The Bronze Horseman (poem; Pushkin) - On the shore of desert waves…. Analysis of Pushkin's poem "The Bronze Horseman
PART ONE
Over darkened Petrograd November breathed autumnal chill. Splashing with a noisy wave At the edges of its slender fence, the Neva rushed about like a patient In its restless bed. It was already late and dark; The rain beat angrily through the window, And the wind blew, howling sadly. At that time, a young Eugene came home from the guests ... We will call our hero by this name. It sounds nice; with him for a long time My pen is also friendly. We don't need his nickname. Although in the past times It, perhaps, shone And under the pen of Karamzin In native legends sounded; But now it is forgotten by light and rumor. Our hero lives in Kolomna; somewhere he serves, Boasts noble and does not grieve Neither the deceased relatives, nor the forgotten antiquity. So, having come home, Eugene shook off his overcoat, undressed, lay down. But for a long time he could not fall asleep In the excitement of various reflections. What was he thinking? about the fact that he was poor, that by labor he had to bring himself And independence and honor; That God could add to him Mind and money. What, after all, there are Such idle lucky ones, Shortsighted mind, sloths, For whom life is so easy! That he has served only two years; He also thought that the weather was not abating; that the river Everything was coming; that the bridges on the Neva have hardly been removed, And that he will be separated from Parasha for two days, three days. Eugene here sighed heartily And dreamed like a poet: Marry? Well ... why not? It is hard, of course, But well, he is young and healthy, He is ready to work day and night; He will somehow arrange for himself a humble and simple Shelter And in it he will calm Parasha. Perhaps a year or two will pass - I will get a place - I will entrust our farm to Parasha And the upbringing of children ... And we will live, and so to the grave Hand and hand we both will reach, And our grandchildren will bury us ... "So he dreamed. And He was sad that night, and he wished that the wind howled not so sadly And that the rain would knock on the window Not so angrily ... He finally closed his sleepy eyes. And now the haze of the rainy night is thinning And the pale day is already coming ... 3 A terrible day! The Neva all night Rushing to the sea against the storm, Not having overcome their violent foolishness ... And she became unable to argue ... In the morning over its shores The people crowded in heaps, Admiring the spray, the mountains And the foam of the angry waters. But by the force of the winds from the gulf, the Barred Neva went back, angry, raging, And flooded the islands, The weather was more ferocious, The Neva swelled and roared, Gurgling and swirling like a cauldron, And suddenly, like a frenzied beast, It rushed to the city. Before her Everything ran, everything around Suddenly became empty - the water suddenly flowed into the underground cellars, Canals poured into the gratings, And Petropolis floated up like a newt, Waist-deep in water immersed. Siege! attack! evil waves, Like thieves, climb through the windows. The canoes With a running start beat the glass stern. Trays under a wet blanket. Wreckage of huts, logs, roofs, Goods of thrifty trade, Remnants of pale poverty, Thunderstorm demolished bridges, Coffins from a washed-out cemetery Float through the streets! The people are watching God's wrath and awaiting execution. Alas! everything perishes: shelter and food! Where will you get it? In that terrible year, the Late Tsar still ruled Russia with glory. On the balcony, Sad, confused, he went out And said: "The Kings cannot master the elements of God." He sat down And in thought with mournful eyes He looked at the evil disaster. Stogny stood as lakes, And the streets poured into them as wide rivers. The palace seemed to be a sad island. The tsar said - from end to end, Along the nearby streets and distant ones, The generals set out on a dangerous path amid His stormy waters 4 To save and fear the drowning people at home. Then, on Petrova Square, Where a new house in the corner ascended, Where above an elevated porch With a raised paw, as if alive, There are two guard lions, On a marble top, Without a hat, hands clasped with a cross, Sitting motionless, terribly pale Eugene. He was afraid, poor man Not for himself. He did not hear, How the greedy shaft rose, Washing his soles, How the rain whipped in his face, Like the wind, howling violently, Suddenly he tore off his hat. His desperate gazes were fixed on the edge of one. Like mountains, From the indignant depths Waves rose there and were angry, There was a storm howling, there were rushing, Debris ... God, God! there - Alas! close to the waves, Almost at the bay itself - An unpainted fence and a willow And a dilapidated house: there is one, a widow and a daughter, his Parasha, His dream ... Or does He see it in a dream? Or all of ours And life is nothing like an empty dream, The mockery of the sky over the earth? And he, as if bewitched, As if chained to marble, Can't get off! Water is around him and nothing else! And, with his back turned to him, In the unshakable height, Above the indignant Neva Stands with an outstretched hand the Idol on a bronze horse.
PART TWO
But now, satiated with destruction And tired of insolent rampage, the Neva pulled back, Admiring its indignation And leaving its prey with carelessness. So the villain, With a fierce gang of his Bursting into the village, ache, cuts, Crushes and plunders; screams, gnashing, Violence, abuse, alarm, howl! .. And, burdened by robbery, Fearing the pursuit, tired, The robbers rush home, Dropping their prey on the way. The water sold out, and the pavement Opened, and my Eugene Hastens, dying in soul, In hope, fear and anguish To the barely resigned river. But, victories are full of triumph, The waves were still boiling viciously, As if the fire smoldered under them, Still their foam covered, And the Neva breathed heavily, Like a horse running from the battle. Eugene looks: sees a boat; He runs to her as if he were a find; He calls the carrier - And the carrier is carefree. And for a long time an experienced rower fought with the stormy waves, And to hide deep between their rows All the hour with daring swimmers The boat was ready - and finally He reached the shore. Unhappy A familiar street runs Into familiar places. Looks, Can't find out. The view is terrible! Everything in front of him is overwhelmed; What is dropped, what is demolished; Houses grimaced, others completely collapsed, others shifted by Waves; all around, As if in a battlefield, Bodies are lying around. Eugene Stremglav, not remembering anything, Exhausted from torment, Runs to where Fate awaits him with unknown news, As with a sealed letter. And now he is running along the outskirts, And here is the bay, and the house is close ... What is it? .. He stopped. I went back and came back. Looking ... walking ... still looking. This is the place where their house stands; Here is a willow tree. There were gates here - They were blown away, apparently. Where is home? And, full of gloomy care, Everything walks, he walks around, Interprets loudly with himself - And suddenly, striking his forehead with his hand, Laughed. Night haze The quivering city descended; But for a long time the inhabitants did not sleep And among themselves they talked About the day past. Morning ray Because of tired, pale clouds Gleamed over the quiet capital And did not find any traces of yesterday's trouble; scarlet Evil was already covered up. Everything went back to the previous order. Already on the streets of the free People walked with their cold insensibility. Official people, leaving their night shelter, went to work. The brave trader, not discouraged, opened the Neva robbed basement, Gathering his important loss On the neighbor to take out. Boats were taken from the yards. Count Khvostov, Poet loved by heaven, Already sang with immortal verses The misfortune of the Neva banks. But poor, my poor Eugene ... Alas! his confused mind I could not resist the terrible shocks. The mutinous noise of the Neva and the winds resounded In his ears. Silently full of terrible thoughts, he wandered. He was tormented by a dream. A week, a month passed - he did not return to his home. His deserted corner Leased out, as the term expired, The owner to the poor poet. Eugene did not come for his goods. He soon became alien to the light. All day I wandered on foot, And slept on the pier; ate a piece served in the window. Dilapidated clothes on him Torn and smoldered. Angry children Throwing stones after him. Quite often the coachman's whips lashed Him, because He did not make out the road Already; it seemed - he did not notice. He was deafened Was the noise of internal alarm. And so he dragged his unhappy age, neither an animal nor a man, Neither this nor that, nor a resident of the world, Neither a dead ghost ... Once he slept At the Neva pier. The days of summer were leaning towards autumn. The stormy wind breathed. The gloomy shaft Splashed on the pier, murmuring the froth And beating on the smooth steps, Like a petitioner at the door of the judges who did not heed him. The poor man woke up. It was gloomy: The rain was dripping, the wind howled dejectedly, And with him in the distance in the darkness of the night The sentry echoed ... Eugene jumped up; He remembered vividly the past horror; hastily He got up; went to wander, and suddenly Stopped, and around Quietly began to drive his eyes With fear of the wild on his face. He found himself under the pillars of the Big House. On the porch With a raised paw, as if alive, There were guard lions, And right in the dark heights Above the fenced rock Kumir with an outstretched hand Sat on a bronze horse. Eugene shuddered. The fearful thoughts have cleared up in him. He recognized And the place where the flood played, Where the waves of ravenous crowded, Revolting viciously around him, And the lions, and the square, and the One who stood motionless In the darkness as a copper head, The one whose fateful will Under the sea the city was founded ... in the surrounding darkness! What a thought on your forehead! What power is hidden in him! And what a fire in this horse! Where do you gallop, proud horse, And where will you drop your hooves? O powerful lord of fate! Aren't you right above the abyss itself, At a height, with an iron bridle, you raised Russia on its hind legs? 5 Around the foot of the idol, the poor madman walked around And gazed wildly On the face of the sovereign of the half-world. His chest was embarrassed. The forehead lay down on the cold lattice, Eyes clouded with fog, A flame ran through the heart, Blood boiled. He became gloomy Before the proud idol And, clenching his teeth, clenching his fingers, As possessed by the power of black, “Good, miraculous builder! - He whispered, trembling angrily, - Already you! .. "And suddenly he started running headlong. It seemed to Him that the formidable tsar, Instantly ignited with anger, His face quietly turned ... And he runs across the empty square and hears behind him - As if thunder rumble - A heavy-ringing gallop Along the shocked pavement. And, illuminated by a pale moon, Stretch out your hand in the sky, The Bronze Horseman rushes behind him On a ringing horse; And throughout the night the poor madman Wherever he turned his feet, The Bronze Horseman followed him everywhere With a heavy stomp galloped. And from that time, when it happened to Walk that square to him, Confusion was depicted in his face. He hastily pressed his hand to his heart, As if humbling his torment, Kartuz took off his worn-out, He did not raise his embarrassed eyes And walked to the side. Small island Visible at the seaside. Sometimes Will dock with a seine there The fisherman is late fishing And his poor dinner cooks, Or an official will visit, Walking in a boat on Sunday, Deserted island. Has not grown up There is not a blade. The flood There, playing, brought the dilapidated little house. Above the water He remained like a black bush. Last spring they took him on a barge. It was empty And all destroyed. At the threshold They found my madman, And then his cold corpse was buried for God's sake.
The poem "The Bronze Horseman" by A.S. Pushkin is one of the most perfect creations of the poet. In its syllable it resembles "Eugene Onegin", and in its content it is close at the same time to history and mythology. This work reflects the thoughts of A.S. Pushkin about Peter the Great and absorbed various opinions about the reformer.
The poem became the final work written during the autumn of Boldin. At the end of 1833, The Bronze Horseman was completed.
At the time of Pushkin, there were two types of people - some idolized Peter the Great, while others attributed to him a relationship with Satan. On this basis, myths were born: in the first case - the reformer was called the Father of the Fatherland, they talked about an unprecedented mind, the creation of a city-paradise (Petersburg), in the second - they prophesied the collapse of the city on the Neva, accused Peter the Great of connections with dark forces, called the Antichrist.
The essence of the poem
The poem begins with a description of Petersburg, A.S. Pushkin emphasizes the uniqueness of the construction site. Evgeny lives in the city - the most ordinary employee, poor, does not want to get rich, it is more important for him to remain an honest and happy family man. Financial well-being is required only for the need to provide for your beloved Parasha. The hero dreams of marriage and children, dreams of meeting old age with his beloved girl hand in hand. But his dreams were not destined to come true. The work describes the flood of 1824. A terrible time when people died of waters by layers of water, when the Neva raged and swallowed the city with its waves. It is in such a flood that Parasha perishes. Eugene, on the other hand, shows courage during a disaster, does not think about himself, tries to see the house of his beloved in the distance and runs to him. When the storm dies down, the hero hurries to the familiar gate: here is a willow, but there is no gate and there is no house either. This picture broke the young man, he dragged doomly through the streets of the northern capital, leads the life of a wanderer and every day relives the events of that fateful night. In one of these opacities, he stumbles upon a house in which he used to live and sees a statue of Peter the Great on a horse - the Bronze Horseman. He hates the reformer for building a city on the water that killed his beloved. But suddenly the rider comes to life and rushes angrily towards the offender. The vagrant will later die.
In the poem, the interests of the state and an ordinary person collide. On the one hand, Petrograd was called northern Rome, on the other, its foundation on the Neva was dangerous for the inhabitants, and the flood of 1824 confirms this. Eugene's spiteful speeches addressed to the reformer ruler are interpreted in different ways: first, it is a rebellion against the autocracy; the second is the revolt of Christianity against paganism; the third is the pitiful murmur of a little man, whose opinion is not put in line with the strength necessary for changes on a national scale (that is, to achieve grandiose goals, you always have to sacrifice something, and the mechanism of collective will will not stop the trouble of one person).
Genre, verse size and composition
The Bronze Horseman genre is a poem written, like Eugene Onegin, with iambic tetrameter. The composition is rather strange. Has an exorbitantly long introduction, which can generally be regarded as a separate independent work. Then there are 2 parts, which tell about the main character, the flood and the clash with the Bronze Horseman. There is no epilogue in the poem, more precisely, it is not singled out by the poet himself separately - the last 18 lines about the island on the seaside and the death of Eugene.
Despite the non-standard structure, the work is perceived as a whole. Compositional parallelisms create this effect. Peter the Great lived 100 years earlier than the main character, but this does not prevent him from creating a feeling of the presence of a reformer ruler. His personality is expressed through the Bronze Horseman monument; but the person of Peter herself appears at the beginning of the poem, in the introduction, when it comes to the military and economic significance of Petersburg. A.S. Pushkin also carries the idea of the reformer's immortality, because even after his death, innovations appeared and for a long time the old ones had power, that is, he launched that heavy and clumsy machine of changes in Russia.
So, the figure of the ruler appears throughout the entire poem, now as his own person, now in the form of a monument, he is revived by the muddied mind of Eugene. The time interval of the narration between the introduction and the first part is 100 years, but, despite such a sharp jump, the reader does not feel it, since A.S. Pushkin linked the events of 1824 with the so-called "culprit" of the flood, because it was Peter who built the city on the Neva. It is interesting to note that this book on the construction of composition is completely uncommon for the Pushkin style, it is an experiment.
Characteristics of the main characters
- Eugene - we know little about him; lived in Kolomna, served there. He was poor, but did not have an addiction to money. Despite the perfect ordinary character of the hero, and he would easily be lost among a thousand of the same gray inhabitants of St. Petersburg, he has a lofty and bright dream, which fully meets the ideals of many people - to marry his beloved girl. He - as Pushkin himself liked to call his characters - "the hero of the French novel." But his dreams were not destined to come true, Parasha dies in the flood of 1824, and Eugene goes crazy. The poet drew us a weak and insignificant young man, whose face is instantly lost against the background of the figure of Peter the Great, but even this man in the street has his own goal, which in strength and nobility is commensurate with or even surpasses the personality of the Bronze Horseman.
- Peter the First - in the introduction his figure is presented as a portrait of the Creator, Pushkin recognizes an incredible mind in the ruler, but emphasizes despotism. First, the poet shows that although the emperor is higher than Eugene, he is not higher than God and the elements that are not subject to him, but the power of Russia will pass through all adversity and remain unharmed and unshakable. The author has repeatedly noticed that the reformer was too autocratic, did not pay attention to the troubles of ordinary people who became victims of his global transformations. Probably, opinions on this topic will always differ: on the one hand, tyranny is a bad quality that a ruler should not have, but on the other, such extensive changes would have been possible if Peter had been softer? Everyone answers this question for himself.
Subject
The clash of power and the common man is the main theme of the Bronze Horseman poem. In this work, A.S. Pushkin reflects on the role of the individual in the fate of an entire state.
The Bronze Horseman personifies Peter the Great, whose reign was close to despotism and tyranny. With his hand, reforms were introduced that completely change the course of ordinary Russian life. But when wood is cut down, chips inevitably fly. Can a little man find his own happiness when such a lumberjack does not consider his interests? The poem answers - no. In this case, the collision of interests between the authorities and the people is inevitable, of course, the latter remain the losers. A.S. Pushkin reflects on the structure of the state in Peter's times and on the fate of the individual hero taken in it - Eugene, coming to the conclusion that the empire is cruel to people in any case, and whether its greatness is worth such sacrifices is an open question.
The creator also addresses the topic of the tragic loss of a loved one. Eugene cannot withstand the loneliness and grief of loss and does not find what to cling to in life if there is no love.
Problematic
- In the poem "The Bronze Horseman" A.S. Pushkin raises the problem of the individual and the state. Evgeny is a native of the people. He is the most ordinary petty official, he lives from hand to mouth. His soul is full of high feelings for Parasha, with whom he dreams of marrying. The Bronze Horseman monument becomes the face of the state. In oblivion of the mind, the young man stumbles upon the house in which he lived before the death of his beloved and before his madness. His gaze stumbles upon the monument, and his sick mind revives the statue. Here it is, the inevitable clash between the individual and the state. But the rider angrily chases after Eugene, pursues him. How dare the hero grumble at the emperor ?! The reformer thought on a larger scale, considering plans for the future in full-length dimension, as he looked at his creations from a bird's eye view, without looking at the people who were overwhelmed by his innovations. The people sometimes suffered from Peter's decisions, just as now they sometimes suffer from the ruling hand. The monarch erected a beautiful city, which during the floods of 1824 became a cemetery for many residents. But he does not take into account the opinion of ordinary people, it seems that with his thoughts he went far ahead of his time, and even after a hundred years not everyone could comprehend his plan. Thus, a person is in no way protected from the arbitrariness of higher persons, his rights are grossly and with impunity violated.
- The problem of loneliness also worried the author. The hero could not endure a day of life without a second half. Pushkin reflects on how vulnerable and vulnerable we are, how the mind is not strong and subject to suffering.
- The problem of indifference. No one helped the townspeople to evacuate, no one corrected the consequences of the storm, and officials did not even dream of compensating the families of the victims and social support for the victims. The state apparatus showed amazing indifference to the fate of its subjects.
The state in the form of the Bronze Horseman
For the first time we come across the image of Peter the Great in the poem "The Bronze Horseman" in the introduction. Here the ruler is portrayed as the Creator who conquered the elements and built a city on the water.
The emperor's reforms were disastrous for ordinary people, since they were guided only by the nobility. Yes, and she had a hard time: remember how Peter forcibly cut the boyars' beards. But the main victim of the monarch's ambitions was the ordinary working people: it was he who paved the road to the northern capital for hundreds of lives. A city on bones - here it is - the personification of the state machine. It was comfortable for Peter and his entourage to live in the innovations, because they saw only one side of new affairs - progressive and beneficial, and the fact that the destructive effect and “side effects” of these changes fell on the shoulders of “little” people did not bother anyone. The elite looked at the Peter drowning in the Neva from the "high balconies" and did not feel all the sorrows of the water base of the city. Peter perfectly reflects in himself the categorical absolutist state system - there will be reforms, and the people "will somehow live."
If at first we see the Creator, then closer to the middle of the poem the poet propagandizes the idea that Peter the First is not God and that he is not completely able to cope with the elements. At the end of the work, we contemplate only a stone likeness of the former ruler, sensational in Russia. A year later, the Bronze Horseman became only an excuse for unreasonable experience and fear, but this is just a fleeting feeling of a madman.
What is the meaning of the poem?
Pushkin created a multifaceted and ambiguous work, which must be evaluated from the point of view of ideological and thematic content. The meaning of the poem "The Bronze Horseman" lies in the confrontation between Eugene and the Bronze Horseman, personality and state, which criticism deciphers in different ways. So, the first meaning is the opposition of paganism and Christianity. Peter was often awarded the title of Antichrist, and Eugene opposes such thoughts. One more thought: the hero is a man in the street, and the reformer is a genius, they live in different worlds and do not understand each other. The author, however, recognizes that both types are needed for the harmonious existence of civilization. The third meaning - in the person of the protagonist, the rebellion against autocracy and despotism was personified, which the poet propagated, because he belonged to the Decembrists. The same helplessness of the uprising, he allegorically retold in a poem. And yet another interpretation of the idea is a pathetic and doomed attempt by a "little" person to change and reverse the course of the state machine.
Over darkened Petrograd
Breathed November with an autumnal chill.
Splashing in a noisy wave
To the edges of your slender fence,
Neva rushed about like a patient
Restless in her bed.
It was already late and dark;
The rain beat angrily through the window
And the wind blew, howling sadly.
At that time from the guests home
Young Eugene came ...
We will be our hero
Call by this name. It
Sounds nice; with him for a long time
My pen is also friendly.
We don't need his nickname,
Although in times gone by
It may have shone
And under the pen of Karamzin
In native legends sounded;
But now by light and rumor
It is forgotten. Our hero
Lives in Kolomna; serves somewhere,
Feels proud of the noble and does not grieve
Not about the deceased relatives,
Not about the forgotten antiquity.
So, I came home, Eugene
He shook off his overcoat, undressed, lay down.
But for a long time he could not sleep
In the excitement of different thoughts.
What was he thinking? About,
That he was poor, that he was
He had to deliver himself
And independence and honor;
What could God add to him
Mind and money. What is there
Such idle lucky ones
The mind is not far-off, sloths,
To whom life is so easy!
That he has served only two years;
He also thought that the weather
I did not calm down; what river
Everything was arriving; that hardly
The bridges have not been removed from the Neva
And what will he with Parasha
For two days, three days apart.
Eugene here sighed heartily
And he dreamed like a poet:
"Marry? Me? Why not?"
It's hard, of course;
But well, I'm young and healthy
Ready to work day and night;
I'll arrange it somehow for myself
The shelter is humble and simple
And I will calm Parasha in it.
Perhaps a year or two will pass -
I'll get a place, Parashe
I will entrust our family
And the upbringing of children ...
And we will live, and so on until the grave
Hand and hand we both reach,
And the grandchildren will bury us ... "
So he dreamed. And it was sad
Him that night, and he wished
So that the wind howl is not so sad
And for the rain to knock on the window
Not so angry ...
Dreaming eyes
He finally closed. And so
The haze of a stormy night is thinning
And the pale day is already coming ... (3)
Awful day!
Neva all night
Rushing to the sea against the storm
Not having overcome their violent foolishness ...
And she became unable to argue ...
In the morning over her shores
The people were crowded in heaps,
Admiring the splashes, mountains
And the foam of angry waters.
But by the force of the winds from the bay
Barred Neva
I went back, angry, seething,
And flooded the islands
The weather was more ferocious
The Neva swelled and roared,
A cauldron bubbling and swirling,
And suddenly, like a frenzied beast,
She rushed to the city. Before her
Everything ran, everything around
Suddenly it was empty - the water suddenly
Flowed into underground cellars
Channels poured into the gratings,
And Petropolis surfaced like a newt,
He is immersed in water up to his waist.
Siege! attack! angry waves,
They climb into windows like thieves. Chelny
With a running start, the glass is hit by the stern.
Trays under a wet blanket
Wreckage of huts, logs, roofs,
The commodity of the thrifty trade,
Remnants of pale poverty
Bridges demolished by a thunderstorm,
Coffins from a washed-out cemetery
Floating through the streets!
People
Sees God's wrath and awaits execution.
Alas! everything perishes: shelter and food!
Where will you get it?
In that terrible year
The late tsar is still Russia
With the glory of the rules. To the balcony
Sad, confused, he came out
And he said: "With the elements of God
Kings will not be able to master. ”He sat down
And in thought with mournful eyes
He looked at the evil disaster.
There were stacks of lakes,
And in them wide rivers
The streets were pouring in. Castle
It seemed like a sad island.
The king said - from end to end,
On the streets near and far
On a dangerous path through stormy waters
His generals set off (4)
Rescue and fear overwhelmed
And drowning people at home.
Then, on Petrova Square,
Where a new house has risen in the corner,
Where above the elevated porch
With a raised paw, as if alive,
There are two guard lions,
On a marble beast riding
Without a hat, hands clenched in a cross,
Sat motionless, terribly pale
Evgeny. He was afraid, poor man,
Not for yourself. He didn't hear
As the greedy shaft rose,
Washing his soles,
As the rain whipped in his face,
Like the wind, howling violently,
Suddenly he tore off his hat.
His desperate eyes
On the edge one is aimed
They were motionless. Like mountains
From indignant depths
Waves got up there and got angry,
There the storm howled, there they rushed
Wreckage ... God, God! there -
Alas! close to the waves,
Almost by the bay -
The fence is unpainted, and the willow
And a dilapidated house: there is one,
Widow and daughter, his Parasha,
His dream ... Or in a dream
Does he see it? il all ours
And life is nothing like an empty dream,
A mockery of heaven over earth?
And he, as if bewitched,
As if chained to marble,
Can't get off! Around him
Water and nothing else!
And, turned back to him,
In the unshakable height
Over the indignant Neva
Stands with outstretched hand
An idol on a bronze horse.
Foreword
The incident described in this story is based on truth. The details of the flood are borrowed from the magazines of the time. The curious can cope with the news compiled by V.N.Berkh.
Introduction
Foreword The incident described in this story is based on truth. The details of the flood are borrowed from the magazines of the time. The curious can cope with the news compiled by V.N.Berkh. Introduction On the shore of desert waves He stood, full of great thoughts, And looked into the distance. Before him the river rushed widely; Poor shuttle Aspired to her lonely. Along the mossy, swampy shores Cherneli huts here and there, Shelter of a wretched Chukhonts; And the forest, unknown to the rays In the fog of the hidden sun, Rustled around. And he thought: From here we will threaten the Swede, Here the city will be laid On the evil of the haughty neighbor. Nature here we are destined To cut a window to Europe, Become firm by the sea. Here on their new waves All flags will visit us, And we will lock in the open. A hundred years have passed, and the young city, The beauty and wonder of the full-night countries, From the darkness of the forests, from the swamp of criminality Ascended magnificently, proudly; Where there used to be a Finnish fisherman, A sad stepson of nature, Alone at the low shores Throwing his dilapidated seine into unknown waters, now there Along the busy shores of the Bustle slender palaces and towers are crowded; ships Crowd from all corners of the earth They strive for rich marinas; The Neva was dressed in granite; Bridges hung over the waters; The islands were covered with Her dark green gardens, And before the younger capital Old Moscow faded, Like a porphyry-bearing widow before the new queen. I love you, Peter's creation, I love your strict, slender appearance, the Neva's sovereign current, Its coastal granite, Your fences are a cast-iron pattern, Your brooding nights A transparent twilight, a moonless shine, When I write in my room, I read without an icon lamp, And I? the sleeping bulk of the Deserted streets, and the Admiralty needle is bright, And, not letting the darkness of the night Into the golden skies, One dawn to change another Hurries, giving the night half an hour. I love your cruel winters Immobile air and frost, Sled run along the wide Neva, Maiden faces are brighter than roses, And the sparkle, and noise, and the talk of bulls, And at the hour of the party idle The hiss of frothy glasses And punch is a blue flame. I love the warlike liveliness of the Amusing Fields of Mars, Infantry men and horses Monotonous beauty, In their harmoniously unsteady formation, The patches of these victorious banners, The radiance of these copper hats, Through those shot through in battle. I love, the military capital, Your stronghold smoke and thunder, When the full-bodied queen Grants a son to the royal house, Or victory over the enemy Russia triumphs again, Or, breaking its blue ice, the Neva carries it to the seas And, sensing spring days, rejoices. Flaunt, city of Petrov, and stand Unwaveringly like Russia, May the defeated element be at peace with you; Let the Finnish waves forget their enmity and captivity. It was a terrible time, I have a fresh memory of her ... About her, my friends, for you I will begin my story. My story will be sad. Part one Above the darkened Petrograd November breathed autumnal chill. Splashing with a noisy wave At the edges of its slender fence, the Neva rushed about like a patient In its restless bed. It was already late and dark; The rain beat angrily through the window, And the wind blew, howling sadly. At that time, young Eugene came home from the guests ... We will call our hero by this name. It sounds nice; with him for a long time My pen is also friendly. We do not need his nickname, Although in past times It may have shone And under the pen of Karamzin It sounded in native legends; But now it is forgotten by light and rumor. Our hero lives in Kolomna; somewhere he serves, Boasts noble and does not grieve Neither the deceased relatives, nor the forgotten antiquity. So, having come home, Eugene shook off his overcoat, undressed, lay down. But for a long time he could not fall asleep In the excitement of various reflections. What was he thinking? about the fact that he was poor, that by labor he had to bring himself And independence and honor; That God could add to him Mind and money. What, after all, there are Such idle lucky ones, Shortsighted mind, sloths, For whom life is so easy! That he has served only two years; He also thought that the weather was not abating; that the river Everything was coming; that the bridges have hardly been removed from the Neva, And that he will be separated from Parasha for two, three days. Eugene here sighed heartily And dreamed like a poet: “Marry? To me? why not? It's hard, of course; But well, I am young and healthy, I am ready to work day and night; I will somehow arrange for myself a humble and simple Shelter And in it I will calm Parasha. Perhaps a year or two will pass - I will get a place, I will entrust our family to Parasha And the upbringing of children ... And we will live, and so to the grave We both will reach the grave, And we will bury our grandchildren? ”So he dreamed. And He was sad that night, and he wished That the wind howled not so sadly And that the rain knocked on the window Not so angrily ... He finally closed his dreams. And now the haze of the rainy night is thinning And the pale day is already coming ... A terrible day! The Neva all night Rushing to the sea against the storm, Not having overcome their violent foolishness ... And she could not argue ... In the morning over its banks, crowded people crowded, Admiring the spray, mountains And foam of angry waters. But by the force of the winds from the Gulf, the Barred Neva went back, angry, raging, And flooded the islands, The weather was more ferocious, The Neva swelled and roared, With a cauldron bubbling and swirling, And suddenly, like a furious beast, It rushed to the city. Before her Everything ran, everything around Suddenly was empty - the water suddenly flowed into underground cellars, Canals poured into the gratings, And Petropolis floated up like a newt, Waist-deep in water immersed. Siege! attack! evil waves, Like thieves, climb through the windows. Canals From a running start they beat the stern. Trays under a wet shroud, Wreckage of huts, logs, roofs, Thrifty trade goods, Remnants of pale poverty, Thunderstorm demolished bridges, Coffins? from a blurry graveyard? The people see God's wrath and await execution. Alas! everything perishes: shelter and food! Where will you get it? In that formidable year, the Late Tsar still ruled Russia with glory. On the balcony, Sad, confused, he went out And said: "With God's element the Kings cannot master." He sat down And in thought with mournful eyes He looked at the evil disaster. There were stacks of lakes, And the streets poured into them with wide rivers. The palace seemed to be a sad island. The Tsar said - from end to end, Along the nearby streets and distant In a dangerous way among the stormy waters, the generals set off To save and fear the drowning people at home. Then, on Petrova Square, Where a new house in the corner ascended, Where above an elevated porch With a raised paw, as if alive, There are two guard lions, On a marble top, Without a hat, hands clasped with a cross, Sitting motionless, terribly pale Eugene. He was afraid, poor man, Not for himself. He did not hear, How the greedy shaft rose, Washing his soles, How the rain whipped in his face, Like the wind, howling violently, Suddenly he tore off his hat. His desperate gazes were fixed on the edge of one. Like mountains, From the indignant depths Waves rose there and were angry, There a storm howled, there were debris ... God, God! there - Alas! close to the waves, Almost at the bay itself - An unpainted fence, and a willow And a dilapidated house: there is one, a widow and a daughter, his Parasha, His dream ... Or does He see it in a dream? Or our whole life And life is nothing like an empty dream, The mockery of the sky over the earth? And he, as if bewitched, As if chained to marble, Can't get off! Water is around him and nothing else! And, with his back turned to him, In the unshakable height, Above the indignant Neva Stands with an outstretched hand Idol on a bronze horse. Part Two But now, fed up with destruction And tired of insolent rampage, the Neva pulled back, Admiring its indignation And leaving its prey with carelessness. So the villain, With a fierce gang of his Bursting into the village, ache, cuts, Crushes and plunders; screams, gnashing, Violence, abuse, alarm, howl! .. And, burdened by robbery, Fearing the pursuit, tired, The robbers rush home, Dropping their prey on the way. The water sold out, and the pavement Opened, and my Eugene Hastens, dying in soul, In hope, fear and anguish To the barely resigned river. But, with the triumph of victory, the waves were still boiling viciously, As if the fire smoldered under them, Still their foam covered, And the Neva breathed heavily, Like a horse running from the battle. Eugene looks: sees a boat; He runs to her as if he were a find; He calls the carrier - And the carrier is carefree. He willingly carries him for a dime Through the waves, he gets terrible. And for a long time an experienced rower fought with the stormy waves, And to hide deep between their rows All the hour with daring swimmers The canoe was ready - and finally He reached the shore. Unhappy A familiar street runs Into familiar places. Looks, Can't find out. The view is terrible! Is everything in front of him piled high?; What is dropped, what is demolished; Houses grimaced, others completely collapsed, others shifted by Waves; all around, As if in a battlefield, Bodies are lying around. Eugene Stremglav, not remembering anything, Exhausted from torment, Runs to where fate awaits him with unknown news, As with a sealed letter. And now he is running along the outskirts, And here is the bay, and the house is close ... What is it? .. He stopped. I went back and came back. Looking ... walking ... still looking. This is the place where their house stands; Here is a willow tree. There were gates here - They were blown away, apparently. Where is home? And, full of gloomy care, Everything walks, he walks around, Interprets loudly with himself - And suddenly, striking his forehead with his hand, Laughed. Night haze The quivering city descended; But for a long time the inhabitants did not sleep And among themselves they talked About the day past. Morning ray Because of tired, pale clouds Gleamed over the quiet capital And did not find any traces of yesterday's trouble; scarlet Evil was already covered up. Everything went back to the previous order. Already on the streets of the free People walked with their cold insensibility. Official people, leaving their night shelter, went to the service. The brave trader, not discouraged, opened the Neva robbed basement, Gathering his important loss On the neighbor to take out. Boats were taken from the yards. Count Khvostov, Poet loved by heaven, Already sang with immortal verses The misfortune of the Neva banks. But poor, my poor Eugene ... Alas! his mind is crumpled Against terrible shocks I could not resist. The mutinous noise of the Neva and the winds resounded In his ears. Silently full of terrible thoughts, he wandered. He was tormented by a dream. A week, a month passed - he did not return to his home. His deserted corner Leased out, as the term expired, The owner to the poor poet. Eugene did not come for his goods. He soon became alien to the light. All day I wandered on foot, And slept on the pier; ate a piece served in the window. Dilapidated clothes on him Torn and smoldered. Angry children Throwing stones after him. Quite often the coachman's whips lashed Him, because He did not make out the road Already; it seemed - he did not notice. He was deafened Was the noise of internal alarm. And so he dragged his unhappy age, neither an animal nor a man, Neither this nor that, nor a resident of the world, Nor a dead ghost ... Once he slept At the Neva pier. The days of summer were leaning towards autumn. The stormy wind breathed. The gloomy shaft Splashed on the pier, murmuring the froth And banging on the smooth steps, Like a petitioner at the door He who does not heed the court? The poor man woke up. It was gloomy: The rain was dripping, the wind howled dejectedly, And with him in the distance, in the darkness of the night The sentry echoed ... Eugene jumped up; He remembered vividly the past horror; hastily He got up; went to wander, and suddenly Stopped - and around Quietly began to drive with his eyes With fear of the wild on his face. He found himself under the pillars of the Big House. On the porch With a raised paw, as if alive, There were guard lions, And right in the dark height Above the fenced rock Kumir with an outstretched hand Sat on a bronze horse. Eugene shuddered. The thoughts have become clearer in him. He recognized And the place where the flood played, Where the waves of ravenous crowded, Revolting viciously around him, And the lions, and the square, and the One who stood motionless In the darkness as a copper head, The one whose fateful will Under the sea the city was founded ... He is terrible in the surrounding darkness! What a thought on your forehead! What power is hidden in him! And what a fire in this horse! Where do you gallop, proud horse, And where will you drop your hooves? O powerful lord of fate! Aren't you right above the abyss itself At a height, with an iron bridle, you raised Russia on its hind legs? Around the foot of the idol, the poor madman walked around And gazed wildly On the face of the sovereign of the half-world. His chest was embarrassed. The forehead lay down to the cold grate, Eyes were foggy, A flame ran through the heart, Blood boiled. He became gloomy Before the proud idol And, clenching his teeth, clenching his fingers, As overwhelmed by the power of black, “Good ?, miraculous builder! - He whispered, trembling angrily, - Already you! .. "And suddenly he started running headlong. It seemed to Him that the formidable king, Instantly ignited with anger, His face quietly turned ... And he runs across the empty square and hears behind him - As if thunder rumble - Heavy-ringing galloping Along the shocked pavement. And, illuminated by the pale moon, Stretch out your hand in the sky, The Bronze Horseman rushes behind him On a ringing horse; And all night long, poor madman, Wherever he turned his feet, The Bronze Horseman followed him everywhere With a heavy stomp, galloped. And from that time, when it happened to Walk that square to him, Confusion was depicted in his face. He hastily pressed his hand to his heart, As if humbling his torment, Kartuz took off his worn-out, He did not raise his embarrassed eyes And walked to the side. Small Island Visible at the seaside. Sometimes Will dock with a seine there The fisherman is late fishing And his poor dinner cooks, Or an official will visit, Walking in a boat on Sunday, Deserted island. Has not grown up There is not a blade. The flood There, playing, brought the House dilapidated. Above the water He remained like a black bush. Last spring they took him on a barge. It was empty And all destroyed. At the threshold They found my madman, And immediately his cold corpse was buried for God's sake.
On the shore of desert waves
Stood he, full of great thoughts,
And looked into the distance. Before him wide
The river was rushing; poor boat
I strove for it lonely.
On mossy, swampy shores
The huts were blackened here and there,
The shelter of the wretched Chukhonts;
And a forest unknown to the rays
In the mist of the hidden sun
It was noisy all around.And he thought:
From here we will threaten the Swede.
Here the city will be laid
To spite the haughty neighbor.
Nature is destined for us here
Cut a window to Europe
Stand firm by the sea.
Here on new waves
All flags will visit us,
And we'll lock it up in the open.A hundred years have passed, and a young city,
Full-night countries beauty and wonder,
From the darkness of the woods, from the swamp blat
Ascended magnificently, proudly;
Where is the Finnish angler before,
Nature's sad stepson
One off the low shores
Thrown into unknown waters
Its dilapidated seine, now there
On busy shores
The slender masses are crowding
Palaces and towers; ships
A crowd from all over the earth
They strive for rich marinas;
The Neva was dressed in granite;
Bridges hung over the waters;
Dark green gardens
The islands covered her,
And in front of the younger capital
Old Moscow has faded,
As before the new queen
Porphyry Widow.I love you, Peter's creation,
I love your strict, slender look,
The sovereign current of the Neva,
Its coastal granite,
There is a cast-iron pattern of your fences,
Of your brooding nights
Transparent dusk, moonless shine,
When I'm in my room
I write, I read without an icon lamp,
And the sleeping masses are clear
Deserted streets, and light
Admiralty needle,
And, not letting the darkness of the night
To the golden skies
One dawn to change another
Hurries, giving the night half an hour.
I love your cruel winters
Stagnant air and frost
Sled run along the wide Neva,
Maiden faces are brighter than roses
And the shine, and the noise, and the talk of balls,
And at the hour of the reveling bachelor
The hiss of frothy glasses
And the punch is a flame blue.
I love the warlike liveliness
Amusing fields of Mars
Infantry men and horses
Monotonous beauty
In their harmoniously unsteady ranks
The rags of these victorious banners,
The shining of these brass hats,
Shot through and through in battle.
I love, the military capital,
Thunder and smoke of your stronghold
When the full-bodied queen
Grants a son to the royal house,
Or victory over the enemy
Russia triumphs again
Or cracking your blue ice
The Neva carries it to the seas
And, sensing spring days, rejoices.Flaunt, city of Petrov, and stay
Unwavering like Russia
Let it be reconciled with you
And the defeated element;
Ancient enmity and captivity
Let the Finnish waves forget
And they will not be vain malice
Disturb Peter's eternal sleep!It was a terrible time
A fresh recollection of her ...