The writer's exceptional artistic sensitivity to new forms. public life to a certain extent contributed to his overcoming false ideological premises in specific works." This was noted by Dobrolyubov in the article "When will the real one will come day?”, dedicated to the analysis of the novel “On the Eve”. In the early romantic lyrics and poems, Turgenev developed the traditions of Pushkin and Lermontov, and later Gogol.” Turgenev’s progressive beliefs were most fully expressed in a cycle of stories and short stories under common name“Notes of a Hunter,” which he began to create in the second half of the 40s.” The anti-serfdom orientation of a number of stories, which arose under the beneficial influence of Belinsky, determined their enormous public resonance.
Compositionally, all the essays and short stories are united by the image of the narrator - the hunter." In lyricism landscape sketches The originality of Turgenev's manner affected. Close in ideological meaning to “Notes of a Hunter” the story “Mumu”! contrasting the spiritual insignificance of a spoiled and capricious tyrant lady with the moral greatness and fortitude of the dumb janitor Gerasim, whose figure receives symbolic meaning, personifying the dormant mighty forces of the people and at the same time their humility, the ending of the story speaks of the awakening of a feeling of protest in Gerasim." In the 50s, Turgenev created a number of stories united by the theme of the internal spiritual weakness of the noble intelligentsia ("Diary extra person", "Faust", "Asya"), the type of liberal-idealist, "man of the forties", was created by Turgenev in the novel "Rudin". Rudin promotes advanced ideas, is distinguished by his strength of mind, but in the end he turns out to be a weak, weak-willed dreamer (as opposed to Lezhnev’s sober practicality) who does not know how to act. The hero's psychology reflected the social failure of the advanced nobility." In the novel " Noble Nest"Turgenev criticizes the capital's bureaucracy (Panshin), waxes poetic about romance" noble nests“As the focus of the positive forces of Russian culture, in the tragic figure of Lavretsky he discovers a desire for “recognition of the people's truth and humility before it” and in this he sees the moral duty of a progressive nobleman. The idea of fidelity moral duty is also revealed in the image of Liza Kalitina, who shares with Lavretsky the desire for high ideal truth.
In the next novel - “On the Eve” - the problems expand significantly. The intensification of the struggle between liberals and democrats in the 60s resulted in Turgenev creating the image of a commoner revolutionary! Bulgarian Insarov, who has heroic character fighter for the liberation of the Motherland. The simplicity and firmness of his character, spiritual independence and nobility, the ability to act in order to achieve a clearly defined goal distinguish Insarov favorably from the romantic Shubin and the modest intellectual Bersenev. Insarov's exceptional personal merits, his fiery conviction in the need for a heroic struggle for the liberation of the Motherland captivate Elena Stakhova, who follows him to the feat.
A foggy morning, a gray morning, Sad fields covered with snow, Reluctantly you remember the past, You remember faces long forgotten. You will remember the abundant passionate speeches, the glances so greedily, so timidly caught, the first meetings, the last meetings, the beloved sounds of a quiet voice. You will remember the separation with a strange smile, You will remember much of your distant home, Listening to the incessant murmur of the wheels, Looking thoughtfully at the wide sky. November 1843Wandering over the lake
I wander over the lake... the tops of the round hills are foggy, the forest is darkening, and the night cries of fishermen are loud and strange. The silent depth is full of the transparent, even shadow of Heaven... And the half-asleep wave breathes with cold and laziness. Night has come; behind the bright, sultry, O heart! after a troubled day, - When will you fall asleep peacefully, perhaps at least your last sleep. 1844TO ***
A downpour rushed through the fields to the shady hills... The sky suddenly brightens... The green, level meadow sparkles with a watery shine. The storm has passed... The sky is so clear! How sonorous and fragrant the air is! How voluptuously he rests on every branch, every leaf! Announced by the evening bell, the peaceful expanse of fields... Let's go for a walk in the green forest, Let's go, sister of my soul. Let's go, oh you, my only friend, my last love, Let's go through the radiant valley into the silent, bright fields. And where the golden harvest lay in a wavy stripe, When the dawn rises, blazing, Above the calmed earth, - Let me sit silently At the feet of your beloved... Let your hand shyly Touch my timid lips... 1844What will I think?..
What will I think when I have to die, if only I will be able to think then?Will I think that I made bad use of life, slept through it, dozed off, failed to partake of its gifts?
“How? Is this already death? So soon? Impossible! After all, I haven’t had time to do anything yet... I was just about to do it!”
Will I remember the past, dwell in thought on the few, bright moments I have lived? expensive images and faces?
Will my bad deeds appear in my memory and the burning melancholy of late repentance come upon my soul?
Will I think about what awaits me beyond the grave... and will there be anything waiting for me there?
No... it seems to me that I will try not to think - and will forcibly engage in some nonsense, just to distract my own attention from the menacing darkness darkening ahead.
In front of me, one dying man kept complaining that they didn’t want to let him chew roasted nuts... and only there, in the depths of his dull eyes, was something beating and fluttering, like the broken wing of a mortally wounded bird.
August 1879
Caught under a wheel
- What do these moans mean?- I suffer, I suffer greatly.
-Have you heard the splash of the stream when it hits the stones?
- I heard... but why this question?
- And to the fact that this splashing and moaning of yours are the same sounds, and nothing more. Only perhaps this: the splash of a stream may please other ears, but your groans will not pity anyone. You don’t hold them back, but remember: these are all sounds, sounds like the creaking of a broken tree... sounds - and nothing more.
June 1882
* * *
Give me your hand, and we will go into the field, Friend of my thoughtful soul... Our life today is in our will, Do you value your life? If not, we will ruin this day, We will cross out this day jokingly. Everything that we languished about, that we love, Let's forget until another day... Let this day, without returning again, fly over a motley and anxious life, like over a godless crowd, Childish, humble love... Light steam swirls over the river, And the dawn solemnly lit. Oh, I would like to get along with you, like we got along with you for the first time. “But why, won’t the past be repeated again?” - you answer me. Forget everything heavy, everything evil, Forget that we parted. Believe me: I am embarrassed and deeply touched, And my whole soul yearns for you, greedily, like never a wave asks to flow into the lake... Look... how the sky marvelously shines, Take a good look, and then look around. Nothing trembles in vain, The grace of peace and love... I recognize the presence of the shrine in myself, even though I am unworthy of it. There is no shame, no fear, no pride. There is not even sadness in my soul... Oh, let's go, and will we be silent, Will we talk to you, Will passions rustle like waves, Or will they fall asleep like clouds under the moon - I know, great moments, Eternal with you we will live. This day, perhaps, is the day of salvation. Maybe we will understand each other. Spring 1842Hourglass
Day after day goes away without a trace, monotonously and quickly.Life rushed terribly quickly, quickly and without noise, like a river stirrup before a waterfall.
It flows evenly and smoothly, like sand in the watch held in the bony hand of the figure of Death.
When I lie in bed and darkness envelops me on all sides, I constantly imagine this faint and continuous rustle of life flowing away.
I don’t feel sorry for her, I don’t feel sorry for what else I could have done... I’m terrified.
It seems to me that that motionless figure is standing next to my bed... In one hand hourglass, she brought the other one over my heart...
And my heart trembles and pushes into my chest, as if in a hurry to reach its last beats.
December 1876
When I'm Alone (Double)
When I am alone, completely alone for a long time, it suddenly begins to seem to me that someone else is in the same room, sitting next to me or standing behind me.When I turn around or suddenly direct my eyes to where I imagine that person to be, I, of course, see no one. The very feeling of his closeness disappears... but after a few moments it returns again.
Sometimes I will take my head in both hands and start thinking about him.
Who is he? What he? He is not a stranger to me... he knows me - and I know him... He seems to be akin to me... and there is an abyss between us.
I don’t expect a sound or a word from him... He is as mute as he is motionless... And yet, he tells me... he says something unclear, incomprehensible - and familiar. He knows all my secrets.
I'm not afraid of him... but I feel awkward around him and I wouldn't want to have such a witness to my inner life... And with all that, I don’t feel a separate, alien existence in him.
Are you my double? Isn't this my past self? And indeed: isn’t there a whole abyss between the person I remember myself and the me I am now?
But he does not come at my command, as if he has his own will.
It’s sad, brother, neither for you nor for me, in the hateful silence of loneliness.
But wait... When I die, we will merge with you - my former, my present self - and rush off forever into the region of irrevocable shadows.
November 1879
Somewhere, once upon a time, long, long ago, I read a poem. I soon forgot it... but the first verse remained in my memory:
How beautiful, how fresh the roses were...
Now it's winter; frost covered the window panes; One candle is burning in a dark room. I sit huddled in a corner; and in my head everything rings and rings:
How beautiful, how fresh the roses were...
And I see myself in front of a low window of a Russian country house. The summer evening quietly melts and turns into night, the warm air smells of mignonette and linden; and on the window, leaning on her straightened arm and bowing her head to her shoulder, a girl sits - and silently and intently looks at the sky, as if waiting for the first stars to appear. How innocently inspired are the pensive eyes, how touchingly innocent are the open, questioning lips, how evenly does the not yet fully blossomed, not yet agitated chest breathe, how pure and gentle is the appearance of the young face! I do not dare to speak to her, but how dear she is to me, how my heart beats!
How beautiful, how fresh the roses were...
And the room is getting darker and darker... A burnt candle crackles, fugitive shadows waver on the low ceiling, frost creaks and gets angry behind the wall - and one can hear a boring, senile whisper...
How beautiful, how fresh the roses were...
Other images appear before me... I can hear the cheerful noise of the family village life. Two fair-haired heads, leaning against each other, look briskly at me with their bright eyes, scarlet cheeks tremble with restrained laughter, hands are affectionately intertwined, young, kind voices sound interchangeably; and a little further, in the depths of the cozy room, other, also young hands run, tangling their fingers, over the keys of an old piano - and Lanner’s waltz cannot drown out the grumbling of the patriarchal samovar...
How beautiful, how fresh the roses were...
The candle fades and goes out... Who is that coughing there so hoarsely and dully? Curled up in a ball, huddles and shudders at my feet old dog, my only comrade... I'm cold... I'm chilling... and they all died... died...
How beautiful, how fresh the roses were...
September, 1879
The thunderstorm has passed
A thunderstorm rushed low over the earth... I went out into the garden; everything around became quiet - the tops of the linden trees were drenched in a soft mist, stained with life-giving rain. And the damp wind breathes quietly on the leaves... A heavy beetle flies in the thick shadow; And, just as the face of those who have fallen asleep languidly glows, the dark meadow glows with fragrant steam. What a night! Big, golden stars have lit up... the air is fresh and clean; Raindrops flow down from the branches, As if every leaf is quietly crying. Lightning will flare up... Late and distant Thunder will rush in - and thunder faintly... Like steel, the wide pond shines, darkening, And here the house stands in front of me. And under the moon, mysterious shadows lie motionless on it... here is the door; Here is the porch - familiar steps... And you... where are you? what are you doing now? The stubborn, angry gods have softened, haven’t they? and among your Family have you forgotten your worries, Calm on your loving breast? Or is the sick soul still burning? Or couldn't you rest anywhere? And you still live, yearning with all your heart, In a long-empty and abandoned nest? 1844Spring evening
Golden clouds are walking over the resting earth; The fields are spacious, silent, glistening, drenched in dew; The stream gurgles in the darkness of the valley, Spring thunder rumbles in the distance, The lazy wind in the aspen leaves trembles with a caught wing. The tall, green forest is silent and dim, dark forest is silent. Only sometimes in the deep shadow will a sleepless leaf rustle. The star trembles in the lights of the sunset, A beautiful star of love, And the soul is light and holy, Easy, as in childhood. 1843* * *
Why am I repeating a sad verse, Why, in the midnight silence, That passionate voice, that sweet voice Flies and asks to come to me, - Why? It was not I who lit the fire of silent suffering in her soul... In her chest, in the anguish of sobs That groan did not sound for me. So why does the Soul run so madly to her feet, Like the waves of the sea rushing noisily To unattainable shores? December 1843* * *
When a long-forgotten name stirs in me, suddenly, again, a suffering that has long died down, a long time ago lost love, - I’m ashamed that I live so slowly, That this trash stores my soul That not a tear, not even a kiss - That I don’t forget anything. I'm ashamed, yes; and there I will feel sad, And can I really think that life will not deceive me now, that I will save my heart to the end? What do I have the right to proudly reject All the old ones, all the childhood dreams, Everything that blooms in my soul so timidly, Like the first spring flowers? And I’m sad that that memory I was ready to despise and ridicule... I’ll repeat the familiar name - I’m completely immersed in the past again. 1843When I'm gone...
When I am gone, when everything that was me crumbles to dust - oh you, my only friend, oh you whom I loved so deeply and so tenderly, you who will probably outlive me - do not go to my grave... There's nothing for you to do there.Don’t forget me... but don’t remember me among your daily worries, pleasures and needs... I don’t want to interfere with your life, I don’t want to complicate its calm flow. But in hours of solitude, when that shy and causeless sadness, so familiar, comes over you kind hearts, take one of our favorite books and find in it those pages, those lines, those words that sometimes - remember? - brought sweet and silent tears to both of us at the same time.
Read, close your eyes and extend your hand to me... Extend your hand to an absent friend.
I will not be able to shake it with my hand: it will lie motionless under the ground... but now I am pleased to think that perhaps you will feel a light touch on your hand.
And my image will appear to you, and from under the closed eyelids of your eyes tears will flow, similar to those tears that we, touched by Beauty, once shed together with you, oh you, my only friend, oh you, whom I loved so deeply and so gently! December 1878
* * *
When I broke up with you - I don’t want to hide that I loved you then, As only I could love. But I am not happy about our meeting. I stubbornly remain silent - And your deep, sad look I don’t want to understand. And you keep talking to me about the sweet side. But that bliss My God 1843, Now so foreign to me! Believe me: since then I have lived a lot, And suffered a lot... And I forgot a lot of joys, And a lot of stupid tears.
Without nestWhere should I go? What to do? I'm like a lonely bird without a nest. Ruffled, she sits on a bare, dry branch. It’s sickening to stay... but where to fly?
And so she spreads her wings - and rushes into the distance quickly and directly, like a dove frightened by a hawk. Wouldn't a green, sheltered corner open up somewhere, would it be possible to build at least a temporary nest somewhere?
Beneath it is a yellow desert, silent, motionless, dead...
The bird is in a hurry, flies over the desert and keeps looking down, attentively and sadly.
Below it is the sea, yellow and dead, like a desert. True, it makes noise and moves, but in the endless roar, in the monotonous vibration of its shafts, there is also no life and there is also nowhere to take shelter.
The poor bird is tired... The flapping of its wings weakens; dives her flight. She would soar to the sky... but she couldn’t build a nest in this bottomless void!
She finally folded her wings... and with a long groan fell into the sea.
The wave swallowed it up... and rolled forward, still making a senseless noise.
Where should I go? And isn't it time for me to fall into the sea?
January 1878
Partridges
Lying in bed, tormented by a long and hopeless illness, I thought: what did I do to deserve this? Why am I being punished? me, exactly me? It's not fair, it's not fair!And the following came to my mind...
A whole family of young partridges - about twenty of them - crowded together in the thick stubble. They huddle together, dig in the loose soil, and are happy. Suddenly a dog scares them - they take off together; a shot is heard - and one of the partridges, with a broken wing, all wounded, falls and, with difficulty dragging its legs, hides in a wormwood bush.
While the dog is looking for her, the unfortunate partridge may also be thinking: “There were twenty of us just like me... Why was it me, I got shot and had to die? Why? What did I do to deserve this before my other sisters? It's not fair!"
Lie down, sick creature, until death finds you.
June 1882
* * *
I love driving up to the village in the evening, watching the flock of Crows play with my eyes over the old church; Among the large fields, reserved meadows, On the quiet shores of bays and ponds, I love to listen to the barking of waking dogs, the lowing of heavy herds, I love the abandoned and desolate garden And the unshakable shadows of linden trees; The glass wave does not tremble the air; You stand and listen - and your chest is intoxicated with the Bliss of serene laziness... You look thoughtfully at the faces of the men - And you understand them; I myself am ready to surrender to Their poor, simple life... An old woman goes to the well for water; The tall pole creaks and bends; in succession the horses approach the trough... A passerby started singing... A sad sound! But he shouted dashingly - and only the knocking of the wheels of his cart could be heard; The girl comes out onto the low porch - And looks at the dawn... and her round face turns scarlet, bright. Swinging slowly, from the hill behind the village, Huge carts descend in single file With the fragrant tribute of a lush cornfield; Behind the hemp, green and thick, Wide floods of the steppes run, clothed in blue fog. That steppe - there is no end to it... spread out, lies... The flowing breeze runs, will not pass... The earth languishes, the sky grows faint... And the sides of the long forests will be covered with golden crimson, and it grumbles slightly, And it subsides and turns blue ...Cup
It's funny to me... and I'm surprised at myself.My sadness is unfeigned, it’s really hard for me to live, my feelings are sad and joyless. And meanwhile I try to give them shine and beauty, I look for images and comparisons; I round out my speech, amuse myself with the ringing and consonance of words.
I, like a sculptor, like a goldsmith, carefully sculpt and carve and decorate in every possible way that cup in which I myself offer poison to myself.
January 1878
I'm sorry...
I feel sorry for myself, others, all people, animals, birds... everything that lives.I feel sorry for children and old people, unhappy and happy... happy more than unhappy.
I feel sorry for the victorious, triumphant leaders, great artists, thinkers, poets.
I feel sorry for the murderer and his victim, the ugliness and the beauty, the oppressed and the oppressors.
How can I free myself from this pity? She doesn’t let me live... She, and she’s still bored.
Oh boredom, boredom, all dissolved in pity! A person cannot go lower.
It would be better if I were jealous, really!
Yes, I envy the stones.
February 1878
Fedya
Silently he rides into the village on a frosty night on a tired horse. The gray clouds have crowded together menacingly, There are no stars, neither great nor small. He meets an old woman at the fence: “Grandma, hello!” - “Ah, Fedya! Where did you come from? Where have you been? Not a word from anyone!” - “Where I’ve been, you can’t see from here! Are your brothers alive? Is your family alive? Our hut is still intact, hasn’t burned down? Is it true, Parasha,” Our guys told me in Moscow, “was widowed by fasting?” - “Your house is as it was - like a full cup, Your brothers are all alive, your dear one is healthy, Your neighbor died - Parasha became a widow, And a month later she married someone else.” The wind blew... It whistled lightly; He looked at the sky and pulled down his hat, Silently he waved his hand and quietly turned the horse back - and disappeared. 1843Vocation
(From an unpublished poem) Don't count the hours of separation, Don't sit with folded hands Under the lattice window... Oh my friend! oh my gentle friend! Do not follow with rebellious melancholy the slow ray... Don't be bored... An anxious, long day will pass... With a decorous smile Receive your guests. Don’t shy away from conversation, Don’t suddenly drop your gaze - And suddenly don’t turn pale... But when from the fragrant hills Along the edges of dewy fields A living shadow runs... And, descending from the peaks of the Urals, Like the palace of Sardanapalus, A magnificent day lights up... From- under the long, dark clouds the languid month will quietly emerge behind the beloved star, and, anticipating the reward - freezing - I will run to the waterfall for you! There, from a steep-sided bowl, water beats in a wide wave onto the blurred slabs... Flowers bend over the impatient, whimsical, talkative wave... There a curly oak beckons us, a lush, majestic old man, with his cloudy shadow... And he will hide the happy from the gods - jealous gods, From envious people! Clicks are heard... swans flap their wings over the waters... The river sways... Oh, come! The stars are shining, the leaves are slowly trembling - And clouds are found. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Oh, come!.. Faster than a bird- From sunset to the morning A silent night will sweep across the wide skies... But while the wave, sparkling, Smiles at the stars And the distant peaks Doze, the dark valleys Breathe with damp silence - Oh, come! In the darkness, a calm, white, light, slender Shadow Appear before me! And when, with alarming force, I rush towards my dear And my words freeze... Without kissing my lips, Let your pale lips lie on them, flaming! 1844Prayer
Whatever a person prays for, he prays for a miracle. Every prayer boils down to the following: “Great God, make sure that two and two do not become four!”Only such prayer is real prayer - from face to face. Praying to the universal spirit, the supreme being, the Cantonese, Hegelian, purified, ugly god is impossible and unthinkable.
But can even a personal, living, figurative God prevent two and two from being four?
Every believer is obliged to answer: he can - and is obliged to convince himself of this.
But what if his mind rebels against such nonsense?
Here Shakespeare will come to his aid: “There are many things in the world, friend Horatio...”, etc.
And if they object to him in the name of truth, he should repeat the famous question: “What is truth?”
And therefore: let us drink and have fun - and pray.
June 1881
Oh my youth! oh my freshness!
"Oh my youth! Oh my freshness!" - I once exclaimed. But when I uttered this exclamation, I myself was still young and fresh.
I just wanted to indulge myself with a sad feeling, to feel sorry for myself openly, to rejoice in secret.
Now I am silent and do not lament out loud about those losses... They gnaw at me constantly, with a dull gnawing.
"Eh! better not to think!" - the men assure.
June 1878
Whose fault?
She extended her tender, pale hand to me... and I pushed her away with stern rudeness.Bewilderment was expressed on the young, sweet face; young kind eyes look at me reproachfully; The young, pure soul does not understand me.
- What is my fault? - her lips whisper.
- Your fault? The brightest angel in the most radiant depths of heaven is more likely to be guilty than you.
And yet your guilt before me is great.
Do you want to know it, this grave guilt that you cannot understand, which I am unable to explain to you?
Here it is: you are youth; I am old age.
January 1878
Man, there are so many
He grew up in the house of an old aunt Without any troubles, He was afraid of death and consumption At the age of fifteen. At seventeen he was a dense little fellow, and by the hour he began to indulge in unaccountable “Dreams and Dreams.” He shed tears; kind-heartedly Scolded the crowd - And inhumanly cursed His fate. Then, unable to control his beautiful soul, He began to love with passionate love All the pale maidens. He was a sorrowful sufferer, wrote poems... And did not dare to touch Her hand with a finger. Then, replacing love with friendship, He suddenly fell silent... And, subdued, he entered service in the infantry regiment. Then he married a neighbor, put on a robe and became like a hen - raised chickens. And he lived darkly and frugally for a long time - He was known as a good man... (And he died piously and stupidly Before the priest.) 1843* * *
Where does the silence come from? 1844Where is the call coming from? What breathes on me in spring And the smell of meadows? Why do you, my soul, suddenly feel sorry? Tell me: what kind of sadness did I remember? But everything of the past, my God, is so poor, so dark... And what I cried over was ridiculed by me long ago. The ignoramus himself, among other Forgetful ignoramuses, I admire the destruction of my Enthusiastic hopes. But still I am quiet and touched - A shadow has fled from my soul, As if a magical day has come for me too, When on a tree, naked, And juicy and fragrant, Warmed by a gentle ray, A spring leaf grows... As if with my heart I was resurrected And gave freedom tears, And, breathless, I run into the dark forest in the evenings... As if I love, we love, As if night is close... And the poplar tree under one window Nods slightly to me...
Writer and criticThe writer was sitting in his room at his desk. Suddenly a critic comes in to see him. - How! - he exclaimed, - you still continue to scribble, compose, after everything that I wrote against you, after all those large articles , feuilletons, notes, correspondence, in which I proved like twice two makes four that you do not have - and never had - any talent, that you have even forgotten native language
that you have always been distinguished by ignorance, and now you are completely exhausted, outdated, turned into a rag!
The writer calmly addressed the critic.
“You have written many articles and feuilletons against me,” he answered, “that is certain.” But do you know the fable about the fox and the cat? The fox had many tricks, but she still got caught; The cat had only one: to climb the tree... and the dogs didn’t get it. So am I: in response to all your articles, I brought you out entirely in just one book; put a jester's cap on your rational head, and you will flaunt it in front of posterity.
- Before posterity! - the critic burst out laughing, - as if your books will reach posterity?! In forty, many fifty years, no one will read them.
June 1878
“I agree with you,” the writer answered, “but that’s enough for me.” Homer let his Fersit go forever; and for your brother, even half a century behind your back. You don't even deserve clownish immortality. Farewell, sir... Would you like me to call you by name? This is hardly necessary... everyone will say it without me.
Truth and truth- Why do you value the immortality of the soul so much? - I asked.
- Why? Because then I will possess the eternal, undoubted Truth... And this, in my opinion, is the highest bliss!
- In possession of the Truth?
- Allow me; can you imagine the next scene? Several young people have gathered, talking among themselves... And suddenly one of their comrades runs in: his eyes sparkle with an extraordinary brilliance, he is gasping with delight, he can barely speak. "What is it? What is it?" - “My friends, listen to what I learned, what truth! Angle of incidence equal to angle reflections! Or here’s another thing: between two points the most shortcut- straight line!" - "Really! oh, what bliss!" - all the young people shout, throwing themselves into each other's arms with emotion! Are you unable to imagine such a scene? You laugh... That's the point: Truth cannot bring bliss... Here Truth can. This is a human, our earthly matter... Truth and Justice! I agree to die for the truth. But how can one “possess it”?
June 1882
Croquet in Windsor
The Queen is sitting in Windsor Forest... The ladies of the court are playing a game that has recently come into fashion; That game is called croquet. They roll the balls into the marked circle They are driven so deftly and boldly... The queen looks, laughs... and suddenly she fell silent... her face became dead. It seems to her: instead of chiseled balls, driven by a nimble paddle, whole hundreds of heads are rolling, spattered with black blood... Those are the heads of women, girls and children... On their faces there are traces of torture, and brutal insults, and animal claws - all the horror of dying sufferings . And so the queen's youngest daughter - a lovely maiden - rolls one of the heads - and further and further away - and drives her to the king's feet. The head of a child, in fluffy curls... And her mouth babbles reproaches... And then the queen screamed - and Mad fear clouded her eyes. "My doctor! Help! hurry!" And to him She confides the vision... But he answered her: “I’m not surprised at anything; Reading the newspaper upset you. The Times explains to us how the Bulgarian people became a victim of Turkish wrath... Here are the drops... take... everything this will pass! " And the queen goes to the castle. I returned home and stood in thought... The heavy eyelids bowed... Oh horror! The whole edge of the royal clothes is flooded with a bloody stream! “I order this to be washed away! I want to forget! To the rescue, British rivers!” “No, Your Majesty! You will never wash away That innocent blood forever!” July 20, 1876, St. PetersburgMeeting
DreamI dreamed: I was walking along a wide, bare steppe, strewn with large, angular stones, under a black, low sky.
A path wound between the stones... I walked along it, not knowing where or why...
Suddenly, on the narrow edge of the path, something like a thin cloud appeared in front of me... I began to look: the cloud became a woman, slender and tall, in a white dress, with a narrow light belt around her waist... She hurried away from me with nimble steps.
I didn’t see her face, I didn’t even see her hair: it was covered with wavy fabric; but my whole heart rushed after her. She seemed beautiful, dear and sweet to me... I definitely wanted to catch up with her, I wanted to look into her face... into her eyes... Oh yes! I wanted to see, I had to see those eyes.
However, no matter how I hurried, she moved even more quickly than me, and I could not overtake her.
But then a flat, wide stone appeared across the path... It blocked her path. The woman stopped in front of him... and I ran up, trembling with joy and anticipation, not without fear.
I didn’t say anything... But she quietly turned to me...
And I still didn’t see her eyes. They were closed.
Her face was white... white, like her clothes; his bare arms hung motionless. She seemed completely petrified; with her whole body, with every feature of her face, this woman resembled a marble statue.
Slowly, without bending a single limb, she leaned back and sank onto that flat slab. And now I’m lying next to her, lying on my back, all outstretched, like a tombstone statue, my hands folded prayerfully on my chest, and I feel that I, too, have turned to stone.
Several moments passed... The woman suddenly stood up and walked away.
I wanted to rush after her, but I could not move, I could not unclench my folded hands and only looked after her, with unspeakable melancholy.
Then she suddenly turned around, and I saw bright, radiant eyes on a lively, moving face. She directed them at me and laughed with just her lips... without a sound. Get up and come to me!
But I still couldn’t move.
Then she laughed again and quickly left, shaking her head cheerfully, on which a wreath of small roses suddenly turned bright red.
And I remained motionless and silent on my gravestone.
February 1878
Who to argue with...
Argue with a person smarter than you: he will defeat you... but you can benefit from your very defeat.Argue with a person of equal intelligence: no matter who wins, you will at least experience the pleasure of fighting.
Argue with a person of the weakest mind... argue not out of a desire to win; but you can be useful to him.
Argue even with a fool; you will gain neither fame nor profit; but why not have fun sometimes?
Just don’t argue with Vladimir Stasov!
June 1878
Stop!
Stop! As I see you now - remain forever like this in my memory!The last inspired sound escaped your lips - your eyes do not shine and do not sparkle - they fade, burdened with happiness, the blissful consciousness of the beauty that you managed to express, that beauty, in the wake of which you seem to stretch out your triumphant, your exhausted arms!
What light, thinner and purer sunlight, spilled over all your members, over the smallest folds of your clothes?
Which god with his gentle breath swept back your scattered curls?
His kiss burns on your pale brow like marble!
Here she is - open secret, the secret of poetry, life, love! Here it is, here it is, immortality! There is no other immortality - and there is no need. In this moment you are immortal.
It will pass - and you will again be a pinch of ashes, woman, child... But what does it matter to you! In this moment, you have become higher, you have become beyond everything transient and temporary. This your moment will never end.
Stop! And let me be a participant in your immortality, drop the reflection of your eternity into my soul!
November 1879
TO ***
It’s not a chirping swallow, it’s not a playful killer whale that has hollowed out a nest for itself in the solid rock with its thin strong beak...Then you gradually got used to and settled in with someone else’s cruel family, my patient, clever girl!
July 1878
* * *
On a summer night, when, full of anxious sadness, I took away thick waves of hair from a sweet face with a caring hand - and you, my friend, leaning against the window with a languid smile, looked into the huge garden, both dark and silent... Through the window opened by the calm Fresh darkness flowed in streams and froze over us, And the songs of the nightingale Thundered plaintively in the thick, fragrant shadow, And the wind babbled over the silver river... The fields were at rest. Having betrayed both your chest and arms to the cold of the night, You listened to the sobbing sounds for a long time - And you told me, To mysterious stars raising his sad gaze: “We will never be with you, oh my dear friend, completely blissful!” I wanted to answer, but, strangely freezing, my speech went out... painfully silent Silence came... A tear fluttered in your big eyes And The cold moon sadly kissed your head. November 1843Russian language
In days of doubt, in days of painful thoughts about the fate of my homeland, you alone are my support and support, oh great, mighty, truthful and free Russian language! Without you, how can one not fall into despair at the sight of everything that is happening at home? But one cannot believe that such a language was not given to a great people!June 1882
The path to love
All feelings can lead to love, to passion, everything: hatred, regret, indifference, reverence, friendship, fear, even contempt. Yes, all the feelings... except one: gratitude.Gratitude is a duty; any honest man pays off his debts... but love is not money.
June 1881
Russian
You told me - that we must part - That the world has condemned us - that there is no hope for us; What is sad for you - that I should try to Forget you - it was evening; The moon floated on the pale clouds; thin steam lay over the sleeping garden; I listened to you, and still didn’t understand: Under the spirit of spring, under your 1840with a bright look
- Why did I suffer so much?
I understood you; you are right - you are free;
Submissive to you, I go - but how to go, Walk without words, giving a cold bow, When there are no measures for the yearnings of the soul?
Should I say that I love you... I don’t know; Today we are conducting a final, general lesson
based on the works of I.S. Turgenev. I would like to see Turgenev, with whom we are all little familiar. We will talk about Turgenev the poet.
What is poetry?
What is prose?
(Students' answers)
Some of us did not even suspect and do not suspect that in search of his true calling, Turgenev also tried poetic genres.
Turgenev himself contributed greatly to this oblivion. He repeatedly said that he felt a sense of shame when mentioning his poetic activity, and never included poems in his collected works. “I feel a positive, almost physical, antipathy towards my poems - and not only do I not have a single copy of my poems - but I would give a lot for them not to exist in the world at all.”
Meanwhile, Turgenev's poetry is interesting in many respects.
It was in poetry that some themes, motives, and images of his prose emerged. If we take into account the experience of Turgenev as a poet, the lyrical and melodic elements of his prose will be more understandable.
This was not a short-term episode for Turgenev, not a simple “test of the pen”. In the 30s and the first half of the 40s, poetry occupied a predominant place in his work.
Remember what topics do poets touch upon and raise in their lyrics?
Patriotic lyrics.
Landscape lyrics.
Love lyrics.
Philosophical lyrics, etc.
(Students' answers)
Listen to the poem by I. S. Turgenev, determine the theme of this poem. “When I broke up with you...” ( love lyrics) Yes, today we will talk a lot about Turgenev’s love lyrics. Many poets admit that writing about love is very difficult. Not everyone can understand and describe this feeling.
The poetess Yulia Drunina has a short poem. Listen to him.
Is it possible to say
What is spring?
Only the cranes know this.
Is it possible to say?
What is a wave?
Only ships know about the waves,
Is it possible to say
How the nightingales sing,
How do nightingales sing at dawn?
Is it possible in words
Tell me about love?
These words cannot be found in any dictionary.
But apparently, Turgenev found the right words to reveal the feelings of the heroes in poems and works. Why do you think? (The Great Turgenev also experienced a similar feeling).
Teacher: Turgenev's love poems are addressed to different women, but most of them are a reflection of his affair with Tatyana Bakunina. The 3 letters from Turgenev to T. Bakunina that have reached us, and especially the 9 letters to him from Bakunina, give us an idea of this novel, which was very short-lived, but left its mark in both the poetry and prose of the writer.
The girl’s exalted and self-absorbed nature, sometimes edifying, instructive notes in her attitude towards Turgenev - all this quickly cooled Turgenev, and he decided to break up; Bakunina took this extremely painfully.
Students read a poem (boy and girl)
Oh, how long have I been walking with you!
The forests rustled so pleasantly!
And I looked with dumb love
Everything in your blue eyes
And my soul rejoiced...
The extinguished blood flared up
And the earth blossomed, blossomed,
And love blossomed and blossomed.
How luxuriously the river flowed!
How easily the sheets fluttered!
How blissfully the clouds rushed by!
How brightly you smiled at me!
How I forgot everything else!
How thoughtful and quiet I was!
How mysteriously touched I was!
How I was not ashamed of my tears!
And now this day is funny to us,
And gusts of love's longing
They are funny to us, like an unfulfilled dream,
Like empty, bad poems.
How does this poem make you feel? Give an analysis of this poem. (According to plan) (Handout folders)
Should I say that I love you... I don’t know; It turns out that it is easy to frighten away the first feelings, it is easy to offend and not understand another, but “happiness has no tomorrow; it does not have yesterday; it has the present - and that is not a day, but a moment.”
(I.S. Turgenev)
What remains for the heroes of his poems, his novels?
Memories. Turgenev's poems are so melodious, lyrical, and melodic that beautiful romances were written based on his poems, which were included in the repertoire of gypsy choirs and became widespread. Now you will hear a wonderful romance based on the poems of I.S. Turgenev “On the Road”, “Foggy Morning, Gray Morning...” (Romance being performed)
(French melody sounds)
Students tell.
1 student: For I.S. Turgenev's two words: “Write” and “Love” will remain inseparable throughout his life. The young Spanish singer Polina Viardot, together with her 40-year-old French husband Viardot, comes from Paris to St. Petersburg. Here dizzying success awaits her, “general intoxication of delight.” It is remarkable that more than thirty years after the first meetings with Viardot, Turgenev began one of his wonderful “poems in prose” with the lines of a poem by the poet Metlev, with whom three decades ago he admired Pauline Viardot and her velvety amazing voice.
(Poem “How beautiful, how fresh the roses were.”)
Student 2: This is a portrait of the French singer Pauline Viardot. On December 29, 1852, she came on tour to St. Petersburg. Regarding her debut in The Barber of Seville, newspapers wrote: “The Russians were as excited as if they were welcoming victorious troops from Paris.” And she won Turgenev’s heart even earlier, in 1843, when she first came to Russia. And since 1845, the writer has followed her everywhere. The great love lasted 40 years and ended only with his death. They say that Turgenev wrote a novel about his love for Pauline Viardot, but no one read it, whether he exists or not is unknown, but we know his wonderful poems and stories.
3 student: Pauline Viardot was a bright star on the theatrical horizon and, like many others, went out and would have been forgotten forever if not for Turgenev, four decades of whose life until his last hour of death were given to Pauline Viardot.
(French melody sounds)
4 student: From the very minute I saw her for the first time<…>I belonged to her entirely. I could no longer live anywhere where she did not live, I immediately tore myself away from everything dear, from my homeland itself, and set off after this woman.
Student 5: This is how Dostoevsky saw him during this period: “Poet, talent, aristocrat, handsome, rich, smart, educated, twenty-five years old - I don’t know what nature denied him.”
Student 6:“Everything here is full of memories. What are you doing at this moment? You must now think about me, because all this time I have been completely immersed in memories of you, beloved, dear! And you will be quite sure that on this day when I I will stop loving you tenderly and deeply, I will cease to exist.”
Should I say that I love you... I don’t know; Turgenev is a monogamous man. He is passionately in love with Viardot. And we love her. He tries to go where Polina is with her family, with whom the writer has established extremely warm friendly relations. But this is all “someone else’s nest,” and he is on the edge. In one of his letters he writes: “I don’t have my own nest, and I don’t need any.” He, like a bird, flew twice a year: in the spring he went to a Russian village, and in the fall he returned to Paris. He seemed to have a presentiment of his death far from his homeland and wrote a poem: “How delightful are the evenings in Russia.”
(The song is performed by the group "White Eagle")
And as a testament, he left these verses:
Dear friend, when will I
Die is my order:
All my writings are piled up
Destroy you at the same hour!
Surround me with flowers
Let the sun into the room
Behind closed doors
Place the musicians.
Forbid them to cry sadly!
Let, as if at the hour of feasts,
The impudent waltz will squeal sharply
Under the blows of bows!
Listening to my dying ears
Fading strings,
I myself will freeze, falling asleep...
And, dying silence
Without embarrassing you with a vain groan,
I'll go to another world,
Lulled by a light ringing
Light earthly joy!
(1876)
What conclusion did you draw about Turgenev’s poetic heritage?
(Students' answers)
Turgenev the poet does not belong to the stars of the first magnitude, and many of his works attract our attention more for their searches than for their achievements. And yet some of his poems, some images, motifs and excerpts of poems are not only of historical and literary interest, but still retain their poetic charm.
Homework. Write a miniature essay
“How I saw Turgenev in this lesson”
Summing up the lesson.
