On Sunday, this week, I’ve visited for the first time one of my friends at the hospital (after he made himself an exceptional entry in 2012 and literally „broke a leg”- he won’t mind I tell you all this, jokes were already said and „laughed about”.
Next to him, there was an old man, he seemed kind of grumpy to me even when he said jokes and I told myself that at that age I’d be so grumpy there will be nobody able (not even myself!) to stand my jokes if any…( I’m not a good joker these days, I mostly cover this gap with irony and self- mockery), but his jokes were clever and always hid smart hints or interesting information.
Some hours passed by. I wore my grey, white-flowery scarf, very soft, short and thin scarf, received as a gift from my best friend last year. I used it a lot lately because I really like the colour and it gives a romantic, feminine touch to my outfit whenever I have it.
Then, suddenly and quite unexpected the old man, called Constantin, told me that I remind him of the 1920’s and that it is because of my scarf. He told me about a romance fling of Esenin, or maybe just a female friend he had, a ballerina, of their spending days in beautiful France with pals and about this long, long, extremely long scarf that woman had, so long that, one day, when they set off on a long drive, in an open car through the busy roads of Paris, the scarf running wild into the air helped by the beautiful wind of the summer, got caught by one of the back wheel and strangled to death the poor young delicate creature.
Beautiful story. Not such a beautiful compliment for me, I’d say. At least, that was what I felt and thought at the beginning.
Days after, it came back to me and I told myself that maybe I shall find some more information about Esenin. I read his poetry back in high school, but now the golden age of adolescence seems so far- flung, almost like it’s „over the seas” and I don’t remember very much about what I read except for the fact that I know when I read something and when I didn’t. Unfortunately. I was 17 back then.
Esenin died at 30. He killed himself cutting his wrist first and writing a farewell poem in his own blood. Then, the following day he hanged himself from the heating pipes on the ceiling of his room in a hotel.
He loved a lot during the very short life span he’d offered himself. His romance life was a continuous tangle. He married Anna Izryadnova first, then Zinaida Raikh (mother of his first two children), then he met the American dancer, Isadora Duncan, who was performing in France, 18 years younger than him. Duncan spoke no Russian and Yesenin no English. Still, they got married. It was a brief, intense relationship. It ended soon. Then there were the actress Augusta Miklashevskaya (rumours say they got married), the poet Nadezhda Volpin which gave him another son. His fifth wife, Sophia Andreyevna Tolstaya, was a granddaughter of Leo Tolstoy.
Then, my search went on. I tried to find some more information about all these women, to see their pictures and their faded beauty.
I managed to find an interesting interviw of Nadezhda Volpin who was „Sergei’s warmest affection,” according to Alexander Sakharov, Esenin’s publisher and friend. She said that: „Sergei’s poetry was absolutely sincere, in total accord with his inner life. He never lied to himself in his poetry. It was his second ego, something even more important to him than life itself.”
It wasn’t enough, I wanted to find something about that woman with the long, pink, soft scarf (I imagined it myself that way) floating carelessly up in the air, dancing like a snake through the cloudless, French, blue- clear sky of summer.
Isadora Duncan is the woman with the scarf. The story of her death is a little bit different. She wasn’t with Esenin at that time. All the other details are true. Her flowing, hand- painted, silk scarf scarf caused her death in this strange car accident in Nice (it wasn’t Paris afer all), France, when she was 50: her large scarf draped around her neck while getting more and more entangled around one of the open vehicle’s wheels and rear axle.
I found pictures with Isadora.
Such a life she had!!!
At the end of this post I’m sorry that I haven’t actually written only about herself. She wasn’t only a balerinna, she was a dancer and great artist, she inspired art, she inspired people around her, broke the rules, invented new ones, experienced life at a higher, deeper degree than the usual mortals…
„Goodbye, my friend, goodbye
My love, you are in my heart.
It was preordained we should part
And be reunited by and by.
Goodbye: no handshake to endure.
Let’s have no sadness — furrowed brow.
There’s nothing new in dying now
Though living is no newer.”
( Goodbye, my friend, goodbye, by Sergei Alexandrovich Esenin.
P.S. 2: In pictures you can see Isadora Duncan performing and Serghei Esenin.
P.S. 3: Goodbye, my friend, goodbye is Esenin’s last poem, written in blood: his farewell poem!
P.S. 4: On Monday, I went back to the hospital in order to visit my friend again, the old man was there too…I didn’ wear my scarf. Too bad, I guess…