The Bronze Horseman (poem; Pushkin) - On the shore of desert waves .... Poem "The Bronze Horseman"
In the lesson you will read excerpts from A. S. Pushkin's poem "The Bronze Horseman"; note the artistic and thematic originality of the work, which was the result of the poet's reflections on the personality of Peter I, on the "Petersburg" period of Russian history.
Subject: From 19th century literature
Lesson: A.S. Pushkin "The Bronze Horseman"
As much as Peter I was a great reformer, a powerful statesman who moved Russia forward on a grand scale, so much Pushkin was Peter the Great of Russian literature.
The theme of Peter is a "cross-cutting" theme in Russian literature in general, in Pushkin's work in particular. The poet sees in Peter not just a historical figure, but also the personification of the transformative power of mankind, planting culture and civilization among unsociable and homeless spaces.
One of the most famous works of Pushkin, dedicated to Peter I, was poem "The Bronze Horseman"
The poem is unusual in that Peter I himself does not act in it, and its main character is a monument (Fig. 1). The Bronze Horseman is an image of Petersburg andsymbol of the northern capital.
Rice. 1. Bronze Horseman. Monument to Peter I in St. Petersburg. Sculptor E. Falcone ()
For 21 years there was a war that allowed Russia to return the lands seized in the 17th century along the shores of the Baltic Sea. Russia achieved victory, regained these conquered lands, but they were deserted, and the banks of the Neva were swampy, lifeless. The gloomy forest rustled in the fog, the dwellings of the northern inhabitants were rare and miserable. Peter I accepts to build a city. It was named St. Petersburg.
A.S. Pushkin in his work uses epic ways of depicting a historical figure. The image of the hero is given against the backdrop of a vast space that has to be transformed and conquered.
Rice. 2. St. Petersburg from a bird's eye view ()
On the shore of desert waves
He stood, full of great thoughts,
And looked into the distance. Wide before him
The river was rushing; poor boat
He strove for her alone.
Along mossy, swampy shores
Blackened huts here and there,
Shelter of a wretched Chukhonian;
And the forest, unknown to the rays
In the mist of the hidden sun
Noisy all around.
And he thought:
From here we will threaten the Swede,
Here the city will be founded
To the evil of an arrogant neighbor.
Nature here is destined for us
Cut a window to Europe
Stand with a firm foot by the sea.
Here on their new waves
All flags will visit us,
And let's hang out in the open.
Rice. 3. St. Isaac's Cathedral. Saint Petersburg ()
A hundred years have passed, and the young city,
Midnight countries beauty and wonder,
From the darkness of the forests, from the swamp blat
Ascended magnificently, proudly;
Where before the Finnish fisherman,
The sad stepson of nature,
Alone by the low shores
Thrown into unknown waters
Your old net, now there
Along busy shores
The slender masses crowd
Palaces and towers; ships
Crowd from all corners of the earth
They strive for rich marinas;
The Neva is dressed in granite;
Bridges hung over the waters;
Rice. 4. Pevchesky bridge in St. Petersburg ()
Dark green gardens
The islands covered her
And in front of the younger capital
Faded old Moscow
As before a new queen
Porphyritic widow.
I love you, Peter's creation,
I love your strict, slender look,
Neva sovereign current,
Its coastal granite,
Your fences have a cast-iron pattern,
your thoughtful nights
Transparent dusk, moonless brilliance,
When I am in my room
I write, I read without a lamp,
And the sleeping masses are clear
Deserted streets, and light
Admiralty needle,
And, not letting the darkness of the night
To golden skies
Rice. 5. Neva in winter ()
One dawn to replace another
Hurry, giving the night half an hour.
I love your cruel winters
Still air and frost
Sledge running along the wide Neva,
Girlish faces brighter than roses
And shine, and noise, and the talk of balls,
And at the hour of the feast idle
The hiss of foamy glasses
And punch flame blue.
I love belligerent liveliness
Amusing Fields of Mars,
Infantry troops and horses
monotonous beauty,
In their harmoniously unsteady formation
Patchwork of these victorious banners,
The radiance of these copper caps,
On through those shot in battle.
I love, military capital,
Your stronghold smoke and thunder,
When the midnight queen
Gives a son to the royal house,
Or victory over the enemy
Russia triumphs again
Or breaking your blue ice
The Neva carries him to the seas
And, feeling spring days, rejoices.
Show off, city of Petrov, and stop
Unshakable as Russia,
May he make peace with you
And the defeated element;
Enmity and old captivity
Let Finnish waves forget
And vain malice will not be
Disturb Peter's eternal sleep!
Introduction written by Pushkin in the genre of Lomonosov's ode high style. In addition, the poem has the techniques of oratory, used paraphrase trope. A trope in which several concepts are used instead of one. Word "city" replaced by Pushkin "Shelter of a wretched Chukhonian", "Peter's creation", "the beauty and diva of midnight countries".
In a poem special sound organization of speech. These are imperative intonations, solemnity, use Old Slavonicisms"otsel", "dilapidated", "hail".
vocabulary work
midnight - midnight, northern.
Blat - swamps.
porphyritic - dressed in purple, the purple robe worn by monarchs on solemn occasions.
The introduction is intended to lead the reader to an understanding of the conflict, the main conflict of history and personality.
The plot of the poem "The Bronze Horseman" is three-dimensional.
The story about the flood forms the first semantic plan of the poem - historical. The documentary nature of the story is noted in the author's "Foreword" and in "Notes". The flood for Pushkin is not just a vivid historical fact. He looked at it as a kind of final "document" of the era. This is, as it were, the "last tale" in her Petersburg "chronicle", begun by Peter's decision to found a city on the Neva. The flood is the historical basis of the plot and the source of one of the conflicts of the poem - the conflict between the city and the elements.
The second semantic plan of the poem - conditionally literary, fictional - is given under the heading: "Petersburg Tale".
Rice. 6. Illustration for Pushkin's poem "The Bronze Horseman" ()
Eugene is the central character of this story. The faces of the rest of the inhabitants of St. Petersburg are indistinguishable. This is the "people" crowding the streets, drowning during the flood (the first part), and the cold, indifferent people of St. Petersburg in the second part. The real background of the story about the fate of Eugene was Petersburg: Senate Square, the streets and the outskirts, where Parasha's "ramshackle house" stood. Pay attention to the fact that the action in the poem is transferred to the street: during the flood, Eugene found himself “on Petrova Square”, home, in his “desert corner”, he, distraught with grief, no longer returns, becoming an inhabitant of St. Petersburg streets.
The third semantic plane is legendary and mythological. It is given by the title of the poem - "The Bronze Horseman". This semantic plan interacts with the historical one in the introduction, sets off the plot narrative about the flood and the fate of Yevgeny, from time to time reminding of himself (primarily by the figure of the “idol on a bronze horse”), and dominates in the climax of the poem (the pursuit of Yevgeny by the Bronze Horseman). A mythological hero appears, a revived statue - the Bronze Horseman. In this episode, Petersburg seems to lose its real shape, turning into a conventional, mythological space.
Thus, conflict in the poem branched, has several sides. This is a conflict between a small man and power, nature and man, city and elements, personality and history, real and mythological.
Bibliography
- Korovina V.Ya. Didactic materials on literature. 7th grade. — 2008.
- Tishchenko O.A. Homework in literature for grade 7 (to the textbook by V.Ya. Korovina). — 2012.
- Kuteynikova N.E. Literature lessons in grade 7. — 2009.
- Korovina V.Ya. Literature textbook. 7th grade. Part 1. - 2012.
- Korovina V.Ya. Literature textbook. 7th grade. Part 2. - 2009.
- Ladygin M.B., Zaitseva O.N. Textbook-reader on literature. 7th grade. — 2012.
- Kurdyumova T.F. Textbook-reader on literature. 7th grade. Part 1. - 2011.
- Phonochrestomathy in literature for the 7th grade to the textbook by Korovina.
On the shore of desert waves
He stood, full of great thoughts,
And looked into the distance. Wide before him
The river was rushing; poor boat
He strove for her alone.
Along mossy, swampy shores
Blackened huts here and there,
Shelter of a wretched Chukhonian;
And the forest, unknown to the rays
In the mist of the hidden sun
Noisy all around.
And he thought:
From here we will threaten the Swede,
Here the city will be founded
To the evil of an arrogant neighbor.
Nature here is destined for us
Cut a window to Europe
Stand with a firm foot by the sea.
Here on their new waves
All flags will visit us,
And let's hang out in the open.
A hundred years have passed, and the young city,
Midnight countries beauty and wonder,
From the darkness of the forests, from the swamp blat
Ascended magnificently, proudly;
Where before the Finnish fisherman,
The sad stepson of nature,
Alone by the low shores
Thrown into unknown waters
Your old net, now there
Along busy shores
The slender masses crowd
Palaces and towers; ships
Crowd from all corners of the earth
They strive for rich marinas;
The Neva is dressed in granite;
Bridges hung over the waters;
Dark green gardens
The islands covered her
And in front of the younger capital
Faded old Moscow
As before a new queen
Porphyritic widow.
I love you, Peter's creation,
I love your strict, slender look,
Neva sovereign current,
Its coastal granite,
Your fences have a cast-iron pattern,
your thoughtful nights
Transparent dusk, moonless brilliance,
When I am in my room
I write, I read without a lamp,
And the sleeping masses are clear
Deserted streets, and light
Admiralty needle,
And, not letting the darkness of the night
To golden skies
One dawn to replace another
Hurry, giving the night half an hour.
I love your cruel winters
Still air and frost
Sledge running along the wide Neva,
Girlish faces brighter than roses
And shine, and noise, and the talk of balls,
And at the hour of the feast idle
The hiss of foamy glasses
And punch flame blue.
I love belligerent liveliness
Amusing Fields of Mars,
Infantry troops and horses
monotonous beauty,
In their harmoniously unsteady formation
Patchwork of these victorious banners,
The radiance of these copper caps,
On through those shot in battle.
I love, military capital,
Your stronghold smoke and thunder,
When the midnight queen
Gives a son to the royal house,
Or victory over the enemy
Russia triumphs again
Or breaking your blue ice
The Neva carries him to the seas
And, feeling spring days, rejoices.
Show off, city of Petrov, and stop
Unshakable as Russia,
May he make peace with you
And the defeated element;
Enmity and old captivity
Let Finnish waves forget
And vain malice will not be
Disturb Peter's eternal sleep!
It was a terrible time
She is a fresh memory...
About her, my friends, for you
I'll start my story.
My story is sad.
Part one
Above the darkened Petrograd
November breathed autumn chill.
Rushing in a noisy wave
At the edge of its slender fence,
Neva rushed about like a patient
Restless in your bed.
It was already late and dark;
The rain beat angrily against the window,
And the wind blew, sadly howling.
At the time of the guests home
Eugene came young ...
We will be our hero
Call by this name. It
Sounds nice; with him for a long time
My pen is also friendly.
We don't need his nickname
Although in the past
It may have shone.
And under the pen of Karamzin
In native legends it sounded;
But now with light and rumor
It is forgotten. Our hero
Lives in Kolomna; serves somewhere
It shy of the noble and does not grieve
Not about the deceased relatives,
Not about the forgotten antiquity.
So, I came home, Eugene
He shook off his overcoat, undressed, lay down.
But he couldn't sleep for a long time.
In the excitement of different thoughts.
What was he thinking about? About,
That he was poor, that he labored
He had to deliver
And independence and honor;
What could God add to him
Mind and money. What is there
Such idle happy ones
Mindless, sloths,
For whom life is easy!
That he serves only two years;
He also thought that the weather
Didn't let up; that river
Everything arrived; that hardly
Bridges have not been removed from the Neva
And what will he do with Parasha
Separated for two, three days.
Eugene here sighed heartily
And he dreamed like a poet:
"Marry? To me? why not?
It is hard, of course;
But well, I'm young and healthy
Ready to work day and night;
I'll somehow arrange myself
Shelter humble and simple
And I will calm Parasha in it.
It may take a year or two,
I'll get a place, Parashe
I will entrust our family
And raising kids...
And we will live, and so on to the grave
Hand in hand we will both reach,
And our grandchildren will bury us…”
So he dreamed. And it was sad
Him that night, and he wished
So that the wind howled not so sadly
And let the rain beat on the window
Not so angry...
sleepy eyes
It finally closed. And so
The haze of a rainy night is thinning
And the pale day is already coming ...
Terrible day!
Neva all night
Rushed to the sea against the storm,
Without defeating their violent dope ...
And she couldn't argue...
In the morning over her shores
Crowded crowds of people
Admiring the splashes, the mountains
And the foam of angry waters.
But by the force of the winds from the bay
Blocked Neva
Went back, angry, turbulent,
And flooded the islands
The weather got worse
The Neva swelled and roared,
Cauldron bubbling and swirling,
And suddenly, like a wild beast,
Rushed to the city. before her
Everything ran, everything around
Suddenly empty - water suddenly
Flowed into underground cellars,
Channels poured to the gratings,
And Petropolis surfaced like a triton,
Immersed in water up to my waist.
Siege! attack! evil waves,
Like thieves climbing through the windows. Chelny
With a running start, glass is smashed astern.
Trays under a wet veil,
Fragments of huts, logs, roofs,
thrifty commodity,
Relics of pale poverty,
Storm-blown bridges
A coffin from a blurry cemetery
Float through the streets!
People
Sees God's wrath and awaits execution.
Alas! everything perishes: shelter and food!
Where will take?
In that terrible year
The late tsar is still Russia
With glory rules. To the balcony
Sad, confused, he left
And he said: “With the element of God
Kings cannot be controlled." He sat down
And in the thought with mournful eyes
I looked at the evil disaster.
There were stacks of lakes,
And in them wide rivers
The streets poured in. Castle
It seemed like a sad island.
The king said - from end to end,
Through the streets near and far
On a dangerous journey through stormy waters
His generals set off
Rescue and fear obsessed
And drowning people at home.
Then, on Petrova Square,
Where a new house has risen in the corner,
Where above the elevated porch
With a raised paw, as if alive,
There are two guard lions
On a marble beast,
Without a hat, hands clenched in a cross,
Sitting motionless, terribly pale
Eugene. He was afraid, poor
Not for myself. He didn't hear
As the greedy wave rose,
Washing his soles,
How the rain hit his face
Like the wind, howling violently,
He suddenly took off his hat.
His desperate eyes
Pointed at the edge of one
They were motionless. Like mountains
From the disturbed depth
The waves got up there and got angry,
There the storm howled, there they rushed
The wreckage… God, God! there -
Alas! close to the waves
Near the bay
The fence is unpainted, yes willow
And a dilapidated house: there they are,
Widow and daughter, his Parasha,
His dream... Or in a dream
Does he see it? or all of our
And life is nothing, like an empty dream,
Heaven's mockery of the earth?
And he, as if bewitched,
As if chained to marble
Can't get off! around him
Water and nothing else!
And with his back turned to him,
In the unshakable height
Over the perturbed Neva
Standing with outstretched hand
Idol on a bronze horse.
Part two
But now, satiated with destruction
And weary with impudent violence,
Neva pulled back
Admiring your indignation
And leaving with carelessness
Your prey. So villain
With his ferocious gang
Bursting into the village, aching, cutting,
Crushes and robs; screams, rattle,
Violence, abuse, anxiety, howl! ..
And burdened with robbery,
Afraid of the chase, weary,
The robbers hurry home
Dropping prey on the way.
The water has gone, and the pavement
Opened, and my Eugene
Hurries, soul freezing,
In hope, fear and longing
To the barely calm river.
But, the triumph of victory is full,
The waves were still seething,
As if a fire smoldered under them,
Still their foam covered,
And Neva was breathing heavily,
Like a horse running from a battle.
Eugene looks: he sees a boat;
He runs to her as if to a find;
He calls the carrier -
And the carrier is carefree
Him for a dime willingly
Through terrible waves lucky.
And long with stormy waves
An experienced rower fought
And hide deep between their rows
Hourly with daring swimmers
The boat was ready - and finally
He reached the shore.
Unhappy
Familiar street runs
To familiar places. looks,
Can't find out. The view is terrible!
Everything in front of him is littered;
What is dropped, what is demolished;
Crooked houses, others
Completely collapsed, others
Moved by the waves; around,
As if in a battlefield
Bodies are lying around. Eugene
Headlong, not remembering anything,
Exhausted from pain,
Runs to where he is waiting
Fate with unknown news
Like a sealed letter.
And now he is running through the suburbs,
And here is the bay, and the house is close ...
What is this?..
He stopped.
Went back and turned back.
Looks... goes... still looks.
Here is the place where their house stands;
Here is the willow. There were gates here -
They took them down, you see. Where is the house?
And, full of gloomy care,
Everyone walks, he walks around,
Talks loudly to himself -
And suddenly, striking his forehead with his hand,
Laughed.
Night haze
She descended on the trembling city;
But for a long time the inhabitants did not sleep
And they talked among themselves
About the past day.
Morning beam
Because of the tired, pale clouds
Flashed over the quiet capital
And found no trace
The troubles of yesterday; scarlet
The evil was already covered up.
Everything was in order.
Already through the streets free
With your insensibility cold
People walked. official people,
Leaving your nocturnal shelter
Went to the service. brave trader,
Reluctantly, I opened
New robbed basement
Gonna take your loss important
On the near vent. From yards
They brought boats.
Count Khvostov,
Poet, beloved by heaven,
Already sang immortal verses
The misfortune of the Neva banks.
But my poor, poor Eugene...
Alas! his confused mind
Against terrible shocks
Didn't resist. Rebellious Noise
Neva and winds resounded
In his ears. Terrible thoughts
Silently full, he wandered.
Some kind of dream tormented him.
A week has passed, a month has passed
He did not return to his home.
His desert corner
I rented it out, as the term expired,
The owner of the poor poet.
Eugene for his good
Didn't come. He will soon light
Became a stranger. Walked all day,
And slept on the pier; ate
In the window filed piece.
The clothes are shabby on him
It tore and smoldered. Evil children
They threw stones at him.
Often coachman's whips
He was beaten because
That he did not understand the road
Never; it seemed he
Didn't notice. He is stunned
It was the sound of inner anxiety.
And so he is his unhappy age
Dragged, neither beast nor man,
Neither this nor that, nor the inhabitant of the world,
Not a dead ghost...
Once he slept
At the Neva pier. Summer days
Leaning towards autumn. breathed
Bad wind. Gloomy Shaft
Splashed on the pier, murmuring pennies
And beating on the smooth steps,
Like a petitioner at the door
He does not heed the judges.
The poor man woke up. It was gloomy
The rain was falling, the wind was howling dejectedly,
And with him away, in the darkness of the night
The sentry called...
Eugene jumped up; remembered vividly
He is a past horror; hastily
He got up; went to wander, and suddenly
Stopped - and around
Quietly began to drive his eyes
With wild fear on his face.
He found himself under the pillars
Big house. On the porch
With a raised paw, as if alive,
There were guard lions,
And right in the dark sky
Above the walled rock
Idol with outstretched hand
He sat on a bronze horse.
Eugene shuddered. cleared up
It has terrible thoughts. He found out
And the place where the flood played
Where the waves of prey crowded,
Revolting viciously around him,
And the lions, and the square, and that,
Who stood still
In the darkness with a copper head,
Togo, whose fateful will
Under the sea, the city was founded ...
He is terrible in the surrounding darkness!
What a thought!
What power is hidden in it!
And what a fire in this horse!
Where are you galloping, proud horse,
And where will you lower your hooves?
O mighty lord of destiny!
Are you not so above the abyss
At a height, an iron bridle
Raised Russia on its hind legs?
Around the foot of the idol
The poor madman walked around
And brought wild eyes
On the face of the ruler of the semi-world.
His chest was shy. Chelo
It lay down on the cold grate,
Eyes clouded over,
A fire ran through my heart,
The blood boiled up. He became gloomy
Before the proud idol
And, clenching his teeth, clenching his fingers,
As if possessed by black power,
“Good, miraculous builder! -
He whispered, trembling angrily,
Already you! .. ”And suddenly headlong
Started running. It seemed
Him, that formidable king,
Instantly ignited with anger,
The face turned slowly...
And he's empty
Runs and hears behind him -
As if thunder rumbles -
Heavy-voiced galloping
On the shaken pavement.
And, illuminated by the pale moon,
Stretch out your hand above
Behind him rushes the Bronze Horseman
On a galloping horse;
And all through the night the poor madman,
Wherever you turn your feet
Behind him everywhere is the Bronze Horseman
Jumped with a heavy thud.
And since then, when it happened
Go to that area to him
His face showed
Confusion. To your heart
He hurriedly pressed his hand,
As if pacifying his torment,
Worn-out symal cap,
I didn't raise my confused eyes
And walked to the side.
small island
Visible at the seaside. Sometimes
Mooring with a net there
A belated fisherman
And he cooks his poor supper,
Or an official will visit,
Boating on a Sunday
Desert island. not grown up
There is not a blade of grass. flood
There, playing, skidded
The house is dilapidated. Above the water
He remained like a black bush.
His last spring
They took it to the bar. He was empty
And all destroyed. At the threshold
Found my madman
And then his cold corpse
Buried for God's sake.
PETERSBURG STORY
(1833)FOREWORD
The incident described in this story is based on truth. The details of the flood are borrowed from contemporary magazines. The curious can cope with the news compiled V. N. Berkhom.
INTRODUCTION On the shore of the desert waves He stood, full of great thoughts, And looked into the distance. Before him the River rushed wide; the poor boat was striving for it alone. Along the mossy, swampy shores Black huts here and there, Shelter of a wretched Finn; And the forest, unknown to the rays In the mist of the hidden sun, Noisy all around. And he thought: From now on we will threaten the Swede, Here the city will be founded To the evil of the arrogant neighbor. By nature here we are destined To cut through a window in Europe (1), To stand with a firm foot by the sea. Here on their new waves All the flags will visit us And we will drink in the open. A hundred years have passed, and the young city, Beauty and wonder of midnight countries, From the darkness of the forests, from the swamp of blat, Ascended magnificently, proudly; Where once the Finnish fisherman, The sad stepson of nature, Alone at the low shores, Throwed into unknown waters His dilapidated net, now there, Along the busy shores, Slender masses crowd Palaces and towers; ships In crowds from all ends of the earth They strive for rich marinas; The Neva is dressed in granite; Bridges hung over the waters; Her islands were covered with dark green gardens, And old Moscow faded before the younger capital, Like a porphyry-bearing widow before the new queen. I love you, Peter's creation, I love your strict, slender appearance, the Neva's sovereign current, its coastal granite, Your cast-iron fences, Your thoughtful nights Transparent dusk, moonless brilliance, When I write in my room, I read without a lamp, And the sleeping masses are clear Deserted streets, and the Admiralty needle is bright, And not letting the darkness of the night into the golden skies, One dawn to change another Hurries, giving the night half an hour (2). I love your cruel winters Still air and frost, Sledge running along the wide Neva; Girls' faces are brighter than roses, And the brilliance and noise and talk of balls, And at the hour of the idle feast The hiss of frothy glasses And the blue flame of punch. I love the militant liveliness of Amusing Fields of Mars, Infantry troops and horses Monotonous beauty, In their harmoniously unsteady formation Patchwork of these victorious banners, The radiance of these copper caps, On through those shot through in battle. I love, military capital, Smoke and thunder of your stronghold, When the midnight queen Gives her son to the royal house, Or Russia triumphs over the enemy again, Or, having broken its blue ice, the Neva carries it to the seas, And, smelling spring days, rejoices. Show off, city of Petrov, and stand as unshakable as Russia, May the conquered element make peace with you; Let the waves of Finland forget their enmity and captivity, And futile malice will not Disturb Peter's eternal sleep! It was a terrible time, The memory of her is fresh ... About her, my friends, for you I will begin my story. My story is sad. PART ONE Above the darkened Petrograd November breathed the autumn chill. Splashing in a noisy wave At the edges of her slender fence, the Neva tossed about like a sick person In her restless bed. It was already late and dark; The rain beat angrily against the window, And the wind blew, howling sadly. At that time, young Eugene came home from among the guests .... We will call our hero by this name. It sounds nice; with him for a long time My pen is also friendly. We don't need his nickname, Although in the past it may have shone, And under the pen of Karamzin It sounded in native legends; But now it is forgotten by light and rumor. Our hero lives in Kolomna; serves somewhere, shy of the nobles and does not grieve either about the deceased relatives, or about the forgotten antiquity. So, coming home, Eugene shook off his overcoat, undressed, lay down. But for a long time he could not fall asleep In the excitement of various reflections. What was he thinking about? about the fact that he was poor, that by labor he had to deliver to himself both independence and honor; That God could add to him Mind and money. Why are there such idle lucky ones, Mindless sloths, For whom life is much easier! That he serves only two years; He also thought that the weather did not let up; that the river kept coming; that the bridges had hardly been removed from the Neva And that he would be separated from Parasha for two or three days. Eugene then sighed heartily And dreamed like a poet: Marry? Well .... why not? It is hard, of course, But well, he is young and healthy, Ready to work day and night; He somehow arranges for himself a humble and simple shelter And in it Parasha will calm down. "Perhaps another year will pass - I'll get a place - I'll entrust our household to Parasha And the upbringing of the children ... And we will begin to live - and so on to the grave, Hand in hand we will both reach, And our grandchildren will bury us ..." So he dreamed. And he was sad that night, and he wished that the wind howled not so sadly And that the rain knocked on the window Not so angrily ... He finally closed his sleepy eyes. And now the fog of a rainy night is thinning And the pale day is already coming ... (3) Terrible day! All night the Neva Rushed to the sea against the storm, Not having overcome their violent foolishness... And it became impossible for her to argue.... In the morning, crowds of people crowded over its shores, Admiring the splashes, mountains And the foam of furious waters. But by the force of the winds from the bay, the Barred Neva Went back, angry, turbulent, And flooded the islands. The weather became more and more ferocious, the Neva swelled and roared, bubbling and swirling like a cauldron, And suddenly, like a wild animal, rushed at the city. Everything ran before her; all around was suddenly empty - the waters suddenly flowed into the underground cellars, canals gushed to the gratings, and Petropolis surfaced like a newt, immersed in water up to the waist. Siege! attack! Evil waves, Like thieves, climb through the windows. Boats With a running start, glass is smashed astern. Trays under a wet shroud, Fragments of huts, logs, roofs, Goods of thrifty trade, Belongings of pale poverty, Bridges demolished by a storm, Coffins from a washed-out cemetery Float through the streets! The people sees God's wrath and awaits execution. Alas! everything perishes: shelter and food! Where will take? In that formidable year The late tsar ruled over Russia with glory. On the balcony Sad, embarrassed, he went out And said: "With God's elements, the Kings can not co-own." He sat down And in thought with mournful eyes He looked at the evil calamity. Stognas stood like lakes And the streets poured into them as wide rivers. The palace seemed like a sad island. The king said - from end to end, Along the near and far streets In a dangerous path amid stormy waters His generals set off (4) To save the people, overcome by fear, And drowning at home. Then, on Petrova Square, Where a new house rose up in the corner, Where, above an elevated porch With a raised paw, as if alive, Two sentry lions stand, On a marble top beast, Without a hat, his hands clenched in a cross, Eugene sat motionless, terribly pale. He was afraid, poor man, Not for himself. He did not hear How the greedy wave rose, Washing his soles, How the rain whipped into his face, How the wind, violently howling, Suddenly tore off his hat. His desperate glances On the edge of one pointed They were motionless. Like mountains, From the indignant depths Waves arose there and got angry, There a storm howled, fragments swept there ... God, God! there, alas! close to the waves, Almost at the very gulf - An unpainted fence, and a willow And a dilapidated house: there they are, The widow and daughter, his Parasha, His dream .... Or does He see it in a dream? Or is our whole life And life nothing, like an empty dream, A mockery of heaven over the earth? And he, as if bewitched, As if chained to marble, Can't get off! Water is all around him and nothing else! And his back is turned to him In an unshakable height, Over the indignant Neva Stands with outstretched hand Kumir on a bronze horse. PART TWO. But now, satiated with destruction And tiring with insolent violence, the Neva dragged back, Admiring its indignation And neglecting its prey. So the villain, With his ferocious gang, Bursts into the village, breaks, cuts, Crushes and robs; cries, gnashing, Violence, abuse, alarm, howl! .... And burdened with robbery, Fearing chase, tired, The robbers rush home, Dropping prey on the way. The water subsided, and the pavement Opened, and my Eugene Hurries, fading in soul, In hope, fear and longing To the barely resigned river. But the triumph of victory was full of victories. The waves were still seething viciously, As if a fire smoldered under them, They were still covered with foam, And the Neva was breathing heavily, Like a horse running from a battle. Eugene looks: he sees a boat; He runs to her as if to a find; He calls the carrier - And the carefree carrier He willingly carries him for a dime Through terrible waves. And for a long time an experienced rower struggled with the stormy waves, And to hide deep between their rows Every hour with daring swimmers The boat was ready - and finally He reached the shore. Unfortunate Familiar street runs In familiar places. Looks, can't find out. The view is terrible! Everything in front of him is littered; What is dropped, what is demolished; The houses were crooked, others completely collapsed, others were shifted by the waves; around, As if in a battlefield, Bodies are lying around. Yevgeny Stremglav, not remembering anything, Exhausted from torment, Runs to where Fate awaits him with unknown news, As with a sealed letter. And now he is running along the suburbs, And here is the bay, and the house is close .... What is it? ... He stopped. Went back and turned back. Looks... goes... still looks. Here is the place where their house stands; Here is the willow. There were gates here - they were demolished, you can see. Where is the house? And full of gloomy concern Everything walks, he walks around, He talks loudly to himself - And suddenly, striking his forehead with his hand, He burst out laughing. The darkness of the night descended on the trembling city, But for a long time the inhabitants did not sleep And among themselves they talked About the past day. A ray of morning Because of the tired, pale clouds Flashed over the quiet capital And did not find any traces of yesterday's Trouble; the purple was already covered with evil. Everything was in order. Already through the streets free With their cold insensibility The people walked. The bureaucratic people, Leaving their nocturnal shelter, Went to work. The brave shopkeeper, not desponding, opened the Neva robbed cellar, Gathering his important loss On the neighbor to vent. Boats were brought from the yards. Count Khvostov, Poet, beloved by heaven, Already sang with immortal verses The misfortune of the Neva banks. But my poor, poor Eugene... Alas! his troubled mind Against terrible shocks Could not resist. The rebellious noise of the Neva and the winds resounded in his ears. Terrible thoughts Silently full, he wandered. Some kind of dream tormented him. A week passed, a month - he did not return to his home. His deserted corner He rented out, as the term expired, The owner of the poor poet. Eugene did not come for his goods. He soon became a stranger to the world. All day I wandered on foot, And slept on the pier; ate a piece served in the window. His shabby clothes were torn and smoldering. Evil children Threw stones after him. Often the coachman's lashes whipped him, because he never made out the road; it seemed he didn't notice. He was deafened Was the noise of inner anxiety. And so he eked out his unfortunate age, neither beast nor man, neither this nor that, nor the inhabitant of the world, nor the ghost of the dead... Since he slept at the Neva pier. The days of summer are leaning towards autumn. A stormy wind was breathing. A gloomy wave Splashed on the pier, murmuring songs And beating on smooth steps, Like a petitioner at the door of the judges who did not heed him. The poor man woke up. It was gloomy: The rain was dripping, the wind howled dejectedly, And with him far away, in the darkness of the night, The sentry called to one another .... Yevgeny jumped up; He remembered vividly the past horror; hurriedly he got up; Went to wander, and suddenly Stopped - and around Quietly began to move his eyes With wild fear on his face. He found himself under the pillars of the Big House. On the porch With their paws raised as if they were alive, Guard lions stood, And right in the dark heights Above the fenced rock An idol with an outstretched hand Sat on a bronze horse. Eugene shuddered. Frightening thoughts cleared up in him. He recognized And the place where the flood played, Where the predatory waves crowded, Rebelling viciously around him, And the lions, and the square, and the one Who stood motionless In the darkness with a copper head, The one whose fateful will Under the sea the city was founded .... Terrible he is in the darkness! What a thought! What power is hidden in it! And what a fire in this horse! Where are you galloping, proud horse, And where will you lower your hooves? O mighty lord of destiny! Aren't you above the very abyss At the height, with an iron bridle raised Russia on its hind legs? (5) Around the foot of the idol The poor madman walked around And cast wild gazes On the face of the ruler of the half-world. His chest was shy. The forehead lay down on the cold grate, The eyes were covered with fog, The flame ran through the heart, The blood boiled. He became gloomy Before the proud idol And, clenching his teeth, squeezing his fingers, As if possessed by the power of black, "Good, miraculous builder!" It seemed to Him that the formidable king, Instantly burning with anger, His face turned quietly .... And he runs across the empty square and hears behind him - As if thunder rumble - Heavy-voiced galloping On the shocked pavement. And, illuminated by the pale moon, Stretching out his hand in the sky, Behind him rushes the Bronze Rider On a galloping horse; And all night the poor madman. Wherever he turned his feet, Behind him everywhere the Bronze Horseman With a heavy stomp galloped. And from that time, when it happened to him to walk that square, Confusion was depicted in his face. He hurriedly pressed his hand to his heart, As if pacifying his torment, He removed the worn-out cap, He did not raise his embarrassed eyes And walked aside. Small island Visible on the seashore. Sometimes A belated fisherman will moor there with a net And cook his poor dinner, Or an official will visit, Walking in a boat on Sunday, A deserted island. Not grown up There is not a blade of grass. The flood There, playing, brought the House to a dilapidated one. Above the water He remained like a black bush. His past spring They brought him on a barge. It was empty and all destroyed. At the threshold They found my madman, And immediately his cold corpse Was buried for God's sake. NOTES(1) Algarotti somewhere said: "Pétersbourg est la fenêtre par laquelle la Russie regarde en Europe".
(2) See the verses of the book. Vyazemsky to Countess Z***.
(3) Mickiewicz described the day preceding the Petersburg flood in beautiful verse, in one of his best poems, Oleszkiewicz. Too bad the description is not accurate. There was no snow - the Neva was not covered with ice. Our description is more accurate, although it does not contain the bright colors of the Polish poet.
(4) Count Miloradovich and Adjutant General Benkendorf.
(5) See the description of the monument in Mickiewicz. It is borrowed from Ruban, as Mickiewicz himself remarks.
1833 Petersburg story
Foreword
The incident described in this story is based on truth. The details of the flood are borrowed from contemporary magazines. The curious can consult the news compiled by V. N. Berkh.
Introduction
| On the shore of the desert waves He stood, full of great thoughts, And looked into the distance. Before him the River rushed wide; the poor boat was striving for it alone. Along the mossy, swampy shores Black huts here and there, Shelter of a wretched Finn; And the forest, unknown to the rays In the mist of the hidden sun, Noisy all around. And he thought: From now on we will threaten the Swede, Here the city will be founded To the evil of the arrogant neighbor. Here we are destined by nature to cut through a window into Europe, (1) to stand with a firm foot by the sea. Here on their new waves All the flags will visit us, And we will drink in the open. A hundred years have passed, and the young city, Beauty and wonder of midnight countries, From the darkness of the forests, from the swamp of blat, Ascended magnificently, proudly; Where before the Finnish fisherman, The sad stepson of nature, Alone at the low shores Threw His decrepit net into unknown waters, now there Along the busy shores, slender masses crowd Palaces and towers; ships In crowds from all ends of the earth They strive for rich marinas; The Neva is dressed in granite; Bridges hung over the waters; Her islands were covered with dark green gardens, And in front of the younger capital Old Moscow faded, Like a porphyry-bearing widow before the new queen. I love you, Peter's creation, I love your strict, slender appearance, the Neva's sovereign current, its coastal granite, Your cast-iron fences, Your thoughtful nights Transparent dusk, moonless brilliance, When I write in my room, I read without a lamp, And the sleeping masses are clear Deserted streets, and the Admiralty needle is bright, And, not letting the darkness of the night into the golden skies, One dawn to change another Hurries, giving the night half an hour (2). I love your cruel winters The motionless air and frost, The running of the sledge along the wide Neva, The girlish faces are brighter than roses, And the shine, and the noise, and the talk of the balls, And at the hour of the idle party, The hiss of frothy glasses And the blue flame of punch. I love the militant liveliness of Amusing Fields of Mars, Infantry troops and horses Monotonous beauty, In their harmoniously unsteady formation Patchwork of these victorious banners, The radiance of these copper caps, On through those shot through in battle. I love, military capital, Smoke and thunder of your stronghold, When the midnight queen Grants a son to the royal house, Or Russia triumphs over the enemy again, Or, having broken its blue ice, the Neva carries it to the seas And, smelling spring days, rejoices. Show off, city of Petrov, and stand as unshakable as Russia, May the conquered element make peace with you; Let the waves of Finland forget their enmity and captivity, And futile malice will not Disturb Peter's eternal sleep! It was a terrible time, The memory of her is fresh ... About her, my friends, for you I will begin my story. My story is sad. |
"Bronze Horseman"- a poem by Alexander Pushkin, written in Boldin in the autumn of 1833. The poem was not allowed by Nicholas I for publication. Pushkin published its beginning in the Library for Reading, 1834, book. XII, entitled: "Petersburg. An excerpt from a poem ”(from the beginning and ending with the verse“ Disturb the eternal sleep of Peter! ”, With the omission of four verses crossed out by Nicholas I, starting with the verse“ And in front of the younger capital ”).
First published after Pushkin's death in Sovremennik, vol. 5, in 1837 with censorship changes made to the text by V. A. Zhukovsky.
The poem is one of the most profound, daring and artistically perfect works of Pushkin. The poet in it, with unprecedented strength and courage, shows the historically natural contradictions of life in all their nakedness, without trying to artificially make ends meet where they do not converge in reality itself. In the poem, in a generalized figurative form, two forces are opposed - the state, personified in Peter I (and then in the symbolic image of a revived monument, the Bronze Horseman), and a person in his personal, private interests and experiences. Speaking of Peter I, Pushkin glorified his "great thoughts" with inspired verses, his creation - "the city of Petrov", a new capital built at the mouth of the Neva, "under the pestilence", on "mossy, swampy banks", for military-strategic reasons, economic and to establish a cultural connection with Europe. The poet, without any reservations, praises the great state work of Peter, the beautiful city he created - "the beauty and wonder of the full-night countries." But these state considerations of Peter turn out to be the cause of the death of an innocent Eugene, a simple, ordinary person. He is not a hero, but he knows how and wants to work ("... I am young and healthy, / I am ready to work day and night"). He swept away in the flood; "he was afraid, poor thing, not for himself. // He did not hear how the greedy wave rose, // Washing his soles", he "daringly" swims along the "barely resigned" Neva to find out about the fate of his bride. Despite his poverty, Yevgeny values "independence and honor" most of all. He dreams of simple human happiness: to marry his beloved girl and live modestly by his work. The flood, shown in the poem as a rebellion of the conquered, conquered elements against Peter, ruins his life: Parasha dies, and he goes crazy. Peter I, in his great state concerns, did not think about defenseless little people forced to live under the threat of death from floods.
The tragic fate of Yevgeny and the poet's deep sorrowful sympathy for her are expressed in The Bronze Horseman with tremendous force and poetry. And in the scene of the collision of the insane Yevgeny with the Bronze Horseman, his fiery, gloomy protest "of the frontal threat to the" miraculous builder "on behalf of the victims of this construction, the poet's language becomes as highly pathetic as in the solemn introduction to the poem. The Bronze Horseman ends" stingy, restrained, deliberately prosaic message about the death of Eugene:
Flood There, playing, brought the dilapidated house ... . . . . . . . . . . . His past spring They brought him on a barge. It was empty and all destroyed. At the threshold They found my madman, And immediately his cold corpse Was buried for God's sake. Pushkin does not provide any epilogue that returns us to the original theme of majestic Petersburg, an epilogue that reconciles us with the historically justified tragedy of Yevgeny. The contradiction between the full recognition of the correctness of Peter I, who cannot take into account the interests of an individual person in his state "great thoughts" and affairs, and the full recognition of the correctness of a small person who demands that his interests be taken into account - this contradiction remains unresolved in the poem. Pushkin was quite right, since this contradiction did not lie in his thoughts, but in life itself; it was one of the most acute in the process of historical development. This contradiction between the good of the state and the happiness of the individual is inevitable as long as class society exists, and it will disappear along with its final destruction.
In artistic terms, "The Bronze Horseman" is a miracle of art. In an extremely limited volume (there are only 481 verses in the poem), many bright, lively and highly poetic pictures are contained - see, for example, individual images scattered in front of the reader in the introduction, which make up an integral majestic image of St. Petersburg; saturated with strength and dynamics, from a number of private paintings, the emerging description of the flood, the image of the delirium of the insane Yevgeny, amazing in its poetry and brightness, and much more. Distinguishes from other Pushkin's poems "The Bronze Horseman" and the amazing flexibility and variety of his style, sometimes solemn and slightly archaic, sometimes extremely simple, colloquial, but always poetic. A special character is given to the poem by the use of techniques of almost musical structure of images: repetition, with some variations, of the same words and expressions (guard lions over the porch of the house, the image of a monument, "an idol on a bronze horse"), carrying through the entire poem in different changes of one and the same thematic motif - rain and wind, the Neva - in countless en aspects, etc., not to mention the famous sound writing of this amazing poem.
