The purpose of the lesson: Complete the study of the topic "The life and work of I. S. Turgenev" (Turgenev is a poet)
To teach children to analyze poetry using literary terms; To awaken the "skill", the desire to listen to poetry, to feel their melody. Through poetry, to instill in students a sense of beauty in the worldview.
Lesson equipment: portraits of I. S. Turgenev, P. Viardot. distributing folders-memos "Types of analysis", audio recordings, piano, notes.
During the classes
Teacher's word: Today we are conducting the final, generalizing lesson
according to the work of I.S. Turgenev. I would like to see Turgenev, with whom we all know little. We will talk about Turgenev the poet.
What is poetry?
What is prose?
(Student answers)
Some of us did not even suspect and do not suspect that in search of his true vocation, Turgenev also tried poetic genres.
Turgenev himself contributed a lot to this oblivion. He repeatedly said that he felt a sense of shame at the mention of his poetic activity, and never included poems and poems in his collected works. "I feel a positive, almost physical, antipathy to my poems - and not only do I not have a single copy of my poems - but I would give dearly so that they do not exist in the world at all."
Meanwhile, Turgenev's poetry is interesting in many respects.
It was in poetry that some themes, motives, images of his prose were outlined. If we take into account the experience of Turgenev as a poet, the lyrical and melodic elements of his prose will be more understandable.
This was not a short-term episode with Turgenev, not a simple "test of the pen." In the 30s and the first half of the 40s, poetry occupies a predominant place in his work.
Remember what topics the poets raise in their lyrics?
Patriotic lyrics.
Landscape poetry.
Love lyrics.
Philosophical lyrics, etc.
(Student answers)
Listen to a poem by I. S. Turgenev, determine the theme of this poem. "When I broke up with you ..." ( love lyrics) Yes, today we will talk a lot about Turgenev's love lyrics. Many poets admit that it is very difficult to write about love. This feeling can not be understood and described by everyone.
The poetess Yulia Drunina has a short poem. Listen to him.
Is it possible to say
What is spring?
Only the cranes know this.
Is it possible to say.
What is a wave?
Only ships know about the waves
Is it possible to say
How the nightingales sing
How do nightingales sing at dawn?
Is it possible in words
Talk about love?
These words cannot be found in any dictionary.
But apparently, Turgenev found the right words to reveal the feelings of the characters in poems and works. Why do you think? (The great Turgenev also experienced a similar feeling).
Teacher: Turgenev's love poems are addressed to different women, but most of them are a reflection of his romance with Tatyana Bakunina. The 3 letters of Turgenev to T. Bakunina that have come down to us, and especially 9 letters to him by Bakunina, give an idea of this novel, which is very short-lived, but left its mark both in poetry and in the writer's prose.
The exalted and introspective nature of the girl, sometimes edifying, instructive notes in her attitude towards Turgenev - all this pretty soon cooled Turgenev, and he decided to break up, Bakunina took this extremely painfully.
Students read a poem (a boy and a girl)
Oh, how long have I walked with you!
The forests were so joyful!
And I looked dumb with love
All in your blue eyes
And my soul rejoiced...
Extinct blood flared up
And blossomed, blossomed the earth,
And blossomed, blossomed love.
How luxuriously the river flowed!
How easily the leaves fluttered!
How blessed were the clouds!
How brightly you smiled at me!
Like I have forgotten everything else!
How thoughtful and quiet I was!
How mysteriously moved I was!
How I was not ashamed of my tears!
And now this day is ridiculous to us,
And impulses of love longing
We are funny, like an unfulfilled dream,
Like empty, bad poems.
What feelings does this poem evoke in you? Analyze this poem. (According to plan) (Distributing memo folders)
Teacher's word: It turns out that it is easy to frighten away the first feelings, it is easy to offend and not understand the other, and yet "happiness has no tomorrow; it does not have yesterday either; it has a present - and that is not a day, but an instant."
(I.S. Turgenev)
What remains for the heroes of his poems, his novels?
Memories. Turgenev's poems are so melodious, lyrical, melodic that beautiful romances were written to his poems, which were included in the repertoire of gypsy choirs and were widely used. Now you will hear a wonderful romance to the verses of I.S. Turgenev "On the road", "Morning foggy, gray morning ..." (The romance is being performed)
(French melody sounds)
Students tell.
1 student: For I.S. Turgenev, two words: "Write" and "Love" will remain inseparable for life. The young Spanish singer Polina Viardot, together with her 40-year-old French husband Viardot, comes from Paris to St. Petersburg. Here, a dizzying success awaits her, "the general intoxication of delight." It is remarkable that more than thirty years after the first meetings with Viardot, Turgenev began one of his wonderful "poems in prose" with the lines of a poem by the poet Metlev, with whom three decades ago he admired Polina Viardot and her amazing velvety voice.
(The poem "How good, how fresh were the roses.")
2 student: This is a portrait of the French singer Pauline Viardot. On December 29, 1852, she came on tour to St. Petersburg. Regarding her debut in The Barber of Seville, the newspapers wrote: "The Russians were so excited, as if they were meeting the victorious troops from Paris." And she won the heart of Turgenev even earlier, in 1843, when she first came to Russia. And since 1845, the writer has followed her everywhere. Great love lasted 40 years and ended only with his death. They say that Turgenev wrote a novel about his love for Pauline Viardot, but no one read it, whether he exists or not, it is not known, but we know his wonderful poems and stories.
3 student: Pauline Viardot was a bright star in the theatrical sky and, like many others, went out and would have been forgotten forever if not for Turgenev, whose four decades of life until the last hour of death were given to Pauline Viardot.
(French melody sounds)
4 student: From the moment I saw her for the first time<…>I belonged to her all. I could no longer live anywhere where she did not live, I immediately broke away from everything dear, from my homeland itself, and set off after this woman.
5 student: This is how Dostoevsky saw him during this period: "Poet, talent, aristocrat, handsome, rich, smart, educated, twenty-five years old - I don't know what nature denied him."
6 student:“Here everything is full of memories. What are you doing at this moment? You must now think of me, because all this time I have been completely immersed in memories of you, my beloved, dear! And you will be quite sure that on this day when I If I cease to love you tenderly and deeply, I will cease to exist."
Teacher's word: Turgenev is monogamous. He is passionately in love with Viardot. And we love her. He tries to visit where Polina is with her family, with whom the writer has established extremely warm friendly relations. But all this is a "foreign nest", and he is on its edge. In one of the letters, he writes: "There is no nest of his own, and there is no need for any." He, like a bird, made a flight twice a year: in the spring he went to the Russian village, and in the fall he returned to Paris, he seemed to foresee his death far from his homeland and writes a poem: "How delightful evenings are in Russia."
(The song is performed by the group "White Eagle")
And as a testament, he left these verses:
Dear friend, when will I
To die is my order:
Heaps of all my writings
Destroy you at the same time!
Surround me with flowers
Let the sun into the room
Behind closed doors
Place the musicians.
Forbid them weeping sad!
Let, as if in the hour of feasts,
The impudent waltz will squeal sharply
Under the blows of the bows!
Hearing fading listening
fading strings,
I myself will freeze, falling asleep ...
And deathly silence
Not embarrassed by a vain groan,
I will go to another world
Lulled by a gentle sound
Light earthly joy!
(1876)
What conclusion did you draw about Turgenev's poetic heritage?
(Student answers)
Turgenev the poet does not belong to the stars of the first magnitude, and many of his works attract our attention more for their searches than for their achievements. And yet, some of his poems, some images, motifs and fragments of poems, poems are not only of historical and literary interest, but still retain their poetic charm.
Homework. Write a miniature essay
"How I saw Turgenev in this lesson"
Summing up the lesson.
Exceptional artistic sensitivity of the writer to new forms. public life to a certain extent contributed to his overcoming false ideological premises in concrete work "This was noted by Dobrolyubov in the article" When the real one will come day?", dedicated to the analysis of the novel "On the Eve". In the early romantic lyrics and poems, Turgenev developed the traditions of Pushkin and Lermontov, and later Gogol. common name"Notes of a hunter", which he began to create in the second half of the 40s "The anti-serfdom orientation of a number of stories that arose under beneficial influence Belinsky, led to their huge public outcry.
Compositionally, all essays and short stories are united in the image of a storyteller - a hunter "In lyricism landscape sketches affected the originality of Turgenev's manner. Close by ideological sense to the "Notes of a Hunter" story "Mumu"! contrasting the spiritual insignificance of the spoiled and capricious lady-tyrant to the moral greatness and stamina of the dumb janitor Gerasim, whose figure receives symbolic meaning, personifying the dormant mighty forces of the people and at the same time their humility, the ending of the story speaks of the awakening of a feeling of protest in Gerasim " extra person”,“ Faust ”,“ Asya ”), the type of liberal idealist,“ a man of the forties ”, created by Turgenev in the novel“ Rudin ”. Rudin promotes advanced ideas, is distinguished by the strength of his mind, but in the end he turns out to be a weak, weak-willed dreamer (as opposed to Lezhnev's sober practicality), unable to act. In the psychology of the hero, the social failure of the advanced nobility was reflected. In the novel Noble Nest» Turgenev criticizes the metropolitan bureaucracy (Panshin), poeticizes the romance of the "noble nests" as the focus of the positive forces of Russian culture, in the tragic figure of Lavretsky, he discovers the desire for "recognition folk truth and humility before her,” and in this he sees the moral duty of an advanced nobleman. The idea of fidelity to moral duty is also revealed in the image of Lisa Kalitina, who shares with Lavretsky the desire for a lofty ideal of truth.
IN next novel- "On the eve" - the problem is expanding significantly. The aggravation of the struggle between liberals and democrats in the 60s was reflected in the fact that Turgenev creates the image of a revolutionary raznochinets! Bulgarian Insarov, who has heroic character fighter for the liberation of the Motherland. The simplicity and firmness of his character, spiritual independence and nobility, the ability to act in order to achieve a clearly set goal distinguish Insarov from the romantic Shubin and the modest intellectual Bersenev. Insarov's exceptional personal virtues, his ardent conviction in the need for a heroic struggle for the liberation of the Motherland, enthrall Elena Stakhova, who follows him on a feat.
Foggy morning, gray morning, Sad fields covered with snow, Reluctantly you will remember the time of the past, You will also remember the faces long forgotten. You will remember abundant passionate speeches, Looks, so greedily, so timidly caught, First meetings, last meetings, Favorite sounds of a quiet voice. You will remember parting with a strange smile, You will remember much of your distant native, Listening to the unceasing murmur of the wheels, Looking thoughtfully into the wide sky. November 1843Wandering over the lake
I wander over the lake... The tops of the round hills are foggy, The forest darkens, and the Night cries of the fishermen are sonorously strange. The mute depth is full of a transparent, even shadow of Heaven... And breathes cold and laziness A half-asleep wave. The night has come; behind the bright, sultry, O heart! after a disturbing day, - When will you fall asleep calmly, Perhaps at least the last sleep. 1844TO ***
A downpour rushed through the fields to the shady hills... The sky suddenly brightens... A green, even meadow glistens with a watery brilliance. The storm has passed... How clear the sky is! How resonant and fragrant the air is! How voluptuously resting On every branch, every leaf! Announced by the evening ringing Expanse of peaceful fields ... Let's go for a walk in the green forest, Let's go, sister of my soul. Let's go, O you, my only friend, My last love, Let's go through the radiant valley Into silent, bright fields. And where the golden harvest Laid down in a wavy strip, When the dawn rises, blazing, Above the calmed earth, - Let me sit silently At the feet of your beloved ... Let your hand bashfully Touch my timid lips ... 1844What will I think?
What will I think when I have to die, if I will only be able to think then?Will I think about how I misused life, overslept it, dozed off, failed to taste its gifts?
"How? Is this already death? So soon? Impossible! After all, I haven't had time to do anything yet... I was just going to do it!"
Will I remember the past, dwell on the few bright moments I have lived for expensive images and faces?
Will my bad deeds appear in my memory - and will the burning longing of late repentance find on my soul?
Will I think about what awaits me beyond the coffin ... and is there anything waiting for me there?
No... it seems to me that I will try not to think - and forcibly engage in some kind of nonsense in order to only divert my own attention from the formidable darkness that is blackening ahead.
In my presence, one dying man kept complaining that they did not want to let him gnaw on red-hot nuts ... and only there, in the depths of his dulled eyes, something beat and trembled, like a broken wing of a deathly wounded bird.
August 1879
Caught under the wheel
- What do these moans mean?- I suffer, I suffer greatly.
- Have you heard the splash of the stream when it pushes against the stones?
- I heard ... but why this question?
- And to the fact that this splash and your moans are the same sounds, and nothing more. Only perhaps this: the splashing of a stream can please a different ear, and your moans will not pity anyone. You do not hold them back, but remember: these are all sounds, sounds, like the creak of a broken tree ... sounds - and nothing more.
June 1882
* * *
Give me your hand, and we'll go to the field, Friend of my thoughtful soul... Our life today is in our will, Do you value your life? If not, we will ruin this day, We will cross out this day jokingly. All that we languished about, that we love, - Let's forget until another day ... Let this day, not returning again, Fly over the life of a motley and disturbing, like over a godless crowd Childish, humble love ... Light steam swirls over the river, And the dawn was solemnly lit. Ah, I would like to get along with you, As we got along with you for the first time. "But why, won't the past be repeated again?" - you answer me. Forget everything heavy, everything evil, Forget that we parted. Believe me: I am deeply embarrassed and touched, And my whole soul strives for you As eagerly as never a stream A wave asks for a lake... Look... how wonderfully the sky shines, Take a look, and then look around. Nothing trembles in vain, Grace of peace and love... I recognize the presence of a shrine in myself, even though I am unworthy of it. No shame, no fear, no pride. There is not even sadness in my soul ... Oh, let's go, and will we be silent, Will we speak with you, Will passions rustle like waves, Or fall asleep like clouds under the moon - I know, great moments, Eternal with you we will live. This day may be the day of salvation. Maybe we will understand each other. Spring 1842Hourglass
Day after day leaves without a trace, monotonously and quickly.Life rushed terribly quickly, quickly and without noise, like a stirrup before a waterfall.
It pours evenly and smoothly, like sand in those watches that the figure of Death holds in a bony hand.
When I lie in bed and the darkness surrounds me from all sides, I constantly seem to see this faint and continuous rustle of life flowing away.
I don't feel sorry for her, I don't feel sorry for what else I could have done... I'm terrified.
It seems to me: that motionless figure is standing near my bed ... In one hand hourglass, another she brought over my heart ...
And shudders and pushes my heart into my chest, as if in a hurry to knock out its last blows.
December 1876
When I'm alone (Double)
When I am alone, completely and alone for a long time, it suddenly begins to seem to me that someone else is in the same room, sitting next to me or standing behind my back.When I turn around or suddenly fix my eyes on where I imagine that person, I, of course, see no one. The very feeling of his closeness disappears ... but after a few moments it returns again.
Sometimes I will take my head in both hands and start thinking about him.
Who is he? What he? He is not a stranger to me ... he knows me - and I know him ... He seems to be akin to me ... and there is an abyss between us.
I don't expect a sound or a word from him... He is as dumb as he is motionless... And yet he tells me... he says something obscure, incomprehensible - and familiar. He knows all my secrets.
I'm not afraid of him ... but I'm embarrassed with him and would not like to have such a witness to my inner life... And with all that, I do not feel a separate, alien existence in it.
Are you my twin? Isn't my past self? Yes, and for sure: is there not a whole abyss between the person as I remember myself and the present me?
But he does not come at my command, as if he had his own will.
Sadly, brother, neither you nor me, in the hateful silence of loneliness.
But wait... When I die, we will merge with you - my former, my present self - and rush off forever into the region of irrevocable shadows.
November 1879
Somewhere, sometime, long, long ago, I read a poem. I soon forgot it ... but the first verse remained in my memory:
How beautiful, how fresh the roses were...
Now it's winter; frost fluffed up the windows; one candle burns in a dark room. I sit huddled in a corner; and in my head everything is ringing and ringing:
How beautiful, how fresh the roses were...
And I see myself in front of the low window of a country Russian house. The summer evening quietly melts and turns into night, the warm air smells of mignonette and linden; and on the window, leaning on a straightened arm and bowing her head to her shoulder, a girl sits - and silently and intently looks at the sky, as if waiting for the first stars to appear. How innocently inspired are the pensive eyes, how touchingly innocent are the open, inquiring lips, how evenly the still not fully blossomed, not yet agitated chest breathes, how pure and gentle the appearance young face! I dare not speak to her, but how dear she is to me, how my heart beats!
How beautiful, how fresh the roses were...
And in the room it gets darker and darker... The burning candle crackles, fleeting shadows sway on the low ceiling, the frost creaks and gets angry behind the wall - and a dull, old man's whisper seems...
How beautiful, how fresh the roses were...
Other images rise before me... village life. Two blond heads, leaning against each other, look briskly at me with their bright eyes, scarlet cheeks tremble with restrained laughter, hands are affectionately intertwined, young, kind voices sound in alternation; and a little further away, in the depths of the cozy room, other, also young hands run, tangling their fingers, over the keys of an old piano - and the Lanner waltz cannot drown out the grumbling of the patriarchal samovar ...
How beautiful, how fresh the roses were...
The candle fades and goes out... Who is that coughing there so hoarsely and muffledly? Curling up in a ball, the old dog, my only comrade, huddles and shudders at my feet... I'm cold... I'm chilly... and they all died... died...
How beautiful, how fresh the roses were...
September, 1879
The storm has passed
A thunderstorm rushed low over the earth ... I went out into the garden; everything around was quiet - The tops of the lindens are doused with a soft haze, Enriched with life-giving rain. And the damp wind breathes softly on the leaves... A heavy beetle flies in the thick shade; And, as the face of those who have fallen asleep languidly radiates, The dark meadow radiates with a fragrant steam. What a night! Big, golden Stars lit up... the air is fresh and clean; Raindrops flow from the branches, As if each leaf is crying quietly. Lightning will flare up... Late and distant Thunder will rush in - and rumble weakly... Like steel, it shines, darkening, a wide pond, And here is the house in front of me. And in the moonlight mysterious shadows lie motionless on it ... here is the door; Here is the porch - familiar steps ... And you ... where are you? what are you doing now? Stubborn, angry gods, Haven't they softened? and in the midst of your family, have you forgotten your worries, Calm on your loving breast? Or is the sick soul burning now? Or rest you could not anywhere? And you still live, languishing with all your heart, In a long-empty and abandoned nest? 1844spring evening
Golden clouds walk over the resting earth; The fields are spacious, mute Shine, doused with dew; The brook murmurs in the darkness of the valley, The spring thunder rumbles in the distance, The lazy wind in the aspen leaves Flutters with its caught wing. The forest is silent and thrilling, high, Green, dark forest is silent. Only sometimes in the deep shade A sleepless leaf rustles. The star trembles in the lights of the sunset, Love is a beautiful star, And the soul is light and holy, Easy, as in childhood. 1843* * *
Why do I keep repeating a dull verse, Why, in the midnight silence, That passionate voice, a sweet voice Flies and asks me, - Why? it was not I who lit the fire of mute suffering In her soul... In her chest, in the anguish of sobs That groan did not sound for me. So why does the Soul run so madly at her feet, Like the waves of the sea rushing noisily To the unattainable shores? December 1843* * *
When a long-forgotten name Will stir in me, suddenly, again, Suffering long since subsided, Long ago lost love- I'm ashamed that I live so slowly, That this rubbish keeps my soul That no tears, not even a kiss - That I don't forget anything. I'm ashamed, yes; and there I'll be sad, And can I really think That life won't deceive me now, That I'll save my heart to the end? What right do I proudly reject All the old, all childhood dreams, All that blooms in my soul so timidly, Like the first spring flowers? And I am sad that I was ready to despise and ridicule that memory ... I will repeat the familiar name - I am immersed in the past all over again. 1843When I'm gone...
When I am gone, when everything that was me crumbles to dust - oh you, my only friend, oh you whom I loved so deeply and so tenderly, you who will surely outlive me - do not go to my grave .. You have nothing to do there.Don't forget me... but don't remember me among daily worries, pleasures and needs ... I do not want to interfere with your life, I do not want to impede its calm course. But in the hours of solitude, when that shy and causeless sadness, so familiar kind hearts, take one of our favorite books and look in it for those pages, those lines, those words that used to - remember? - we both had sweet and silent tears at the same time.
Read it, close your eyes and stretch out your hand to me... Stretch out your hand to your absent friend.
I will not be able to shake it with my hand: it will lie motionless under the ground ... but now I am glad to think that perhaps you will feel a light touch on your hand.
And my image will appear to you, and from under the closed eyelids of your eyes tears will flow, like those tears that we, touched by Beauty, once shed together with you, oh you, my only friend, oh you, whom I loved so deeply and so gently! December 1878
* * *
When I broke up with you - I don't want to conceal, That I then loved you, As soon as I could love. But I am not happy with our meeting. I stubbornly keep silent - And your deep, sad look I don't want to understand. And you talk to me about everything about the sweet side. But that bliss My God Now so alien to me! Believe me: since then I have lived a lot, And endured a lot ... And I forgot a lot of joys, And a lot of stupid tears. 1843Without nest
Where can I go? What to do? I'm like a lonely bird without a nest. Ruffled, she sits on a bare, dry branch. Stay sick ... and where to fly?And now she spreads her wings - and rushes into the distance swiftly and directly, like a dove frightened by a hawk. Wouldn't a green, cozy corner open up somewhere, wouldn't it be possible to make at least a temporary nest somewhere?
The bird flies, flies and carefully looks down.
Beneath it is a yellow desert, silent, motionless, dead...
The bird is in a hurry, flies over the desert and keeps looking down, attentively and sadly.
Beneath it is the sea, yellow, dead as a desert. True, it makes noise and moves, but in the endless roar, in the monotonous vibration of its waves, there is no life either, and there is also nowhere to take shelter.
The poor bird is tired... The beat of its wings is weakening; dives her flight. It would have soared up to the sky ... but not to build a nest in this bottomless emptiness!
She finally folded her wings... and with a long groan fell into the sea.
The wave swallowed her up... and rolled forward, still making a senseless noise.
Where can I go? And isn't it time for me to fall into the sea?
January 1878
partridges
Lying in bed, tormented by a long and hopeless illness, I thought: what did I do to deserve this? why am I punished? me, is it me? It's not fair, it's not fair!And the following came to my mind...
A whole family of young partridges - about twenty - crowded into the thick stubble. They huddle together, dig in the loose earth, are happy. Suddenly a dog scares them away - they take off together, at once; a shot is heard - and one of the partridges, with a broken wing, all wounded, falls and, dragging its paws with difficulty, hides itself in a bush of sagebrush.
While the dog is looking for her, the unfortunate partridge, perhaps, also thinks: “There were twenty of us just like me ... Why was it me, I got shot and must die? Why? What did I do to deserve this in front of my other sisters? It's not fair!"
Lie down, sick creature, while death finds you.
June 1882
* * *
I love to drive up to the village in the evening, Over the old church with my eyes to see off the Crows playing a flock; Among the large fields, protected meadows, On the quiet shores of bays and ponds, I love to listen to the barking of wakeful dogs, the lowing of heavy herds, I love the abandoned and desolated garden And the unshakable shadows of limes; The glassy wave of air will not tremble; You stand and listen - and your chest is intoxicated with the Bliss of serene laziness ... You look thoughtfully at the faces of the peasants - And you understand them; I myself am ready to indulge in Their poor, simple life... An old woman goes to the well for water; The high pole creaks and bends; The horses are approaching the trough in succession... A passer-by began to sing a song... A sad sound! But he famously cried out - and only the sound of the wheels of his cart shaking is heard; A girl comes out onto a low porch - And looks at the dawn ... and her round face Blushed with scarlet, bright paint. Swinging slowly, from a hillock, outside the village, Huge wagons descend in single file With a fragrant tribute to a lush field; Behind the hemp, green and dense, They run, dressed in a blue mist, The steppes are wide spills. That steppe - there is no end to it ... spread out, lies ... A streaming breeze runs, it will not run ... The earth is languishing, the sky is growing cold ... And the long forests will be covered with purple purple, and it murmurs slightly, And it subsides, and turns blue ...Cup
I find it funny... and I wonder at myself.My sadness is unfeigned, it is really hard for me to live, my feelings are sad and joyless. And meanwhile I try to give them brilliance and prettiness, I am looking for images and comparisons; I round off my speech, amuse myself with the ringing and consonance of words.
I, as a sculptor, as a goldsmith, diligently sculpt and carve and decorate in every possible way that goblet in which I myself offer poison to myself.
January 1878
I'm sorry...
I feel sorry for myself, others, all people, animals, birds... everything that lives.I pity the children and the old, the unfortunate and the happy... the more happy than the unfortunate.
I pity the victorious, triumphant leaders, great artists, thinkers, poets.
I pity the murderer and his victim, the ugliness and beauty, the oppressed and the oppressors.
How can I get rid of this pity? She does not let me live ... She, yes, that's another boredom.
O boredom, boredom, all dissolved with pity! You can't go down below.
I'd rather be jealous, right!
Yes, I envy the stones.
February 1878
Fedya
Silently enters - yes at night frosty The guy in the village on a tired horse. Gray clouds crowded menacingly, Asterisks are neither great nor small. He meets an old woman at the fence: "Grandma, hello!" - "Ah, Fedya! Where did you go? Where did you disappear? Not a word, not a breath!" - "Where I've been - you won't see from here! Are the brothers alive? Is the native alive? Our hut is still intact, hasn't burned down? Is it true, Parasha, - in Moscow, Our guys told me, - she became a widow by fasting?" - "Your house was like it was - like a full cup, The brothers are all alive, my own is healthy, The neighbor died - Parasha was widowed, Yes, a month later she went for another." The wind blew ... He whistled lightly; He looked up at the sky and pulled his cap on, Silently he waved his hand and quietly turned the horse back - and disappeared. 1843Vocation
(From an unpublished poem) Do not count the hours of separation, Do not sit with folded hands Beneath the barred window... O my friend! oh my gentle friend! Do not follow with rebellious longing Behind the slow ray... Do not be bored... Anxious, long Day will pass... With a decorous smile Receive your guests. Do not shy away from conversation, Do not suddenly drop your eyes - And suddenly do not turn pale ... But when from the fragrant hills Along the edges of the dewy fields A living shadow will run ... And, descending from the peaks of the Urals, Like the palace of Sardanapal, A magnificent day will light up ... From - under the long, dark clouds Quietly a languid month will come out Behind the beloved star, And, anticipating the reward - Fading - to the waterfall I will run after you! There, from a steep-sided bowl, Water beats in a wide wave On blurry slabs... Over an impatient, whimsical, talkative wave Flowers lean... There we are beckoned by a curly oak, A lush, majestic old man, With his cloudy shadow... And he will hide the happy From the gods - jealous gods, From envious people! Cries are heard... over the waters Swans flap their wings... The river sways... Oh, come! The stars are shining, The leaves are slowly trembling - And the clouds are found. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Oh, come! faster than a bird- From sunset to morning day A silent night will sweep across the wide skies ... But while the wave, sparkling, Smiles at the stars And distant peaks Doze, dark valleys Breathe with damp silence - Oh, come! In the darkness, a calm shadow white, light, slender Appear before me! And when, with anxious force, I will rush to meet my dear And my words will freeze ... Without kissing my lips - Let them lie on them, burning, Your pale lips! 1844Prayer
Whatever a person prays for, he prays for a miracle. Every prayer boils down to the following: "Great God, make sure that twice two is not four!"Only such a prayer is real prayer - from face to face. Praying to a universal spirit, a higher being, a Cantonese, Hegelian, purified, ugly god is impossible and unthinkable.
But can even a personal, living, figurative God make sure that twice two is not four?
Every believer is obliged to answer: he can - and is obliged to convince himself of this.
But what if his mind rebelled against such nonsense?
Here Shakespeare will come to his aid: "There are many things in the world, friend Horatio ...", etc.
And if they object to him in the name of truth, he should repeat the famous question: "What is truth?"
And therefore: we will drink and be merry - and pray.
June 1881
O my youth! oh my freshness!
"Oh my youth! oh my freshness!" - I once exclaimed. But when I uttered this exclamation, I myself was still young and fresh.
I just wanted to indulge myself with a sad feeling then, to regret myself in reality, to rejoice in secret.
Now I am silent and do not lament aloud about those losses ... They already gnaw at me constantly, with a deaf bite.
"Eh! better not to think!" the men say.
June 1878
Whose fault?
She held out her tender, pale hand to me ... and I pushed her away with severe rudeness.Perplexity was expressed on the young, sweet face; young kind eyes look at me reproachfully; a young, pure soul does not understand me.
- What is my fault? her lips whisper.
- Your fault? The brightest angel in the most radiant depth of heaven is more likely to be guilty than you.
And yet great is your guilt before me.
Do you want to know her, this heavy guilt, which you cannot understand, which I cannot explain to you?
Here it is: you are youth; i am old age.
January 1878
Man, how many
He grew up in the house of an old aunt Without any troubles, He was afraid of death and consumption At fifteen. At seventeen he was small dense And by the hour Began to indulge in unaccountable "Dreams and dreams." He shed tears; He kindly scolded the crowd - And inhumanly cursed His fate. Then, with his beautiful soul Not co-possessing, He began to love with passionate love All the pale maidens. He was a sorrowful sufferer, He wrote poems... And he did not dare to touch Her hand with his finger. Then, replacing love with friendship, He suddenly fell silent ... And, subdued, entered the service in an infantry regiment. Then he married a neighbor, Put on a dressing gown And became like a mother hen - Raised chickens. And for a long time he lived darkly and stingily - He was known as a kind man ... (And he died piously and stupidly Before the priest.) 1843* * *
Where does the silence come from? Where is the call coming from? What breathes on me in spring And the smell of meadows? What do you, my soul, Suddenly feel sorry for - Tell me: what did I remember Favorite sadness? But all the past, my God, So poor, so dark... And what I cried over - I have been ridiculed for a long time. Ignorant myself, among other Forgetful ignoramuses, I admire the death of my rapturous hopes. But still I am quiet and touched - A shadow has escaped from my soul, As if a magical day has come for me too, When the tree is naked, And juicy and fragrant, Warmed by a gentle ray, A spring leaf is growing ... As if I had risen in my heart And gave freedom tears, And, panting, into the dark forest I run in the evenings... As if I love, love, As if the night is close... And the poplar under the window alone Nods to me slightly... 1844Writer and critic
The writer was sitting at his desk in his room. Suddenly a critic comes in.- How! he exclaimed, “you are still scribbling, composing, after all that I wrote against you, after all big articles, feuilletons, notes, correspondence, in which I proved as twice two four that you do not have - and never had - any talent, that you even forgot native language that you have always been distinguished by ignorance, and now you are completely exhausted, outdated, turned into a rag!
The writer calmly turned to criticism.
“You have written many articles and feuilletons against me,” he replied, “that is certain. But do you know the fable of the fox and the cat? The fox had many tricks, but she still got caught; the cat had only one thing: to climb a tree... and the dogs couldn't get her. So am I: in response to all your articles - I brought you out in one book only; put on your reasonable head a jester's cap - and you will flaunt in it before posterity.
- Before posterity! - the critic burst out laughing, - as if your books will reach posterity?! In forty years, many fifty, no one will read them.
“I agree with you,” answered the writer, “but that’s enough for me. Homer let his Thersites go for eternity; and for your brother and half a century behind the eyes. You don't even deserve clownish immortality. Farewell, sir... Would you like me to call you by your first name? It is hardly necessary ... everyone will say it without me.
June 1878
truth and truth
- Why do you value the immortality of the soul so much? I asked.- Why? Because then I will possess the eternal, undoubted Truth... And this, in my understanding, is the highest bliss!
- In possession of the Truth?
- Certainly.
- Allow; Can you imagine the next scene? Several young people have gathered, talking among themselves ... And suddenly one of their comrades runs in: his eyes shine with an unusual brilliance, he is choking with delight, he can hardly speak. "What is it? What is it?" - "My friends, listen to what I learned, what a truth! The angle of incidence is equal to the angle of reflection! Or here's another: between two points the most shortcut- a straight line!" - "Really! oh, what bliss!” all the young people shout, tenderly throwing themselves into each other’s arms! You are not able to imagine such a scene? Truth can. This is a human, our earthly affair... Truth and Justice! I am ready to die for Truth. All life is built on the knowledge of truth; but how is it to "possess it"? And even find bliss in it?
June 1882
Croquet at Windsor
The Queen is sitting in Windsor Forest... The ladies of the court are playing In a game that has recently become fashionable; That game is called croquet. They roll balls and into the marked circle They are driven so deftly and boldly ... The queen looks, laughs ... and suddenly She fell silent ... her face became dead. It seems to her: instead of chiseled balls, Driven by a nimble spatula - Whole hundreds of heads are rolling, Spattered with black blood ... These are the heads of women, girls and children ... There are traces of torture on their faces, And brutal insults, and animal claws - All the horror of dying sufferings . And here is the queen youngest daughter- A charming maiden - rolls One of the heads - and further, away - And pushes her to the royal feet. The head of a child, in fluffy curls... And the mouth babbles reproaches... And then the queen cried out - and Mad fear covered her eyes. "My doctor! Help! Hurry!" And she believes her vision to him... But he answered her: "I'm not surprised at anything; Newspapers upset your reading. The Times tells us how the Bulgarian people Fell a victim of Turkish wrath... Here are the drops... take... everything it will pass!" And the queen goes to the castle. She returned home - and she stands in thought ... Heavy eyelids bowed ... Oh, horror! A bloody stream is flooded with the entire edge of royal clothing! "I command this to be washed away! I want to forget! Help, British rivers!" "No, your Majesty! You can't wash off That innocent blood forever!" July 20, 1876, St. PetersburgMeeting
DreamI dreamed: I was walking along a wide, bare steppe, dotted with large, angular stones, under a black, low sky.
A path wound between the stones... I walked along it, not knowing myself where and why...
Suddenly something like a thin cloud appeared in front of me on a narrow line of the path... I began to look: the cloud became a woman, slender and tall, in a white dress, with a narrow light belt around her waist... She hurried away from me with nimble steps.
I did not see her face, I did not even see her hair: it was covered with a wavy cloth; but all my heart rushed after her. She seemed to me beautiful, dear and sweet... I certainly wanted to catch up with her, I wanted to look into her face... into her eyes... Oh, yes! I wanted to see, I had to see those eyes.
However, no matter how I hurried, she moved even faster than me, and I could not overtake her.
But now a flat, wide stone appeared across the path ... It blocked her path. The woman stopped in front of him ... and I ran up, trembling with joy and anticipation, not without fear.
I didn't say anything... But she quietly turned to me...
And yet I did not see her eyes. They were closed.
Her face was white... as white as her clothes; bare arms hung motionless. She is all petrified; with her whole body, with every feature of her face, this woman looked like a marble statue.
Slowly, without bending a single limb, she leaned back and sank down on that flat slab. And now I’m lying next to her, lying on my back, all stretched out like a tomb statue, my hands are folded prayerfully on my chest, and I feel that I, too, have turned to stone.
A few moments passed... The woman suddenly got up and walked away.
I wanted to rush after her, but I could not move, could not unclench my folded hands, and only looked after her, with unspeakable anguish.
Then she suddenly turned around, and I saw bright, radiant eyes in a lively, mobile face. She directed them at me and laughed with her lips ... without a sound. Get up and come to me!
But I still couldn't move.
Then she laughed again and quickly withdrew, shaking her head merrily, on which a wreath of small roses suddenly glowed brightly.
And I remained motionless and mute on my tombstone.
February 1878
Who to argue with...
Argue with a man smarter than you: he will defeat you ... but from your very defeat you can benefit for yourself.Argue with a man of equal mind: no matter who wins, at least you will experience the pleasure of fighting.
Argue with a man of the weakest mind ... argue not out of a desire to win; but you can be useful to him.
Argue even with a fool; neither glory nor profit you will get; But why not have some fun sometimes?
Do not argue only with Vladimir Stasov!
June 1878
Stop!
Stop! How I see you now - stay forever in my memory!The last inspired sound escaped your lips - your eyes do not shine and do not sparkle - they fade, burdened with happiness, a blissful consciousness of that beauty that you managed to express, that beauty, after which you seem to stretch out your triumphant, your exhausted hands!
What a light, thinner and cleaner sunlight, spilled over all your members, over the slightest folds of your clothes?
What god, with his gentle breath, threw back your scattered curls?
His kiss burns on your pale brow like marble!
Here she is - open secret, the secret of poetry, life, love! Here it is, here it is, immortality! There is no other immortality - and there is no need. At this moment you are immortal.
It will pass - and you are again a pinch of ashes, a woman, a child ... But what do you care! At this moment - you have become higher, you have become outside of everything transient, temporary. This your moment will never end.
Stop! And let me be a participant in your immortality, drop into my soul a reflection of your eternity!
November 1879
TO ***
It was not a chirping swallow, not a frisky killer whale with a thin strong beak hollowed out its nest in a solid rock ...Then with someone else's cruel family you gradually got used to it and got used to it, my patient clever girl!
July 1878
* * *
On a summer night, when, full of anxious sadness, Thick waves from a sweet face of hair With a caring hand I took away - and you, my friend, with a languid smile Leaning against the window, looked into the huge garden, And dark and mute ... Through the window opened by calm Fresh darkness poured in streams and died away above us, And the songs of the nightingale Thundered plaintively in the thick, fragrant shade, And the wind babbled over the silvery river ... The fields rested. Having betrayed both chest and arms to the night cold, You listened to sobbing sounds for a long time - And you told me, mysterious stars lifting his sad gaze: “We will never be with you, my dear friend, Completely blessed! The cold moon kissed your head sadly. November 1843Russian language
In days of doubt, in days of painful reflections on the fate of my homeland, you alone are my support and support, O great, powerful, truthful and free Russian language! Without you - how not to fall into despair at the sight of everything that happens at home? But one cannot believe that such a language was not given to a great people!June 1882
Path to love
All feelings can lead to love, to passion, everything: hatred, regret, indifference, reverence, friendship, fear, even contempt. Yes, all feelings... except for one: gratitude.Gratitude is a duty; any honest man paying off his debts... but love is not money.
June 1881
