Problems and artistic features of A.A. Blok’s poems “The Nightingale Garden” and “Retribution”. Alexander block "retribution" Author of the poem retribution
Blok Alexander
Retribution
Youth is retribution.
Preface
Feeling neither the need nor the desire to finish a poem full of revolutionary forebodings, in the years when the revolution has already occurred, I want to preface the outline of the last chapter with a story about how the poem was born, what were the reasons for its emergence, where its rhythms came from.
It is interesting and useful both for yourself and for others to remember the history of your own work. Moreover, we, the happiest or unhappiest children of our age, have to remember our whole lives; all our years are sharply colored for us, and - alas! - you can’t forget them, - they are painted too indelibly, so that every number seems written in blood; we cannot forget these figures; they are written on our own faces.
The poem "Retribution" was conceived in 1910 and the main outlines were sketched in 1911. What were these years?
1910 is the death of Komissarzhevskaya, the death of Vrubel and the death of Tolstoy. With Komissarzhevskaya the lyrical note died on stage; with Vrubel - the enormous personal world of the artist, insane perseverance, insatiability of quests - even to the point of insanity. With Tolstoy human tenderness died - wise humanity.
Further, 1910 is a crisis of symbolism, about which a lot was written and talked about then, both in the symbolist camp and in the opposite camp. This year, trends that have taken a hostile position both to symbolism and to each other have clearly made themselves felt: acmeism, egofuturism and the first beginnings of futurism. The slogan of the first of these directions was man - but some kind of different man, without humanity at all, some kind of “primordial” Adam.
The winter of 1911 was filled with deep inner courageous tension and trepidation. I remember nightly conversations, from which for the first time the consciousness of the inseparability and non-fusion of art, life and politics grew. The thought, which, apparently, was awakened by strong shocks from the outside, simultaneously knocked on all these doors, no longer satisfied with merging everything into one, which was easy and possible in the true mystical twilight of the years preceding the first revolution, and also in the untrue mystical hangover, which came after her.
It was precisely the courageous spirit that prevailed: the tragic consciousness of the non-fusion and inseparability of everything - irreconcilable contradictions that required reconciliation. The harsh northern voice of Strindberg, who had only a year of life left, became clearly audible. The smell of burning, iron and blood was already noticeable. In the spring of 1911, P. N. Milyukov gave an interesting lecture entitled “Armed Peace and Arms Reduction.” A prophetic article appeared in one of the Moscow newspapers: “The proximity of a great war.” The murder of Andrei Yushchinsky took place in Kyiv, and the question arose about the consumption of Christian blood by Jews. In the summer of this year, which was exceptionally hot, so that the grass was burning while still standing, enormous strikes of railway workers took place in London, and the significant episode “Panther-Agadir” took place in the Mediterranean Sea.
Inextricably linked with all this for me is the flourishing of French wrestling in St. Petersburg circuses; the crowd of thousands showed exceptional interest in her; among the wrestlers there were true artists; I will never forget the fight between the ugly Russian heavyweight and the Dutchman, whose muscular system was the most perfect musical instrument rare beauty.
This year, finally, aviation was in particular fashion among us; We all remember a series of beautiful aerial loops, upside-down flights, falls and deaths of talented and untalented aviators.
Finally, in the fall, Stolypin was killed in Kyiv, which marked the final transition of government of the country from the hands of half-nobles, half-bureaucrats to the hands of the police department.
All these facts, seemingly so different, have the same musical meaning for me. I am used to comparing facts from all areas of life accessible to my vision. given time, and I am sure that all of them together always create a single musical pressure.
I think that the simplest expression of the rhythm of the time, when the world, preparing for unheard-of events, was so intensively and systematically developing its physical, political and military muscles, was the iambic. This is probably why I, who have long been driven around the world by the scourges of this iambic, were drawn to surrender to its elastic will for a longer time.
Then I had to start building a large poem called “Retribution.” Her plan seemed to me in the form of concentric circles, which became narrower and narrower, and the smallest circle, having shrunk to the limit, began again to live its own independent life, expanding and pushing apart. environment and, in turn, act on the periphery. Such was the life of the drawing that I drew - I am trying to translate it into consciousness and into words only now; then it was present mainly in the concept of musical and muscular; It is not for nothing that I speak about muscular consciousness, because at that time the entire movement and development of the poem for me was closely connected with the development of the muscular system. With systematic manual labor First, the muscles on the arms, the so-called biceps, develop, and then - gradually - a thinner, more refined and sparser network of muscles on the chest and on the back under the shoulder blades. This rhythmic and gradual growth of muscles should have constituted the rhythm of the entire poem. Both its main idea and theme are connected with this.
The topic is how the links of a single chain of the clan develop. Individual offspring of every kind develop to their allotted limit and then are again absorbed by the surrounding world environment; but in each offspring something new and something sharper matures and is deposited, at the cost of endless losses, personal tragedies, failures in life, falls, etc.; at the cost, finally, of the loss of those endlessly high properties, which at one time shone like the best diamonds in the human crown (such as humane qualities, virtues, impeccable honesty, high morality, etc.)
In a word, the world whirlpool sucks almost the entire person into its funnel; almost no trace remains of the personality; it itself, if it still exists, becomes unrecognizable, disfigured, crippled. There was a man - and there was no man, all that remained was crappy flabby flesh and a smoldering soul. But the seed is thrown, and in the next firstborn a new, more persistent one grows; and in the last first-born this new and stubborn thing finally begins to have a tangible effect on the environment; Thus, the clan, which has experienced the retribution of history, begins, in turn, to create retribution; the last firstborn is already capable of snarling and uttering a lion's roar; he is ready to grab with his human hand the wheel by which human history moves. And maybe he’ll grab onto it...
“Retribution” by A.A. Blok
Blok tried to embody his thoughts about the closest and tragic connection of man with the “world whirlpool” of history in the form of the great epic poem “Retribution,” on which he worked a lot in 1911. He himself subsequently compared the planned work with the cycle of novels by E. Zola “Rugon” -Makkara. Natural and social history of one family in the era of the Second Empire." However, it can be assumed that the Russian realistic novel gave him great creative impulses to create the poem (not to mention the fact that the very poetic intonation of “Retribution” is extremely, sometimes “dangerously” - to the point of complete submission - close to “Onegin’s”).
“Excitement comes from “War and Peace” (now finished volume II),” Blok wrote in 1909, “then it spreads in breadth and captures my whole life and the lives of those close to me.” Here a certain thematic circle is already outlined, which largely coincides with the autobiographical basis of the future poem. Reflections on a novel from the life of the Russian nobility that were especially close to her plan are in one of Blok’s favorite books, Dostoevsky’s “Teenager,” where in connection with “War and Peace” it was said: “The grandson of those heroes who were depicted in the picture depicting a Russian family of middle-class cultural circle for three generations in a row and in connection with Russian history - this descendant of his ancestors could no longer be depicted in modern type in his own way except in a somewhat misanthropic, solitary and undoubtedly sad form. He should even appear as some kind of eccentric, whom the reader, at first glance, could recognize as having left the field and be convinced that the field was not left behind him. Any further and even this misanthrope grandson will disappear...”
The most striking image of Blok’s unfinished poem is a father, talented, restless, “demonic”, bringing torment and chaos into the lives of his neighbors, and at the end of his life, a dejected, embittered loser (the first impetus for the creation of “Retribution” was the impression of the death of the poet’s father, a professor Alexander Lvovich Blok University of Warsaw). In many ways, the figure of the son, in which the author himself can easily be guessed, also corresponds to the sketch “plot of the future novel” outlined by Dostoevsky.
The “historical background” is remarkably expressive in the poem - a characteristic of time taken on a global scale. “Natural signs” interpreted in a symbolic sense - “smoky sunset fires” noted at the beginning of the century by A. Bely, the “terrible ghost” of Halley’s comet that appeared in 1910, the devastating earthquake in Messina - are combined here with such features of the coming era, as “the tireless roar of a machine that forges destruction day and night” (an image that found its exact counterpart in journalistic articles of that time about “a powerful industry, educated by war and living for war”), and “the first takeoff of an airplane” - an event that was reflected in many the poet’s poems (for example, in “The Aviator” the “terrible appearance of the coming wars is predicted: a night flyer in the stormy darkness, carrying dynamite to the earth”).
Muffled echoes of the ever-accelerating historical flow are beginning to be felt in the fate of the noble family depicted in the poem (many of the Beketovs’ traits are captured in it), and ahead Blok foresees a tragic turn in Russian life:
So unexpectedly harsh
And full of eternal changes;
Like a spring river, she
It was assumed that the work would contain a broad narrative covering the events of Russian and European history With late XIX until the beginning of the 20th century. The narrative about the fate of the “family” was supposed to be interspersed with various lyrical and philosophical digressions, and to describe portraits of dozens of characters. Blok sought not only to express his emotions, but also to capture historical events, an entire era, so the work was created in the lyric-epic genre of the poem. For example, in the poem by N.A. Nekrasov’s “Who Lives Well in Rus'” reflects the era of post-serfdom Russia, and in the poem by A.T. Tvardovsky’s “By Right of Memory” reflected the entire Stalinist era. “The poem “Retribution” was conceived in 1910 and sketched out in its main features in 1911,” Blok wrote in the preface to this work. The poem was written when “the smell of burning, iron and blood was already noticeable.” Blok tried to convey in it his thoughts and moods, his premonition of an impending storm. These forebodings and expectations constitute the leitmotif of the poem. “Retribution” is the most important milestone on the path of the poet’s ideological and creative growth. Blok himself was clearly aware of this, stating that “the poem marks the transition from the personal to the general” (Notebooks, June 1916). The poem, which remained unfinished, was conceived as a broad picture of Russian history in the second half of the 19th and early 20th centuries. poet block poem retribution
Blok studied a wide variety of historical materials, intended to reflect (and partially reflected) the most significant events in the life of Russia: the assassination attempt on Alexander II, student unrest, “Polish Troubles”, the funeral of T. Shevchenko, the activities of revolutionary democrats, the populist movement, the reaction of the 80s, the eve of the first revolution, the events of 1905, etc. The poet thought of showing against the background of these events and in connection with them the fate of three generations of noble family. “The epilogue,” he wrote, “should depict a baby held and cradled on the lap of a simple mother; ...the son is growing; ...he begins to speak syllable by syllable after his mother: “And I will go to meet the soldiers... And I will throw myself at their bayonets... And for you, my freedom, I will ascend the black scaffold.”
Blok read the prologue and first chapter of “Retribution” in the presence of symbolist friends. And if she struck some with the freshness of her perception of history, objectivity, everyday sketches - all that, in essence, was forbidden for the symbolists, then Andrei Bely, Vyach. Ivanov and other apologists of this trend “threw thunder and lightning.” They saw corruption, the result of apostasy, crime and death. Blok did not know how to defend himself, he was depressed, and the poem, remaining unfinished, went to the table, where it lay almost until his death. Only in 1921 did Blok again turn to the unfinished poem, in order, if not to finish, then at least to put it in order. So formally it remained unfinished, because all academic collections included only the prologue, the first chapter and unfinished fragments of the second and third.
In the “Preface,” written before his death, Blok explained the idea of the poem and its title, using the words of G. Ibsen “Youth is retribution.” He wrote that in 1921, when the revolution had already occurred, there was no point in finishing a poem “full of revolutionary forebodings.” The poem was to consist of a prologue, three large chapters and an epilogue, and each chapter was to be “framed by a description of events of world significance” so that “they form its background.”
In December of one thousand eight hundred and fifty-one, the country's president, Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte, who is considered the nephew of Napoleon I, carried out a coup d'etat. He dissolved the National Assembly and arrested all parliamentary opposition figures. In the same month, the army crushed the uprising that began in Paris. During this period, a large number of unarmed citizens died, including women and children.
Victor Hugo is one of a small group of deputies who are considered passionate opponents of the new system of monarchs. The December uprising made a future fight impossible. The writer escaped from the country, and returned to his homeland from emigration only after the complete defeat of the second empire, in one thousand eight hundred and seventy. He wrote a collection of poems called “Retribution” hot on the heels of those events. In the subtitles of the book, he ironically plays on the oath promises of Napoleon III, and called the prologue and epilogue the symbolic names “Nox” and “Lux”, which in Latin means “Night” and “Day”.
A pathetic midget, a worthless nephew of a famous uncle, attacked the unprotected Republic in the darkness with a knife. The entire homeland was filled with blood and dirt: despicable accomplices feasted in the palace, and under the cover of night, the corpses of absolutely innocent murdered people were thrown into a mass grave. When the numb people wake up, the sacred moment of retribution will come. In the meantime, only the poet does not feel calm: although various elements call him to humility, he does not bow his head - let his angry muse become the heir of Juvenal and exalt the pillory for the bandits.
France surrendered, the tyrant's heel dug into her forehead. This worthless man will end his days in Toulon, in the place where Napoleon's great glory began. Convicts in bright jackets and shackles are impatiently awaiting the robber-nephew. Soon he too will be dragging this cannonball on his leg. Retribution for the crime will inevitably await: thieves, deceivers and murderers who dealt a treacherous blow to their homeland will be cursed. But for now, corrupt “saints” burn incense to them. They serve Satan, and in the chalices it is not wine that turns red, but blood. They planned to destroy progress, fetter the spirit, and deal with the opening mind. Martyrs die for nothing for the true faith. In France they sell Christ, he is crucified again with greed and hypocrisy. Everywhere you look: everywhere the courtiers are vying with each other to flatter Caesar, and the stockbroker bandits are getting fat on the bones of the people, the soldiers are drinking, wanting to forget their shame, and the working people are obediently putting their necks under the yoke. France is now no different from China, and scaffolds have been erected throughout the rest of Europe for its most best sons. But now the iron steps of future days can already be heard, when the kings will run and the trumpet of the archangel will sound in the sky. A pleasant song flows.
The members marked themselves with this hymn of praise State Council, Senate, Legislative Corps, Town Hall, Army, Court, Bishops. In response to their sound comes the mournful “Miserere” (Lord, have mercy) from a thousand lips. But madmen don't listen to them. Wake up, people, rise up like the buried Lazarus, because the dwarfs are mocking you. Remember how in December, soldiers drunk with blood fired at innocent people. Look how grandma sobs loudly over her dead grandson. When rot has entered all parts of the soul, then it is better to be banished to an island and admire the beautiful flight of seagulls from a cliff above the ocean. The native republic of our fathers was betrayed by the hands of the army, whose glory resounded for centuries. Soldiers in tattered clothes crawled under the banner of Freedom, and old Europe shook under their victorious steps. Now everyone has forgotten about these soldiers. They have been replaced by heroes who easily deal with women and children. They go against their homeland with a fit, they storm any laws. And the damned thief gives a generous reward to his praetorians. All that remains is to take revenge for such a shame - to smash the new empire and the beast with a golden crown on its head with a formidable verse.
Once upon a time there lived a prince who became poor. He fraudulently acquired a famous name for himself. Once he hatched a conspiracy, committed a “wonderful crime”, went into the Louvre wearing a Napoleon mask... The former ancient leaders, the great dictators of that century, are watching: a swindler in pants with holes appears on the roof of the temple. It was not Caesar, but simply Robert Macker. He is a character from the famous play "The Inn of Adre". This is a cynically boastful type of robber and murderer. He is similar to a monkey who has pulled on a tiger skin and started robbing until the hunter stops him. Those who are the worst and the most vile are drawn to the scaffold's foster children. An honest person can only recoil from them with disgust. They eagerly push their elbows, trying to get closer to the throne. And any upstart is supported by his party: behind one there are lackeys, behind another - corrupt girls. And the peaceful bourgeoisie grumble with dissatisfaction as soon as they come across a free article: of course, Bonaparte is a nonentity, but why shout about it to the whole world? Cowardly baseness is always considered an excellent support for crime. It's time to settle down in slavery - whoever lies down on his belly will succeed. All deceivers and bandits will have a place next to the money. And everyone else faces severe, hopeless poverty. But one should not turn to the shadow of Brutus: Bonaparte is not worthy of the dagger - a shameful death awaits him on a stake.
The people should not kill the ferocious tyrant, let him live as marked by the seal of Cain. His assistants in judges' robes refer to the exact death of the innocent: the wife who brought bread to her husband to the barricade, the old man who gave shelter to the exiles, will go to hard labor. And greedy journalists sing a hymn, hiding behind the Gospel: they reach into the soul, but at the same time empty their pockets. The stinking leaves delight saints and bigots with stories of miracles, they sell the Eucharist and have converted God's temple to the buffet. But the living fight, bringing great love or sacred work into the future. Thanks to their asceticism, the Ark of the Covenant was preserved. The Future One runs along an impenetrable road in the darkness with an order, which is inscribed in eternal letters, that the judgment of the Lord is approaching on an insignificant gang that robs and kills.
Robert Macker put on the crown, causing a great commotion in the old cemetery: all the bandits of past times want to go to the coronation of their brother. And a strong flight began from Paris: Reason, Thought, Honor, Law, Poetry went into exile. All that's left is Contempt. The tyrant will face retribution for the torment and tears, for the death of the great martyr Pauline Roland. She was a wonderful woman, a bearer of truth and goodness, who died in exile. The great shadow of Napoleon painfully torments itself: neither the dead army in the snowy fields of Russia, nor the terrible defeat at the Battle of Waterloo, nor the lonely death on the island of St. Helena - nothing compares with the collapse of the second empire. Dwarfs and jesters pulled the emperor by the feet from the throne of the ruler to give him the role of king in their circus booth. There was just retribution for the coup of the eighteenth Brumaire. Therefore, the jesters take their cue from the great titan.
The pathetic nonentity is now called Napoleon III. Marengo and Austerlitz were harnessed to the tattered carriage. Europe is shaking with laughter, the United States is laughing, the cliffs are wiping away tears because a jester has sat on the throne in his arms with crime, and the empire has become one huge brothel. The people of France, who once scattered the granite of prisons and achieved the rights of peoples, are now trembling like an aspen leaf. Only women retain their dignity.
They execute bad people with a smile of contempt. And the loud sound of the poet can be heard everywhere, because caution, such a base virtue of cowards, is not for him. He hears the cry of his wounded homeland, which begs him to help her. The most terrible darkness predicts the dawn: France, which is harnessed to the cart of a drunken satrap, will be restored and receive wings. The hunched people will straighten up and, shaking off the adhering dirt of the present garbage dump, will appear in all their glory before the surprised world. The walls of Jericho will fall to the sound of Joshua's trumpets. Thinkers, taking turns replacing each other, lead the human caravan: Luther will follow Jan Hus, Voltaire will follow Luther, and Mirabeau will follow Voltaire. And with every movement forward the darkness dissipates. But time after time, Evil crawls out of ambush with his terrible followers in the form of jackals, hyenas and rats. Only the strict ruler of the desert, the lion, can disperse these animals. The people are like a lion. Hearing his growl, a gang of petty crooks scatter and disappear forever. It is necessary to survive the shameful years without tarnishing oneself. The tramp will not return to his motherland while the impostor Caesar rules it. Even if only a thousand, a hundred or a dozen stubborn people remain, the poet will always be among them. Well, if the voice of protest falls silent, then he himself will continue the battle.
A sacred dream shines in the distance - you need to clear the road to it. A crimson ray, the star of the world Republic, sparkled in the darkness. Free humanity will finally become one family, and peace and freedom will flourish throughout the land. This will inevitably happen: there will be no slaves and beggars, love and grace will flow from heaven, the holy tree of progress will reach America and Europe. Perhaps people will not live to see such happiness: but even they, awakening for a moment in their graves, will rejoice at such wonderful changes.
A brief summary of the collection “Retribution” was retold by A. S. Osipova.
Please note that this is only a summary literary work"Retribution." In this summary many important points and quotes are missing.
Prologue
Life is without beginning and end.
Opportunity awaits us all.
Above us is the inevitable darkness,
Or the clarity of God's face.
But you, artist, firmly believe
To the beginnings and ends. You know
Where heaven and hell guard us.
Given to you by dispassionate measure
Measure everything you see.
Let your view be firm and clear.
Erase random features -
And you will see: the world is beautiful.
Know where the light is, and you will understand where the darkness is.
Let everything pass slowly,
What is sacred in the world, what is sinful in it,
Through the heat of the soul, through the coolness of the mind.
So Siegfried rules the sword over the forge:
It will turn into red coal,
It will quickly plunge into the water -
And it hisses and turns black
The beloved is entrusted with a blade...
The blow - it shines, Notung is faithful,
And Mime, the hypocritical dwarf,
He falls at his feet in confusion!
Who will forge the sword? - Who knew no fear.
And I'm helpless and weak,
Like everyone else, like you, just a smart slave,
Made from clay and dust, -
And the world is scary for me.
The hero no longer strikes freely, -
His hand is in the hand of the people,
There is a pillar of fire above the world,
And in every heart, in every thought -
Your own arbitrariness and your own law...
There is a dragon over all of Europe,
Opening his mouth, he languishes with thirst...
Who will strike him?..
We do not know: above our camp,
As of old, the distance is shrouded in fog,
And it smells like burning. There is a fire there.
But the song - everything will remain a song,
There's always someone in the crowd singing.
Here is his head on a platter
The dancer gives it to the king;
There he is on the black scaffold
Lays down his head;
Here - the name is branded with shame
His poems... And I sing, -
But the final judgment is not yours,
It’s not for you to shut my mouth!..
Let the dark church be empty,
Let the shepherd sleep; I'll see you until mass
I will pass the dewy boundary,
I turn the rusty key in the lock
And in the scarlet vestibule from dawn
I will serve my mass.
You, who struck Dennitsa,
Bless you on your journey here!
Allow me at least a small page
Turn from the book of life.
Give it to me slowly and undeceitfully
Tell before Your face
About what we hide within ourselves,
About what is alive in this world,
About how anger brews in hearts,
And with anger - youth and freedom,
How the spirit of the people breathes in everyone.
Sons are reflected in fathers:
A short snippet of the kind -
Two or three links - and it’s already clear
Testaments of dark antiquity:
A new breed has matured -
Coal turns into diamond.
He, under the hardworking pickaxe,
Rising from the depths slowly,
Will appear - for show to the world!
So hit, don’t know rest,
Let the vein of life be deep:
Diamond burns from afar -
Fractions, my angry iambic, stones!
First chapter
Nineteenth century, iron,
Truly a cruel age!
By you into the darkness of the night, starless
Careless abandoned man!
On the night of speculative concepts,
Materialistic small matters,
Powerless complaints and curses
Bloodless souls and weak bodies!
With you came the plague to replace
Neurosis, boredom, spleen,
The age of smashing foreheads against the wall
Economic doctrines,
Congresses, banks, federations,
Table matches, red words,
The age of stocks, annuities and bonds,
And ineffective minds,
And half talents
(It’s fairer - in half!),
The century is not of salons, but of living rooms,
Not a recommendation, but just a give...
The Age of Bourgeois Wealth
(Invisibly growing evil!).
Under the sign of equality and brotherhood
Dark things were brewing here...
And the man? - he lived without will:
Not him - cars, cities,
“Life” is so bloodless and painless
I tortured my spirit like never before...
But the one who moved, driving
Puppets of all countries, -
He knew what he was doing, sending
Humanistic fog:
There, in the gray and rotten fog,
The flesh withered and the spirit went out,
And the angel himself of sacred warfare,
It seemed to fly away from us:
There - blood feuds are settled
Diplomatic mind
There - new guns are in the way
Come face to face with the enemy
There - instead of courage - impudence,
And instead of feats - “psychosis”,
And the bosses are always quarreling,
And a long cumbersome train
The team is dragging along,
Headquarters, quartermasters, cursing dirt,
Bugler's horn - Roland's horn
And I replaced the helmet with a cap...
That century was cursed a lot
And they will not stop cursing.
And how can he get rid of his sadness?
He lay down softly but slept hard...
Twentieth century... Even more homeless,
More scarier than life haze
(Even blacker and bigger
Shadow of Lucifer's wing).
Fires smoky sunset
(Prophecies about our day)
Comet menacing and tailed
A terrible ghost on high,
The Merciless End of Messina
(Elemental forces cannot be overcome)
And the tireless roar of the car,
Forging destruction day and night,
The terrible consciousness of deception
All previous small thoughts and beliefs,
And the first takeoff of the airplane
Into the desert of unknown spheres...
And disgust from life,
And mad love for her,
And passion and hatred for the fatherland...
And black, earthly blood
Promises us, swelling our veins,
All destroying boundaries,
Unheard of changes
Unprecedented riots...
What about man? - Behind the roar of steel,
On fire, in gunpowder smoke,
What fiery distances
Are you open to your eyes?
What is the incessant grinding of cars talking about?
Why - the propeller howls, cuts
The fog is cold - and empty?
Now follow me, my reader,
To the sick capital of the north,
To a remote Finnish coast!
It's already autumn seventy-eighth
The old century is holding out.
Work is in progress in Europe,
And here - still in the swamp
The dull dawn looks...
But in mid-September
That year, look how much sun there is!
Where do people go in the morning?
And all the way to the outpost
Cheers are pouring out like peas,
Both Zabalkansky and Sennaya
Swarming with police, crowds,
Screaming, stampeding, swearing...
Beyond the city limits,
Where the golden head glows
Novodevichy Convent,
Fences, slaughterhouses and wasteland
In front of the Moscow outpost, -
A wall of people, a darkness of carriages,
Cabins, droshky and carriages,
Sultans, shakos and helmets,
Queen, court and high society!
And before the touched queen,
In the autumn sun dust,
Troops pass in a line
From the borders of a foreign land...
They walk as if from a parade.
Or left no trace
Recent camp near Constantinople,
Foreign language and cities?
Behind them are the snowy Balkans,
Three Plevna, Shipka and Dubnyak,
Unhealed wounds
And a cunning and formidable enemy...
There are the Pavlovians, there are the grenadiers
They walk along the dusty pavement;
Their faces are stern, their chests gray,
Georgy shines here and there,
Their battalions are sparse,
But the survivors of the battle
Now under torn banners
They bowed their heads...
The end of a difficult journey
Unforgettable days!
They came home
They are among their people!
How will their native people greet them?
Today - oblivion of the past,
Today - heavy visions
Wars - let the wind blow them away!
And at the hour of solemn return
They forgot about everything:
Forgotten the life and death of a soldier
Under enemy fire,
Nights, for many - without dawn,
Cold, silent firmament,
Lying in wait somewhere -
And the approaching death
Illness, fatigue, pain and hunger,
The whistle of bullets, the melancholy howl of a cannonball,
The frozen lodgements are cold,
The unwarming fire of the fire,
And even - the burden of eternal strife
Among the staff and combatants,
And (maybe more bitter than all others)
They forgot the quartermasters of the intrigue...
Or maybe they haven't forgotten? -
Trays of bread and salt await them,
Speeches will be spoken to them,
There are flowers and cigarettes on them
They fly from the windows of all houses...
Yes, their difficult work is sacred!
Look: every soldier
There is a bouquet of flowers on the bayonet!
For battalion commanders -
Flowers on saddles, saddlecloths,
In the buttonholes of faded uniforms,
On the horse's bangs and in the hands...
They go, they go... It’s almost sunset
They will come to the barracks: who will change
There is lint and cotton wool on the wounds,
Who - to fly for the evening, to captivate
Beauties, flaunting crosses,
Drop careless words,
Lazily moving his mustache
Before the humiliated "stunt"
Playing with a new lanyard
On a scarlet ribbon, like children...
Or, in fact, these people
So interesting and smart?
Why are they exalted?
So high, why believe in them?
In the eyes of any officer
The visions of war are worth it.
On their previously ordinary faces
The borrowed lights are on.
Someone else's life has its own pages
Turned it over to them. They
All are baptized by fire and deed;
Their speeches say one thing:
How White General on white
On horseback, among enemy grenades,
He stood like a ghost, unharmed,
Joking calmly over the fire;
Like a red pillar of fire and smoke
Soared over Mountain Dubnyak;
About how the regimental banner
The murdered man did not let him leave his hands;
Like a cannon on mountain paths
The colonel helped to drag;
Like a royal horse, snoring, he stumbled
Before the crippled bayonet,
The king looked and turned away,
And shaded his eyes with a handkerchief...
Yes, they know pain and hunger
On par with a common soldier...
The one who has been in the war
Sometimes the cold penetrates -
It’s fatal all the same
Which prepares
A series of world events
Only the one thing that doesn’t interfere...
Everything will be reflected in such
Half-mad mockery...
And the authorities are in a hurry
All those who have ceased to be a pawn,
Turn it into a tour, or into horses...
But for us, reader, it is not appropriate
There is no way to count horses and a tour,
You and I are now stuck together
Into the crowd of gawking onlookers,
This is our rejoicing
Made me forget yesterday...
Our eyes are full of light,
Hurray is ringing in our ears!
And many, having forgotten themselves too much,
They're gathering dust with civilian feet,
Like street urchins
Near the marching soldiers,
And this rush of feelings is instant
Here - in St. Petersburg September!
Look: the head of the family is venerable
Sits astride a lantern!
His wife has been calling him for a long time,
Full of vain rage
And, so that you can hear, the umbrella pokes,
Wherever there is a trace, she is for him.
But he doesn't feel that either
And despite the general laughter,
He sits and doesn’t blow his own breath,
Kanalya, he sees better than anyone!..
Gone... There’s only an echo moaning in my ears,
And that’s all - you can’t disperse the crowd;
The water carrier has already passed with a barrel,
Leaving the wet path,
And Vanka, rounding the curbstone,
He's yelling at the lady
Already on this occasion
Running to help the people
(The policeman gives whistles)…
The crews followed
The dawn played in the barracks -
And even the father of the family
Obediently he climbed from the lantern,
But, leaving, everyone is waiting for something...
Yes, today, on the day of their return,
All life in the capital is like infantry,
Rattling on the pavement stones,
He walks and walks in an absurd formation,
Gorgeous and noisy...
One thing will pass and another will come,
Take a closer look - she's not the same anymore
And the one that flashed, there is no return,
You are in it - as in old fashioned…
Slowed down the pale ray of sunset
In a high, by chance, window.
You might have noticed in that window
Behind the frame are pale features,
You might notice some sign
Which you don't know
But you pass and you don’t look,
You meet and you don’t recognize
You follow others into the darkness,
You will follow the crowd.
Go, passerby, without attention,
Lazyly tugging at your mustache,
Let the oncoming person and building -
Like everyone else - for you.
You're busy with all sorts of things,
Of course you don't know
What's behind these walls?
And your hidden fate may...
(But if you spread your mind,
Forgetting his wife and samovar,
You would open your mouth in fear
And I would sit right on the sidewalk!)
It's getting dark. The curtains came down.
The room is packed with people
And behind closed doors
Silent conversations are going on
And this restrained speech
Full of care and sadness.
The fire hasn't been lit yet
And they are in no hurry to light it up.
Faces drown in the evening darkness,
Take a closer look and you will see row one
Of obscure shadows, a string
Some women and men.
The meeting is not eloquent,
And every guest who comes through the door
With a persistent gaze silently
Looks around like an animal.
Here someone burst into flames with a cigarette:
Among others, a woman sits:
The big baby forehead is not hidden
Simple and modest hairstyle,
Wide white collar
And the dress is black - it’s simple,
Thin, short,
Blue-eyed childish face,
But, as if having found something in the distance,
Looks carefully, point blank,
And this sweet, gentle gaze
Burns with courage and sadness...
They are waiting for someone... The bell rings.
Slowly opening the doors,
A new guest enters the door:
I am confident in my movements
And stately; masculine appearance;
Dressed just like a foreigner
Exquisite; glitters in hand
High cylinder gloss;
Barely noticeably darkened
The look of the brown eyes is stern and meek;
Napoleonic beard
The mouth is restless and framed;
Big-headed, dark-haired -
Handsome and ugly together:
Anxious, twitched mouth
Melancholy grimace.
And the crowd of those gathered fell silent...
Two words, two handshakes -
And a guest to a child in a black dress
He walks past the others...
He looks long and lovingly,
And shakes your hand tightly more than once,
And says: “Congratulations to you
Congratulations on your escape, Sonya... Sofya Lvovna!
Again - to a mortal struggle!
And suddenly - for no apparent reason -
On this strange white forehead
Two wrinkles lay deep...
The dawn has gone out. And men
Pour rum and wine into the bowl,
And the flame is a blue light
It started running under the full bowl.
Daggers are placed in a cross above her.
The flames are spreading - and suddenly,
Running up over the burner, it began to tremble
In the eyes of those crowding around...
Fire, fighting the crowd of darkness,
It cast a lilac-blue light,
An ancient song of the Haidamaks
The consonant chant began to sound,
It's like a wedding, housewarming,
As if there is no thunderstorm waiting for everyone, -
Such childish fun
Severe eyes lit up...
One thing has passed, another is coming,
A motley row of paintings passes by.
Don't slow down, artist: double
You will pay for one moment
Sensitive delay
And if at this moment you
Inspiration threatens to leave, -
Blame yourself!
You are the only one who needs
Let your attention be there.
In those days under the St. Petersburg sky
A noble family lives.
Nobles are all related to each other,
And centuries have taught them
Face another circle
Always a little condescending.
But power was quietly slipping away
From their graceful white hands,
And signed up as liberals
The most honorable of the king's servants,
And everything is in natural disgust
Between the will of the royal and the people
They were in pain
Often from both wills.
All this may seem
Funny and outdated to us,
But, really, only a boor can
To mock Russian life.
She is always between two fires.
Not everyone can become a hero
And the people are the best - we won’t hide it -
We are often powerless in front of her,
So unexpectedly harsh
And full of eternal changes;
Like a spring river, she
Suddenly ready to move,
Pile ice floes on ice floes
And destroy on your way
Guilty as well as innocent,
And non-officials as officials...
This was the case with my family:
The old days were still breathing in her
And it prevented me from living in a new way,
Rewarding with silence
And belated nobility
(It’s not like it’s of little use at all,
How to think now
When in any family the door
Open wide to the winter blizzard,
And not the slightest effort
You shouldn't cheat on your spouse
Like a husband who has lost his shame).
And nihilism here was harmless,
And the spirit of natural sciences
(Throwing the authorities into fear)
It was like religion here.
“Family is nonsense, family is a whim,” -
They loved to say angrily here,
But deep down in my soul it’s still the same
“Princess Marya Aleksevna”...
Living memory of antiquity
Had to be friends with disbelief -
And all the hours were full
Some new “dual faith”
And this circle was enchanted:
Your words and habits,
There are always quotation marks over everything that is foreign,
And sometimes even fear;
Meanwhile, life changed all around,
And everything around began to shake,
And the wind blew in something new
In hospitable an old house:
That's a nihilist in a blouse
He will come and brazenly ask for vodka,
To disturb the peace of the family
(Seeing my civic duty)
And even the guest is a very official one
He won't run in coolly at all.
With “Narodnaya Volya” in hands -
Consult in a hurry,
What is the cause of all the troubles?
What to do before the “anniversary”?
How to reason with young people
Raising a fuss again? -
Everyone knows that in this house
And they will caress and understand,
And noble soft light
Everything will be illuminated and illuminated...
The life of the elders is drawing to a close.
(Well, no matter how much you regret the afternoon,
You won't stop me from the fields
The creeping smoke is bluish).
Head of the family - forties
Years comrade; he is still
Among the advanced people,
Keeps civil shrines,
He is from Nikolaev times
Stands guard over enlightenment
But in the everyday life of the new movement
He got a little lost...
Turgenev's serenity
Akin to him; still quite
He understands wine
He knows how to appreciate tenderness in food;
Language French and Paris
He is probably closer to his own
(Like all of Europe: look -
And the German dreams of Paris)
And - an ardent Westerner in everything -
At heart he is an old Russian gentleman,
And the beliefs are French
There is a lot he can’t put up with;
He's at Borel's dinners
He grumbles no worse than Shchedrin:
That means the trout are undercooked,
Otherwise, their ears are not greasy.
This is the law of iron fate:
Unexpected, like a flower over the abyss,
Family center and comfort...
Growing up in the family is unprime
Three daughters: the eldest is languishing
And she waits for her husband above the kipsack,
Second - you are always not too lazy to study,
The smaller one jumps and sings,
Her temperament is lively and passionate
Teasing girlfriends at school
And a bright red braid
Intimidate the boss...
Now that they've grown up, they take them on visits,
They are taken to the ball in a carriage;
Someone is already walking near the windows,
The smaller one sent a note
Some playful cadet -
And the ardor of the first tears is so sweet,
And the eldest - decorous and bashful -
Suddenly he offered his hand
Curly perfect small;
She is being prepared for the wedding...
“Look, he doesn’t love his daughter much,”
The father grumbles and frowns, -
Look, he’s not from our circle...”
And his mother secretly agrees with him,
But jealousy of the daughter from each other
They try to hide...
The mother hurries the wedding dress,
The dowry is hastily sewn,
And for the ritual (sad ritual)
Friends and relatives are called...
The groom is the enemy of all rituals
(When “the people suffer like this”)
The bride has exactly the same views:
She will go hand in hand with him,
To throw a beautiful ray together,
"A ray of light into the kingdom of darkness"
(And I just don’t agree to get married
Without flair dorange and veil).
Here - with the thought of a civil marriage,
With a brow darker than September,
Uncombed, in an awkward tailcoat
He's standing at the altar,
When getting married “on principle”, -
This newly minted groom.
The priest is old, liberal,
With a trembling hand he baptizes them,
He, as a groom, is incomprehensible
Spoken words
And the bride has a head
Spinning; pink spots
Burning on her cheeks
And tears melt in my eyes...
An awkward moment will pass -
They return to the family
And life, with the help of comfort,
He will return to his track;
They are early in life; not soon yet
Healthy hunched shoulders;
Not soon from childish disputes
With friends at night
He will come out, honest, on straw
In dreams the deceased groom...
In a hospitable, kind home
There will be a room for them,
And the destruction of the way of life
It probably doesn't suit him:
The family will just be happy
To him, as a new tenant,
Everything will cost a little:
Of course, younger by nature
Populist and hard to get
Teasing your married sister
The second is to blush and intercede,
Reasoning and teaching my sister,
And the older one is languidly forgotten,
Leaning at her husband's shoulder;
The husband is arguing in vain at this time,
Having a conversation with your father
About socialism, about the commune,
About the fact that someone is a “scoundrel”
From now on it should be called
For making a denunciation...
And will forever be resolved
“Damned and sore question”...
No, the spring ice is crushing, it won’t wash away
Their lives are a fast river:
She'll leave you alone
Both the young man and the old man -
Watch how the ice will rush,
And how the ice will break,
And they will both dream
That “the people are calling them forward”...
But these children's chimeras
Finally, they won't interfere
Somehow to acquire manners
(Father is not averse to this)
Shirt for shirtfront
Change, enter the service,
Give birth to a boy
To love your lawful wife,
And, without standing at the “glorious” post,
Do your duty well
And be a good official,
Without bribes, seeing the good in service...
Yes, this is life - early to death;
They look like guys:
Until the mother screams, they play pranks;
They are “not my novel”:
All they have to do is study and chat,
May you delight yourself with dreams,
But they will never understand
Those with doomed eyes:
Different to become, different blood -
Another (pathetic) love...
This is how life went on in the family. Rocked
Their waves. Spring River
Rushed - dark and wide,
And the ice floes hung menacingly,
And suddenly, after hesitating, they went around
This old boat...
But soon the foggy hour struck -
And to ours friendly family
A strange stranger appeared.
Get up, go out into the meadow in the morning:
A hawk circles in the pale sky,
Drawing a smooth circle after a circle,
Looking for where it's worse
The nest is hidden in the bushes...
Suddenly - birds chirping and movement...
He listens... for another moment -
Flies on straight wings...
An alarming cry from neighboring nests,
The sad squeak of the last chicks,
Gentle fluff flies in the wind -
He claws the poor victim...
And again, flapping his huge wing,
He took off - to draw a circle after a circle,
Unfed eye and homeless
Explore the deserted meadow...
Whenever you look, it’s circling, circling...
Mother Russia, like a bird, grieves
About children; but - her fate,
To be tormented by hawks.
At the evenings with Anna Vrevskaya
Was society's choice color.
Sick and sad Dostoevsky
I went here in my later years
Brighten up the burden of a harsh life,
Gain information and strength
For "Diary". (At this time he
He was friends with Pobedonostsev).
With outstretched hand in inspiration
Polonsky read poetry here.
Some ex-minister humbly
Here I confessed my sins.
And the rector of the university
Beketov, a botanist, was here,
And many professors
And the servants of the brush and pen,
And also the servants of the royal power,
And her enemies are partly
Well, in a word, you can meet here
A mixture of different states.
In this salon there is no hiding,
Under the hostess's charm,
Slavophile and liberal
Shaked hands with each other
(As, however, has long been the custom
Here, in Orthodox Russia:
Everyone, thank God, shakes hands).
And everyone - not so much by talking,
With such liveliness and gaze, -
Mistress in a few minutes
I was able to attract people to me amazingly.
She really had a reputation
Charmingly beautiful,
And together - she was kind.
Who was connected with Anna Pavlovna -
Everyone will remember her well
(For now I have to remain silent
The language of writers about that).
Accommodated a lot of young people
Her public salon:
Others are similar in beliefs,
He is simply in love with her,
Another - with a conspiracy case...
And everyone needed her
Everyone came to her, and boldly
She took part
In all matters without exception,
As in dangerous enterprises...
To her also from my family
All three took their daughters.
Among the elderly and dignified,
Among the green and innocent -
In the salon Vrevskoy felt like one of his own
One young scientist.
A relaxed guest, a familiar one -
He was on first name terms with many.
His features are marked
The printing is not quite ordinary.
Once (he passed the living room)
Dostoevsky noticed him.
“Who is this handsome man? - he asked
Quietly, leaning towards Vrevskaya: -
Looks like Byron." - Slovtso
Everything winged was picked up,
And everything has a new face
They paid attention.
This time the light was merciful,
Usually - so stubborn;
“Beautiful, smart,” the ladies repeated,
The men winced: “poet”...
But if men frown,
They must be jealous...
And the feelings of the fair half
Nobody, the devil himself, will understand...
And the ladies were delighted:
“He is Byron, which means he is a demon...” - Well?
He really looked like a proud lord
Faces with arrogant expression
And something that I want to call
A heavy flame of sadness.
(In general, they noticed something strange about him -
And everyone wanted to notice).
Perhaps it was not, unfortunately,
There is only this will in him... He
One kind of secret passion,
Must have been compared to a lord:
Descendant of later generations,
In which lived a rebellious ardor
Inhuman aspirations, -
He looked like Byron
Like a brother hurts his brother
Healthy sometimes looks like:
That same reddish glow,
And the expression of power is the same,
And the same rush towards the abyss.
But - the spirit is secretly bewitched
The tired cold of illness,
And the effective flame went out,
And the will of frantic effort
Weighed down by consciousness.
So
The predator's cloudy vision rotates,
The sick spread their wings.
“How interesting, how smart,” -
Repeats after the general choir
The youngest daughter. And gives in
Father. And he was invited to their house
Our new Byron.
And he accepts the invitation.
Accepted into the family as if they were one of their own,
Handsome young man. At the beginning
In an old house above the Neva
He was welcomed like a guest,
But soon the old people were attracted
His noble warehouse is ancient,
The custom is polite and decorous:
Although free and wide
There was a new lord in his views,
But he was polite
And kissed the ladies' hands
He doesn't have the slightest contempt.
His brilliant mind
Contradictions were forgiven
The darkness of these contradictions
Out of kindness they didn’t notice
They were eclipsed by the brilliance of talent,
There is some kind of burning in the eyes...
(Do you hear the sound of broken wings? -
The predator strains his eyesight...)
With his people back then
The smile of youth brought us together,
Back in those early years
It was easy to play and could...
He himself did not know his darkness...
He easily dined in the house
And often everyone in the evenings
Lively and fiery conversation
Captivated. (Even though he was a lawyer,
But a poetic example
Didn’t disdain: Constant was friends
In it with Pushkin, and Stein with Flaubert).
Freedom, right, ideal -
Everything was no joke to him,
He was just secretly terrified:
He, while claiming, denied
And he affirmed, denying.
(Everything would be for the mind to wander in extremes,
And the middle is golden
Everything didn’t work out for him!)
He hates - love
Sometimes I tried to surround
As if the corpse wanted to pour
Alive, playing with blood...
“Talent,” everyone around said,
But without being proud (without giving in),
He suddenly became strangely dark...
The soul is sick, but young,
Fearing myself (she's right)
I was looking for consolation: alien
All the words became her...
(Oh, verbal dust! What needs
In you? - You can hardly console
You will hardly resolve the torment!) -
And to the obedient piano
Hands laid down powerfully,
Picking sounds like flowers
Crazy, daring and bold,
Like flaps of women's rags
From a body ready to surrender...
The strand fell on the forehead...
He shook in a secret trembling...
(Everything, everything - like at the hour when on the bed
Desire intertwined two...)
And there - behind the musical storm -
Suddenly appeared (as it did then)
Some image - sad, distant,
Incomprehensible never...
And the wings are white in azure,
And unearthly silence...
But this quiet string
Drowning in a musical storm...
What happened? - Everything that should be:
Handshakes, conversations,
Downcast gazes...
The future is separated
Barely noticeable line
From the present... He became
In the family. He's beautiful
He charmed the youngest daughter.
And the kingdom (without owning the kingdom)
He promised her. And to him
She believed, turning pale...
And her home is in prison
He turned (although not at all
This house did not resemble a prison...).
But it became alien, empty, wild
Everything previously sweet is all around -
Under this strange charm
Speeches promising new things,
Beneath this demonic glow
Eyes piercing with flame...
He is life, he is happiness, he is the element,
She found a hero in him, -
And the whole family, and all the relatives
They are disgusting and interfere with her in everything,
And all her excitement multiplies...
She doesn't know herself
Why can’t he flirt?
She almost went crazy...
And he? -
He hesitates; he doesn't know himself
Why is he hesitating, for what?
And it doesn’t seduce at all
His army demonism...
No, my hero is quite subtle
And perspicacious not to know
How the poor child suffers,
What happiness can you give to a child?
Now - in his sole power...
No, no... but they froze in my chest
Hitherto fiery passions,
And someone whispers: wait...
That is a cold mind, a cruel mind
Entered into unexpected rights...
That is the torment of a lonely life
The head predicted...
“No, he doesn’t love, he plays,”
She repeats, cursing fate, -
Why does it torment and frighten
He is defenseless, me...
He doesn't rush to explain
It’s like he’s waiting for something...”
(Look: this is how a predator accumulates power:
Now he will flap his sick wing,
It will descend silently onto the meadow
And he will drink living blood
Already out of horror - insane,
A trembling victim...) - Here is love
That vampiric age
Which turned me into cripples
Worthy of the title of man!
Be thrice damned, miserable age!
Another groom at this place
I would have shaken off the dust from my feet long ago,
But my hero was too honest
And he couldn’t deceive her:
He was not proud of his strange disposition,
And it was given to him to know
What a demon and Don Juan
It was funny to behave in that age...
He knew a lot - to his own woe,
Known for good reason as an “eccentric”
In that friendly human choir,
which we often call
(Among themselves) - a flock of sheep...
But - “the voice of the people is God’s voice”,
And we need to remember this more often,
At least, for example, now:
If only he were a little stupider
(Is it his fault, however?) -
Perhaps the best way
She could choose for herself
And maybe with such a tender
Tying a noble girl
Its fate is cold and rebellious, -
My hero was completely wrong...
But everything went inevitably
In my own way. The leaf is already rustling,
Spinning. And unstoppable
The soul of the house was growing old.
Negotiations on the Balkans
The diplomats have already led
The troops came and went to bed,
The Neva is shrouded in fog,
And the civilians went
And the civilians started asking questions:
Arrests, searches, denunciations
And there are countless assassination attempts...
And a real book rat
My Byron stood in the midst of this darkness;
He has a brilliant dissertation
Won excellent praise
And he accepted the department in Warsaw...
Getting ready to give lectures,
Tangled up in civil law
With a soul that has begun to get tired, -
He modestly offered her his hand,
Tied her to my destiny
And he took her with him into the distance,
Already harboring boredom in my heart, -
So that his wife can go with him to the star
Shared book works...
Two years have passed. There was an explosion
From the Catherine Canal,
Covering Russia with a cloud.
Everything foreshadowed from afar,
That the fateful hour will happen,
That such a card will appear...
And this century hour of the day -
The last one is called the first of March.
There is sadness in the family. Abolished
It's like there's a big part of it:
The youngest daughter amused everyone,
But she left the family
But life is both confusing and difficult:
Then there is smoke over Russia...
Father, turning gray, looks into the smoke...
Yearning! Little news from my daughter...
Suddenly she returns...
What with her? How thin the figure is transparent!
Thin, exhausted, pale...
And there is a child in his arms.
Chapter two
(Introduction)
I
In those years, distant, deaf,
Sleep and darkness reigned in our hearts:
Pobedonostsev over Russia
Spread out the owl's wings,
And there was neither day nor night
But only the shadow of huge wings;
He outlined a wondrous circle
Russia, looking into her eyes
With the glassy gaze of a sorcerer;
Under the clever talk of a wonderful fairy tale
It’s not difficult for a beauty to fall asleep, -
And she became foggy
Having fallen asleep hopes, thoughts, passions...
But also under the yoke of dark spells
Lanita painted her tan:
And the wizard is in power
She seemed full of strength
Which with an iron hand
Trapped in a useless knot...
The sorcerer burned incense with one hand,
And a stream of blue and curly
Dewy incense was smoking... But -
He placed his other bony hand
Living souls are shelved.
II
In those immemorial years
Petersburg was even more formidable,
At least not heavier, not grayer
Water rolled under the fortress
The boundless Neva...
The bayonet was shining, the chimes were crying,
And the same ladies and dandies
We flew here to the islands,
And also the horse with a barely audible laugh
He answered the horse towards him,
And a black mustache, mixing with the fur,
Tickled my eyes and lips...
I remember, so did I,
I flew with you, forgetting the whole world,
But... really, there’s no point in that,
My friend, there is little happiness in this...
III
Eastern terrible dawn
In those years I was still a little red...
The St. Petersburg rabble stared
Obsequious to the king...
The people were really crowding
The medaled coachman at the door
The heavy horses were hot,
Policemen on the panel
They drove the audience... “Hurray”
Someone loud turns him on,
And the king - huge, watery -
Traveling from the yard with his family...
It's spring, but the sun is shining stupidly,
There are seven whole weeks until Easter,
And cold drops from the roofs
Already behind my collar stupidly
Slides down, chilling your back...
Wherever you turn, it’s all wind...
“How sickening it is to live in this world” -
You mutter, avoiding a puddle;
The dog pokes under your feet,
The detective's galoshes shine,
A sour stench is wafting from the yards,
And the “prince” yells: “Robe, robe!”
And meeting the face of a passerby,
I wouldn't give a damn in his face
If only I had the same desires
I didn’t read it in his eyes...
IV
But before the May nights
The whole city fell asleep
And the horizon expanded;
A huge month behind us
The face was mysteriously flushed
Before the dawn of the endless...
Oh, my elusive city,
Why did you arise above the abyss?..
Do you remember: coming out at night white
Where the sphinx looks into the sea,
And on hewn granite
Bowing my heavy head,
You could hear: in the distance, in the distance,
As if from the sea, the sound is alarming,
Impossible for God's firmament
And unusual for the earth...
You saw the whole distance like an angel
On the fortress spire; and so -
(Dream or reality): a wonderful fleet,
Widely deployed flanks,
Suddenly blocked the Neva...
And the Sovereign Founder Himself
Stands on the lead frigate...
This is what many people dreamed about...
What kind of dreams do you have, Russia?
What storms are destined?..
But these times are deaf
Not everyone, of course, has dreams...
Yes, and there were no people
On the square at this wonderful moment
(One lover belated
He hurried, turning up his collar...)
But in the scarlet streams behind the feed
The coming day was already shining,
And dormant pennants
The morning wind was already playing,
Spread immensely
It's already a bloody dawn,
Threatening Arthur and Tsushima,
Threatening the Ninth of January...
Chapter Three
Father lies in "Rose Alley"
Street in Warsaw.
No longer arguing with fatigue,
And my son's train is rushing into the cold
From the shores of our native sea...
Gendarmes, rails, lanterns,
Jargon and centuries-old sidelocks, -
And now - in the rays of a sick dawn
Backyards of Polish Russia...
Here is everything that was, everything that is,
Inflated by a vengeful chimera;
Copernicus himself cherishes revenge,
Bending over an empty sphere...
"Revenge! Revenge!" - in cold cast iron
Rings like an echo over Warsaw:
That's Pan Frost on an evil horse
The bloody spur rattles...
Here's the thaw: it will sparkle more vividly
The edge of the sky is lazy yellow,
And the eyes of the ladies draw bolder
Your circle is affectionate and flattering...
But everything that is in the sky, on the earth,
Still full of sadness...
Only a rail to Europe in the wet darkness
Shines like honest steel.
The station is spit-stained; Houses,
Insidiously devoted to blizzards;
The bridge over the Vistula is like a prison;
Father, struck down by an evil illness, -
More and more the darling of fate;
To him and in this meager world
Dreams of something wonderful;
He wants to see bread in the stone,
The sign of immortality is on the deathbed,
Behind the dim light of a lantern
He imagines the dawn
Yours, God who has forgotten Poland! -
What is he doing here with his youth?
What does he greedily ask the wind for? -
Forgotten leaf of autumn days
Yes, the wind carries dry dust!
And the night goes on, bringing frost,
Fatigue, sleepy desires...
How disgusting the names of the streets are!
Here, finally, is “Rose Alley”!.. -
A unique moment:
The hospital is immersed in sleep, -
But in a frame bright window
Standing, turning to someone,
Father... and son, barely breathing,
He looks, not trusting his eyes...
As if in a vague dream the soul
He was frozen by the young one,
And the evil thought cannot be driven away:
“He’s still alive!.. In a strange Warsaw
Talk to him about law
Criticize lawyers with him!..”
But everything is a matter of one minute:
The son quickly looks for the gate
(The hospital is already locked)
He takes the call boldly
And he enters... The staircase creaks...
Tired, dirty from the road
He runs up the steps
Without pity and without anxiety...
The candle flickers... Mister
Blocked his way
And, peering, he says sternly:
"Are you the professor's son?" - "Yes son…"
Then (with a friendly face):
"I ask you to. At five he died. There…"
The father in the coffin was dry and straight.
The nose was straight, but became an eagle.
This crumpled bed was pitiful,
And in a room, alien and cramped,
The dead man gathered for the review
Calm, yellow, wordless...
“He will have a nice rest now” -
The son thought with a calm look
Looking through the open door...
(Someone is always with him
I looked to where the flames of the candles were,
Under the influence of the careless
Leaning, it illuminates alarmingly
Yellow face, shoes, narrow shoulders, -
And, straightening up, he weakly draws
Other shadows on the wall...
And the night stands, stands in the window...)
And the son thinks: “Where is the holiday of Death?
Father's face is so strangely quiet
“To the fullest extent” (lat.) - the slogan of Brand, the hero of the drama of the same name by G. Ibsen.
Analysis of the poem “Retribution” by Blok
Alexander Blok’s poem “Retribution” is an unfinished work by the author about Russia and its fate, told through the story of one family. It is full of revolutionary forebodings and the poet, in his own words, did not consider it necessary to finish working on it at a time when the outcome of the revolution was already clearly clear. The author wrote it in the style of realism, realizing that history moves forward and, despite everything, the world remains beautiful.
Most block scholars evaluate “Retribution” as a kind of result of the poet’s work, which combines the author’s creative searches and his views on life, although this work is not at all one of the most studied in the poet’s work. Disputes about genre affiliation are still ongoing among literary scholars.
Just before his death, Blok will write a preface to the poem: explaining its concept, he quotes G. Ibsen (“Youth is retribution”). Turning to the structure of the work, he says that it should have consisted of a prologue, three chapters and an epilogue, with the actions of each chapter taking place against the background historical events of global significance.
The poem begins as a call to the artist and an appeal to his faith in “beginnings and ends”:
Erase random features -
And you will see: the world is beautiful.
What follows is the idea of gender, which runs like a red thread through the entire work: that the son is a reflection of the father and his continuation, that they are both links in the same chain. Here it is worth remembering Father Blok, with whom these lines are inextricably linked and whom the poet knew so little.
The action takes place in the 70s of the 19th century: during the Narodnaya Volya movement, an attractive young man appears in one of the liberal-minded families, simultaneously resembling Byron and a demon. He gradually infiltrated the family of intellectuals, marrying one of the daughters and subsequently taking her to Europe. A few years later, the daughter returns to her homeland with her first child in her arms.
The next part of the poem is dedicated to the son of the “demon”, who appears as the insensitive son of the 21st century. In the final part, Blok describes what his father comes to the end of his life with and what changes have occurred in this bright “demon.” All the events of this part take place in the capital of Poland, where the poet’s father actually lived.
In the work “Retribution” Blok reveals himself as a direct heir to the realism of A.S. Pushkin, as he describes the end of the noble class, but without heart-breaking suffering, realizing that life is not over, but continues and, moreover, one can still see the beauty in it.
