Topic 2
Poem " Bronze Horseman»
Genre: poem
Original language: Russian
Year of writing: 1833
Publication: 1834 (excerpt), 1837
Completed in 1833 in Boldino, the poem will not pass the tsarist censorship and will be published with cuts after the death of the poet. Belinsky sensitively realized that the most important lines (Eugene’s challenge to the autocrat) were missing. Poem - unique creation even in the works of Pushkin: the Petersburg story (the first romantic poem was also determined by this genre), where one main character- "little man" poor Evgeniy. Against him are the elements of water and wind, the power of autocratic power. Eugene’s ideals are emphatically personal and everyday. Once again, Pushkin’s great idea - the state is determined by the personal happiness (or misfortune) of its citizens. What to do little man, if the meaning of life disappeared, if Parasha died?
Pushkin glorifies "Peter's creation", the beauty of St. Petersburg, the sovereign flow of the Neva. Peter's plans came true: all the flags floated to visit, St. Petersburg was built. But some moral laws were not taken into account and even trampled upon by the transformer of Russia. The process carried out by the autocratic will is full of insoluble contradictions. “The Duma on the forehead of the copper idol, its fatal will” is one layer of Russian life. Poor Evgeniy is from another layer of him. Natural element- third layer. Although all of them, taken together, are Russian life.
Evgeny as a type - result historical development society. His personal tragedy (unlike Vyrin) does not receive an everyday justification, but is inserted by the author into the circle of spontaneous and historical-social events. The action of the poem is transferred from the bureaucratic closet to the streets and squares of the capital. From modest and ordinary thoughts at the beginning of the story, as a result of a cruel moral test, the hero comes to “terrible thoughts.” “The noise of internal anxiety” - this is how Pushkin defines the new internal state hero. Evgeniy's madness is not final stage destruction of personality. The main conflict is the clash between Eugene and the Bronze Horseman. The riot is the climax of the poem. The spiritual state of the hero is given in development; Pushkin conveys the smallest portrait details (forehead, eyes, heart, hands). The hero remembers the past, a terrible clarification of thoughts occurs before the final fall into the abyss of madness.
Against whom and in the name of what is Evgeniy rebelling? Much in the poem is symbolic, and in this - artistic originality poems.
What is Pushkin's attitude to rebellion? Pushkin does not believe in either rebellion or revolution, but, exploring history and modernity as an artist, he came to the conclusion that violence gives rise to protest. In "The Bronze Horseman" it is shown how Eugene's rebellion is naturally born, the hero's daring performance is natural and justified.
Text of the poem
BRONZE HORSEMAN
PETERSBURG TALE
PREFACE
The incident described in this story is based on truth. Details of the flood are taken from magazines of the time. The curious can cope with the news compiled.
INTRODUCTION
On the shore of desert waves
He stood there, full of great thoughts,
And he looked into the distance. Wide before him
The river rushed; poor boat
He strove along it alone.
Along mossy, marshy banks
Blackened huts here and there,
Shelter of a wretched Chukhonian;
And the forest, unknown to the rays
In the fog of the hidden sun,
There was noise all around.
And he thought:
From here we will threaten the Swede,
The city will be founded here
To spite an arrogant neighbor.
Nature destined us here
Cut a window to Europe,1
Stand with a firm foot by the sea.
Here on new waves
All the flags will visit us,
And we’ll record it in the open air.
A hundred years have passed, and the young city,
There is beauty and wonder in full countries,
From the darkness of the forests, from the swamps of blat
He ascended magnificently and proudly;
Where was the Finnish fisherman before?
Nature's sad stepson
Alone on the low banks
Thrown into unknown waters
Your old net, now there
Along busy shores
Slender communities crowd together
Palaces and towers; ships
A crowd from all over the world
They strive for rich marinas;
The Neva is dressed in granite;
Bridges hung over the waters;
Dark green gardens
Islands covered her,
And in front of the younger capital
Old Moscow has faded,
Like before a new queen
Porphyry widow.
I love you, Petra's creation,
I love your strict, slender appearance,
Neva sovereign current,
Its coastal granite,
Your fences have a cast iron pattern,
of your thoughtful nights
Transparent twilight, moonless shine,
When I'm in my room
I write, I read without a lamp,
And the sleeping communities are clear
Deserted streets and light
Admiralty needle,
And, not letting the darkness of the night
To golden skies
One dawn gives way to another
He hurries, giving the night half an hour2.
I love your cruel winter
Still air and frost,
Sleigh running along the wide Neva,
Girls' faces are brighter than roses,
And the shine, and the noise, and the talk of balls,
And at the hour of the feast the bachelor
The hiss of foamy glasses
And the punch flame is blue.
I love the warlike liveliness
Amusing Fields of Mars,
Infantry troops and horses
Uniform beauty
In their harmoniously unsteady system
The shreds of these victorious banners,
The shine of these copper caps,
Through those shot through in battle.
I love you, military capital,
Your stronghold is smoke and thunder,
When the queen is full
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, sensing the days of spring, he rejoices.
Show off, city Petrov, and stand
Unshakable like Russia,
May he make peace with you
And the defeated element;
Enmity and ancient captivity
Let the Finnish waves forget
And they will not be vain malice
Disturb Peter's eternal sleep!
It was a terrible time
The memory of her is fresh...
About her, my friends, for you
I'll start my story.
My story will be sad.
PART ONE
Over darkened Petrograd
November breathed the autumn chill.
Splashing with a noisy wave
To the edges of your slender fence,
Neva was tossing around like a sick person
Restless in my bed.
It was already late and dark;
The rain beat angrily on the window,
And the wind blew, howling sadly.
At that time from the guests home
Young Evgeniy came...
We will be our hero
Call by this name. It
Sounds nice; been with him for a long time
My pen is also friendly.
We don't need his nickname,
Although in times gone by
Perhaps it shone
And under the pen of Karamzin
In native legends it sounded;
But now with light and rumor
It's forgotten. Our hero
Lives in Kolomna; serves somewhere
He shies away from the nobles and does not bother
Not about deceased relatives,
Not about forgotten antiquities.
So, I came home, Evgeniy
He shook off his overcoat, undressed, and lay down.
But for a long time he could not fall asleep
In the excitement of various thoughts.
What was he thinking about? About,
That he was poor, that he worked hard
He had to deliver to himself
And independence and honor;
What could God add to him?
Mind and money. What is it?
Such idle lucky ones,
Narrow-minded, sloths,
For whom life is much easier!
That he only serves for two years;
He also thought that the weather
She didn’t let up; that the river
Everything was coming; which is hardly
The bridges have not been removed from the Neva
And what will happen to Parasha?
Separated for two or three days.
Evgeny sighed heartily here
And he daydreamed like a poet:
"Marry? To me? why not?
It’s hard, of course;
But well I'm young and healthy
Ready to work day and night;
I’ll arrange something for myself
Shelter humble and simple
And in it I will calm Parasha.
Perhaps a year or two will pass -
I’ll get a place, Parashe
I will entrust our family
And raising children...
And we will live, and so on until the grave
We'll both get there hand in hand
And our grandchildren will bury us...”
That's what he dreamed. And it was sad
Him that night, and he wished
So that the wind howls less sadly
And let the rain knock on the window
Not so angry...
Sleepy eyes
He finally closed. And so
The darkness of a stormy night is thinning
And the pale day is already coming...3
Terrible day!
Neva all night
Longing for the sea against the storm,
Without overcoming their violent foolishness...
And she couldn’t bear to argue...
In the morning over its banks
There were crowds of people crowded together,
Admiring the splashes, mountains
And the foam of angry waters.
But the strength of the winds from the bay
Blocked Neva
She walked back, angry, seething,
And flooded the islands
The weather became even more ferocious,
The Neva swelled and roared,
A cauldron bubbling and swirling,
And suddenly, like a wild beast,
She rushed towards the city. In front of her
Everything ran, everything around
Suddenly it was empty - suddenly there was water
Flowed into underground cellars,
Channels poured into the gratings,
And Petropol emerged like a newt,
Waist-deep in water.
Siege! attack! evil waves,
Like thieves, they climb into windows. Chelny
From the run the windows are smashed by the stern.
Trays under a wet veil,
Stock trade goods,
The belongings of pale poverty,
Bridges demolished by thunderstorms,
Coffins from a washed-out cemetery
Floating through the streets!
He sees God's wrath and awaits execution.
Alas! everything perishes: shelter and food!
Where will I get it?
In that terrible year
The late Tsar was still in Russia
He ruled with glory. To the balcony
Sad, confused, he went out
And he said: “With God's element
Kings cannot control.” He sat down
And in the Duma with sorrowful eyes
I looked at the evil disaster.
There were stacks of lakes,
And in them there are wide rivers
The streets poured in. Castle
It seemed like a sad island.
The king said - from end to end,
Along nearby streets and distant ones
On a dangerous journey through stormy waters
The generals set off on him
To save and overcome with fear
And there are 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 standing,
Riding a marble beast,
Without a hat, hands clasped in a cross,
Sat motionless, terribly pale
Eugene. He was afraid, poor thing,
Not for myself. He didn't hear
How the greedy shaft rose,
Washing his soles,
How the rain hit his face,
Like the wind, howling violently,
He suddenly tore off his hat.
His desperate glances
Pointed to the edge
They were motionless. Like mountains
From the indignant depths
The waves rose there and got angry,
There the storm howled, there they rushed
Debris... God, God! there -
Alas! close to the waves,
Almost at the very bay -
The fence is unpainted, but the willow
And a dilapidated house: there it is,
Widow and daughter, his Parasha,
His dream... Or in a dream
Does he see this? or all ours
And life is nothing like an empty dream,
The mockery of heaven over earth?
And he seems to be bewitched
As if chained to marble,
Can't get off! Around him
Water and nothing else!
And with my back turned to him,
In the unshakable heights,
Above the indignant Neva
Stands with outstretched hand
PART TWO
But now, having had enough of destruction
And tired of insolent violence,
The Neva was drawn back,
Admiring your indignation
And leaving with carelessness
Your prey. So villain
With his fierce gang
Having burst into the village, he breaks, cuts,
Destroys and robs; screams, gnashing,
Violence, swearing, anxiety, howling!..
And, burdened with robbery,
Afraid of the chase, tired,
The robbers are hurrying home,
Dropping prey on the way.
The water has subsided and the pavement
It opened, and Evgeny is mine
He hurries, his soul sinking,
In hope, fear and longing
To the barely subdued river.
But victories are full of triumph,
The waves were still boiling angrily,
It was as if a fire was smoldering underneath them,
The foam still covered them,
And Neva was breathing heavily,
Like a horse running back from battle.
Evgeny looks: he sees a boat;
He runs to her as if he were on a find;
He calls the carrier -
Willingly pay him for a dime
Through terrible waves you are lucky.
And long with stormy waves
An experienced rower fought
And hide deep between their rows
Every hour with daring swimmers
The boat was ready - and finally
He reached the shore.
Unhappy
Runs down a familiar street
To familiar places. Looks
Can't find out. The view is terrible!
Everything is piled up in front of him;
What is dropped, what is demolished;
The houses were crooked, others
Completely collapsed, others
Shifted by waves; all around
As if in a battlefield,
Bodies are lying around. Eugene
Headlong, not remembering anything,
Exhausted from torment,
Runs to where he is waiting
Fate with unknown news,
Like with a sealed letter.
And now he’s running through the suburbs,
And here is the bay, and home is close...
What is this?..
He stopped.
I went back and came back.
He looks... he walks... he still looks.
This is the place where their house stands;
Here is the willow. There was a gate here -
Apparently they were blown away. Where is home?
And, full of gloomy care,
He keeps walking, he walks around,
Talks loudly to himself -
And suddenly, hitting him on the forehead with his hand,
I started laughing.
Night haze
She descended upon the city in trepidation;
But the residents did not sleep for a long time
And they talked among themselves
About the day gone by.
Because of the tired, pale clouds
Flashed over the quiet capital
And I haven’t found any traces
Yesterday's troubles; purple
The evil was already covered up.
Everything returned to the same order.
The streets are already free
With your cold insensibility
People were walking. Official people
Leaving my night shelter,
I went to work. Brave trader,
Not discouraged, I opened
Neva robbed basement,
Collecting your loss is important
Place it on the nearest one. From the yards
They brought boats.
Count Khvostov,
Poet beloved by heaven
Already sang in immortal verses
The misfortune of the Neva banks.
But my poor, poor Evgeniy...
Alas! his confused mind
Against terrible shocks
I couldn't resist. Rebellious noise
The Neva and the winds were heard
In his ears. Terrible thoughts
Silently full, he wandered.
He was tormented by some kind of dream.
A week passed, a month - he
He did not return to his home.
His deserted corner
I rented it out when the deadline passed,
The owner of the poor poet.
Evgeniy for his goods
Didn't come. He'll be out soon
Became alien. I wandered on foot all day,
And he slept on the pier; ate
A piece served into the window.
His clothes are shabby
It tore and smoldered. Angry children
They threw stones after him.
Often coachman's whips
He was whipped because
That he didn't understand the roads
Never again; it seemed he
Didn't notice. He's stunned
Was the noise of internal 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 was sleeping
At the Neva pier. Days of summer
We were approaching autumn. Breathed
Stormy wind. Grim Shaft
Splashed on the pier, grumbling fines
And hitting the smooth steps,
Like a petitioner at the door
Judges who don't listen to him.
The poor man woke up. It was gloomy:
The rain fell, the wind howled sadly,
And with him far away, in the darkness of the night
The sentry called back...
Evgeny jumped up; remembered vividly
He is a past horror; hastily
He got up; went wandering, and suddenly
Stopped - and around
Quietly he began to move his eyes
With wild fear on your face.
He found himself under the pillars
Big house. On the porch
With a raised paw, as if alive,
The lions stood guard,
And right in the dark heights
Above the fenced rock
Idol with outstretched hand
Sat on a bronze horse.
Evgeny shuddered. cleared up
The thoughts in it are scary. He found out
And the place where the flood played,
Where the waves of predators crowded,
Rioting angrily around him,
And lions, and the square, and that,
Who stood motionless
In the darkness with a copper head,
The one whose will is fatal
A city was founded under the sea...
He is terrible in the surrounding darkness!
What a thought on the brow!
What power is hidden in it!
And what fire there is in this horse!
Where are you galloping, proud horse?
And where will you put your hooves?
Aren't you above the 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 brought wild glances
The face of the ruler of half the world.
His chest felt tight. Chelo
It lay down on the cold grate,
My eyes became foggy,
A fire ran through my heart,
Blood boiled. He became gloomy
Before the proud idol
And, clenching my teeth, clenching my fingers,
As if possessed by black power,
“Welcome, miraculous builder! -
He whispered, trembling angrily, -
Already for you!..” And suddenly headlong
He started to run. It seemed
He is like a formidable king,
Instantly ignited with anger,
The face quietly turned...
And its area is empty
He runs and hears behind him -
It's like thunder roaring -
Heavy ringing galloping
Along the shaken pavement.
And, illuminated by the pale moon,
Stretching out your hand on high,
The Bronze Horseman rushes after him
On a loud galloping horse;
And all night long the poor madman,
Wherever you turn your feet,
Behind him is the Bronze Horseman everywhere
He galloped with a heavy stomp.
And from the time when it happened
He should go to that square,
His face showed
Confusion. To your heart
He hastily pressed his hand,
As if subduing him with torment,
A worn out cap,
Didn’t raise embarrassed eyes
And he walked aside.
Small Island
Lands there with a seine
Late fisherman fishing
And the poor man cooks his dinner,
Or an official will visit,
Walking in a boat on Sunday
Deserted island. Not an adult
There's not a blade of grass there. Flood
Brought there while playing
The house is dilapidated. Above the water
He remained like a black bush.
His last spring
They brought me on a barge. It was empty
And everything is destroyed. At the threshold
They found my madman,
And then his cold corpse
Buried for God's sake.
NOTES
1 Algarotti somewhere said: “Pétersbourg est la fenêtre par laquelle la Russie regarde en Europe.”
2 Look at the verses of the book. Vyazemsky to Countess Z***.
3 Mickiewicz described in beautiful verse the day preceding the St. Petersburg flood, in one of his best poems - Oleszkiewicz. It's just a pity that 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 bright colors Polish poet.
4 Count Miloradovich and Adjutant General Benckendorf.
5 See the description of the monument in Mickiewicz. It is borrowed from Ruban - as Mickiewicz himself notes.
Topic 2
A.S. Pushkin
Poem "The Bronze Horseman"
Genre: poem
Original language: Russian
Year of writing: 1833
Publication: 1834 (excerpt), 1837
Completed in 1833 in Boldino, the poem will not pass the tsarist censorship and will be published with cuts after the death of the poet. Belinsky sensitively realized that the most important lines (Eugene’s challenge to the autocrat) were missing. The poem is a unique creation even in Pushkin’s work: a St. Petersburg story (the first romantic poem was also defined by this genre), where one main character is the “little man”, poor Eugene. Against him are the elements of water and wind, the power of autocratic power. Eugene’s ideals are emphatically personal and everyday. Once again, Pushkin’s great idea - the state is determined by the personal happiness (or misfortune) of its citizens. What should a little person do if the meaning of life has disappeared, if Parasha died?
Pushkin glorifies "Peter's creation", the beauty of St. Petersburg, the sovereign flow of the Neva. Peter's plans came true: all the flags floated to visit, St. Petersburg was built. But some moral laws were not taken into account and even trampled upon by the transformer of Russia. The process carried out by the autocratic will is full of insoluble contradictions. “The Duma on the forehead of the copper idol, its fatal will” is one layer of Russian life. Poor Evgeniy is from another layer of him. Natural elements are the third layer. Although all of them, taken together, are Russian life.
Eugene as a type is the result of the historical development of society. His personal tragedy (unlike Vyrin) does not receive an everyday justification, but is inserted by the author into the circle of spontaneous and historical-social events. The action of the poem is transferred from the bureaucratic closet to the streets and squares of the capital. From modest and ordinary thoughts at the beginning of the story, as a result of a cruel moral test, the hero comes to “terrible thoughts.” “The noise of internal anxiety” is how Pushkin defines the hero’s new internal state. Eugene's madness is not the last stage of personality destruction. The main conflict is the clash between Eugene and the Bronze Horseman. The riot is the climax of the poem. The spiritual state of the hero is given in development; Pushkin conveys the smallest portrait details (forehead, eyes, heart, hands). The hero remembers the past, a terrible clarification of thoughts occurs before the final fall into the abyss of madness.
Against whom and in the name of what is Evgeniy rebelling? Much in the poem is symbolic, and this is the artistic originality of the poem.
What is Pushkin's attitude to rebellion? Pushkin does not believe in either rebellion or revolution, but, exploring history and modernity as an artist, he came to the conclusion that violence gives rise to protest. In "The Bronze Horseman" it is shown how Eugene's rebellion is naturally born, the hero's daring performance is natural and justified.
Text of the poem
BRONZE HORSEMAN
PETERSBURG TALE
PREFACE
The incident described in this story is based on truth. Details of the flood are taken from magazines of the time. The curious can consult the news compiled by V. N. Berkh.
INTRODUCTION
On the shore of desert waves
He stood there, full of great thoughts,
And he looked into the distance. Wide before him
The river rushed; poor boat
He strove along it alone.
Along mossy, marshy banks
Blackened huts here and there,
Shelter of a wretched Chukhonian;
And the forest, unknown to the rays
In the fog of the hidden sun,
There was noise all around.
And he thought:
From here we will threaten the Swede,
The city will be founded here
To spite an arrogant neighbor.
Nature destined us here
Cut a window to Europe,1
Stand with a firm foot by the sea.
Here on new waves
All the flags will visit us,
And we’ll record it in the open air.
A hundred years have passed, and the young city,
There is beauty and wonder in full countries,
From the darkness of the forests, from the swamps of blat
He ascended magnificently and proudly;
Where was the Finnish fisherman before?
Nature's sad stepson
Alone on the low banks
Thrown into unknown waters
Your old net, now there
Along busy shores
Slender communities crowd together
Palaces and towers; ships
A crowd from all over the world
They strive for rich marinas;
The Neva is dressed in granite;
Bridges hung over the waters;
Dark green gardens
Islands covered her,
And in front of the younger capital
Old Moscow has faded,
Like before a new queen
Porphyry widow.
I love you, Petra's creation,
I love your strict, slender appearance,
Neva sovereign current,
Its coastal granite,
Your fences have a cast iron pattern,
of your thoughtful nights
Transparent twilight, moonless shine,
When I'm in my room
I write, I read without a lamp,
And the sleeping communities are clear
Deserted streets and light
Admiralty needle,
And, not letting the darkness of the night
To golden skies
One dawn gives way to another
He hurries, giving the night half an hour2.
I love your cruel winter
Still air and frost,
Sleigh running along the wide Neva,
Girls' faces are brighter than roses,
And the shine, and the noise, and the talk of balls,
And at the hour of the feast the bachelor
The hiss of foamy glasses
And the punch flame is blue.
I love the warlike liveliness
Amusing Fields of Mars,
Infantry troops and horses
Uniform beauty
In their harmoniously unsteady system
The shreds of these victorious banners,
The shine of these copper caps,
Through those shot through in battle.
I love you, military capital,
Your stronghold is smoke and thunder,
When the queen is full
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, sensing the days of spring, he rejoices.
Show off, city Petrov, and stand
Unshakable like Russia,
May he make peace with you
And the defeated element;
Enmity and ancient captivity
Let the Finnish waves forget
And they will not be vain malice
Disturb Peter's eternal sleep!
It was a terrible time
The memory of her is fresh...
About her, my friends, for you
I'll start my story.
My story will be sad.
PART ONE
Over darkened Petrograd
November breathed the autumn chill.
Splashing with a noisy wave
To the edges of your slender fence,
Neva was tossing around like a sick person
Restless in my bed.
It was already late and dark;
The rain beat angrily on the window,
And the wind blew, howling sadly.
At that time from the guests home
Young Evgeniy came...
We will be our hero
Call by this name. It
Sounds nice; been with him for a long time
My pen is also friendly.
We don't need his nickname,
Although in times gone by
Perhaps it shone
And under the pen of Karamzin
In native legends it sounded;
But now with light and rumor
It's forgotten. Our hero
Lives in Kolomna; serves somewhere
He shies away from the nobles and does not bother
Not about deceased relatives,
Not about forgotten antiquities.
So, I came home, Evgeniy
He shook off his overcoat, undressed, and lay down.
But for a long time he could not fall asleep
In the excitement of various thoughts.
What was he thinking about? About,
That he was poor, that he worked hard
He had to deliver to himself
And independence and honor;
What could God add to him?
Mind and money. What is it?
Such idle lucky ones,
Narrow-minded, sloths,
For whom life is much easier!
That he only serves for two years;
He also thought that the weather
She didn’t let up; that the river
Everything was coming; which is hardly
The bridges have not been removed from the Neva
And what will happen to Parasha?
Separated for two or three days.
Evgeny sighed heartily here
And he daydreamed like a poet:
"Marry? To me? why not?
It’s hard, of course;
But well I'm young and healthy
Ready to work day and night;
I’ll arrange something for myself
Shelter humble and simple
And in it I will calm Parasha.
Perhaps a year or two will pass -
I’ll get a place, Parashe
I will entrust our family
And raising children...
And we will live, and so on until the grave
We'll both get there hand in hand
And our grandchildren will bury us...”
That's what he dreamed. And it was sad
Him that night, and he wished
So that the wind howls less sadly
And let the rain knock on the window
Not so angry...
Sleepy eyes
He finally closed. And so
The darkness of a stormy night is thinning
And the pale day is already coming...3
Terrible day!
Neva all night
Longing for the sea against the storm,
Without overcoming their violent foolishness...
And she couldn’t bear to argue...
In the morning over its banks
There were crowds of people crowded together,
Admiring the splashes, mountains
And the foam of angry waters.
But the strength of the winds from the bay
Blocked Neva
She walked back, angry, seething,
And flooded the islands
The weather became even more ferocious,
The Neva swelled and roared,
A cauldron bubbling and swirling,
And suddenly, like a wild beast,
She rushed towards the city. In front of her
Everything ran, everything around
Suddenly it was empty - suddenly there was water
Flowed into underground cellars,
Channels poured into the gratings,
And Petropol emerged like a newt,
Waist-deep in water.
Siege! attack! evil waves,
Like thieves, they climb into windows. Chelny
From the run the windows are smashed by the stern.
Trays under a wet veil,
Wrecks of huts, logs, roofs,
Stock trade goods,
The belongings of pale poverty,
Bridges demolished by thunderstorms,
Coffins from a washed-out cemetery
Floating through the streets!
He sees God's wrath and awaits execution.
Alas! everything perishes: shelter and food!
Where will I get it?
In that terrible year
The late Tsar was still in Russia
He ruled with glory. To the balcony
Sad, confused, he went out
And he said: “With God's element
Kings cannot control.” He sat down
And in the Duma with sorrowful eyes
I looked at the evil disaster.
There were stacks of lakes,
And in them there are wide rivers
The streets poured in. Castle
It seemed like a sad island.
The king said - from end to end,
Along nearby streets and distant ones
On a dangerous journey through stormy waters
The generals set off on him
To save and overcome with fear
And there are 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 standing,
Riding a marble beast,
Without a hat, hands clasped in a cross,
Sat motionless, terribly pale
Eugene. He was afraid, poor thing,
Not for myself. He didn't hear
How the greedy shaft rose,
Washing his soles,
How the rain hit his face,
Like the wind, howling violently,
He suddenly tore off his hat.
His desperate glances
Pointed to the edge
They were motionless. Like mountains
From the indignant depths
The waves rose there and got angry,
There the storm howled, there they rushed
Debris... God, God! there -
Alas! close to the waves,
Almost at the very bay -
The fence is unpainted, but the willow
And a dilapidated house: there it is,
Widow and daughter, his Parasha,
His dream... Or in a dream
Does he see this? or all ours
And life is nothing like an empty dream,
The mockery of heaven over earth?
And he seems to be bewitched
As if chained to marble,
Can't get off! Around him
Water and nothing else!
And with my back turned to him,
In the unshakable heights,
Above the indignant Neva
Stands with outstretched hand
Idol on a bronze horse.
PART TWO
But now, having had enough of destruction
And tired of insolent violence,
The Neva was drawn back,
Admiring your indignation
And leaving with carelessness
Your prey. So villain
With his fierce gang
Having burst into the village, he breaks, cuts,
Destroys and robs; screams, gnashing,
Violence, swearing, anxiety, howling!..
And, burdened with robbery,
Afraid of the chase, tired,
The robbers are hurrying home,
Dropping prey on the way.
The water has subsided and the pavement
It opened, and Evgeny is mine
He hurries, his soul sinking,
In hope, fear and longing
To the barely subdued river.
But victories are full of triumph,
The waves were still boiling angrily,
It was as if a fire was smoldering underneath them,
The foam still covered them,
And Neva was breathing heavily,
Like a horse running back from battle.
Evgeny looks: he sees a boat;
He runs to her as if he were on a find;
He calls the carrier -
And the carrier is carefree
Willingly pay him for a dime
Through terrible waves you are lucky.
And long with stormy waves
An experienced rower fought
And hide deep between their rows
Every hour with daring swimmers
The boat was ready - and finally
He reached the shore.
Unhappy
Runs down a familiar street
To familiar places. Looks
Can't find out. The view is terrible!
Everything is piled up in front of him;
What is dropped, what is demolished;
The houses were crooked, others
Completely collapsed, others
Shifted by waves; all around
As if in a battlefield,
Bodies are lying around. Eugene
Headlong, not remembering anything,
Exhausted from torment,
Runs to where he is waiting
Fate with unknown news,
Like with a sealed letter.
And now he’s running through the suburbs,
And here is the bay, and home is close...
What is this?..
He stopped.
I went back and came back.
He looks... he walks... he still looks.
This is the place where their house stands;
Here is the willow. There was a gate here -
Apparently they were blown away. Where is home?
And, full of gloomy care,
He keeps walking, he walks around,
Talks loudly to himself -
And suddenly, hitting him on the forehead with his hand,
I started laughing.
Night haze
She descended upon the city in trepidation;
But the residents did not sleep for a long time
And they talked among themselves
About the day gone by.
Because of the tired, pale clouds
Flashed over the quiet capital
And I haven’t found any traces
Yesterday's troubles; purple
The evil was already covered up.
Everything returned to the same order.
The streets are already free
With your cold insensibility
People were walking. Official people
Leaving my night shelter,
I went to work. Brave trader,
Not discouraged, I opened
Neva robbed basement,
Collecting your loss is important
Place it on the nearest one. From the yards
They brought boats.
Count Khvostov,
Poet beloved by heaven
Already sang in immortal verses
The misfortune of the Neva banks.
But my poor, poor Evgeniy...
Alas! his confused mind
Against terrible shocks
I couldn't resist. Rebellious noise
The Neva and the winds were heard
In his ears. Terrible thoughts
Silently full, he wandered.
He was tormented by some kind of dream.
A week passed, a month - he
He did not return to his home.
His deserted corner
I rented it out when the deadline passed,
The owner of the poor poet.
Evgeniy for his goods
Didn't come. He'll be out soon
Became alien. I wandered on foot all day,
And he slept on the pier; ate
A piece served into the window.
His clothes are shabby
It tore and smoldered. Angry children
They threw stones after him.
Often coachman's whips
He was whipped because
That he didn't understand the roads
Never again; it seemed he
Didn't notice. He's stunned
Was the noise of internal 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 was sleeping
At the Neva pier. Days of summer
We were approaching autumn. Breathed
Stormy wind. Grim Shaft
Splashed on the pier, grumbling fines
And hitting the smooth steps,
Like a petitioner at the door
Judges who don't listen to him.
The poor man woke up. It was gloomy:
The rain fell, the wind howled sadly,
And with him far away, in the darkness of the night
The sentry called back...
Evgeny jumped up; remembered vividly
He is a past horror; hastily
He got up; went wandering, and suddenly
Stopped - and around
Quietly he began to move his eyes
With wild fear on your face.
He found himself under the pillars
Big house. On the porch
With a raised paw, as if alive,
The lions stood guard,
And right in the dark heights
Above the fenced rock
Idol with outstretched hand
Sat on a bronze horse.
Evgeny shuddered. cleared up
The thoughts in it are scary. He found out
And the place where the flood played,
Where the waves of predators crowded,
Rioting angrily around him,
And lions, and the square, and that,
Who stood motionless
In the darkness with a copper head,
The one whose will is fatal
A city was founded under the sea...
He is terrible in the surrounding darkness!
What a thought on the brow!
What power is hidden in it!
And what fire there is in this horse!
Where are you galloping, proud horse?
And where will you put your hooves?
O mighty lord of fate!
Aren't you above the 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 brought wild glances
The face of the ruler of half the world.
His chest felt tight. Chelo
It lay down on the cold grate,
My eyes became foggy,
A fire ran through my heart,
Blood boiled. He became gloomy
Before the proud idol
And, clenching my teeth, clenching my fingers,
As if possessed by black power,
“Welcome, miraculous builder! -
He whispered, trembling angrily, -
Already for you!..” And suddenly headlong
He started to run. It seemed
He is like a formidable king,
Instantly ignited with anger,
The face quietly turned...
And its area is empty
He runs and hears behind him -
It's like thunder roaring -
Heavy ringing galloping
Along the shaken pavement.
And, illuminated by the pale moon,
Stretching out your hand on high,
The Bronze Horseman rushes after him
On a loud galloping horse;
And all night long the poor madman,
Wherever you turn your feet,
Behind him is the Bronze Horseman everywhere
He galloped with a heavy stomp.
And from the time when it happened
He should go to that square,
His face showed
Confusion. To your heart
He hastily pressed his hand,
As if subduing him with torment,
A worn out cap,
Didn’t raise embarrassed eyes
And he walked aside.
Small Island
Visible at the seaside. Sometimes
Lands there with a seine
Late fisherman fishing
And the poor man cooks his dinner,
Or an official will visit,
Walking in a boat on Sunday
Deserted island. Not an adult
There's not a blade of grass there. Flood
Brought there while playing
The house is dilapidated. Above the water
He remained like a black bush.
His last spring
They brought me on a barge. It was empty
And everything is destroyed. At the threshold
They found my madman,
And then his cold corpse
Buried for God's sake.
NOTES
1 Algarotti somewhere said: “Pétersbourg est la fenêtre par laquelle la Russie regarde en Europe.”
2 Look at the verses of the book. Vyazemsky to Countess Z***.
3 Mickiewicz described in beautiful verse the day preceding the St. Petersburg flood, in one of his best poems - Oleszkiewicz. It's just a pity that the description is not accurate. There was no snow - the Neva was not covered with ice. Our description is more correct, although it does not contain the bright colors of the Polish poet.
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B. Shatilov
If you look at Pushkin's works published in XIX century, then you will not find many poems in them - and just those that are now published in all anthologies and learned by heart. You will not find “Liberty”, or “Village”, or “To Chaadaev”, or “Dagger”, or a message to the Decembrists “To Siberia”.
In other works of Pushkin you will find omissions, rows of dots instead of verses, and in still others such alterations and distortions that destroy the political orientation of these works.
The incompleteness of the editions, omissions and distortions, of course, changed the entire character of Pushkin’s work, and long years our people knew Pushkin differently than we know him now. The censorship worked hard to distort the image of the “rebellious” poet in order to hide from the people what we still value Pushkin for and what he himself was proud of.
I freedom..."
This is what Pushkin considered his merit, his feat worthy of immortal glory; and it was precisely those works in which he glorified freedom, rebelled against the tyranny of kings and the slavery of serfs, that remained banned by censorship for many years.
Pushkin was subjected to censorship persecution from the very first years of his life. literary activity. This persecution especially intensified when, in May 1820, Tsar Alexander I expelled Pushkin from St. Petersburg to the South. The very name of the disgraced poet alarmed and frightened the censors, and they stupidly and absurdly crossed out and forbade printing even what they would not have paid attention to if Pushkin’s name had not been on the manuscript.
Pushkin knew this and was forced to publish some of his poems without a signature, for example, “To Ovid,” where he talks about exile, about his fate, equal to the gloomy fate of Ovid, who was also once expelled by Emperor Octavian from Rome to distant Scythia, to the shore Black Sea. Thus, he managed to deceive his “old friend”, the stupid “old lady” - censorship.
Pushkin's letters to friends from Chisinau and Odessa are full of complaints about censorship and censors. But Pushkin was never satisfied with complaints alone. Then in Chisinau, in 1822, he wrote “Message to the Censor” - a caustic satire on censorship officials, persecutors of education, and in the lists he let it “walk around the world.” This satire was published only in 1857, twenty years after Pushkin's death.
In 1826, Tsar Nicholas I returned Pushkin from exile in the village of Mikhailovskoye and, as a special favor, announced to him that he himself would be his censor.
The tsar's censorship turned out to be even more severe than ordinary censorship. If a weak-minded censor prohibited or crossed out something, one could argue with him, one could complain about him to the Minister of Public Education, but how to argue with the tsar and to whom should one complain about him? In addition, the tsar's "mercy" did not always free Pushkin from ordinary censorship, and thus Pushkin found himself under double censorship: the tsar and the Censor Committee.
In the summer of 1831, Pushkin lived with his wife at a dacha in Tsarskoe Selo. There, in a circle of close friends, among whom were Zhukovsky and young Gogol, he read “The Tale of the Priest and His Worker Balda.” Gogol and especially Zhukovsky listened with delight a new fairy tale Pushkin, admired her simplicity, humor, her truly folk spirit.
And in fact, this is one of the most folk tales Pushkin. In it Pushkin expressed popular opinion on clergy.
The clergy themselves often lived completely differently from what they taught. Their hypocrisy and lies outraged the people. He thirsted for justice, severe retribution and composed funny, witty tales in which the greedy clergy was ridiculed and honest, shrewd laborers always prevailed over them.
Pop "fat forehead". Drawing by A. Pushkin
Pushkin knew and loved these fairy tales. He wrote down one of them, “About the priest and his worker Balda,” and then processed it into poetic form.
Pushkin was not religious person. The priest in his fairy tale is greedy, heartless, dishonest, stupid, a real “fat forehead”. And Pushkin’s farmhand Balda is a hard worker, a hero, a jack of all trades. He is smart and sharp-witted, not afraid of work, or devils, or anything in the world.
Pushkin didn’t even try to publish “The Tale of the Priest and His Worker Balda,” he knew that the censorship wouldn’t let it through. Already after it tragic death, when the poet’s friends were publishing a collection of his works, Zhukovsky decided to publish a fairy tale about the priest. In order for censorship to pass, he was forced to replace the priest with the merchant Kuzma Ostolop, and the tale was published under the title “The Tale of the Merchant Kuzma Ostolop and his worker Balda.”
In Zhukovsky's reworking, Pushkin's tale lost all its political edge.
Expressiveness has disappeared in some places. Pushkin’s fairy tale begins energetically, concisely, cheerfully:
"Once upon a time there was a priest,
Thick forehead."
And Zhukovsky’s is heavy and long:
"Once upon a time there was a merchant Kuzma Ostolop,
Nicknamed Aspen Forehead."
In Pushkin’s words: “A click is a click,” sounds very expressive.
"Click" Zhukovsky changed diminutive"click":
“Click click, it’s rose.”
The stern masculinity of Pushkin's verse has disappeared from the fairy tale. The tale became sluggish, dull in form and lost its militant, political meaning.
It was printed in such a distorted form for many years, and only in 1882 was it first published from a manuscript. 
Pushkin was always keenly interested in popular uprisings, studied them and described them in his works. In 1833, he wrote the story "Dubrovsky", about the uprising of serfs, and now he decided to write a novel " Captain's daughter"about Pugachev's uprising and at the same time - "The History of Pugachev", treatise without any fiction. To collect material for a new novel and “The History of Pugachev,” on August 18, 1833, he left St. Petersburg on horseback for a long journey - to Kazan, Simbirsk, Orenburg, where Pugachev once operated. Just on this day a terrible storm hit St. Petersburg. It was raining and the wind was blowing from the sea. When Pushkin approached the Trinity Bridge, the Neva was bubbling, swelling, roaring, beating against the granite banks and was so high that the wooden drawbridge stood on end. At the entrance to the bridge, the police stretched out a rope and did not let the crews through.
Pushkin did not want to return home. He ordered the coachman to drive along the embankment up the Neva, and he finally managed to cross the river on another bridge. The storm knocked down trees. On Tsarskoselsky Avenue, Pushkin counted about fifty fallen trees. There were puddles everywhere, and they were all agitated, boiling and foaming.
Pushkin visited Orenburg, Uralsk, the village of Berdy - the former capital of Pugachev, everywhere he recorded songs, stories of old men and women who saw Pugachev with their own eyes and remembered him well.
At the end of September, Pushkin left Orenburg on his way back, and on October 1 he was already in the Nizhny Novgorod province, in the village of Boldino, on his father’s estate, and there, in silence and solitude, he set to work. His head was full of plans. The image of the boiling, rebellious Neva and above it the “Bronze Horseman” - a monument to Peter I - had been persistently standing before him since the day he left St. Petersburg and was now closely intertwined with images of popular indignation and Pugachev’s uprising.
The Tsar and the people, the contradictions between them again riveted all Pushkin’s thoughts. These contradictions worried him back in 1825 in exile, in the village of Mikhailovskoye, when he was working on the tragedy "Boris Godunov". Now, in Boldin, they embraced him again, and he wrote one of his most perfect works, " Petersburg story" in verse - "The Bronze Horseman".
Pushkin highly valued Peter I as statesman, but he was ardently indignant at his despotism, cruelty, and the fact that he dealt with the people like an “impatient, autocratic landowner.” In "The Bronze Horseman" he sincerely praised Peter - the builder of St. Petersburg, the builder of Russia, and the same Peter, but the despot, the "autocratic landowner", the desperate, distraught from suffering poor official Eugene throws in the face of the prophetic and menacing: "Already you!"
Pushkin expressed his thoughts not only in words, but often in drawings. Here you see a few of them.
In 1829, upon returning from a trip to Arzrum, Pushkin worked on the poem “Tazit” - about how the morals of the highlanders should change with the development of enlightenment: family revenge would disappear, robberies would disappear, etc. Next to the poems, Pushkin painted Falconet’s monument to Peter – a horse rearing up, but without I Peter, without the “Bronze Horseman”. This drawing, as it were, finishes what Pushkin did not finish in “Tazit”: that with the development of enlightenment, not only the savagery of morals, but also monarchical power will disappear, and once again emphasizes the direct connection of Pushkin’s thoughts, “hidden” in “Boris Godunov”, with "Bronze Horseman": "A horse sometimes knocks down its rider..."
At the end of November 1833, Pushkin arrived in St. Petersburg and soon sent The Bronze Horseman to his censor, Tsar Nicholas I. On December 14, he wrote in his diary: “The Bronze Horseman was returned to me with the sovereign’s comments. The word “idol” was not passed by the highest censorship; poetry
"And before the younger capital
Old Moscow has faded
Like before a new queen
Porphyry Widow"
Scratched out. Placed in many places (?)..."
This greatly upset Pushkin. He tried to save his story, change some things in it, and abandoned it. The royal hooks stood against central place stories:
"All around are the feet of the idol
The poor madman walked around
And brought wild glances
The face of the ruler of half the world.
His chest felt tight. Chelo
It lay down on the cold grate,
My eyes became foggy.
A fire ran through my heart.
Blood boiled. He became gloomy
Before the proud idol
And clenching my teeth, clenching my fingers,
As if possessed by black power,
"Welcome, miraculous builder!"
He whispered, trembling angrily.
"Too bad for you!.."
A horse without a rider. Drawing by A. Pushkin
These verses contain the main idea of "The Bronze Horseman". Is it possible to remake them without distorting the main thing - the sharp, political orientation story, what did Pushkin value most about it? So it remained unpublished during Pushkin’s lifetime. After his death, at the end of 1837, Zhukovsky published it in the Sovremennik magazine with the following alteration of the most important lines:
"The poor madman walked around
There are rocks all around with wild melancholy,
And I read the bright inscription,
And my heart is in great sorrow
He felt embarrassed. His brow
It lay down cold on the grill.
My eyes became foggy...
A chill ran through my limbs
And he shuddered - and became gloomy
Before the wondrous Russian Giant.
And raising your finger to Him,
Thought."
Here everything seems to be turned inside out and now sounds to us like a blasphemous parody of Pushkin.
Disappeared from The Bronze Horseman main idea, and the story lost its deepest meaning. This is not the fault of Zhukovsky, who passionately loved Pushkin, but the fault of the tsarist censorship, through which Zhukovsky wanted to push Pushkin’s poem through by any means.
Six months before death. August 21, 1836. Pushkin, as if summing up his many years of arduous literary activity, wrote the poem “Monument”. In it, he contrasts his glory as a poet with the glory of a king.
“I erected a monument to myself, not made by hands.
The people's path to it will not be overgrown.
He ascended higher with his rebellious head
Pillar of Alexandria."
"Alexandria pillar" - a monument to Alexander I - a giant granite column topped with a bronze angel trampling a snake with a cross, was unveiled in St. Petersburg on Palace Square August 30, 1834. Pushkin was then a chamber cadet and was obliged to attend this “celebration.” But he did not like his persecutor, Tsar Alexander, and five days before the opening of the monument he deliberately left St. Petersburg.
Zhukovsky was present at the “celebration” and in the same year described it in detail in the article “Memories of the Celebration of August 30, 1831.” Exalting Alexander I, he wrote about the unity of the king with the people.
Pushkin in “Monument” objects to Zhukovsky. A Russian, a Kalmyk, a Finn will remember not the Tsar, whom they never loved and could not love, but the one who defended and glorified their freedom:
"The rumor about me will spread throughout Rus'
great.
And every tongue that is in it will call me,
And the proud grandson of the Slavs, and the Finns, and now
wild
Tunguz, and friend of the steppes Kalmyk.
And for a long time I will be so kind to the people,
That I awakened good feelings with the lyre.
What's in my cruel age I praised freedom
And he called for mercy for the fallen."
Pushkin did not print “Monument”, and could not print it: the Tsar would not have allowed it. Zhukovsky published it after the poet's death, replacing the "Alexandrian Pillar" with the "Napoleonic Pillar", thereby destroying the proud opposition of the glory of the persecuted poet to the glory of his persecutor Tsar Alexander.
The most important verse in which Pushkin speaks about the feat of the poet-citizen:
"What in my cruel age glorified
I freedom..."
Zhukovsky redid it:
"What the charm of living poetry I was
useful..."
The feat of the fighter for people's freedom has disappeared. By the will of censorship, Pushkin was proud only of the “charm of poetry”, of poetic form. With such distortion, the poems were carved on the pedestal of the monument to Pushkin, erected to the great poet in Moscow on Tverskoy Boulevard in 1880. And only after October revolution
