BRONZE HORSEMAN
Preface
Petersburg story
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 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
Open a window to Europe,
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 is 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 hour.
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
Excited different 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,
Short-sighted, sloths,
For whom life is much easier!
That he serves only 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? Well... why not?
It’s hard, of course;
But well, he's young and healthy,
Ready to work day and night;
He'll arrange something for himself
Shelter humble and simple
And it will calm Parasha.
“Perhaps a year or two will pass -
I’ll get a place, - Parashe
I will entrust our farm
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 coming...
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 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 started running; all 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!
People
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 started 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,
On 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, alarm, 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 reconciled river.
But victories are full of triumph,
The waves were still boiling angrily,
As if a fire was smoldering under 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 along 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... walks... 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,
Laughed.
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.
Morning ray
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. Gloomy 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 to each other...
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
The 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?
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 grown up
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
Written in 1833. The poem is one of Pushkin’s most profound, daring and artistically perfect works. The poet in him, with unprecedented strength and courage, shows the historically natural contradictions of life in all their nakedness, without trying to artificially make ends meet where they do not converge in reality itself. In the poem, in a generalized figurative form, two forces are opposed - the state, personified in Peter I (and then in symbolic image a revived monument, “The Bronze Horseman”), and a person in his personal, private interests and experiences. Speaking about Peter I, Pushkin glorified in inspired verses his “great thoughts”, his creation - the “city of Petrov”, a new capital built at the mouth of the Neva, “under the pestilence”, on “mossy, marshy banks”, for military-strategic reasons, economic and to establish cultural connections with Europe. The poet, without any reservations, praises the great state work of Peter, the wonderful city he created - “full of beauty and wonder of the world.” But these state considerations of Peter turn out to be the reason for the death of the innocent Eugene, a simple, ordinary man. He is not a hero, but he knows how and wants to work (“...I am young and healthy, // I’m ready to work day and night”). He was brave during the flood; “He was afraid, poor thing, not for himself. // He did not hear how the greedy wave rose, // Washing his soles, he “boldly” sails along the “barely resigned” Neva to find out about the fate of his bride. Despite poverty, what Eugene values most is “independence and honor.” He dreams of simple human happiness: to marry the girl he loves and live modestly by his own labor. The flood, shown in the poem as a revolt of the conquered, conquered elements against Peter, ruins his life: Parasha dies, and he goes crazy. Peter I, in his great state concerns, did not think about defenseless little people forced to live under the threat of death from floods.
Tragic fate Eugene and the poet’s deep, sorrowful sympathy for her are expressed in “The Bronze Horseman” with enormous strength and poetry. And in the scene of the collision of the mad Eugene with the “Bronze Horseman”, his fiery, gloomy protest and a frontal threat to the “miraculous builder” on behalf of the victims of this construction, the poet’s language becomes as highly pathetic as in the solemn introduction to the poem. “The Bronze Horseman” ends with a spare, restrained, deliberately prosaic message about the death of Eugene:
...Flood
Brought there while playing
The house is dilapidated...
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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.
Pushkin does not give any epilogue that returns us to the original theme of the majestic Petersburg, an epilogue that reconciles us with the historically justified tragedy of Eugene. The contradiction between the full recognition of the rightness of Peter I, who cannot take into account the interests of an individual in his state “great thoughts” and affairs, and the full recognition of the rightness of a little man who demands that his interests be taken into account - this contradiction remains unresolved in the poem. Pushkin was quite right, since this contradiction lay not in his thoughts, but in life itself; it was one of the most acute in the process historical development. This contradiction between the good of the state and the happiness of the individual is inevitable as long as class society exists, and it will disappear with its final destruction.
Artistically, The Bronze Horseman is a miracle of art. In an extremely limited volume (the poem has only 481 verses) there are many bright, lively and highly poetic pictures - see, for example, the individual images scattered before the reader in the introduction, which make up the whole majestic image of St. Petersburg; saturated with strength and dynamics, from a number of private paintings, a description of the flood is formed, an image of the delirium of the insane Eugene, amazing in its poetry and brightness, and much more. What distinguishes The Bronze Horseman from other Pushkin poems is the amazing flexibility and variety of its style, sometimes solemn and slightly archaic, sometimes extremely simple, colloquial, but always poetic. What gives the poem a special character is the use of techniques of almost musical construction of images: repetition, with some variations, of the same words and expressions (guard lions over the porch of a house, the image of a monument, “an idol on a bronze horse”), carrying through the entire poem in different changes one and the same thematic motif - rain and wind, the Neva - in countless en aspects, etc., not to mention the famous sound recording of this amazing poem.
Pushkin’s references to Mickiewicz in the notes to the poem refer to a series of poems by Mickiewicz about St. Petersburg in the recently published third part of his poem “The Wake” (“Dziady”). Despite the benevolent tone of the mention of Mickiewicz, Pushkin in a number of places in his description of St. Petersburg in the introduction (and also partly when depicting the monument to Peter I) polemicizes with the Polish poet, who in his poems expressed a sharply negative opinion about Peter I, and about his activities, and about Petersburg, and about Russians in general.
“The Bronze Horseman” was not published during Pushkin’s lifetime, since Nicholas I demanded from the poet such changes in the text of the poem that he did not want to make. The poem was published shortly after Pushkin's death in a revision by Zhukovsky, who completely distorted its main meaning.
From early editions
From the manuscripts of the poem
After the verses “And what will he be with Parasha // Separated for two, three days”:
Here he warmed up heartily
And he daydreamed like a poet:
“Why? why not?
I'm not rich, there's no doubt about that
And Parasha has no name,
Well? what do we care?
Is it really only the rich?
Is it possible to get married? I'll arrange
A humble corner for yourself
And in it I will calm Parasha.
Bed, two chairs; cabbage soup pot
Yes, he is big; What more do I need?
Let's not know whims
Sundays in the summer in the field
I will walk with Parasha;
I’ll ask for a place; Parashe
I will entrust our farm
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..."
After the verse “And the drowning people at home”:
Co sleep is coming to the window senator
And he sees - in a boat along Morskaya
The military governor is sailing.
The senator froze: “Oh my God!
Here, Vanyusha! stand up a little
Look: what do you see through the window?
- I see, sir: there is a general in the boat
Floats through the gate, past the booth.
“By God?” - Exactly, sir. - “Besides a joke?”
- Yes, sir. — The senator rested
And asks for tea: “Thank God!
Well! The Count gave me anxiety
I thought: I’m crazy.”
Rough sketch of Eugene's description
He was a poor official
Rootless, orphan,
Pale, pockmarked,
Without clan, tribe, connections,
Without money, that is, without friends,
However, a citizen of the capital,
What kind of darkness do you meet,
Not at all different from you
Neither in face nor in mind.
Like everyone else, he behaved laxly,
Like you, I thought a lot about money,
How you, feeling sad, smoked tobacco,
Like you, he wore a uniform tailcoat.
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 V. N. Berkhom.
INTRODUCTION
On the shore of desert waves
stood He, 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
Open a window to Europe,
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 hour.
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,
Short-sighted, sloths,
For whom life is much easier!
That he serves only 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 coming...
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 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!
People
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 started 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, alarm, 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 reconciled river.
But victories are full of triumph,
The waves were still boiling angrily,
As if a fire was smoldering under 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 along 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 looks some more.
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,
Laughed.
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.
Morning ray
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. Gloomy 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?
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
Reproduced from the edition: A. S. Pushkin. Collected works in 10 volumes. M.: GIHL, 1959-1962. Volume 3. Poems, Fairy Tales.
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. It's wide in front of 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,
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 the 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
The 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 hour.
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 rags 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,
Short-sighted, sloths,
For whom life is much easier!
That he serves only 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 coming...
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 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 no 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,
Fragments of huts, logs, roofs,
Stock trade goods,
The belongings of pale poverty,
Bridges destroyed by thunderstorms,
Coffins from a washed-out cemetery
Floating through the streets!
People
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 started him
To save and overcome with fear
And there are drowning people at home.
Lion and fortress. A. P. Ostroumova-Lebedeva, 1901
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,
Over 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, alarm, howling!..
And, burdened with robbery,
Afraid of pursuit, 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 reconciled river.
But the victories are full of triumph,
The waves were still boiling angrily,
As if a fire was smoldering under 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 along 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 looks some more.
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,
Everything goes on, he goes around,
Talks loudly to himself -
And suddenly, hitting him on the forehead with his hand,
Laughed.
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.
Morning ray
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. Gloomy shaft
Splashed on the pier, grumbling fines
And hitting the smooth steps,
Like a petitioner at the door
Judges who do not 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 to each other...
Evgeny jumped up; remembered vividly
He is a past horror; hastily
He got up; I 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
The 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?
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,
Stretch 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,
He didn’t raise his 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 grown up
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.
For the first time - in the magazine “Library for Reading”, 1834, vol. VII, department. I, p. 117-119 under the title “Petersburg. Excerpt from the poem" (lines 1-91 with verses 39-42 omitted, replaced by four lines of dots). Then - in the magazine “Contemporary”, 1837, volume V, p. 1-21 under the title “The Bronze Horseman, a St. Petersburg story. (1833)". Algarotti said somewhere: “Pétersbourg est la fenêtre par laquelle la Russie regarde en Europe” (author’s note). Translation from French - “St. Petersburg is the window through which Russia looks at Europe” (editor’s note). Look at the poems of the book. Vyazemsky to Countess Z*** (author's note). 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 (author's note). There is one more line in Pushkin’s draft and white manuscript:
...With all my strength
She went on the attack. In front of her
Everything started to run...
(editor's note).
Count Miloradovich and Adjutant General Benckendorff (author's note).
See description of the monument in Mickiewicz. It is borrowed from Ruban - as Mickiewicz himself notes (author's note).
9. Poem “The Bronze Horseman”
Blind pop
In February 1825, Pushkin, serving an indefinite exile in Mikhailovsky, wrote a letter to his brother Lev in St. Petersburg. This is a regular letter with instructions, greetings to friends and relatives. But there is a strange note in this letter, a postscript: “The blind priest translated Sirach. Get some copies for me." Who the “blind priest” is has long been known. His name is Gabriel Abramovich Pakatsky, he is a priest at the Smolny Monastery and a translator of sacred texts, for which he was once even given a prize; in general, he is a very famous person.
But why does Pushkin need these copies, which he does not even ask his brother to send to Mikhailovskoye, this “Book of Sirach,” which was then part of the Old Testament? It turns out that this is a distant predecessor of the future “Bronze Horseman”, which will be written in 1833, seven years later. The point is that this “blind priest”, and he really has been blind for recent years ten, suffered a flood in his cell in this monastery and lived for several hours waist-deep in water, groping for the precious manuscript of the translation of the biblical text. And he appeals through “Russian Invalid” to his compatriots asking for help.
And Pushkin responds to this publication to help a person affected by the St. Petersburg flood. Even today one cannot read his letter without emotion. And in another letter he writes to his brother: “This St. Petersburg flood still can’t get out of my head. This, it turns out, is not funny at all, but a high tragedy.” And with the thought of this tragedy, which he himself did not see, Pushkin lives for the next seven years. Those. the idea must be sought back in Mikhailovsky, at a time very much prior to the writing of the poem.
Peter's new world
And today, turning to “The Bronze Horseman,” we immediately feel that this is not only a straightforward, simple event text. When in the introduction Peter stands over the Neva and reflects, this is the reflection of a certain creator. “And he thought...” He, who is going to arrange some kind of new world, alternative to old Moscow and old Russia. And the fact that he looks at the fishermen at this time and remembers these Finnish fishermen, “stepchildren of nature,” also suggests that here we're talking about not only about Peter, which here, perhaps, partly reveals the calling of the apostles to create a new world, different from the old one, in this case Moscow.
And when in the same introduction Pushkin writes: “And before the younger capital // Old Moscow faded, // As before the new queen // A porphyry-bearing widow,” we distinguish here not only the family history of the sovereign who rules, but his mother is still alive , Maria Feodorovna. And this correlation of the old queen and the new is like a correlation of two worlds, the old, abandoned, and the new, which is being built here as if anew.
By the way, this “porphyry-bearing widow” was one of the reasons for essentially banning the future “Bronze Horseman”, because the tsar immediately sensed some trouble, not just the correlation of Moscow and St. Petersburg, but also the correlation of two empresses, the dowager and the reigning. And he, of course, couldn’t like it.
In addition, here a consideration also arose about the Gospel story about the winegrower, who calls to himself the workers of the first, and then the second, and is more favorable to the second, younger ones. And this too was, so to speak, on the verge of the impossible. Again, the relationship between Moscow and St. Petersburg. In general, all this led to the ban; during Pushkin’s lifetime, “The Bronze Horseman” was not published, only excerpts.
For Pushkin himself this turned out to be very important work, one of the key ones in creativity. Why? Because the hero of the work was, so to speak, a reasoner, in some way a resemblance to Pushkin himself. A descendant of an old aristocratic family who has to serve the new regime, and his dream, his ideal is behind him, he sees himself today as a small official, but in the past this was great family, very well rooted in Russia, these are the heads of the peasant community, an analogy to the father of the peasants. And today he, in fact, is no one, he, in fact, is not on the surface of state life.
Hero's Dreams
And from this point of view, it is very important what the hero asks of God before going to bed. The flood has not yet begun, the tragedy has not yet occurred, but the hero, going to bed, turns to God with a request for intelligence and money, so that God would add intelligence and money to him. This is also a little on the verge of blasphemy, because asking God for intelligence is good and worthy, but asking God for money? There was some strange melody in this, strongly alienating from official Orthodoxy. This was never presented to Pushkin, but nevertheless everyone understood that there was some kind of opposition here. “This is impossible,” his contemporaries would have thought if they had read the text well.
What does the hero dream about? He dreams of an unknown life in a family with children. His fiancée Parasha lives on the northern tip of Vasilievsky Island, and he dreams of meeting her, although he is afraid that the meeting will not happen, because the Neva is already very busy and, perhaps, the bridges will be raised and you won’t be able to cross by boat either. This is a very key point. Pushkin, after years of wandering and marriage, takes on a slightly different approach to life and begins to understand the happiness of leaving public life, obscurity, life in the silence of a family with children and wife.
The name of the hero’s bride, Parasha, is also extremely important. In Eugene Onegin, when Pushkin is looking for the name of his heroine, he has the option “So, she was called Parasha.” Those. this is essentially the same heroine, contrasted with the corrupted world in which one has to live. In addition, the name itself is very significant for the Pushkin family. According to family legend, in 1705, Tsar Peter baptized his Arab in Vilna, in the Church of Paraskeva Pyatnitsa. This is another invariant of the purely Russian Mother of God. And therefore, when the hero’s bride is called Parasha, it is as if she was predestined by fate to become the hero’s wife, i.e. like this Pushkin.
Later this will be developed in the poem “Yezersky”, but this is a slightly different topic. By the way, the heroine of “The House in Kolomna” is also called Parasha! Those. a certain semblance of a fictional, and at the same time such a real, such a living world arises, which unites so many of Pushkin’s works. See: “Onegin”, “House in Kolomna”... And not only that. We will return to the name Parasha later, because it is included in another work of Pushkin, which will be discussed later and not here.
Flood in Yamba
It is very interesting to follow how the verse in “The Bronze Horseman” changes, reflecting what is happening, as it were, on the stage of this poem. It's very strict, very academic iambic tetrameter, rhyming lines, and suddenly there are places where this classical clarity breaks down. For example, in the lines that talk about the beginning of the flood, this is what happens. Pushkin writes about the Neva: “And suddenly, like a wild beast, // She rushed towards the city. In front of her // Everything ran, everything around // Suddenly it was empty...” This line – “... It rushed towards the city. Before her..." - does not rhyme in the poem.
And you can even understand why. Because the city is being swept away, the order of the beautiful, orderly city from the introduction is being swept away, and at the same time the verse that describes the prosperous situation, this fundamental situation, is being swept away. But the rhyme remains, only it moves from the end of the line to the middle. “Everything ran, everything around // SUDDENLY became empty...” That is. the rhyme at the end of the line is replaced by an internal rhyme, the middle of the line rhymes with the end of the previous line, and this also speaks of complete confusion, that not only the city is collapsing, but the foundations of existence are collapsing. It is not for nothing that Pushkin many times compares the St. Petersburg flood with global flood. And this too, I hope, will be discussed further.
Although the flood itself is described by Pushkin not only as imaginary. The fact is that before writing “The Bronze Horseman” and later, Pushkin was on a trip. In 1833, he went to the Volga and the Urals to collect material for the history of the Pugachev rebellion. And so he describes in a letter how he left St. Petersburg. At this moment, the Neva again went against the bay, the water rose and everyone was expecting a flood. And what he saw in 1833, as an impression, like the picture before his eyes, later ended up in “The Bronze Horseman.” So this is not just a fictitious situation or something that was told by friends, Miscavige and others, including eyewitnesses.
Lions, horsemen and hats
And here it is important to understand that everything that makes up “The Bronze Horseman”... This is a very multi-layered composition. The point here is not only what is happening on the surface of the Neva and on the earth’s surface in general. This is very good, very good shining example: already in the first chapter the hero goes out into the street, and by the flood he is driven by a guard lion, which stands “on Petrovaya Square.” Here he is sitting on this lion, the water is rising to his soles. We remember this recording. “With a raised paw, as if alive, // Two guard lions stand, // Astride a marble beast, // Without a hat, hands clasped in a cross,” sat Evgeniy.
And here too there is an allegory. The second meaning is visible. Strictly speaking, Evgeniy becomes a person who semantically closes a very high row. After all, the first monument of this type was the monument to Emperor Marcus Aurelius on the Capitoline Hill in Rome. He is the prototype of the Bronze Horseman - the emperor who sits on a horse, personifying the empire, personifying the people. He rules, he rides. And here is Marcus Aurelius, Peter and, finally, Eugenius, who sits astride a lion. Those. This is a huge decline in this image of the emperor.
Well, then in the poem “Yezersky” he will discuss why he chose such an unnoticed hero. This is not an accident, this is a trend of new times. And, perhaps, here we find the opportunity to judge Pushkin’s work in the 40s and 50s, i.e. about the unfulfilled creativity of Pushkin, which comes from Eugene “The Bronze Horseman”, compared with emperors, through ordinary heroes “ The captain's daughter"to the son of the executed archer, whose plan has already been outlined. In short, here is the future of Pushkin’s creativity, which we do not have in our hands, but which we can still judge a little, in part.
In addition, Eugene sitting on a lion reminds us of another Italian image, well known to Pushkin. The fact is that all his life he strives for Venice, which is a city under the patronage of St. Mark, and the saint with the lion is one of the main attractions of Venice. And St. Petersburg is the Venice of the North! Those. history unfolds not only as St. Petersburg, but also as world history, in particular Venice.
In addition, Pushkin gives another poignant detail. The wind from the bay tears off Evgeniy's hat. This seemingly not very significant episode transfers him to another life, to another class. In the second part he will wear a cap, and the cap precedes the cap in the draft. He wears a cap, a holy fool's cap. Here we have already given a picture of the next chapter in its, so to speak, embryonic form. The civic hat is gone, the holy fool's hat has come. We have already said that the remark “Too bad for you!” passes from "Boris Godunov" to "The Bronze Horseman" through this man, who is wearing a cap, who, so to speak, rebels against the emperor.
To the stone kingdom of the dead
This can be continued further, because the first chapter ends with the famous lines: “...or is it all ours // And life is nothing, like an empty dream, // The mockery of heaven over the earth?” These are, as it were, program lines that introduce us to the world of the second chapter. Where does the second chapter begin? Well, the water has gone. It is implied that the hero has left his place on the lion and is heading there, to Vasilyevsky Island, where the bride is, where all hopes and all life are concentrated. And it is very curious what happens as described. “Eugene looks: he sees a boat; // He runs to her like a godsend” in order to cross the Neva and get to the paradise that he is counting on. And here, too, everything is full of allegories. The heroine's name is Parasha, and we already know what it is.
But in addition, this image of a boat with a carefree carrier, on which the hero sits down, reminds us of the image of the Styx - the river of oblivion, crossing which a person finds himself in the kingdom of the dead. Literary parallels are known: these are both Dante and folk legend about Faust, where Faust falls into kingdom of the dead, to hell, and then comes back. It turns out that this is not just a description of a flood, it equally resonates with all world literature and is filled with a lot of meaning.
And Pushkin in next year, in 1934, will write “Songs Western Slavs”, and there is a wonderful poem called “Vlach in Venice”. I'm not even talking about the fact that the heroine of this poem, apparently dying and leaving her husband or lover, is called Paraskeva, Parasha. And the meaning of the poem is that the Slav, the Vlach, ends up in Venice, i.e. he leaves his Slavic patriarchal world, where everything is so clear, so kind, so beautiful, and ends up in Venice, which is an analogy of St. Petersburg. After all, St. Petersburg is the Venice of the North, I repeat. And this is what happens, as he describes life here: “Here I don’t hear a kind greeting, // I can’t wait for a kind word; //Here I am like a poor goosebump, //Brought into the lake by a storm.” And one of the images in this poem is striking in its similarity to Eugene’s path to Vasilyevsky Island. “Eugene looks: he sees a boat; // He runs to her like he’s on a find,” and Pushkin’s hero Vlah, a Slav, compares the whole of Venice to a boat. He calls it a “marble boat”, where everything is stone, everything is alien to him. It turns out that this image of a boat that carries the dead to this stone kingdom continues after the “Bronze Horseman” in “Songs of the Western Slavs.”
And at the same time, we once again find Pushkin with his echoes among the great classics of literature. Here “Angelo” is a roll call with Shakespeare, ostensibly a translation, but in fact a free retelling. “The Bronze Horseman” here echoes Merimee, who is the basis for “Songs of the Western Slavs”, also not a translation, but a roll call. The same will happen with Homer, etc. Those. it turns out that the allegories of “The Bronze Horseman” are no less important than just the direct meaning.
We have a habit of telling “The Bronze Horseman” as the story of a beautiful unfulfilled family life. Not only that! These are the motives of the high poetry, whatever it can be. Shakespeare, Merimee, and Homer are all Pushkin’s interlocutors in The Bronze Horseman, and this also needs to be known and understood.
Horse without a rider
There's a lot going on around The Bronze Horseman. For example, one of the drawings around the poem is Peter’s horse rearing up. And suddenly it turns out that in one of the drawings this horse is running without a rider. Without Peter. There is also some allegory here, just like in the confusion of earth and water during a flood. After all, it’s no secret to anyone, it’s a commonplace, that Russia is rearing up in the form of this copper horse.
And as soon as a running horse without a rider appears in the drawing around the poem, this means a certain insight that Russia will not always be saddled by a monarch, that, in fact, its fate is unclear. And when in the poem Alexander goes out onto the balcony and says that “With God’s elements // Tsars cannot control,” then this horse without a king, without a bridle - this is a kind of harbinger of the future, in fact, for Pushkin, distant, but according to history - it's very close. And this must also be understood when reading “The Bronze Horseman”.
The calling of fishermen
In the introduction, where we are talking about creating a new reality, the images of fishermen casting a net are very important. “Finnish fisherman”, etc. – known. But the appearance of Christ begins precisely with the calling of the fishermen. Andrew the First-Called and this whole gospel story just precedes the “Bronze Horseman”. By the time it was written, the poems “The fisherman spread a net // along the shore of the icy sea” had already been written, and this also precedes the creation of a new world and gravitates towards sacred pages. Those. from the very first lines, “The Bronze Horseman” ceases to be a report on the flood, especially since Pushkin did not see the flood itself. This all happens in a certain world created by Pushkin not only on the basis of what he knows and what is included in his life experience. It is also something gleaned from the very foundations of Christian culture.
The introduction to the poem is a hymn to the creative power of Peter, who in the Finnish swamps establishes a certain sacred city comparable to Venice and Palmyra. This is a kind of creative, constructive motive, which is emphasized by this analogy of fishermen who have to catch people. Peter, too, in his own way, perhaps so barbaric and rude, but catches people.
As soon as the hero of the poem, Eugene, rebels against Peter, he, and with him Pushkin, understand well what they are rebelling against. If we understand Eugene as a kind of distant prototype of these evangelical fishermen, and not only fishermen called after Christ, then the whole complexity of the history of the Russian church immediately arises.
After all, what was Russian? Orthodox Church to Peter and to Nikon? It was a great alternative to the state, where people found salvation and consolation from the injustice of this devilish world lying in sin. And when Peter comes and makes the Church a structural part of the state, abolishes the patriarchate, beats himself in the chest with the words “Here is the patriarch for you!”, meaning himself, then, of course, the Church at that moment ceases to be an alternative to the state and a way of consoling the believer. And here is his “Wow!” carries this charge. And this, perhaps, partly makes the fishermen from the introduction even somewhat ironic. Those. there are many layers here, and every person who thinks about Russian history, about Russian culture, finds something of their own here. And this is also the greatness of Pushkin, who in the end absorbs all possible opinions expressed, at least so far.
Job's Rebellion
In 1832, for some reason, Pushkin wrote down the letters of the Hebrew alphabet in his draft. Maybe this was connected with the story of his teacher of the Law of God, Pavsky, who was being persecuted at that time. And he deciphers these letters with sounds written in the Greek alphabet, which is close to him, since he studied Greek at the lyceum. And there is old riddle- For what? Why? Why did he need this Hebrew alphabet with a parallel in Greek?
And so one of the once famous Pushkinists, Alexander Tarkhov, put forward a remarkable hypothesis. He insisted that in the form of Eugene in The Bronze Horseman, Pushkin brought out the Russian long-suffering Job, who is subjected to God's punishment for unknown reasons. And this turned out to be a very fruitful hypothesis! Why? It turned out that in all translations of the Old Testament into all European languages, Job obediently follows God's punishments, and no protest arises from Job. And only in the original text does Job rebel. There is an analogy there for this “Wow! Already, a miraculous builder!” Those. this is the rebellion of the righteous against obvious injustice, which is not found in any Christian texts, only there. And, perhaps, Pushkin, knowing this, he is also a student of Pavsky, is trying to understand what is there in the original Old Testament. He does not learn the Old Testament language, but, in any case, his train of thought is in this direction, for his hero is closer to the Old Testament.
Literature
- Bely, Andrey. Rhythm as dialectic and “The Bronze Horseman”. Research. M., 1929.
- Blagoy D.D. “The Bronze Horseman” // Blagoy D.D. Sociology of Pushkin's creativity. Sketches. M., 1931.
- Bocharov S.G. St. Petersburg madness [“God forbid I go crazy..., “The Bronze Horseman”] // Pushkin collection / Comp. I. Loschilov, I. Surat / M. 2005.
- Ilyin-Tomich A.A. From marginalia to “The Bronze Horseman” // Fifth Tynyanov Readings. Abstracts of reports and materials for discussion. Riga, 1990.
- Kovalenskaya N. “The Bronze Horseman” Falconet. // Pushkin. Collection of articles./ Ed. A. Egolina / M., 1941.
- Ballad spatial structures in “The Bronze Horseman” by A.S. Pushkin.// Scientific notes of the Smolensk Humanitarian University. T.1, Smolensk, 1994.
- Listov V.S. “A penny and a royal horseman”//. Listov V.S. New about Pushkin. M., 2000.
- Makarovskaya G.V. "Bronze Horseman". Results and problems of the study. Saratov, 1978.
- Markovich V.M. Reminiscences of “The Bronze Horseman” in Leningrad unofficial poetry of the 60-80s. (On the problem of the St. Petersburg text).// Poluropon. To the 70th anniversary of V.N. Toporova. M., 1998.
- Martynova N.V. “The Bronze Horseman”: the specifics of the genre //. Pushkin: problems of creativity, textual criticism, perception. // Collection scientific works. Kalinin, 1980.
- Medrish D.N. Sober realism (“The Bronze Horseman” and the fairy tale) // Problems of realism. Issue 5. Vologda, 1978.
- Neklyudova M.S. Ospovat A.L. Window to Europe. Source study for “The Bronze Horseman” // Lotmanov Readings. T. 12. M., 1997.
- Oksenov I.O. About the symbolism of the “Bronze Horseman” // Pushkin 1833. L., 1933.
- Pushkin A.S. Bronze Horseman. The publication was prepared by N.V. Izmailov. L. 1978.
- Timenchik R.D. "The Bronze Horseman" in literary consciousness beginning of the twentieth century //Problems of Pushkin Studies. Collection of scientific papers. Riga, 1983.
- Timofeev L. “The Bronze Horseman” (from observations on a verse of the poem) // Pushkin: Collection of articles. Ed. A. Egolina. M., 1941.
- Fomichev S.A. “I love you, Peter’s creation” // Fomichev S.A. Celebration of life. Sketches about Pushkin. St. Petersburg, 1995.
(1833)
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 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 is 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 hour (2).
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 noise and 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,
Shot through and 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,
Mindless sloths,
For whom life is much easier!
That he serves only 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? Well…. Why not?
It's hard, of course.
But well, he's young and healthy,
Ready to work day and night;
He'll arrange something for himself
Shelter humble and simple
And it will calm Parasha.
“Perhaps another year will pass -
I’ll get a place - Parashe
I will entrust our farm
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 was unable 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 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 started running; all 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!
People
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 hundreds 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 (4)
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,
On 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 my back is 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, alarm, 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 reconciled river.
But victories are full of triumph
The waves were still boiling angrily,
As if a fire was smoldering under 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 along 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... walks... 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
Everything goes on, he goes around,
Talks loudly to himself -
And suddenly, hitting him on the forehead with his hand,
Laughed.
Night haze
She came down to the city in trepidation
But the residents did not sleep for a long time
And they talked among themselves
About the day gone by.
Morning ray
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 hired him 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. Gloomy 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 to each other...
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
The 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 grown up
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 said somewhere: “Pétersbourg est la fenêtre par laquelle la Russie regarde en Europe.”
(2) See the poems 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.
(4) Count Miloradovich and Adjutant General Benckendorff.
(5) See description of the monument in Mickiewicz. It is borrowed from Ruban - as Mickiewicz himself notes.
