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

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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

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

Cut a window to Europe Algarotti said somewhere: “Pétersbourg est la fenêtre par laquelle la Russie regarde en Europe.” Here and below are notes by A. S. Pushkin.["St. Petersburg is the window through which Russia looks at Europe" (French).],

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.

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? To me? why not?

It’s hard, of course;

But well I'm young and healthy

Ready to work day and night;

He'll arrange it somehow for himself

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 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... Mickiewicz described in beautiful verse the day preceding the St. Petersburg flood in one of his best poems - Oleszkiewicz. It's just a pity that the description is not accurate. There was no snow - the Neva was not covered with ice. Our description is more correct, although it does not contain the bright colors of the Polish poet.

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; all 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!

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 Count Miloradovich and Adjutant General Benckendorff.

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

Eugene. 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.

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 along 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. Eugene

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,

I started laughing.

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.

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.

Evgeniy 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 got 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? See description of the monument in Mickiewicz. It is borrowed from Ruban - as Mickiewicz himself notes.

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.

1833

From early editions

From the manuscripts of the poem

After the poems “And that he will be separated from Parasha // 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? 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 the 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.

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? 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 already coming... (3)
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.

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 (4)
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
Eugene. 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.

(Excerpt)

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,

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 own 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...

Questions and tasks

Did you like the excerpt? What literary devices helped the poet glorify the city of Petrov and the future of Russia?
Prepare for expressive reading, pay attention to the rhythm, mood, melody that accompany the various lines of “The Bronze Horseman” 1.
How do you understand the lines?
What feelings of the poet permeate the entire text and are they conveyed to you?

Literature and painting

"Bronze Horseman". Monument to Peter I in St. Petersburg. Sculpt. M. Falcone

Consider illustrations by various artists for Pushkin’s works. Which of them is closer, in your opinion, to understanding the characters' characters?
What monuments to Peter I do you know? What kind of monument would you suggest to Peter, the hero of Pushkin’s “Poltava”?

1 Find stories about how Pushkin himself read his works (in the second part of the textbook, in the section “Work on your own”).

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...

On the shore of desert waves He stood, full of great thoughts, and looked into the distance. The River rushed wide before him; the poor boat strove along it alone. Along the mossy, swampy banks there were black huts here and there, a shelter for a wretched Chukhon; And the forest, unknown to the rays In the fog of the hidden sun, made noise all around. And he thought: From here we will threaten the Swede, Here the city will be founded to spite the arrogant neighbor. Nature destined us here to stand with a firm foot by the sea. Here on the new waves All the flags will visit us, And we will lock them in the open air. A hundred years have passed, and the young city, full of beauty and wonder, From the darkness of the forests, from the swamps of cronyism, Ascended magnificently, proudly; Where once the Finnish fisherman, Nature's sad stepson, Alone on the low shores Threw His dilapidated net into unknown waters, now there Along the busy shores Slender communities crowd Palaces and towers; ships in crowds from all over the world rush to rich piers; The Neva is dressed in granite; Bridges hung over the waters; The islands were covered with Her dark green gardens, And before the younger capital Old Moscow faded, Like a Porphyry-bearing widow before the new queen. I love you, Peter’s creation, I love your strict, slender appearance, the sovereign current of the Neva, its granite shoreline, your cast-iron pattern of fences, your brooding nights, transparent twilight, moonless shine, when I write in my room, read without a lamp, and the sleeping communities are clear Deserted streets, and the Admiralty needle is bright, And, not letting the darkness of the night into the golden skies, One dawn is in a hurry to replace another, giving the night half an hour. I love your cruel winter, the motionless air and frost, the running of sleighs along the wide Neva, girls’ faces brighter than roses, and the shine, and the noise, and the talk of balls, and at the hour of a single feast, the hissing of foamy glasses and the blue flame of punch. I love the warlike liveliness, the monotonous beauty of the infantry troops and horses, in their harmoniously unsteady formation, the rags of these victorious banners, the radiance of these copper caps, shot through and through in battle. I love, military capital, Your smoke and thunder, When the full-fledged queen bestows a son in the royal house, Or Russia again triumphs over the enemy, Or, having broken its blue ice, the Neva carries it to the seas And, sensing the spring days, rejoices. Show off, city of Petrov, and stand unshakably like Russia, May the defeated element make peace with you; Let the Finnish waves forget their enmity and their ancient captivity, And let not vain malice disturb Peter’s eternal sleep! It was a terrible time, The memory of it is fresh... About it, my friends, for you I will begin my story. My story will be sad.

PART ONE

Over the darkened Petrograd November breathed the autumn chill. Splashing in a noisy wave at the edges of her slender fence, the Neva tossed about like a sick person in her restless bed. It was already late and dark; The rain beat angrily against the window, And the wind blew, howling sadly. At that time, young Evgeniy came home from the guests... We will call our hero by this name. It sounds nice; My pen has been on friendly terms with him for a long time. We don’t need his nickname, Although in times gone by It may have shone And under the pen of Karamzin It sounded in native legends; But now it is forgotten by light and rumor. Our hero lives in Kolomna; somewhere he serves, is shy of the nobles and does not worry about deceased relatives, nor about forgotten antiquities. So, when he came home, Evgeniy 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? that he was poor, that through labor he had to gain himself both independence and honor; That God could give him more intelligence and money. That there are such idle happy people, short-sighted people, lazy people, for whom life is so easy! That he serves only two years; He also thought that the weather was not letting up; that the river kept rising; that it’s unlikely And that he will be separated from Parasha for two, three days. Evgeniy sighed heartily and dreamed like a poet: “Getting married? To me? why not? It’s hard, of course; But well, I’m young and healthy, I’m ready to work day and night; Somehow I’ll arrange for myself a humble and simple shelter, and in it I’ll calm Parasha. Perhaps a year or two will pass - I’ll get a place, I’ll entrust our family to Parasha And the upbringing of the children... And we’ll live, and so we’ll both reach the grave Hand in hand, And our grandchildren will bury us...” So he dreamed. And He was sad that night, and he wished that the wind would howl less sadly, and that the rain would not knock on the window so angrily... He finally closed his sleepy eyes. And now the darkness of the stormy night is thinning and the pale day is already coming... A terrible day! All night long the Neva was rushing to the sea against the storm, Not having overcome their violent foolishness... And it became impossible for her to argue... In the morning, crowds of people crowded over its banks, Admiring the splashes, mountains And the foam of the angry waters. But by the force of the winds from the bay, the blocked Neva walked back, angry, seething, and flooded the islands, the weather became even more ferocious, the Neva swelled and roared, bubbling and swirling like a cauldron, and suddenly, like a frantic beast, it rushed towards the city. Everything ran before her, everything around Suddenly became empty - the waters suddenly Flowed into the underground cellars, Canals poured into the gratings, And Petropol floated up, as if immersed waist-deep in water. Siege! attack! evil waves, like thieves, climb into the windows. The canoes are hitting the windows with their sterns as they run. Trays under a wet veil, Wrecks of huts, logs, roofs, Goods of thrifty trade, Belongings of pale poverty, Bridges demolished by a thunderstorm, Coffins from a washed-out cemetery Floating through the streets! The people see God's wrath and await execution. Alas! everything perishes: shelter and food! Where will I get it? In that terrible year, he still ruled Russia with glory. He went out onto the balcony, sad, confused, and said: “Tsars cannot cope with God’s elements.” He sat down and in thought with sorrowful eyes looked at the evil disaster. They stood like lakes, and the streets flowed into them like wide rivers. The palace seemed like a sad island. The king said - from end to end, Along the nearby streets and distant ones They set off on a dangerous path among the stormy waters to save the people overwhelmed by fear and drowning at home. Then, on , Where a new house rose in the corner, Where above the elevated porch With raised paws, as if alive, Two guard lions stand, Astride a marble beast, Without a hat, with his hands clasped in a cross, Eugene sat motionless, terribly pale. He was afraid, poor thing, not for himself. He did not hear how the greedy wave rose, washing away his soles, how the rain whipped into his face, how the wind, howling violently, suddenly tore off his hat. His desperate glances were aimed at one edge and were motionless. Like mountains, from the indignant depths the waves rose there and were angry, there the storm howled, there the debris rushed... God, God! there - Alas! close to the waves, Almost at the very bay - An unpainted fence, and a willow And a dilapidated house: there he is, a widow and a daughter, his parasha, his dream... Or is he seeing this in a dream? or is our whole life nothing but an empty dream, a mockery of heaven over the earth? And he, as if bewitched, As if chained to marble, cannot get off! There is water around him and nothing else! And, with his back turned to him, In an unshakable height, Above the indignant Neva River, the Idol stands with outstretched hand on a bronze horse.

PART TWO

But now, having had enough of destruction and tired of the insolent riot, the Neva was drawn back, admiring its indignation and carelessly abandoning its prey. So the villain, with his fierce gang, burst into the village, breaks, cuts, crushes and robs; screams, gnashing, violence, abuse, alarm, howl!.. And, burdened with robbery, fearing pursuit, tired, the robbers hurry home, dropping their loot on the way. The water has subsided, and the pavement has opened, and my Evgeny hastens, his soul freezing, in hope, fear and longing, to the barely humbled river. But the victories were full of triumph, The waves were still boiling angrily, As if a fire was smoldering under them, The foam was still covering them, And the 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 carefree carrier willingly takes Him for a ten-kopeck piece through the terrible waves. And for a long time an experienced rower struggled with the stormy waves, And to hide deep between their rows, Every hour with the daring swimmers the boat was ready - and finally it reached the shore. The unfortunate man runs along a familiar street to familiar places. He looks, but he 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 were moved by the waves; All around, as if in a battlefield, bodies are lying around. Evgeny Stremglav, not remembering anything, Exhausted from torment, Runs to where Fate awaits him with unknown news, Like a sealed letter. And now he is running through the suburbs, And there is a bay, and the house 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 - it was demolished, apparently. Where is home? And, full of gloomy care, He walks and walks around, Talking loudly to himself - And suddenly, hitting his forehead with his hand, he laughed. The darkness of the night descended on the trembling city; But for a long time the inhabitants did not sleep and talked among themselves about the past day. The morning ray From behind the tired, pale clouds Flashed over the quiet capital And no longer found traces of yesterday's Trouble; The evil was already covered up. Everything returned to the same order. Already the people walked along the free streets with their cold insensibility. Official people, leaving their night shelter, went to work. The brave trader, without despondency, opened the robbed Neva cellar, intending to take out his important loss on his neighbor. Boats were taken from the yards. The Count, the Poet, beloved by heaven, was already singing in immortal verses the misfortune of the Neva banks. But my poor, my poor Eugene... Alas! his troubled mind could not resist the terrible shocks. The rebellious noise of the Neva and the winds resounded in his ears. Silently full of terrible thoughts, he wandered. He was tormented by some kind of dream. A week passed, a month - he did not return to his home. His deserted corner was rented out by the owner to a poor poet when his term expired. Evgeny did not come for his goods. He soon became alien to the world. I wandered around on foot all day, and slept on the pier; I ate a piece served through the window. The shabby clothes he was wearing were torn and smoldering. Angry children threw stones after him. Often the coachman's whips lashed Him, because He never cleared the road; It seemed like he didn't notice. He was deafened by the noise of internal anxiety. And so he dragged out his unhappy life, neither beast nor man, neither this nor that, nor a resident of the world, nor a dead ghost... Once he slept at the Neva pier. The days of summer were turning to autumn. A stormy wind was breathing. The gloomy wave splashed onto the pier, grumbling and beating against the smooth steps, like a petitioner at the door of judges who did not listen to him. The poor man woke up. It was gloomy: The rain was dripping, the wind howled sadly, And with him in the distance, in the darkness of the night, the sentry called to one another... Eugene jumped up; He remembered vividly the past horror; hastily He stood up; went to wander, and suddenly Stopped - and quietly began to move his eyes around With fear of the wild on his face. He found himself under the pillars of the Big House. On the porch, With raised paws, guard lions stood, as if alive, And right in the dark heights Above the fenced rock, the Idol with outstretched hand Sat on a bronze horse. Evgeny shuddered. The scary thoughts in him became clear. He recognized the place where the flood played, Where the predatory waves crowded, rioting angrily around him, And the lions, and the square, and the one who stood motionless in the darkness with a copper head, the one whose fatal will the city was founded under the sea... He is terrible in the surrounding haze! What a thought on the brow! What power is hidden in it! And what fire there is in this horse! Where will you gallop, proud horse, and where will you land your hooves? O mighty lord of fate! Isn’t it true that you, above the very abyss, at a height, raised Russia on its hind legs with an iron bridle? The poor madman walked around the base of the idol and cast his wild gaze on the face of the ruler of half the world. His chest felt tight. The forehead lay against the cold grate, the eyes became foggy, a flame ran through the heart, the blood boiled. He became gloomy Before the proud idol And, gritting his teeth, clenching his fingers, As if overcome by black power, “Good, miraculous builder! “He whispered, trembling angrily, “Too bad for you!” And suddenly he began to run headlong. It seemed to Him that a formidable king, Instantly ignited with anger, His face quietly turned... And he runs across the empty square and hears behind him - As if thunder rumbled - A heavy, ringing galloping Along the shocked pavement. And, illuminated by the pale moon, stretching out his hand on high, the Bronze Horseman rushes after him on a ringingly galloping horse; And all night long the poor madman, Wherever he turned his feet, the Bronze Horseman galloped behind him everywhere with a heavy stomp. And from that time, when he happened to walk that square, Confusion was depicted in his face. He hurriedly pressed his hand to his heart, As if to subdue him torment, He took off his worn cap, He did not raise his embarrassed eyes, And he walked aside. Small island visible on the seashore. Sometimes a belated fisherman lands there with a seine and cooks his poor supper, or an official visits, while walking in a boat on Sunday, a deserted island. Not grown up. Not a blade of grass there. The flood, playing, brought the dilapidated house there. He remained above the water like a black bush. Last spring they brought him on a barge. It was empty and all destroyed. At the threshold They found my madman, And immediately buried his cold corpse for God's sake.