Rain dripped wind howled. The Bronze Horseman (poem; Pushkin) - On the shore of desert waves ...

PUBLISHING HOUSE "NAUKA"

Leningrad branch

Leningrad 1978

THE PUBLICATION IS PREPARED BY N. V. IZMAILOV

A. S. Pushkin. Bust by I. P. Vitali. 1837 Marble.

From the editorial board

The publications of the Literary Monuments series are addressed to that Soviet reader who is not only interested in literary works as such, regardless of their authors, era, circumstances of their creation, etc., but for whom the personality of the authors is also not indifferent, creative process creation of works, their role in historical and literary development, the subsequent fate of monuments, etc.

The increased cultural demands of the Soviet reader encourage him to study more deeply the concept of works, the history of their creation, and the historical and literary environment.

Each literary monument deeply individual in its connections with readers. In the monuments, whose significance lies primarily in the fact that they are typical for their time and for their literature, readers are interested in their connections with history, with cultural life countries, with life. Created by geniuses, monuments are primarily important for readers for their connections with the personality of the author. In the monuments, translated readers will be occupied (among other things) with their history on Russian soil, their impact on Russian literature, and participation in the Russian historical and literary process. Each monument requires its own approach to the problems of its publication, commenting, literary explanation.

Such a special approach is required, of course, when publishing the works of the genius of Russian poetry - A. S. Pushkin, and above all such a central monument for his work as The Bronze Horseman.

In Pushkin's works, we are interested in their entire creative history, the fate of every line, every word, every punctuation mark, if it has at least some relation to the meaning of this or that passage. “Following the thoughts of a great man is the most entertaining science” - these words of Pushkin from the beginning of the third chapter of “Arap Peter the Great” should be perceived by us primarily in relation to the one who wrote them, thinking not about himself, but about the world of geniuses surrounding him.

"Petersburg Tale" "The Bronze Horseman" is one of the most beloved works of every Soviet person, and the idea of ​​\u200b\u200bthis poem and the ideas hidden in it disturb not only researchers, but also general reader. "The Bronze Horseman" is a poem that goes in line with the central themes of Pushkin's work. Its idea has a long prehistory, and the subsequent fate of the poem in Russian literature - in the "Petersburg theme" of Gogol, Dostoevsky, Bely, Annensky, Blok, Akhmatova and many other writers - is completely exceptional in its historical and literary significance.

All this obliges us to treat the publication of The Bronze Horseman with exceptional care, not to miss any of the smallest nuances in the history of its concept, its drafts, editions, to restore the poem in its creative movement, to display it in the publication not as a fixed literary fact, but as a process genius creative thought of Pushkin.

Such is the purpose of the edition which is now offered to the demanding attention of the readers of our series. It is this purpose that explains the nature of the article and annexes, the inclusion of a section of options and discrepancies.

Bronze Horseman

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 cope with the news compiled V. N. Berkhom.

Introduction

The beginning of the first white manuscript of the poem "The Bronze Horseman" - Boldin's autograph (manuscript PD 964).

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

10 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

20 And we will lock ourselves in open space.

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

30 By 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

40 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,

50 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

I love your cruel winter

60 Still air and frost,

Sledge running along the wide Neva,

Girlish faces brighter than roses

And the glitter and the noise and the talk of the 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

70 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

80 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

90 And they will not be vain malice

Disturb Peter's eternal sleep!

Was 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

100 To the edges of your slender fence,

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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

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

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 winter

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

Young Eugene came ...

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 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;

He somehow arrange himself

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 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 is thinning rainy night

And the pale day is 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.

Terrible day!

Neva all night

Rushed to the sea against the storm,

Not having overcome 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

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

His generals set off Count Miloradovich and Adjutant General Benkendorf.

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

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 dream empty,

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

Stormy 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

The city was founded under the sea...

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? See the 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 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 to that area 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.

1833

From earlier editions

From the manuscripts of the poem

After the verses “And what will he be 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 people drowning 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.

"BRONZE HORSEMAN"

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, (1)
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, Petra 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. (2)
I love your cruel winter
Still air and frost,
Sledge running along the wide Neva;
Girlish faces brighter than roses
And the glitter and the noise and the talk of the balls,
And at the hour of the feast idle
The hiss of foamy glasses
And punch flame blue.
I love belligerence
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 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...
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 his nickname
Although in the past
It may have shone
And under the pen of Karamzin
It sounded in native legends;
But now with light and rumor
It is forgotten. Our hero
Lives in Kolomna; serves somewhere
It shy of the noble and does not grieve
Not about the deceased relatives,
Not about 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 was coming; 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's 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 another year 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
And the pale day is coming... (3)
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!
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
Tsars cannot co-own." 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
His generals set off (4)
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
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 turned his back on 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 this?...
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
I 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 the service. Trader brave
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 gave it for hire, 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
The city was founded under the sea....
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? (5)

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 to 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.

« Bronze Horseman» Pushkin is a rather short poem, consisting of only 500 verses written in iambic tetrameter. However, such was the talent of the creator (who, by the way, called it “Petersburg Tale”, putting it in the subtitle) that his work contained everything he wanted to say, turning out to be both a majestic monument to the Petrine period and a realistic depiction of modernity. In order to achieve the ideal content and form corresponding to it, Pushkin constantly rewrote each verse several times, sometimes even more than ten. At the center of the narrative part of the poem "The Bronze Horseman", which can be read in full online or downloaded from our website, is real event- a terrible St. Petersburg flood, which in fact was only one of many troubles. The author shows a retrospective, what the decision of the great king led to is small sacrifices. The mythological and realistic plans of the poem intersect, closely interact, intertwine to eventually create a compositional unity in which there is a place for Peter's reflections, and the love of a little man, and the description of the “city of Petrov”.

The Boldin exile became one of the most fruitful periods in creative life Pushkin Alexander Sergeevich. The Russian poet then wrote many works that have become classics of Russian literature. This period ended with the creation of the poem "The Bronze Horseman", which was written in less than a month. In it, the poet, who has always been interested in the history of the Fatherland, and especially the personality of Peter 1, simultaneously reflects on the epoch-making influence of this tsar on the development of Russia. This is by no means a historical poem in the classical sense, since the king is not here actor, at least not in the usual sense, he is an "idol", a monument and a myth.

The text of The Bronze Horseman should be read very carefully, since Pushkin laid in it another important idea about the relationship between man and power, and the relationship is tragic, based on contradictions. Pushkin touches on two important issues that relate to social contradictions and the future of the country. The poet shows the reader the past, present and future events in Russia as one whole, as an inseparable important story. This topic has always interested the poet, but in this interpretation it is presented for the first time, subsequently reflected in a number of his poems. The book about little man and the great city, about small troubles and great deeds, became one of the first works dedicated to a small drama or internal conflict a hero, but the life of an inhabitant, in which there are also many tragedies, they are just as invisible as he himself.

The beginning of the first white manuscript of the poem "The Bronze Horseman" - Boldin's autograph (manuscript PD 964).

Bronze Horseman

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 cope with the news compiled V. N. Berkhom.

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
5 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
10 In the mist of the hidden sun
Noisy all around.

From here we would threaten And he thought:
From here we will threaten the Swede,
Here the city will be founded
To the evil of an arrogant neighbor.
15 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,
20 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;
25 Where before the Finnish fisherman,
The sad stepson of nature,
Alone by the low shores
Thrown into unknown waters
Your old seine, now there
30 On busy shores
The slender masses crowd
Palaces and towers; ships
Crowd from all corners of the earth
They strive for rich marinas;
35 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
40 Faded old Moscow
As before a new queen
Porphyritic widow.

‎ I love you, Petra creation,
I love your strict, slender look,
45 Neva sovereign current,
Its coastal granite,
Your fences have a cast-iron pattern,
your thoughtful nights
Transparent dusk, moonless brilliance,
50 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,
55 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 winter
60 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
65 The hiss of foamy glasses
And punch flame blue.
I love belligerence
Amusing Fields of Mars,
Infantry troops and horses
70 monotonous beauty,
In their harmoniously unsteady formation
Patchwork of these victorious banners,
The radiance of these copper caps,
On through those shot in battle.
75 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
80 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
85 Unshakable as Russia,
May he make peace with you
And the defeated element;
Enmity and old captivity
Let Finnish waves forget
90 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
95 I'll start my story.
My story is sad.

Part one

‎ Above the darkened Petrograd
November breathed autumn chill.
Rushing in a noisy wave
100 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,
105 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
110 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.
120 And under the pen of Karamzin
It sounded in native legends;
But now with light and rumor
It is forgotten. Our hero
Lives in Kolomna; serves somewhere
125 shy of the noble and does not grieve
Not about the deceased relatives,
Not about forgotten antiquity.

‎ So, having come home, Eugene
He shook off his overcoat, undressed, lay down.
130 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
135 And independence and honor;
What could God add to him
Mind and money. What is there
Such idle happy ones
Mindless, sloths,
140 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
145 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:

150 ‎ “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
155 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
160 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
165 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...
Not so angry... Sleepy eyes
It finally closed. And so
170 The haze of a rainy night is thinning
And the pale day is already coming ...
Terrible day!
Terrible day! Neva all night
Rushed to the sea against the storm,
Without defeating their violent dope ...
175 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.
180 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
185 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
190 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.

195 ‎ 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,
200 thrifty commodity,
Relics of pale poverty,
Bridges torn down by thunder
A coffin from a blurry cemetery
Float through the streets!
Float through the streets! People
205 He sees God's wrath and awaits execution.
Alas! everything perishes: shelter and food!
Where will take?
Where will take? In that terrible year
The late tsar is still Russia
With glory rules. To the balcony
210 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.
215 Stogs 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,
220 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.

225 ‎ 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
230 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
235 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.
240 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,
245 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
250 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,
255 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!
260 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

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

‎ The water has sold, and the pavement
280 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,
285 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.
290 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
295 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
300 The boat was ready - and finally
He reached the shore.
He reached the shore. Unhappy
Familiar street runs
To familiar places. looks,
Can't find out. The view is terrible!
305 Everything in front of him is littered;
What is dropped, what is demolished;
Crooked houses, others
Completely collapsed, others
Moved by the waves; around,
310 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
315 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?..
What is it?.. He stopped.
320 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?
325 And, full of gloomy care,
Everything walks, he walks around,
Talking loudly to himself -
And suddenly, striking his forehead with his hand,
Laughed.
Laughed. Night haze
330 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.
About the past day. Morning beam
Because of the tired, pale clouds
335 Flashed over the quiet capital
And found no trace
Yesterday's troubles; scarlet
The evil was already covered up.
Everything was in order.
340 Already through the streets free
With your insensibility cold
People walked. official people,
Leaving your nocturnal shelter
Went to service. brave trader,
345 Reluctantly, I opened
New robbed basement
Gonna take your loss important
On the near vent. From yards
They brought boats.
They brought boats. Count Khvostov,
350 Poet, beloved by heaven,
Already sang immortal verses
The misfortune of the Neva banks.

‎ But my poor, poor Eugene...
Alas! his confused mind
355 Against terrible shocks
Didn't resist. Rebellious Noise
Neva and winds resounded
In his ears. Terrible thoughts
Silently full, he wandered.
360 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,
365 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
370 In the window filed piece.
His clothes are shabby
It tore and smoldered. Evil children
They threw stones at him.
Often coachman's whips
375 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.
380 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...
Not a dead ghost... Once he slept
At the Neva pier. Days of summer
385 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
390 He has no heeding 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...
395 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
400 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,
405 And right in the dark sky
Above the fenced rock
Idol with outstretched hand
He sat on a bronze horse.

Eugene shuddered. cleared up
410 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,
415 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!
420 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?
425 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
430 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,
435 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,
440 As if possessed by black power,
“Good, miraculous builder! -
He whispered, trembling angrily,
Already you! .. ”And suddenly headlong
Started running. It seemed
445 Him, that formidable king,
Instantly ignited with anger,
The face turned slowly...
And he's empty
Runs and hears behind him -
450 As if thunder rumbles -
Heavy-voiced galloping
On the shaken pavement.
And, illuminated by the pale moon,
Stretch your hand up high
455 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
460 Jumped with a heavy thud.

‎ And from the time when it happened
Go that square to him
His face showed
Confusion. To your heart
465 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.

And walked to the side. small island
470 Visible at the seaside. Sometimes
Mooring with a net there
A belated fisherman
And he cooks his poor supper,
Or an official will visit,
475 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
480 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
485 And then his cold corpse
Buried for God's sake.