On the shore of desert waves
He stood there, full of great thoughts,
And he looked into the distance. Wide before him
The river rushed; poor boat
He strove along it alone.
Along mossy, marshy banks
Blackened huts here and there,
Shelter of a wretched Chukhonian;
And the forest, unknown to the rays
In the fog of the hidden sun,
There was noise all around.

And he thought:
From here we will threaten the Swede,
The city will be founded here
To spite an arrogant neighbor.
Nature destined us here
Cut a window to Europe,
Stand with a firm foot by the sea.
Here on new waves
All the flags will visit us,
And we’ll record it in the open air.

A hundred years have passed, and the young city,
There is beauty and wonder in full countries,
From the darkness of the forests, from the swamps of blat
He ascended magnificently and proudly;
Where was the Finnish fisherman before?
Nature's sad stepson
Alone on the low banks
Thrown into unknown waters
Your old net, now there
Along busy shores
Slender communities crowd together
Palaces and towers; ships
A crowd from all over the world
They strive for rich marinas;
The Neva is dressed in granite;
Bridges hung over the waters;
Dark green gardens
Islands covered her,
And in front of the younger capital
Old Moscow has faded,
Like before a new queen
Porphyry widow.

I love you, Petra's creation,
I love your strict, slender appearance,
Neva sovereign current,
Its coastal granite,
Your fences have a cast iron pattern,
of your thoughtful nights
Transparent twilight, moonless shine,
When I'm in my room
I write, I read without a lamp,
And the sleeping communities are clear
Deserted streets and light
Admiralty needle,
And, not letting the darkness of the night
To golden skies
One dawn gives way to another
He hurries, giving the night half an hour.
I love your cruel winter
Still air and frost,
Sleigh running along the wide Neva,
Girls' faces are brighter than roses,
And the shine, and the noise, and the talk of balls,
And at the time of the feast the bachelor
The hiss of foamy glasses
And the punch flame is blue.
I love the warlike liveliness
Amusing Fields of Mars,
Infantry troops and horses
Uniform beauty
In their harmoniously unsteady system
The shreds of these victorious banners,
The shine of these copper caps,
Through those shot through in battle.
I love you, military capital,
Your stronghold is smoke and thunder,
When the queen is full
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, sensing the days of spring, he rejoices.

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

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

Part one

Over darkened Petrograd
November breathed the autumn chill.
Splashing with a noisy wave
To the edges of your slender fence,
Neva was tossing around like a sick person
Restless in my bed.
It was already late and dark;
The rain beat angrily on the window,
And the wind blew, howling sadly.
At that time from the guests home
Young Evgeniy came...
We will be our hero
Call by this name. It
Sounds nice; been with him for a long time
My pen is also friendly.
We don't need his nickname,
Although in times gone by
Perhaps it shone
And under the pen of Karamzin
In native legends it sounded;
But now with light and rumor
It's forgotten. Our hero
Lives in Kolomna; serves somewhere
He shies away from the nobles and does not bother
Not about deceased relatives,
Not about forgotten antiquities.
So, I came home, Evgeniy
He shook off his overcoat, undressed, and lay down.
But for a long time he could not fall asleep
In the excitement of various thoughts.
What was he thinking about? About,
That he was poor, that he worked hard
He had to deliver to himself
And independence and honor;
What could God add to him?
Mind and money. What is it?
Such idle lucky ones,
Narrow-minded, sloths,
For whom life is much easier!
That he only serves for two years;
He also thought that the weather
She didn’t let up; that the river
Everything was coming; which is hardly
The bridges have not been removed from the Neva
And what will happen to Parasha?
Separated for two or three days.
Evgeny sighed heartily here
And he daydreamed like a poet:

"Marry? To me? why not?
It’s hard, of course;
But well I'm young and healthy
Ready to work day and night;
I’ll arrange something for myself
Shelter humble and simple
And in it I will calm Parasha.
Perhaps a year or two will pass -
I’ll get a place, Parashe
I will entrust our family
And raising children...
And we will live, and so on until the grave
We'll both get there hand in hand
And our grandchildren will bury us..."

That's what he dreamed. And it was sad
Him that night, and he wished
So that the wind howls less sadly
And let the rain knock on the window
Not so angry...
Sleepy eyes
He finally closed. And so
The darkness of a stormy night is thinning
And the pale day is coming...
Terrible day!
Neva all night
Longing for the sea against the storm,
Without overcoming their violent foolishness...
And she couldn’t bear to argue...
In the morning over its banks
There were crowds of people crowded together,
Admiring the splashes, mountains
And the foam of angry waters.
But the strength of the winds from the bay
Blocked Neva
She walked back, angry, seething,
And flooded the islands
The weather became even more ferocious,
The Neva swelled and roared,
A cauldron bubbling and swirling,
And suddenly, like a wild beast,
She rushed towards the city. In front of her
Everything ran, everything around
Suddenly it was empty - suddenly there was water
Flowed into underground cellars,
Channels poured into the gratings,
And Petropol emerged like a newt,
Waist-deep in water.

Siege! attack! evil waves,
Like thieves, they climb into windows. Chelny
From the run the windows are smashed by the stern.
Trays under a wet veil,
Wrecks of huts, logs, roofs,
Stock trade goods,
The belongings of pale poverty,
Bridges demolished by thunderstorms,
Coffins from a washed-out cemetery
Floating through the streets!
People
He sees God's wrath and awaits execution.
Alas! everything perishes: shelter and food!
Where will I get it?
In that terrible year
The late Tsar was still in Russia
He ruled with glory. To the balcony
Sad, confused, he went out
And he said: “With God's element
Kings cannot control.” He sat down
And in the Duma with sorrowful eyes
I looked at the evil disaster.
There were stacks of lakes,
And in them there are wide rivers
The streets poured in. Castle
It seemed like a sad island.
The king said - from end to end,
Along nearby streets and distant ones
On a dangerous journey through stormy waters
The generals started him
To save and overcome with fear
And there are drowning people at home.

Then, on Petrova Square,
Where a new house has risen in the corner,
Where above the elevated porch
With a raised paw, as if alive,
There are two guard lions standing,
Riding a marble beast,
Without a hat, hands clasped in a cross,
Sat motionless, terribly pale
Eugene. He was afraid, poor thing,
Not for myself. He didn't hear
How the greedy shaft rose,
Washing his soles,
How the rain hit his face,
Like the wind, howling violently,
He suddenly tore off his hat.

His desperate looks
Pointed to the edge
They were motionless. Like mountains
From the indignant depths
The waves rose there and got angry,
There the storm howled, there they rushed
Debris... God, God! there -
Alas! close to the waves,
Almost at the very bay -
The fence is unpainted, but the willow
And a dilapidated house: there it is,
Widow and daughter, his Parasha,
His dream... Or in a dream
Does he see this? or all ours
And life is nothing like an empty dream,
The mockery of heaven over earth?

And he seems to be bewitched
As if chained to marble,
Can't get off! Around him
Water and nothing else!
And with my back turned to him,
In the unshakable heights,
Above the indignant Neva
Stands with outstretched hand
Idol on a bronze horse.

Part two

But now, having had enough of destruction
And tired of insolent violence,
The Neva was drawn back,
Admiring your indignation
And leaving with carelessness
Your prey. So villain
With his fierce gang
Having burst into the village, he breaks, cuts,
Destroys and robs; screams, gnashing,
Violence, swearing, alarm, howling!..
And, burdened with robbery,
Afraid of the chase, tired,
The robbers are hurrying home,
Dropping prey on the way.

The water has subsided and the pavement
It opened, and Evgeny is mine
He hurries, his soul sinking,
In hope, fear and longing
To the barely subdued river.
But victories are full of triumph,
The waves were still boiling angrily,
It was as if a fire was smoldering underneath them,
The foam still covered them,
And Neva was breathing heavily,
Like a horse running back from battle.
Evgeny looks: he sees a boat;
He runs to her as if he were on a find;
He calls the carrier -
And the carrier is carefree
Willingly pay him for a dime
Through terrible waves you are lucky.

And long with stormy waves
An experienced rower fought
And hide deep between their rows
Every hour with daring swimmers
The boat was ready - and finally
He reached the shore.
Unhappy
Runs along a familiar street
To familiar places. Looks
Can't find out. The view is terrible!
Everything is piled up in front of him;
What is dropped, what is demolished;
The houses were crooked, others
Completely collapsed, others
Shifted by waves; all around
As if in a battlefield,
Bodies are lying around. Eugene
Headlong, not remembering anything,
Exhausted from torment,
Runs to where he is waiting
Fate with unknown news,
Like with a sealed letter.
And now he’s running through the suburbs,
And here is the bay, and home is close...
What is this?..
He stopped.
I went back and came back.
He looks... walks... still looks.
This is the place where their house stands;
Here is the willow. There was a gate here -
Apparently they were blown away. Where is home?
And, full of gloomy care,
He keeps walking, he walks around,
Talks loudly to himself -
And suddenly, hitting him on the forehead with his hand,
Laughed.
Night haze
She descended upon the city in trepidation;
But the residents did not sleep for a long time
And they talked among themselves
About the day gone by.
Morning ray
Because of the tired, pale clouds
Flashed over the quiet capital
And I haven’t found any traces
Yesterday's troubles; purple
The evil was already covered up.
Everything returned to the same order.
The streets are already free
With your cold insensibility
People were walking. Official people
Leaving my night shelter,
I went to work. Brave trader,
Not discouraged, I opened
Neva robbed basement,
Collecting your loss is important
Place it on the nearest one. From the yards
They brought boats.
Count Khvostov,
Poet beloved by heaven
Already sang in immortal verses
The misfortune of the Neva banks.

But my poor, poor Evgeniy...
Alas! his confused mind
Against terrible shocks
I couldn't resist. Rebellious noise
The Neva and the winds were heard
In his ears. Terrible thoughts
Silently full, he wandered.
He was tormented by some kind of dream.
A week passed, a month - he
He did not return to his home.
His deserted corner
I rented it out when the deadline passed,
The owner of the poor poet.
Evgeny for his goods
Didn't come. He'll be out soon
Became alien. I wandered on foot all day,
And he slept on the pier; ate
A piece served into the window.
His clothes are shabby
It tore and smoldered. Angry children
They threw stones after him.
Often coachman's whips
He was whipped because
That he didn't understand the roads
Never again; it seemed he
Didn't notice. He's stunned
Was the noise of internal 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 was sleeping
At the Neva pier. Days of summer
We were approaching autumn. Breathed
Stormy wind. Grim Shaft
Splashed on the pier, grumbling fines
And hitting the smooth steps,
Like a petitioner at the door
Judges who don't listen to him.
The poor man woke up. It was gloomy:
The rain fell, the wind howled sadly,
And with him far away, in the darkness of the night
The sentry called to each other...
Evgeny jumped up; remembered vividly
He is a past horror; hastily
He got up; went wandering, and suddenly
Stopped - and around
Quietly he began to move his eyes
With wild fear on your face.
He found himself under the pillars
Big house. On the porch
With a raised paw, as if alive,
The lions stood guard,
And right in the dark heights
Above the fenced rock
Idol with outstretched hand
Sat on a bronze horse.

Evgeny shuddered. cleared up
The thoughts in it are scary. He found out
And the place where the flood played,
Where the waves of predators crowded,
Rioting angrily around him,
And lions, and the square, and that,
Who stood motionless
In the darkness with a copper head,
The one whose will is fatal
The city was founded under the sea...
He is terrible in the surrounding darkness!
What a thought on the brow!
What power is hidden in it!
And what fire there is in this horse!
Where are you galloping, proud horse?
And where will you put your hooves?
O mighty lord of fate!
Aren't you above the abyss?
At the height, with an iron bridle
Raised Russia on its hind legs?

Around the foot of the idol
The poor madman walked around
And brought wild glances
The face of the ruler of half the world.
His chest felt tight. Chelo
It lay down on the cold grate,
My eyes became foggy,
A fire ran through my heart,
Blood boiled. He became gloomy
Before the proud idol
And, clenching my teeth, clenching my fingers,
As if possessed by black power,
“Welcome, miraculous builder! -
He whispered, trembling angrily, -
Already for you!..” And suddenly headlong
He started to run. It seemed
He is like a formidable king,
Instantly ignited with anger,
The face quietly turned...
And its area is empty
He runs and hears behind him -
It's like thunder roaring -
Heavy ringing galloping
Along the shaken pavement.
And, illuminated by the pale moon,
Stretching out your hand on high,
The Bronze Horseman rushes after him
On a loud galloping horse;
And all night long the poor madman,
Wherever you turn your feet,
Behind him is the Bronze Horseman everywhere
He galloped with a heavy stomp.

And from the time when it happened
He should go to that square,
His face showed
Confusion. To your heart
He hastily pressed his hand,
As if subduing him with torment,
A worn out cap,
Didn’t raise embarrassed eyes
And he walked aside.
Small Island
Visible at the seaside. Sometimes
Lands there with a seine
Late fisherman fishing
And the poor man cooks his dinner,
Or an official will visit,
Walking in a boat on Sunday
Deserted island. Not grown up
There's not a blade of grass there. Flood
Brought there while playing
The house is dilapidated. Above the water
He remained like a black bush.
His last spring
They brought me on a barge. It was empty
And everything is destroyed. At the threshold
They found my madman,
And then his cold corpse
Buried for God's sake.

Analysis of the poem “The Bronze Horseman” by Pushkin

The poem “The Bronze Horseman” is a multifaceted work with a serious philosophical meaning. Pushkin created it in 1833, during one of the most fruitful “Boldino” periods. The plot of the poem is based on a real event - the terrible St. Petersburg flood of 1824, which claimed a large number of human lives.

The main theme of the work is the confrontation between the authorities and the “little” man who decides to revolt and suffers inevitable defeat. The “Introduction” to the poem enthusiastically describes the “city of Petrov.” “I love you, Peter’s creation” is a famous line from the poem, which is often quoted to express one’s attitude towards St. Petersburg. The description of the city and its life was made by Pushkin with great love and artistic taste. It ends with a majestic comparison of St. Petersburg with the state itself - “...stand unshakable, like Russia.”

The first part contrasts sharply with the introduction. It describes a modest official, a “little” man, burdened by a hard life. Its existence is insignificant against the backdrop of the huge city. Evgeny’s only joy in life is the dream of marriage with his beloved girl. His family future is still vague (“maybe... I’ll get a job”), but the young man is full of strength and hopes for the future.

Pushkin proceeds to describe a sudden natural disaster. Nature seems to be taking revenge on man for his self-confidence and pride. The city was founded by Peter on a personal whim; the peculiarities of the climate and terrain were not taken into account at all. In this sense, the phrase that the author attributes to Alexander I is indicative: “Tsars cannot cope with God’s elements.”

The fear of losing his beloved leads Eugene to the monument - the Bronze Horseman. One of the main symbols of St. Petersburg appears in its ominous tyrannical appearance. The “Idol on a Bronze Horse” has nothing to do with the suffering of ordinary people; he revels in his own greatness.

The second part is even more tragic. Evgeniy learns about the death of his girlfriend. Stricken with grief, he goes crazy and gradually becomes a poor, ragged wanderer. Aimless wanderings around the city lead him to his old place. When looking at the imperturbable monument, memories flash in Eugene’s mind. His sanity returns for a short time. At this moment, Eugene is overcome with anger, and he decides to symbolically revolt against tyranny: “Too bad for you!” This flash of energy completely drives the young man crazy. Pursued throughout the city by the Bronze Horseman, he eventually dies of exhaustion. The "revolt" was successfully suppressed.

In the poem “The Bronze Horseman” Pushkin made a brilliant artistic description of St. Petersburg. The philosophical and civic value of the work lies in the development of the theme of relations between unlimited power and the ordinary person.

Stood on the shore of desert waves He, full of great thoughts, and looked into the distance. The River rushed wide before him; the poor boat strove along it alone. Along the mossy, swampy banks there were black huts here and there, a shelter for a wretched Chukhon; And the forest, unknown to the rays In the fog of the hidden sun, made noise all around. And he thought: From here we will threaten the Swede, Here the city will be founded to spite our arrogant neighbor. Here we are destined by nature to cut a window into Europe, 1 To stand with a firm foot by the sea. Here on the new waves All the flags will visit us, And we will lock them in the open air. A hundred years have passed, and the young city, full of beauty and wonder, From the darkness of the forests, from the swamps of cronyism, Ascended magnificently, proudly; Where once the Finnish fisherman, Nature's sad stepson, Alone on the low shores Threw His decrepit net into unknown waters, now there Along the busy shores Slender communities crowd Palaces and towers; ships in crowds from all over the world rush to rich piers; The Neva is dressed in granite; Bridges hung over the waters; The islands were covered with Her dark green gardens, And before the younger capital Old Moscow faded, Like a Porphyry-bearing widow before the new queen. I love you, Peter’s creation, I love your strict, slender appearance, the sovereign flow of the Neva, its granite shoreline, your cast-iron pattern of fences, your brooding nights, transparent twilight, moonless shine, when I write in my room, read without a lamp, and the sleeping communities are clear Deserted streets, and the Admiralty needle is bright, And, not letting the darkness of the night into the golden skies, One dawn is in a hurry to replace another, giving the night half an hour. 2 I love your cruel winter, the motionless air and frost, the running of sleighs along the wide Neva, girls’ faces brighter than roses, and the shine, and the noise, and the talk of balls, and at the hour of a single feast, the hissing of foamy glasses and the blue flame of punch. I love the warlike liveliness of the amusing fields of Mars, the infantry armies and horses, the monotonous beauty, in their harmoniously unsteady formation, the rags of these victorious banners, the radiance of these copper caps, shot through and through in battle. I love, military capital, Your stronghold is filled with smoke and thunder, When the full-fledged queen bestows a son on the royal house, Or Russia again triumphs over the enemy, Or, having broken its blue ice, the Neva carries it to the seas And, sensing spring days, rejoices. Show off, city of Petrov, and stand unshakable, like Russia, May the defeated element make peace with you; Let the Finnish waves forget their enmity and their ancient captivity, And let not vain malice disturb Peter’s eternal sleep! It was a terrible time, The memory of it is fresh... About it, my friends, for you I will begin my story. My story will be sad.

PART ONE

Over the darkened Petrograd November breathed the autumn chill. Splashing in a noisy wave at the edges of her slender fence, the Neva tossed about like a sick person in her restless bed. It was already late and dark; The rain beat angrily against the window, And the wind blew, howling sadly. At that time, young Evgeniy came home from the guests... We will call our hero by this name. It sounds nice; My pen has been with him for a long time and is also friendly. We don't need his nickname. Although in times gone by It may have shone And under the pen of Karamzin It sounded in native legends; But now it is forgotten by light and rumor. Our hero lives in Kolomna; somewhere he serves, is shy of the nobles and does not worry about deceased relatives, nor about forgotten antiquities. So, when he came home, Evgeniy shook off his overcoat, undressed, and lay down. But for a long time he could not fall asleep, in the excitement of various thoughts. What was he thinking about? that he was poor, that through labor he had to gain himself both independence and honor; That God could give him more intelligence and money. That there are such idle happy people, short-sighted people, sloths, for whom life is so easy! That he only serves for two years; He also thought that the weather was not letting up; that the river kept rising; that the bridges have hardly been removed from the Neva and that he will be separated from Parasha for two, three days. Evgeniy sighed heartily and 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 will somehow arrange for himself a humble and simple shelter, and in it he will calm Parasha. Perhaps a year or two will pass - I’ll get a place - I’ll entrust our farm to Parasha And the upbringing of the children... And we’ll begin to live, and so we’ll both reach the grave Hand in hand, And our grandchildren will bury us...” So he dreamed. And he was sad that night, and he wished that the wind would howl less sadly, and that the rain would not knock on the window so angrily... He finally closed his sleepy eyes. And now the darkness of the stormy night is thinning and the pale day is already coming... 3 A terrible day! All night long the Neva was rushing to the sea against the storm, Not having overcome their violent foolishness... And she could not bear to argue... In the morning, crowds of people crowded over its banks, Admiring the splashes, mountains And the foam of the angry waters. But by the force of the winds from the bay, the blocked Neva walked back, angry, seething, and flooded the islands, the weather became even more ferocious, the Neva swelled and roared, bubbling and swirling like a cauldron, and suddenly, like a frantic beast, it rushed towards the city. Everything ran before her, everything around Suddenly became empty - waters suddenly Flowed into the underground cellars, Channels poured into the gratings, And Petropol floated up like a newt, Waist-deep in water. Siege! attack! evil waves, like thieves, climb into the windows. The canoes are hitting the windows with their sterns as they run. Trays under a wet blanket. Fragments of huts, logs, roofs, Goods of thrifty trade, Belongings of pale poverty, Bridges demolished by a thunderstorm, Coffins from a washed-out cemetery Floating through the streets! The people see God's wrath and await execution. Alas! everything perishes: shelter and food! Where will I get it? In that terrible year, the late Tsar still ruled Russia with glory. He went out onto the balcony, sad, confused, and said: “Tsars cannot cope with God’s elements.” He sat down and in thought with sorrowful eyes looked at the evil disaster. There were stacks of lakes, and streets flowed into them like wide rivers. The palace seemed like a sad island. The king said - from end to end, Along the nearby streets and distant ones, The generals set off on a dangerous path among the stormy waters 4 To save the people, overwhelmed with fear And drowning at home. Then, on Petrova Square, Where a new house rose in the corner, Where above the elevated porch With raised paws, as if alive, Two guard lions stand, Astride a marble beast, Without a hat, with his hands clasped in a cross, Eugene sat motionless, terribly pale. He was afraid, poor thing, not for himself. He did not hear how the greedy wave rose, washing away his soles, how the rain whipped into his face, how the wind, howling violently, suddenly tore off his hat. His desperate glances were aimed at one edge and were motionless. Like mountains, From the indignant depths The waves rose there and were angry, There the storm howled, there they rushed, Debris... God, God! there - Alas! close to the waves, Almost at the very bay - An unpainted fence and a willow tree And a dilapidated house: there he is, a widow and a daughter, his parasha, his dream... Or is he seeing this in a dream? or is our whole life nothing but an empty dream, a mockery of heaven over the earth? And he, as if bewitched, As if chained to marble, cannot get off! There is water around him and nothing else! And, with his back turned to him, In an unshakable height, Above the indignant Neva River, the Idol stands with outstretched hand on a bronze horse.

PART TWO

But now, having had enough of destruction and tired of the insolent riot, the Neva was drawn back, admiring its indignation and carelessly abandoning its prey. So the villain, with his fierce gang, burst into the village, breaks, cuts, crushes and robs; screams, gnashing, violence, abuse, alarm, howl!.. And, burdened with robbery, fearing pursuit, tired, the robbers hurry home, dropping their loot on the way. The water has subsided, and the pavement has opened, and my Evgeny hastens, his soul freezing, in hope, fear and longing, to the barely humbled river. But the victories were full of triumph, The waves were still boiling angrily, As if a fire was smoldering under them, The foam was still covering them, And the Neva was breathing heavily, Like a horse running back from battle. Evgeny looks: he sees a boat; He runs to her as if on a discovery; He calls the carrier - And the carefree carrier willingly takes Him for a ten-kopeck piece through the terrible waves. And for a long time an experienced rower struggled with the stormy waves, And to hide deep between their rows, All the time the boat was ready with the daring swimmers - and finally it reached the shore. The unfortunate man runs along a familiar street to familiar places. He looks, but he can’t find out. The view is terrible! Everything is piled up in front of him; What is dropped, what is demolished; The houses were crooked, others completely collapsed, others were moved by the waves; All around, as if in a battlefield, bodies are lying around. Evgeny Stremglav, not remembering anything, Exhausted from torment, Runs to where Fate awaits him with unknown news, Like a sealed letter. And now he is running through the suburbs, And there is a bay, and the house is close... What is this?.. He stopped. I went back and came back. He looks... he walks... he still looks. This is the place where their house stands; Here is the willow. There was a gate here - it was demolished, apparently. Where is home? And, full of gloomy care, He walks and walks around, Talking loudly to himself - And suddenly, hitting his forehead with his hand, he laughed. The darkness of the night descended on the trembling city; But for a long time the inhabitants did not sleep and talked among themselves about the past day. The morning ray From behind the tired, pale clouds Flashed over the quiet capital And no longer found traces of yesterday's Trouble; The evil was already covered with crimson. Everything returned to the same order. Already the people walked along the free streets with their cold insensibility. Official people, leaving their night shelter, went to work. The brave trader, without despondency, opened the robbed Neva cellar, intending to take out his important loss on his neighbor. Boats were taken from the yards. Count Khvostov, a poet beloved by heaven, already sang in immortal verse the misfortune of the Neva banks. But my poor, my poor Eugene... Alas! his troubled mind could not resist the terrible shocks. The rebellious noise of the Neva and the winds resounded in his ears. Silently full of terrible thoughts, he wandered. He was tormented by some kind of dream. A week passed, a month passed - he did not return to his home. His deserted corner was rented out by the owner to a poor poet when his term expired. Evgeny did not come for his goods. He soon became alien to the world. I wandered around on foot all day, and slept on the pier; I ate a piece served through the window. His shabby clothes were torn and smoldering. Angry children threw stones after him. Often the coachman's whips lashed Him, because He never cleared the road; it seemed he didn't notice. He was deafened by the noise of internal anxiety. And so he dragged out his unhappy life, neither beast, nor man, Neither this nor that, nor an inhabitant of the world, Nor a dead ghost... Once he slept By the Neva pier. The days of summer were turning to autumn. A stormy wind was breathing. The gloomy wave splashed onto the pier, grumbling and beating against the smooth steps, like a petitioner at the door of judges who did not listen to him. The poor man woke up. It was gloomy: The rain was dripping, the wind howled sadly, And with him in the distance in the darkness of the night the sentry called to one another... Eugene jumped up; He remembered vividly the past horror; hastily He stood up; went to wander, and suddenly Stopped, and quietly began to move his eyes around With wild fear on his face. He found himself under the pillars of the Big House. On the porch, with raised paws, guard lions stood, as if alive, and right in the dark heights, above the fenced rock, an idol with outstretched hand sat on a bronze horse. Evgeny shuddered. The scary thoughts in him became clear. He recognized the place where the flood played, Where the predatory waves crowded, rioting angrily around him, And the lions, and the square, and the one who stood motionless in the darkness with a copper head, the one whose fatal will the city was founded under the sea... He is terrible in the surrounding darkness! What a thought on the brow! What power is hidden in it! And what fire there is in this horse! Where will you gallop, proud horse, and where will you land your hooves? O mighty lord of fate! Isn’t it so that you, above the very abyss, at a height, raised Russia on its hind legs with an iron bridle? 5 The poor madman walked around the base of the idol and cast his wild gaze on the face of the ruler of half the world. His chest felt tight. His forehead lay against the cold grate, his eyes became foggy, a flame ran through his heart, his blood boiled. He became gloomy Before the proud idol And, gritting his teeth, clenching his fingers, As if overcome by black power, “Good, miraculous builder! “He whispered, trembling angrily, “Too bad for you!” And suddenly he began to run headlong. It seemed to Him that a formidable king, Instantly ignited with anger, His face quietly turned... And he runs across the empty square and hears behind him - As if thunder rumbled - A heavy, ringing galloping Along the shocked pavement. And, illuminated by the pale moon, stretching out his hand on high, the Bronze Horseman rushes after him on a loudly galloping horse; And all night long the poor madman, Wherever he turned his feet, the Bronze Horseman galloped behind him everywhere with a heavy stomp. And from that time, when he happened to walk that square, Confusion was depicted in his face. He hurriedly pressed his hand to his heart, As if to subdue him torment, He took off his worn cap, He did not raise his embarrassed eyes, And he walked aside. Small island visible on the seashore. Sometimes a belated fisherman lands there with a seine and cooks his poor supper, or an official visits, while walking in a boat on Sunday, a deserted island. Not grown up. Not a blade of grass there. The flood brought the dilapidated house there, playing. He remained above the water like a black bush. Last spring they brought him on a barge. It was empty and all destroyed. At the threshold They found my madman, And immediately buried his cold corpse for God's sake.

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

Introduction

On the shore of desert waves
He stood there, full of great thoughts,
And he looked into the distance. It's wide in front of him
The river rushed; poor boat
He strove along it alone.
Along mossy, marshy banks
Blackened huts here and there,
Shelter of a wretched Chukhonian;
And the forest, unknown to the rays
In the fog of the hidden sun,
There was noise all around.

And he thought:
From here we will threaten the Swede,
The city will be founded here
To spite an arrogant neighbor.
Nature destined us here
Cut a window to Europe,
Stand with a firm foot by the sea.
Here on new waves
All the flags will visit us,
And we’ll record it in the open air.

A hundred years have passed, and the young city,
There is beauty and wonder in full countries,
From the darkness of the forests, from the swamps of blat
He ascended magnificently and proudly;
Where was the Finnish fisherman before?
Nature's sad stepson
Alone on the low banks
Thrown into unknown waters
Your old net, now there
Along the busy shores
Slender communities crowd together
Palaces and towers; ships
A crowd from all over the world
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
Old Moscow has faded,
Like before a new queen
Porphyry widow.

I love you, Petra's creation,
I love your strict, slender appearance,
Neva sovereign current,
Its coastal granite,
Your fences have a cast iron pattern,
of your thoughtful nights
Transparent twilight, moonless shine,
When I'm in my room
I write, I read without a lamp,
And the sleeping communities are clear
Deserted streets and light
Admiralty needle,
And, not letting the darkness of the night
To golden skies
One dawn gives way to another
He hurries, giving the night half an hour.
I love your cruel winter
Still air and frost,
Sleigh running along the wide Neva,
Girls' faces are brighter than roses,
And the shine, and the noise, and the talk of balls,
And at the time of the feast the bachelor
The hiss of foamy glasses
And the punch flame is blue.
I love the warlike liveliness
Amusing Fields of Mars,
Infantry troops and horses
Uniform beauty
In their harmoniously unsteady system
The rags of these victorious banners,
The shine of these copper caps,
Through those shot through in battle.
I love you, military capital,
Your stronghold is smoke and thunder,
When the queen is full
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, sensing the days of spring, he rejoices.

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

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

Part one

Over darkened Petrograd
November breathed the autumn chill.
Splashing with a noisy wave
To the edges of your slender fence,
Neva was tossing around like a sick person
Restless in my bed.
It was already late and dark;
The rain beat angrily on the window,
And the wind blew, howling sadly.
At that time from the guests home
Young Evgeniy came...
We will be our hero
Call by this name. It
Sounds nice; been with him for a long time
My pen is also friendly.
We don't need his nickname,
Although in times gone by
Perhaps it shone
And under the pen of Karamzin
In native legends it sounded;
But now with light and rumor
It's forgotten. Our hero
Lives in Kolomna; serves somewhere
He shies away from the nobles and does not bother
Not about deceased relatives,
Not about forgotten antiquities.

So, I came home, Evgeniy
He shook off his overcoat, undressed, and lay down.
But for a long time he could not fall asleep
In the excitement of various thoughts.
What was he thinking about? About,
That he was poor, that he worked hard
He had to deliver to himself
And independence and honor;
What could God add to him?
Mind and money. What is it?
Such idle lucky ones,
Narrow-minded, sloths,
For whom life is much easier!
That he only serves for two years;
He also thought that the weather
She didn’t let up; that the river
Everything was coming; which is hardly
The bridges have not been removed from the Neva
And what will happen to Parasha?
Separated for two or three days.
Evgeny sighed heartily here
And he daydreamed like a poet:

"Marry? To me? why not?
It’s hard, of course;
But well I'm young and healthy
Ready to work day and night;
I’ll arrange something for myself
Shelter humble and simple
And in it I will calm Parasha.
Perhaps a year or two will pass -
I’ll get a place, Parashe
I will entrust our family
And raising children...
And we will live, and so on until the grave
We'll both get there hand in hand
And our grandchildren will bury us..."

That's what he dreamed. And it was sad
Him that night, and he wished
So that the wind howls less sadly
And let the rain knock on the window
Not so angry...
Sleepy eyes
He finally closed. And so
The darkness of a stormy night is thinning
And the pale day is coming...
Terrible day!
Neva all night
Longing for the sea against the storm,
Without overcoming their violent foolishness...
And she couldn’t bear to argue...
In the morning over its banks
There were crowds of people crowded together,
Admiring the splashes, mountains
And the foam of angry waters.
But the strength of the winds from the bay
Blocked Neva
She walked back, angry, seething,
And flooded the islands
The weather became even more ferocious,
The Neva swelled and roared,
A cauldron bubbling and swirling,
And suddenly, like a wild beast,
She rushed towards the city. In front of her
Everything ran, everything around
Suddenly it was empty - suddenly there was no water
Flowed into underground cellars,
Channels poured into the gratings,
And Petropol emerged like a newt,
Waist-deep in water.

Siege! attack! evil waves,
Like thieves, they climb into windows. Chelny
From the run the windows are smashed by the stern.
Trays under a wet veil,
Fragments of huts, logs, roofs,
Stock trade goods,
The belongings of pale poverty,
Bridges destroyed by thunderstorms,
Coffins from a washed-out cemetery
Floating through the streets!
People
He sees God's wrath and awaits execution.
Alas! everything perishes: shelter and food!
Where will I get it?
In that terrible year
The late Tsar was still in Russia
He ruled with glory. To the balcony
Sad, confused, he went out
And he said: “With God's element
Kings cannot control.” He sat down
And in the Duma with sorrowful eyes
I looked at the evil disaster.
There were stacks of lakes,
And in them there are wide rivers
The streets poured in. Castle
It seemed like a sad island.
The king said - from end to end,
Along nearby streets and distant ones
On a dangerous journey through stormy waters
The generals started him
To save and overcome with fear
And there are drowning people at home.

Lion and fortress. A. P. Ostroumova-Lebedeva, 1901

Then, on Petrova Square,
Where a new house has risen in the corner,
Where above the elevated porch
With a raised paw, as if alive,
There are two guard lions standing,
Riding a marble beast,
Without a hat, hands clasped in a cross,
Sat motionless, terribly pale
Eugene. He was afraid, poor thing,
Not for myself. He didn't hear
How the greedy shaft rose,
Washing his soles,
How the rain hit his face,
Like the wind, howling violently,
He suddenly tore off his hat.
His desperate looks
Pointed to the edge
They were motionless. Like mountains
From the indignant depths
The waves rose there and got angry,
There the storm howled, there they rushed
Debris... God, God! there -
Alas! close to the waves,
Almost at the very bay -
The fence is unpainted, but the willow
And a dilapidated house: there it is,
Widow and daughter, his Parasha,
His dream... Or in a dream
Does he see this? or all ours
And life is nothing like an empty dream,
The mockery of heaven over earth?

And he seems to be bewitched
As if chained to marble,
Can't get off! Around him
Water and nothing else!
And with my back turned to him,
In the unshakable heights,
Over the indignant Neva
Stands with outstretched hand
Idol on a bronze horse.

Part two

But now, having had enough of destruction
And tired of insolent violence,
The Neva was drawn back,
Admiring your indignation
And leaving with carelessness
Your prey. So villain
With his fierce gang
Having burst into the village, he breaks, cuts,
Destroys and robs; screams, gnashing,
Violence, swearing, alarm, howling!..
And, burdened with robbery,
Afraid of pursuit, tired,
The robbers are hurrying home,
Dropping prey on the way.

The water has subsided and the pavement
It opened, and Evgeny is mine
He hurries, his soul sinking,
In hope, fear and longing
To the barely subdued river.
But the victories are full of triumph,
The waves were still boiling angrily,
It was as if a fire was smoldering underneath them,
The foam still covered them,
And Neva was breathing heavily,
Like a horse running back from battle.
Evgeny looks: he sees a boat;
He runs to her as if he were on a find;
He calls the carrier -
And the carrier is carefree
Willingly pay him for a dime
Through terrible waves you are lucky.

And long with stormy waves
An experienced rower fought
And hide deep between their rows
Every hour with daring swimmers
The boat was ready - and finally
He reached the shore.
Unhappy
Runs along a familiar street
To familiar places. Looks
Can't find out. The view is terrible!
Everything is piled up in front of him;
What is dropped, what is demolished;
The houses were crooked, others
Completely collapsed, others
Shifted by waves; all around
As if in a battlefield,
Bodies are lying around. Eugene
Headlong, not remembering anything,
Exhausted from torment,
Runs to where he is waiting
Fate with unknown news,
Like with a sealed letter.
And now he’s running through the suburbs,
And here is the bay, and home is close...
What is this?..
He stopped.
I went back and came back.
He looks... he walks... he looks some more.
This is the place where their house stands;
Here is the willow. There was a gate here -
Apparently they were blown away. Where is home?
And, full of gloomy care,
Everything goes on, he goes around,
Talks loudly to himself -
And suddenly, hitting him on the forehead with his hand,
Laughed.
Night haze
She descended upon the city in trepidation;
But the residents did not sleep for a long time
And they talked among themselves
About the day gone by.
Morning ray
Because of the tired, pale clouds
Flashed over the quiet capital
And I haven’t found any traces
Yesterday's troubles; purple
The evil was already covered up.
Everything returned to the same order.
The streets are already free
With your cold insensibility
People were walking. Official people
Leaving my night shelter,
I went to work. Brave trader,
Not discouraged, I opened
Neva robbed basement,
Collecting your loss is important
Place it on the nearest one. From the yards
They brought boats.
Count Khvostov,
Poet beloved by heaven
Already sang in immortal verses
The misfortune of the Neva banks.

But my poor, poor Evgeniy...
Alas! his confused mind
Against terrible shocks
I couldn't resist. Rebellious noise
The Neva and the winds were heard
In his ears. Terrible thoughts
Silently full, he wandered.
He was tormented by some kind of dream.
A week passed, a month - he
He did not return to his home.
His deserted corner
I rented it out when the deadline passed,
The owner of the poor poet.
Evgeny for his goods
Didn't come. He'll be out soon
Became alien. I wandered on foot all day,
And he slept on the pier; ate
A piece served into the window.
His clothes are shabby
It tore and smoldered. Angry children
They threw stones after him.
Often coachman's whips
He was whipped because
That he didn't understand the roads
Never again; it seemed he
Didn't notice. He's stunned
Was the noise of internal 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 was sleeping
At the Neva pier. Days of summer
We were approaching autumn. Breathed
Stormy wind. Grim Shaft
Splashed on the pier, grumbling fines
And hitting the smooth steps,
Like a petitioner at the door
Judges who do not listen to him.
The poor man woke up. It was gloomy:
The rain fell, the wind howled sadly,
And with him far away, in the darkness of the night
The sentry called to each other...
Evgeny jumped up; remembered vividly
He is a past horror; hastily
He got up; I went wandering, and suddenly
Stopped - and around
Quietly he began to move his eyes
With wild fear on your face.
He found himself under the pillars
Big house. On the porch
With a raised paw, as if alive,
The lions stood guard,
And right in the dark heights
Above the fenced rock
Idol with outstretched hand
Sat on a bronze horse.

Evgeny shuddered. cleared up
The thoughts in it are scary. He found out
And the place where the flood played,
Where the waves of predators crowded,
Rioting angrily around him,
And lions, and the square, and that,
Who stood motionless
In the darkness with a copper head,
The one whose will is fatal
The city was founded under the sea...
He is terrible in the surrounding darkness!
What a thought on the brow!
What power is hidden in it!
And what fire there is in this horse!
Where are you galloping, proud horse?
And where will you put your hooves?
O mighty lord of fate!
Aren't you above the abyss?
At the height, with an iron bridle
Has Russia reared up?

Around the foot of the idol
The poor madman walked around
And brought wild glances
The face of the ruler of half the world.
His chest felt tight. Chelo
It lay down on the cold grate,
My eyes became foggy,
A fire ran through my heart,
Blood boiled. He became gloomy
Before the proud idol
And, clenching my teeth, clenching my fingers,
As if possessed by black power,
“Welcome, miraculous builder! -
He whispered, trembling angrily, -
Already for you!..” And suddenly headlong
He started to run. It seemed
He is like a formidable king,
Instantly ignited with anger,
The face quietly turned...
And its area is empty
He runs and hears behind him -
It's like thunder roaring -
Heavy ringing galloping
Along the shaken pavement.
And, illuminated by the pale moon,
Stretch out your hand on high,
The Bronze Horseman rushes after him
On a loud galloping horse;
And all night long the poor madman,
Wherever you turn your feet,
Behind him is the Bronze Horseman everywhere
He galloped with a heavy stomp.

And from the time when it happened
He should go to that square,
His face showed
Confusion. To your heart
He hastily pressed his hand,
As if subduing him with torment,
A worn out cap,
He didn’t raise his embarrassed eyes
And he walked aside.

Small Island
Visible at the seaside. Sometimes
Lands there with a seine
Late fisherman fishing
And the poor man cooks his dinner,
Or an official will visit,
Walking in a boat on Sunday
Deserted island. Not grown up
There's not a blade of grass there. Flood
Brought there while playing
The house is dilapidated. Above the water
He remained like a black bush.
His last spring
They brought me on a barge. It was empty
And everything is destroyed. At the threshold
They found my madman,
And then his cold corpse
Buried for God's sake.

For the first time - in the magazine “Library for Reading”, 1834, vol. VII, department. I, p. 117-119 under the title “Petersburg. Excerpt from the poem" (lines 1-91 with the omission of verses 39-42, replaced by four lines of dots). Then - in the magazine “Contemporary”, 1837, volume V, p. 1-21 under the title “The Bronze Horseman, a St. Petersburg story. (1833)". Algarotti said somewhere: “Pétersbourg est la fenêtre par laquelle la Russie regarde en Europe” (author’s note). Translation from French - “St. Petersburg is the window through which Russia looks at Europe” (editor’s note). Look at the poems of the book. Vyazemsky to Countess Z*** (author's note). Mickiewicz described in beautiful verse the day preceding the St. Petersburg flood in one of his best poems - Oleszkiewicz. It's just a pity that the description is not accurate. There was no snow - the Neva was not covered with ice. Our description is more correct, although it does not contain the bright colors of the Polish poet (author's note). There is one more line in Pushkin’s draft and white manuscript:

...With all my strength
She went on the attack. In front of her
Everything started to run...

(editor's note).
Count Miloradovich and Adjutant General Benckendorff (author's note). See description of the monument in Mickiewicz. It is borrowed from Ruban - as Mickiewicz himself notes (author's note).

During the lesson you will read excerpts from A. S. Pushkin’s poem “The Bronze Horseman”; note the artistic and thematic originality of the work, which was the result of the poet’s thoughts about the personality of Peter I, about the “St. Petersburg” period of Russian history.

Subject: From 19th century literature

Lesson: A.S. Pushkin "The Bronze Horseman"

As much as Peter I was a great reformer, a powerful statesman who moved Russia forward on a grand scale, Pushkin was the Peter the Great of Russian literature.

The theme of Peter is a “cross-cutting” theme in Russian literature in general, in the works of Pushkin in particular. The poet sees in Peter not just a historical figure, but also the personification of the transformative power of humanity, spreading culture and civilization among uninhabited and homeless spaces.

One of the most famous works of Pushkin, dedicated to Peter I, was poem "The Bronze Horseman".

The poem is unusual in that Peter I himself does not act in it, and its main character is a monument (Fig. 1). The Bronze Horseman is an image of St. Petersburg andsymbol of the Northern capital.

Rice. 1. The Bronze Horseman. Monument to Peter I in St. Petersburg. Sculptor E. Falcone ()

The war lasted for 21 years, which allowed Russia to return the lands seized in the 17th century along the shores of the Baltic Sea. Russia achieved victory, regained these conquered lands, but they were deserted, and the banks of the Neva were swampy and lifeless. The gloomy forest rustled in the fog, the dwellings of the northern inhabitants were rare and miserable. Peter I accepts to build the city. It was named St. Petersburg.

A.S. Pushkin in his work uses epic methods of depicting a historical figure. The image of the hero is given against the backdrop of a huge space that has to be transformed and conquered.

Rice. 2. St. Petersburg from a bird's eye view ()

On the shore of desert waves

He stood there, full of great thoughts,

And he looked into the distance. Wide before him

The river rushed; poor boat

He strove along it alone.

Along mossy, marshy banks

Blackened huts here and there,

Shelter of a wretched Chukhonian;

And the forest, unknown to the rays

In the fog of the hidden sun,

There was noise all around.

And he thought:

From here we will threaten the Swede,

The city will be founded here

To spite an arrogant neighbor.

Nature destined us here

Cut a window to Europe,

Stand with a firm foot by the sea.

Here on new waves

All the flags will visit us,

And we’ll record it in the open air.

Rice. 3. St. Isaac's Cathedral. Saint Petersburg ()

A hundred years have passed, and the young city,

There is beauty and wonder in full countries,

From the darkness of the forests, from the swamps of blat

He ascended magnificently and proudly;

Where was the Finnish fisherman before?

Nature's sad stepson

Alone on the low banks

Thrown into unknown waters

Your old net, now there

Along busy shores

Slender communities crowd together

Palaces and towers; ships

A crowd from all over the world

They strive for rich marinas;

The Neva is dressed in granite;

Bridges hung over the waters;

Rice. 4. Pevchesky Bridge in St. Petersburg ()

Dark green gardens

Islands covered her,

And in front of the younger capital

Old Moscow has faded,

Like before a new queen

Porphyry widow.

I love you, Petra's creation,

I love your strict, slender appearance,

Neva sovereign current,

Its coastal granite,

Your fences have a cast iron pattern,

of your thoughtful nights

Transparent twilight, moonless shine,

When I'm in my room

I write, I read without a lamp,

And the sleeping communities are clear

Deserted streets and light

Admiralty needle,

And, not letting the darkness of the night

To golden skies

Rice. 5. Neva in winter ()

One dawn gives way to another

He hurries, giving the night half an hour.

I love your cruel winter

Still air and frost,

Sleigh running along the wide Neva,

Girls' faces are brighter than roses,

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

And at the time of the feast the bachelor

The hiss of foamy glasses

And the punch flame is blue.

I love the warlike liveliness

Amusing Fields of Mars,

Infantry troops and horses

Uniform beauty

In their harmoniously unsteady system

The shreds of these victorious banners,

The shine of these copper caps,

Through those shot through in battle.

I love you, military capital,

Your stronghold is smoke and thunder,

When the queen is full

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, sensing the days of spring, he rejoices.

Show off, city Petrov, and stand

Unshakable like Russia,

May he make peace with you

And the defeated element;

Enmity and ancient captivity

Let the Finnish waves forget

And they will not be vain malice

Disturb Peter's eternal sleep!

The introduction was written by Pushkin in the genre of Lomonosov's ode high syllable. In addition, the poem contains oratory techniques, used paraphrase trope. A trope in which several concepts are used instead of one. Word "city" replaced by Pushkin “shelter of a wretched Chukhonian”, “Peter’s creation”, “beauty and diva of the fullest countries”.

In the poem special sound organization of speech. These are imperative intonations, solemnity, use Old Slavonicisms“from here”, “dilapidated”, “hail”.

Vocabulary work

full-fledged - midnight, northern.

Blat - swamps

Porphyry-bearing - dressed in purple, a purple robe worn by monarchs on ceremonial occasions.

The introduction is intended to lead the reader to an understanding of the conflict, the main conflict of history and personality.

The plot of the poem “The Bronze Horseman” is three-dimensional.

The story of the flood forms the first semantic plane of the poem - historical. The documentary nature of the story is noted in the author’s “Preface” and in the “Notes”. For Pushkin, the flood is not just a striking historical fact. He looked at it as a kind of final “document” of the era. This is, as it were, the “last legend” in her St. Petersburg “chronicle”, begun by Peter’s decision to found a city on the Neva. The flood is the historical basis of the plot and the source of one of the conflicts of the poem - the conflict between the city and the elements.

The second semantic plan of the poem - conventionally literary, fictional - is given under the title: “Petersburg Tale”.

Rice. 6. Illustration for Pushkin’s poem “The Bronze Horseman” ()

Eugene is the central character of this story. The faces of the remaining residents of St. Petersburg are indistinguishable. These are the “people” crowding on the streets, drowning during a flood (the first part), and the cold, indifferent St. Petersburg people in the second part. The real background of the story about the fate of Eugene was St. Petersburg: Senate Square, the streets and the outskirts where the “dilapidated house” of Parasha stood. Please note that the action in the poem is transferred to the street: during the flood, Evgeny found himself “on Petrova Square”, home, in his “deserted corner”; he, distraught with grief, no longer returns, becoming an inhabitant of the streets of St. Petersburg.

The third semantic plane is legendary-mythological. It is given by the title of the poem - “The Bronze Horseman”. This semantic plan interacts with the historical one in the introduction, sets off the plot narrative about the flood and the fate of Eugene, reminding itself from time to time (primarily with the figure of an “idol on a bronze horse”), and dominates at the climax of the poem (the Bronze Horseman’s pursuit of Eugene). A mythological hero appears, a revived statue - the Bronze Horseman. In this episode, St. Petersburg seems to lose its real outlines, turning into a conventional, mythological space.

Thus, conflict in the poem branched, has several sides. This is a conflict between the little man and the authorities, nature and man, the city and the elements, personality and history, the real and the mythological.

Bibliography

1. Korovina V.Ya. Didactic materials on literature. 7th grade. — 2008.
2. Tishchenko O.A. Homework on literature for grade 7 (for the textbook by V.Ya. Korovina). — 2012.
3. Kuteinikova N.E. Literature lessons in 7th grade. — 2009.
4. Korovina V.Ya. Textbook on literature. 7th grade. Part 1. - 2012.
5. Korovina V.Ya. Textbook on literature. 7th grade. Part 2. - 2009.
6. Ladygin M.B., Zaitseva O.N. Textbook-reader on literature. 7th grade. — 2012.
7. Kurdyumova T.F. Textbook-reader on literature. 7th grade. Part 1. - 2011.
8. Phonochrestomathy on literature for the 7th grade for Korovina’s textbook.

How did Pushkin depict the theme of the “little man” in the poem “The Bronze Horseman”?

Find in the text of the poem features of a high, solemn style.

PETERSBURG TALE

(1833)

PREFACE

The incident described in this story is based on truth. Details of the flood are taken from magazines of the time. The curious can consult the news compiled V. N. Berkhom.

INTRODUCTION On the shore of desert waves He stood, full of great thoughts, and looked into the distance. The River rushed wide before him; the poor boat strove along it alone. Along the mossy, swampy banks there were black huts here and there, a shelter for a wretched Chukhon; And the forest, unknown to the rays In the fog of the hidden sun, made noise all around. And he thought: From here we will threaten the Swede, Here the city will be founded to spite the arrogant neighbor. Here we are destined by nature to cut a window into Europe (1), to stand with a firm foot by the sea. Here on the new waves All the flags will visit us And we will lock them in the open air. A hundred years have passed, and the young city, full of beauty and wonder, From the darkness of the forests, from the swamps of cronyism, Ascended magnificently, proudly; Where once the Finnish fisherman, Nature's sad stepson, Alone on the low shores Threw His dilapidated net into unknown waters, now there, Along the busy shores, Slender masses crowd Palaces and towers; ships in crowds from all over the world rush to rich piers; The Neva is dressed in granite; Bridges hung over the waters; The islands were covered with Her dark green gardens, And before the younger capital Old Moscow faded, Like a Porphyry-bearing widow before the new queen. I love you, Peter’s creation, I love your strict, slender appearance, the sovereign current of the Neva, its granite shoreline, your cast-iron pattern of fences, your brooding nights, transparent twilight, moonless shine, when I write in my room, read without a lamp, and the sleeping communities are clear Deserted streets, and the Admiralty needle is bright, And not letting the darkness of the night into the golden skies, One dawn is in a hurry to replace another, giving the night half an hour (2). I love your cruel winter, motionless air and frost, running of sleighs along the wide Neva; Girls' faces are brighter than roses, And the shine and noise and talk of balls, And at the hour of a single feast The hiss of foamy glasses And the blue flame of punch. I love the warlike liveliness of the amusing fields of Mars, the infantry armies and horses, the monotonous beauty, in their harmoniously unsteady formation, the rags of these victorious banners, the radiance of these copper caps, through those shot through in battle. I love, military capital, Your stronghold is filled with smoke and thunder, When the full-fledged queen bestows a son in the royal house, Or Russia again triumphs over the enemy, Or, having broken its blue ice, the Neva carries it to the seas, And, sensing spring days, rejoices. Show off, city of Petrov, and stand unshakably like Russia, May the defeated element make peace with you; Let the Finnish waves forget their enmity and their ancient captivity, And let not vain malice disturb Peter’s eternal sleep! It was a terrible time, The memory of it is fresh... About it, my friends, for you I will begin my story. My story will be sad. PART ONE Over the darkened Petrograd November breathed the autumn chill. Splashing in a noisy wave at the edges of her slender fence, the Neva tossed about like a sick person in her restless bed. It was already late and dark; The rain beat angrily against the window, And the wind blew, howling sadly. At that time, young Evgeniy came home from among the guests... We will call our hero by this name. It sounds nice; My pen has been with him for a long time and is also friendly. We don’t need his nickname, Although in times gone by It may have shone, And under the pen of Karamzin It sounded in native legends; But now it is forgotten by light and rumor. Our hero lives in Kolomna; somewhere he serves, is shy of the nobles and does not worry about deceased relatives, nor about forgotten antiquities. So, when he came home, Evgeniy shook off his overcoat, undressed, and lay down. But for a long time he could not fall asleep in the excitement of various thoughts. What was he thinking about? that he was poor, that through labor he had to gain himself both independence and honor; That God could give him more intelligence and money. That there are such idle happy people, mindless sloths, for whom life is so easy! That he only serves for two years; He also thought that the weather was not letting up; that the river kept rising; that the bridges have hardly been removed from the Neva and that he will be separated from Parasha for two, three days. Evgeniy sighed heartily and 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 will somehow arrange for himself a humble and simple shelter, and in it he will calm Parasha. “Perhaps another year will pass - I’ll get a place - I’ll entrust our household and the upbringing of the children to Parasha... And we’ll begin to live - and so on to the grave, We’ll both reach hand in hand, And our grandchildren will bury us...” So he dreamed. And he was sad that night, and he wished that the wind would howl less sadly, and that the rain would not knock on the window so angrily... He finally closed his sleepy eyes. And now the darkness of the stormy night is thinning and the pale day is already coming... (3) A terrible day! All night long the Neva was rushing to the sea against the storm, Not having overcome their violent foolishness... And she was unable to argue.... In the morning, crowds of people crowded over her banks, Admiring the splashes, mountains And the foam of the angry waters. But by the force of the winds from the bay, the blocked Neva walked back, angry, stormy, and flooded the islands. The weather became even more ferocious, the Neva swelled and roared, bubbling and swirling like a cauldron, and suddenly, like a frantic beast, it rushed towards the city. Everything ran before her; Everything around suddenly became empty - waters suddenly Flowed into the underground cellars, Channels poured into the gratings, And Petropol floated up like a newt, Waist-deep in water. Siege! attack! evil waves, like thieves, climb into the windows. The canoes are hitting the windows with their sterns as they run. Trays under a wet veil, Wrecks of huts, logs, roofs, Goods of thrifty trade, Belongings of pale poverty, Bridges demolished by a thunderstorm, Coffins from a washed-out cemetery Floating through the streets! The people see God's wrath and await execution. Alas! everything perishes: shelter and food! Where will I get it? In that terrible year, the late Tsar still ruled Russia with glory. He went out onto the balcony, sad and confused, And said: “The Kings cannot cope with God’s elements.” He sat down and in thought with sorrowful eyes looked at the evil disaster. There were stacks of lakes and streets flowed into them like wide rivers. The palace seemed like a sad island. The king said - from end to end, Along the nearby streets and distant ones The generals set off on a dangerous path among the stormy waters (4) To save the people, overwhelmed with fear And drowning at home. Then, on Petrova Square, Where a new house rose in the corner, Where above the elevated porch With raised paws, as if alive, Two guard lions stand, On top of a marble beast, Without a hat, with his hands clasped in a cross, Eugene sat motionless, terribly pale. He was afraid, poor thing, not for himself. He did not hear how the greedy wave rose, washing away his soles, how the rain whipped into his face, how the wind, howling violently, suddenly tore off his hat. His desperate glances were aimed at one edge and were motionless. Like mountains, From the indignant depths The waves rose there and were angry, There the storm howled, There the debris rushed... God, God! there - Alas! close to the waves, Almost at the very bay - An unpainted fence, and a willow And a dilapidated house: there he is, a widow and a daughter, his parasha, his dream.... Or does he see this in a dream? or is our whole life nothing but an empty dream, a mockery of heaven over the earth? And he, as if bewitched, As if chained to marble, cannot get off! There is water around him and nothing else! And with his back turned to him In an unshakable height, Above the indignant Neva River, the Idol stands with outstretched hand on a bronze horse. PART TWO. But now, having had enough of destruction and tired of the insolent riot, the Neva was drawn back, admiring its indignation and carelessly abandoning its prey. So the villain, with his fierce gang, burst into the village, breaks, cuts, crushes and robs; screams, gnashing, violence, abuse, alarm, howl!.... And burdened with robbery, fearing pursuit, tired, the robbers hurry home, dropping their loot on the way. The water has subsided, and the pavement has opened, and my Evgeny hastens, his soul freezing, in hope, fear and longing, to the barely humbled river. But the victories were still full of triumph The waves were still boiling angrily, As if a fire was smoldering under them, The foam was still covering them, And the Neva was breathing heavily, Like a horse running back from battle. Evgeny looks: he sees a boat; He runs to her as if he were on a find; He calls the ferryman - And the carefree ferryman willingly takes Him for a ten-kopeck piece through the terrible waves. And for a long time an experienced rower struggled with the stormy waves, And to hide deep between their rows, Every hour with daring swimmers the boat was ready - and finally it reached the shore. The unfortunate man runs along a familiar street to familiar places. He looks, but he can’t find out. The view is terrible! Everything is piled up in front of him; What is dropped, what is demolished; The houses were crooked, others completely collapsed, others were moved by the waves; All around, as if in a battlefield, bodies are lying around. Evgeny Stremglav, not remembering anything, Exhausted from torment, Runs to where Fate awaits him with unknown news, Like a sealed letter. And now he is running through the suburbs, And there is a bay, and the house is close.... What is this?... He stopped. I went back and came back. He looks... he walks... he still looks. This is the place where their house stands; Here is the willow. There was a gate here - it was demolished, apparently. Where is home? And full of gloomy care He keeps walking, he walks around, Talking loudly to himself - And suddenly, hitting his forehead with his hand, he laughed. The darkness of the night descended on the trembling city, but for a long time the inhabitants did not sleep and talked among themselves about the past day. The morning ray From behind the tired, pale clouds Flashed over the quiet capital And no longer found traces of yesterday's Trouble; The evil was already covered with crimson. Everything returned to the same order. Already the people walked along the free streets with their cold insensibility. Official people, leaving their night shelter, went to work. The brave trader, without despondency, opened the robbed Neva cellar, intending to take out his important loss on his neighbor. Boats were taken from the yards. Count Khvostov, a poet beloved by heaven, already sang in immortal verse the misfortune of the Neva banks. But my poor, my poor Eugene... Alas! his troubled mind could not resist the terrible shocks. The rebellious noise of the Neva and the winds resounded in his ears. Silently full of terrible thoughts, he wandered. He was tormented by some kind of dream. A week passed, a month - he did not return to his home. His deserted corner was rented out by the owner to a poor poet when his term expired. Evgeny did not come for his goods. He soon became alien to the world. I wandered around on foot all day, and slept on the pier; I ate a piece served through the window. His shabby clothes were torn and smoldering. Angry children threw stones after him. Often the coachman's whips lashed Him, because He never cleared the road; it seemed he didn't notice. He was deafened by the noise of internal anxiety. And so he dragged out his unhappy life, neither beast nor man, neither this nor that, nor a resident of the world, nor a dead ghost... Once he slept at the Neva pier. The days of summer were turning to autumn. A stormy wind was breathing. The gloomy wave splashed onto the pier, grumbling and beating against the smooth steps, like a petitioner at the door of judges who did not listen to him. The poor man woke up. It was gloomy: The rain was dripping, the wind howled sadly, And with him in the distance, in the darkness of the night, the sentry called to one another.... Eugene jumped up; He remembered vividly the past horror; hastily He stood up; went to wander, and suddenly Stopped - and quietly began to move his eyes around With wild fear on his face. He found himself under the pillars of the Big House. On the porch, with raised paws, guard lions stood as if alive, and right in the dark heights, above the fenced rock, an idol with outstretched hand sat on a bronze horse. Evgeny shuddered. The scary thoughts in him became clear. He recognized And the place where the flood played, Where the waves of predators crowded, Rioting angrily around him, And the lions, and the square, and the One Who stood motionless in the darkness with a copper head, The One by whose fatal will the city was founded Under the sea.... Terrible he is in the surrounding darkness! What a thought on the brow! What power is hidden in it! And what fire there is in this horse! Where will you gallop, proud horse, and where will you land your hooves? O mighty lord of fate! Isn’t it true that you, above the very abyss, at a height, raised Russia on its hind legs with an iron bridle? (5) The poor madman walked around the base of the idol and cast his wild gaze on the face of the ruler of half the world. His chest felt tight. His forehead lay against the cold grate, his eyes became foggy, a flame ran through his heart, his blood boiled. He became gloomy Before the proud idol And, clenching his teeth, squeezing his fingers, As if overcome by black power, “Good, miraculous builder!” He whispered, trembling angrily, “Too bad for you!...” And suddenly he began to run headlong. It seemed to Him that a formidable king, Instantly ignited with anger, His face quietly turned.... And he runs across the empty square and hears behind him - As if thunder rumbled - A heavy, ringing galloping Along the shocked pavement. And, illuminated by the pale moon, stretching out his hand on high, the Bronze Horseman rushes after him on a loudly galloping horse; And all night long the poor madman. Wherever he turned his feet, the Bronze Horseman galloped behind him with a heavy stomp. And from that time, when he happened to walk that square, Confusion was depicted in his face. He hurriedly pressed his hand to his heart, As if to subdue him torment, He took off his worn cap, He did not raise his embarrassed eyes, And he walked aside. Small island visible on the seashore. Sometimes a belated fisherman lands there with a seine and cooks his poor supper, or an official visits, while walking in a boat on Sunday, a deserted island. Not grown up. Not a blade of grass there. The flood, playing, brought the dilapidated house there. He remained above the water like a black bush. Last spring they brought him on a barge. It was empty and all destroyed. At the threshold They found my madman, And immediately buried his cold corpse for God's sake. NOTES

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

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

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

(4) Count Miloradovich and Adjutant General Benckendorff.

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