Great poets. John Keats. John Keats short biography
John Keats was born into the family of the owner of a paid stable (horse rental shop). He was the first-born son of Thomas Keats (b. c. 1775) and Frances Keats, née Jennings (b. 1775). This was followed by brothers George (1797-1841), Thomas (1799-1818), Edward (1801-1802) and sister Frances Mary (Fanny) (1803-1889).
On April 16, 1804, Keats's father died in an accident. Just two months later, on June 27, 1804, Keats's mother Frances remarried William Rollings. This marriage was unsuccessful, and the children settled with their mother's parents in Enfield (north of London).
In August 1803, John entered the Reverend John Clarke's private boarding school (also in Enfield).
In March 1810, Keats's mother died of tuberculosis, and in July John Knowland Sandell and Richard Abbey were appointed guardians of the orphaned children. In 1816, after Sandell's death, Richard Abbey, a tea merchant by profession, became the sole guardian.
Keats, who lost his parents at the age of 15, was sent to London to study medicine; he could not afford a university education and did not even have the opportunity to study classical languages. Deep penetration the spirit of Hellenism came into Keats's poetry intuitively, since he could only read Greek poets in translation. Keats soon left his medical practice in London hospitals and concentrated on literature. He was interested in the works of Spenser and Homer and became one of the members of a small circle that included the critic Leigh Hunt, who was his unofficial leader, as well as William Hazlitt, Horace Smith, Cornelius Webb and John Hamilton Reynolds. Conservative critics soon pejoratively dubbed the circle the “Cockney school,” that is, the school of common writers. Shelley, although he was a man of noble birth, was also close to this circle.
Tight financial circumstances made Keats's life extremely difficult during this period; He was by nature a sickly man, and his body was weakened by the pressure of need. Much mental suffering was caused to him by his love for Fanny Bron, to whom they were engaged, but were never able to marry due to his difficulty financial situation. In 1817, K. published the first book of lyric poetry, and in next year- the great poem “Endymion”. Close friends immediately appreciated his high talent and originality, but magazine criticism attacked the debuting poet with incomprehensible bitterness, accusing him of mediocrity, affectation, and sending him to the “pharmacist’s shop to prepare plasters.” The conservative magazines Quarterly Review and Blackwood were especially ferocious in this campaign against Keats; the articles of the authoritative critic Giford at that time were full of rude ridicule, which could not but wound the psyche of the impressionable, temperamental poet.
The opinion that has existed for a long time that the poet’s life was “snuffed out by an article,” as Byron put it, is greatly exaggerated, but there is no doubt that moral experiences, among which the attacks of criticism played a major role, accelerated the development of consumption, which his family suffered. In 1818, Keats was sent to south Wales for the winter, where he briefly recovered and wrote extensively; however, the illness soon returned with the same force, and he began to slowly fade away. He was aware of this and reflected in his odes and lyric poems the melancholy mood of passing youth and the mysterious solemnity of the transition from life to death. In 1820, Keats left, accompanied by his friend, the artist Severn, to Italy, where he was destined to spend the last months of his life. His letters and last poems are filled with a reverent cult of nature and beauty. Shortly before the poet’s death, his third book of his poems was published, containing his most mature works (“Hyperion”, “Isabella”, “The Eve of St. Agnes”, “Lamia”). It was very warmly received by readers, but Keats was no longer destined to find out about this: he died on February 23, 1821. The poet was buried in the Roman Protestant Cemetery; The epitaph he himself wrote is carved on the gravestone: “Here lies one whose name was writ in water.”
Keats's poetry introduced an element of Hellenism, new for that time, into English romanticism, as well as the cult of beauty and harmonious enjoyment of life. Keats's Hellenism was reflected in all its strength in his two great poems: "Endymion" and "Hyperion", as well as in the poem "Ode on a Grecian Urn".
In Endymion, which develops the myth of the love of the moon goddess for a shepherd, Keats discovered an inexhaustible wealth of fantasy, intertwining many Greek legends and adding to them more complex, spiritualistic poetic structures. The intricacy of the plot and the complexity of the episodes makes reading the poem very difficult, but separate places- mainly lyrical passages - are among the best pages in all English poetry. Remarkable in this regard are the hymn to Pan, deeply imbued with pantheism (II canto), and the song of an Indian girl (IV canto), moving from a chanting of sadness to a violent hymn in honor of Bacchus. Endymion’s uncontrollable attraction to an unknown goddess who appeared to him in a dream, melancholy and alienation from earthly connections, a temporary infatuation with an earthly beauty who turns out to be the embodiment of his immortal friend, and the final unity with the latter - all this symbolizes for the poet the history of the human soul, sacredly preserving the image eternal beauty and seeking the embodiment of her ideal on earth.
"Hyperion" - an unfinished poem about the triumph of the Olympian gods over the generation of titans that preceded them, is more strict in form and full of deep tragedy. The speeches of the defeated titans, especially the fiery appeals of the rebellious Thea, who embodies the greatness of the dying titans, are reminiscent of the most inspired episodes of Milton's Paradise Lost. In “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” Keats celebrates the eternity of beauty as the artist sees it. In all these poems, Keats reflected an aesthetic theory inspired by spiritual intimacy with the ancient world, and formulated it in the following verse: “Beauty is truth, truth is beauty; this is all that a person knows on earth and that he should know.” Along with Hellenism, expressed in the cult of beauty, an element of mysticism is also found in his poetry: the poet sees in the beauty of nature symbols of a different, higher, eternal beauty. All of Keats's odes ("Ode to a Nightingale", "To Autumn", "To Melancholy") are of a spiritualistic nature, which is also characteristic of his Greek poems. However, the poet’s anxious, slightly mystical mood is especially pronounced in his ballads, such as “The Eve of St. Agnes,” “Isabella” and others. Here he develops motives folk beliefs and surrounds them with a poetic aura that captivates the reader’s imagination.
After Keats's death, his importance to English poetry was exaggerated by his admirers and disputed by his opponents; For a long time his work was associated with the literary circle from which he came. He was attacked by those who targeted Leigh Hunt's so-called “Cockney-School”. In fact, he was connected with this group only through personal friendship. The criticism of subsequent generations, alien to such prejudices, realized this and appreciated the genius of Keats and the merits of his poetry. Now he is given a place in English literature on a par with Byron and Shelley, although his poems differ markedly from the latter’s poems in mood and internal content. If Byron personified “demonism” in European poetry, and Shelley was an adept of pantheism, then Keats is responsible for the creation of a deeply poetic direction, where the poet’s attention is concentrated on the inner world of man. Keats' followers became, 30 years after his death, poets and artists of the Pre-Raphaelite school in the person of Rossetti, Morris and others, whose work contributed to the revival of English poetry and fine arts.
In 1971, to mark the 150th anniversary of the poet's death, the UK Royal Mail issued a 3 pence postage stamp.
Bibliography
1814 - sonnet “As from the darkening gloom a silver dove...”, written on the occasion of the death of my grandmother.
1816 - sonnet “To Solitude” (O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell,..), poems: “I stood tip-toe upon a little hill...” and “Dream and Poetry” "(Sleep and Poetry).
1817 - the first book - “Poems”, dedicated to Hunt.
1818 - poem “Endymion”, poem “Isabella, or The Pot of Basil”.
1819 - romantic poem “The Eve of St. Agnes”.
1819 - “Ode to Psyche”, “Ode to Nightingale”, “Ode on a Grecian Urn”, “Ode to Melancholy”, “Ode to idleness" (Ode to Indolence) and "Ode to Autumn" (To Autumn), the poem "Lamia", "Hyperion".
John Keats is the inspiration and main character (in the form of AI) in Dan Simmons's series of science fiction works, The Songs of Hyperion.
John Keats- poet of the younger generation of English romantics. Keats's greatest works were written when he was 23 years old. IN last year life practically moved away from literary activity.
In August 1803, John entered the Reverend John Clarke's private boarding school (also in Enfield).
Keats, who lost his parents at the age of 15, was sent to London to study medicine; he could not afford a university education and did not even have the opportunity to study classical languages.
Although Keats studied medicine, he preferred poetry to this activity.
In 1817, Keats published his first book of lyric poems, and the following year - the long poem Endymion. Unkind reviews from critics led to depression. Moral unrest accelerated the development of consumption, a hereditary disease in the poet’s family.
In 1818 he was sent to South Wales, where he gained some strength. In 1819, Keith fell in love with Fanny Brawne. She refused to marry him until he achieved a position in society. Very cramped circumstances made Keats's life extremely difficult. The disease has returned. Keats was slowly fading away. The poet was aware of this and reflected in his odes and poems the mood of dying youth and the mysterious solemnity of the transition to another world.
In 1820 he sailed to Italy, hoping to improve his health, but died in Rome. Before his death, he published his third book of poems. These are “Hyperion”, “Isabella” and others - his most mature works.
John Keats died February 23, 1821(he was only 25 years old) and was buried in the Protestant cemetery in Rome. And there were only a few months left before his triumph as a writer. The book of poems, published almost immediately after the death of its author, was enthusiastically received and was a tremendous success among the general public. And the house in which the poet spent the last months of his life became a place of pilgrimage for admirers of his talent.
19th century
Victor Eremin
John Keats
(1795—1821)
The life of the outstanding English poet John Keats was short and inconspicuous, far from epochal storms and human passions. For twenty-five years of his short life the poet experienced the death of so many close people, which few people have even experienced at the age of fifty. This fate-prepared sadness inevitably affected Keats's work. The poet's first biographer and first publisher, Richard Monckton Milnes (later Lord Houghton) (1809-1885), described his life in one phrase: “A few true friends, some beautiful poems, passionate love and an early death.”
Keats's literary activity lasted a little over six years (1814-1819) and ended when he was just approaching maturity. The poet stopped creating a year before his death.
He was the firstborn son of Thomas Keats (c. 1775 - 1804) and Frances Keats, née Jennings (1777 - 1810). John turned out to be the eldest of the four surviving Keats children. He had two more younger brothers, George (1797–1841) and Thomas (1799–1818), and a sister, Frances Mary (1803–1889). In his youth, the father of the future poet served in a paid stable owned by John Jennings (? - 1805), then married the owner’s daughter and became a manager.
From the age of eight, John was sent to the prestigious private boarding school of the Reverend John Clarke in Enfield (north of London). The headmaster's son, Charles Cowden Clarke (1787–1877), a prominent man of letters in later years, was Keats's teacher and friend. He was the first to introduce the boy to ancient English poetry. John became interested in poetry and even took up his own translation of Virgil's Aeneid. And in general, things were going well for the boy. But on April 16, 1804, Thomas Keats, who was visiting his sons at school, was unsuccessfully thrown by a slipping horse on the way back - the man hit his head on a stone and broke his skull. He lay in the dark for a long time until the local watchman found him. A few hours later, Keats Sr. died. The children were left orphans.
Heartbroken, Frances was afraid to take over the management of a large household and a month later hastily married a small bank employee, William Rollings. The new husband turned out to be an ordinary fortune hunter. At first, the stepfather refused to support the Keats children, and they had to be raised by the old Jennings.
A year passed, and Grandfather Jennings, after whom the poet was named, died. Unfortunately, the old man left a poorly drafted will, which left the family with about half of his fortune. Grandmother, Alice Jennings (née Wally), moved with the children to small house near the school in Enfield. Gradually increasing financial difficulties began, which then haunted John throughout his life.
A few years later, the stepfather took away the stables from the mother, and the woman had to move to live with her children. By that time she was already sick with tuberculosis. Frances Keats died in March 1810, she managed to infect her sons John and Thomas with the incurable disease.
John Nowland Sandell and Richard Abbey were appointed guardians of the minor Keats, both were respectable and respected people in the area. After Sandell's death in 1816, Richard Abbey, a wealthy tea merchant, took upon himself all the care of the young people. He did not steal the orphan's money, but set himself the goal of preserving and increasing it, which is why he went to the other extreme - he began to severely limit the Keats even in the most necessary things.
In particular, Abby insisted that sixteen-year-old John and fourteen-year-old George leave school and train with surgeon and pharmacist Thomas Hammond in Edmonton. They learned the basics of medicine for three years.
While studying with Hammond, the young man finally developed as a poet. In 1814, Keats created a number of poems, in particular the famous sonnet “Like a Dove from the Thinning Darkness...”, written on the occasion of the death of Alice’s grandmother.
In October 1815, John Keats began his internship at Guy's Hospital in London. At the same time, the young man did not give up intensive studies of poetry. He made connections in the literary and artistic world of London. Keats met the poet and journalist James Henry Leigh Hunt (1784–1859), publisher of the popular weekly Observer, and the artists Benjamin Robert Haydon (1786–1846) and Joseph Severin (1793–1879), who became his close friends.
The work of John Keats was first published by Hunt even before they met personally. On May 5, 1816, the sonnet “Towards Loneliness” appeared in The Observer. At the same time, Keats's friendship with Percy Bysshe Shelley began.
The future surgeon's internship was coming to an end. In July 1816, John passed his examinations and received the right to practice as a surgeon and pharmacist upon reaching adulthood. Abby's guardian was pleased - his duty to his deceased friends was slowly but steadily being fulfilled. And suddenly the scythe found a stone. One day during an operation, John Keats found himself saying that it was enough long time I was not thinking about the patient and not about the sequence of my actions, but was composing a poem. The young man was scared. On the one hand, this can destroy an innocent person, on the other hand, apparently, the main calling of his life is poetry. And John announced to his guardian that he was leaving medical practice.
Abby was shocked, because he had no doubt that only rich slackers could study poetry, for common man the path to creativity is blocked. The guardian begged and persuaded his ward to change his mind, but to no avail. Keats left medicine irrevocably. Leigh Hunt supported him in this decision. The young man was inspired by the support of his new friend and dedicated his first collection of poetry, entitled “Poems,” to him. The book was published in March 1817. Critics reacted favorably to the young poet, but Keats expected more - at least a stir, similar to that, which the metropolitan aristocracy arranged around Byron’s “Childe Harold.”
In April 1817, the poet left London to travel around provincial Britain to work there in solitude on the poem "Endymion". The poem was published a year later and unexpectedly received harsh criticism in leading literary publications. Literary reviewers declared the poem "calm, cool, slobbering idiocy" and advised "Johnny" to give up poetry and "go back to his bottles and pills."
By that time, significant changes had occurred in Keats's mood. He began to feel burdened by Hunt's tutelage. Whether the poet himself, or at the prompting of someone, Keats suddenly noticed the superficiality of the judgments of his already middle-aged patron, his, to a certain extent, frivolity and arrogance. John had a new teacher - the prominent radical William Hazlitt (1778-1830). A brilliant critic, an expert on Shakespeare, a historian of English poetry and theater, and a political writer, he fearlessly attacked those in highest power and the most important public institutions in Great Britain.
Under the influence of Hazlitt, Keats created the poem "Isabella, or the Pot of Basil" based on the plot of the fifth story of the fourth day of Boccaccio's Decameron.
At the end of June 1818, Keats's second-eldest brother, George, left for America. He was already married, and he was inspired to leave young man his wife Georgiana. John accompanied the newlyweds to Liverpool. He was painfully worried about the separation, since he still had his seriously ill younger brother Thomas in his arms, and the poet himself could not boast of good health.
To unwind a little, Keats, in the company of his friend Charles Brown (1787-1842), went on a walking journey through the Lake District, Scotland and Ireland. Friends visited Burns's grave in Dumfries and his cottage in Ayr. The trip had to be urgently interrupted - on the island of Mull John caught a bad cold, as it turned out later, this cold provoked transient tuberculosis in the poet.
At home, John found Thomas dying of consumption. At the bedside of his agonizing brother, in order to distract himself a little, Keats began to compose “Hyperion,” a poem inspired by the work of Milton. The great work remained unfinished - Keats completed only the first two books. Work on the poem was interrupted by the death of his brother.
Thomas Keats died on December 1, 1818. Shocked to the core, John decided to move to Hampstead to live with Charles Brown, with whom he decided to write the tragedy “Otto the Great.” Brown's neighbor was a sweet eighteen-year-old girl named Fanny Bron (1800-1865). At the first meeting, Keats really didn’t like her, but a week later the poet was fascinated by the coquette Fanny. On December 25, 1818, John proposed to the girl, and in July 1819 the engagement took place. The story of their love is reflected in the poet’s wonderful letters, which, like most of his letters, belong to the masterpieces of English epistolary prose.
The year 1819 turned out to be unusually fruitful for Keats. It began with the completion of the romantic poem “The Eve of St. Agnes” and the creation of the poem “The Eve of St. Mark.” But the time of the greatest rise of the poetic genius of John Keats was April and May, when five great odes were created - “Ode on a Grecian Urn”, “Ode to Sloth” (another translation of the name “Ode of Idleness”), “Ode to Melancholy”, “Ode to a Nightingale” and "Ode to Psyche". According to numerous critics, it was these odes that introduced Keats into the ranks of poetic geniuses of all times and peoples. At the same time, the ballad “Ruthless Beauty” was composed.
In the summer and autumn, Keats created the tragic poem "Lamia" and revised "Hyperion", new option known as The Fall of Hyperion. Vision". The ode to “Autumn,” composed at the same time, remains to this day one of Keats’s most famous works.
After September 1819, Keats created nothing significant. His financial situation worsened due to the fault of his brother George. From the end of the year, the poet increasingly felt ill-health and fatigue; his struggle for existence became more and more difficult and painful; John was burdened by constant need and dependence on friends. In his letters, pessimistic motives sound increasingly stronger. The satirical poem “The Cap with Bells” and the tragedy “King Stephen”, begun in the fall, remained unfinished - by the end of the year the poet’s tuberculosis process sharply worsened.
In January 1820, George Keats arrived in London. He came for money. The last meeting of the brothers lasted almost a month. It ended with John postponing his wedding to Fanny and giving George almost his entire share of the inheritance to support his family in America. It must be admitted that Keats managed to demonstrate to his brother that he was healthy and cheerful, and convince him that everything was fine and safe.
On February 3, John accompanied George to Liverpool, and upon returning home he suffered severe pulmonary hemorrhage. Realizing that he would not last long, Keats tried to break off his engagement to Fanny Bron, but the girl categorically refused to part with him.
At the beginning of July 1820, the last book of the poet’s lifetime was published - “Lamia”, “Isabella”, “The Eve of St. Agnes” and other poems.”
As Keats's health steadily deteriorated, on the urgent advice of doctors, in the fall he went to Italy for treatment. On September 18, accompanied by the artist Joseph Severin, the poet sailed from Gravesend, and on November 15, the travelers arrived in Rome. By this time, Keats's condition was hopeless.
On November 30, the poet wrote his last letter. On December 10, prolonged agony began; during particularly severe attacks, the patient coughed up up to two cups of arterial blood.
John Keats died in Rome on February 23, 1821. He was buried in the Roman Protestant cemetery next to the grave of Percy Bysshe Shelley's son, William. A year later, Shelley’s own ashes were found here. Shocked to the point of his death early death friend, Shelley dedicated one of his most remarkable works to Keats, the elegy “Adonais” (1821).
Byron argued completely unfoundedly that the death of Keats was caused by malicious criticism in English magazines that hounded the young poet.
John Keats was forgotten for almost thirty years. But in 1848 a biography of the poet was published, then his works were published. And Keats received well-deserved fame. A remarkable monument was erected at his grave, and the houses in Rome and Hampstead where he lived became museums.
The poetry of John Keats was translated into Russian by K. I. Chukovsky, B. L. Pasternak, V. V. Levik, S. Ya. Marshak and many others.
Five Great Odes
Ode to a Greek Vase
1
O you, son of slow ages,
Peace is your chaste bridegroom.
Your flowers are more captivating than poetry.
The language of your forest legends is forgotten.
Who is this? People or deities?
What is driving them? Fright? Delight? Ecstasy?
O maidens! You run headlong away.
How to figure out what's on your lips?
A cry of fear? A wild cry of triumph?
What does the pipe sing about in the shadow of the oak forests?
2
The sounds caress mortal ears,
But silent music is dearer to me.
Play, pipe, bewitching my spirit
With its silent melody.
O young man! You will sing forever.
The trees will never fly around.
Enamored! You won’t get drunk with bliss,
You strive in vain for a passionate gaze towards your beloved.
But your love will not die in the future,
And the lovely features will not fade.
3
Happy forest! Don't be afraid of the cold!
You will never say goodbye to the foliage.
Happy musician! In the shade of the oak trees
The living melody will never cease.
Happy, happy love!
Your holy power is sweet to us.
You are filled with eternal warmth.
Oh, what blind passion is before you,
Barren heat inhaling into the blood,
Burning bodies with flames.
4
Where will you lead the heifer, priest?
The garlands contain the silk of her steep sides.
Where will you plunge the sacred knife into her flesh?
Where will you honor your gods with sacrifice?
Why is the peaceful beach deserted?
Why would people leave the town?
The square, street and temple are deserted.
They will know neither turmoil nor anxiety.
The town is sleeping. It is empty forever.
And why - no one will tell us.
5
Enclosed in Attic form
The silent, many-sided world of passions,
Courage of husbands, charm of young wives
And the blessed freshness of the branches.
It is not without reason that you will survive the centuries.
When we disappear in the future like smoke,
And again human sorrow hurts the chest,
You will tell other generations:
“In beauty there is truth, in truth there is beauty.
This is the meaning and essence of earthly knowledge.”
Translation by V. B. Mikushevich
Ode to the Nightingale
The heart is ready to freeze from pain,
And the mind is on the verge of oblivion,
It’s like I’m drinking hemlock infusion,
It’s as if I’m plunging into oblivion;
No, I'm not tormented by envy of you,
But your melody is filled with happiness, -
And I will listen, light-winged Dryad,
To your melodies,
Crowded among the beech trees,
Among the shadows of the midnight garden.
Oh, if only a sip of wine
From the depths of the treasured basement,
Where is the sweetness southern countries saved -
Fun, dance, song, clanging of the cymbal;
Oh, if only the cup of pure Hippocrene,
Sparkling, filled to the brim,
Oh, if only these pure lips
Framed with scarlet foam
Drink, leave, dying of happiness,
There, to you, where there is silence and darkness.
Go into darkness, fade away without a trace,
Don't know what you don't know
About a world where there is excitement, fever,
Moaning, complaints of earthly futility;
Where gray hair touches,
Where youth dries up from adversity,
Where every thought is a spring of sadness,
Which is full of heavy tears;
Where beauty does not live for a day
And where love was forever debunked.
But away! I was whisked away to your shelter
Not the leopards of the Bacchus quadriga, -
The wings of Poetry carry me,
Having torn off the chains of the earthly mind, -
I'm here, I'm here! It's cool all around,
The moon looks solemnly from the throne
Accompanied by a retinue of star fairies;
But the twilight of the garden is dark;
Just a breeze, barely blowing from the sky,
Brings reflections into the darkness of the branches.
The flowers at my feet are enveloped in the darkness of the night,
And the fragrant midnight is tender,
But all the living aromas are clear,
Which at the appointed hour is the moon
Gives to trees, herbs and flowers,
To the rosehip, which is full of sweet dreams,
And hidden among the leaves and thorns,
Asleep here and there,
Inflorescences of musky, heavy roses,
Attracting midges sometimes in the evening.
I have been painfully in love with Death,
When I listened to this singing in the darkness,
I gave her thousands of names,
Composing poems about her in rapture;
Perhaps the time has come for her,
And it’s time for me to leave the earth obediently,
While you ascend into darkness
Your high requiem, -
You will sing, and I will be under a layer of turf
I won’t listen to anything anymore.
But you, O Bird, are not involved in death, -
Every nation is merciful to you.
In the night, the same sweet-voiced song
Both the proud king and the pitiful stinker listened;
In the sad heart of Ruth in difficult times,
When she wandered in foreign fields.
The same song flowed soulfully, -
That song that more than once
Flew into the doors of a secret window
Over the gloomy sea in a forgotten land.
Forgettable! This word hurts the ear
A heavy ringing voice like a bell;
Goodbye! The spirit falls silent before you -
A genius inspired by imagination.
Goodbye! Goodbye! Your tune is so sad.
He glides into the distance - into silence, into oblivion,
And across the river falls into the grass
Among the forest clearings, -
What was it - a dream or an obsession?
I woke up - or am I daydreaming?
Translation by E. V. Vitkovsky
Ode to Melancholy
Don't squeeze it out wolf berries poison,
Don't drink a sip from Lethe,
And you don’t need Proserpina
Weave wreaths from intoxicating herbs;
For rosary beads, do not take berries from the yew tree,
Don't let your Psyche appear
Night butterfly, let the owl
Don’t call you and don’t let them lie down
Above the shadow of the shadow, becoming even darker, -
Your sadness will remain dead.
But if Melancholy is a fog
Suddenly it will descend from the sky to the earth,
Giving moisture to the grasses without grass,
Hiding every hill in the April darkness, -
Then be sad: over a crimson rose,
Above the sparkle of the rainbow in the coastal wave,
Over the incomparable whiteness of the lily, -
And if the lady is harsh with you,
Then take possession of her tender hand
And drink her pure gaze to the dregs.
She is friendly with transient beauty,
With Joy, whose lips always say
Your “farewell”, and with the Joy of the Sorrowful,
Whose nectar should turn into poison, -
Yes, melancholy lamps are burning
Before the altar in the Temple of Pleasures, -
Only those who can see them can see them.
Whose incomparably refined genius
Mighty Joy will taste the delights:
And it will pass into the domain of sorrow.
Translation by E. V. Vitkovsky
Ode to Idleness
They neither toil nor spin.
Matt. 6-28
I once saw three people
In a dawn dream - they all passed
In front of me, and everyone was dressed
In sandals and chitons to the ground, -
Figures on a marble vase
Inflicted - they went around
And they came again in a regular manner,
Never seen by me before
And strange to me - so often unfamiliar
There is a sculptor with a pottery craft.
But why, mysterious shadows,
Didn't my soul recognize you?
Then, so that through a series of obsessions
You slid past without permission
Me from sleep? - It was a drowsy hour,
And Idleness without pleasure and without pain
She poured into my feelings;
I became numb, and my pulse quietly died away, -
Why did you come and not give free rein?
Should I remain in my nothingness?
Yes, for the third time they approached -
Oh, for what? I saw myself in a dope
Sleepy, that my soul is akin to
Flower-decorated meadow;
There was a fog, but sweet tears
It was not possible to fall to the ground;
Grape leaves crushed by frame
Open in spring garden window, -
O shadows! You can't see my tears!
Go away, there is no need to prolong the date!
Turning around for a moment, she left again
A leisurely string of figures -
And I wanted to gain wings,
Flying after them - I recognized their faces:
Love was the first of them,
Then Vanity walked with a measured gait,
Marked by pale brow, -
And the third walked, whose step was soft, quiet, -
I knew her, a meek maiden, -
And then there was Poetry itself.
They left - I didn’t have enough wings...
Love is gone - what do you need it for?
Vanity? - It starts
In madness, and its essence is poor.
Poetry? - There is no joy in you,
What kind of half-days I am inclined to see
And in the evenings in which sleep dawns -
I would submit to such a fate,
But how can we return to those centuries?
When was the world not captivated by Mammon?
Farewell! You can't wake me up
Resting on a flower bed, -
I can't live a day with praise,
What does a handsome darling get?
Pass by, beautiful visionary system,
Remain only seen in a dream
Ornament of an antique vessel;
Stay, my genius, in idle slumber,
Disappear, phantoms, away from here
And don't worry about me anymore!
Translation by E. V. Vitkovsky
Ode to Psyche
Hear, goddess, the sounds of these lines,
Discordant, perhaps, but beneficial for the spirit:
I couldn't humiliate your secrets
Near the shell of your ear.
Was it real? Or maybe in a dream
Did I see winged Psyche?
I wandered idly in the thicket silence,
But I only dare to remember with embarrassment:
Two creatures under the leafy crown
They lay in the gently whispering grass;
Close by, touching the rhizomes with coolness,
The sleepless stream gurgled,
Shining through the green cover
Azure and purple of morning buds.
Their wings intertwined, and their hands intertwined,
The lips are not merged; however, the hour of separation
Hasn't struck yet, keep kissing
Didn't forbid the dawn; define,
Who this boy is is of little merit
Recognize his features.
But who is his darling, who is his girlfriend?
Psyche, you!
To the gods of all, later taken to heaven,
To see Olympus from above,
You will eclipse the daytime pride of Phoebus,
And Vesper - the night firefly;
You have no temple, no altar,
In the darkness before which
The maidens would moan, creating a wondrous hymn
To you in one chorus.
No flutes, no lyres, so that the service flows smoothly,
No sweet smoke from the censer,
Not a grove where I could talk
With pale lips the Sibyl.
Most Serene! It may be too late to make a vow,
For the faithful lyre - the hour of loss has struck,
There are no more good trees in the world,
Fire, air, and water are not holy;
In an era so distant
From decrepit Hellenic pride,
Your wings, so bright to this day,
I see and sing with delight:
Let me become, creating a wondrous hymn,
Both in voice and in chorus,
With a cymbal, a flute, so that the service can flow,
Smoke floating from the censer,
Sacred grove, where I would speak
With pale lips the Sibyl.
Let me, as a priest, build a temple
In the depths of the spirit, hitherto virgin,
Let new thoughts be sweet pain
It branches and sounds instead of a pipe;
And let the trees be far away
Scattering shadows along the spurs,
Let the wind, the waterfall, and the thrush and the bumblebee
Dryads are lulled in the moss of the desolations;
And, retreating into this silence,
I will cover the altar with rose hips,
I will close the trunks of high thoughts in union
With garlands of buds and luminaries,
Of which the Mind, the lord of all illusions,
It has not yet grown anywhere forever;
I will provide you with comfort and tenderness, -
How you thirst, exactly:
And the torch and the window, towards love
Open into the night!
Translation by E. V. Vitkovsky
Ode to Autumn
It's time for fruiting and rain!
You and the sun go around the manor,
Consulting how many pieces of bunches
Dress the vine entwined around the eaves;
Like a tree weighed down by apples
At the entrance to the house, lean on stakes,
And puff up the pumpkin and puff out the necks
Hazelnuts, and as much as possible
Grow the last flowers for the bees,
So that they think that their hour has not passed
And breaks into their adhesive cells.
Who hasn't seen you at the gates of the rig?
Climbing to the margins of economy,
In a draft, with his collar spread out,
You, sitting, rest on the straw;
Or, falling face first
And throwing the sickle among the unharvested poppies,
On the strip you snore like a reaper,
Or with a sheaf of donations from the rich,
Having raised an armful, you cross the ford;
Or are you tightening the oppression?
And you watch how cider oozes from the apples.
Where are the songs of spring days, where are they?
Don't remember, yours are no worse
When the clouds dawn in the shadows
And the stubble semicircle blazes,
Ringing, midges swarm by the ponds,
Stretching out in the sleepless air
Now with spindles, now in a string;
When suddenly the sheep bleat in the folds;
The grasshopper will whistle; from the gardens
Will strike with a large trill of repoles
And the swallow will fly by chirping.
Translation by B. L. Pasternak
* * *
The day passed and took everything with it:
Love, tenderness, lips, hands, gazes,
Warmth of breath, dark captivity of hair,
Laughter, whispers, games, caresses, jokes, arguments.
Everything has faded, just like flowers wither in an instant.
Perfection has gone and disappeared from the eyes,
The vision of Beauty has left my hands,
The delight, the madness, the bliss are gone.
Everything has disappeared - and the world is enveloped in darkness,
And holy day was replaced by holy night,
The spill of love is a heady aroma,
Weaving a canopy of darkness for voluptuousness.
I read the entire book of hours of love during the day
And again I pray - come, Sleep, into my house!
Translation by V.V. Levik
To the Star
Oh, if only I could be eternal like you, Star!
But don't shine in lonely grandeur,
Always awake above the abyss of the night,
Looking at the Earth with an indifferent eye -
Do the waters perform their holy rites,
Granting cleansing to human gods,
Or they put on their winter clothes
Mountain and valley in the earthly cycle, -
I want to be unchanged, eternal,
To catch the breath of your beloved lips,
Press your cheek against your sweet shoulder,
See the beautiful breasts sway
And in silence, forgetting peace for him,
Live endlessly - or fall asleep forever.
Translation by V.V. Levik
* * *
To the one who was imprisoned in the city,
It’s such a joy to see above you
The open face of heaven and at rest
Breathe prayer, quiet, like a dream.
And happy is he who, sweetly tired,
Finds refuge from the heat in the grass
And re-read the beautiful, simple
A legend about the love of bygone times.
And, returning to my porch,
Hearing the nightingale in the sleeping thicket,
Watching the cloud sliding across the sky,
He will be sad that it will end soon
The day is coming for a shining tear
The angel's face rolls down.
Translation by S. Ya. Marshak
Grasshopper and cricket
It won't freeze forever, it won't stop
Poetry of the earth. When in the foliage
The birds, weakened by the heat, will fall silent,
We hear a voice in the mown grass
Grasshopper. He is in a hurry to enjoy
With my participation in the summer celebration,
It will ring, then hide again
And he will be silent for a minute or two.
The poetry of the earth knows no death.
Winter has come. A blizzard is blowing in the fields,
But don’t believe in the peace of the dead.
A cricket is crackling, huddled somewhere in a crack,
And in the gentle warmth of heated stoves
It seems to us: a grasshopper is ringing in the grass.
Translation by S. Ya. Marshak
Poems written in Scotland
(at Robert Burns' house)
Having lived so few mortal years,
I had a chance to occupy myself for an hour
Part of the room where the poet waited for fame,
Not knowing how to pay back fate.
Barley juice stirs my blood.
My head is spinning from hops.
I'm happy that I drink with the great shadow,
I was stunned to have achieved my goal.
And yet, like a gift, it was given to me
Measure your house in measured steps
And suddenly I see, opening the window,
Your sweet world with hills and meadows.
Oh, smile! After all, this is what it is
Earthly glory and earthly honor!
Translation by S. Ya. Marshak
* * *
Why was I laughing in my dream now?
Neither the sign of heaven nor the speech of hell
No one answered me in silence...
Then I asked the human heart:
You, beating, hear my question, -
Why was I laughing? In response - not a sound.
Darkness, darkness is steep. And the torment is endless.
Both God and hell are silent. And you are silent.
Why was I laughing? Did you know at night
Grace of your short life?
But I’ve been ready to give it away for a long time.
Let the bright flag be torn to shreds.
The love and glory of mortal days are strong,
And beauty is strong. But death is stronger.
Translation by S. Ya. Marshak
Sonnet about a sonnet
If words are destined to wander
In tight shackles - in the rhymes of our days,
And he must while away his life in captivity
A melodious sonnet - how can we weave
Thinner, softer sandals
Poetry - for her bare feet?
Let's check the lyre, every string,
Let's think what we can save
Diligent hearing, vigilance of the eyes.
Like King Midas jealously in the old days
I kept my treasure, we will protect the poem.
Away with the dead leaf from the laurel wreaths!
While the muses are in captivity, we are for them
We will weave garlands of roses instead of shackles.
Translation by S. Ya. Marshak
Different sources interpret the social status of the family into which John Keats was born differently: some claim that his father ran an inn, others a stable. Apparently, in childhood his thoughts were connected not with poetry, which subsequently absorbed all his thoughts, but with medicine.
At least, history records the fact that he passed the exam, after which he could become a practicing surgeon, but remained only a certified surgeon.
His life ended early and was short (1795-1821), but as eventful as possible. In 1817, his first collection was published, simply titled “Poems” (“Poems”), and a year later – the poem “Endymion”.
1820 was the year the third and final collection of his poems was published, in which Keats included an excerpt from “Hyperion,” the second poem he had just begun.
It was obvious that the certified surgeon John Keats had finally faded into the background in his soul, giving way to a man whose biography then became much more famous than similar biographies of his numerous contemporaries.
Declassed intellectual
Despite not being the highest social status, John, after receiving it good education, left the environment of small entrepreneurs. However, he did not join a higher society either, preferring to remain a declassed intellectual.
It must be said that in politics his participation in the activities of the liberal bourgeoisie (under the leadership of Li-Ghent) was partial.
The secret is simple: throughout his short life, Keats remained deeply indifferent not only to politics, but also to science and religion.
However, even such almost neutral views that John held gave reactionaries a reason to classify him as a liberal. Seeing in him a negative potential for themselves, they tried their best to subject almost every one of his works to harsh criticism.
Even his friends were inclined to view the fact that John Keats died so early from the point of view of the continuous persecution of the poet by reactionaries.
Art for art's sake
Meanwhile, the contribution of this truly brilliant poet to English and world literature is more than significant. After all, Keats, in fact, founded his own theory in art, which is also the most consistent of all those previously created.
As John believed, art should exist solely for art's sake. Of course, there is a reason, for example, in the poet’s sharply hostile position not only towards such areas as politics and religion; even science came under the power of his claims.
After all, Keats saw art as a substance maximally abstracted from the merciless scientific realities. Unfortunately, many of his friends did not accept such a maximalist point of view.
However, John insisted: art should be art, and not a tool in the hands of politicians, scientists or religious figures.
That is, in the language of his arguments, art does not and should not have a social orientation.
Without stopping at himself, John Keats tried to convince his fellow contemporaries of the correctness of his theory. And, at the same time, he was very successful in art. His work is filled with “monuments of eternal beauty", which are free from any "petty anger of the day", and social life is practically not reflected in it.
Unfortunately, the biography of the brilliant poet is not as eventful and successful as we would like. His contribution is small in volume, but significantly benefits in quality and originality.
According to most literary critics, John Keats, who belongs to the group of romantics by genre, is deeply different from his fellow contemporaries.
It is not typical for him to go into the Middle Ages in order to look for nightmares and horrors there, and to search for something unusual he did not need to plunge into the exotic.
True to himself and his theory, Keats sought and found only beauty - and his search was very successful. For the most part, John found beauty in the works Ancient Greece. The interpretations to which he subjected classical subjects caused a storm of indignation and anger on the part of adherents of classicism.
Calm – in “quiet sadness”
In his poetry one can feel the influence of ancient pantheistic naturalism. In this regard, John Keats remains true to his principle of achieving a goal with the help of maximum objectivism, and such objectivity is characteristic even of lyrics.
And in this, in particular, in the treatment of plots from the ancient Greek classics and the later Middle Ages, his closeness to the writers who worked in the era of Shakespeare is clearly felt.
In his works, Keats tried to adhere to the cult of self-sufficient art. His feeling prevails over reason, joy is combined with sorrow. John is a supporter of non-resistance reconciliation with reality, his heroes are submissive to fate and seek peace, plunging into “quiet sadness,” and pleasure, in their understanding, lies in suffering.
Classifying the foundations that the poet’s creative biography contains, researchers tend to see in him an early predecessor of the Pre-Raphaelites, as well as a creator whose opuses contain bourgeois decadent aestheticism (Baudelaire and Oscar Wilde) and are close in spirit to the works of Russian symbolists who worked on the verge of the 19th and 20th centuries ( Block).
It must be borne in mind that John Keats worked during the victory of the big bourgeoisie. As a result, Keats, who in his views was more inclined towards the petty bourgeoisie, found himself with his passions in his work far from the mainstream of raging relevance.
Just like the anarchist Shelley and the symbolist Blok, John, with his ideology in art, was deprived of real ground. Therefore, the only way in this situation was for him the path to absolute beauty.
John Keats sought and found peace, plunging into sorrow and suffering. Seeing all the helplessness of the class that raised him, Keats saw for himself only one way out - “to die quietly.”
Personal life
Unfortunately or fortunately, at one time John and his work were not accepted by the public and critics. Only sophisticated bourgeois aesthetes and mystics found Keats to be a true genius.
Despite the rather gloomy motives in his work, real life John was always surrounded by friends.
Remaining demanding of himself, at a very early stage of his work he found his “horse” - the sonnet. John Kitsiskal found inspiration for himself in travel.
After one of them, fate brought him together Fanny Bron, he subsequently proposed marriage to this girl. However, after some time, feeling the approach of death, John initiated the termination of the engagement - and was refused.
In subsequent years, Keats was very worried about the contradictory feelings that engulfed him (the poetic cycle “Lines to Fanny”). The last of his creations is the already mentioned “Herpion”, which, alas, remained unfinished.
Critics tend to particularly highlight six odes written by John Keats in 1819. On February 23, death overtook the talented Englishman in Rome. He wrote his own epitaph.
Keats's greatest works were written when he was 23 years old (annus mirabilis). In the last year of his life he practically retired from literary activity. At the age of 25, Keats died.
Biography
John Keats was born into the family of the owner of a paid stable (horse rental shop). He was the first-born son of Thomas Keats (b. c. 1775) and Frances Keats, née Jennings (b. 1775). This was followed by brothers George (1797-1841), Thomas (1799-1818), Edward (1801-1802) and sister Frances Mary (Fanny, 1803-1889).
Keats's father died in an accident on April 16, 1804. Just two months later, on June 27, 1804, Keats's mother Frances remarried William Rollings. This marriage was unsuccessful, and the children settled with their mother's parents in Enfield (north of London). In August 1803, John entered the Reverend John Clarke's private boarding school (also in Enfield).
In Endymion, which develops the myth of the love of the moon goddess for a shepherd, Keats discovered an inexhaustible wealth of fantasy, intertwining many Greek legends and adding to them more complex, spiritualistic poetic structures. The intricacy of the plot and the complexity of the episodes make reading the poem very difficult, but certain passages - mainly lyrical passages - are among the best pages in all of English poetry. Remarkable in this regard are the hymn to Pan, deeply imbued with pantheism (II canto), and the song of an Indian girl (IV canto), moving from the chanting of sadness to a violent hymn in honor of Bacchus. Endymion’s uncontrollable attraction to an unknown goddess who appeared to him in a dream, melancholy and alienation from earthly connections, a temporary infatuation with an earthly beauty who turns out to be the embodiment of his immortal friend, and the final unity with the latter - all this symbolizes for the poet the history of the human soul, sacredly preserving the image eternal beauty and seeking the embodiment of her ideal on earth.
"Hyperion" - an unfinished poem about the triumph of the Olympian gods over the generation of titans that preceded them, is more strict in form and full of deep tragedy. The speeches of the defeated Titans, especially the fiery appeals of the rebellious Thea, who embodies the greatness of the dying Titans, recall the most inspired episodes of Milton's Paradise Lost. In “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” Keats praises the eternity of beauty as the artist sees it. In all these poems, Keats reflected an aesthetic theory inspired by spiritual intimacy with the ancient world, and formulated it in the following verse: “Beauty is truth, truth is beauty; this is all that a person knows on earth and that he should know.” Along with Hellenism, expressed in the cult of beauty, an element of mysticism is also found in his poetry: the poet sees in the beauty of nature symbols of a different, higher, eternal beauty. All of Keats's odes ("Ode to a Nightingale", "To Autumn", "To Melancholy") are of a spiritualistic nature, which is also characteristic of his Greek poems. However, the poet’s anxious, slightly mystical mood is especially pronounced in his ballads, such as “The Eve of St. Agnes,” “Isabella” and others. Here he develops the motives of folk beliefs and surrounds them with a poetic aura that captivates the reader’s imagination.
After Keats's death, his importance to English poetry was exaggerated by his admirers and disputed by his opponents; For a long time his work was associated with the literary circle from which he came. He was attacked by those who aimed at Leigh Hunt's so-called “Cockney-School”. In fact, he was connected with this group only through personal friendship. The criticism of subsequent generations, alien to such prejudices, realized this and appreciated the genius of Keats and the merits of his poetry. Nowadays he is given a place in English literature on a par with Byron and Shelley, although his poems differ markedly from the latter’s poems in mood and internal content. If Byron personified “demonism” in European poetry, and Shelley was an adept of pantheism, then Keats is responsible for the creation of a deeply poetic direction, where the poet’s attention is concentrated on the inner world of man. Keats' followers became, 30 years after his death, poets and artists of the Pre-Raphaelite school in the person of Rossetti, Morris and others, whose work contributed to the revival of English poetry and fine art.
In 1971, to mark the 150th anniversary of the poet's death, the UK Royal Mail issued a 3 pence postage stamp.
Bibliography
| John Keats in Wikiquote | |
| in Wikisource |
1814 - sonnet “Like a dove from the thinning darkness...” (“ As from the darkening glow a silver dove…"), written on the occasion of the death of my grandmother.
1816 - sonnet “To Loneliness” ( O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell,..), poem: “I went out onto the hill and froze” ( I stood tip-toe upon a little hill…) and "Dream and Poetry" ( Sleep and Poetry).
1817 - first book - “Poems” ( Poems), dedicated to Hunt.
1818 - poem “Endymion” ( Endymion), the poem "Isabella, or the Pot of Basil" ( Isabella, or The Pot of Basil).
1819 - romantic poem “The Eve of St. Agnes” ( The Eve of St. Agnes).
1819 - “Ode to Psyche” ( Ode to Psyche), "Ode to a Nightingale" ( Ode to Nightingale), "Ode to a Greek Vase" ( Ode on a Greek Urn), "Ode to Melancholy" ( Ode to Melancholy), "Ode to Idleness" ( Ode to Indolence) and "Ode to Autumn" ( To Autumn), poem "Lamia" ( Lamia), "Hyperion" ( Hyperion).
Cultural allusions
- John Keats is the inspiration and main character (in the form of AI) in Dan Simmons's series of science fiction works, The Songs of Hyperion.
- In 2009, the British film “Bright Star” was released, telling the story of the acquaintance and development of the relationship between John Keats and his muse, Fanny Brawne. The role of Keats was played by Ben Whishaw.
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Notes
Literature
- Sukharev S. .
- Vengerova Z. A.// Encyclopedic Dictionary of Brockhaus and Efron: in 86 volumes (82 volumes and 4 additional). - St. Petersburg. , 1890-1907.
- Vengerova Z. A. John Keats // Bulletin of Europe. 1889, X-XI books.
- Dyakonova N. Ya. Keats and his contemporaries. - M.: Nauka, 1973. - 200, p. - (From the history of world culture). - 24,000 copies.(region)
Links
- translated by Sergei Alexandrovsky
- Zakharov N.V. // Electronic encyclopedia “The World of Shakespeare”, 2011.
Passage characterizing Keats, John
- Yes, yes. Can you tell me where Prince Bolkonsky’s regiment is? asked Pierre.- Andrey Nikolaevich? We'll pass by, I'll take you to him.
- What about the left flank? asked Pierre.
“To tell you the truth, entre nous, [between us], God knows what position our left flank is in,” said Boris, trustingly lowering his voice, “Count Bennigsen did not expect it at all.” He intended to strengthen that mound over there, not at all like that... but,” Boris shrugged. – His Serene Highness didn’t want to, or they told him to. After all... - And Boris did not finish, because at that time Kaysarov, Kutuzov’s adjutant, approached Pierre. - A! Paisiy Sergeich,” said Boris, turning to Kaisarov with a free smile, “But I’m trying to explain the position to the count.” It’s amazing how His Serene Highness could so correctly guess the intentions of the French!
– Are you talking about the left flank? - said Kaisarov.
- Yes, yes, exactly. Our left flank is now very, very strong.
Despite the fact that Kutuzov kicked out all unnecessary people from the headquarters, Boris, after the changes made by Kutuzov, managed to hold on to main apartment. Boris joined Count Bennigsen. Count Bennigsen, like all the people with whom Boris was, considered the young Prince Drubetskoy an unappreciated person.
There were two sharp, definite parties in command of the army: the party of Kutuzov and the party of Bennigsen, the chief of staff. Boris was present at this last game, and no one knew better than he, while paying servile respect to Kutuzov, to make one feel that the old man was bad and that the whole business was being conducted by Bennigsen. Now the decisive moment of the battle had come, which was either to destroy Kutuzov and transfer power to Bennigsen, or, even if Kutuzov had won the battle, to make it felt that everything had been done by Bennigsen. In any case, big rewards were to be given out tomorrow and new people were to be brought forward. And as a result of this, Boris was in irritated animation all that day.
After Kaisarov, other of his acquaintances still approached Pierre, and he did not have time to answer the questions about Moscow with which they bombarded him, and did not have time to listen to the stories they told him. All faces expressed animation and anxiety. But it seemed to Pierre that the reason for the excitement expressed on some of these faces lay more in matters of personal success, and he could not get out of his head that other expression of excitement that he saw on other faces and which spoke of issues not personal, but general , matters of life and death. Kutuzov noticed the figure of Pierre and the group gathered around him.
“Call him to me,” said Kutuzov. The adjutant conveyed the wishes of his Serene Highness, and Pierre headed to the bench. But even before him, an ordinary militiaman approached Kutuzov. It was Dolokhov.
- How is this one here? asked Pierre.
- This is such a beast, it will crawl everywhere! - they answered Pierre. - After all, he was demoted. Now he needs to jump out. He submitted some projects and climbed into the enemy’s chain at night... but well done!..
Pierre, taking off his hat, bowed respectfully in front of Kutuzov.
“I decided that if I report to your lordship, you can send me away or say that you know what I am reporting, and then I won’t be killed...” said Dolokhov.
- Yes, yes.
“And if I’m right, then I will benefit the fatherland, for which I am ready to die.”
- So... so...
“And if your lordship needs a person who would not spare his skin, then please remember me... Maybe I will be useful to your lordship.”
“So... so...” repeated Kutuzov, looking at Pierre with a laughing, narrowing eye.
At this time, Boris, with his courtly dexterity, advanced next to Pierre in the proximity of his superiors and with the most natural look and not loudly, as if continuing the conversation that had begun, he said to Pierre:
– The militia – they directly put on clean, white shirts to prepare for death. What heroism, Count!
Boris said this to Pierre, obviously in order to be heard by his Serene Highness. He knew that Kutuzov would pay attention to these words, and indeed His Serene Highness addressed him:
-What are you talking about the militia? - he said to Boris.
“They, your lordship, in preparation for tomorrow, for death, put on white shirts.”
- Ah!.. Wonderful, incomparable people! - said Kutuzov and, closing his eyes, shook his head. - Incomparable people! - he repeated with a sigh.
- Do you want to smell gunpowder? - he said to Pierre. - Yes, a pleasant smell. I have the honor to be an admirer of your wife, is she healthy? My rest stop is at your service. - And, as often happens with old people, Kutuzov began to look around absently, as if he had forgotten everything he needed to say or do.
Obviously, remembering what he was looking for, he lured Andrei Sergeich Kaisarov, the brother of his adjutant, to him.
- How, how, how are the poems, Marina, how are the poems, how? What he wrote about Gerakov: “You will be a teacher in the building... Tell me, tell me,” Kutuzov spoke, obviously about to laugh. Kaisarov read... Kutuzov, smiling, nodded his head to the beat of the poems.
When Pierre walked away from Kutuzov, Dolokhov moved towards him and took him by the hand.
“I’m very glad to meet you here, Count,” he told him loudly and without being embarrassed by the presence of strangers, with particular decisiveness and solemnity. “On the eve of the day on which God knows which of us is destined to survive, I am glad to have the opportunity to tell you that I regret the misunderstandings that existed between us, and I would like you not to have anything against me.” Please forgive me.
Pierre, smiling, looked at Dolokhov, not knowing what to say to him. Dolokhov, with tears welling up in his eyes, hugged and kissed Pierre.
Boris said something to his general, and Count Bennigsen turned to Pierre and offered to go with him along the line.
“This will be interesting for you,” he said.
“Yes, very interesting,” said Pierre.
Half an hour later, Kutuzov left for Tatarinova, and Bennigsen and his retinue, including Pierre, went along the line.
Bennigsen from Gorki descended along the high road to the bridge, which the officer from the mound pointed out to Pierre as the center of the position and on the bank of which lay rows of mown grass that smelled of hay. They drove across the bridge to the village of Borodino, from there they turned left and past a huge number of troops and cannons they drove out to a high mound on which the militia was digging. It was a redoubt that did not yet have a name, but later received the name Raevsky redoubt, or barrow battery.
Pierre did not pay much attention to this redoubt. He did not know that this place would be more memorable for him than all the places in the Borodino field. Then they drove through the ravine to Semenovsky, in which the soldiers were taking away the last logs of the huts and barns. Then, downhill and uphill, they drove forward through broken rye, knocked out like hail, along the road newly laid by artillery along the ridges of arable land to the flushes [a type of fortification. (Note by L.N. Tolstoy.) ], also still being dug at that time.
Bennigsen stopped at the flushes and began to look ahead at the Shevardinsky redoubt (which was ours only yesterday), on which several horsemen could be seen. The officers said that Napoleon or Murat was there. And everyone looked greedily at this bunch of horsemen. Pierre also looked there, trying to guess which of these barely visible people was Napoleon. Finally, the riders rode off the mound and disappeared.
Bennigsen turned to the general who approached him and began to explain the entire position of our troops. Pierre listened to Bennigsen's words, straining all his mental strength to understand the essence of the upcoming battle, but he felt with disappointment that his mental abilities were insufficient for this. He didn't understand anything. Bennigsen stopped talking, and noticing the figure of Pierre, who was listening, he suddenly said, turning to him:
– I think you’re not interested?
“Oh, on the contrary, it’s very interesting,” Pierre repeated, not entirely truthfully.
From the flush they drove even further to the left along a road winding through a dense, low birch forest. In the middle of it
forest, a brown hare with white legs jumped out onto the road in front of them and, frightened by the tramp of a large number of horses, he was so confused that he jumped along the road ahead of them for a long time, arousing everyone’s attention and laughter, and only when several voices shouted at him, he rushed to the side and disappeared into the thicket. After driving about two miles through the forest, they came to a clearing where the troops of Tuchkov’s corps, which was supposed to protect the left flank, were stationed.
Here, on the extreme left flank, Bennigsen spoke a lot and passionately and made, as it seemed to Pierre, an important military order. There was a hill in front of Tuchkov’s troops. This hill was not occupied by troops. Bennigsen loudly criticized this mistake, saying that it was crazy to leave the height commanding the area unoccupied and place troops under it. Some generals expressed the same opinion. One in particular spoke with military fervor about the fact that they were put here for slaughter. Bennigsen ordered in his name to move the troops to the heights.
This order on the left flank made Pierre even more doubtful of his ability to understand military affairs. Listening to Bennigsen and the generals condemning the position of the troops under the mountain, Pierre fully understood them and shared their opinion; but precisely because of this, he could not understand how the one who placed them here under the mountain could make such an obvious and gross mistake.
Pierre did not know that these troops were not placed to defend the position, as Bennigsen thought, but were placed in a hidden place for an ambush, that is, in order to be unnoticed and suddenly attack the advancing enemy. Bennigsen did not know this and moved the troops forward for special reasons without telling the commander-in-chief about it.
On this clear August evening on the 25th, Prince Andrei lay leaning on his arm in a broken barn in the village of Knyazkova, on the edge of his regiment’s location. Through the hole in the broken wall, he looked at a strip of thirty-year-old birch trees with their lower branches cut off running along the fence, at an arable land with stacks of oats broken on it, and at bushes through which the smoke of fires—soldiers’ kitchens—could be seen.
No matter how cramped and no one needed and how difficult his life now seemed to Prince Andrei, he, just like seven years ago at Austerlitz on the eve of the battle, felt agitated and irritated.
Orders for tomorrow's battle were given and received by him. There was nothing else he could do. But the simplest, clearest thoughts and therefore terrible thoughts did not leave him alone. He knew that tomorrow's battle was going to be the most terrible of all those in which he participated, and the possibility of death for the first time in his life, without any regard to everyday life, without consideration of how it would affect others, but only according to in relation to himself, to his soul, with vividness, almost with certainty, simply and terribly, it presented itself to him. And from the height of this idea, everything that had previously tormented and occupied him was suddenly illuminated by a cold white light, without shadows, without perspective, without distinction of outlines. His whole life seemed to him like a magic lantern, into which he looked for a long time through glass and under artificial lighting. Now he suddenly saw, without glass, in bright daylight, these poorly painted pictures. “Yes, yes, these are the false images that worried and delighted and tormented me,” he said to himself, turning over in his imagination the main pictures of his magic lantern of life, now looking at them in this cold white light of day - a clear thought of death. “Here they are, these crudely painted figures that seemed to be something beautiful and mysterious. Glory, public good, love for a woman, the fatherland itself - how great these pictures seemed to me, what deep meaning they seemed filled with! And all this is so simple, pale and rough in the cold white light of that morning which I feel rising for me.” Three major sorrows of his life in particular occupied his attention. His love for a woman, the death of his father and the French invasion that captured half of Russia. “Love!.. This girl, who seemed to me full of mysterious powers. How I loved her! I made poetic plans about love, about happiness with it. Oh dear boy! – he said out loud angrily. - Of course! I believed in some kind of ideal love, which was supposed to remain faithful to me during the whole year of my absence! Like the tender dove of a fable, she was to wither away in separation from me. And all this is much simpler... All this is terribly simple, disgusting!
