Nekrasov’s poetic feat consisted in the fact that he sang without embellishment about Rus', about the people; the poet could never come to terms with the fact that the people were powerless and oppressed. He dedicated his lyre to the people.
The poem “Reflections at the Front Entrance” (1858) is one of the best examples of the poet’s civic lyricism.
The story behind the creation of the poem “Reflections at the Front Entrance” is as follows. Once, from the window of his apartment on Liteiny Prospekt in St. Petersburg, Nekrasov watched a scene as a policeman and janitors drove away a group of peasant petitioners from the entrance of the house where the Minister of State Property M.N. Muravyov lived. The policeman and the janitors pushed them in the back. They hid behind the ledge of the entrance and stood, pondering their next steps. According to the memoirs of A.Ya. Panaeva, Nekrasov nervously pursed his lips, moved away from the window, and after a while read her the poem “Reflections at the Main Entrance.”
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The main theme of the poem is reflections on the fate of the people. Are the people capable of fighting for a just world order or are they “spiritually dead forever”?
The storyline of the poem is as follows: ordinary Russian men approach the front entrance (the doors of power). They deeply believe that they will find help and support from the sovereign official, that he will deal with their complaints. But they are not even allowed to the door of the nobleman. The Walkers sincerely believe in the integrity of the Tsar and his entourage, which is why they traveled a long way across Rus'; this is clearly evidenced by the fact that they have “blood on their feet.” The climax of the poem is a reflection on the topic of “the fate of the people.” The work ends with a question.
Compositionally, the poem is divided into five strophoids, which have 40, 8, 4, 25, 40 lines, respectively. This compositional solution is quite original.
The first line of the poem is very specific: “Here is the front entrance...” The scene of action is determined - this is the front entrance of a rich house. It is to this entrance that people drive up on special days to pay their respects. They leave notes in a special book. Satisfied with themselves, they go home.
And on weekdays at this entrance you can see completely different faces - “poor”. Who are they? Projectors, place-seekers, very old people...
One day, ordinary Russian men approached the front entrance. They were noticed by the lyrical hero, who for the first time announced himself with just three words: “Once I saw...” The goal of the men-walkers is to get an appointment with an influential nobleman, but the doorman does not let them through. He looked around at those who approached - their appearance was unsightly. Someone suggested a solution to the doorman: “Drive.” And the walkers set off with nothing...
The second strophoid is separated from the first by an ellipsis. It begins with the adversative conjunction “a”. “And the owner of the luxurious chambers...” What is he doing? He is in a deep sleep. The simple men left, “burned by the sun,” which means the sun is already at its zenith, and the nobleman is still sleeping. The motif of sleep is one of the key motifs in the poem “Reflections at the Front Entrance.” The life of the “owner of luxury chambers” is a dream. “Wake up...” the author calls on him.
In the third, small-volume strophoid, the author again makes a sharp turn from the world of wealth to the world of poverty. From an influential nobleman, in a deep sleep, to unknown people carrying “grief in their hearts.”
In the next part of the poem, the intonations are sharp, assertive, and extremely specific. There is an appeal to the one who owns the luxurious chambers:
“Why do you need this crying sorrow,
What do you need these poor people?..”
The charges brought against the person accused are serious and severe. Those who value flattery and endless entertainment will never understand ordinary people. They are deaf to the groans of the people. For them, life is an eternal holiday. This eternal holiday does not allow you to see or wake up.
In terms of genre, the third and fourth strophoids are invective. (Invective is a form of literary work of a sharply accusatory nature). There is an angry pathos, a direct appeal to the addressee of the reproof, lines that include a curse:
“And you will go to your grave... hero,
Silently cursed by the fatherland..."
In the final strophoid, piercing and frank, Nekrasov, addressing the people, asks:
“Will you wake up, full of strength?..”
It was bitter for the poet to see the submission of the people, who did not even dare to grumble about their fate. The poem ends with deep thoughts. Yes, the people are powerless, but they are not crushed. The idea of the powerless position of the people is inseparable in the poem from thoughts about the dormant but genuine forces of the people. Nekrasov was convinced that the time would come when the people would “wake up” and throw off the shackles of slavery.
The main idea of the poem
“Reflections at the Front Entrance” is a thought about the incompatibility of a decent human existence and lawlessness.
Topics raised by Nekrasov in the poem “Reflections at the Main Entrance” - themes of compassion, humiliation of the people, their downtroddenness, long-suffering, tyranny, awakening.
Contrasts in the poem:
- “the owner of luxurious chambers” and the disadvantaged poor, “small people”,
- a rich house with a grand, magnificent entrance and a poor little house, a “poor tavern”,
- the wide Volga and the wide people’s grief (even the mighty Volga does not flood the fields on such a scale as the people’s grief).
Issues works
The philosophical problems raised in the work are the essence of the national character, the problems of human happiness.
Meter and rhyme
The poetic meter of “Reflections at the Front Entrance” is a multi-foot anapest. Rhyme schemes vary: the work begins with a ring scheme (abba), followed by a cross scheme (abab). Next are variations of the adjacent, cross and ring rhyme scheme. The lines use both masculine and feminine rhymes.
Means of artistic expression
Epithets - “solemn days”, “cherished doors”, “village Russian people”, “tattered mob”, “poor tavern”, “luxurious chambers”.
Metaphors - “Lush entrance”, “thin Armenian”, “poor faces”, “crying sorrow”, “advanced days”.
Metonymy - “The whole city... is approaching.”
Common expressions are “vydy”, “koshli” (knapsacks), “for now”.
Rhetorical figures (rhetorical appeals) – “Volga! Volga!”, “Native land!”, “Oh, dear!”.
Exclamations - “Drive!”, “Wake up!”, “Turn them back!”
Stylistic figure - anaphora
“He moans across the fields...”
“He moans in prisons...”
“He groans under the barn...”
Repeated anaphora (repetition at the beginning) “moans” increases the perception of life as an unbearable burden.
The poem “Reflections at the Front Entrance” to me those liked it that it was written on a special nerve. It does not idealize the Russian peasant, but it also does not offend him. Nekrasov values the peasant; he understands that it is through the efforts of such peasants that the basis of social well-being is created. For a detailed depiction of the picture, the classical genre framework of poetry was cramped for Nekrasov. Therefore, he created the work “Reflections at the Front Entrance,” where different genres organically coexist: elegy, song, invective, philosophical ode (“Oh, dear one! What does your endless groan mean?”). A work of this kind is of particular interest.
Plan for analysis of the poem “Reflections at the Front Entrance”
1. Introduction
2. Which direction in lyricism does it belong to?
3. The history of the creation of the poem
4. The main idea of the poem “Reflections at the Main Entrance”
5. Compositional structure
6. Brief summary of the poem “Reflections at the Main Entrance”
7. The main idea of the poem
8. Topics raised in the poem
9. Contrasts in the poem
10. Issues
11. Meter and rhyme
12. Means of artistic expression
13. What did you like about the poem?
Reflections at the front entrance. Read Nekrasov's poems for children
Here is the front entrance. On special days,
Possessed by a servile illness,
The whole city is in some kind of fright
Drives up to the treasured doors;
Having written down your name and rank,
The guests are leaving for home,
So deeply pleased with ourselves
What do you think - that’s their calling!
And on ordinary days this magnificent entrance
Poor faces besiege:
Projectors, place-seekers,
And an elderly man and a widow.
From him and to him you know in the morning
All the couriers are jumping around with papers.
Returning, another hums “tram-tram”,
And other petitioners cry.
Once I saw the men come here,
Village Russian people,
They prayed at the church and stood away,
Hanging their brown heads to their chests;
The doorman appeared. “Let it go,” they say
With an expression of hope and anguish.
He looked at the guests: they were ugly to look at!
Tanned faces and hands,
The Armenian guy is thin on his shoulders.
On a knapsack on their bent backs,
Cross on my neck and blood on my feet,
Shod in homemade bast shoes
(You know, they wandered for a long time
From some distant provinces).
Someone shouted to the doorman: “Drive!
Ours doesn’t like ragged rabble!”
And the door slammed. After standing,
The pilgrims untied their wallets,
But the doorman did not let me in, without taking a meager contribution,
And they went, scorched by the sun,
Repeating: “God judge him!”
Throwing up hopeless hands,
And while I could see them,
They walked with their heads uncovered...
And the owner of luxurious chambers
I was still in deep sleep...
You, who consider life enviable
The intoxication of shameless flattery,
Red tape, gluttony, gaming,
Wake up! There is also pleasure:
Turn them back! their salvation lies in you!
But the happy are deaf to goodness...
The thunder of heaven does not frighten you,
And you hold earthly ones in your hands,
And these unknown people carry
Inexorable grief in the hearts.
Why do you need this crying sorrow?
What do you need these poor people?
Eternal holiday quickly running
Life doesn't let you wake up.
And why? Clickers' fun
You are calling for the people's good;
Without him you will live with glory
And you will die with glory!
More serene than an Arcadian idyll
The old days will set.
Under the captivating sky of Sicily,
In the fragrant tree shade,
Contemplating how the sun is purple
Plunges into the azure sea,
Stripes of his gold, -
Lulled by gentle singing
Mediterranean wave - like a child
You will fall asleep, surrounded by care
Dear and beloved family
(Waiting impatiently for your death);
They will bring your remains to us,
To honor with a funeral feast,
And you will go to your grave... hero,
Silently cursed by the fatherland,
Exalted by loud praise!..
However, why are we such a person?
Worrying for small people?
Shouldn't we take our anger out on them? —
Safer... More fun
Find some consolation in something...
It doesn’t matter what the man will endure:
This is how providence guides us
Pointed... but he's used to it!
Behind the outpost, in a wretched tavern
The poor will drink everything down to the ruble
And they will go, begging along the road,
And they will groan... Native land!
Name me such an abode,
I've never seen such an angle
Where would your sower and guardian be?
Where would a Russian man not moan?
He moans across the fields, along the roads,
He groans in prisons, in prisons,
In the mines, on an iron chain;
He groans under the barn, under the haystack,
Under a cart, spending the night in the steppe;
Moaning in his own poor house,
I am not happy with the light of God's sun;
Moans in every remote town,
At the entrance of courts and chambers.
Go out to the Volga: whose groan is heard
Over the great Russian river?
We call this groan a song -
The barge haulers are walking with a towline!..
Volga! Volga!.. In spring, full of water
You're not flooding the fields like that,
Like the great sorrow of the people
Our land is overflowing,
Where there are people, there is a groan... Oh, my heart!
What does your endless groan mean?
Will you wake up full of strength,
Or, fate obeying the law,
You have already done everything you could,
Created a song like a groan
And spiritually rested forever?..
Nikolai Alekseevich Nekrasov
Here is the front entrance. On special days,
Possessed by a servile illness,
The whole city is in some kind of fright
Drives up to the treasured doors;
Having written down your name and rank,
The guests are leaving for home,
So deeply pleased with ourselves
What do you think - that’s their calling!
And on ordinary days this magnificent entrance
Poor faces besiege:
Projectors, place-seekers,
And an elderly man and a widow.
From him and to him you know in the morning
All the couriers are jumping around with papers.
Returning, another hums “tram-tram”,
And other petitioners cry.
Once I saw the men come here,
Village Russian people,
They prayed at the church and stood away,
Hanging their brown heads to their chests;
The doorman appeared. “Allow me,” they say
With an expression of hope and anguish.
He looked at the guests: they were ugly to look at!
Tanned faces and hands,
The Armenian boy is thin on his shoulders,
On a knapsack on their bent backs,
Cross on my neck and blood on my feet,
Shod in homemade bast shoes
(You know, they wandered for a long time
From some distant provinces).
Someone shouted to the doorman: “Drive!
Ours doesn’t like ragged rabble!”
And the door slammed. After standing,
The pilgrims untied their wallets,
But the doorman did not let me in, without taking a meager contribution,
And they went, scorched by the sun,
Repeating: “God judge him!”
Throwing up hopeless hands,
And while I could see them,
They walked with their heads uncovered...
And the owner of luxurious chambers
I was still in deep sleep...
You, who consider life enviable
The intoxication of shameless flattery,
Red tape, gluttony, gaming,
Wake up! There is also pleasure:
Turn them back! their salvation lies in you!
But the happy are deaf to goodness...
The thunder of heaven does not frighten you,
And you hold earthly ones in your hands,
And these unknown people carry
Inexorable grief in the hearts.
Why do you need this crying sorrow?
What do you need these poor people?
Eternal holiday quickly running
Life doesn't let you wake up.
And why? Clickers3 fun
You are calling for the people's good;
Without him you will live with glory
And you will die with glory!
More serene than an Arcadian idyll4
The old days will set.
Under the captivating sky of Sicily,
In the fragrant tree shade,
Contemplating how the sun is purple
Plunges into the azure sea,
Stripes of his gold, -
Lulled by gentle singing
Mediterranean wave - like a child
You will fall asleep, surrounded by care
Dear and beloved family
(Waiting impatiently for your death);
They will bring your remains to us,
To honor with a funeral feast,
And you will go to your grave... hero,
Silently cursed by the fatherland,
Exalted by loud praise!..
However, why are we such a person?
Worrying for small people?
Shouldn't we take our anger out on them?
Safer... Even more fun
Find some consolation in something...
It doesn’t matter what the man will endure:
This is how providence guides us
Pointed out... but he’s used to it!
Behind the outpost, in a wretched tavern
The poor will drink everything down to the ruble
And they will go, begging along the road,
And they will groan... Native land!
Name me such an abode,
I've never seen such an angle
Where would your sower and guardian be?
Where would a Russian man not moan?
He moans across the fields, along the roads,
He groans in prisons, in prisons,
In the mines, on an iron chain;
He groans under the barn, under the haystack,
Under a cart, spending the night in the steppe;
Moaning in his own poor house,
I am not happy with the light of God's sun;
Moans in every remote town,
At the entrance of courts and chambers.
Go out to the Volga: whose groan is heard
Over the great Russian river?
We call this groan a song -
The barge haulers are walking with a towline!..
Volga! Volga!.. In spring, full of water
You're not flooding the fields like that,
Like the great sorrow of the people
Our land is overflowing, -
Where there are people, there is a groan... Oh, my heart!
What does your endless groan mean?
Will you wake up full of strength,
Or, fate obeying the law,
You have already done everything you could, -
Created a song like a groan
And spiritually rested forever?..
The textbook poem “Reflections at the Front Entrance” was written by Nikolai Nekrasov in 1858, becoming one of the many works that the author dedicated to the common people. The poet grew up on a family estate, but due to the cruelty of his own father, he realized very early that the world was divided into rich and poor. Nekrasov himself was among those who were forced to eke out a semi-beggarly existence, since he was deprived of an inheritance and earned his living independently from the age of 16. Understanding what it was like for ordinary peasants in this soulless and unjust world, the poet regularly addressed social issues in his works. What depressed him most was the fact that the peasants did not know how to defend their rights and did not even know what exactly they could count on under the law. As a result, they are forced to turn into petitioners, whose fate directly depends not so much on the whim of a high-ranking person, but on the mood of an ordinary doorman.
Petitioners visit one of the houses in St. Petersburg especially often, because the governor lives here. But getting to him is not an easy task, since a formidable doorman stands in the way of the applicants, shod in “homemade bast shoes.” It is he who decides who is worthy of meeting with an official and who should be driven away, even despite a meager offering. Such an attitude towards petitioners is the norm, although the peasants, naively believing in the myth of the good master, blame his servants for everything and leave without achieving justice. However, Nekrasov understands that the problem lies not in the doormen, but in the representatives of power themselves, for whom there is nothing sweeter than “the intoxication of shameless power.” Such people are not afraid of “thunders from heaven,” and they easily solve all earthly problems with the power of their own power and money. Such officials are not at all interested in the needs of ordinary people, and the poet focuses on this in his poem. The author is outraged that there is such a gradation in society, due to which it is impossible to achieve justice without money and high social status. Moreover, the Russian peasant is a constant source of irritation and a reason for anger for such a bureaucrat. No one thinks about the fact that it is the peasants who support the entire modern society, which is unable to do without free labor. The fact that all people, by definition, are born free is deliberately hidden, and Nekrasov dreams that someday justice will triumph.
Here is the front entrance.
On special days,
Possessed by a servile illness,
The whole city is in some kind of fright
Drives up to the treasured doors;
Having written down your name and rank,
The guests are leaving for home,
So deeply pleased with ourselves
What do you think - that’s their calling!
And on ordinary days this magnificent entrance
Poor faces besiege:
Projectors, place-seekers,
And an elderly man and a widow.
From him and to him you know in the morning
All the couriers are jumping around with papers.
Returning, another hums “tram-tram”,
And other petitioners cry.
Once I saw the men come here,
Village Russian people,
They prayed at the church and stood away,
Hanging their brown heads to their chests;
The doorman appeared. “Let me in,” they said.
With an expression of hope and anguish.
He looked at the guests: they were ugly to look at!
Tanned faces and hands,
The Armenian guy is thin on his shoulders.
On a knapsack on their bent backs,
Cross on my neck and blood on my feet,
Shod in homemade bast shoes
(You know, they wandered for a long time
From some distant provinces).
Someone shouted to the doorman: “Drive!
Ours doesn’t like ragged rabble!”
And the door slammed. After standing,
The pilgrims untied their wallets,
But the doorman did not let me in, without taking a meager contribution,
And they went, scorched by the sun,
Repeating: “God judge him!”
Throwing up hopeless hands,
And while I could see them,
They walked with their heads uncovered...
And the owner of luxurious chambers
I was still in deep sleep...
You, who consider life enviable
The intoxication of shameless flattery,
Red tape, gluttony, gaming,
Wake up! There is also pleasure:
Turn them back! their salvation lies in you!
But the happy are deaf to goodness...
The thunder of heaven does not frighten you,
And you hold earthly ones in your hands,
And these unknown people carry
Inexorable grief in the hearts.
Why do you need this crying sorrow?
What do you need these poor people?
Eternal holiday quickly running
Life doesn't let you wake up.
And why? Clickers' fun
You are calling for the people's good;
Without him you will live with glory
And you will die with glory!
More serene than an Arcadian idyll
The old days will set.
Under the captivating sky of Sicily,
In the fragrant tree shade,
Contemplating how the sun is purple
Plunges into the azure sea,
Stripes of his gold, -
Lulled by gentle singing
Mediterranean wave - like a child
You will fall asleep, surrounded by care
Dear and beloved family
(Waiting impatiently for your death);
They will bring your remains to us,
To honor with a funeral feast,
And you will go to your grave... hero,
Silently cursed by the fatherland,
Exalted by loud praise!..
However, why are we such a person?
Worrying for small people?
Shouldn't we take our anger out on them? -
Safer... Even more fun
Find some consolation in something...
It doesn’t matter what the man will endure:
This is how providence guides us
Pointed out... but he’s used to it!
Behind the outpost, in a wretched tavern
The poor will drink everything down to the ruble
And they will go, begging along the road,
And they will groan... Native land!
Name me such an abode,
I've never seen such an angle
Where would your sower and guardian be?
Where would a Russian man not moan?
He moans across the fields, along the roads,
He groans in prisons, in prisons,
In the mines, on an iron chain;
He groans under the barn, under the haystack,
Under a cart, spending the night in the steppe;
Moaning in his own poor house,
I am not happy with the light of God's sun;
Moans in every remote town,
At the entrance of courts and chambers.
Go out to the Volga: whose groan is heard
Over the great Russian river?
We call this groan a song -
The barge haulers are walking with a towline!..
Volga! Volga!.. In spring, full of water
You're not flooding the fields like that,
Like the great sorrow of the people
Our land is overflowing, -
Where there are people, there is a groan... Oh, my heart!
What does your endless groan mean?
Will you wake up full of strength,
Or, fate obeying the law,
You have already done everything you could, -
Created a song like a groan
And spiritually rested forever?..
Here is the front entrance. On special days,
Possessed by a servile illness,
The whole city is in some kind of fright
Drives up to the treasured doors;
Having written down your name and rank,
The guests are leaving for home,
So deeply pleased with ourselves
What do you think - that’s their calling!
And on ordinary days this magnificent entrance
Poor faces besiege:
Projectors, place-seekers,
And an elderly man and a widow.
From him and to him you know in the morning
All the couriers are jumping around with papers.
Returning, another hums “tram-tram”,
And other petitioners cry.
Once I saw the men come here,
Village Russian people,
They prayed at the church and stood away,
Hanging their brown heads to their chests;
The doorman appeared. “Let it go,” they say
With an expression of hope and anguish.
He looked at the guests: they were ugly to look at!
Tanned faces and hands,
The Armenian boy is thin on his shoulders,
On a knapsack on their bent backs,
Cross on my neck and blood on my feet,
Shod in homemade bast shoes
(You know, they wandered for a long time
From some distant provinces).
Someone shouted to the doorman: “Drive!
Ours doesn’t like ragged rabble!”
And the door slammed. After standing,
The pilgrims untied their wallets,
But the doorman did not let me in, without taking a meager contribution,
And they went, scorched by the sun,
Repeating: “God judge him!”
Throwing up hopeless hands,
And while I could see them,
They walked with their heads uncovered...
And the owner of luxurious chambers
I was still in deep sleep...
You, who consider life enviable
The intoxication of shameless flattery,
Red tape, gluttony, gaming,
Wake up! There is also pleasure:
Turn them back! their salvation lies in you!
But the happy are deaf to goodness...
The thunder of heaven does not frighten you,
And you hold earthly ones in your hands,
And these unknown people carry
Inexorable grief in the hearts.
Why do you need this crying sorrow?
What do you need these poor people?
Eternal holiday quickly running
Life doesn't let you wake up.
And why? Clickers' fun
You are calling for the people's good;
Without him you will live with glory
And you will die with glory!
More serene than an Arcadian idyll
The old days will set:
Under the captivating sky of Sicily,
In the fragrant tree shade,
Contemplating how the sun is purple
Plunges into the azure sea,
Stripes of his gold, -
Lulled by gentle singing
Mediterranean wave - like a child
You will fall asleep, surrounded by care
Dear and beloved family
(Waiting impatiently for your death);
They will bring your remains to us,
To honor with a funeral feast,
And you will go to your grave... hero,
Silently cursed by the fatherland,
Exalted by loud praise!..
However, why are we such a person?
Worrying for small people?
Shouldn't we take our anger out on them? -
Safer... Even more fun
Find some consolation in something...
It doesn’t matter what the man endures;
This is how providence guides us
Pointed out... but he’s used to it!
Behind the outpost, in a wretched tavern
The poor will drink everything down to the ruble
And they will go, begging along the road,
And they will groan... Native land!
Name me such an abode,
I've never seen such an angle
Where would your sower and guardian be?
Where would a Russian man not moan?
He moans across the fields, along the roads,
He groans in prisons, in prisons,
In the mines, on an iron chain;
He groans under the barn, under the haystack,
Under a cart, spending the night in the steppe;
Moaning in his own poor house,
I am not happy with the light of God's sun;
Moans in every remote town,
At the entrance of courts and chambers.
Go out to the Volga: whose groan is heard
Over the great Russian river?
We call this groan a song -
The barge haulers are walking with a towline!..
Volga! Volga!.. In spring, full of water
You're not flooding the fields like that,
Like the great sorrow of the people
Our land is overflowing, -
Where there are people, there is a groan... Oh, my heart!
What does your endless groan mean?
Will you wake up full of strength,
Or, fate obeying the law,
You have already done everything you could, -
Created a song like a groan
And spiritually rested forever?..
Analysis of the poem “Reflections at the Main Entrance” by Nekrasov
The “civil singer” Nekrasov became famous for his accusatory poems. The poet defended the principles of realism in his work. Very often his works were based on scenes and situations from real life. In 1858, Nekrasov wrote the poem “Reflection at the Main Entrance” after witnessing a doorman driving away a group of peasants from the entrance of an influential minister. The work has become a textbook. Starting from an everyday event that repeats itself every day throughout the country, the author unfolds a large-scale picture of general lawlessness.
The poem begins with a description of the front entrance, which on holidays is besieged by endless visitors, rushing to confirm their essentially servile position. The rotten state system has made this stupid and humiliating custom the norm.
On weekdays the owner is busy with work. Couriers and all kinds of petitioners flock to the entrance. Nekrasov emphasizes that the highest measure of justice is not the law, but the interests and desires of one person who imagines himself to be the deputy of God. The solution to the issue depends on the size of the applicant's bribe. The tragedy of Russia is that this situation is considered normal. Poor peasants, who have come a long way, have no chance of even seeing the “lord.” Here the poet raises another problem that exists in our time. Worship of rank changes the psyche of the entire society. Possessing at least some minimal power allows a person to consider himself a “king” in his wretched corner. The doorman looks like a “minister” at the entrance. He himself decides who can be allowed to see the owner and drives the peasants away. Humiliated, “with their heads uncovered,” the poor petitioners set off on their way back.
The expulsion of the peasants is replaced by a contrasting description of the serene life of the nobleman. He lives to his fullest pleasure, wallowing in all sorts of vices. No one can condemn the minister, since the law is in his hands. He is completely indifferent to other people and does not understand the importance of the people's welfare. A comfortable existence is overshadowed only by the author’s critical remark that his loving family can’t wait for his death.
From a specific situation, Nekrasov moves on to a large-scale description of Mother Rus', in which the great Russian groan never ceases. The people, by whose efforts all the wealth of Russia is created, and on whose shoulders its power rests, are exhausted under the weight of life. The multimillion-dollar groan merges into one “great sorrow” and becomes a song. The work ends with the author’s rhetorical question: is this song the final meaning of the life of the Russian people? Or in the distant future his suffering will stop, and the “endless groan” will finally cease.
