Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin (1799– 1837)

Memories in Tsarskoe Selo

The pall of gloomy night hangs over
On the vault of slumbering skies;
The valleys and groves rested in silent silence,
In the gray fog there is a distant forest;
You can barely hear a stream running into the shadow of the oak grove,
The breeze barely breathes, asleep on the sheets,
And the quiet moon, like a majestic swan,
Floating in silvery clouds.

From the flinty hills there are waterfalls
Flowing down like a river of beads,
There are naiads splashing in a quiet lake
His lazy wave;
And there are huge palaces in silence,
Leaning on the arches, they rush towards the clouds.
Isn’t this where the earthly gods lived their peaceful days?
Isn’t it the temple of Minerva of Russia?

Isn’t it Elysium full,
The beautiful Tsarskoye Selo garden,
Where, having slain a lion, the mighty eagle of Russia rested
In the bosom of peace and joy?
Those golden times have flown by forever,
When under the scepter of the great wife
Happy Russia was crowned with glory,
Blooming under the roof of silence!

Here every step in the soul gives birth
Memories of previous years;
Looking around him, Ross says with a sigh:
“Everything has disappeared, the Great One is gone!”
And, deep in thought, over the grassy shores
Sits in silence, inclining his ears to the winds.
The past summers flash before my eyes,
And the spirit is in quiet admiration.

He sees, surrounded by waves,
Over a hard, mossy rock
The monument went up. Spreading with wings.
A young eagle sits above him.
And heavy chains and thunder arrows
They wrapped themselves around the formidable pillar three times;
All around the feet, rustling, gray shafts
They lay down in shiny foam.

In the shade of thick, gloomy pine trees
A simple monument was erected.
Oh, how diarrhea he is for you, Cahul Breg!
And glory to the homeland!
You are immortal forever, O giants of Russia,
Trained in battle in the midst of harsh weather!
About you, companions, friends of Catherine,
Word will spread from generation to generation.

Oh, loud age of military disputes,
Witness to the glory of the Russians!
Have you seen how Orlov, Rumyantsev and Suvorov,
Descendants of the formidable Slavs,
Perun Zeus stole the victory;
The world marveled at their brave exploits;
Derzhavin and Petrov rattled a song for the heroes
Strings of thunderous lyres.

And you rushed by, unforgettable!
And soon a new century dawned
And new battles and war horrors;
To suffer is a mortal's lot.
The bloody sword flashed in the indomitable hand
By the deceit and insolence of a crowned king;
The scourge of the universe has risen - and soon there will be a new war
A menacing dawn dawned.

And they rushed with a fast stream
Enemies on Russian fields.
Before them the gloomy steppe lies in a deep sleep,
The earth is smoking with blood;
And the villages are peaceful, and the cities are burning in the darkness,
And the sky covered itself with a glow,
Dense forests shelter those running,
And the idle plow rusts in the field.

They go - there is no obstacle to their strength,
They destroy everything, they turn everything into dust,
And the pale shadows of the dead children of Bellona,
In the airy shelves united,
They continually descend into the dark grave,
Or wander through the forests in the silence of the night....
But the clicks were heard!... they are walking into the foggy distance! –
Chain mail and swords sound!...

Be afraid, O army of foreigners!
The sons of Russia moved;
Both old and young rebelled; fly on the daring,
Their hearts are set on fire with vengeance.
Tremble, tyrant! the hour of fall is near!
You will see a hero in every warrior.
Their goal is either to win or to fall in the heat of battle
For Rus', for the holiness of the altar.

The zealous horses are full of abuse,
The valley is dotted with warriors,
The system flows behind the line, everyone breathes revenge and glory,
Delight filled their chests.
They fly to a terrible feast; swords are looking for prey,
And lo - the battle is blazing; thunder roars on the hills,
In the thick air with swords, arrows whistle,
And blood splashes on the shield.

They fought. Russian is the winner!
And the arrogant Gaul runs back;
But strong in battle, the heavenly Almighty
Crowned with the last ray,
It was not here that the gray-haired warrior struck him down;
O Borodino bloody fields!
You are not the limits of fury and pride!
Alas! on the Gaul towers of the Kremlin!...

The edges of Moscow, the native lands,
Where at the dawn of blooming years
I spent golden hours of carelessness,
Without knowing sorrows and troubles,
And you saw them, the enemies of my fatherland!
And your blood turned purple and the flames devoured you!
And I did not sacrifice vengeance on you or my life;
In vain only the spirit burned with anger!...

Where are you, the hundred-domed beauty of Moscow,
Dearest charm of the party?
Where before the majestic city appeared before our eyes,
The ruins are now alone;
Moscow, how scary your sad face is to a Russian!
The buildings of nobles and kings have disappeared,
The flame destroyed everything. The crowns were eclipsed by the towers,
The halls of the rich have fallen.

And where luxury lived
In shady groves and gardens,
Where the myrtle fragrant and the linden tree trembled,
There are now coals, ashes, dust.
In the silent hours of a beautiful summer night
Noisy fun will not fly there,
The shores and bright groves no longer shine in the lights:
Everything is dead, everything is silent.

Be comforted, mother of Russian cities,
Behold the death of the stranger.
Weighed down today on their arrogant necks
The avenging right hand of the Creator.
Look: they are running, they don’t dare to look up,
Their blood never stops flowing like rivers in the snow;
They run - and in the darkness of the night their hunger and death are met,
And from the rear the Russian sword is driving.

O you who trembled
Europe's tribes are strong,
O ravenous Gauls! and you fell into your graves. –
O fear! O terrible times!
Where are you, beloved son of happiness and Bellona,
The voice that despises truth, and faith, and law,
In pride, dreaming of overthrowing thrones with a sword?
Disappeared like a bad dream in the morning!

Ross in Paris! – where is the torch of vengeance?
Lower your head, Gaul.
But what do I see? Ross with a smile of reconciliation
Coming with a golden olive.
The military thunder still rumbles in the distance,
Moscow is in despondency, like the steppe in complete darkness,
And he brings the enemy not death, but salvation
And beneficial peace to the earth.

O inspired skald of Russia,
The formidable formation sung of the warriors,
In the circle of comrades, with an ignited soul,
Sound the golden harp!
Yes, again a harmonious voice will be shed in honor of the heroes,
And proud strings will sprinkle fire into hearts,
And the young warrior will boil and tremble
At the sound of a swearing singer.
1814

The daylight has gone out;
The evening fog fell on the blue sea.

I see a distant shore
The lands of the midday are magical lands;
I rush there with excitement and longing,
Intoxicated with memories...
And I feel: tears were born in my eyes again;
The soul boils and freezes;
A familiar dream flies around me;
I remembered the crazy love of previous years,
And everything that I suffered, and everything that is dear to my heart,
Desires and hopes are a painful deception...
Make noise, make noise, obedient sail,
Worry beneath me, sullen ocean.
Fly, ship, carry me to the distant limits
By the terrible whim of the deceptive seas,
But not to the sad shores
My foggy homeland,
Countries where the flames of passions
For the first time feelings flared up,
Where tender muses secretly smiled at me,
Where it bloomed early in the storms
My lost youth
Where the light-winged one changed my joy
And betrayed my cold heart to suffering.
Seeker of new experiences,
I ran away from you, fatherly land;
I ran you, pets of pleasures,
Minutes of youth, minute friends;
And you, confidants of vicious delusions,
To whom I sacrificed myself without love,
Peace, glory, freedom and soul,
And you are forgotten by me, young traitors,
Secret golden friends of my spring,
And you are forgotten by me... But the wounds of the former hearts,
Nothing has healed the deep wounds of love...
Make noise, make noise, obedient sail,
Worry beneath me, gloomy ocean...

Dagger

The god of Lemnos has bound you
For the hands of the immortal Nemesis,
Freedom's secret guard, punishing dagger,
The last judge of Shame and Resentment.

Where Zeus's thunder is silent, where the sword of the Law slumbers,
You are the executor of curses and hopes,
You are hidden under the shadow of the throne,
Under the shine of festive clothes.

Like a hellish ray, like the lightning of the gods,
A silent blade shines in the villain's eyes,
And, looking around, he trembles,
Among their feasts.

Everywhere your unexpected blow will find him:
On land, on the seas, in the temple, under tents,
Behind hidden castles
On the bed of sleep, in the family.

The treasured Rubicon rustles under Caesar,
Sovereign Rome fell, the Law became its head:
But Brutus rebelled, a freedom-loving man:
You have defeated Caesar - and he is surrounded by death
Pompey marble is proud.

The fiend of rebellion raises an evil cry:
Despicable, dark and bloody,
Over the corpse of Headless Liberty
An ugly executioner appeared.

Apostle of doom, to weary Hades
With his finger he designated victims,
But the highest court sent him
You and the maiden Eumenides.

O young righteous man, chosen one of fate,
O Zand, your age has died on the chopping block;
But the virtues are holy
A voice remained in the executed ashes.

In your Germany you have become an eternal shadow,
Threatening disaster to the criminal force -
And at the solemn grave
The dagger is burning without an inscription.
1821

To the poet

Poet! do not value people's love.
There will be a momentary noise of enthusiastic praise;
You will hear the judgment of a fool and the laughter of a cold crowd,
But you remain firm, calm and gloomy.

You are the king: live alone. On the road to freedom
Go where your free mind takes you,
Improving the fruits of your favorite thoughts,
Without demanding rewards for a noble deed.

They are in you. You are your own highest court;
You know how to evaluate your work more strictly than anyone else.
Are you satisfied with it, discerning artist?

Are you satisfied? So let the crowd scold him
And spits on the altar where your fire burns,
And your tripod shakes in childish playfulness.

Autumn(excerpt)

Why doesn’t my mind then enter into my slumber?
Derzhavin.

I.
October has already arrived - the grove is already shaking off
The last leaves from their naked branches;
The autumn chill has blown in - the road is freezing.
The stream still runs babbling behind the mill,
But the pond was already frozen; my neighbor is in a hurry
To the departing fields with my desire,
And the winter ones suffer from mad fun,
And the barking of dogs wakes up the sleeping oak forests.

II.
Now is my time: I don’t like spring;
The thaw is boring to me; stench, dirt - in the spring I am sick;
The blood is fermenting; feelings and mind are constrained by melancholy.
I'm happier in the harsh winter
I love her snow; in the presence of the moon
How easy the running of a sleigh with a friend is fast and free,
When under the sable, warm and fresh,
She shakes your hand, glowing and trembling!

III.
How fun it is to put sharp iron on your feet,
Slide along the mirror of standing, smooth rivers!
And the brilliant worries of the winter holidays?...
But you also need to know honor; six months of snow and snow,
After all, this is finally true for the inhabitant of the den,
The bear will get bored. You can't take a whole century
We'll ride in a sleigh with the young Armids,
Or sour by the stoves behind double glass.

IV.
Oh, summer is red! I would love you
If only it weren't for the heat, the dust, the mosquitoes, and the flies.
You, ruining all your spiritual abilities,
You torture us; like the fields we suffer from drought;
Just to get something to drink and refresh yourself -
We have no other thought, and it’s a pity for the old woman’s winter,
And, having seen her off with pancakes and wine,
We are celebrating her funeral with ice cream and ice.

V.
The days of late autumn are usually scolded,
But she’s sweet to me, dear reader,
Quiet beauty, shining humbly.
So unloved child in the family
It attracts me to itself. To tell you frankly,
Of the annual times, I am glad only for her,
There is a lot of good in her; a lover is not vain,
I found something in her like a wayward dream.

VI.
How to explain this? I like her
Like you probably are a consumptive maiden
Sometimes I like it. Condemned to death
The poor thing bows down without a murmur, without anger.
A smile is visible on faded lips;
She does not hear the gaping of the grave abyss;
The color of his face is still purple.
She is still alive today, gone tomorrow.

VII.
It's a sad time! charm of the eyes!
I am pleased with your farewell beauty -
I love the lush decay of nature,
Forests dressed in scarlet and gold,
In their canopy there is noise and fresh breath,
And the skies are covered with wavy darkness,
And a rare ray of sunshine, and the first frosts,
And distant gray winter threats.

VIII.
And every autumn I bloom again;
The Russian cold is good for my health;
I feel love again for the habits of life:
One by one sleep flies away, one by one hunger comes;
The blood plays easily and joyfully in the heart,
Desires are boiling - I’m happy, young again,
I’m full of life again - that’s my body
(Please forgive me the unnecessary prosaicism).

IX.
They lead the horse to me; in the open expanse,
Waving his mane, he carries the rider,
And loudly under his shining hoof
The frozen valley rings and the ice cracks.
But the short day goes out, and in the forgotten fireplace
The fire is burning again - then the bright light is pouring,
It smolders slowly - and I read in front of it,
Or I harbor long thoughts in my soul.

X.
And I forget the world - and in sweet silence
I'm sweetly lulled to sleep by my imagination,
And poetry awakens in me:
The soul is embarrassed by lyrical excitement,
It trembles and sounds and searches, as in a dream,
To finally pour out with free manifestation -
And then an invisible swarm of guests comes towards me,
Old acquaintances, fruits of my dreams.

XI.
And the thoughts in my head are agitated in courage,
And light rhymes run towards them,
And fingers ask for pen, pen for paper,
A minute - and the poems will flow freely.
So the motionless ship slumbers in the motionless moisture,
But choo! - the sailors suddenly rush and crawl
Up, down - and the sails are inflated, the winds are full;
The mass has moved and is cutting through the waves.

XII.
Floating. Where should we sail?....
...............................

When outside the city, thoughtfully, I wander
And I go to a public cemetery,
Grilles, pillars, elegant tombs,
Under which all the dead of the capital rot,
In the swamp, somehow cramped in a row.
Like greedy guests at a beggarly table,
Merchants, officials, deceased mausoleums,
A cheap cutter is a ridiculous idea,
Above them are inscriptions both in prose and verse
About virtues, about service and ranks;
For the old stag, the widow's cry is amorous.
Urns unscrewed from poles by thieves,
The graves are slimy, which are also here
Yawningly waiting for the tenants to come home in the morning, -
Everything gives me such vague thoughts,
That an evil despondency comes over me.

At least spit and run...

But how I love it
Sometimes in autumn, in the evening silence,
In the village, visit the family cemetery,
Where the dead slumber in solemn peace.
There is room for undecorated graves;
The pale thief does not approach them in the dark at night;
Near the age-old stones covered with yellow moss,
A villager passes with a prayer and a sigh;
In place of idle urns and small pyramids,
Noseless geniuses, disheveled charites
The oak tree stands wide above the lower coffins,
Hesitating and noisy...

I erected a monument to myself, not made by hands,
The people's path to him will not be overgrown,
He ascended higher with his rebellious head
Alexandrian Pillar.

No, all of me will not die - the soul is in the treasured lyre
My ashes will survive and decay will escape -
And I will be glorious as long as I am in the sublunary world
At least one piit will be alive.

Rumors about me will spread throughout Great Rus',
And every tongue that is in it will call me,
And the proud grandson of the Slavs, and the Finn, and now wild
Tungus, and friend of the steppes Kalmyk.

And for a long time I will be so kind to the people,
That I awaken good feelings with my lyre,
That in my cruel age I glorified Freedom
And he called for mercy for the fallen.

By the command of God, O muse, be obedient,
Without fear of insult, without demanding a crown,
Praise and slander were accepted indifferently,
And don't argue with a fool.

Questions

1. Follow how Pushkin's poetics changes in the process of mastering the creative principles of classicism, romanticism and realism. How does this creative evolution manifest itself at the level of genre composition, vocabulary, imagery? How does the very idea of ​​the essence of the poetic change in Pushkin’s poetry?
2. Trace the evolution of Pushkin's lyrical hero, his movement from a conventional image (from a set of genre masks) of a lyrical hero, in which only biographical features slip through, to the image of a divided hero, typical of the poetry of romanticism, to the gradual affirmation of the aesthetic value of the individual world of the individual. Using examples from the text, show the change in the lyrical hero’s attitude towards the world. Can you summarize the overall appearance of Pushkin's lyrical hero? What are the defining features of Pushkin's personality?
3. How did Pushkin’s idea of ​​the purpose of poetry and the poet, the essence of poetic creativity, the creative process change? What aspects remained constant, independent of ideological and aesthetic evolution?
4. Show how Pushkin moves from a “style” word to a “non-style” word? How do you understand the words of L.Ya. Ginzburg given in the introductory article to this section? Demonstrate your conclusion using examples from Pushkin’s works of different periods of creativity.

Pushkin Alexander Sergeevich
"Poems 1814"

Where are you, the hundred-domed beauty of Moscow,
Dearest charm of the party?
Where before the majestic city appeared before our eyes,
The ruins are now alone;
Moscow, how scary is your sad look to a Russian!
The buildings of nobles and kings have disappeared,
The flame destroyed everything.
The crowns were eclipsed by the towers,
The halls of the rich have fallen.

And where luxury lived
In shady groves and gardens,
Where the myrtle was fragrant and the linden tree trembled,
There are now coals, ashes, dust.
In the silent hours of a beautiful summer night
Noisy fun will not fly there,
The shores and bright groves no longer shine in the lights:
Everything is dead, everything is silent.

Be comforted, mother of Russian cities,
Behold the death of the stranger.
Weighed down today on their arrogant necks
The avenging right hand of the Creator.
Look: they are running, they don’t dare to look up,
Their

I spent golden hours of carelessness,

Not knowing sorrow and troubles,

And you saw them, the enemies of my fatherland!

And your blood turned purple and the flames devoured you!

And I did not sacrifice vengeance on you or my life;

In vain only the spirit burned with anger!

Where are you, the hundred-domed beauty of Moscow,

Dearest charm of the party?

Where before the majestic city appeared before our eyes,

The ruins are now alone;

Moscow, how scary your sad face is to a Russian!

The buildings of nobles and kings have disappeared,

The flame destroyed everything. The crowns were eclipsed by the towers,

The halls of the rich have fallen.

And where luxury lived

In shady groves and gardens,

Where the myrtle was fragrant and the linden tree trembled,

There is now coal, ashes, dust.

In the silent hours of a beautiful summer night

Noisy fun will not fly there,

The shores and bright groves no longer shine in the lights;

Everything is dead, everything is silent.

But full of faith in the future of Moscow, the poet turns to her with filial love:

Be comforted, mother of Russian cities,

Look at the death of the stranger /37/.

The image of Moscow is most vividly presented in the novel “Eugene Onegin”. The description of Moscow occurs in the seventh chapter of his novel. Pushkin gives three epigraphs that open this chapter. These are poems by the poets Dmitriev, Baratynsky and Griboedov.

Dmitriev’s epigraph: “Moscow, Russia’s beloved daughter,

Where can I find someone equal to you?

Baratynsky’s epigraph: “How can you not love your native Moscow?”

Epigraph of Griboyedov: “Persecution of Moscow! what does it mean to see the light! Where is better? Where we are not”/35/.

Pushkin himself confesses his love for Moscow sincerely and, as it were, unofficially:

“Oh, brothers! how pleased I was

When churches and bell towers

Gardens, palace semicircle

Suddenly opened up before me!

How often in sorrowful separation,

In my wandering destiny,

Moscow, I was thinking about you!

Moscow... so much in this sound

For the Russian heart it has merged!

How much resonated with him!”

Pushkin describes Moscow with great naturalness and liveliness, to which he is driven by the feeling of sincere love, sympathy and warmth that he feels for Moscow as a city

As for the image of Petersburg in the novel, we can say that for the first time Pushkin draws the image of Petersburg in such detail. “How often in the summer, when the night sky over the Neva is clear and bright, and the cheerful glass of water does not reflect the face of Diana.”

The novel also gives an image of “restless” St. Petersburg:

“The merchant gets up, the peddler goes,

A cabman pulls to the stock exchange,

The okhtenka is in a hurry with the jug,

The morning snow crunches under it”/35/.

But the main thing in the image of St. Petersburg in the first chapter of the novel is the historically typical atmosphere of public life of the late 1810s, the atmosphere of hope, expectation, change, freedom and high spirituality. The poems are saturated with the vocabulary of the era, names, words that evoked a swarm of very specific time-bound associations: “freedom”, “citizen”, Adam Smith, Rousseau, Byron, Chaadaev.

“Will the hour of my freedom come?

It's time, it's time! - they call on her”;

Researcher Yu.M. Lotman believes that the novel presents only aristocratic and dandy Petersburg. These are Nevsky Prospekt, Neva embankment, Millionnaya, Fontanka embankment, Summer Garden, Teatralnaya Square //.

The dominant elements of the urban landscape in St. Petersburg, unlike Moscow, were not isolated territorially isolated mansions or city estates, but streets and clear lines of the general layout of the city. Although St. Petersburg was conceived as a “European city” and as such is contrasted with Moscow, its appearance did not resemble the appearance of European cities of the 18th and early 19th centuries. St. Petersburg was not surrounded by walls limiting the building area. Therefore, there were no restrictions on the size of the façade in the width of the streets, which determine the appearance of all European cities, in St. Petersburg.

The Moscow landscape is constructed differently in the novel: it crumbles into paintings, buildings, and objects. The streets break up into houses, booths, and bell towers independent of each other. The novel gives a rather lengthy description of the Larins' journey through Moscow. It differs sharply from the brief sketchiness of the St. Petersburg sketches /25/.

“Women flash past the booths,

Boys, benches, lanterns,

Palaces, gardens, monasteries,

Bukharians, sleighs, vegetable gardens,

Merchants, shacks, men,

Boulevards, towers, Cossacks,

Pharmacies, fashion stores,

Balconies, lions on the gates

And flocks of jackdaws on crosses”/35/.

In this novel, several oppositions predominate: the obvious - this is a European - Russian city, and the hidden - nature-civilization. Evgeny leaves the civilized city and goes to the countryside, into the bosom of nature.

"I was born for a peaceful life,

For village silence:

Creative dreams are more vivid."

Thus, we see that Pushkin depicts in his novel two cities that are completely different in architectural styles, atmosphere of life and way of life.

In 1833, he created one of his best poems, “The Bronze Horseman,” which he himself called “The Petersburg Tale.” St. Petersburg in it is the scene of action, the main theme.

The poem opens with an “Introduction” in which the image of the city occupies a dominant place. The first 20 verses are dedicated to Peter I, who founded a new city at the mouth of the Neva:

“Here the city will be founded

To spite an arrogant neighbor.

Nature destined us here

Open a window to Europe."

The poem is based on a real historical event - a flood, which plays a tragic role in the life of a little official - Eugene. He loses his beloved Parasha during a flood, and is deprived of his own shelter.

“Wreckage... God, God! there-

Alas! close to the waves,

Almost at the very bay -

The fence is unpainted and there is a willow tree.

And a dilapidated house: there they are,

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,

Is the sky mocking the earth?”/36/.

A year passes, and the homeless Eugene still wanders the streets of a city hostile to him: but “the rebellious noise of the Neva and the winds resounded in his ears.” And one day he saw the “Bronze Horseman” - “an idol with an outstretched hand sitting on a bronze horse.” And in the statue of Peter, Eugene recognized the man who, by “the fateful will, founded the city under the sea” /26/.

So, in this Pushkin poem the obvious opposition “organic” - “inorganic” prevails. St. Petersburg is a city that arose in defiance of natural elements. Peter I, first of all, wanted to turn Russia into a world power, but did not think about ordinary people who now had to pay for his mistakes. The text reveals a hidden opposition - chaos-space, Neva and Peter, the elements and the containment of the elements. But the elements are a natural phenomenon and therefore cannot be contained; contradictions arise between chaos and space. Thus, we see that the elements take revenge on both Peter and Eugene.

N.V. Gogol, admiring Pushkin, goes his own way, leading in a different direction. First of all, the theme of this city in his St. Petersburg stories is deprived of the traditional direct connection with the theme of Peter and is generally taken out of the bounds of high “civil” history. This is striking if you look at any of the five stories, not excluding “The Overcoat”, the plot of which seems to involve all three participants in the main conflict of “The Bronze Horseman” - the “little man”, the state and the unconquered elements. Researcher V.M. Markovich says that “behind the attributes of a rank that are formidable to others, one can see simply a person who is confused, weak, has not found himself and does not internally match the role assigned to him. The same can be said about other characters who, in principle, could appear as the personification of power. For example, the guards who appear every now and then on the pages of “The Overcoat” are nothing more than ordinary people in police uniforms, endowed with the usual traits of ordinary people in psychology and the behavior corresponding to it” /29/. The Bronze Horseman himself is transformed in a similar way - surrounded by a formidable mythical aura in Pushkin, in Gogol he appears as just a detail of an everyday joke about the cut tail of “the horse of the Falconet monument.” In a word, the high, true, state in “The Overcoat” is not represented by anyone or anything: all its traditional incarnations are irrevocably “everyday”. From here, however, it does not follow that Gogol’s plot has nothing to do with state history and, in particular, with the theme of Peter. It’s just that the attitude towards it is established in St. Petersburg stories indirectly - through an artistic study of everyday life. If Pushkin is occupied with the great deeds of the transformer of Russia and the grandiose historical cataclysms caused by them, then for Gogol, at first glance, the distant and inconspicuous consequences of Peter’s transformations in the everyday life of Russian people are more important.

The pall of gloomy night hangs over
On the vault of slumbering skies;
The valleys and groves rested in silent silence,
In the gray fog there is a distant forest;
You can barely hear a stream running into the shadow of the oak grove,
The breeze barely breathes, asleep on the sheets,
And the quiet moon, like a majestic swan,
Floating in silvery clouds.

From the flinty hills there are waterfalls
Flowing down like a river of beads,
There are naiads splashing in a quiet lake
His lazy wave;
And there in silence there are huge palaces,
Leaning on the arches, they rush towards the clouds.
Isn’t this where the earthly gods lived their peaceful days?
Didn't Minerva sit in the Russian temple?

Isn’t it Elysium full,
The beautiful Tsarskoye Selo garden,
Where, having slain a lion, the mighty eagle of Russia rested
In the bosom of peace and joy?
Those golden times have flown by forever,
When under the scepter of the great wife
Happy Russia was crowned with glory,
Blooming under the roof of silence!

Here every step in the soul gives birth
Memories of previous years;
Having looked around him, with a sigh, Ross says:
“Everything has disappeared, the great one is gone!”
And, deep in thought, over the grassy shores
Sits in silence, inclining his ears to the winds.
The past summers flash before my eyes,
And the spirit is in quiet admiration.

He sees: surrounded by waves,
Over a hard, mossy rock
The monument went up. Spreading its wings,
A young eagle sits above him.
And heavy chains and thunder arrows
They wrapped themselves around the formidable pillar three times;
All around the feet, rustling, gray shafts
They lay down in shiny foam.

In the shade of thick, gloomy pine trees
Erected the monument is simple.
Oh, how diarrhea he is for you, Kagul Breg!
And glory to the homeland!
You are immortal forever, O Russian giants,
Trained in battle in the midst of harsh weather!
About you, companions, friends of Catherine,
Word will spread from generation to generation.

Oh, loud age of military disputes,
Witness to the glory of the Russians!
Have you seen Orlov, Rumyantsev and Suvorov,
Descendants of the formidable Slavs,
Perun Zeus stole the victory;
The world marveled at their brave exploits;
Derzhavin and Petrov rattled a song for the heroes
Strings of thunderous lyres.

And you rushed by, unforgettable!
And soon a new century dawned
And new battles and war horrors;
To suffer is a mortal's lot.
The bloody sword flashed in the indomitable hand
By the deceit and insolence of a crowned king;
The scourge of the universe has risen - and soon there will be a new war
A menacing dawn dawned.

And they rushed with a fast stream
Enemies on Russian fields.
Before them the gloomy steppe lies in a deep sleep,
The earth is smoking with blood;
And the villages are peaceful, and the cities are burning in the darkness,
And the sky covered itself with a glow,
Dense forests shelter those running,
And the idle plow rusts in the field.

They go - there is no obstacle to their strength,
Everything is destroyed, everything is thrown into dust,
And the pale shadows of the dead children of Bellona,
In the airy shelves united,
They descend incessantly into a dark grave
Or wander through the forests in the silence of the night...
But the clicks were heard!.. they are walking into the foggy distance! -
Chain mail and swords sound!..

Be afraid, O army of foreigners!
The sons of Russia moved;
Both old and young rebelled; fly on the daring<,>
Their hearts are set on fire with vengeance.
Tremble, tyrant! the hour of fall is near!
You will see a hero in every warrior,
Their goal is either to win or to fall in the heat of battle
For Rus', for the holiness of the altar.

The zealous horses are full of abuse,
The valley is dotted with warriors,
The system flows behind the line, everyone breathes revenge and glory,
Delight filled their chests.
They fly to a terrible feast; swords are looking for prey,
And lo - the battle is blazing; thunder roars on the hills,
In the thick air with swords, arrows whistle,
And blood splashes on the shield.

They fought. Russian is the winner!
And the arrogant Gaul runs back;
But strong in battle, the heavenly almighty
Crowned with the last ray,
Not here he was struck down gray-haired warrior;
O Borodino bloody fields!
You are not the limits of fury and pride!
Alas! on the Gaul towers of the Kremlin!

The edges of Moscow, the native lands,
Where at the dawn of blooming years
I spent golden hours of carelessness,
Not knowing sorrow and troubles,
And you saw them, the enemies of my fatherland!
And your blood turned purple and the flames devoured you!
And I did not sacrifice vengeance on you or my life;
In vain only the spirit burned with anger!..

Where are you, the hundred-domed beauty of Moscow,
Dearest charm of the party?
Where before the majestic city appeared before our eyes,
The ruins are now alone;
Moscow, how scary your sad face is to a Russian!
The buildings of nobles and kings have disappeared,
The flame destroyed everything. The crowns were eclipsed by the towers,
The halls of the rich have fallen.

And where luxury lived
In shady groves and gardens,
Where the myrtle fragrant and the linden tree trembled,
There are now coals, ashes, dust.
In the silent hours of a beautiful summer night
Noisy fun will not fly there,
The shores and bright groves no longer shine in the lights:
Everything is dead, everything is silent.

Be comforted, mother of Russian cities,
Behold the death of the stranger.
Weighed down today on their arrogant necks
The avenging right hand of the creator.
Look: they are running, they don’t dare to look up,
Their blood never stops flowing like rivers in the snow;
They run - and in the darkness of the night their hunger and death are met,
And the Russian sword is driving from the rear.

O you who trembled
Europe's tribes are strong,
O ravenous Gauls! and you fell into your graves.
O fear! O terrible times!
Where are you, beloved son of happiness and Bellona,
The voice that despises truth, and faith, and law,
In pride, dreaming of overthrowing thrones with a sword?
Disappeared like a bad dream in the morning!

Ross in Paris! - Where is the torch of vengeance?
Lower your head, Gaul.
But what do I see? Ross with a smile of reconciliation
Coming with a golden olive.
The military thunder still rumbles in the distance,
Moscow is in despondency, like the steppe in complete darkness,
And he brings the enemy not death, but salvation
And beneficial peace to the earth.

O inspired skald of Russia,
The formidable formation sung of the warriors,
In the circle of comrades, with an ignited soul,
Sound the golden harp!
Yes, again a harmonious voice will be shed in honor of the heroes,
And proud strings will sprinkle fire into hearts,
And the young warrior will boil and tremble
At the sound of a swearing singer.

(A.S. Pushkin. Poem. 1814)

Notes:

Memories in Tsarskoe Selo. The poem was written in October - November 1814 for reading at a public exam (January 8, 1815) during the transition from the junior three-year course of the lyceum to the senior one.

Reading poetry in the presence of numerous guests became a true triumph for the young poet. Derzhavin, already an old man, “was delighted.” Pushkin’s comrade Delvig wrote and then published a poem “To Pushkin,” in which he speaks about this event:

And his cheeks greet him
The surprised crowd is on fire.

(A. A. Delvig, Complete collection of poems. Poet's Library, L. 1934, p. 191.)

Pushkin himself recalled this more than once: in his 1816 letter “To Zhukovsky”, in his “Notes”, which he kept in exile and destroyed “at the discovery of the unfortunate conspiracy”, and the poet kept the page about Derzhavin; finally, in stanza II of the eighth chapter of Eugene Onegin. “Memoirs in Tsarskoe Selo” was the first work published by the poet in 1815 with a full signature. Preparing for publication in 1819 the first collection of his poems (not published then), Pushkin revised the text of the poem, freeing it from praise to Alexander I (as the savior of Europe). In 1825, the poem was included at the request of Pushkin in the manuscript of his collection sent to the censor; however, it did not appear in the published book. Perhaps the censor noticed the absence of a stanza dedicated to the tsar: the poem was well known in its original form, since it was in this first edition that it was published in the “Collected Exemplary Russian Works and Translations in Verse” (1817 and 1823).

Huge palaces- “Cameron Gallery” near the Catherine Palace in Tsarskoe Selo.

Minerva- Italic goddess of wisdom. Minerva of Russia- Catherine II.

Elysium- according to the beliefs of the ancient Greeks, the place of residence of the souls of the departed, in poetic usage - paradise.

full- northern.

Under the scepter of the great wife- that is, during the reign of Catherine II.

A monument rose above... the rock- a rostral column in the middle of a large pond, erected by Catherine II in memory of the naval victory over the Turks near Chesmo in 1770.

Simple monument- an obelisk in memory of the victory over the Turks at the Kagul River in 1770, which was won by Russian troops under the leadership of gr. P. A. Rumyantseva.

Petrov Vladimir<Василий. - И.П.>Petrovich (1736-1799) - poet-writer.

The scourge of the universe- Napoleon.

Bellona- in Roman mythology, the goddess of war.

Gray-haired warrior- M.I. Kutuzov.

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