It was a terrible time her memory is fresh. Pushkin's poem A.S.

(Excerpt)

On the shore desert waves
He stood, full of great thoughts,
And looked into the distance. Wide before him
The river was rushing; poor boat
He strove for her alone.
Along the mossy, marshy shores
Blackened huts here and there,
Shelter of a wretched Chukhonian;
And the forest, unknown to the rays
In the mist of the hidden sun
Noisy all around.

And he thought:
From here we will threaten the Swede.
Here the city will be founded
To spite an arrogant neighbor.
Nature here is destined for us
Cut a window to Europe
Stand with a firm foot by the sea.
Here on their new waves
All flags will visit us,
And let's hang out in the open.

A hundred years have passed, and the young city,

From the darkness of the forests, from the swamp blat
Ascended magnificently, proudly;
Where before the Finnish fisherman,
The sad stepson of nature,
Alone by the low shores
Thrown into unknown waters
Your old net; now there
Along busy shores
The slender masses crowd
Palaces and towers; ships
Crowd from all corners of the earth
They strive for rich marinas;
The Neva is dressed in granite;
Bridges hung over the waters;
Dark green gardens
The islands covered her
And in front of the younger capital
Faded old Moscow
As before a new queen
Porphyritic widow.

I love you, Peter's creation,
I love your strict, slender look,
Neva sovereign current,
Its coastal granite,
Your fences have a cast-iron pattern,
your thoughtful nights
Transparent dusk, moonless brilliance,
When I am in my room
I write, I read without a lamp,
And the sleeping masses are clear
Deserted streets, and light
Admiralty needle...

Questions and tasks

1. Did you like the excerpt? What kind literary devices helped the poet sing the city of Petrov and the future of Russia?
2. Get ready for expressive reading, pay attention to the rhythm, mood, melody that accompany the various lines of The Bronze Horseman 1 .

   “On the shore of desert waves He stood, full of great thoughts, And looked into the distance ...”

   “One hundred years have passed, and the young city,
   Midnight countries beauty and wonder,
   From the darkness of the forests, from the swamp blat
   Ascended magnificently, proudly ... "

   "I love you, Peter's creation,
   I love your strict, slender look ... "

3. How do you understand lines?

   "Here on their new waves
   All flags will visit us ... "

4. 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

1. View illustrations by various artists for Pushkin's works. Which of them is closer, in your opinion, to understanding the characters of the characters?
2. What monuments to Peter I do you know? What 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-reader, in the section "Work on your own").

Petersburg story

Foreword

The incident described in this story is based on truth. The details of the flood are borrowed from contemporary magazines. The curious can consult the news compiled by V. N. Berkh.

Introduction

On the shore of desert waves
He stood, full of great thoughts,
And looked into the distance. Wide before him
The river was rushing; poor boat
He strove for her alone.
Along the mossy, marshy shores
Blackened huts here and there,
Shelter of a wretched Chukhonian;
And the forest, unknown to the rays
In the mist of the hidden sun
Noisy all around.

And he thought:
From here we will threaten the Swede,
Here the city will be founded
To the evil of an arrogant neighbor.
Nature here is destined for us
Cut a window to Europe
Stand with a firm foot by the sea.
Here on their new waves
All flags will visit us,
And let's hang out in the open.

A hundred years have passed, and the young city,
Midnight countries beauty and wonder,
From the darkness of the forests, from the swamp blat
Ascended magnificently, proudly;
Where before the Finnish fisherman,
The sad stepson of nature,
Alone by the low shores
Thrown into unknown waters
Your old seine, now there
On busy shores
The slender masses crowd
Palaces and towers; ships
Crowd from all corners of the earth
They strive for rich marinas;
The Neva is dressed in granite;
Bridges hung over the waters;
dark green gardens
The islands covered it
And in front of the younger capital
Faded old Moscow
As before a new queen
Porphyritic widow.

I love you, Peter's creation,
I love your strict, slender look,
Neva sovereign current,
Its coastal granite,
Your fences have a cast-iron pattern,
your thoughtful nights
Transparent dusk, moonless brilliance,
When I am in my room
I write, I read without a lamp,
And the sleeping masses are clear
Deserted streets, and light
Admiralty needle,
And, not letting the darkness of the night
To golden skies
One dawn to replace another
Hurry, giving the night half an hour.
I love your cruel winters
Still air and frost
Sledge running along the wide Neva,
Girlish faces brighter than roses
And shine, and noise, and the talk of balls,
And at the hour of the feast idle
The hiss of foamy glasses
And punch flame blue.
I love belligerent liveliness
Amusing Fields of Mars,
Infantry troops and horses
monotonous beauty,
In their harmoniously unsteady formation
Patchwork of these victorious banners,
The radiance of these copper caps,
Shot through and through in battle.
I love, military capital,
Your stronghold smoke and thunder,
When the midnight queen
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, smelling spring days, rejoices.

Show off, city of Petrov, and stop
Unshakable as Russia,
May he make peace with you
And the defeated element;
Enmity and old captivity
Let Finnish waves forget
And vain malice will not be
Disturb Peter's eternal sleep!

It was a terrible time
She is a fresh memory...
About her, my friends, for you
I'll start my story.
My story is sad.

Part one

Above the darkened Petrograd
November breathed autumn chill.
Rushing in a noisy wave
At the edge of its slender fence,
Neva rushed about like a patient
Restless in your bed.
It was already late and dark;
The rain beat angrily against the window,
And the wind blew, sadly howling.
At the time of the guests home
Eugene came young ...
We will be our hero
Call by this name. It
Sounds nice; with him for a long time
My pen is also friendly.
We don't need a nickname
Although in the past
It may have shone.
And under the pen of Karamzin
In native legends it sounded;
But now with light and rumor
It is forgotten. Our hero
Lives in Kolomna; serves somewhere
shy of the noble and does not grieve
Not about the deceased relatives,
Not about the forgotten antiquity.

So, I came home, Eugene
He shook off his overcoat, undressed, lay down.
But he couldn't sleep for a long time.
In the excitement of different thoughts.
What was he thinking about? About,
That he was poor, that he labored
He had to deliver
And independence and honor;
What could God add to him
Mind and money. What is there
Such idle happy ones
Mindless, sloths,
For whom life is easy!
That he serves only two years;
He also thought that the weather
Didn't let up; that river
Everything arrived; that hardly
Bridges have not been removed from the Neva
And what will he do with Parasha
Separated for two, three days.
Eugene here sighed heartily
And he dreamed like a poet:

"Marry? To me? why not?
It is hard, of course;
But well, I'm young and healthy
Ready to work day and night;
Somehow I'll arrange myself
Shelter humble and simple
And I will calm Parasha in it.
It may take a year or two -
I'll get a place, Parashe
I will entrust our family
And raising kids...
And we will live, and so on to the grave
Hand in hand, we both will reach,
And our grandchildren will bury us…”

So he dreamed. And it was sad
Him that night, and he wished
So that the wind howled not so sadly
And let the rain beat on the window
Not so angry...

Sleepy eyes
It finally closed. And so
The haze of a rainy night is thinning
And the pale day is already coming ...
Terrible day!

Neva all night
Rushed to the sea against the storm,
Without defeating their violent dope ...
And she couldn't argue...
In the morning over her shores
Crowded crowds of people
Admiring the splashes, the mountains
And the foam of angry waters.
But by the force of the winds from the bay
Blocked Neva
She went back, angry, turbulent,
And flooded the islands
The weather got worse
The Neva swelled and roared,
Cauldron bubbling and swirling,
And suddenly, like a wild beast,
Rushed to the city. before her
Everything ran, everything around
Suddenly empty - water suddenly
Flowed into underground cellars,
Channels poured to the gratings,
And Petropolis surfaced like a triton,
Immersed in water to the waist.

Siege! attack! evil waves,
Like thieves climbing through the windows. Chelny
With a running start, the windows are hitting the stern.
Trays under a wet veil,
Fragments of huts, logs, roofs,
thrifty commodity,
Relics of pale poverty,
Bridges torn down by thunder
A coffin from a blurry cemetery
Float through the streets!

People
Sees God's wrath and awaits execution.
Alas! everything perishes: shelter and food!
Where will take?

In that terrible year
The late tsar is still Russia
With glory rules. To the balcony
Sad, confused, he left
And he said: “With the element of God
Kings cannot be controlled." He sat down
And in the thought with mournful eyes
I looked at the evil disaster.
Stogny stood like lakes,
And in them wide rivers
The streets poured in. Castle
It seemed like a sad island.
The king said - from end to end,
Through the streets near and far
On a dangerous journey through stormy waters
His generals set off
Rescue and fear obsessed
And people drowning at home.

Then, on Petrova Square,
Where the house in the corner ascended a new one,
Where above the elevated porch
With a raised paw, as if alive,
There are two guard lions
On a marble beast,
Without a hat, hands clenched in a cross,
Sitting motionless, terribly pale
Evgeniy. He was afraid, poor
Not for myself. He didn't hear
As the greedy wave rose,
Washing his soles
As the rain hit him in the face,
Like the wind, howling violently,
He suddenly took off his hat.
His desperate eyes
Pointed at the edge of one
They were motionless. Like mountains
From the disturbed depth
The waves got up there and got angry,
There the storm howled, there they rushed
The wreckage… God, God! there -
Alas! close to the waves
Near the bay
The fence is unpainted, yes willow
And a dilapidated house: there they are,
Widow and daughter, his Parasha,
His dream... Or in a dream
Does he see it? or all of our
And life is nothing, like an empty dream,
Heaven's mockery of the earth?

And he, as if bewitched,
As if chained to marble
Can't get off! around him
Water and nothing else!
And with his back turned to him,
In the unshakable height
Over the perturbed Neva
Standing with outstretched hand
Idol on a bronze horse.

Part two

But now, satiated with destruction
And weary with impudent violence,
Neva pulled back
Admiring your indignation
And leaving with carelessness
Your prey. So villain
With his ferocious gang
Bursting into the village, aching, cutting,
Crushes and robs; screams, rattle,
Violence, abuse, anxiety, howl! ..
And burdened with robbery,
Afraid of the chase, weary,
The robbers hurry home
Dropping prey on the way.

The water has drained, and the pavement
Opened, and Eugene is mine
Hurries, soul freezing,
In hope, fear and longing
To a barely calm river.
But, the triumph of victory is full,
The waves were still seething,
As if a fire smoldered under them,
Even their foam covered
And Neva was breathing heavily,
Like a horse running from a battle.
Eugene looks: he sees a boat;
He runs to her as if to a find;
He calls the carrier -
And the carrier is carefree
Him for a dime willingly
Through terrible waves you are lucky.

And long with stormy waves
An experienced rower fought
And hide deep between their rows
Hourly with daring swimmers
The boat was ready - and finally
He reached the shore.

Unhappy
Familiar street runs
To familiar places. looks,
Can't find out. The view is terrible!
Everything in front of him is littered;
What is dropped, what is demolished;
Crooked houses, others
Completely collapsed, others
Moved by the waves; around,
As if in a battlefield
Bodies are lying around. Evgeniy
Headlong, not remembering anything,
Exhausted from pain,
Runs to where it is waiting for him
Fate with unknown news
Like a sealed letter.
And now he is running along the suburbs,
And here is the bay, and the house is close ...
What is it?..

He stopped.
Went back and turned back.
Looks... goes... still looks.
Here is the place where their house stands;
Here is the willow. There were gates here
They took them down, you see. Where is home?
And, full of gloomy care,
Everything walks, he walks around,
Talking loudly to himself -
And suddenly, striking his forehead with his hand,
Laughed.

Night haze
She descended on the trembling city;
But for a long time the inhabitants did not sleep
And they talked among themselves
About the past day.

Morning beam
Because of the tired, pale clouds
Flashed over the quiet capital
And found no trace
Yesterday's troubles; scarlet
The evil was already covered up.
Everything was in order.
Already through the streets free
With your insensibility cold
People walked. official people,
Leaving your nocturnal shelter
Went to service. brave trader,
Reluctantly, I opened
New robbed basement
Gonna take your loss important
On the near vent. From yards
They brought boats.

Count Khvostov,
Poet, beloved by heaven,
Already sang immortal verses
The misfortune of the Neva banks.

But my poor, poor Eugene...
Alas! his confused mind
Against terrible shocks
Didn't resist. Rebellious Noise
Neva and winds resounded
In his ears. Terrible thoughts
Silently full, he wandered.
Some kind of dream tormented him.
A week has passed, a month has passed
He did not return to his home.
His desert corner
I rented it out, as the term expired,
The owner of the poor poet.
Eugene for his good
Didn't come. He will soon light
Became a stranger. Walked all day,
And slept on the pier; ate
In the window filed piece.
His clothes are shabby
It tore and smoldered. Evil children
They threw stones at him.
Often coachman's whips
He was beaten because
That he did not understand the road
Never; it seemed he
Didn't notice. He is stunned
It was the sound of inner 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 slept
At the Neva pier. Days of summer
Leaning towards autumn. breathed
Bad wind. Gloomy Shaft
Splashed on the pier, murmuring pennies
And beating on the smooth steps,
Like a petitioner at the door
He does not heed the judges.
The poor man woke up. It was gloomy
The rain was falling, the wind howled dejectedly,
And with him away, in the darkness of the night
The sentry called...
Yevgeny jumped up; remembered vividly
He is a past horror; hastily
He got up; went to wander, and suddenly
Stopped and around
Quietly began to drive his eyes
With wild fear on his face.
He found himself under the pillars
Big house. On the porch
With a raised paw, as if alive,
There were guard lions,
And right in the dark sky
Above the fenced rock
Idol with outstretched hand
He sat on a bronze horse.

Eugene shuddered. cleared up
It has terrible thoughts. He found out
And the place where the flood played
Where the predatory waves crowded,
Revolting viciously around him,
And the lions, and the square, and that,
Who stood still
In the darkness with a copper head,
Togo, whose fateful will
Under the sea, the city was founded ...
He is terrible in the surrounding darkness!
What a thought!
What power is hidden in it!
And what a fire in this horse!
Where are you galloping, proud horse,
And where will you lower your hooves?
O mighty lord of fate!
Are you not so above the abyss
At a height, an iron bridle
Raised Russia on its hind legs?

Around the foot of the idol
The poor madman walked around
And brought wild eyes
On the face of the ruler of the semi-world.
His chest was shy. Chelo
It lay down on the cold grate,
Eyes clouded over,
A fire ran through my heart,
The blood boiled up. He became gloomy
Before the proud idol
And, clenching his teeth, clenching his fingers,
As if possessed by black power,
“Good, miraculous builder! —
He whispered, trembling angrily,
Already you! .. ”And suddenly headlong
Started running. It seemed
Him, that formidable king,
Instantly ignited with anger,
The face turned slowly...
And he's empty
Runs and hears behind him -
As if thunder rumbles -
Heavy-voiced galloping
On the shaken pavement.
And, illuminated by the pale moon,
Stretch your hand up high
Behind him rushes the Bronze Horseman
On a galloping horse;
And all night the poor madman,
Wherever you turn your feet
Behind him everywhere is the Bronze Horseman
Jumped with a heavy thud.

And since then, when it happened
Go that square to him
His face showed
Confusion. To your heart
He hurriedly pressed his hand,
As if pacifying his torment,
Worn-out symal cap,
He did not raise his confused eyes
And walked to the side.

small island
Visible at the seaside. Sometimes
Mooring with a net there
A belated fisherman
And he cooks his poor supper,
Or an official will visit,
Boating on a Sunday
Desert island. not grown up
There is not a blade of grass. flood
There, playing, skidded
The house is dilapidated. Above the water
He remained like a black bush.
His last spring
They took it to the bar. He was empty
And all destroyed. At the threshold
Found my madman
And then his cold corpse
Buried for God's sake.

One of the most controversial and mysterious poems by A.S. Pushkin's "The Bronze Horseman" was written by Boldinskaya in the autumn of 1833. It is interesting that it took the poet only 25 days to create it - this period is quite short, especially considering that Pushkin was working on several more works at the same time. The flood, which turned out to be at the center of the story, was in fact - it happened on November 7, 1824, as they wrote in the newspapers of that time. The plot of the poem is interesting in that its real and documented basis is permeated with mythology and superstitions, with which the city of St. Petersburg is shrouded. The introduction to the poem, which tells about the events of more than a hundred years ago, expands the temporal boundaries of the work. Living Peter and his bronze incarnation are two giants that dominate small people. Such a combination of past and present allows Pushkin to exacerbate the conflict, to make it brighter.

The poem is written in iambic tetrameter and has an introduction and two parts in its structure. There is no breakdown into stanzas - this technique emphasizes the narrative nature of the work.

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

BRONZE HORSEMAN

Foreword

Petersburg story

The incident described in this story is based on truth. The details of the flood are borrowed from contemporary magazines. 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 looked into the distance. Wide before him

The river was rushing; poor boat

He strove for her alone.

Along the mossy, marshy shores

Blackened huts here and there,

Shelter of a wretched Chukhonian;

And the forest, unknown to the rays

In the mist of the hidden sun

Noisy all around.

And he thought:

From here we will threaten the Swede,

Here the city will be founded

To the evil of an arrogant neighbor.

Nature here is destined for us

Stand with a firm foot by the sea.

Here on their new waves

All flags will visit us,

And let's hang out in the open.

A hundred years have passed, and the young city,

Midnight countries beauty and wonder,

From the darkness of the forests, from the swamp blat

Ascended magnificently, proudly;

Where before the Finnish fisherman,

The sad stepson of nature,

Alone by the low shores

Thrown into unknown waters

Your old net, now there,

Along busy shores

The slender masses crowd

Palaces and towers; ships

Crowd from all corners of the earth

They strive for rich marinas;

The Neva is dressed in granite;

Bridges hung over the waters;

Dark green gardens

The islands covered her

And in front of the younger capital

Faded old Moscow

As before a new queen

Porphyritic widow.

I love you, Peter's creation,

I love your strict, slender look,

Neva sovereign current,

Its coastal granite,

Your fences have a cast-iron pattern,

your thoughtful nights

Transparent dusk, moonless brilliance,

When I am in my room

I write, I read without a lamp,

And the sleeping masses are clear

Deserted streets, and light

Admiralty needle,

And, not letting the darkness of the night

To golden skies

One dawn to replace another

Hurry, giving the night half an hour.

I love your cruel winters

Still air and frost

Sledge running along the wide Neva,

Girlish faces brighter than roses

And shine, and noise, and the talk of balls,

And at the hour of the feast idle

The hiss of foamy glasses

And punch flame blue.

I love belligerent liveliness

Amusing Fields of Mars,

Infantry troops and horses

monotonous beauty,

In their harmoniously unsteady formation

Patchwork of these victorious banners,

The radiance of these copper caps,

On through those shot in battle.

I love, military capital,

Your stronghold smoke and thunder,

When the midnight queen

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, smelling spring days, rejoices.

Show off, city of Petrov, and stop

Unshakable as Russia,

May he make peace with you

And the defeated element;

Enmity and old captivity

Let Finnish waves forget

And vain malice will not be

Disturb Peter's eternal sleep!

It was a terrible time

She is a fresh memory...

About her, my friends, for you

I'll start my story.

My story is sad.

Part one

Above the darkened Petrograd

November breathed autumn chill.

Rushing in a noisy wave

At the edge of its slender fence,

Neva rushed about like a patient

Restless in your bed.

It was already late and dark;

The rain beat angrily against the window,

And the wind blew, sadly howling.

At the time of the guests home

Eugene came young ...

We will be our hero

Call by this name. It

Sounds nice; with him for a long time

My pen is also friendly.

We don't need a nickname

Although in the past

It may have shone.

And under the pen of Karamzin

In native legends it sounded;

But now with light and rumor

It is forgotten. Our hero

Lives in Kolomna; serves somewhere

shy of the noble and does not grieve

Not about the deceased relatives,

Not about the forgotten antiquity.

So, I came home, Eugene

He shook off his overcoat, undressed, lay down.

But he couldn't sleep for a long time.

In the excitement of different thoughts.

What was he thinking about? About,

That he was poor, that he labored

He had to deliver

And independence and honor;

What could God add to him

Mind and money. What is there

Such idle happy ones

Mindless, sloths,

For whom life is easy!

That he serves only two years;

He also thought that the weather

Didn't let up; that river

Everything arrived; that hardly

Bridges have not been removed from the Neva

And what will he do with Parasha

Separated for two, three days.

Eugene here sighed heartily

And he dreamed like a poet:

Marry? Well… why not?

It is hard, of course;

But well, he's young and healthy

Ready to work day and night;

He somehow arranges himself

Shelter humble and simple

And Parasha will calm down in it.

"Perhaps a year or two will pass -

I'll get a place, - Parashe

I will entrust our economy

And raising kids...

And we will live - and so on to the grave

Hand in hand we will both reach,

And our grandchildren will bury us…”

So he dreamed. And it was sad

Him that night, and he wished

So that the wind howled not so sadly

And let the rain beat on the window

Not so angry...

Sleepy eyes

It finally closed. And so

The haze of a rainy night is thinning

Terrible day!

Neva all night

Rushed to the sea against the storm,

Without defeating their violent dope ...

And she couldn't argue...

In the morning over her shores

Crowded crowds of people

Admiring the splashes, the mountains

And the foam of angry waters.

But by the force of the winds from the bay

Blocked Neva

She went back, angry, turbulent,

And flooded the islands

The weather got worse

The Neva swelled and roared,

Cauldron bubbling and swirling,

And suddenly, like a wild beast,

Rushed to the city. before her

Everything ran; all around

Suddenly empty - water suddenly

Flowed into underground cellars,

Channels poured to the gratings,

And Petropolis surfaced like a triton,

Immersed in water up to my waist.

Siege! attack! evil waves,

Like thieves climbing through the windows. Chelny

With a running start, glass is smashed astern.

Trays under a wet veil,

Fragments of huts, logs, roofs,

thrifty commodity,

Relics of pale poverty,

Storm-blown bridges

A coffin from a blurry cemetery

Float through the streets!

Sees God's wrath and awaits execution.

Alas! everything perishes: shelter and food!

Where will take?

In that terrible year

The late tsar is still Russia

With glory rules. To the balcony

Sad, confused, he left

And he said: “With the element of God

Kings cannot be controlled." He sat down

And in the thought with mournful eyes

I looked at the evil disaster.

There were stacks of lakes,

And in them wide rivers

The streets poured in. Castle

It seemed like a sad island.

The king said - from end to end,

Through the streets near and far

On a dangerous journey through stormy waters

Rescue and fear obsessed

And people drowning at home.

Then, on Petrova Square,

Where the house in the corner has risen new,

Where above the elevated porch

With a raised paw, as if alive,

There are two guard lions

On a marble beast,

Without a hat, hands clenched in a cross,

Sitting motionless, terribly pale

Evgeniy. He was afraid, poor

Not for myself. He didn't hear

As the greedy wave rose,

Washing his soles

As the rain hit him in the face,

Like the wind, howling violently,

He suddenly took off his hat.

His desperate eyes

Pointed at the edge of one

They were motionless. Like mountains

From the disturbed depth

The waves got up there and got angry,

There the storm howled, there they rushed

The wreckage… God, God! there -

Alas! close to the waves

Near the bay

The fence is unpainted, yes willow

And a dilapidated house: there they are,

Widow and daughter, his Parasha,

His dream... Or in a dream

Does he see it? or all of our

And life is nothing, like an empty dream,

Heaven's mockery of the earth?

And he, as if bewitched,

As if chained to marble

Can't get off! around him

Water and nothing else!

And with his back turned to him,

In the unshakable height

Over the perturbed Neva

Standing with outstretched hand

Idol on a bronze horse. Part two

But now, satiated with destruction

And weary with impudent violence,

Neva pulled back

Admiring your indignation

And leaving with carelessness

Your prey. So villain

With his ferocious gang

Bursting into the village, aching, cutting,

Crushes and robs; screams, rattle,

Violence, abuse, anxiety, howl! ..

And burdened with robbery,

Afraid of the chase, weary,

The robbers hurry home

Dropping prey on the way.

The water has drained, and the pavement

Opened, and Eugene is mine

Hurries, soul freezing,

In hope, fear and longing

To a barely calm river.

But, the triumph of victory is full,

The waves were still seething,

As if a fire smoldered under them,

Still their foam covered,

And Neva was breathing heavily,

Like a horse running from a battle.

Eugene looks: he sees a boat;

He runs to her as if to a find;

He calls the carrier -

And the carrier is carefree

Him for a dime willingly

Through terrible waves lucky.

And long with stormy waves

An experienced rower fought

And hide deep between their rows

Hourly with daring swimmers

The boat was ready - and finally

He reached the shore.

Unhappy

Familiar street runs

To familiar places. looks,

Can't find out. The view is terrible!

Everything in front of him is littered;

What is dropped, what is demolished;

Crooked houses, others

Completely collapsed, others

Moved by the waves; around,

As if in a battlefield

Bodies are lying around. Evgeniy

Headlong, not remembering anything,

Exhausted from pain,

Runs to where he is waiting

Fate with unknown news

Like a sealed letter.

And now he is running along the suburbs,

And here is the bay, and the house is close ...

What is it?..

He stopped.

Went back and turned back.

Looks... goes... still looks.

Here is the place where their house stands;

Here is the willow. There were gates here -

They took them down, you see. Where is home?

And, full of gloomy care,

Everyone walks, he walks around,

Talking loudly to himself -

And suddenly, striking his forehead with his hand,

Laughed.

Night haze

She descended on the trembling city;

But for a long time the inhabitants did not sleep

And they talked among themselves

About the past day.

Because of the tired, pale clouds

Flashed over the quiet capital

And found no trace

Yesterday's troubles; scarlet

The evil was already covered up.

Everything was in order.

Already through the streets free

With your insensibility cold

People walked. official people,

Leaving your nocturnal shelter

Went to the service. brave trader,

Reluctantly, I opened

New robbed basement

Gonna take your loss important

On the near vent. From yards

They brought boats.

Count Khvostov,

Poet, beloved by heaven,

Already sang immortal verses

The misfortune of the Neva banks.

But my poor, poor Eugene...

Alas! his confused mind

Against terrible shocks

Didn't resist. Rebellious Noise

Neva and winds resounded

In his ears. Terrible thoughts

Silently full, he wandered.

Some kind of dream tormented him.

A week has passed, a month has passed

He did not return to his home.

His desert corner

I rented it out, as the term expired,

The owner of the poor poet.

Eugene for his good

Didn't come. He will soon light

Became a stranger. Walked all day,

And slept on the pier; ate

In the window filed piece.

The clothes are shabby on him

It tore and smoldered. Evil children

They threw stones at him.

Often coachman's whips

He was beaten because

That he did not understand the road

Never; it seemed he

Didn't notice. He is stunned

It was the sound of inner 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 slept

At the Neva pier. Days of summer

Leaning towards autumn. breathed

Bad wind. Gloomy Shaft

Splashed on the pier, murmuring pennies

And beating on the smooth steps,

Like a petitioner at the door

He does not heed the judges.

The poor man woke up. It was gloomy

The rain was falling, the wind howled dejectedly,

And with him away, in the darkness of the night

The sentry called...

Yevgeny jumped up; remembered vividly

He is a past horror; hastily

He got up; went to wander, and suddenly

Stopped - and around

Quietly began to drive his eyes

With wild fear on his face.

He found himself under the pillars

Big house. On the porch

With a raised paw, as if alive,

There were guard lions,

And right in the dark sky

Above the walled rock

Idol with outstretched hand

He sat on a bronze horse.

Eugene shuddered. cleared up

It has terrible thoughts. He found out

And the place where the flood played

Where the predatory waves crowded,

Revolting viciously around him,

And the lions, and the square, and that,

Who stood still

In the darkness with a copper head,

Togo, whose fateful will

Under the sea, the city was founded ...

He is terrible in the surrounding darkness!

What a thought!

What power is hidden in it!

And what a fire in this horse!

Where are you galloping, proud horse,

And where will you lower your hooves?

O mighty lord of fate!

Are you not so above the abyss

At a height, an iron bridle

Around the foot of the idol

The poor madman walked around

And brought wild eyes

On the face of the ruler of the semi-world.

His chest was shy. Chelo

It lay down on the cold grate,

Eyes clouded over,

A fire ran through my heart,

The blood boiled up. He became gloomy

Before the proud idol

And, clenching his teeth, clenching his fingers,

As if possessed by black power,

“Good, miraculous builder! -

He whispered, trembling angrily,

Already you! .. ”And suddenly headlong

Started running. It seemed

Him, that formidable king,

Instantly ignited with anger,

The face turned slowly...

And he's empty

Runs and hears behind him -

As if thunder rumbles -

Heavy-voiced galloping

On the shaken pavement.

And, illuminated by the pale moon,

Stretch your hand up high

Behind him rushes the Bronze Horseman

On a galloping horse;

And all night the poor madman,

Wherever you turn your feet

Behind him everywhere is the Bronze Horseman

Jumped with a heavy thud.

And since then, when it happened

Go that square to him

His face showed

Confusion. To your heart

He hurriedly pressed his hand,

As if pacifying his torment,

Worn-out symal cap,

I didn't raise my confused eyes

And walked to the side.

small island

Visible at the seaside. Sometimes

Mooring with a net there

A belated fisherman

And he cooks his poor supper,

Or an official will visit,

Boating on a Sunday

Desert island. not grown up

There is not a blade of grass. flood

There, playing, skidded

The house is dilapidated. Above the water

He remained like a black bush.

His last spring

They took it to the bar. He was empty

And all destroyed. At the threshold

Found my madman

And then his cold corpse

Buried for God's sake.

Notes

Written in 1833. The poem is one of Pushkin's most profound, daring and artistically perfect works. The poet in it, with unprecedented strength and courage, shows the historically natural contradictions of life in all their nakedness, without trying to artificially make ends meet where they do not converge in reality itself. In the poem, in a generalized figurative form, two forces are opposed - the state, personified in Peter I (and then in symbolically revived monument, "The Bronze Horseman"), and a person in his personal, private interests and experiences. Speaking about Peter I, Pushkin glorified his “great thoughts” with inspired verses, his creation is “the city of Petrov”, new capital, built at the mouth of the Neva, "under the sea", on "mossy, marshy shores", for reasons of military-strategic, economic and to establish a cultural connection with Europe. The poet, without any reservations, praises the great state work of Peter, created by him a beautiful city- "the midnight countries of beauty and wonder." But these state considerations of Peter turn out to be the cause of the death of the innocent Eugene, a simple, ordinary person. He is not a hero, but he knows how and wants to work (“... I am young and healthy, / I am ready to work day and night”). He swept away in the flood; “He was afraid, poor thing, not for himself. // He did not hear how the greedy wave was rising, // Washing his soles, he “daringly” swims along the “barely resigned” Neva to find out about the fate of his bride. Despite poverty, Eugene values ​​"independence and honor" most of all. He dreams of simple human happiness: to marry his beloved girl and live modestly by his work. The flood, shown in the poem as a rebellion of the conquered, conquered elements against Peter, ruins his life: Parasha dies, and he goes crazy. Peter I, in his great state concerns, did not think about defenseless little people forced to live under the threat of death from floods.

The tragic fate of Yevgeny and the poet's deep sorrowful sympathy for her are expressed in The Bronze Horseman with tremendous power and poetry. And in the scene of the collision of the insane Eugene with the Bronze Horseman, his fiery, gloomy protest "of the frontal threat to the" miraculous builder" on behalf of the victims of this construction, the poet's language becomes as highly pathetic as in the solemn introduction to the poem. The Bronze Horseman ends with a mean, restrained, deliberately prosaic message about the death of Yevgeny:

… flood

There, playing, skidded

Old house…

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

His last spring

They took it to the bar. He was empty

And all destroyed. At the threshold

Found my madman

And then his cold corpse

Buried for God's sake.

Pushkin does not provide any epilogue that returns us to the original theme of majestic Petersburg, an epilogue that reconciles us with the historically justified tragedy of Yevgeny. The contradiction between the full recognition of the correctness of Peter I, who cannot be considered in his state "great thoughts" and affairs with the interests of an individual, and the full recognition of the correctness little man, requiring that his interests be taken into account - this contradiction remains unresolved in the poem. Pushkin was quite right, since this contradiction did not lie in his thoughts, but in life itself; it was one of the sharpest in the process historical development. This contradiction between the good of the state and the happiness of the individual is inevitable as long as class society exists, and it will disappear along with its final destruction.

In artistic terms, The Bronze Horseman is a marvel of art. In an extremely limited volume (there are only 481 verses in the poem), many bright, lively and highly poetic pictures are contained - see, for example, individual images scattered before the reader in the introduction, which make up a single majestic image of St. Petersburg; saturated with strength and dynamics, from a number of private paintings, the emerging description of the flood, the image of the delirium of the insane Yevgeny, amazing in its poetry and brightness, and much more. What distinguishes The Bronze Horseman from other Pushkin's poems is both the amazing flexibility and the variety of his style, sometimes solemn and slightly archaic, sometimes extremely simple, colloquial, but always poetic. special character gives the poem the use of techniques almost musical structure images: repetition, with some variations, of the same words and expressions (guard lions over the porch of the house, the image of a monument, “an idol on a bronze horse”), passing through the whole poem in different changes the same thematic motif - rain and wind , Neva - in countless en aspects, etc., not to mention the famous sound writing of this amazing poem.

Pushkin's references to Mickiewicz in the notes to the poem refer to a series of Mickiewicz's poems about Petersburg in the recently published third part of his poem Dziady. Despite the benevolent tone of the mention of Mickiewicz, Pushkin in a number of places in the description of St. Petersburg, and about Russians in general.

The Bronze Horseman was not published during Pushkin's lifetime, since Nicholas I demanded from the poet such changes in the text of the poem that he did not want to make. The poem was published shortly after Pushkin's death in Zhukovsky's revision, which completely distorted its main meaning.

From earlier editions

From the manuscripts of the poem

After the verses “And what will he do with Parasha // Separated for two, three days”:

Here he broke down heartily

And he dreamed like a poet:

“But why? why not?

I'm not rich, there's no doubt about it

And Parasha has no name,

Well? what do we care

Is it only for the rich

Is it possible to marry? I will arrange

Yourself a humble corner

And I will calm Parasha in it.

Bed, two chairs; cabbage soup pot

Yes, he is big; what more do I need?

We will not whims, we know

Sundays in the summer in the field

I will walk with Parasha;

I will ask for a place; parashe

I will entrust our economy

And raising kids...

And we will live - and so on to the grave

Hand in hand we will both reach,

And our grandchildren will bury us…”

After the verse "And the drowning people at home":

So sleep is coming to the senator's window

And he sees - in a boat along the Sea

Floating military governor.

The senator froze: “My God!

Here, Vanyusha! become a little

Look: what do you see in the window?

I see, sir: the general is in the boat

Floats through the gate, past the booth.

"By God?" - Exactly, sir. - "Besides a joke?"

Yes, sir. - Senator rested

And asks for tea: “Thank God!

Well! The Count made me anxious,

I thought I was crazy."

Draft description of Eugene

He was a poor official

Rootless, round orphan,

Himself pale, pockmarked,

Without family, tribe, connections,

Without money, that is, without friends,

And yet, a citizen of the capital,

What kind of darkness do you meet,

Nothing different from you

Not in the face, not in the mind.

Like everyone else, he was not strict,

Like you, I thought a lot about money,

How you, saddened, smoked tobacco,

Like you, he wore a uniform coat.

Open a window to Europe- Algarotti somewhere said: "Petersbourg est la fenktre par laquelle la Russie regarde en Europe."

And the pale day is already coming ...- Mickiewicz described the day preceding the St. Petersburg flood with beautiful verses in one of his best poems - Oleszkiewicz. Too bad the description is not accurate. There was no snow - the Neva was not covered with ice. Our description is more accurate, although it does not contain bright colors Polish poet.

His generals set off- Count Miloradovich and Adjutant General Benkendorf.

Raised Russia on its hind legs- See the description of the monument in Mickiewicz. It is borrowed from Ruban - as Mickiewicz himself notes.

Foreword

The incident described in this story is based on truth. The details of the flood are borrowed from contemporary magazines. 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 looked into the distance. Wide before him
The river was rushing; poor boat
He strove for her alone.
Along the mossy, marshy shores
Blackened huts here and there,
Shelter of a wretched Chukhonian;
And the forest, unknown to the rays
In the mist of the hidden sun
Noisy all around.

And he thought:
From here we will threaten the Swede.
Here the city will be founded
To spite an arrogant neighbor.
Nature here is destined for us
Cut a window to Europe
Stand with a firm foot by the sea.
Here on their new waves
All flags will visit us,
And let's hang out in the open.

A hundred years have passed, and the young city,
Midnight countries beauty and wonder,
From the darkness of the forests, from the swamp blat
Ascended magnificently, proudly;
Where before the Finnish fisherman,
The sad stepson of nature,
Alone by the low shores
Thrown into unknown waters
Your old net, now there
Along busy shores
The slender masses crowd
Palaces and towers; ships
Crowd from all corners of the earth
They strive for rich marinas;
The Neva is dressed in granite;
Bridges hung over the waters;
Dark green gardens
The islands covered her
And in front of the younger capital
Faded old Moscow
As before a new queen
Porphyritic widow.

I love you, Peter's creation,
I love your strict, slender look,
Neva sovereign current,
Its coastal granite,
Your fences have a cast-iron pattern,
your thoughtful nights
Transparent dusk, moonless brilliance,
When I am in my room
I write, I read without a lamp,
And the sleeping masses are clear
Deserted streets, and light
Admiralty needle,
And, not letting the darkness of the night
To golden skies
One dawn to replace another
Hurries, giving the night half an hour.
I love your cruel winters
Still air and frost
Sledge running along the wide Neva,
Girlish faces brighter than roses
And shine, and noise, and the talk of balls,
And at the hour of the feast idle
The hiss of foamy glasses
And punch flame blue.
I love belligerent liveliness
Amusing Fields of Mars,
Infantry troops and horses
monotonous beauty,
In their harmoniously unsteady formation
Patchwork of these victorious banners,
The radiance of these copper caps,
Shot through and through in battle.
I love, military capital,
Your stronghold smoke and thunder,
When the midnight queen
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, smelling spring days, rejoices.

Show off, city of Petrov, and stop
Unshakable like Russia
May he make peace with you
And the defeated element;
Enmity and old captivity
Let Finnish waves forget
And vain malice will not be
Disturb Peter's eternal sleep!

It was a terrible time
She is a fresh memory...

PETERSBURG STORY

(1833)

FOREWORD

The incident described in this story is based on truth. The details of the flood are borrowed from contemporary magazines. The curious can cope with the news compiled V. N. Berkhom.

INTRODUCTION On the shore of the desert waves He stood, full of great thoughts, And looked into the distance. Before him the River rushed wide; the poor boat was striving for it alone. Along the mossy, swampy shores Black huts here and there, Shelter of a wretched Finn; And the forest, unknown to the rays In the mist of the hidden sun, Noisy all around. And he thought: From now on we will threaten the Swede, Here the city will be founded To the evil of the arrogant neighbor. By nature here we are destined To cut through a window in Europe (1), To stand with a firm foot by the sea. Here on their new waves All the flags will visit us And we will drink in the open. A hundred years have passed, and the young city, Beauty and wonder of midnight countries, From the darkness of the forests, from the swamp of blat, Ascended magnificently, proudly; Where before the Finnish fisherman, The sad stepson of nature, Alone at the low shores, Throwed into unknown waters His dilapidated net, now there, Along the busy shores, Slender masses crowd Palaces and towers; ships In crowds from all ends of the earth They strive for rich marinas; The Neva is dressed in granite; Bridges hung over the waters; Her islands were covered with dark green gardens, And old Moscow faded before the younger capital, Like a porphyry-bearing widow before the new queen. I love you, Peter's creation, I love your strict, slender appearance, the Neva's sovereign current, its coastal granite, Your cast-iron fences, Your thoughtful nights Transparent dusk, moonless brilliance, When I write in my room, I read without a lamp, And the sleeping masses are clear Deserted streets, and the Admiralty needle is bright, And not letting the darkness of the night into the golden skies, One dawn to change another Hurries, giving the night half an hour (2). I love your cruel winters Still air and frost, Sledge running along the wide Neva; Girls' faces are brighter than roses, And the brilliance and noise and talk of balls, And at the hour of the idle feast The hiss of frothy glasses And the blue flame of punch. I love the militant liveliness of Amusing Fields of Mars, Infantry troops and horses Monotonous beauty, In their harmoniously unsteady formation Patchwork of these victorious banners, The radiance of these copper caps, On through those shot through in battle. I love, military capital, Smoke and thunder of your stronghold, When the full-night queen Grants a son to the royal house, Or Russia triumphs over the enemy again, Or, having broken its blue ice, the Neva carries it to the seas, And, smelling spring days, rejoices. Show off, city of Petrov, and stand as unshakable as Russia, May the conquered element make peace with you; Let the waves of Finland forget their enmity and captivity And vain malice will not Disturb Peter's eternal sleep! It was a terrible time, The memory of her is fresh ... About her, my friends, for you I will begin my story. My story is sad. PART ONE Above 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 Eugene came home from among the guests .... We will call our hero by this name. It sounds nice; with him for a long time My pen is also friendly. We don't need his nickname, Although in the past 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; serves somewhere, shy of the nobles and does not grieve either about the deceased relatives, or about the forgotten antiquity. So, coming home, Eugene shook off his overcoat, undressed, lay down. But for a long time he could not fall asleep In the excitement of various reflections. What was he thinking about? about the fact that he was poor, that by labor he had to deliver to himself both independence and honor; That God could add to him Mind and money. Why are there such idle lucky ones, Mindless sloths, For whom life is much easier! That he serves only two years; He also thought that the weather did not let up; that the river kept coming; that the bridges had hardly been removed from the Neva And that he would be separated from Parasha for two or three days. Eugene then sighed heartily And dreamed like a poet: Marry? Well .... why not? It is hard, of course, But well, he is young and healthy, Ready to work day and night; He somehow arranges for himself a humble and simple shelter And in it Parasha will calm down. "Perhaps another year will pass - I'll get a place - I'll entrust our household to Parasha And the upbringing of the children ... And we will begin to live - and so on to the grave, Hand in hand we will both reach, And our grandchildren will bury us ..." So he dreamed. And he was sad that night, and he wished that the wind howled not so sadly And that the rain knocked on the window Not so angrily... He finally closed his sleepy eyes. And now the fog of a rainy night is thinning And the pale day is already coming ... (3) Terrible day! All night the Neva Rushed 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 shores, Admiring the splashes, mountains And the foam of furious waters. But by the force of the winds from the bay, the Barred Neva Went back, angry, turbulent, And flooded the islands. The weather became more and more ferocious, the Neva swelled and roared, bubbling and swirling like a cauldron, And suddenly, like a wild animal, rushed at the city. Everything ran before her; all around was suddenly empty - the waters suddenly flowed into the underground cellars, canals gushed to the gratings, and Petropolis surfaced like a triton, immersed in water up to the waist. Siege! attack! evil waves, Like thieves, climb through the windows. Boats With a running start, glass beats stern. Trays under a wet shroud, Fragments of huts, logs, roofs, Goods of thrifty trade, Belongings of pale poverty, Bridges demolished by a thunderstorm, Coffins from a washed-out cemetery Float through the streets! The people sees God's wrath and awaits execution. Alas! everything perishes: shelter and food! Where will take? In that formidable year The late tsar ruled Russia still with glory. On the balcony Sad, embarrassed, he went out And said: "With God's elements, the Kings can not co-own." He sat down And in thought with mournful eyes He looked at the evil disaster. Stognas stood like lakes And the streets poured into them in wide rivers. The palace seemed like a sad island. The king said - from end to end, Along the near and far streets On a dangerous path amid stormy waters His generals set off (4) To save the people, overwhelmed by fear, And drowning at home. Then, on Petrova Square, Where a new house rose up in the corner, Where, above an elevated porch With a raised paw, as if alive, Two sentinel lions stand, On a marble top beast, Without a hat, his hands clenched in a cross, Yevgeny sat motionless, terribly pale. He was afraid, poor man, Not for himself. He did not hear How the greedy wave rose, Washing his soles, How the rain lashed his face, How the wind, violently howling, Suddenly tore off his hat. His desperate glances At the edge of one pointed They were motionless. Like mountains, From the indignant depths Waves rose there and got angry, There a storm howled, fragments swept there ... God, God! there, alas! close to the waves, Almost at the very gulf - An unpainted fence, and a willow And a dilapidated house: there they are, The widow and daughter, his Parasha, His dream .... Or does He see it in a dream? or is our whole life And life nothing, like an empty dream, A mockery of heaven over the earth? And he, as if bewitched, As if chained to marble, Can't get off! Around him is water and nothing else! And his back is turned to him In an unshakable height, Above the indignant Neva Stands with outstretched hand Kumir on a bronze horse. PART TWO. But now, satiated with destruction And tiring with insolent violence, the Neva pulled back, Admiring its indignation And neglectingly leaving its prey. So the villain, With his ferocious gang, Bursts into the village, breaks, cuts, Crushes and robs; cries, gnashing, Violence, abuse, alarm, howl!.... And burdened with robbery, Fearing chase, tired, Robbers rush home, Dropping prey on the way. The water subsided, and the pavement Opened, and my Eugene Hurries, fading in soul, In hope, fear and longing To the barely resigned river. But the triumph of victory was full of victory. The waves were still seething viciously, As if a fire smoldered under them, They were still covered with foam, And the Neva was breathing heavily, Like a horse running from a battle. Eugene looks: he sees a boat; He runs to her as if to a find; He calls the carrier - And the carefree carrier He willingly carries him for a dime Through 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 daring swimmers The boat was ready - and finally He reached the shore. Unfortunate Familiar street runs In familiar places. Looks, can't find out. The view is terrible! Everything in front of him is littered; What is dropped, what is demolished; The houses were crooked, others completely collapsed, others were shifted by the waves; around, As if in a battlefield, Bodies are lying around. Yevgeny Stremglav, not remembering anything, Exhausted from torment, Runs to where Fate awaits him with unknown news, As with a sealed letter. And now he is running along the suburbs, And here is the bay, and the house is close.... What is it?... He stopped. Went back and turned back. Looks... goes... still looks. Here is the place where their house stands; Here is the willow. There were gates here - they were demolished, you can see. Where is home? And full of gloomy care Everything walks, he walks around, He talks loudly to himself - And suddenly, striking his forehead with his hand, He burst out laughing. The darkness of the night descended on the trembling city, But for a long time the inhabitants did not sleep, And they talked among themselves About the past day. A ray of morning Because of the tired, pale clouds Flashed over the quiet capital And did not find any traces of yesterday's Trouble; the purple was already covered with evil. Everything was in order. Already through the streets free With their cold insensibility The people walked. The bureaucratic people, Leaving their nocturnal shelter, Went to work. The brave trader, not desponding, opened the Neva robbed basement, Gathering his important loss On the neighbor to vent. Boats were brought from the yards. Count Khvostov, Poet, beloved by heaven, Already sang with immortal verses The misfortune of the Neva banks. But my poor, poor Eugene... Alas! his troubled mind Against terrible shocks Could not resist. The rebellious noise of the Neva and the winds resounded in his ears. Terrible thoughts Silently full, he wandered. Some kind of dream tormented him. A week passed, a month - he did not return to his home. His deserted corner He rented out, as the term expired, The owner of the poor poet. Eugene did not come for his goods. He soon became a stranger to the world. All day I wandered on foot, And slept on the pier; ate a piece served in the window. His shabby clothes were torn and smoldering. Evil children Threw stones after him. Often the coachman's lashes whipped him, because he never made out the road; it seemed he didn't notice. He was deafened Was the noise of inner anxiety. And so he eked out his unfortunate age, neither beast nor man, Neither this nor that, nor the inhabitant of the world Nor the ghost of the dead ... Since he was sleeping At the Neva pier. The days of summer are leaning towards autumn. A stormy wind was breathing. A gloomy wave Splashed on the pier, murmuring songs And beating on the smooth steps, Like a petitioner at the door of the judges who did not heed. The poor man woke up. It was gloomy: The rain was dripping, the wind howled dejectedly, And with him far away, in the darkness of the night, The sentry called to one another .... Yevgeny jumped up; He remembered vividly the past horror; hastily he got up; Went to wander, and suddenly Stopped - and around Quietly began to move his eyes With wild fear on his face. He found himself under the pillars of the Big House. On the porch With raised paws, as if alive, Guard lions stood, And right in the dark heights Above the fenced rock An idol with an outstretched hand Sat on a bronze horse. Eugene shuddered. Frightening thoughts cleared up in him. He recognized And the place where the flood played, Where the predatory waves crowded, Rebelling viciously around him, And the lions, and the square, and the one Who stood motionless In the darkness with a copper head, The one whose fateful will Under the sea the city was founded .... Terrible he is in the darkness! What a thought! What power is hidden in it! And what a fire in this horse! Where are you galloping, proud horse, And where will you lower your hooves? O mighty lord of fate! Aren't you above the very abyss At the height, with an iron bridle raised Russia on its hind legs? (5) Around the foot of the idol The poor madman went around And gazed wildly On the face of the ruler of the semi-world. His chest was shy. The forehead lay down on the cold grate, The eyes were covered with mist, The flame ran through the heart, The blood boiled. He became gloomy Before the proud idol And, clenching his teeth, squeezing his fingers, As if possessed by black power, "Good, miraculous builder!" It seemed to Him that the formidable king, Instantly burning with anger, His face turned quietly .... And he runs across the empty square and hears behind him - As if thunder rumble - Heavy-voiced galloping On the shaken pavement. And, illumined by the pale moon, Stretching out his hand in the sky, Behind him rushes the Bronze Rider On a galloping horse; And all night the poor madman. Wherever he turned his feet, Behind him everywhere the Bronze Horseman With a heavy stomp galloped. And from that time, when it happened to him to walk that square, Confusion was depicted in his face. He hurriedly pressed his hand to his heart, As if pacifying his torment, He removed the worn-out cap, He did not raise his embarrassed eyes And walked aside. Small island Visible on the seashore. Sometimes A belated fisherman will moor there with a net And cook his poor dinner, Or an official will visit, Walking in a boat on Sunday, A deserted island. Not grown up There is not a blade of grass. The flood There, playing, brought the House to a dilapidated one. Above the water He remained like a black bush. His last spring They brought him on a barge. It was empty and all destroyed. At the threshold They found my madman, And immediately his cold corpse Was buried for God's sake. NOTES

(1) Algarotti somewhere said: "Pétersbourg est la fenêtre par laquelle la Russie regarde en Europe".

(2) See the verses of the book. Vyazemsky to Countess Z***.

(3) Mickiewicz described the day preceding the Petersburg flood in beautiful verse, in one of his best poems, Oleszkiewicz. Too bad the description is not accurate. There was no snow - the Neva was not covered with ice. Our description is more accurate, although it does not contain the bright colors of the Polish poet.

(4) Count Miloradovich and Adjutant General Benkendorf.

(5) See the description of the monument in Mickiewicz. It is borrowed from Ruban, as Mickiewicz himself remarks.