Alexey Konstantinovich Tolstoy against the current analysis. Chapter Nine "Against the Current

Your Majesty, I thought for a long time about how I should present to you a matter that deeply affects me, and I came to the conclusion that the direct path here, as in all other circumstances, is the best. Sovereign, service, whatever it is, deeply repugnant to my nature; I know that everyone should, to the best of their ability, benefit the fatherland, but there is different ways benefit. The path that Providence has shown me for this is mine. literary talent and any other way is impossible for me. I will always be a bad military man and a bad official, but it seems to me that without falling into self-conceit, I can say that I good writer. This is not a new calling for me; I would have given myself to him long ago if for a certain time (up to forty years) I had not raped myself out of a sense of duty, taking into account my relatives, who had other views on this. So, at first I was in the civil service, then, when the war broke out, I, like everyone else, became a military man. After the end of the war, I was already ready to leave the service in order to devote myself entirely to literature, when Your Majesty was pleased to inform me through my uncle Perovsky about your intention that I should be with you. I expressed my doubts and hesitations to my uncle in the letter he introduced you to, but since he once again confirmed to me the decision taken by Your Majesty, I obeyed him and became Your Majesty's aide-de-camp. I thought then that I would be able to conquer the nature of the artist in myself, but experience showed that I struggled with it in vain. Service and art are incompatible, one harms the other, and a choice must be made. Greater praise would, of course, be given to direct active participation in public affairs, but I have no vocation for this, while another vocation has been given to me. Your majesty, my position embarrasses me: I wear a uniform, and I cannot properly perform the duties associated with this.

Your Majesty's noble heart will pardon me if I beg to be dismissed permanently, not in order to move away from you, but to follow a clearly defined path and no longer be a bird parading in other people's feathers. As for you, sir, whom I will never cease to love and respect, then I have a means to serve your person, and I am happy that I can offer you: this means - tell the truth no matter what, and this is the only position possible for me and, fortunately, does not require a uniform. I would not be worthy of her, sir, if in my present petition I resorted to any omissions or looked for imaginary pretexts.

I have completely opened my heart to you and will always be ready to open it to you, for I prefer to provoke your displeasure than to lose your respect. If, however, Your Majesty would like to grant the right to approach Your Majesty's person only to persons invested with an official rank, let me, as before the war, modestly become a chamber junker, for my only ambitious desire, sir, is to remain Your Majesty's most loyal and devoted subjects.

AGAINST THE STREAM

1

Others, do you hear a deafening cry:
“Surrender, singers and artists! By the way
Are your inventions positive in our age?
How many of you remain, dreamers?

Surrender to the onslaught of the new time
The world has sobered up, hobbies have passed -
Where can you resist, obsolete tribe,
Against the stream?"

2

Others, do not believe! All the same one
The unknown force beckons us,
The same nightingale's song captivates us,
The stars of heaven make us glad!

The truth is the same! In the midst of the stormy darkness
Believe in the wonderful star of inspiration,
Row together, in the name of the beautiful,
Against the stream!

3

Remember: in the days of Byzantium relaxed,
In fits of rage against God's mansions,
Boldly cursing the looted shrine,
The icon fighters also shouted:

“Who will resist our multitude?
We surrounded the world with the power of thinking -
Where is the vanquished to argue art
Against the stream?"

4

In those days, after the execution of the Savior,
In the days when the apostles were inspired,
Went to preach the word of the teacher,
The arrogant scribes thus spoke:

"Crucify the rebel! There is no use in ridiculed
To all the hateful, insane doctrine!
Do the poor go to the Galileans
Against the stream!"

5

Others, row! In vain detractors
They think to offend us with their pride -
On the shore soon we, the winners of the waves,
Let's go solemnly with our shrine!

The infinite will take over the finite
Faith in our sacred meaning,
We will stir up a counter current
Against the stream!

* * *

These poor villages.
This poor nature!

F. Tyutchev

Giving very richly
Our land, the king of heaven
Be rich and strong
Ordered her everywhere.

But for the villages to fall,
So that the fields are empty -
We are blessed
The king of heaven gave hardly!

We are careless, we are lazy
Everything is falling out of our hands.
And besides, we are patient -
This is nothing to brag about!

February, 1869

I. A. GONCHAROV

Don't listen to the noise
Rumors, gossip and trouble,
Think your own mind
And go ahead!

You don't care about others
Let the wind carry them barking!
What is ripe in your soul -
Put on a clear image!

Black clouds hung -
Let them hang - the hell with two!
For your live only thoughts
The rest is tryn-grass!

On July 27, 1861, Tolstoy informed his wife from Peterhof that he wanted to write to Alexander II about his resignation to the Crimea, since "it is now impossible to speak." Alexander II left for the Crimea on August 6, 1861. The decree on the dismissal of Tolstoy is dated September 28. This determines the date of the letter.

Wed with an excerpt that has come down to us from another undated letter to Alexander II, written later: “Your Majesty, there are two types of devotion to your monarch: one is to always be of the same opinion with him and hide from him everything that could arouse displeasure in him, reducing in his mind the strength and significance of ideas that are in conflict with his system of control; such devotion, when it is not betrayal, might be called the devotion of a lackey or a short-sighted person. The other, the true form, of devotion is to show the monarch all things in their true light, to warn him, when necessary, of the danger as it is, and - in accordance with the conscience and to the best of everyone's understanding - to suggest the best way under the circumstances. actions. Such, sir, is my devotion to you. Without occupying any official position, without belonging to any party, I have the opportunity to hear all opinions, summarize them and draw conclusions from them that it would be important for Your Majesty to know ... "

Your Majesty, I thought for a long time about how I should present to you a matter that deeply affects me, and I came to the conclusion that the direct path here, as in all other circumstances, is the best. Sovereign, service, whatever it is, deeply repugnant to my nature; I know that everyone should, to the best of their ability, benefit the fatherland, but there are different ways to benefit. The path that Providence has shown me for this is mine. literary talent and any other way is impossible for me. I will always be a bad military man and a bad official, but it seems to me that without falling into self-conceit, I can say that I am a good writer. This is not a new calling for me; I would have given myself to him long ago if for a certain time (up to forty years) I had not raped myself out of a sense of duty, taking into account my relatives, who had other views on this. So, at first I was in the civil service, then, when the war broke out, I, like everyone else, became a military man. After the end of the war, I was already ready to leave the service in order to devote myself entirely to literature, when Your Majesty was pleased to inform me through my uncle Perovsky about your intention that I should be with you. I expressed my doubts and hesitations to my uncle in the letter he introduced you to, but since he once again confirmed to me the decision taken by Your Majesty, I obeyed him and became Your Majesty's aide-de-camp. I thought then that I would be able to conquer the nature of the artist in myself, but experience showed that I struggled with it in vain. Service and art are incompatible, one harms the other, and a choice must be made. Of course, direct active participation in state affairs would deserve more praise, but I have no vocation for this, while another vocation has been given to me. Your majesty, my position embarrasses me: I wear a uniform, and I cannot properly perform the duties associated with this.

AGAINST THE STREAM

Others, do you hear a deafening cry:

“Surrender, singers and artists! By the way

Are your inventions positive in our age?

How many of you remain, dreamers?

Surrender to the onslaught of the new time

The world has sobered up, hobbies have passed -

Where can you resist, obsolete tribe,

Against the stream?"

Others, do not believe! All the same one

The unknown force beckons us,

The same nightingale's song captivates us,

The stars of heaven make us glad!

The truth is the same! In the midst of the stormy darkness

Believe in the wonderful star of inspiration,

Row together, in the name of the beautiful,

Against the stream!

Remember: in the days of Byzantium relaxed,

In fits of rage against God's mansions,

Boldly cursing the looted shrine,

The icon fighters also shouted:

“Who will resist our multitude?

We surrounded the world with the power of thinking -

Where is the vanquished to argue art

Against the stream?"

In those days, after the execution of the Savior,

In the days when the apostles were inspired,

Went to preach the word of the teacher,

The arrogant scribes thus spoke:

"Crucify the rebel! There is no use in ridiculed

To all the hateful, insane doctrine!

Do the poor go to the Galileans

Against the stream!"

Others, row! In vain detractors

They think to offend us with their pride -

On the shore soon we, the winners of the waves,

Let's go solemnly with our shrine!

Alexey Konstantinovich Tolstoy

Against the Current (compilation)

A. K. Tolstoy - Alexander II

August or September 1861

Your Majesty, I thought for a long time about how I should present to you a matter that deeply affects me, and I came to the conclusion that the direct path here, as in all other circumstances, is the best. Sovereign, service, whatever it is, deeply repugnant to my nature; I know that everyone should, to the best of their ability, benefit the fatherland, but there are different ways to benefit. The path that Providence has shown me for this is mine. literary talent and any other way is impossible for me. I will always be a bad military man and a bad official, but it seems to me that without falling into self-conceit, I can say that I am a good writer. This is not a new calling for me; I would have given myself to him long ago if for a certain time (up to forty years) I had not raped myself out of a sense of duty, taking into account my relatives, who had other views on this. So, at first I was in the civil service, then, when the war broke out, I, like everyone else, became a military man. After the end of the war, I was already ready to leave the service in order to devote myself entirely to literature, when Your Majesty was pleased to inform me through my uncle Perovsky about your intention that I should be with you. I expressed my doubts and hesitations to my uncle in the letter he introduced you to, but since he once again confirmed to me the decision taken by Your Majesty, I obeyed him and became Your Majesty's aide-de-camp. I thought then that I would be able to conquer the nature of the artist in myself, but experience showed that I struggled with it in vain. Service and art are incompatible, one harms the other, and a choice must be made. Of course, direct active participation in state affairs would deserve more praise, but I have no vocation for this, while another vocation has been given to me. Your majesty, my position embarrasses me: I wear a uniform, and I cannot properly perform the duties associated with this.

Gr. A. Tolstoy

AGAINST THE CURRENT1

Others, do you hear a deafening cry:
“Surrender, singers and artists! By the way
Are your inventions positive in our age?
How many of you remain, dreamers?

Surrender to the onslaught of the new time
The world has sobered up, hobbies have passed -
Where can you resist, obsolete tribe,
Against the stream?"

Others, do not believe! All the same one
The unknown force beckons us,
The same nightingale's song captivates us,
The stars of heaven make us glad!

The truth is the same! In the midst of the stormy darkness
Believe in the wonderful star of inspiration,
Row together, in the name of the beautiful,
Against the stream!

Remember: in the days of Byzantium relaxed,
In fits of rage against God's mansions,
Boldly cursing the looted shrine,
The icon fighters also shouted:

“Who will resist our multitude?
We surrounded the world with the power of thinking -
Where is the vanquished to argue art
Against the stream?"

In those days, after the execution of the Savior,
In the days when the apostles were inspired,
Went to preach the word of the teacher,
The arrogant scribes thus spoke:

"Crucify the rebel! There is no use in ridiculed
To all the hateful, insane doctrine!
Do the poor go to the Galileans
Against the stream!"

Others, row! In vain detractors
They think to offend us with their pride -
On the shore soon we, the winners of the waves,
Let's go solemnly with our shrine!

The infinite will take over the finite
Faith in our sacred meaning,
We will stir up a counter current
Against the stream!

* * *

These poor villages.
This poor nature!

F. Tyutchev

Giving very richly
Our land, the king of heaven
Be rich and strong
Ordered her everywhere.

But for the villages to fall,
So that the fields are empty -
We are blessed
The king of heaven gave hardly!

We are careless, we are lazy
Everything is falling out of our hands.
And besides, we are patient -
This is nothing to brag about!

February, 1869

I. A. GONCHAROV

Don't listen to the noise
Rumors, gossip and trouble,
Think your own mind
And go ahead!

You don't care about others

End of introductory segment.

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Notes

L. A. Perovsky.

A. K. Tolstoy - Alexander II

August or September 1861

Your Majesty, I thought for a long time about how I should present to you a matter that deeply affects me, and I came to the conclusion that the direct path here, as in all other circumstances, is the best. Sovereign, service, whatever it is, deeply repugnant to my nature; I know that everyone should, to the best of their ability, benefit the fatherland, but there are different ways to benefit. The path that Providence has shown me for this is mine. literary talent and any other way is impossible for me. I will always be a bad military man and a bad official, but it seems to me that without falling into self-conceit, I can say that I am a good writer. This is not a new calling for me; I would have given myself to him long ago if for a certain time (up to forty years) I had not raped myself out of a sense of duty, taking into account my relatives, who had other views on this. So, at first I was in the civil service, then, when the war broke out, I, like everyone else, became a military man. After the end of the war, I was ready to leave the service in order to devote myself entirely to literature, when Your Majesty was pleased to inform me through my uncle Perovsky of your intention that I should be with you. I expressed my doubts and doubts to my uncle in a letter which he introduced you to, but since he once again confirmed to me the decision taken by Your Majesty, I submitted to him and became Your Majesty's aide-de-camp. I thought then that I would be able to conquer the nature of the artist in myself, but experience showed that I struggled with it in vain. Service and art are incompatible, one harms the other, and a choice must be made. Of course, direct active participation in state affairs would deserve more praise, but I have no vocation for this, while another vocation has been given to me. Your majesty, my position embarrasses me: I wear a uniform, and I cannot properly perform the duties associated with this.

AGAINST THE STREAM

1

Others, do you hear a deafening cry:
“Surrender, singers and artists! By the way
Are your inventions positive in our age?
How many of you remain, dreamers?

Surrender to the onslaught of the new time
The world has sobered up, hobbies have passed -
Where can you resist, obsolete tribe,
Against the stream?"

2

Others, do not believe! All the same one
The unknown force beckons us,
The same nightingale's song captivates us,
The stars of heaven make us glad!

The truth is the same! In the midst of the stormy darkness
Believe in the wonderful star of inspiration,
Row together, in the name of the beautiful,
Against the stream!

3

Remember: in the days of Byzantium relaxed,
In fits of rage against God's mansions,
Boldly cursing the looted shrine,
The icon fighters also shouted:

“Who will resist our multitude?
We surrounded the world with the power of thinking -
Where is the vanquished to argue art
Against the stream?"

4

In those days, after the execution of the Savior,
In the days when the apostles were inspired,
Went to preach the word of the teacher,
The arrogant scribes thus spoke:

"Crucify the rebel! There is no use in ridiculed
To all the hateful, insane doctrine!
Do the poor go to the Galileans
Against the stream!"

5

Others, row! In vain detractors
They think to offend us with their pride -
On the shore soon we, the winners of the waves,
Let's go solemnly with our shrine!

The infinite will take over the finite
Faith in our sacred meaning,
We will stir up a counter current
Against the stream!

* * *

These poor villages.
This poor nature!

F. Tyutchev

Giving very richly
Our land, the king of heaven
Be rich and strong
Ordered her everywhere.

But for the villages to fall,
So that the fields are empty -
We are blessed
The king of heaven gave hardly!

We are careless, we are lazy
Everything is falling out of our hands.
And besides, we are patient -
This is nothing to brag about!

February, 1869

I. A. GONCHAROV

Don't listen to the noise
Rumors, gossip and trouble,
Think your own mind
And go ahead!

You don't care about others
Let the wind carry them barking!
What is ripe in your soul -
Put on a clear image!

Black clouds hung -
Let them hang - the hell with two!
For your live only thoughts
The rest is tryn-grass!

* * *

Darkness and mist obscure my path
The night falls on the earth more and more densely,
But I believe, I know: he lives somewhere,
Somewhere, yes, the king-maiden lives!

I did not wait, I did not guess, I jumped in the dark
To the country where there is no road,
I unbridled the horse, drove at random
And he squeezed spears into his sides!

August 1870

* * *

In a desert monastery near Cordoba
There is a picture. diligent hand
The artist depicted in her severe,
Like a holy martyr before an idol
Lies in chains and executioners alive
Rip off the skin ... View of the picture of the one
Filled with cruel art
Compresses the chest and revolts the feeling.
But in the days of longing, everything is appearing to me again,
She stubbornly invades thought,
And the torment of that executed saint
Today I understand and love:
The veils are stripped from my soul,
Her living tissue is exposed,
And every touch of life to her
There is evil pain and burning torment.

Autumn 1870

* * *

The door to the damp porch opened again,
In the midday rays traces of the recent cold
Smoke. A warm wind blew in our face
And wrinkles on the fields blue puddles.

The fireplace is still crackling, ebb of fire
Recalling the past cramped world of winter,
But the lark is there, ringing over the winter,
Today announced that life has come different.

And there are words in the air, I don't know whose,
About happiness, and love, and youth, and trust,
And running streams loudly echo them,
Reed swaying yellowing feathers.

Let them, as they are on clay and sand
Melted snows, murmuring, carry away the waters,
Without a trace will take away your soul longing
The healing power of resurrected nature!

* * *

I heard about the feat of the Croton fighter,
Like, he put a young calf on his shoulders,
To increase the strength of strong muscles gradually,
I walked around the city wall, bent under it,
And every day he repeated his work, until
That calf did not grow up to be a fat bull.

In the days of my youth, with fate in a brave dispute,
I, like Milo, took grief on my shoulders,
Not noticing himself that the burden is heavy;
But every day it grew invisibly,
And my head is already gray under it,
It all grows without measure and limit!

May 1871

ON POWER

Through the glow of darkening skies
And a small pattern is drawn in front of me
Barely clad forest in spring leaves,
Going down a slope into a marshy meadow.

And silence and silence. Only sleepy thrushes
How reluctantly they finish their singing;
Steam rises from the meadow ... a twinkling star
At my feet in the water there was a reflection;

It blew cool, and last year's leaf
Rustled in the oaks ... Suddenly a slight whistle
I heard; behind him, clearly and distinctly,
The familiar wheeze rang out three times to the arrow,

And the woodcock held out - out of the shot. Another
Flies from behind the forest, but in a long arc
He rounded the edge and disappeared. Hearing and sight
Mine are tense, and in a moment,

Whistling, one more, in the last light of day,
A trembling line rushes at me.
Holding your breath, bending under the aspen,
I waited for the right moment - forward half an arshin

I threw it up - the fire flashed, thunder boomed through the forest -
And the woodcock falls to the ground like a wheel.
Heavy blow distant peals,
Weak, frozen. Embraced by serenity,

The young forest slumbers again, and a gray cloud
Rifle smoke hangs in the still air.
Here came another from a distant swamp
Spring cranes jubilant note -

And everything died down again - and in the depths of the branches
A nightingale snapped a pearl shot.
But why, suddenly, painfully and strangely,
The past breathed on me unexpectedly
And in this twilight, and in this silence
Did it appear to me as a bitter reproach?

Departed joys! Forgotten Sorrows!
Why did you sound in my soul again
And again before me, in the midst of a clear dream,
Has the lost spring flashed through my days?

May 1871

* * *

“...” In the very flow and rhythm of his poems, he breathes the joy of life; often with your inner vision you catch a cheerful, playful, sometimes mocking smile on his face. Sometimes a passionate, excited and exciting feeling even overflows. I want to breathe with all my chest, I want to shout - we need interjections, sounds without concepts, one chorus:

Goy, you, my homeland!
Goy, you dense forest!
The whistle of the midnight nightingale!
Wind, steppe and clouds!
“The heart felt that life is good,” and therefore
The heart skips a beat:
Oh, okay, Lel-lyuli!

He has, in Tolstoy, an irresistible delight before the happiness of being, before the joy of breathing, and one of the most beautiful sounds of Russian poetry flows directly from the soul - this light wave early spring, this eternally fresh, full of admiration and sadness click of the human heart:

That was in the morning of our years -
Oh happiness! oh tears!
O forest! oh life! Oh the light of the sun!
O fresh spirit of the birch!

In general, he is a poet of spring; so to speak, undoubted, obvious, pleasing to everyone, adapted to the universal taste, it is also his favorite time of the year, "turns green in his heart."

Unfortunately, of the three great Tolstoys, only Alexei Konstantinovich is not studied at school and is little studied at universities. He was a man of great intelligence and great faith. He had no weak works. He only wrote about what he knew.

Writer's childhood

He was born on August 24, or September 5, according to the new style, in 1817. In Petersburg. His father was Count Konstantin Petrovich Tolstoy, his mother, the beautiful Anna Alekseevna. The marriage of his parents was short-lived, when the boy was not yet a month old, they divorced. Anna Alekseevna went to her brother in Rog. It was there that Tolstoy spent the first eight years of his life. Instead of his father, he was raised by his uncle - Alexei Alekseevich Perovsky, a writer who published under the pseudonym Anthony Pogorelsky. So Tolstoy had some writing genes.

The beginning of the creative path of Alexei Konstantinovich

The count began to write poetry at the age of six, but he did not publish them for a long time, he considered them ridiculous. The first publication of the poems took place in 1854. They were published in Sovremennik, Nekrasov's magazine. Literary debut took place in 1841. Under a pseudonym, the story "Ghoul" was published. Already from this work it was clear that the author had chosen his own path and was not going to follow the generally accepted literary canons blindly. In 1867, his first and last lifetime collection of poems was published.

Renunciation of the old life

Alexei Konstantinovich was of Count's origin, and this obliged him to correspond to the family title. Of course, his predilection for literature was frowned upon. Therefore, his writing activity was perceived as a kind of rebelliousness, although he was by no means a rebel. "Against the Current" Tolstoy wrote as a response to his friends and family, those who wanted to see him only as a writer was considered bad form, although the fashion for art in the 19th century was just in its prime.

Tolstoy wrote "Against the Current" when his name in the literary field already had some weight. This was in 1867. He struggled with himself for a long time and tried to combine service and writing, but he realized that this was impossible, and chose what was closer to his heart. At the age of 50, he devoted himself completely to literature. Alexei Konstantinovich left the capital to live in the outback, in his estate, and took up creativity. He was condemned from all sides. There was a lot of gossip. Alexei Tolstoy was against the current of the general, and this always revolts society. At any time, and even more so in the 19th century.

Brief analysis of Tolstoy's poem "Against the Current"

In this work, the poet and playwright gives an answer why he chose creative way rather than a brilliant career. Moreover, he also calls on people like himself to defend their interests and not listen to the opinion of "high society".

The author says that ruthless modern society creative people - dreamers are not needed at all. It's too pragmatic. “Where can you, a revived tribe, stand against the current?” - Tolstoy, as it were, speaks for the condemning and cold majority. But he immediately refutes this, saying that an unknown force beckons them to itself. Strength probably means inspiration. After all, this is it - inspiration - helps to see the world more beautiful than all the others. “Believe the wonderful star of inspiration,” Tolstoy calls in the poem “Against the Current”. The analysis of this work also reveals the author's conviction in his choice, in his rightness, he gives examples of the victory of creativity and believes that art and inspiration will prevail. And only creative work is guaranteed immortality.

Alexey Konstantinovich fought for "pure art". In his poem Against the Current, Tolstoy is sincerely and convincingly angry at the injustice to creative people. The position of the author is clear and precise. He made his choice and wanted to support others in the same choice.

There was a hostile attitude towards the writer not only from society, but also from literary criticism. He felt driven. And he called out to his associates.

The poem reveals Alexei Konstantinovich as a singer of beauty. He considers himself primarily a creator. And glorifies literature as creativity, it main topic poems. Its idea is that you need to follow your calling and talent in spite of everyone.

The meter in which the poem is written is dactyl. Epithets and metaphors are abundantly used, as well as the personification - "the world has sobered up."

Tolstoy idealizes the tasks of art, for him they come from God. Creativity is sacred: "Let's go out solemnly with our shrine!"

Women's Portal Flero

AGAINST THE STREAM

1

2

3

4

5

* * *

I. A. GONCHAROV

AGAINST THE STREAM

1

2

3

4

5

* * *

I. A. GONCHAROV

* * *

* * *

* * *

* * *

ON POWER

* * *

Writer's childhood

The beginning of the creative path of Alexei Konstantinovich

Renunciation of the old life

Brief analysis of Tolstoy's poem "Against the Current"

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