Under the poem “A vain gift, an accidental gift...” is the date May 26, 1828. This is the day when Pushkin turned 29 years old. 1828 – difficult period in the life of Pushkin. In June of the same year, a commission began its work, which was supposed to render a verdict on the “Gabriiliad” (1821). Pushkin himself long ago abandoned his youthful views and sought harmony in his relationship with God. Perhaps it was the poem “The Gift...” and Metropolitan Philaret’s subsequent response to it that became a turning point in Pushkin’s worldview.
Literary direction, genre
The lyrical hero of the poem is a romantic. He despises vain and random life, doesn’t value her at all. He is filled with passions and doubts, his existence is aimless. One can only imagine what it will lead to romantic hero longing and search for vivid impressions.
And yet, this is not a poem by a romantic poet, reveling in melancholy, longing, and passions. This is a philosophical discussion about the meaning of life, closest in genre to elegy. Realism is read in the questions of the poem. If they are rhetorical, these are the laments of a romantic. And if they are not rhetorical, then these are questions of a person who has come to his senses, who has already crossed the line of youth and is entering the time of maturity. These are questions of a crisis age, allowing, having found answers to them, to continue the path of life.
Theme, main idea and composition
The poem consists of three stanzas. The first and second are questions about the meaning of life: why it was given, why it will be cut short (condemned to execution), who gave it to the lyrical hero and why it is so imperfect (with passions and doubts). The third stanza is a kind of bitter conclusion: life lyrical hero aimless. After the colon, it is explained what this means: an empty (without love) heart and an idle (inactive) mind. This state of the lyrical hero makes life monotonous and dull, dreary.
The theme of the poem is a person’s reasoning about the meaning of life.
The main idea: a person must find the purpose and meaning of life, otherwise it will be unhappy, full of despondency and disappointment.
Meter and rhyme
The poem is written in trochaic tetrameter. The first stress in each line falls on keyword, almost always monosyllabic: gift, life, who, mind, soul, goals, heart. The rhyme is cross, female rhyme alternates with male rhyme.
Paths and images
Life in the work is metaphorically called a gift, a gift. But epithets devalue this gift in the eyes of the lyrical hero: gift vain, random. This image of a useless life is further deepened with the help of epithets: takes away life secret fate gives life hostile power. Mystery and hostility are characteristics of a certain higher power, in whose hands are fate and power. The word God is not pronounced by the lyrical hero. Yes, he is not sure that this is God, because the hostile force filled his soul with passion, and agitated his mind with doubt. The third stanza describes the consequences of the vices of the lyrical hero. Spiritual passions led to emptiness of the heart, and doubts of the mind to idleness. The hero plunges into the abyss of despondency, which is caused by an empty life, metaphorically called " monotonous life noise."
Answer from Metropolitan Philaret
The poem marked the beginning of Pushkin’s poetic correspondence with Metropolitan Philaret, who was not indifferent to the fate of the Russian genius.
There is not a single question in Filaret's poem. It was written by a believer who has no doubt about his purpose and destiny. Using the framework of Pushkin’s poem, the Metropolitan gave answers to all questions.
Life is not a vain and not an accidental gift, given to us by God, according to His secret will, and taken away by Him. Everything bad in a person’s life comes from himself:
I myself am capricious in power
Evil called out from the dark abysses,
I filled my soul with passion,
The mind was agitated with doubt.
The Metropolitan minimally changes the last two lines of Pushkin, changing to me on myself. Last stanza- this is not a conclusion, like Pushkin’s, this is a way out, a prayer: “Remember me, Forgotten by me.” This is a request to create in the praying “a pure heart, a right mind.” Filaret simply changes Pushkin’s epithets, quoting almost verbatim Orthodox prayer: “Create in me a clean heart, O Lord, and renew a right Spirit in my womb.”
Pushkin responded to the Metropolitan with a new poem, “In Hours of Fun or Idle Boredom,” from which it is clear that he accepted the Metropolitan’s spiritual guidance. Dejection and melancholy in his poetry were replaced by bright motives.
- “The Captain’s Daughter”, a summary of the chapters of Pushkin’s story
- “The luminary of the day has gone out,” analysis of Pushkin’s poem
- “I remember a wonderful moment...”, analysis of Pushkin’s poem
It is not easy to read the poem “A gift in vain, a gift fortuitous” by Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin, because it was a difficult period of creativity for him. In 1828, he received permission to move to St. Petersburg, but the poet quickly became tired of the noise of the capital. Melancholy settled in his soul. This period is characterized by a quiet and literary period; the author did not write anything significant. One of the exceptions is the text of Pushkin’s poem “A Vain Gift, an Accidental Gift.”
The theme of the work is the search for answers to questions about the meaning of existence and the search for those responsible for the troubles that have arisen. This is how the poem takes on an anti-God character. Pushkin blames God for everything. God gave him the opportunity to doubt, and the poet shows this in literature. Thus, the author shows the highest class of opposition between the lyrical hero and higher powers.
Deep despair completely engulfed the poet's mind. Life seems monotonous and empty to him. If at the beginning of the poem the author is angry, then towards the end of the text the tone becomes quieter. There is no point in being indignant, only melancholy remains in my heart. This life lesson will benefit the author, as evidenced by his subsequent work. The work is small in volume and can be read online. The ease of manner makes it possible to quickly teach him. You can download its analysis separately.
Irishka presses closer and hugs him, putting his hands under his jacket.
- Are you frozen?
I hold on to the handrail of the bus. When turning, I skid a little, and with my other hand I lean on the back of the chair.
“Yeah,” she squints slyly.
Your hands lift up your T-shirt under your jacket, and your claws lightly scratch your back.
“Very,” he purrs, “there’s no strength at all.”
“We’ll get there, I’ll warm you up,” I lean closer, returning her rumbling intonation.
I catch the disapproving glance of a woman who is pressed against us by the crowd. I want to look into her eyes, bite Irina’s ear and wink. I snort, dismissing the stupid impulse, bury my nose in the top of Irisha’s head and inhale the sweetish aroma. The hands, hidden from everyone by the thick fabric of the jacket, continue the sabotage.
- I-i-ir-r.
I growl and press her closer to me, letting her feel that she has achieved her goal. He laughs, pressing his nose into mine chest. I squeeze her hand.
- Shall we go out now?
- Fool, we still have three stops.
- Let's go out now.
I move away from her a little and look down meaningfully.
“Well, if you really need it,” she slyly lowers her eyes.
We jump out of the bus and, without saying a word, scan the place.
“There,” I pull the girl into the park.
A thick, tall acacia, trimmed as if by a ruler, hides a small clearing with a couple of trees from prying eyes. Just what you need! Having broken into the thickets, I press her against the tree trunk and kiss her greedily, lifting up her thin T-shirt, crumpling the lace of her bra. Having pinched her nipple painfully, I lower my hand, unscrew the bolt from the fastener, unbutton her jeans, and squeeze into the hot insides. Humid, hot, mind-blowing.
- Ah...
Her breath scorches her neck, and her hand repeats the path: bolt-lightning-flesh. The tightness of a hot palm, tightly squeezing the penis, sobers a little with an irregular rhythm. I suggest with a movement: deeper, sharper, on the verge of pain. Your breathing quickens and your fingers clench with a pulsation. I pull out my fingers, smeared with her juice, and cover her hand, setting the desired pace. So... More... I bite the fragile shoulder, hard, until it bruises. Fine. Irishka fiddles with her hands, wiping herself and me with paper napkins.
“I got my clothes dirty,” he chuckles, “I’ll smell like that all evening.”
I press my fingers to her lips:
- And I am with you.
You have to walk three stops.
Natasha is hyper sociable, so she always brings some new people to her birthday. And now someone completely leftist is opening the door for us. Judging by the sounds, we were definitely late - the people had already drunk well and were dancing. Our appearance was met with almost an ovation. What people! Haven't seen each other for a hundred years! Finally! Someone hangs on your neck, someone pats you on the shoulder. Someone squeezes a glass into his hand, and the generosity causes the vodka to overflow. Hop! Hop! Hop! The atmosphere flows in along with the alcohol, and I’m already dragging some guy to smoke. Don't pump yourself up until you lose your pulse. I poke into the guy’s folded palms, covering his lighter from the wind. It sparkles and puffs, but there is no fire. He swears, shakes her and strikes the wheel again. No use. I take the lit cigarette out of his lips and light my own.
“Archie,” I extend my hand.
“Evgeny,” he presses mine in response.
Oh, fuck... Onegin. I smoke and look at it. Exactly Onegin. A thin, nervous profile and out-of-date posture from films with old mansions, crinolines and carriages. I look at the long thin fingers squeezing a cigarette. “A quoi pensez-vous?” - curls somewhere in the subconscious from school course French. I fix my gaze on my cigarette. A gentle green filter, which means I stole Irka... My fingers smell of Irka, vodka and tobacco. The obscene mixture of smells hits the nerves in contrast, and it turns you on. Find Irishka and drag him into a dark corner, and don’t give a fuck about those who happen to be nearby at that moment? It's your own fault. I put out my cigarette butt in an overflowing cheap coffee can.
- Let's go, Onegin?
-Where, where did you go, Olga? – he suddenly sings in response. “If you call me Onegin, I’ll call you Olga,” he chuckles and looks into his eyes.
- Not Tatyana?
- If you insist.
–I loved you: love is still, perhaps,
My soul has not completely died out;
But don't let it bother you anymore;
I don't want to make you sad in any way.
“This is not from there,” Onegin interrupts me.
– I agree with Larin.
- Learn the materiel.
The indestructible “bottle” spins in the center. Irka, legs crossed in Turkish style, sits right there with two plastic containers. He claps next to me, saying, land. The vodka is already warm and not bitter. We need to slow down. The bottle points to Irka, another turn - Natasha. The people greet the situation with a friendly shout. Natasha laughs and reaches out to my friend. I meet Onegin's gaze. The girls kiss slowly, poser-like, but tastefully. I lick middle finger and, with a vulgar sound, pulling it out of my mouth, I demonstrate “fuck” to Onegin. He grins and pulls to spin the glass. Temperature kisses, scorching, corroding the insides with borderline desire. Irkin’s hand crawls along his thigh and shamelessly strokes his groin. The glass freezes in front of Onegin. I crush the glass. I know. Feel. Something dark and heavy slowly swirls inside, following the fading movement of the bottle. The neck is pointing at me. Silence.
– I foresee everything: you will be insulted
An explanation for the sad mystery.
What bitter contempt
Your proud look will portray!
What do I want? for what purpose
Will I open my soul to you?
What evil fun
Perhaps I’m giving a reason!
Onegin reaches out to me and stops in the middle. The lips are compressed with a flourish of an evil smile. I dig my fingers into his chin. Beautiful, thin, fragile; It seems that just a little more and it will crack like a nut shell. Kiss. My ears are ringing. The heart is boxing the chest with dull heavy blows. The lips tremble and part slightly. I bite the lower one, painfully taking revenge for all this. Onegin pushes him away, returns to his place, immediately turns away, makes sarcastic remarks and smiles at someone else. It seems like I don’t care. Banter. Joke.
Irka pokes him painfully in the side:
- These are idiots!
Her eyes are burning.
“I want you,” he whispers in your ear and bites your earlobe. - Crazy.
The bottle continues to randomly combine pairs, but I'm no longer interested. I'm burned to the ground by this kiss. Charred. I want to scream and punch the indifference off his face. To cling on, to curl up in a ball in a fight. Press to the floor. Press in. How stuffy! It's cramped... It's unbearable to stay in this room. Air... Air!
“Let’s get out of here,” I say to Irka.
The night air blows on your skin. Close your eyes and stay here, at the edge of the road, so that the cars flying past will rip off and carry away this feeling that has entangled your body in an electrified net. Irka smokes next to him. Silently. The wind pulls her hair, turning her into the Gorgon Medusa.
“This is Natasha’s boyfriend,” she says to nowhere.
I shrug:
- Doesn't matter. I want to go home.
The book is old, with yellowed pages and frayed binding. In gold half-erased thread on a blue background of a strict cover is written “A.S. Pushkin." Edition God knows what year. I wasn’t even in the plans yet. I run my palm over the rough pages. I'm closing. I open it. I flip through it, inhaling the unique smell.
I love you, even though I'm mad,
Although this is labor and shame in vain,
And in this unfortunate stupidity
At your feet I confess!
The lines are light, elusive, like a cobweb at the end of summer. They pour softly, settling with a barely noticeable aftertaste. Subtle aroma of inevitability. The bitter taste of what was missed. I turn page by page, read the stanzas, the strings ring and respond with a delicate plucking inside. The blue weighty volume settled under the pillow as a little personal secret.
Autumn quietly encircles from all sides, encircles the leaves with a golden border, adds thickness to the clouds, and tries to sweeten the last warm days with overripe fruits. It forces you to cling to the remnants of August, drives you out of the house, under the no longer hot sun, in order to feel every minute of the passing summer, to breathe for future use this air, already diluted with the bitter aroma of withering. Irishka's palm in her hand explodes her insides with tenderness - she wants to warm the bone protruding on her wrist with a light kiss and ask for forgiveness. Something cracked inside me. And through this crack something else sprouted: wonderful, strong, restless.
- Archie. Shall we go to the cinema today?
The sky begins to boil with tears, staining the asphalt with dark dots. The wind, seasoned with rain, whips me in the face.
- I can’t.
I'm ready maple leaf fall at her feet and grab its jagged edges into the uneven asphalt.
“I can’t,” I shake my head. - Not today.
Irishka carefully removes his palm and hides his hands in his jacket pockets. Silently looks into the eyes with an autumn look.
- I have to go.
She shrugs her shoulders chillily and adjusts the slipping strap of her bag on her shoulder.
“Good luck,” I wish after her.
My phone buzzes quietly with an incoming SMS.
But so be it: I’m on my own
I can no longer resist;
Everything is decided: I am in your will
And I surrender to my fate.
“A vain gift, an accidental gift...” Pushkin
Analysis of the work - theme, idea, genre, plot, composition, characters, issues and other issues are discussed in this article.
History of creation
Under the poem “A vain gift, an accidental gift...” is the date May 26, 1828. This is the day when Pushkin turned 29 years old. 1828 was a difficult period in Pushkin’s life. In June of the same year, a commission began its work, which was supposed to make a verdict on the “Gabriiliad” (1821). Pushkin himself long ago abandoned his youthful views and sought harmony in his relationship with God. Perhaps it was the poem “The Gift...” and Metropolitan Philaret’s subsequent response to it that became a turning point in Pushkin’s worldview.
Literary direction, genre
The lyrical hero of the poem is a romantic. He despises a vain and random life and does not value it at all. He is filled with passions and doubts, his existence is aimless. One can only imagine what the romantic hero’s longing and search for vivid impressions will lead to.
And yet, this is not a poem by a romantic poet, reveling in melancholy, longing, and passions. This is a philosophical discussion about the meaning of life, closest in genre to elegy. Realism is read in the questions of the poem. If they are rhetorical, this is the cry of a romantic. And if they are not rhetorical, then these are questions of a person who has come to his senses, who has already crossed the line of youth and is entering the time of maturity. These are questions of a crisis age, allowing, having found answers to them, to continue the path of life.
Theme, main idea and composition
The poem consists of three stanzas. The first and second are questions about the meaning of life: why it was given, why it will be cut short (condemned to execution), who gave it to the lyrical hero and why it is so imperfect (with passions and doubts). The third stanza is a kind of bitter conclusion: the life of the lyrical hero is aimless. After the colon it is explained what this means: an empty (without love) heart and an idle (inactive) mind. This state of the lyrical hero makes life monotonous and dull, dreary.
The theme of the poem is a person’s reasoning about the meaning of life.
The main idea: a person must find the purpose and meaning of life, otherwise it will be unhappy, full of despondency and disappointment.
Meter and rhyme
The poem is written in trochaic tetrameter. The first emphasis in each line falls on the key word, almost always monosyllabic: gift, life, who, mind, soul, goals, heart. The rhyme is cross, female rhyme alternates with male rhyme.
Paths and images
Life in the work is metaphorically called a gift, a gift. But epithets devalue this gift in the eyes of the lyrical hero: gift vain, random. This image of a useless life is further deepened with the help of epithets: takes away life secret fate gives life hostile power. Mystery and hostility are characteristics of some higher power, in whose hands fate and power are. The word God is not pronounced by the lyrical hero. Yes, he is not sure that this is God, because the hostile force filled his soul with passion, and agitated his mind with doubt. The third stanza describes the consequences of the vices of the lyrical hero. Spiritual passions led to emptiness of the heart, and doubts of the mind to idleness. The hero plunges into the abyss of despondency, which is caused by an empty life, metaphorically called “the monotonous noise of life.”
Answer from Metropolitan Philaret
The poem marked the beginning of Pushkin’s poetic correspondence with Metropolitan Philaret, who was not indifferent to the fate of the Russian genius.
There is not a single question in Filaret's poem. It was written by a believer who has no doubt about his purpose and destiny. Using the framework of Pushkin’s poem, the Metropolitan gave answers to all questions.
Life is not a vain and not an accidental gift, given to us by God, according to His secret will, and taken away by Him. Everything bad in a person’s life comes from himself:
I myself am capricious in power
Evil has called out from the dark abysses,
I filled my soul with passion,
The mind was agitated with doubt.
The Metropolitan minimally changes the last two lines of Pushkin, changing to me on myself. The last stanza is not a conclusion, like Pushkin’s, it is a way out, a prayer: “Remember me, Forgotten by me.” This is a request to create in the praying “a pure heart, a right mind.” Filaret simply changes Pushkin’s epithets, quoting almost verbatim the Orthodox prayer: “Create in me a pure heart, O Lord, and renew a right Spirit in my womb.”
Pushkin responded to the Metropolitan with a new poem, “In Hours of Fun or Idle Boredom,” from which it is clear that he accepted the Metropolitan’s spiritual guidance. Dejection and melancholy in his poetry were replaced by bright motives.
