A stormy wind was breathing. Analysis of Pushkin's poem "The Bronze Horseman"

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 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,

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

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.

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 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!

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

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 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 excitement 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 is thinning rainy night

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

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 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 brazen riot tired,

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 my Eugene

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 through 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 the house?

And, full of gloomy care,

Everyone walks, he walks around,

Talking loudly to himself -

And suddenly, hitting 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 listen to 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 destiny!

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 the most profound, daring and artistically perfect works of Pushkin. 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 beauty and wonder of midnight countries." 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 rose, // Washing his soles, he "daringly" swims along the "barely resigned" Neva to find out about the fate of his bride. Despite poverty, Yevgeny 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.

tragic fate Eugene 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. Ends " Bronze Horseman"stingy, restrained, deliberately prosaic message about the death of Eugene:

… 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 entire 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

Your own 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.

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
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 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.
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 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 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 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
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
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
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
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 brazen riot tired,
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 my Eugene
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 through 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 the house?
And, full of gloomy care,
Everyone walks, he walks around,
Talking loudly to himself -
And suddenly, hitting 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 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 listen to 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 destiny!
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,
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 the most profound, daring and artistically perfect works of Pushkin. 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 the symbolic image of a 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 poems, his creation “the city of Petrov”, the new capital built at the mouth of the Neva, “under the sea”, on “mossy, swampy banks”, for military-strategic reasons, economic and to establish a cultural connection with Europe. The poet, without any reservations, praises the great state work of Peter, the beautiful city he created - "the beauty and wonder of full-night countries." But these state considerations of Peter turn out to be the cause of the death of an 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 rose, // Washing his soles, he "daringly" swims along the "barely resigned" Neva to find out about the fate of his bride. Despite poverty, Yevgeny 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 force and poetry. And in the scene of the collision of the insane Yevgeny 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 take into account the interests of an individual person in his state “great thoughts” and affairs, and the full recognition of the correctness of a small person who demands 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 most acute in the process of 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, separate images scattered before the reader in the introduction, which form an integral 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. A special character is given to the poem by the use of techniques of almost musical structure of 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”), carrying through the entire poem in different changes of one and the same thematic motif - rain and wind, the 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
Your own 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":

From sleep, the senator goes to the 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. The 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.

"The Bronze Horseman" by Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin (1799 - 1837) is a poem or a poetic story. In it, the poet combines philosophical, social and historical issues. "The Bronze Horseman" is, at the same time, an ode to the great Petersburg and its creator Peter I, and an attempt to determine the place common man in history, and reflections on the hierarchy of the world order.

History of creation

The Bronze Horseman, written like Eugene Onegin in iambic tetrameter, was Pushkin's last poem. Its creation dates back to 1833 and the poet's stay at the Boldino estate.

The poem was read by the chief censor Russian Empire Nicholas I and banned by him for publication. Nevertheless, in 1834, Pushkin published almost the entire poem in the Library for Reading, leaving out only the verses crossed out by the Emperor. The publication took place under the title “Petersburg. An excerpt from a poem.

AT original form The Bronze Horseman was published in 1904.

Description of the work

The introduction draws a majestic image of Peter I, who created a beautiful new city on the banks of the Neva - the pride of the Russian Empire. Pushkin calls him the best city world and sings of the greatness of St. Petersburg and its creator.

Eugene, an ordinary resident of St. Petersburg, a petty clerk. He is in love with the girl Parasha and is going to marry her. Parasha lives in wooden house on the outskirts of the city. When the historic flood of 1824 begins, their house is washed away first and the girl dies. The image of the flood was given by Pushkin with an eye to the historical evidence of the magazines of that time. The whole city is washed away, many dead. And only the monument to Peter proudly towers over St. Petersburg.

Eugene is crushed by what happened. In a terrible flood, he blames Peter, who built the city in such an inappropriate place. Having lost his mind, the young man rushes around the city until dawn, trying to escape from the persecution of the bronze horseman. In the morning he finds himself at the ruined house of his bride and dies there.

main characters

Evgeniy

The main character of the poem, Eugene, is not described by Pushkin with detailed accuracy. The poet writes about him "a citizen of the capital, what kind of darkness you meet", emphasizing by this that his hero belongs to the type of a small person. Pushkin only stipulates that Eugene lives in Kolomna and traces his history from a once famous noble family, which by now has lost its greatness and fortune.

Pushkin pays much more attention to inner world and aspirations of his hero. Eugene is hardworking and dreams of providing himself and his bride Parasha with his work decent life for many years.

The death of his beloved becomes an insurmountable test for Eugene and he loses his mind. Description of Pushkin insane young man full of pity and compassion. Despite the humiliation of the image, the poet shows human compassion for his hero and sees in his simple desires and their collapse a real tragedy.

The Bronze Horseman (monument to Peter I)

The second hero of the poem can be called the Bronze Horseman. The attitude towards Peter I as a personality of a world scale, a genius slips throughout the entire poem. In the introduction, Pushkin does not mention the name of the founder of St. Petersburg, calling Peter "he". Pushkin gives Peter the power to command the elements and fetter them with his own sovereign will. Transferring the action to a century ahead, Pushkin replaces the image of the Creator with the image of a copper statue, which "raised Russia with an iron bridle." In the author's attitude to Peter I, two points are observed: admiration for the will, courage, perseverance of the first Russian Emperor, as well as horror and impotence in front of this superman. Pushkin poses an important question here: how to define the mission of Peter I - the savior or the tyrant of Russia?

The work also contains another historical person- "the late emperor", that is, Alexander I. In his image, the author seeks to bring his poem closer to documentary.

Analysis of the work

The Bronze Horseman, despite its small scale (about 500 verses), combines several narrative plans at once. History and modernity, reality and fiction, details of private life and documentary chronicles meet here.

The poem cannot be called historical. The image of Peter I is far from the image of a historical figure. Moreover, Pushkin sees in the Petrine era not so much the time of Peter's reign as its continuation into the future and the results in the modern world for him. The poet views the first Russian emperor through the prism of the recent flood of November 1824.

The flood and the events described in its connection form the main plan of the narrative, which can be called historical. It is based on documentary materials that Pushkin discusses in the Preface to the poem. The flood itself becomes the main plot of the conflict in the poem.

The conflict itself can be divided into two planes. The first of them is actual - this is the death of the protagonist's bride in the house demolished by water, as a result of which he goes crazy. More broadly, the conflict involves two sides, such as the city and the elements. In the introduction, Peter fetters the elements with his will, building the city of Petersburg in the swamps. In the main part of the poem, the element breaks out and sweeps away the city.

In a historical context, there fictional story, the center of which is a simple St. Petersburg resident Eugene. The rest of the inhabitants of the city are indistinguishable: they walk the streets, drown in the flood, indifferent to the suffering of Eugene in the second part of the poem. The description of the inhabitants of St. Petersburg and the ordinary course of his life, as well as the description of the flood, is very detailed and figurative. Here Pushkin demonstrates the true mastery of his poetic style and command of the language.

The events around Yevgeny are described by Pushkin with a documentary area. The poet accurately mentions where the hero is at various moments of the action: Senate Square, Petrov Square, the outskirts of St. Petersburg. Such accuracy in relation to the details of the urban landscape allows us to call Pushkin's work one of the first urban poems in Russian literature.

There is another important plan in the work, which can be called mythological. In its center dominates the statue of Peter, which Eugene curses for the flood that has occurred and which is chasing the hero through the streets of the city. AT last episode the city moves from real space to conditional space, goes beyond reality.

An interesting thought slips through the poem at the moment the “late emperor” appears on the balcony, who is unable to cope with the elements that are destroying the city. Pushkin here reflects on the sphere of power of monarchs and those environments that are not subject to it.

The poem "The Bronze Horseman" by A.S. Pushkin presents a special dedication of the poet to Petersburg. Against the backdrop of the city, its history and modernity, the main events of the real part of the poem unfold, which are intertwined with the mythological scenes of the creation of the city and the image of the Bronze Horseman.

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 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? 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 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,
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, everything 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 with his back turned to him,
In the unshakable height
Over the perturbed Neva
Standing with outstretched hand
Idol on a bronze horse.