Bronze Horseman Chapter 1. The Bronze Horseman (poem; Pushkin) - On the shore of desert waves...

09.04.2019

Petersburg story

Preface

The incident described in this story is based on truth. Details of the flood are taken from magazines of the time. The curious can consult the news compiled by V. N. Berkh.

Introduction

On the shore desert waves
He stood there, full of great thoughts,
And he looked into the distance. Wide before him
The river rushed; poor boat
He strove along it alone.
Along mossy, marshy banks
Blackened huts here and there,
Shelter of a wretched Chukhonian;
And the forest, unknown to the rays
In the fog of the hidden sun,
There was noise all around.

And he thought:
From here we will threaten the Swede,
The city will be founded here
To spite an arrogant neighbor.
Nature destined us here
Open a window to Europe,
Stand with a firm foot by the sea.
Here on new waves
All the flags will visit us,
And we’ll record it in the open air.

A hundred years have passed, and the young city,
There is beauty and wonder in full countries,
From the darkness of the forests, from the swamps of blat
He ascended magnificently and proudly;
Where was the Finnish fisherman before?
Nature's sad stepson
Alone on the low banks
Thrown into unknown waters
Your old net, now there
Along the busy shores
Slender communities crowd together
Palaces and towers; ships
A crowd from all over the world
They strive for rich marinas;
The Neva is dressed in granite;
Bridges hung over the waters;
Dark green gardens
Islands covered her,
And in front of the younger capital
Old Moscow has faded,
Like before a new queen
Porphyry widow.

I love you, Petra's creation,
I love your strict, slender appearance,
Neva sovereign current,
Its coastal granite,
Your fences have a cast iron pattern,
of your thoughtful nights
Transparent twilight, moonless shine,
When I'm in my room
I write, I read without a lamp,
And the sleeping communities are clear
Deserted streets and light
Admiralty needle,
And, not letting the darkness of the night
To golden skies
One dawn gives way to another
He hurries, giving the night half an hour.
I love your cruel winter
Still air and frost,
Sleigh running along the wide Neva,
Girls' faces are brighter than roses,
And the shine, and the noise, and the talk of balls,
And at the time of the feast the bachelor
The hiss of foamy glasses
And the punch flame is blue.
I love the warlike liveliness
Amusing Fields of Mars,
Infantry troops and horses
Uniform beauty
In their harmoniously unsteady system
The rags of these victorious banners,
The shine of these copper caps,
Shot through and through in battle.
I love you, military capital,
Your stronghold is smoke and thunder,
When the queen is full
Gives a son to the royal house,
Or victory over the enemy
Russia triumphs again
Or, breaking your blue ice,
The Neva carries him to the seas
And, sensing the days of spring, he rejoices.

Show off, city Petrov, and stand
Unshakable like Russia,
May he make peace with you
And the defeated element;
Enmity and ancient captivity
Let the Finnish waves forget
And they will not be vain malice
Disturb Peter's eternal sleep!

It was a terrible time
The memory of her is fresh...
About her, my friends, for you
I'll start my story.
My story will be sad.

Part one

Over darkened Petrograd
November breathed the autumn chill.
Splashing with a noisy wave
To the edges of your slender fence,
Neva was tossing around like a sick person
Restless in my bed.
It was already late and dark;
The rain beat angrily on the window,
And the wind blew, howling sadly.
At that time from the guests home
Young Evgeniy came...
We will be our hero
Call by this name. It
Sounds nice; been with him for a long time
My pen is also friendly.
We don't need his nickname,
Although in times gone by
Perhaps it shone
And under the pen of Karamzin
In native legends it sounded;
But now with light and rumor
It's forgotten. Our hero
Lives in Kolomna; serves somewhere
He shies away from the nobles and does not bother
Not about deceased relatives,
Not about forgotten antiquities.

So, I came home, Evgeniy
He shook off his overcoat, undressed, and lay down.
But for a long time he could not fall asleep
Excited different thoughts.
What was he thinking about? about
That he was poor, that he worked hard
He had to deliver to himself
And independence and honor;
What could God add to him?
Mind and money. What is it?
Such idle lucky ones,
Short-sighted, sloths,
For whom life is much easier!
That he serves only two years;
He also thought that the weather
She didn’t let up; that the river
Everything was coming; which is hardly
The bridges have not been removed from the Neva
And what will happen to Parasha?
Separated for two or three days.
Evgeny sighed heartily here
And he daydreamed like a poet:

"Marry? To me? why not?
It’s hard, of course;
But well I'm young and healthy
Ready to work day and night;
I’ll arrange something for myself
Shelter humble and simple
And in it I will calm Parasha.
Perhaps a year or two will pass -
I’ll get a place, Parashe
I will entrust our family
And raising children...
And we will live, and so on until the grave
We'll both get there hand in hand
And our grandchildren will bury us..."

That's what he dreamed. And it was sad
Him that night, and he wished
So that the wind howls less sadly
And let the rain knock on the window
Not so angry...

Sleepy eyes
He finally closed. And so
The darkness of a stormy night is thinning
And the pale day is coming...
Terrible day!

Neva all night
Longing for the sea against the storm,
Without overcoming their violent foolishness...
And she couldn’t bear to argue...
In the morning over its banks
There were crowds of people crowded together,
Admiring the splashes, mountains
And the foam of angry waters.
But the strength of the winds from the bay
Blocked Neva
She walked back, angry, seething,
And flooded the islands
The weather became more ferocious
The Neva swelled and roared,
A cauldron bubbling and swirling,
And suddenly, like a wild beast,
She rushed towards the city. In front of her
Everything ran, everything around
Suddenly it was empty - suddenly there was water
Flowed into underground cellars,
Channels poured into the gratings,
And Petropol floated up like a newt,
Waist-deep in water.

Siege! attack! evil waves,
Like thieves, they climb into windows. Chelny
From the run the windows are smashed by the stern.
Trays under a wet veil,
Fragments of huts, logs, roofs,
Stock trade goods,
The belongings of pale poverty,
Bridges destroyed by thunderstorms,
Coffins from a washed-out cemetery
Floating through the streets!

People
He sees God's wrath and awaits execution.
Alas! everything perishes: shelter and food!
Where will I get it?

In that terrible year
The late Tsar was still in Russia
He ruled with glory. To the balcony
Sad, confused, he went out
And he said: “With God's element
Kings cannot control.” He sat down
And in the Duma with sorrowful eyes
I looked at the evil disaster.
There were hundreds of lakes,
And in them there are wide rivers
The streets poured in. Castle
It seemed like a sad island.
The king said - from end to end,
Along nearby streets and distant ones
On a dangerous journey through stormy waters
The generals set off
To save and overcome with fear
And there are drowning people at home.

Then, on Petrova Square,
Where a new house has risen in the corner,
Where above the elevated porch
With a raised paw, as if alive,
There are two guard lions standing,
Riding a marble beast,
Without a hat, hands clasped in a cross,
Sat motionless, terribly pale
Evgeny. He was afraid, poor thing,
Not for myself. He didn't hear
How the greedy shaft rose,
Washing his soles,
How the rain hit his face,
Like the wind, howling violently,
He suddenly tore off his hat.
His desperate glances
Pointed to the edge
They were motionless. Like mountains
From the indignant depths
The waves rose there and got angry,
There the storm howled, there they rushed
Debris... God, God! there -
Alas! close to the waves,
Almost at the very bay -
The fence is unpainted, but the willow
And a dilapidated house: there it is,
Widow and daughter, his Parasha,
His dream... Or in a dream
Does he see this? or all ours
And life is nothing like an empty dream,
The mockery of heaven over earth?

And he seems to be bewitched
As if chained to marble,
Can't get off! Around him
Water and nothing else!
And with my back turned to him,
In the unshakable heights,
Over the indignant Neva
Stands with outstretched hand
Idol on a bronze horse.

Part two

But now, having had enough of destruction
And tired of insolent violence,
The Neva was drawn back,
Admiring your indignation
And leaving with carelessness
Your prey. So villain
With his fierce gang
Having burst into the village, he breaks, cuts,
Destroys and robs; screams, gnashing,
Violence, swearing, anxiety, howling!..
And, burdened with robbery,
Afraid of the chase, tired,
The robbers are hurrying home,
Dropping prey on the way.

The water has subsided and the pavement
It opened, and Evgeny is mine
He hurries, his soul sinking,
In hope, fear and longing
To the barely subdued river.
But victories are full of triumph,
The waves were still boiling angrily,
It was as if a fire was smoldering underneath them,
The foam still covered them,
And Neva was breathing heavily,
Like a horse running back from battle.
Evgeny looks: he sees a boat;
He runs to her as if he were on a find;
He calls the carrier -
And the carrier is carefree
Willingly pay him for a dime
Through terrible waves you are lucky.

And long with stormy waves
An experienced rower fought
And hide deep between their rows
Every hour with daring swimmers
The boat was ready - and finally
He reached the shore.

Unhappy
Runs down a familiar street
To familiar places. Looks
Can't find out. The view is terrible!
Everything is piled up in front of him;
What is dropped, what is demolished;
The houses were crooked, others
Completely collapsed, others
Shifted by waves; all around
As if in a battlefield,
Bodies are lying around. Evgeniy
Headlong, not remembering anything,
Exhausted from torment,
Runs to where he is waiting
Fate with unknown news,
Like with a sealed letter.
And now he’s running through the suburbs,
And here is the bay, and home is close...
What is this?..

He stopped.
I went back and came back.
He looks... he walks... he looks some more.
This is the place where their house stands;
Here is the willow. There was a gate here -
Apparently they were blown away. Where is home?
And, full of gloomy care,
Everything goes on, he goes around,
Talks loudly to himself -
And suddenly, hitting him on the forehead with his hand,
Laughed.

Night haze
She descended upon the city in trepidation;
But the residents did not sleep for a long time
And they talked among themselves
About the day gone by.

Morning ray
Because of the tired, pale clouds
Flashed over the quiet capital
And I haven’t found any traces
Yesterday's troubles; purple
The evil was already covered up.
Everything returned to the same order.
The streets are already free
With your cold insensibility
People were walking. Official people
Leaving my night shelter,
I went to work. Brave trader,
Not discouraged, I opened
Neva robbed basement,
Collecting your loss is important
Place it on the nearest one. From the yards
They brought boats.

Count Khvostov,
Poet beloved by heaven
Already sang in immortal verses
The misfortune of the Neva banks.

Once he was sleeping
At the Neva pier. Days of summer
We were approaching autumn. Breathed
Stormy wind. Grim Shaft
Splashed on the pier, grumbling fines
And hitting the smooth steps,
Like a petitioner at the door
Judges who don't listen to him.
The poor man woke up. It was gloomy:
The rain fell, the wind howled sadly,
And with him far away, in the darkness of the night
The sentry called back...
Evgeny jumped up; remembered vividly
He is a past horror; hastily
He stood up; I went wandering, and suddenly
Stopped - and around
He quietly began to move his eyes
With wild fear on your face.
He found himself under the pillars
big house. On the porch
With a raised paw, as if alive,
The lions stood guard,
And right in the dark heights
Above the fenced rock
Idol with outstretched hand
Sat on a bronze horse.

Evgeny shuddered. cleared up
The thoughts in it are scary. He found out
And the place where the flood played,
Where the waves of predators crowded,
Rioting angrily around him,
And lions, and the square, and that,
Who stood motionless
In the darkness with a copper head,
The one whose will is fatal
The city was founded under the sea...
He is terrible in the surrounding darkness!
What a thought on the brow!
What power is hidden in it!
And what fire there is in this horse!
Where are you galloping, proud horse?
And where will you put your hooves?
O mighty lord of fate!
Aren't you above the abyss?
At the height, with an iron bridle
Raised Russia on its hind legs?

Around the foot of the idol
The poor madman walked around
And brought wild glances
The face of the ruler of half the world.
His chest felt tight. Chelo
It lay down on the cold grate,
My eyes became foggy,
A fire ran through my heart,
Blood boiled. He became gloomy
Before the proud idol
And, clenching my teeth, clenching my fingers,
As if possessed by black power,
“Welcome, miraculous builder! —
He whispered, trembling angrily,
Already for you!..” And suddenly headlong
He started to run. It seemed
He is like a formidable king,
Instantly ignited with anger,
The face quietly turned...
And its area is empty
He runs and hears behind him -
It's like thunder roaring -
Heavy ringing galloping
Along the shaken pavement.
And, illuminated by the pale moon,
Stretching out your hand on high,
The Bronze Horseman rushes after him
On a loud galloping horse;
And all night long the poor madman,
Wherever you turn your feet,
Behind him is the Bronze Horseman everywhere
He galloped with a heavy stomp.

And from the time when it happened
He should go to that square,
His face showed
Confusion. To your heart
He hastily pressed his hand,
As if subduing him with torment,
A worn out cap,
He didn’t raise his embarrassed eyes
And he walked aside.

Small Island
Visible at the seaside. Sometimes
Lands there with a seine
Late fisherman fishing
And the poor man cooks his dinner,
Or an official will visit,
Walking in a boat on Sunday
Deserted island. Not an adult
There's not a blade of grass there. Flood
Brought there while playing
The house is dilapidated. Above the water
He remained like a black bush.
His last spring
They brought me on a barge. It was empty
And everything is destroyed. At the threshold
They found my madman,
And then his cold corpse
Buried for God's sake.

One of the most controversial and mysterious poems by A.S. Pushkin " Bronze Horseman"was written by Boldinskaya in the fall of 1833. It is interesting that it took the poet only 25 days to create it - this period is quite short, especially considering that Pushkin was working on several other works at the same time. The flood at the center of the story actually happened - it happened on November 7, 1824, as was written about in the newspapers of that time. The plot of the poem is interesting because its real and documented basis is permeated with mythology and superstitions, which shroud the city of St. Petersburg. The introduction to the poem, which tells about events more than a century ago, expands the time boundaries of the work. Living Peter and his copper embodiment- two giants dominating little people. This combination of past and present allows Pushkin to aggravate the conflict and make it brighter.

The poem is written in iambic tetrameter and has an introduction and two parts in its structure. There is no breakdown into stanzas - this technique emphasizes the narrative nature of the work.

THE BRONZE HORSEMAN

Preface

Petersburg story

The incident described in this story is based on truth. Details of the flood are taken from magazines of the time. The curious can consult the news compiled by V. N. Berkh.

Introduction

On the shore of desert waves
He stood there, full of great thoughts,
And he looked into the distance. Wide before him
The river rushed; poor boat
He strove along it alone.
Along mossy, marshy banks
Blackened huts here and there,
Shelter of a wretched Chukhonian;
And the forest, unknown to the rays
In the fog of the hidden sun,
There was noise all around.
And he thought:
From here we will threaten the Swede,
The city will be founded here
To spite an arrogant neighbor.
Nature destined us here
Open a window to Europe,
Stand with a firm foot by the sea.
Here on new waves
All the flags will visit us,
And we’ll record it in the open air.

A hundred years have passed, and the young city,
There is beauty and wonder in full countries,
From the darkness of the forests, from the swamps of blat
He ascended magnificently and proudly;
Where was the Finnish fisherman before?
Nature's sad stepson
Alone on the low banks
Thrown into unknown waters
Your old net is now there,
Along busy shores
Slender communities crowd together
Palaces and towers; ships
A crowd from all over the world
They strive for rich marinas;
The Neva is dressed in granite;
Bridges hung over the waters;
Dark green gardens
Islands covered her,
And in front of the younger capital
Old Moscow has faded,
Like before a new queen
Porphyry widow.

I love you, Petra's creation,
I love your strict, slender appearance,
Neva sovereign current,
Its coastal granite,
Your fences have a cast iron pattern,
of your thoughtful nights
Transparent twilight, moonless shine,
When I'm in my room
I write, I read without a lamp,
And the sleeping communities are clear
Deserted streets and light
Admiralty needle,
And, not letting the darkness of the night
To golden skies
One dawn gives way to another
He hurries, giving the night half an hour.
I love your cruel winter
Still air and frost,
Sleigh running along the wide Neva,
Girls' faces are brighter than roses,
And the shine, and the noise, and the talk of balls,
And at the time of the feast the bachelor
The hiss of foamy glasses
And the punch flame is blue.
I love the warlike liveliness
Amusing Fields of Mars,
Infantry troops and horses
Uniform beauty
In their harmoniously unsteady system
The shreds of these victorious banners,
The shine of these copper caps,
Through those shot through in battle.
I love you, military capital,
Your stronghold is smoke and thunder,
When the queen is full
Gives a son to the royal house,
Or victory over the enemy
Russia triumphs again
Or, breaking your blue ice,
The Neva carries him to the seas
And, sensing the days of spring, he rejoices.

It was a terrible time
The memory of her is fresh...
About her, my friends, for you
I'll start my story.
My story will be sad.

Part one

So, I came home, Evgeniy
He shook off his overcoat, undressed, and lay down.
But for a long time he could not fall asleep
In the excitement of various thoughts.
What was he thinking about? about
That he was poor, that he worked hard
He had to deliver to himself
And independence and honor;
What could God add to him?
Mind and money. What is it?
Such idle lucky ones,
Short-sighted, sloths,
For whom life is much easier!
That he serves only two years;
He also thought that the weather
She didn’t let up; that the river
Everything was coming; which is hardly
The bridges have not been removed from the Neva
And what will happen to Parasha?
Separated for two or three days.
Evgeny sighed heartily here
And he daydreamed like a poet:

Marry? Well... why not?
It’s hard, of course;
But well, he's young and healthy,
Ready to work day and night;
He'll arrange something for himself
Shelter humble and simple
And it will calm Parasha.
“Perhaps a year or two will pass -
I’ll get a place, - Parashe
I will entrust our farm
And raising children...
And we will live, and so on until the grave
We'll both get there hand in hand
And our grandchildren will bury us..."

That's what he dreamed. And it was sad
Him that night, and he wished
So that the wind howls less sadly
And let the rain knock on the window
Not so angry...
Sleepy eyes
He finally closed. And so
The darkness of a stormy night is thinning
And the pale day is coming...
Terrible day!
Neva all night
Longing for the sea against the storm,
Without overcoming their violent foolishness...
And she couldn’t bear to argue...
In the morning over its banks
There were crowds of people crowded together,
Admiring the splashes, mountains
And the foam of angry waters.
But the strength of the winds from the bay
Blocked Neva
She walked back, angry, seething,
And flooded the islands
The weather became more ferocious
The Neva swelled and roared,
A cauldron bubbling and swirling,
And suddenly, like a wild beast,
She rushed towards the city. In front of her
Everything started running; everything around
Suddenly it was empty - suddenly there was water
Flowed into underground cellars,
Channels poured into the gratings,
And Petropol emerged like a newt,
Waist-deep in water.

Siege! attack! evil waves,
Like thieves, they climb into windows. Chelny
From the run the windows are smashed by the stern.
Trays under a wet veil,
Wrecks of huts, logs, roofs,
Stock trade goods,
The belongings of pale poverty,
Bridges demolished by thunderstorms,
Coffins from a washed-out cemetery
Floating through the streets!
People
He sees God's wrath and awaits execution.
Alas! everything perishes: shelter and food!
Where will I get it?
In that terrible year
The late Tsar was still in Russia
He ruled with glory. To the balcony
Sad, confused, he went out
And he said: “With God's element
Kings cannot control.” He sat down
And in the Duma with sorrowful eyes
I looked at the evil disaster.
There were stacks of lakes,
And in them there are wide rivers
The streets poured in. Castle
It seemed like a sad island.
The king said - from end to end,
Along nearby streets and distant ones
On a dangerous journey through stormy waters
The generals set off
To save and overcome with fear
And there are drowning people at home.

Then, on Petrova Square,
Where a new house has risen in the corner,
Where above the elevated porch
With a raised paw, as if alive,
There are two guard lions standing,
On a marble beast,
Without a hat, hands clasped in a cross,
Sat motionless, terribly pale
Evgeny. He was afraid, poor thing,
Not for myself. He didn't hear
How the greedy shaft rose,
Washing his soles,
How the rain hit his face,
Like the wind, howling violently,
He suddenly tore off his hat.
His desperate glances
Pointed to the edge
They were motionless. Like mountains
From the indignant depths
The waves rose there and got angry,
There the storm howled, there they rushed
Debris... God, God! there -
Alas! close to the waves,
Almost at the very bay -
The fence is unpainted, but the willow
And a dilapidated house: there it is,
Widow and daughter, his Parasha,
His dream... Or in a dream
Does he see this? or all ours
And life is nothing like an empty dream,
The mockery of heaven over earth?

And he seems to be bewitched
As if chained to marble,
Can't get off! Around him
Water and nothing else!
And with my back turned to him,
In the unshakable heights,
Above the indignant Neva
Stands with outstretched hand
Idol on a bronze horse. Part two
But now, having had enough of destruction
And tired of insolent violence,
The Neva was drawn back,
Admiring your indignation
And leaving with carelessness
Your prey. So villain
With his fierce gang
Having burst into the village, he breaks, cuts,
Destroys and robs; screams, gnashing,
Violence, swearing, anxiety, howling!..
And, burdened with robbery,
Afraid of the chase, tired,
The robbers are hurrying home,
Dropping prey on the way.

And long with stormy waves
An experienced rower fought
And hide deep between their rows
Every hour with daring swimmers
The boat was ready - and finally
He reached the shore.
Unhappy
Runs down a familiar street
To familiar places. Looks
Can't find out. The view is terrible!
Everything is piled up in front of him;
What is dropped, what is demolished;
The houses were crooked, others
Completely collapsed, others
Shifted by waves; all around
As if in a battlefield,
Bodies are lying around. Evgeniy
Headlong, not remembering anything,
Exhausted from torment,
Runs to where he is waiting
Fate with unknown news,
Like with a sealed letter.
And now he’s running through the suburbs,
And here is the bay, and home is close...
What is this?..
He stopped.
I went back and came back.
He looks... walks... still looks.
This is the place where their house stands;
Here is the willow. There was a gate here -
Apparently they were blown away. Where is home?
And, full of gloomy care,
He keeps walking, he walks around,
Talks loudly to himself -
And suddenly, hitting him on the forehead with his hand,
Laughed.
Night haze
She descended upon the city in trepidation;
But the residents did not sleep for a long time
And they talked among themselves
About the day gone by.
Morning ray
Because of the tired, pale clouds
Flashed over the quiet capital
And I haven’t found any traces
Yesterday's troubles; purple
The evil was already covered up.
Everything returned to the same order.
The streets are already free
With your cold insensibility
People were walking. Official people
Leaving my night shelter,
I went to work. Brave trader,
Not discouraged, I opened
Neva robbed basement,
Collecting your loss is important
Place it on the nearest one. From the yards
They brought boats.
Count Khvostov,
Poet beloved by heaven
Already sang in immortal verses
The misfortune of the Neva banks.

But my poor, poor Evgeniy...
Alas! his confused mind
Against terrible shocks
I couldn't resist. Rebellious noise
The Neva and the winds were heard
In his ears. Terrible thoughts
Silently full, he wandered.
He was tormented by some kind of dream.
A week passed, a month - he
He did not return to his home.
His deserted corner
I rented it out when the deadline passed,
The owner of the poor poet.
Evgeny for his goods
Didn't come. He'll be out soon
Became alien. I wandered on foot all day,
And he slept on the pier; ate
A piece served into the window.
His clothes are shabby
It tore and smoldered. Angry children
They threw stones after him.
Often coachman's whips
He was whipped because
That he didn't understand the roads
Never again; it seemed he
Didn't notice. He's stunned
Was the noise of internal anxiety.
And so he is his unhappy age
Dragged, neither beast nor man,
Neither this nor that, nor the inhabitant of the world,
Neither ghost dead…
Once he was sleeping
At the Neva pier. Days of summer
We were approaching autumn. Breathed
Stormy wind. Grim Shaft
Splashed on the pier, grumbling fines
And hitting the smooth steps,
Like a petitioner at the door
Judges who don't listen to him.
The poor man woke up. It was gloomy:
The rain fell, the wind howled sadly,
And with him far away, in the darkness of the night
The sentry called back...
Evgeny jumped up; remembered vividly
He is a past horror; hastily
He stood up; went wandering, and suddenly
Stopped - and around
He quietly began to move his eyes
With wild fear on your face.
He found himself under the pillars
Big house. On the porch
With a raised paw, as if alive,
The lions stood guard,
And right in the dark heights
Above the fenced rock
Idol with outstretched hand
Sat on a bronze horse.

And from the time when it happened
He should go to that square,
His face showed
Confusion. To your heart
He hastily pressed his hand,
As if subduing him with torment,
A worn out cap,
Didn’t raise embarrassed eyes
And he walked aside.
Small Island
Visible at the seaside. Sometimes
Lands there with a seine
Late fisherman fishing
And the poor man cooks his dinner,
Or an official will visit,
Walking in a boat on Sunday
Deserted island. Not an adult
There's not a blade of grass there. Flood
Brought there while playing
The house is dilapidated. Above the water
He remained like a black bush.
His last spring
They brought me on a barge. It was empty
And everything is destroyed. At the threshold
They found my madman,
And then his cold corpse
Buried for God's sake.

Notes

Written in 1833. The poem is one of the deepest, boldest and most perfect in artistically works of Pushkin. The poet in him, with unprecedented strength and courage, shows the historically natural contradictions of life in all their nakedness, without trying to artificially make ends meet where they do not converge in reality itself. In the poem, in a generalized figurative form, two forces are opposed - the state, personified in Peter I (and then in symbolic image a revived monument, “The Bronze Horseman”), and a person in his personal, private interests and experiences. Speaking about Peter I, Pushkin glorified in inspired verses his “great thoughts”, his creation - the “city of Petrov”, a new capital built at the mouth of the Neva, “under the pestilence”, on “mossy, marshy banks”, for military-strategic reasons, economic and to establish cultural connection with Europe. The poet, without any reservations, praises the great state work of Peter, the wonderful city he created - “full of beauty and wonder of the world.” But these state considerations of Peter turn out to be the reason for the death of the innocent Eugene, a simple, an ordinary person. He is not a hero, but he knows how and wants to work (“...I am young and healthy, // I’m ready to work day and night”). He was brave during the flood; “He was afraid, poor thing, not for himself. // He did not hear how the greedy wave rose, // Washing his soles, he “boldly” sails along the “barely resigned” Neva to find out about the fate of his bride. Despite poverty, what Eugene values most is “independence and honor.” He dreams of simple human happiness: to marry the girl he loves and live modestly by his own labor. The flood, shown in the poem as a revolt of the conquered, conquered elements against Peter, ruins his life: Parasha dies, and he goes crazy. Peter I, in his great state concerns, did not think about defenseless little people forced to live under the threat of death from floods.
Tragic fate Eugene and the poet’s deep, sorrowful sympathy for her are expressed in “The Bronze Horseman” with enormous strength and poetry. And in the scene of the collision of the mad Eugene with the “Bronze Horseman”, his fiery, gloomy protest and a frontal threat to the “miraculous builder” on behalf of the victims of this construction, the poet’s language becomes as highly pathetic as in the solemn introduction to the poem. “The Bronze Horseman” ends with a spare, restrained, deliberately prosaic message about the death of Eugene:

...Flood
Brought there while playing
The house is dilapidated...
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
His last spring
They brought me on a barge. It was empty
And everything is destroyed. At the threshold
They found my madman,
And then his cold corpse
Buried for God's sake.

Pushkin does not give any epilogue that returns us to the original theme of the majestic Petersburg, an epilogue that reconciles us with the historically justified tragedy of Eugene. The contradiction between the full recognition of the correctness of Peter I, who cannot take into account interests in his state “great thoughts” and affairs individual person, and full recognition of the rightness little man, demanding that his interests be taken into account - this contradiction remains unresolved in the poem. Pushkin was quite right, since this contradiction lay not in his thoughts, but in life itself; it was one of the most acute in the process historical development. This contradiction between the good of the state and the happiness of the individual is inevitable as long as class society exists, and it will disappear with its final destruction.
Artistically, The Bronze Horseman is a miracle of art. In an extremely limited volume (the poem has only 481 verses) there are many bright, lively and highly poetic pictures - see, for example, the individual images scattered before the reader in the introduction, from which the whole majestic image of St. Petersburg is composed; saturated with strength and dynamics, from a number of private paintings, a description of the flood is formed, an image of the delirium of the insane Eugene, amazing in its poetry and brightness, and much more. What distinguishes The Bronze Horseman from other Pushkin poems is the amazing flexibility and variety of its style, sometimes solemn and slightly archaic, sometimes extremely simple, colloquial, but always poetic. The poem is given a special character by the use of techniques almost musical structure images: repetition, with some variations, of the same words and expressions (guard lions over the porch of the house, the image of a monument, “an idol on a bronze horse”), carrying through the entire poem in different changes the same thematic motif - rain and wind , Neva - in countless en aspects, etc., not to mention the famous sound recording of this amazing poem.
Pushkin’s references to Mickiewicz in the notes to the poem refer to a series of poems by Mickiewicz about St. Petersburg in the recently published third part of his poem “The Wake” (“Dziady”). Despite the benevolent tone of the mention of Mickiewicz, Pushkin in a number of places in his description of St. Petersburg in the introduction (and also partly when depicting the monument to Peter I) polemicizes with the Polish poet, who in his poems expressed a sharply negative opinion about Peter I, and about his activities, and about Petersburg, and about Russians in general.
“The Bronze Horseman” was not published during Pushkin’s lifetime, since Nicholas I demanded from the poet such changes in the text of the poem that he did not want to make. The poem was published shortly after Pushkin's death in a revision by Zhukovsky, who completely distorted its main meaning.

From early editions

From the manuscripts of the poem
After the verses “And what will he be with Parasha // Separated for two, three days”:

Here he warmed up heartily
And he daydreamed like a poet:
“Why? why not?
I'm not rich, there's no doubt about that
And Parasha has no name,
Well then? what do we care?
Is it really only the rich?
Is it possible to get married? I'll arrange
A humble corner for yourself
And in it I will calm Parasha.
Bed, two chairs; cabbage soup pot
Yes, he is big; What more do I need?
Let's not know whims
Sundays in the summer in the field
I will walk with Parasha;
I’ll ask for a place; Parashe
I will entrust our farm
And raising children...
And we will live - and so on until the grave
We'll both get there hand in hand
And our grandchildren will bury us..."

After the verse “And the drowning people at home”:

The senator comes from his sleep to the window
And he sees - in a boat along Morskaya
The military governor is sailing.
The senator froze: “Oh my God!
Here, Vanyusha! stand up a little
Look: what do you see through the window?
- I see, sir: there is a general in the boat
Floats through the gate, past the booth.
“By God?” - Exactly, sir. - “Besides a joke?”
- Yes, sir. — The senator rested
And asks for tea: “Thank God!
Well! The Count gave me anxiety
I thought: I’m crazy.”

Rough sketch of Eugene's description

He was a poor official
Rootless, orphan,
Pale, pockmarked,
Without clan, tribe, connections,
Without money, that is, without friends,
However, a citizen of the capital,
What kind of darkness do you meet,
Not at all different from you
Neither in face nor in mind.
Like everyone else, he behaved laxly,
Like you, I thought a lot about money,
How you, feeling sad, smoked tobacco,
Like you, he wore a uniform tailcoat.

"Poem The Bronze Horseman"

The incident described in this story
based on truth. Details
floods are borrowed from the then
magazines. The curious can handle it
with news compiled by V.N. Berkh.

A hundred years have passed, and the young city,
There is beauty and wonder in full countries,
From the darkness of the forests, from the swamps of blat
He ascended magnificently and proudly;
Where was the Finnish fisherman before?
Nature's sad stepson
Alone on the low banks
Thrown into unknown waters
Your old net, now there
Along busy shores
Slender communities crowd together
Palaces and towers; ships
A crowd from all over the world
They strive for rich marinas;
The Neva is dressed in granite;
Bridges hung over the waters;
Dark green gardens
Islands covered her,
And in front of the younger capital
Old Moscow has faded,
Like before a new queen
Porphyry widow.

I love you, Petra's creation,
I love your strict, slender appearance,
Neva sovereign current,
Its coastal granite,
Your fences have a cast iron pattern,
of your thoughtful nights
Transparent twilight, moonless shine,
When I'm in my room
I write, I read without a lamp,
And the sleeping communities are clear
Deserted streets and light
Admiralty needle,
And, not letting the darkness of the night
To golden skies
One dawn gives way to another
He hurries, giving the night half an hour.
I love your cruel winter
Still air and frost,
Sleigh running along the wide Neva,
Girls' faces are brighter than roses,
And the shine, and the noise, and the talk of balls,
And at the time of the feast the bachelor
The hiss of foamy glasses
And the punch flame is blue.
I love the warlike liveliness
Amusing Fields of Mars,
Infantry troops and horses
Uniform beauty
In their harmoniously unsteady system
The shreds of these victorious banners,
The shine of these copper caps,
Through those shot through in battle.
I love you, military capital,
Your stronghold is smoke and thunder,
When the queen is full
Gives a son to the royal house,
Or victory over the enemy
Russia triumphs again
Or, breaking your blue ice,
The Neva carries him to the seas
And, sensing the days of spring, he rejoices.

It was a terrible time
The memory of her is fresh...
About her, my friends, for you
I'll start my story.
My story will be sad.

Part one

That's what he dreamed. And it was sad
Him that night, and he wished
So that the wind howls less sadly
And let the rain knock on the window
Not so angry...
Sleepy eyes
He finally closed. And so
The darkness of a stormy night is thinning
And the pale day is coming...
Terrible day!
Neva all night
Longing for the sea against the storm,
Without overcoming their violent foolishness...
And she couldn’t bear to argue...
In the morning over its banks
There were crowds of people crowded together,
Admiring the splashes, mountains
And the foam of angry waters.
But the strength of the winds from the bay
Blocked Neva
She walked back, angry, seething,
And flooded the islands
The weather became more ferocious
The Neva swelled and roared,
A cauldron bubbling and swirling,
And suddenly, like a wild beast,
She rushed towards the city. In front of her
Everything ran, everything around
Suddenly it was empty - suddenly there was water
Flowed into underground cellars,
Channels poured into the gratings,
And Petropol emerged like a newt,
Waist-deep in water.

Part two

And long with stormy waves
An experienced rower fought
And hide deep between their rows
Every hour with daring swimmers
The boat was ready - and finally
He reached the shore.
Unhappy
Runs down a familiar street
To familiar places. Looks
Can't find out. The view is terrible!
Everything is piled up in front of him;
What is dropped, what is demolished;
The houses were crooked, others
Completely collapsed, others
Shifted by waves; all around
As if in a battlefield,
Bodies are lying around. Evgeniy
Headlong, not remembering anything,
Exhausted from torment,
Runs to where he is waiting
Fate with unknown news,
Like with a sealed letter.
And now he’s running through the suburbs,
And here is the bay, and home is close...
What is this?..
He stopped.
I went back and came back.
He looks... he walks... he still looks.
This is the place where their house stands;
Here is the willow. There was a gate here -
Apparently they were blown away. Where is home?
And, full of gloomy care,
He keeps walking, he walks around,
Talks loudly to himself -
And suddenly, hitting him on the forehead with his hand,
Laughed.
Night haze
She descended upon the city in trepidation;
But the residents did not sleep for a long time
And they talked among themselves
About the day gone by.
Morning ray
Because of the tired, pale clouds
Flashed over the quiet capital
And I haven’t found any traces
Yesterday's troubles; purple
The evil was already covered up.
Everything returned to the same order.
The streets are already free
With your cold insensibility
People were walking. Official people
Leaving my night shelter,
I went to work. Brave trader,
Not discouraged, I opened
Neva robbed basement,
Collecting your loss is important
Place it on the nearest one. From the yards
They brought boats.
Count Khvostov,
Poet beloved by heaven
Already sang in immortal verses
The misfortune of the Neva banks.

But my poor, poor Evgeniy...
Alas! his confused mind
Against terrible shocks
I couldn't resist. Rebellious noise
The Neva and the winds were heard
In his ears. Terrible thoughts
Silently full, he wandered.
He was tormented by some kind of dream.
A week passed, a month - he
He did not return to his home.
His deserted corner
I rented it out when the deadline passed,
The owner of the poor poet.
Evgeny for his goods
Didn't come. He'll be out soon
Became alien. I wandered on foot all day,
And he slept on the pier; ate
A piece served into the window.
His clothes are shabby
It tore and smoldered. Angry children
They threw stones after him.
Often coachman's whips
He was whipped because
That he didn't understand the roads
Never again; it seemed he
Didn't notice. He's stunned
Was the noise of internal anxiety.
And so he is his unhappy age
Dragged, neither beast nor man,
Neither this nor that, nor the inhabitant of the world,
Not a dead ghost...
Once he was sleeping
At the Neva pier. Days of summer
We were approaching autumn. Breathed
Stormy wind. Grim Shaft
Splashed on the pier, grumbling fines
And hitting the smooth steps,
Like a petitioner at the door
Judges who don't listen to him.
The poor man woke up. It was gloomy:
The rain fell, the wind howled sadly,
And with him far away, in the darkness of the night
The sentry called back...
Evgeny jumped up; remembered vividly
He is a past horror; hastily
He stood up; went wandering, and suddenly
Stopped - and around
He quietly began to move his eyes
With wild fear on your face.
He found himself under the pillars
Big house. On the porch
With a raised paw, as if alive,
The lions stood guard,
And right in the dark heights
Above the fenced rock
Idol with outstretched hand
Sat on a bronze horse.

Evgeny shuddered. cleared up
The thoughts in it are scary. He found out
And the place where the flood played,
Where the waves of predators crowded,
Rioting angrily around him,
And lions, and the square, and that,
Who stood motionless
In the darkness with a copper head,
The one whose will is fatal
A city was founded under the sea...
He is terrible in the surrounding darkness!
What a thought on the brow!
What power is hidden in it!
And what fire there is in this horse!
Where are you galloping, proud horse?
And where will you put your hooves?
O mighty lord of fate!
Aren't you above the abyss?
At the height, with an iron bridle
Raised Russia on its hind legs?

Around the foot of the idol
The poor madman walked around
And brought wild glances
The face of the ruler of half the world.
His chest felt tight. Chelo
It lay down on the cold grate,
My eyes became foggy,
A fire ran through my heart,
Blood boiled. He became gloomy
Before the proud idol
And, clenching my teeth, clenching my fingers,
As if possessed by black power,
“Welcome, miraculous builder! -
He whispered, trembling angrily, -
Already for you!..” And suddenly headlong
He started to run. It seemed
He is like a formidable king,
Instantly ignited with anger,
The face quietly turned...
And its area is empty
He runs and hears behind him -
It's like thunder roaring -
Heavy ringing galloping
Along the shaken pavement.
And, illuminated by the pale moon,
Stretching out your hand on high,
The Bronze Horseman rushes after him
On a loud galloping horse;
And all night long the poor madman,
Wherever you turn your feet,
Behind him is the Bronze Horseman everywhere
He galloped with a heavy stomp.

Current page: 1 (book has 2 pages in total)

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

Bronze Horseman

Petersburg story

Preface

The incident described in this story is based on truth. Details of the flood are taken from magazines of the time. The curious can consult the news compiled by V. N. Berkh.

Introduction

On the shore of desert waves
stood He, full of great thoughts,
And he looked into the distance. Wide before him
The river rushed; poor boat
He strove along it alone.
Along mossy, marshy banks
Blackened huts here and there,
Shelter of a wretched Chukhonian;
And the forest, unknown to the rays
In the fog of the hidden sun,
There was noise all around.
And he thought:
From here we will threaten the Swede.
The city will be founded here
To spite an arrogant neighbor.
Nature destined us here
Cut a window to Europe,
Stand with a firm foot by the sea.
Here on new waves
All the flags will visit us,
And we’ll record it in the open air.
A hundred years have passed, and the young city,
There is beauty and wonder in full countries,
From the darkness of the forests, from the swamps of blat
He ascended magnificently and proudly;
Where was the Finnish fisherman before?
Nature's sad stepson
Alone on the low banks
Thrown into unknown waters
Your old net, now there
Along busy shores
Slender communities crowd together
Palaces and towers; ships
A crowd from all over the world
They strive for rich marinas;
The Neva is dressed in granite;
Bridges hung over the waters;
Dark green gardens
Islands covered her,
And in front of the younger capital
Old Moscow has faded,
Like before a new queen
Porphyry widow.
I love you, Petra's creation,
I love your strict, slender appearance,
Neva sovereign current,
Its coastal granite,
Your fences have a cast iron pattern,
of your thoughtful nights
Transparent twilight, moonless shine,
When I'm in my room
I write, I read without a lamp,
And the sleeping communities are clear
Deserted streets and light
Admiralty needle,
And, not letting the darkness of the night
To golden skies
One dawn gives way to another
He hurries, giving the night half an hour.
I love your cruel winter
Still air and frost,
Sleigh running along the wide Neva,
Girls' faces are brighter than roses,
And the shine, and the noise, and the talk of balls,
And at the time of the feast the bachelor
The hiss of foamy glasses
And the punch flame is blue.
I love the warlike liveliness
Amusing Fields of Mars,
Infantry troops and horses
Uniform beauty
In their harmoniously unsteady system
The shreds of these victorious banners,
The shine of these copper caps,
Shot through and through in battle.
I love you, military capital,
Your stronghold is smoke and thunder,
When the queen is full
Gives a son to the royal house,
Or victory over the enemy
Russia triumphs again
Or, breaking your blue ice,
The Neva carries him to the seas
And, sensing the days of spring, he rejoices.
Show off, city Petrov, and stand
Unshakable, like Russia,
May he make peace with you
And the defeated element;
Enmity and ancient captivity
Let the Finnish waves forget
And they will not be vain malice
Disturb Peter's eternal sleep!
It was a terrible time
The memory of her is fresh...
About her, my friends, for you
I'll start my story.
My story will be sad.

Part one

Over darkened Petrograd
November breathed the autumn chill.
Splashing with a noisy wave
To the edges of your slender fence,
Neva was tossing around like a sick person
Restless in my bed.
It was already late and dark;
The rain beat angrily on the window,
And the wind blew, howling sadly.
At that time from the guests home
Young Evgeniy came...
We will be our hero
Call by this name. It
Sounds nice; been with him for a long time
My pen is also friendly.
We don't need his nickname.
Although in times gone by
Perhaps it shone
And under the pen of Karamzin
In native legends it sounded;
But now with light and rumor
It's forgotten. Our hero
Lives in Kolomna; serves somewhere
He shies away from the nobles and does not bother
Not about deceased relatives,
Not about forgotten antiquities.
So, I came home, Evgeniy
He shook off his overcoat, undressed, and lay down.
But for a long time he could not fall asleep
In the excitement of various thoughts.
What was he thinking about? about
That he was poor, that he worked hard
He had to deliver to himself
And independence and honor;
What could God add to him?
Mind and money. What is it?
Such idle lucky ones,
Short-sighted, sloths,
For whom life is much easier!
That he serves only two years;
He also thought that the weather
She didn’t let up; that the river
Everything was coming; which is hardly
The bridges have not been removed from the Neva
And what will happen to Parasha?
Separated for two or three days.
Evgeny sighed heartily here
And he daydreamed like a poet:
"Marry? Well... why not?
It's hard, of course.
But well, he's young and healthy,
Ready to work day and night;
He'll arrange something for himself
Shelter humble and simple
And it will calm Parasha.
Perhaps a year or two will pass -
I’ll get a place - Parashe
I will entrust our farm
And raising children...
And we will live, and so on until the grave
We'll both get there hand in hand
And our grandchildren will bury us..."
That's what he dreamed. And it was sad
Him that night, and he wished
So that the wind howls less sadly
And let the rain knock on the window
Not so angry...
Sleepy eyes
He finally closed. And so
The darkness of a stormy night is thinning
And the pale day is coming...
Terrible day!
Neva all night
Longing for the sea against the storm,
Without overcoming their violent foolishness...
And she couldn’t bear to argue...
In the morning over its banks
There were crowds of people crowded together,
Admiring the splashes, mountains
And the foam of angry waters.
But the strength of the winds from the bay
Blocked Neva
She walked back, angry, seething,
And flooded the islands
The weather became more ferocious
The Neva swelled and roared,
A cauldron bubbling and swirling,
And suddenly, like a wild beast,
She rushed towards the city. In front of her
Everything ran, everything around
Suddenly it was empty - suddenly there was water
Flowed into underground cellars,
Channels poured into the gratings,
And Petropol floated up like a newt,
Waist-deep in water.
Siege! attack! evil waves,
Like thieves, they climb into windows. Chelny
From the run the windows are smashed by the stern.
Trays under a wet blanket.
Wrecks of huts, logs, roofs,
Stock trade goods,
The belongings of pale poverty,
Bridges demolished by thunderstorms,
Coffins from a washed-out cemetery
Floating through the streets!
People
He sees God's wrath and awaits execution.
Alas! everything perishes: shelter and food!
Where will I get it?
In that terrible year
The late Tsar was still in Russia
He ruled with glory. To the balcony
Sad, confused, he went out
And he said: “With God's element
Kings cannot control.” He sat down
And in the Duma with sorrowful eyes
I looked at the evil disaster.
There were stacks of lakes,
And in them there are wide rivers
The streets poured in. Castle
It seemed like a sad island.
The king said - from end to end,
Along nearby streets and distant ones,
On a dangerous journey through stormy waters
The generals set off
To save and overcome with fear
And there are drowning people at home.
Then, on Petrova Square,
Where a new house has risen in the corner,
Where above the elevated porch
With a raised paw, as if alive,
There are two guard lions standing,
Riding a marble beast,
Without a hat, hands clasped in a cross,
Sat motionless, terribly pale
Evgeny. He was afraid, poor thing,
Not for myself. He didn't hear
How the greedy shaft rose,
Washing his soles,
How the rain hit his face,
Like the wind, howling violently,
He suddenly tore off his hat.
His desperate glances
Pointed to the edge
They were motionless. Like mountains
From the indignant depths
The waves rose there and got angry,
There the storm howled, there they rushed
Debris... God, God! there -
Alas! close to the waves,
Almost at the very bay -
Unpainted fence and willow
And a dilapidated house: there it is,
Widow and daughter, his Parasha,
His dream... Or in a dream
Does he see this? or all ours
And life is nothing like an empty dream,
The mockery of heaven over earth?
And he seems to be bewitched
As if chained to marble,
Can't get off! Around him
Water and nothing else!
And with my back turned to him,
In the unshakable heights,
Above the indignant Neva
Stands with outstretched hand
Idol on a bronze horse.

Part two

But now, having had enough of destruction
And tired of insolent violence,
The Neva was drawn back,
Admiring your indignation
And leaving with carelessness
Your prey. So villain
With his fierce gang
Having burst into the village, he breaks, cuts,
Destroys and robs; screams, gnashing,
Violence, swearing, anxiety, howling!..
And, burdened with robbery,
Afraid of the chase, tired,
The robbers are hurrying home,
Dropping prey on the way.
The water has subsided and the pavement
It opened, and Evgeny is mine
He hurries, his soul sinking,
In hope, fear and longing
To the barely subdued river.
But victories are full of triumph,
The waves were still boiling angrily,
It was as if a fire was smoldering underneath them,
The foam still covered them,
And Neva was breathing heavily,
Like a horse running back from battle.
Evgeny looks: he sees a boat;
He runs to her as if on a discovery;
He calls the carrier -
And the carrier is carefree
Willingly pay him for a dime
Through terrible waves you are lucky.
And long with stormy waves
An experienced rower fought
And hide deep between their rows
Every hour with daring swimmers
The boat was ready - and finally
He reached the shore.
Unhappy
Runs down a familiar street
To familiar places. Looks
Can't find out. The view is terrible!
Everything is piled up in front of him;
What is dropped, what is demolished;
The houses were crooked, others
Completely collapsed, others
Shifted by waves; all around
As if in a battlefield,
Bodies are lying around. Evgeniy
Headlong, not remembering anything,
Exhausted from torment,
Runs to where he is waiting
Fate with unknown news,
Like with a sealed letter.
And now he’s running through the suburbs,
And here is the bay, and home is close...
What is this?..
He stopped.
I went back and came back.
He looks... walks... still looks.
This is the place where their house stands;
Here is the willow. There was a gate here -
Apparently they were blown away. Where is home?
And, full of gloomy care,
He keeps walking, he walks around,
Talks loudly to himself -
And suddenly, hitting him on the forehead with his hand,
Laughed.
Night haze
She descended upon the city in trepidation;
But the residents did not sleep for a long time
And they talked among themselves
About the day gone by.
Morning ray
Because of the tired, pale clouds
Flashed over the quiet capital
And I haven’t found any traces
Yesterday's troubles; purple
The evil was already covered up.
Everything returned to the same order.
The streets are already free
With your cold insensibility
People were walking. Official people
Leaving my night shelter,
I went to work. Brave trader,
Not discouraged, I opened
Neva robbed basement,
Collecting your loss is important
Place it on the nearest one. From the yards
They brought boats.
Count Khvostov,
Poet beloved by heaven
Already sang in immortal verses
The misfortune of the Neva banks.
But my poor, poor Evgeniy...
Alas! his confused mind
Against terrible shocks
I couldn't resist. Rebellious noise
The Neva and the winds were heard
In his ears. Terrible thoughts
Silently full, he wandered.
He was tormented by some kind of dream.
A week passed, a month - he
He did not return to his home.
His deserted corner
I rented it out when the deadline passed,
The owner of the poor poet.
Evgeny for his goods
Didn't come. He'll be out soon
Became alien. I wandered on foot all day,
And he slept on the pier; ate
A piece served into the window.
His clothes are shabby
It tore and smoldered. Angry children
They threw stones after him.
Often coachman's whips
He was whipped because
That he didn't understand the roads
Never again; it seemed he
Didn't notice. He's stunned
Was the noise of internal anxiety.
And so he is his unhappy age
Dragged, neither beast nor man,
Neither this nor that, nor the inhabitant of the world,
Not a dead ghost...
Once he was sleeping
At the Neva pier. Days of summer
We were approaching autumn. Breathed
Stormy wind. Grim Shaft
Splashed on the pier, grumbling fines
And hitting the smooth steps,
Like a petitioner at the door
Judges who don't listen to him.
The poor man woke up. It was gloomy:
The rain fell, the wind howled sadly,
And with him far away in the darkness of the night
The sentry called back...
Evgeny jumped up; remembered vividly
He is a past horror; hastily
He stood up; went wandering, and suddenly
Stopped and around
He quietly began to move his eyes
With wild fear on your face.
He found himself under the pillars
Big house. On the porch
With a raised paw, as if alive,
The lions stood guard,
And right in the dark heights
Above the fenced rock
Idol with outstretched hand
Sat on a bronze horse.
Evgeny shuddered. cleared up
The thoughts in it are scary. He found out
And the place where the flood played,
Where the waves of predators crowded,
Rioting angrily around him,
And lions, and the square, and that,
Who stood motionless
In the darkness with a copper head,
The one whose will is fatal
The city was founded under the sea...
He is terrible in the surrounding darkness!
What a thought on the brow!
What power is hidden in it!
And what fire there is in this horse!
Where are you galloping, proud horse?
And where will you put your hooves?
O mighty lord of fate!
Aren't you above the very abyss,
At the height, with an iron bridle
Raised Russia on its hind legs?
Around the foot of the idol
The poor madman walked around
And brought wild glances
The face of the ruler of half the world.
His chest felt tight. Chelo
It lay down on the cold grate,
My eyes became foggy,
A fire ran through my heart,
Blood boiled. He became gloomy
Before the proud idol
And, clenching my teeth, clenching my fingers,
As if possessed by black power,
“Welcome, miraculous builder! -
He whispered, trembling angrily, -
Already for you!..” And suddenly headlong
He started to run. It seemed
He is like a formidable king,
Instantly ignited with anger,
The face quietly turned...
And its area is empty
He runs and hears behind him -
It's like thunder roaring -
Heavy ringing galloping
Along the shaken pavement.
And, illuminated by the pale moon,
Stretching out your hand on high,
The Bronze Horseman rushes after him
On a loud galloping horse;
And all night long the poor madman
Wherever you turn your feet,
Behind him is the Bronze Horseman everywhere
He galloped with a heavy stomp.
And from the time when it happened
He should go to that square,
His face showed
Confusion. To your heart
He hastily pressed his hand,
As if subduing him with torment,
A worn out cap,
Didn’t raise embarrassed eyes
And he walked aside.
Small Island
Visible at the seaside. Sometimes
Lands there with a seine
Late fisherman fishing
And the poor man cooks his dinner,
Or an official will visit,
Walking in a boat on Sunday
Deserted island. Not an adult
There's not a blade of grass there. Flood
Brought there while playing
The house is dilapidated. Above the water
He remained like a black bush.
His last spring
They brought me on a barge. It was empty
And everything is destroyed. At the threshold
They found my madman,
And then his cold corpse
Buried for God's sake.

PUBLISHING HOUSE "SCIENCE"

Leningrad branch

Leningrad 1978

PREPARED BY N.V. IZMAILOV

A. S. Pushkin. Bust by I. P. Vitali. 1837 Marble.

From the editorial board

The publications in the “Literary Monuments” series are addressed to that Soviet reader who is not only interested in literary works as such, regardless of their authors, era, circumstances of their creation, etc., but for which the identity of the authors is also not indifferent, creative process the creation of works, their role in historical and literary development, the subsequent fate of monuments, etc.

The increased cultural demands of the Soviet reader encourage him to study more deeply the intent of works, the history of their creation, and the historical and literary environment.

Every literary monument deeply individual in his connections with readers. In monuments whose significance lies primarily in the fact that they are typical of their time and their literature, readers are interested in their connections with history, with cultural life countries, with everyday life. Created by geniuses, monuments are primarily important for readers due to their connections with the personality of the author. In the monuments of translated readers will be interested (among other things) in their history on Russian soil, their impact on Russian literature and participation in the Russian historical and literary process. Each monument requires its own approach to the problems of its publication, commentary, and literary explanation.

Such a special approach, of course, is required when publishing the work of the genius of Russian poetry - A. S. Pushkin, and above all such a central monument to his work as “The Bronze Horseman”.

In Pushkin's works we are interested in their entire creative history, the fate of every line, every word, every punctuation mark, if it has at least some relation to the meaning of a particular passage. “Following the thoughts of a great man is the most interesting science” - these words of Pushkin from the beginning of the third chapter of “Arap Peter the Great” should be perceived by us primarily in relation to the one who wrote them, thinking not about himself, but about the world of geniuses around him.

"The Petersburg Tale" "The Bronze Horseman" is one of everyone's favorite works Soviet man, and the concept of this poem and the ideas hidden in it disturb not only researchers, but also the general reader. “The Bronze Horseman” is a poem that follows the central themes of Pushkin’s work. Its concept has a long prehistory, and the subsequent fate of the poem in Russian literature - in the “Petersburg theme” of Gogol, Dostoevsky, Bely, Annensky, Blok, Akhmatova and many other writers - is absolutely exceptional in its historical and literary significance.

All this obliges us to treat the publication of “The Bronze Horseman” with exceptional care, not to miss any of the smallest nuances in the history of its conception, its drafts, editions, to restore the poem in its creative movement, display it in the publication not as a stationary literary fact, but as a process of Pushkin’s brilliant creative thought.

This is the purpose of the publication that is now offered to the demanding attention of readers of our series. It is this purpose that explains the nature of the article and appendices, the inclusion of a section on variants and discrepancies.

Bronze Horseman

Petersburg story

Preface

The incident described in this story is based on truth. Details of the flood are taken from magazines of the time. The curious can consult the news compiled V. N. Berkhom.

Introduction

The beginning of the first white manuscript of the poem “The Bronze Horseman” - Boldinsky’s autograph (manuscript PD 964).

On the shore of desert waves

He stood, full of great thoughts,

And he looked into the distance. Wide before him

The river rushed; poor boat

He strove along it alone.

Along mossy, marshy banks

Blackened huts here and there,

Shelter of a wretched Chukhonian;

And the forest, unknown to the rays

10 In the fog of the hidden sun

There was noise all around.

And He thought:

From here we will threaten the Swede.

The city will be founded here

To spite an arrogant neighbor.

Nature destined us here

Stand with a firm foot by the sea.

Here on new waves

All flags will visit us

20 And we’ll lock it up in the open.

A hundred years have passed, and the young city,

There is beauty and wonder in full countries,

From the darkness of the forests, from the swamps of blat

He ascended magnificently and proudly;

Where was the Finnish fisherman before?

Nature's sad stepson

Alone on the low banks

Thrown into unknown waters

Your old net, now there

30 Along busy shores

Slender communities crowd together

Palaces and towers; ships

A crowd from all over the world

They strive for rich marinas;

The Neva is dressed in granite;

Bridges hung over the waters;

Dark green gardens

Islands covered her,

And in front of the younger capital

40 Old Moscow has faded,

Like before a new queen

Porphyry widow.

I love you, Petra's creation,

I love your strict, slender appearance,

Neva sovereign current,

Its coastal granite,

Your fences have a cast iron pattern,

of your thoughtful nights

Transparent twilight, moonless shine,

50 When I'm in my room

I write, I read without a lamp,

And the sleeping communities are clear

Deserted streets and light

Admiralty needle,

And not letting the darkness of the night

To golden skies

One dawn gives way to another

I love your cruel winter

60 Still air and frost,

Sleigh running along the wide Neva,

Girls' faces are brighter than roses,

And the shine and noise and talk of balls,

And at the time of the feast the bachelor

The hiss of foamy glasses

And the punch flame is blue.

I love the warlike liveliness

Amusing Fields of Mars,

Infantry troops and horses

70 Monotonous beauty,

In their harmoniously unsteady system

The shreds of these victorious banners,

The shine of these copper caps,

Shot through and through in battle.

I love you, military capital,

Your stronghold is smoke and thunder,

When the queen is full

Gives a son to the royal house,

Or victory over the enemy

80 Russia triumphs again,

Or, breaking your blue ice,

The Neva carries him to the seas,

And sensing the days of spring, he rejoices.

Show off, city Petrov, and stand

Unshakable like Russia.

May he make peace with you

And the defeated element;

Enmity and ancient captivity

Let the Finnish waves forget

90 And they will not be vain malice

Disturb Peter's eternal sleep!

It was a terrible time

The memory of her is fresh...

About her, my friends, for you

I'll start my story.

My story will be sad.

Part one

Over darkened Petrograd

November breathed the autumn chill.

Splashing with a noisy wave

100 To the edges of your slender fence,