition of something bad. As they say, cats scratch my soul. Probably everything is connected with thoughts about his wife, about Gala... She hasn’t left yet. We need to return to our children, live for them... There was no need to get married again” (June 30, 1942)

“Slava (secretary of the party bureau of the Literary Institute, friend of A. Ya. Yashin) introduced him to the architect, student of the Literary Institute Zlata Konstantinovna Rostkovskaya” (May 8, 1943)

“It was Zlata Konstantinovna again. And every time I bring her to tears. Not good. I’m ashamed myself that I’m so wild and evil” (June 28, 1943)

Zlata Konstantinovna was born (14) on May 27, 1914 in the family of the senior doctor of the infirmary of the headquarters of the Vladivostok fortress, nobleman Konstantin Pavlovich and architect Ekaterina Georgievna Rostkovsky. WITH youth wrote poetry, entered Literary Institute in Moscow, where she met Vologda resident Alexander Yashin. They had two children - Natalya and Mikhail. In 1999, a collection of poems by Zlata Popova-Yashina was published, which she wrote throughout her life as a diary.

From the memories of Natalya’s daughter:

Nikolai Rubtsov, perhaps, visited us less than others - he was probably shy. He lived with us in 1966 at a very bitter time for our family. All our thoughts were about something else: we wanted to see only one person - brother Sasha. Rubtsov came to the house with compassion and words of consolation. In order to somehow warm him up, his mother then gave away the coat of her deceased son, which was especially dear to her...

Mikhail Yashin:

"I - younger son Alexandra Yashina. Pianist, graduated from the Moscow Conservatory in the class of Professor Vera Gornostaeva. In 1981, having married the daughter of a Russian emigrant, he moved to Paris, where I live to this day.” (Vologda regional newspaper “Krasny Sever”, March 25, 2006)

Alexander Yashin, “Together with Prishvin” (1962):

I'll tell you how Mikhail Mikhailovich (Prishvin - author's note) gave the person a name.

In 1953 my son was born, and for a long time we could not find one for him. a suitable name. He was seventh...

I decided to call Prishvin.

- Mikhail Mikhailovich, a son was born... - We can’t find a name.

- You need to think! “Mikhail Mikhailovich was clearly stalling and thinking. - There are two good names, - he finally said... - First - Dmitry.

- So! And the second?..

- Then here’s the second one - Mikhail...

- Oh, my Misha Maly! - I say...

So how many children were there in the family of Alexander Yakovlevich and Zlata Konstantinovna?

The poet’s daughter, Tatyana, is mentioned, and his grandson, Kostya Smirnitsky, is mentioned in connection with the half-forgotten Moscow Popular Front.

Grigory Svirsky’s book “Heroes of the Execution Years” talks about “Literary Moscow,” which was banned in 1956 after the release of its first two volumes.

In the second volume, Alexander Yashin’s story “Levers” was published, after which many years of persecution of the writer, winner of the Stalin Prize, began.

G. Svirsky mentions Yashin’s six children in connection with the beginning of devastating criticism of the story. According to him, the writer’s sixteen-year-old son shot himself in his father’s empty office:

This shocked Alexander Yashin so much that he himself fell ill and never left the hospital... In his last hours, he held Zlata Konstantinovna’s hand, cried and was executed...

And, according to the former Kremlin surgeon Praskovya Nikolaevna Moshentseva, the son of Alexander Yashin committed suicide because of love.

From the memoirs of A. Yashin by Capitolina Kozhevnikova:

He had difficult fate writer, person big family, mentally ill wife... There was plenty of gossip and various conversations around him.” (www.vestnik.com, December 25, 2002)

Apparently, the “mentally ill wife” is the second wife of the poet Galya (“You shouldn’t have gotten married again…”), in his third marriage he had three children, not two. And it is possible that the child from his second marriage (son? daughter?) was raised in the poet’s family, since Veronica Tushnova did not want to destroy a family in which there were FOUR children.

Zlata Konstantinovna Popova-Yashina and Natalya Aleksandrovna Yashina preserve the legacy of their husband and father, taking part in the preparation and publication of his books.

I found no information about the fate of her husbands. The first, Yuri Rozinsky, the father of Natalya, Tushnova’s daughter, was a psychiatrist. Olga Ivinskaya in her book “The Years with Boris Pasternak: Captivated by Time” wrote that he “saved my two-year-old son from meningitis.”

I don’t know whether Veronika Tushnova was married or whether her second marriage had already broken up when she met Alexander Yashin.

Natalya Savelyeva wrote in her essay “Two stops to happiness” (“Novaya Gazeta”, February 14, 2002):

The only documentary evidence of this love is the memoirs of Fyodor Abramov. Because of Soviet hypocrisy, they were removed from his collected works and the only time they saw the light of day was in 1996 in the Arkhangelsk newspaper Pravda Severa: “I understand, I understand well how risky it is to touch upon such a delicate area of human relations as the love of two people, and even middle-aged ones.” , family, living out their last years. To make wounds of loved ones that may not yet have healed bleed again, to revive again the flame of passions that once caused so much gossip and rumors...

Is it the only thing? In 1973, Eduard Asadov wrote a poem “To Veronica Tushnova and Alexander Yashin” (“I really won’t reveal the secret...”). You can read it in the book: Eduard Arkadyevich Asadov, “Favorites”, Smolensk: Rusich, 2003. - 624 p.

Veronica Tushnova's daughter, Natalya Yuryevna Rozinskaya, is mentioned in various editions of her mother's books as a compiler, and takes part in various literary events.

Paloma, August 2006

Veronika Tushnova, famous Soviet poetess. The first collection of poems was published in 1945, it was called “The First Book”. Her lyrical poems gained particular popularity; the collections “Memory of the Heart” - 1958, “Second Wind” - 1960, “Lyrics” - 1963, “100 Hours of Happiness” - 1965 - were published - this is the author’s last lifetime publication. In subsequent years, Veronica Tushnova's poems were republished several times. She died of cancer in 1965.

I'm so sad to paint in watercolor again. It makes me so sad to guess everything from the lines of poetry. Have you ever read a biography guessed from the verses, from the lines of rhymes? Most likely you will say: No. I’ve never seen such biographies before. And now I have to write it myself...

Guess, complete the drawing, anticipate, anticipate. What happens? Unfinished portrait. Unsolved life. Unfortunate fate: Or maybe - one that has taken shape, in spite of everything? After all, the Fates of the Poets are determined by God and the radiance of star maps in the night Sky. All this is beyond simple human ideas about happiness...

Veronika Mikhailovna Tushnova was born on March 27, 1915 (date of the new style) in Kazan in the family of Mikhail Tushnov, a professor of medicine at Kazan University, and his wife, Alexandra, née Postnikova, a graduate of the Higher Women's Bestuzhev Courses in Moscow. Professor Tushnov was several years older than his chosen one, and in the family everything was subject to his wishes and will, right down to serving lunch or dinner.

Veronica, a black-eyed, thoughtful girl who wrote poetry since childhood, but hid them from her father, according to his indisputable “desire”, immediately after graduating from school she entered Leningrad medical school(the professor’s family had settled there by that time).

Veronika Mikhailovna studied at the Faculty of Therapy for four years, but was no longer able to torture her soul: She was seriously fascinated by painting, and her poetic inspiration never left her.

At the beginning of the summer of 1941, Tushnova entered the Moscow Literary Institute named after M. Gorky: Her desire to professionally and seriously engage in poetry and philology seemed to be beginning to come true.

But I didn't have to study. The war has begun. Veronica Mikhailovna's father had died by that time. All that was left was a sick mother and little daughter Natasha.

By the way, the family and personal life of Veronica Tushnova is another mystery for connoisseurs of her work, for literary scholars. Everything is hidden behind seven seals of secrets family archive, much has not been preserved, has been lost, much is kept silent...

(However, this, tactful or indifferent, is another question - silence, Veronika Mikhailovna’s relatives, of course, have every right!)

Using her medical knowledge, Tushnova worked in hospitals as a doctor for almost all the years of the war - there was a catastrophic shortage of them! - nursed the wounded: The work is hard, often thankless, leaving, it would seem, no time for “fussing” with capricious rows of poetic lines: But Tushnova, during night shifts, managed, in the light of shaded lamps, listening to the sleepy breathing and groans of the patients, everything time to scribble something in your notebook. They called her affectionately: “doctor with a notebook.”

In 1945, her poetic experiments, which she called “The First Book,” were published. It was a relatively late debut - Veronica Mikhailovna was already 29 years old - and it passed somehow unnoticed, quietly....

Probably, in the year of Victory and general rejoicing, it was necessary to write something fanfare, ceremonial... Tushnova never knew how to do this: To her immediately and always - I’ll especially note! - it had its own note of pure, piercing sadness, elegance, or something, what the dashing “developers” from the Union of Writers immediately called “notorious intimacy”, “rehash of far-fetched experiences in the spirit of Akhmatova’s “salon” poems” Familiar words, not true is it? And moreover, a familiar attitude towards poetry: An attitude of denial, contempt, almost no love. Almost there!

It is not surprising that Veronika Mikhailovna’s second book, “Roads and Roads,” will be published only ten years later, in 1954.

She simply did not dare to release it into the world. This book is based on poems, often written on the road and inspired by road meetings and impressions, meeting new people and new places. “Azerbaijani Spring” is the name of one of Tushnova’s poetic cycles.

Veronika Tushnova generally worked a lot and persistently throughout this “decade of silence”: as a reviewer at the publishing house " Fiction", a feature writer for the newspaper, translated from Rabindranath Tagore's interlinear versions, and she did it superbly, since she was a lyricist, "by her very lineal essence," as she herself said.

These ten years were very difficult for Veronica Mikhailovna. She was looking for her own way in poetry. I searched hard, painfully, often losing tact and losing a lot both for my heart and for my talent.

In 1952, Tushnova wrote the poem "The Road to Klukhor". (It was also included in the 1954 book.)

This poem was very well received by critics and reviewers, but today’s reader would clearly see in it some deliberateness of themes, tension of tone, rhetorical exaltation alien to the poetess, a craving for scale, false pathos: In general, all the features of the now almost forgotten “Soviet poetry” ".

But she was so afraid of the previous harsh reproaches, ridicule, and simply “the abyss of silence - non-printing,” that she preferred to be an author who, in the words of one of the critics: “Hasn’t acquired her creative person, didn’t find my voice,” (A. Tarasenkov. Review of V. Tushnova’s collection “Roads - Roads”, 1954)

It's sad to write all this... and hard.

In fact, only on the last twenty pages of the collection, in the section “Poems about Happiness”, the poetess, as if having thrown off a heavy burden, suddenly became herself, sounded in full force! Arose suddenly true face writing-loving languishing, suffering. At times it was almost portrait-like - precise, unique in its living concreteness: “eyelashes molded by a blizzard, a wet wing of hair, a transparent glow of the skin, a changeable oval face” - but at the same time it was a face like thousands of others female faces, it was a soul just like them, suffering and loving, tormented and somewhere tormenting another, albeit passionately loved, person!

Each of the readers could feel in Tushnova’s lines her own “blizzard”, her happy and bitter moments and only her own, but such a common, understandable for everyone, anxious feeling of the inexorable passing of time and with a stubborn, slightly strange, deceptive and naive belief in happiness: Remember this, famous:

"...I'll stop waiting for you,

And you will come quite suddenly.

And you will come when it is dark,

When a blizzard hits the glass...

When you remember how long ago

We didn’t keep each other warm!”

V. Tushnova "They do not renounce loving..."

After these lines, learned and copied by hundreds of readers in notebooks, fame came to Veronica Mikhailovna. Her poetic voice gained strength and height.

The book "Memory of the Heart", published in 1958, was already purely lyrical.

main topic poetess came to the fore, displacing everything else:

There is love in the world!

The only one - in happiness and in sadness,

In sickness and in health - alone,

Same at the end as at the beginning

Which even old age is not scary.

A building not built on sand,

Not an idle invention, she

Lifetime first date

Calm and alternating thunderstorms!

A hundred thousand times rising wave!

V. Tushnova. "Your Enemy"

A beautiful, black-haired woman with sad eyes (for her characteristic and unusual beauty to the Central Russian eye, she was laughingly called an “oriental beauty”), with a gentle character, who loved to give gifts, not only to loved ones, ( Cousin Irina, who lives in Kuibyshev, did not have time to receive parcels from Moscow, sometimes with sandals, sometimes with gloves, sometimes with books!) but also just for friends; rushing at the first call for help at any time of the day or night, infecting everyone with laughter, fun and a true love of life; this beauty - a poetess, with whose poems about Love a whole generation of girls fell asleep under their pillow - herself experienced a tragedy - the happiness of Feeling, which illuminated her last years on Earth with its Light and gave a powerful flow of energy to her Creativity: This Love was divided, but secret, because, as Tushnova herself wrote:

"Stands between us

Not a big sea -

Bitter grief

Someone else's heart."

In Tushnov's "Gloomy Land:"

The man whom Veronika Mikhailovna loved, the poet Alexander Yashin, was married, could not leave his family, and who knows, Veronika Mikhailovna, a person who understands everything, and perceives everything acutely and subtly, - after all, poets from God have “nerves at their fingertips” ", - to decide on such a sharp turn of Fate, more tragic than happy? Probably not. She called her feeling “a storm that I can’t cope with” and trusted its slightest shades and overflows to her poems, like diary lines. Those who read (published after the death of the poetess, in 1969!) poems inspired by this deep and surprisingly tender feeling, could not get rid of the feeling that in their palm lay “a pulsating and bloody heart, tender, trembling in the hand and trying to warm the palms with its warmth”: Better comparison can't even imagine. Maybe that’s why Tushnova’s poetry is still alive, books are republished, placed on Internet sites and Tushnova’s lines, as light as the wings of a butterfly, by the way, created “in extreme suffering and extreme happiness,” (I. Snegova) are known more than the details her complex, almost tragic biography: However, such are the Fates of almost all true Poets, it’s a sin to complain about it!

P.S. Veronica Mikhailovna was dying in severe agony. Not only from terrible disease, but also from longing for a loved one, who finally decided to let go of bitterly sinful happiness from his hands: The poetess passed away on July 7, 1965.

She was barely 50 years old. There were manuscripts left on the table: unfinished pages of a poem and a new cycle of poems.

Three years after his Beloved, he died, yearning, and tossing about in this cold melancholy until last days, Alexander Yashin. The diagnosis also sounded ominous - “cancer.”

How can one not recall the classic: “Strange connections happen!”

Citizenship:

USSR

Occupation: Years of creativity: Direction: Genre: Language of works:

Veronika Mikhailovna Tushnova(March 14 (27), Kazan - July 7, Moscow) - Russian Soviet poetess who wrote in the genre of love lyrics. Translator. Member of the USSR Writers' Union (1946). Lyricist popular songs“Loving does not renounce”, “You know, everything will still be!..”, “One Hundred Hours of Happiness” and others.

The mystery of the year of birth

A number of biographical articles and autobiographies indicate Tushnova’s birth year as 1915. The dates 1915-1965 are engraved on the monument on the grave of Veronika Mikhailovna on Vagankovskoe cemetery, this is what the poetess herself wished shortly before her death. However, in the materials of Kazansky literary museum them. M. Gorky and Tushnova’s collection “You Can Give Everything for This,” published in 2012 in the “Golden Series of Poetry,” compiled by the daughter of the poetess Natalya Rozinskaya, it is stated that Veronika Mikhailovna was born on March 27, 1911. The club of poetry lovers of Veronica Tushnova conducted research and found an extract from the registry register about her baptism in 1911. This date was confirmed by the daughter of the poetess N. Rozinskaya. The year of birth in 1911 is also confirmed by the fact that Tushnova graduated from school in 1928, and in the same year she entered the medical faculty of Kazan University, which at the age of 13 was in no way possible.

In 2011, anniversary celebrations were held in many Russian cities. literary events, dedicated to the 100th anniversary of Veronica Tushnova.

Biography and review of creativity

Born into the family of a scientist, professor of medicine at Kazan University, Mikhail Pavlovich Tushnov. Mother - Alexandra Georgievna Postnikova, a graduate of the Higher Women's Bestuzhev Courses in Moscow. In Kazan, the family lived in a house on Bolshaya Kazanskaya Street (now Bolshaya Krasnaya), then on Mislavsky Street. In summer - on the Volga, in Shelanga. The memory of her native Volga expanses fueled Veronica’s creativity all her life. The hobbies of her childhood and youth were animals and flowers.

In 1928 she graduated from one of the best schools city - No. 14 named after. A. N. Radishcheva with in-depth study foreign languages, spoke good English and French. The first to notice Tushnova’s literary talent was her school teacher literature Boris Nikolaevich Skvortsov, who often read her works aloud as exemplary. After school, at the insistence of her father, who saw her as a future doctor, she entered the medical faculty of Kazan University. Biographers especially note the domineering and despotic character of Veronica’s father; everything in the family was subject to his wishes and will, right down to the daily routine, serving lunch or dinner.

In 1931, in connection with her father’s transfer to the All-Union Institute of Experimental Medicine (VIEM), the family moved from Kazan to Leningrad, where Tushnova continued to study at the medical institute. Soon the family moves to Moscow, where the father, as a famous scientist, gets an apartment on Novinsky Boulevard. She entered graduate school at the Department of Histology at VIEM. In the capital she took up painting, and then a serious passion for poetry began. In 1938 she married psychiatrist Yuri Rozinsky. The first poems were published in the same year.

Tushnova’s next collection was published only 9 years later - “Roads and Roads” (1954). The poetess’s heightened lyrical sense was revealed most fully in the last years of her life in the collections “Memory of the Heart” (1958), “One Hundred Hours of Happiness” (1965) and others, in which she reflects on high love, about deep human relationships.

Conducted a creative seminar at the Literary Institute named after. A. M. Gorky. She worked as a reviewer at the publishing house “Khudozhestvennaya Literatura”, as a feature writer in a newspaper, and translated R. Tagore from Bengali (from interlinear versions). Fruitful cooperation and friendship connected Tushnova with the Serbian poetess Desanka Maksimovic, to whom she dedicated original poems. Translations from Tatar by Gabdulla Tukay are known.

Big interest present Tushnova's travel poems, written based on her frequent trips around the country, depicting her modern life and the peculiar atmosphere of airports, train stations, and trains. Observations, reflections and experiences on the road are organically woven into the lyrical and love stories.

Most famous poem Tushnova, her name immortalized - “Loving does not renounce.” The romance to the music of Mark Minkov was first performed in 1976 in a performance at the Moscow Theater. Pushkin, but it became a super hit in 1977 performed by Alla Pugacheva. For decades, the masterpiece has enjoyed constant success among listeners. Pugacheva herself later called the song the main one in her repertoire, admitted that while performing it she burst into tears, and that for this miracle one can give Nobel Prize.

In the spring of 1965, Veronica became seriously ill and ended up in the hospital. She died in Moscow on July 7, 1965 from cancer. She was buried at the Vagankovskoye cemetery with her parents (20th section).

Personal life

She was married twice, both marriages broke up. From his first marriage to psychiatrist Yuri Rozinsky, a daughter, Natalya, was born. Grandchildren - Natalya and Mikhail. They live in Moscow.

Tushnova’s second husband (from the early 1950s) was Yuri Pavlovich Timofeev, writer, Chief Editor publishing house " Child's world" They lived together for about 10 years, the separation was very difficult.

In the last years of her life, Veronica was in love with the poet Alexander Yashin, which had a strong influence on her lyrics. According to testimonies, the first readers of these poems could not get rid of the feeling that in their palm lay “a pulsating and bloody heart, tender, trembling in the hand and trying to warm the palms with its warmth.” However, Yashin did not want to leave his family (he had four children). Veronica was dying not only from illness, but also from longing for her loved one, who, after painful hesitation, decided to let go of sinful happiness. Their last meeting took place in the hospital, when Tushnova was already on her deathbed. Yashin died exactly three years later, also from cancer.

Tushnova’s latest book, “One Hundred Hours of Happiness,” is a diary of this love, written by a now seriously ill poetess.

Memory

One of the series is dedicated to the fate and work of the poetess author's program Lev Anninsky “Ambush Regiment” (2008) TV channel “Culture”.

Creation

Published collections of poetry

First book. 1945.
Ways and roads. 1954.
Road to Klukhor. 1956.
Memory of the heart. 1958.
Second wind. 1961.
Lyrics. 1963, 1969.
One hundred hours of happiness. 1965.
Poetry. 1969.

Songs based on poems by Veronica Tushnova

Notes

Veronica Tushnova. Tushnova Veronika Mikhailovna
Celebrity graves. Tushnova Veronika Mikhailovna (1915-1965)
God of Tushnova (Vera Tretyakova) / Proza.ru - national server of modern prose
Veronica Tushnova You can give everything for this / comp. N. Yu. Rozinskaya. - M.: Eksmo, 2012. - P. 5. - 384 p. - ISBN 978-5-699-47055-6
http://www.kazalmanah.ru/nomer7/181.pdf
Veronica Mikhailovna Tushnova | Art16.ru - Culture and Art in Tatarstan
Winter Poetry Ball | Kazan State Medical University
TOUNB im. A. S. PushkinEvening for the 100th anniversary of Veronica Tushnova
“...In extreme suffering and extreme happiness”: anniversary of the poet Veronica Tushnova
Tushnova, Veronika Tushnova
Veronica Tushnova You can give everything for this / comp. N. Yu. Rozinskaya. - M.: "Eksmo", 2012. - P. 5-10. - 384 p. - ISBN 978-5-699-47055-6
Igor Lensky. Veronika Tushnova: “And so you close the compartment...” (2012). Archived from the original on October 17, 2012. Retrieved August 30, 2012.
Veronica Tushnova poetry
“And so you close the compartment...”
Not renounce loving

Veronica, a dark-eyed, thoughtful girl who wrote poetry since childhood, but hid them from her father, according to his unquestioned “desire”, immediately after graduating from school she entered the Leningrad Medical Institute (the professor’s family had settled there by that time).

Veronika Mikhailovna studied at the Faculty of Therapy for four years, but was no longer able to torture her soul: She was seriously fascinated by painting, and her poetic inspiration never left her.

But I didn't have to study. The war has begun. Veronica Mikhailovna's father had died by that time. All that was left was a sick mother and little daughter Natasha.

By the way, the family and personal life of Veronica Tushnova is another mystery for connoisseurs of her work, for literary scholars. Everything is hidden behind the seven seals of the secrets of the family archive, much has not been preserved, has been lost, much is kept silent...

(However, this, tactful or indifferent, is another question - silence, Veronika Mikhailovna’s relatives, of course, have every right!)

It is not surprising that Veronika Mikhailovna’s second book, “Roads and Roads,” will be published only ten years later, in 1954.

Veronika Tushnova, in general, worked a lot and persistently throughout this “decade of silence”: as a reviewer at the publishing house “Khudozhestvennaya Literatura”, as a feature writer in the newspaper, she translated from Rabindranath Tagore’s interlinear versions, and she did it superbly, since she was a lyricist, “by her very lineal essence,” as she said herself.

These ten years were very difficult for Veronica Mikhailovna. She was looking for her own path in poetry. I searched hard, painfully, often losing tact and losing a lot both for my heart and for my talent.

In 1952, Tushnova wrote the poem "The Road to Klukhor". (It was also included in the 1954 book.)

But she was so afraid of the previous harsh reproaches, ridicule, and simply “the abyss of silence - non-printing,” that she preferred to be an author who, in the words of one of the critics: “Hasn’t acquired her creative personality, hasn’t found her voice,” (A. Tarasenkov. Review of V. Tushnova's collection "Roads - Roads" 1954)

It's sad to write all this... and hard.

In fact, only on the last twenty pages of the collection, in the section “Poems about Happiness,” the poetess, as if having thrown off a heavy burden, suddenly became herself and began to sound in full force! Suddenly the true face of the writer appeared—loving, yearning, suffering. At times it was almost portrait-like - precise, unique in its living concreteness: “eyelashes molded by a blizzard, a wet wing of hair, a transparent glow of the skin, a changeable oval face” - but at the same time it was a face similar to thousands of other female faces, it was definitely a soul just like they are suffering and loving, tormented and somewhere tormenting another, albeit passionately loved, person!

"...I'll stop waiting for you,

And you will come quite suddenly.

And you will come when it is dark,

When a blizzard hits the glass...

When you remember how long ago

We didn’t keep each other warm!”

V. Tushnova "They do not renounce loving..."

After these lines, learned and copied by hundreds of readers in notebooks, fame came to Veronica Mikhailovna. Her poetic voice gained strength and height.

The book "Memory of the Heart", published in 1958, was already purely lyrical.

The poetess’s main theme came to the fore, displacing everything else:

There is love in the world!

The only one - in happiness and in sadness,

In sickness and in health - alone,

Same at the end as at the beginning

Which even old age is not scary.

A building not built on sand,

Not an idle invention, she

Lifetime first date

Calm and alternating thunderstorms!

A hundred thousand times rising wave!

V. Tushnova. "Your Enemy"

A beautiful, black-haired woman with sad eyes (for her characteristic beauty, which was unusual for the Central Russian eye, she was laughingly called an “oriental beauty”), with a gentle character, who loved to give gifts, not only to her loved ones (her cousin Irina, who lives in Kuibyshev, did not have time to receive gifts from Moscow parcels, sometimes with sandals, sometimes with gloves, sometimes with books!) but also just for friends; rushing at the first call for help at any time of the day or night, infecting everyone with laughter, fun and a true love of life; this beauty - a poetess, with whose poems about Love a whole generation of girls fell asleep under their pillow - herself experienced a tragedy - the happiness of Feeling, which illuminated her last years on Earth with its Light and gave a powerful flow of energy to her Creativity: This Love was divided, but secret, because, as Tushnova herself wrote:

"Stands between us

Not a big sea -

Bitter grief

Someone else's heart."

In Tushnov's "Gloomy Land:"

The man whom Veronika Mikhailovna loved, the poet Alexander Yashin, was married, could not leave his family, and who knows, Veronika Mikhailovna, a person who understands everything, and perceives everything acutely and subtly, - after all, poets from God have “nerves at their fingertips” ", - to decide on such a sharp turn of Fate, more tragic than happy? Probably not. She called her feeling “a storm that I can’t cope with” and trusted its slightest shades and overflows to her poems, like diary lines. Those who read (published after the death of the poetess, in 1969!) poems inspired by this deep and surprisingly tender feeling, could not get rid of the feeling that in their palm lay “a pulsating and bloody heart, tender, trembling in the hand and tries to warm his palms with his warmth": A better comparison cannot be imagined. Maybe that’s why Tushnova’s poetry is still alive, books are republished, placed on Internet sites and Tushnova’s lines, as light as the wings of a butterfly, by the way, created “in extreme suffering and extreme happiness,” (I. Snegova) are known more than the details her complex, almost tragic biography: However, such are the Fates of almost all true Poets, it’s a sin to complain about it!

P.S. Veronica Mikhailovna was dying in severe agony. Not only from a terrible illness, but also from longing for a loved one, who finally decided to let go of bitterly sinful happiness from his hands: The poetess passed away on July 7, 1965.

She was barely 50 years old. There were manuscripts left on the table: unfinished pages of a poem and a new cycle of poems.

Three years after his Beloved, Alexander Yashin died, grieving and tossing about in this cold melancholy until his last days. The diagnosis also sounded ominous - “cancer.”

How can one not recall the classic: “Strange connections happen!”