Poznyakov Nikolai Ivanovich - a beautiful dawn. What angered you? unrest in Lithuania? How may God grant your beloved to be different

Nikolai Ivanovich Poznyakov

A page from a dear distance

Will the beautiful dawn finally rise?..

A. Pushkin.[ "Village"]

I remember it vaguely, and yet... clearly. Strange as it may seem, but true. Vaguely - because it was a few moments, full of distant outlines, unresolved guesses, not fully conscious impressions; it’s clear - because even now the consciousness clears up so much, when this memory flashes through, it becomes so light in the soul, so joyful, blessed... Vaguely - because it was in 1861, when I had just turned six; it is clear - because even a child’s head is shining with glimpses of life... How did it happen that I - a pale, frail, frail child - found myself on the balcony on this fresh June morning, when the dew floated over the meadow in its whitish mat, and The birds were still singing in incomplete chorus, I can’t say. They probably woke us up: they probably expected something special from this morning, something not yet seen... I stood, and in front of me the front garden was fragrant with jasmines and roses, and behind it a winding path ran down the mountain towards Shosha, and below Shosha herself with her with a bend she made the bow as straight as an arc, trimmed with willows, willows and hazel, like a curly fringe; at one end of the bow a village could be seen with brown thatched roofs, with crooked, gray walls huts and barns, with thin streams of smoke above the chimneys; on the left end he was dozing thoughtfully Pinery, ready to wake up at the first rays of the brewing day; and right in front of me, in the distance, on the mountain, behind steam field, towered village church over the undulating clumps of gardens... How many times later, living here for many years, have I seen this picture! How many times have I recalled with joy that early, fresh morning, when I - a thin, weak child - stood here and looked forward, expecting something... There, below, in the hollow between the distant mountain and the Shoshi bow, a meadow velveted , and voices rushed from there, and the crowd swayed in their blue, and white, and red shirts, in colorful sundresses, and their braids rang, shining in the fire of the east. I stood and looked forward. I don’t remember what the noise was about, I didn’t hear it clearly. I probably wouldn’t have understood even if I had heard it: it was a continuous, vague hum. But I remember how hard my heart beat... And it was so fresh, so spacious, so light!.. And the east flared up brighter and brighter; the birds were singing in full chorus; fogs spread across the creeks and hollows; Rays splashed across the sky blue. Everything around was rejoicing, and I was joyful too. I didn't understand everything. Of course, I didn’t understand: I was only five years old. But I was happy, I sensed something... I lived in those moments - I lived life to the fullest, and my heart was beating very, very fast! Now I understand: they shared their first mowing - your first mowing! They probably told us it would be very interesting and woke us up to watch. They probably taught us what “your first mowing” means. And we got up and went to look. It probably was. Yes, they probably indoctrinated us. Maybe! I heard footsteps behind me. I looked around. It was brother Victor (he was about eight years old). He quickly ran onto the balcony, not yet completely dry from washing. He didn't seem to notice me. He stopped, threw back his curly head, noisily inhaled the air, smiled blissfully, whispered: “Oh, how good!” He stared into the distance, across the river, into the crowd, listened to the jubilant chorus, looked at the sky, the sun shining above the forest, the entire neighborhood and... we met our eyes... We both remained silent. But it seems to me now that we understand each other. I remember this look clearly: what a joyful, pure look it was! - pure, like this sky, like this dawn!.. Beautiful dawn! We saw you! I remember you! 1899

How it happened that I, a pale, frail, frail child, found myself on the balcony on this fresh June morning, when the dew floated over the meadow in its whitish mat, and the birds sang in an incomplete chorus, I cannot say. They probably woke us up: they were probably expecting something special from this morning, something not yet seen...

I stood, and in front of me the front garden was fragrant with jasmines and roses, and behind it a winding path ran down the mountain towards Shosha, and below Shosha herself, with her bend, made a bow as straight as an arc, dissected by willows, willows and hazel, like a curly fringe; at one end of the bow a village could be seen with brown thatch on the roofs, with crooked, gray walls of huts and barns, with thin streams of smoke above the chimneys; at the left end, a pine forest was dreamingly dozing, ready to wake up at the first rays of the brewing day; and right in front of me, in the distance, on the mountain, behind the fallow field, a village church rose above the undulating clumps of gardens...

How many times later, living here for many years, I saw this picture! How many times have I recalled with joy that early, fresh morning when I, a thin, weak child, stood here and looked forward, expecting something...

There, below, in the hollow between the distant mountain and the Shoshi bow, a meadow velveted, and voices rushed from there, and the crowd swayed in their blue, and white, and red shirts, in colorful sundresses, and their braids rang, shining in the fire of the east. I stood and looked forward. I don’t remember what the noise was about, I didn’t hear it clearly. I probably wouldn’t have understood even if I had heard it: it was a continuous, vague hum. But I remember how hard my heart beat... And it was so fresh, so spacious, so light!.. And the east flared up brighter and brighter; the birds were singing in full chorus; fogs spread across the creeks and hollows; Rays splashed across the sky blue. Everything around was rejoicing - I was joyful too. I didn't understand everything. Of course, I didn’t understand: I was only five years old. But I was happy, I sensed something... I lived in those moments - I lived life to the fullest, and my heart beat very, very strongly!

Now I understand: they shared their first mowing - your first mowing! They probably told us it would be very interesting and woke us up to watch. They probably taught us what “your first mowing” means. And we got up and went to look. It probably was. Yes, they probably indoctrinated us. Maybe!

I heard footsteps behind me. I looked around. It was brother Victor (he was about eight years old). He quickly ran onto the balcony, not yet completely dry from washing. He didn't seem to notice me. He stopped, threw back his curly head, noisily inhaled the air, smiled blissfully, whispered: “Oh, how good!” He gazed into the distance, across the river, into the crowd, listened to the jubilant chorus, looked around the sky, the sun shining above the forest, the entire neighborhood and... we met our eyes...

We both remained silent. But it seems to me now that we understand each other. I remember this look clearly: what a joyful, pure look it was! - pure, like this sky, like this dawn!..

Beautiful dawn! We saw you! I remember you!

POLICY

WILL THE BEAUTIFUL DAWN FINALLY RISE?

For Pushkin's birthday and the Russian language holiday

Why today, more than two hundred years after the birth of the Poet, do we again repeat, soulfully or rhetorically, the phrase of Apollo Grigoriev, which is etched into our consciousness: “Pushkin is our everything”?

Why exactly does Pushkin remain relevant and in demand even today, during the period of the decline of the Russian State and the savagery of the human masses?

Why, when asked about their favorite poet, nine out of ten of our fellow citizens will answer: “Pushkin”? Well, it’s clear that the Pepsi generation simply doesn’t know other poets, even those close in importance. But even people of the older, Soviet generation, from hundreds of great and small poets, will choose Pushkin as the greatest of them.

It is surprising that Pushkin gained the greatest popularity not in the era when he lived, and not even in the subsequent decades of his existence. Tsarist Russia, and in Soviet period. For some reason, millions of Soviet worker-peasant boys and girls wanted to be like Evgeniy Onegin and Tatyana Larina, who were alien to them in class, but so close in spirit. Maybe because in Pushkin’s poetry they found that very “Russian spirit”, because his lines smelled of “Rus”, crucified in the years civil war, but reborn in new beauty and grandeur through the efforts of all Soviet people? A phenomenon worthy of study by literary scholars, historians and cultural experts.

And the greatest significance began to be attached to Pushkin’s legacy precisely in

The 30s were the years of the Soviet creation of industrial transformation, collectivization, and cultural revolution, which took the form of a return to national origins. And so from one decade to another, from generation to generation, Pushkin’s legacy flowed, from childhood being absorbed into the flesh and blood of the Soviet man.

Culture is not a market. In it, SUPPLY always creates demand, and not vice versa. Authentic culture we must persistently offer it to the population in order to turn it into a nation, into a people. This is exactly what the Soviet leadership has been doing since the 30s of the 20th century, forming a new type of person. Someone put it very well: today a Soviet person is as different from a post-Soviet person as an ancient Roman is from a barbarian.

Pushkin - who is he? Lyricist, rebel, freethinker, troublemaker? Or a patriot, imperial poet and monarchist? He is everything. Ours is everything.

Pushkin, of course, is flesh and blood a man of his class, inextricably linked with it. And when the best, noble part of this class took the path of fighting against tyranny and slavery, did the Poet really have a choice?

I want to sing Freedom to the world,

To defeat vice on the thrones...

Tyrants of the world! tremble!

And you, take courage and listen,

Arise, fallen slaves!

Autocratic Villain!

I hate you, your throne,

Your death, the death of children

With cruel joy I see...

Quite bold poems for that time, although they are not talking about a Russian, but about a French villain on the throne. But a throne is a throne. Don't touch him!

We will amuse good citizens

And in the pillory

Guts last priest

Let's strangle the last king!

Just like, indeed, for the poems from “The Tale of dead princess and seven heroes":

Before dawn

Brothers in a friendly crowd

They go out for a walk,

Shoot gray ducks...

Amuse your right hand,

Sorochina rushes to the field,

Or head off broad shoulders

Cut off the Tatar,

Or chased out of the forest

Pyatigorsk Circassian...

Well, just terrible great-power chauvinism. It would do well for modern Nazis to read not Mein Kampf, but their own classics.

I'm not even talking about the “outrage against Orthodoxy” in “The Tale of the Priest and His Worker Balda.”

Reverend Chaplin, oh! How do you tolerate THIS in books published under the damned “scoop”? However, Minister of Culture Medinsky, a unique interpreter of Russian history, can now come to your rescue. Together we will cope with the difficult legacy of totalitarianism. It is possible to light a cleansing fire in the center of Moscow - the mayor's office will certainly give its consent. And the ode “Liberty”, and “In the depths of the Siberian ores”, and “To Chaadaev”, and fairy tales with “demonicism” will fly there...

How I would like the hierarchs of the Russian Orthodox Church, who are increasingly interfering in social life and those trying to regulate all its aspects would open, well, at least sometimes, a volume of Pushkin that they probably had preserved from Soviet times and, finding there the lines “... he called for mercy for the fallen,” they would perceive them as a guide to action! And then it would not have occurred to any of the dean gentlemen in robes to demand from the state reprisal against the “sinners” from ***** Riot (especially since they did not commit any mortal sin) and at the same time turn a blind eye to the monstrous social and moral depravity in power structures. How far are the current officials of the Russian Orthodox Church from Christ, who expelled the money changers (in today's terms - bankers) from the temple and stood up in defense of the sinner with the words: “He who has no sin, let him throw the first stone.”

Pushkin always had a keen sense of time, and in “ cruel age“When freedom could be severely paid for, he praised it. But what value is freedom if you can’t suffer for it?

While we are burning with freedom,

While hearts are alive for honor,

My friend, let's dedicate it to the fatherland

Souls beautiful impulses!..

Seeing the draft Pushkin's lines in the propaganda materials of the Communist Party of the Russian Federation at the last elections, I thought: it’s strange, why didn’t our noted liberals, who are so actively conducting their “swamp” activities, take into account the Poet’s poems? At least the textbook ones:

The heavy shackles will fall,

The dungeons will collapse and there will be freedom

You will be greeted joyfully at the entrance,

And the brothers will give you the sword.

After all, this is the very thing that they proclaim from the stands at every rally and march: “Russia will be free!” Why are communists, who “tormented” their people for 70 years, today genuine and consistent fighters for democracy, calling it democracy?

And therefore, apparently, there is another Pushkin. The one who, addressing “Slanderers of Russia,” angrily exclaimed:

What are you making noise about, people?

Why are you threatening Russia with anathema?

What angered you? unrest in Lithuania?

Leave:

this is a dispute among the Slavs among themselves,

Domestic, old dispute,

already weighed by fate,

A question that you cannot resolve.

This is how Pushkin reacted to Polish uprising and its suppression by Russian troops, which outraged the European public and Russian liberals. Isn’t that what the liberals of today screamed when Georgian troops burned Ossetian villages and shot Russian citizens? And who then announced support and early Russian intervention in the conflict? Communists and patriots who understand the difference between the state and statehood, power and national interests.

...So send it to us, Vitiia,

His embittered sons:

There is a place for them in the fields of Russia,

Among the coffins alien to them.

Such an imperial Pushkin, of course, is not needed by the current haters and slanderers of Russia, those who, together with the incompetent government, are trying to overthrow the state itself, or rather, what is left of it, which still allows us to talk about Russia as a subject of history.

But today our people do not have a worthy tsar, in whose name we not only write a song, but for whom we would not be sorry to give our lives. And this orphaned people turns into uncomplaining slaves, and the most active, passionate part of them turns into freemen who come out to fight with the riot police at the March of Millions.

A dangerous but already inevitable trend of complete desacralization Russian authorities will lead to new turmoil. Confused people are already now, not trusting anyone or anything, running from one impostor to another, and the electronic guns of TV inspire us that not everything is rotten in the Danish kingdom.

And God grant that Minin and Pozharsky appear quickly, then we would not have to go through the horrors of civil war and intervention on the way to freedom. Not because it’s scary (although, damn, it’s not that much fun at all), but because we might lose this time.

And he no longer dreams of the formidable and omnipotent Stalinist empire Russian people, but with that same Pushkin dream of Russian paradise.

Alexander TOKAREV

For Russian Language Day

Why today, more than two hundred years after the birth of the Poet, do we repeat again, soulfully or rhetorically, the phrase of Apollo Grigoriev, which is etched into our consciousness: “Pushkin is our everything”?

Why exactly does Pushkin remain relevant and in demand even today, during the period of the decline of the Russian state and the savagery of the human masses?

Why, when asked about their favorite poet, 9 out of 10 respondents will answer: “Pushkin”? Well, it’s clear that the Pepsi generation simply doesn’t know other poets, even those close in importance. But even people of the older, Soviet generation, from hundreds of great and small poets, will choose Pushkin, if not as a favorite, then as a great one.

It is surprising that Pushkin gained the greatest popularity not in the era in which he lived, and not even in the subsequent decades of the existence of Tsarist Russia, but in the Soviet period. For some reason, millions of Soviet worker-peasant boys and girls wanted to be like aliens and members of the class, but similar in spirit, Evgeniy Onegin and Tatyana Larina. Maybe because in Pushkin’s poems they found that very “Russian spirit”, because his lines smelled of “Rus”, which shed a fair amount of Russian blood during the years of the revolution and civil war, but was reborn in new beauty and greatness through the efforts of the entire Soviet people? A phenomenon worthy of study by literary scholars, historians and cultural experts.

And the greatest significance began to be attached to Pushkin’s legacy precisely in the 30s, when the revolutionary fervor for the destruction of the old world waned and it was necessary to create a new one. Not only through industrialization and collectivization, but also through a cultural revolution, which took the form of a return to national origins. And so, from one decade to another, from generation to generation, Pushkin’s legacy flowed, from childhood being absorbed into the flesh and blood of the Soviet man.

Culture is not a market. In it, supply always creates demand, and not vice versa. True culture must be imposed on the population in order to turn it into a nation and people. This is what the Soviet leadership actually did, starting in the 30s of the 20th century, forming a new type of person - the Soviet person. And therefore, in the words of Maxim Kalashnikov, it seems, today a Soviet person is as different from a post-Soviet person as an ancient Roman is from a barbarian.

Every man born in the Soviet Union, raised on classical Russian literature from childhood, whose heart in youth or maturity was burned by love for a woman, of course, more than once recalled Pushkin’s lines:

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.

Although not everyone is able, while loving, to renounce his beloved, but not his love for her, as the Poet described it:

I loved you silently, hopelessly,

Now we are tormented by timidity, now by jealousy;

I loved you so sincerely, so tenderly,

How God grant you, your beloved, to be different.

How much selfish, justified and unjustified anger we, men, sometimes have towards those who have rightly or unjustly rejected our feelings. How much hatred we have for those we once idolized. Not everything man's heart capable of such Pushkin-like renunciation. This is the ideal to which it leads us true art. To be ready for any sacrifice, but not to forgive the insult inflicted on the woman you love - this is a man’s life credo, formed by Pushkin and proven by him with blood on the banks of the Black River.

Pushkin. Who is he? Rebel, freethinker, troublemaker? Or a patriot, imperial poet and monarchist? He is everything, our everything.

Pushkin, of course, is flesh and blood - a man of his class, inextricably linked with it. And when best part this class took the path of fighting tyranny and slavery, did the Poet have a choice?

I want to sing Freedom to the world,

To defeat vice on the thrones...

Tyrants of the world! tremble!

And you, take courage and listen,

Arise, fallen slaves!

Autocratic Villain!

I hate you, your throne,

Your death, the death of children

I see it with cruel joy.

They read on your forehead

Seal of the curse of the nations,

You are the horror of the world, the shame of nature,

You are a reproach to God on earth.

The verses from the ode “Liberty” were quite bold for that time, although they were not talking about a Russian, but about a French villain on the throne. But a throne is a throne. Don't touch him!

We will amuse good citizens

And in the pillory

Guts of the last priest

Let's strangle the last king!

Just like, indeed, for the verses from “The Tale of the Dead Princess and Her Heroes”:

Before dawn

Brothers in a friendly crowd

They go out for a walk,

Shoot gray ducks...

Amuse your right hand,

Sorochina rushes to the field,

Or head off broad shoulders

Cut off the Tatar,

Or chased out of the forest

Pyatigorsk Circassian...

Well, just terrible great-power chauvinism. Modern Nazis would do well to read not only Mein Kampf, but also their own, dear ones. Maybe you'll like it?

I'm not even talking about the “outrage against Orthodoxy” in “The Tale of the Priest and His Worker Balda”:

Poor pop

He raised his forehead:

From the first click

The priest jumped to the ceiling;

From the second click

Lost my pop tongue

And from the third click

It knocked the old man's mind out.

Mister Inquisitor Chaplin, ah! Where are you? How can you still tolerate THIS in books published under the damned “Soviet” regime? However, Minister Medinsky, also a great expert on Russian history, can now come to your rescue. Together we will cope with the difficult legacy of totalitarianism. You can also light a cleansing fire in the center of Moscow - the mayor’s office will certainly give approval. And the ode “Liberty”, and “In the depths of the Siberian ores”, and “To Chaadaev” and other “devils” will fly into it.

How I would like the hierarchs of the Russian Orthodox Church, who are increasingly interfering in secular life and trying to regulate all its aspects, to at least sometimes open the volume of Pushkin that they probably have preserved from Soviet times and, finding there the lines “... he called for mercy for the fallen,” they perceived them as a guide to action. And then it would not have occurred to any of these gentlemen in robes to demand from the state reprisals against the punk girls from Pussy Riot (especially since they did not commit any mortal sin there) and at the same time turn a blind eye to the monstrous crimes in the power structures. How far are the current officials of the Russian Orthodox Church from Christ, who stood up in defense of a sinner with the words: “He who has no sin, let him cast the first stone.”

Pushkin always had a keen sense of time, and in the “cruel age”, when one could pay for freedom, he praised it. But what value is freedom if you can’t suffer for it?

While we are burning with freedom,

While hearts are alive for honor,

My friend, let's dedicate it to the fatherland

Beautiful impulses from the soul!

Comrade, believe: she will rise,

Star of captivating happiness,

Russia will wake up from its sleep,

And on the ruins of autocracy

They will write our names!

An excerpt from the poem “To Chaadaev,” who is unfairly considered a Russophobe (although it was he who later praised Pushkin for the poem “To the Slanderers of Russia”), was used in the election campaign of the Communist Party candidate Gennady Zyuganov. It’s strange, I thought then, why didn’t our current liberals, who are so actively engaged in their “swamp” activities, adopt these verses of the Poet? Or at least the textbook ones:

The heavy shackles will fall,

The dungeons will collapse - and with freedom

You will be greeted joyfully at the entrance,

And the brothers will give you the sword.

And therefore, apparently, there is another Pushkin. The one who, addressing “Slanderers of Russia,” angrily exclaimed:

What are you making noise about, people?

Why are you threatening Russia with anathema?

What angered you? unrest in Lithuania?

Leave it alone: this is a dispute between the Slavs,

A domestic, old dispute, already weighed by fate,

A question that you cannot resolve.

This is how Pushkin reacted to the Polish uprising and its suppression by Russian troops, which outraged the European public and Russian liberals. Isn’t that what the liberals of today screamed when Georgian troops burned Ossetian villages and cut the throats of Russian citizens? And who then announced support and early Russian intervention in the conflict? Communists and patriots who understand the difference between the state and statehood, power and national interests.

You are formidable in words - try it in deeds!

Or an old hero, deceased on his bed,

Unable to screw in your Izmail bayonet?

Or is the word of the Russian Tsar already powerless?

Or is it new for us to argue with Europe?

Or is the Russian unaccustomed to victories?

Are there not enough of us? Or from Perm to Taurida,

From the Finnish cold rocks to the fiery Colchis,

From the shocked Kremlin

To the walls of motionless China,

Sparkling with steel bristles,

The Russian land will not rise?..

So send it to us, Vitiia,

His embittered sons:

There is a place for them in the fields of Russia,

Among the coffins alien to them.

Such an imperial Pushkin, of course, is not needed by the current haters and slanderers of Russia, those who, together with the incompetent government, are trying to overthrow the state itself, or rather, what is left of it, what still allows us to talk about Russia as a subject of history.

But today our people do not have a worthy king, in whose name it is not only a song to write, but for whom it is not a pity to give up one’s life. And this orphaned people turns into uncomplaining slaves, and the most active, passionate part of them turns into freemen who go out to fight with the riot police on the “march of millions” and, with the blessing of the “fake” king, receive a “club to the head.”

The ruler is weak and crafty,

Bald dandy, enemy of labor,

Accidentally warmed by fame,

He reigned over us then.

Are these lines about the “popularly elected” in dishonest elections?

The dangerous, but already inevitable trend of complete desacralization of Russian power will lead to new turmoil. Confused people are already now, not trusting anyone or anything, running from one impostor to another, and the electronic guns of TV inspire us that not everything is rotten in the Danish kingdom.

And God grant that Minin and Pozharsky appear quickly. And on the way to freedom we would not have to go through the horrors of civil war and intervention. Not because it’s scary (although, damn, it’s not that much fun at all), but because we might lose this time.

Alas, the imperial greatness of Russia exists today only in the sick imagination of some of our patriots. And our country is increasingly reminiscent of Pushkin’s “Village”:

Here the nobility is wild, without feeling, without law,

Appropriated by a violent vine

And labor, and property, and the time of the farmer.

Leaning on an alien plow, submitting to the scourge,

Here skinny slavery drags along the reins

An unforgiving owner.

Here a painful yoke drags everyone to the grave,

Not daring to harbor hopes and inclinations in my soul,

Here young maidens bloom

For the whim of an insensitive villain.

And it is no longer the formidable and all-powerful Stalinist empire that the Russian people dream of, but that same Pushkin dream of a Russian paradise:

I'll see, oh friends! unoppressed people

And slavery, which fell due to the king’s mania,

And over the fatherland of enlightened freedom

Will it finally rise

beautiful dawn?

By faith in the beautiful dawn, which will certainly rise over our long-suffering Fatherland, Russian people are probably still alive, still connected by their native language, literature and... Pushkin.

Alexander TOKAREV ,
regional committee of the Communist Party of the Russian Federation