1.1.3. Match this fragment novel by A. S. Pushkin "Eugene Onegin" with the following fragment from the novel by M. Yu. Lermontov "A Hero of Our Time". What conclusions did this comparison lead you to?
1.2.3. Compare M. Yu. Lermontov's poem "Duma" with the poem of the same name by N. A. Nekrasov below. What conclusions did this comparison lead you to?
Read the fragments of the works below and complete task 1.1.3.
| VI To your village at the same time The new landowner galloped And equally rigorous analysis In the neighborhood gave a reason: By name Vladimir Lenskoy, With a soul straight from Goettingen, Handsome man in full color of years, Kant's admirer and poet. He is from foggy Germany Bring the fruits of learning: freedom dreams, The spirit is ardent and rather strange, Always an enthusiastic speech And shoulder-length black curls. VII From the cold debauchery of the world Haven't faded yet His soul was warmed Hello friend, caress maidens; He had a sweet heart, an ignorant one, He was cherished by hope And the world's new shine and noise Still captivated the young mind. He amused with a sweet dream Doubts of his heart; The purpose of our life for him Was a tempting mystery He broke his head over her And I suspected miracles. VIII He believed that the soul is dear Must connect with him What, hopelessly languishing, She is waiting for him every day; He believed that friends were ready For his honor, accept fetters And that their hand will not tremble Break the slanderer's vessel; What are the chosen by fate, People sacred friends; That their immortal family By irresistible rays Someday we will be enlightened And the world will give bliss. IX Resentment, regret For good pure love And glory sweet torment In it, blood was stirred early. He traveled the world with a lyre; Under the skies of Schiller and Goethe Their poetic fire The soul ignited in him; And the muses of sublime art, Lucky, he did not shame: He proudly preserved in songs Always high feelings Gusts of a virgin dream And the beauty of important simplicity. X He sang love, obedient to love, And his song was clear Like the thoughts of a simple-hearted maiden, Like a baby's dream, like the moon In the deserts of the serene sky, Goddess of secrets and gentle sighs. He sang separation and sadness, And something, and foggy distance, And romantic roses; He sang those distant countries Where long in the bosom of silence His living tears flowed; He sang the faded color of life Nearly eighteen years old. |
A. S. Pushkin "Eugene Onegin"
**********************************
Grushnitsky - Junker. He is only a year in the service, wears, in a special kind of foppery, a thick soldier's overcoat. He has a St. George soldier's cross. He is well built, swarthy and black-haired; he looks to be twenty-five years old, although he is hardly twenty-one years old. He throws his head back when he speaks, and continually twists his mustache with his left hand, for with his right he leans on a crutch. He speaks quickly and pretentiously: he is one of those people who have ready-made pompous phrases for all occasions, who are simply not touched by the beautiful and who importantly drape themselves in extraordinary feelings, sublime passions and exceptional suffering. To produce an effect is their delight; romantic provincial women like them to the point of madness. In old age, they become either peaceful landowners or drunkards - sometimes both. In their souls there are often many good qualities, but not a penny worth of poetry. Grushnitsky's passion was to recite: he bombarded you with words, as soon as the conversation left the circle of ordinary concepts; I could never argue with him. He does not answer your objections, he does not listen to you. As soon as you stop, he starts a long tirade, apparently having some connection with what you said, but which is really only a continuation of his own speech.
He is rather sharp: his epigrams are often funny, but there are never marks and evil: he will not kill anyone with one word; he does not know people and their weak strings, because he has been occupied with himself all his life. His goal is to become the hero of the novel. He tried so often to assure others that he was a creature not created for the world, doomed to some secret suffering, that he almost convinced himself of this. That is why he wears his thick soldier's overcoat so proudly. I understood him, and for this he does not love me, although we outwardly are on the most friendly terms. Grushnitsky is reputed to be an excellent brave man; I saw him in action; he waves his sword, shouts and rushes forward, closing his eyes. This is something not Russian courage! ..
I don't like him either: I feel that someday we will collide with him on a narrow road, and one of us will be unhappy.
His arrival in the Caucasus is also a consequence of his romantic fanaticism: I am sure that on the eve of his departure from his father's village, he spoke with a gloomy look to some pretty neighbor that he was not going just to serve, but that he was looking for death, because .. here, he probably covered his eyes with his hand and continued like this: “No, you (or you) should not know this! Your a pure soul shudder! Yes, and why? What am I to you! Will you understand me? - and so on. He himself told me that the reason that prompted him to join the K. regiment would remain an eternal secret between him and heaven.
M. Yu. Lermontov "A Hero of Our Time"
Read the works below and complete task 1.2.3.
| Thought Sadly, I look at our generation! His future is either empty or dark, Meanwhile, under the burden of knowledge and doubt, It will grow old in inaction. We are rich, barely from the cradle, The mistakes of the fathers and their late mind, And life is already tormenting us, like a smooth path without a goal, Like a feast at someone else's holiday. Shamefully indifferent to good and evil, At the beginning of the race we wither without a fight; In the face of danger shamefully cowardly And before the authorities - despicable slaves. So skinny fruit, ripe before its time, Not pleasing our taste, nor our eyes, Hanging between flowers, an orphaned stranger, And the hour of their beauty is its fall hour! We dried up the mind with fruitless science, Taya enviously from neighbors and friends Unbelief ridiculed passions. We barely touched the cup of pleasure, But we did not save our young forces; From every joy, fearing satiety, We have extracted the best juice forever. Dreams of poetry, creation of art Sweet delight does not stir our mind; We greedily keep in the chest the rest of the feeling Buried by avarice and useless treasure. When the fire boils in the blood. And our ancestors are boring luxury fun, Their conscientious, childish depravity; And we hurry to the grave without happiness and without glory, Looking back mockingly. Crowd gloomy and soon forgotten We will pass over the world without noise or trace, Not throwing for centuries a fruitful thought, Nor the genius of the work begun. And our ashes, with the severity of a judge and a citizen, A descendant will offend with a contemptuous verse, The mockery of the bitter deceived son Over the squandered father. M. Yu. Lermontov | Thought What is longing and contrition, What is the daily sadness Murmuring, tears, regret - What do we spend, what do we regret? Is the misfortune of a short life For us, the most painful And happiness is so full and sweet What is it worth crying without him?... Swimmers minute in a stormy sea Earthly happiness is incomplete And conquer earthly grief We have been given enough power. Our suffering, our torment, When we tear them down with prayer, For happiness, a strong guarantee In a different house, in a holy country; The world is not eternal, people are not eternal, We will leave the minute house, Will fly out of the chest The soul is an ethereal moth, - And all tears will become pearls Shine in the rays of her crown, And let suffering, softer than roses, She will be paved the way to her father's house. Through the swampy tundra and mountains, When at least the world is one good Do we think we can find them? Why grumble at suffering, Why along the dark path Rebellious life without murmuring, Do not go with the same courage; When, sometimes just as difficult, From the troubles of life and worries That path is not for momentary joy, Does it lead to eternal bliss? N. A. Nekrasov |
Explanation.
1.1.3. Between Grushnitsky and Lensky one can easily detect a striking similarity. “To produce an effect is their delight; romantic provincial women like them to the point of madness. Under old age, they become either peaceful landowners or drunkards - sometimes both, ”Lermontov writes about his hero. And then the lines are even more significant: “His goal is to become the hero of the novel. He tried so often to convince others that he was a creature not created for the world, doomed to some secret suffering, that he himself almost convinced himself of this.
In "Eugene Onegin" about Lensky we read:
Resentment, regret
Good for pure love
And glory sweet torment
In it, blood was stirred early.
Similar? Without a doubt!
Both Grushnitsky and Lensky are more like spectators than participants in the life raging around them, they have no future, they only help to reveal a different, more significant character. Therefore, their fate is sealed.
1.2.3. The central idea of both poems is the condemnation of the spiritual apathy of a generation that is unable to "guess" its destiny and find high civil and moral ideals. Lermontov condemns his generation for the insignificance of an aimless existence:
And we hate, and we love by chance,
Sacrificing nothing to either malice or love,
And some kind of secret cold reigns in the soul,
When the fire boils in the blood.
Nekrasov calls to think again, to remember the great destiny of man and boldly embark on the path of struggle:
Why grumble at suffering,
Why along the dark path
Rebellious life without murmuring,
Don't go with the same courage...
In Lermontov's poem, hopelessness sounds, disbelief that changes are possible, that there are forces that can change something. Nekrasov still notes and positive side of his generation:
Do we often walk with courage
Through the swampy tundra and mountains,
When at least the world is one good
Do we think we can find them?
Therefore, Nekrasov believes:
And conquer earthly grief
We have been given enough power.
Palm cherub, vasisdas and waferAlexander Sergeevich Pushkin wrote the novel "Eugene Onegin" from 1823 to 1831 and, as you know, became the creator of the Russian literary language. Language is a living and developing space. Is Pushkin's language so understandable today? We guess the meaning of a number of words from the context, and even that is not always correct. For the birthday of the poet, we have chosen 10 words from the novel "Eugene Onegin". Try to answer the question what they mean before you look at the comment.
Joke
He had no desire to rummage
In chronological dust
Genesis of the earth;
But days gone by jokes
From Romulus to the present day
He kept it in his memory.
(Chapter 1, VI)
The anecdote here is not at all short story, designed to make the interlocutor laugh, but just an entertaining, interesting, fascinating story.
Note coquette
How early could he disturb
Coquette hearts notes!
(Chapter 1,XII)
In the text of the novel, "note" means "inveterate, notorious, generally recognized" (Dictionary of the language P. T. 2.S. 84). "Note coquette" - an expression that had almost terminological meaning.
3. Pupil of Foblas
He was caressed by the crafty husband,Foblas old student,
And the distrustful old man
And the majestic cuckold
Always happy with myself
With my dinner and my wife.
(Chapter 1, XII)
Foblas- the hero of the novel by J.-B. Louvet de Couvre (1760-1797) "The Adventures of the Chevalier Foblas". common name female seducer.
bowl
Double carriage lights
Merry pour out light
And rainbows on the snow suggest:
dotted with bowls around,
A splendid house shines;
(Chapter 1, XXVII)I
bowls- flat saucers with lamps or candles fixed on them. The bowls placed on the cornices illuminated houses on holidays.
Vasisdas
And a baker, a neat German,
In a paper cap, more than once
Already opened his wasisdas.
(Chapter 1, XXXV)
Vasisdas(distorted French) - window leaf, Germanism in French, here: a play on words between the meaning of the word "window" and the Russian slang nickname for a German: Wasistdas? - What is this? (German).
Disabled person
So really old disabled person
Willingly tends to hear diligently
I will tell the stories of young mustaches,
Forgotten in his hut.
(Chapter 2, XVIII)
Considering in love disabled,
Onegin listened with important view,
How, heart confession loving,
The poet expressed himself;
(Chapter 2, XIX)
Disabled person in language early XIX V. was equal in content to the modern "veteran".
Wafer
The letter trembles in her hand;
Wafer pink dries
On a sore tongue
Chapter 2, XXXII)
Wafer- a circle of adhesive mass or glued paper, with which envelopes were sealed.
Vessel of the slanderer
He believed that friends were ready
For his honor to accept shackles,
And that their hand will not tremble
Break the slanderer's vessel
(Chapter 2,VIII)
Vessel(church) here: weapons (cf.: Psalm, psalm 7, verse 14: “The vessels of death are prepared”), that is, Lensky believed that friends were ready to break the weapon of slander.
Automedon
For that winter is sometimes cold
The ride is pleasant and easy.
Like a verse without a thought in a fashionable song
The winter road is smooth.
Automedons our strikers,
Our triplets are tireless,
And versts, amusing the idle gaze,
In the eyes flash like a fence ...
(Chapter 7, XXXV)
Automedon is the charioteer of Achilles from Homer's Iliad, here (ironic): driver, coachman.
palm cherub
There was Prolasov, who deserved
Known for the meanness of the soul,
In all albums blunted,
St.-Priest, your pencils;
At the door another ballroom dictator
He stood like a magazine picture,
blush like palm cherub
(Chapter 8, XXVI)
palm cherub - a figurine of an angel made of wax, which was sold at the "verb bazaars".
Hor. O village! Horace (lat.)
The village where Eugene missed,
There was a lovely corner;
There's a friend of innocent pleasures
I could bless the sky.
The master's house is secluded,
Protected from the winds by a mountain,
Stood over the river. away
Before him were full of flowers and blossomed
Meadows and fields of gold,
Villages flashed; here and there
The herds roamed the meadows,
And the canopy expanded thick
Huge, neglected garden,
Orphanage of the Pensive Dryads Dryads are forest spirits, nymphs of trees..
The venerable castle was built,
How castles should be built:
Superbly durable and calm
In the taste of smart antiquity.
Everywhere high chambers,
In the living room damask wallpaper,
Kings portraits on the walls,
And stoves in colorful tiles.
All this is now dilapidated,
I don't really know why;
Yes, but my friend
There was very little need
Then that he yawned equally
Among fashionable and vintage halls.
He settled in that peace,
Where is the village old-timer
For forty years I quarreled with the housekeeper,
He looked out the window and crushed flies.
Everything was simple: the floor is oak,
Two wardrobes, a table, a downy sofa,
Not a speck of ink anywhere.
Onegin opened the cupboards;
In one I found an expense notebook,
In another liquor a whole system,
Jugs of apple water
And the eighth year calendar:
An old man with a lot to do
Haven't looked at other books.
Alone among his possessions,
So that only time to spend,
First conceived our Eugene
Establish a new order.
In his wilderness, the desert sage,
Yarem he is an old corvée
I replaced the quitrent with a light one;
And the slave blessed fate.
But in his corner pouted,
Seeing in this terrible harm,
His prudent neighbor;
That he is the most dangerous eccentric.
At first everyone went to him;
But since from the back porch
usually served
Him don stallion,
Just along high road
They will hear them at home, -
Offended by such an act,
All friendship ended with him.
“Our neighbor is ignorant; crazy;
He is a pharmacist; he drinks one
A glass of red wine;
He does not fit the ladies' hands;
All yes yes no; won't say yes
Or no, sir. That was the general voice.
To your village at the same time
The new landowner galloped
And equally rigorous analysis
In the neighborhood, he gave a reason.
By the name of Vladimir Lenskoy,
With a soul straight from Göttingen With a soul straight from Göttingen– The University of Göttingen in Germany was one of the most liberal universities in Europe.,
Handsome, in full bloom of years,
Kant's admirer and poet.
He is from foggy Germany
Bring the fruits of learning:
freedom dreams,
The spirit is ardent and rather strange,
Always an enthusiastic speech
And shoulder-length black curls.
From the cold debauchery of the world
Haven't faded yet
His soul was warmed
Hello friend, caress maidens;
He had a sweet heart, an ignorant one,
He was cherished by hope
And the world's new shine and noise
Still captivated the young mind.
He amused with a sweet dream
Doubts of his heart;
The purpose of our life for him
Was a tempting mystery
He broke his head over her
And I suspected miracles.
He believed that the soul is dear
Must connect with him
What, hopelessly languishing,
She is waiting for him every day;
He believed that friends were ready
For his honor, accept fetters
And that their hand will not tremble
Break the slanderer's vessel;
What are the chosen by fate,
People sacred friends;
That their immortal family
By irresistible rays
Someday we will be enlightened
And the world will give bliss.
Resentment, regret
Good for pure love
And glory sweet torment
In it, blood was stirred early.
He traveled the world with a lyre;
Under the skies of Schiller and Goethe
Their poetic fire
The soul ignited in him;
And the muses of sublime art,
Lucky, he did not shame:
He proudly preserved in songs
Always high feelings
Gusts of a virgin dream
And the beauty of important simplicity.
He sang love, obedient to love,
And his song was clear
Like the thoughts of a simple-hearted maiden,
Like a baby's dream, like the moon
In the deserts of the serene sky,
Goddess of secrets and gentle sighs;
He sang separation and sadness,
And something, and foggy distance,
And romantic roses;
He sang those distant countries
Where long in the bosom of silence
His living tears flowed;
He sang the faded color of life
Nearly eighteen years old.
In the desert, where one Eugene
Could appreciate his gifts,
Lords of neighboring villages
He didn't like feasts;
He fled their noisy conversations,
Their conversation is prudent
About haymaking, about wine,
About the kennel, about my family,
Of course, did not shine with any feeling,
No poetic fire
Neither sharpness nor intelligence,
No dorm arts;
But the conversation of their lovely wives
Much less intelligent.
Rich, good-looking, Lensky
Everywhere he was accepted as a bridegroom;
Such is the custom of the village;
All daughters read their
Behind semi-Russian neighbor;
Will he ascend, immediately conversation
Turns the word around
About the boredom of single life;
They call a neighbor to the samovar,
And Dunya pours tea,
They whisper to her: “Dunya, note!”
Then they bring the guitar;
And she will squeal (my God!):
Come to my golden chamber !.. From the first part of the Dnieper mermaid.
But Lensky, not having, of course,
There is no hunting bond of marriage,
With Onegin I wished cordially
Acquaintance shorter to reduce.
They agreed. Wave and stone
Poetry and prose, ice and fire
Not so different from each other.
First, mutual differences
They were boring to each other;
Then they liked it; Then
Riding every day
And soon they became inseparable.
So people (I repent first)
Nothing to do friends.
But there is no friendship even between us.
Destroy all prejudices
We honor all zeros,
And units - themselves.
We all look at Napoleons;
There are millions of bipedal creatures
We have only one tool
We feel wild and funny.
Eugene was more tolerable than many;
Although he knew people, of course
And in general he despised them, -
But (there are no rules without exceptions)
He was very different from others.
And he respected the feeling of others.
He listened to Lensky with a smile.
The poet's passionate conversation,
And the mind, still in unsteady judgments,
And eternally inspired look, -
Everything was new to Onegin;
He is a cool word
I tried to keep in my mouth
And I thought: it's stupid to disturb me
His momentary bliss;
And without me it's time to come
Let him live for now
Let the world believe in perfection;
Forgive the fever young years
And youthful fever and youthful delirium.
Between them everything gave rise to disputes
And it got me thinking:
Tribes of past treaties,
The fruits of science, good and evil,
And age-old prejudices
And fatal secrets of the coffin,
Fate and life in turn, -
Everything was judged by them.
The poet in the heat of his judgments
Reading, forgetting, meanwhile
Fragments of northern poems,
And condescending Eugene,
Although I didn't understand them much,
Diligently listened to the young man.
But more often occupied by passions
The minds of my hermits.
Away from their rebellious power,
Onegin spoke about them
With an involuntary sigh of regret;
Blessed is he who knew their worries
And finally lagged behind them;
Blessed is he who did not know them,
Who cooled love - separation,
Enmity - slander; sometimes
Yawned with friends and wife
Jealous without worrying flour,
And grandfathers faithful capital
I did not trust the insidious deuce.
When we run under the banner
prudent silence,
When passions go out the flame
And we become funny
Their self-will or impulses
And belated comments, -
The humble are not without difficulty,
We like to listen sometimes
Rebellious language of foreign passions,
And he stirs our hearts.
So exactly an old invalid
Willingly tends to hear diligently
I will tell the stories of young mustaches,
Forgotten in his hut.
But fiery youth
Can't hide anything.
Enmity, love, sadness and joy
She's ready to chat.
In love, being considered a disabled person,
Onegin listened with an air of importance,
How, heart confession loving,
The poet expressed himself;
Your trusting conscience
He casually exposed.
Eugene easily recognized
His love is a young story,
Abundant feelings story,
Not new to us for a long time.
Ah, he loved, as in our summers
They no longer love; as one
The mad soul of a poet
Still condemned to love:
Always, everywhere one dream,
One habitual wish
One familiar sadness.
Nor the cooling distance
Neither long summers separation,
No muses watch data,
Nor foreign beauty,
No noise of fun, no science
Souls have not changed in him,
Warmed by virgin fire.
A little boy, captivated by Olga,
I don't know the pain of the heart yet,
He was a touching witness
Her infantile amusements;
In the shadow of the protective oak forest
He shared her fun
And crowns were read to the children
Friends, neighbors, their fathers.
In the wilderness, under the shadow of the humble,
Full of innocent beauty
In the eyes of her parents, she
Bloomed like a hidden lily of the valley,
Unknown in the grass deaf
No moths, no bees.
She gave the poet
Young delights first dream,
And the thought of her inspired
His tarsals first groan.
Sorry, the games are golden!
He loved thick groves,
solitude, silence,
And the night, and the stars, and the moon,
Moon, sky lamp,
to which we dedicated
Walking in the darkness of the evening
And tears, secret torments of joy ...
But now we see only in it
Replacement of dim lights.
Always humble, always obedient,
Always as cheerful as the morning
How simple is the life of a poet,
Like a kiss of love sweet
Eyes as blue as the sky;
Smile, linen curls,
Everything in Olga ... but any novel
Take it and find it, right
Her portrait: he is very sweet,
I used to love him myself
But he bored me to no end.
Let me, my reader,
Take care of your big sister.
Her sister's name was Tatyana... Sweetest sounding Greek names, which, for example: Agathon, Filat, Fyodor, Thekla, etc., are used among us only among commoners.
For the first time with such a name
Gentle pages of a novel
We will sanctify.
So what? it is pleasant, sonorous;
But with him, I know, inseparable
Remembrance of old
Or girlish! We should all
Confess: the taste is very little
With us and in our names
(Let's not talk about poetry);
We don't get enlightenment
And we got from him
Pretense, nothing more.
So, she was called Tatyana.
nor beauty his sister,
Nor the freshness of her ruddy
She would not attract eyes.
Dika, sad, silent,
Like a forest doe, timid,
She is in her family
Seemed like a stranger girl.
She couldn't caress
To my father, not to my mother;
A child by herself, in a crowd of children
Didn't want to play and jump
And often all day alone
She sat silently by the window.
Thought, her friend
From the most lullaby days
Rural Leisure Current
Decorated her with dreams.
Her pampered fingers
Didn't know needles; leaning on the hoop,
She is a silk pattern
Did not revive the canvas.
The desire to rule is a sign
With an obedient doll child
Cooking jokingly
To be fair, the law of light,
And importantly repeats to her
Lessons from my mother.
But dolls even in these years
Tatyana did not take it in her hands;
About the news of the city, about fashion
Didn't have a conversation with her.
And there were childish pranks
She is alien to: scary stories
In winter in the dark of nights
captivated more heart to her.
When did the nanny collect
For Olga on a wide meadow
All her little friends
She didn't play with burners
She was bored and ringing laughter,
And the noise of their windy joys.
She loved on the balcony
Warn dawn dawn
When in the pale sky
The stars disappear in a round dance,
And quietly the edge of the earth brightens,
And, the messenger of the morning, the wind blows,
And gradually the day rises.
In winter when night Shadow
Possesses half the world,
And share in idle silence,
Under the foggy moon
The lazy East rests
Awakened at the usual hour
She got up by candlelight.
She liked novels early on;
They replaced everything for her;
She fell in love with deceptions
And Richardson and Rousseau.
Her father was a good fellow
Belated in the last century;
But he saw no harm in books;
He never reads
They were considered an empty toy
And didn't care about
What is my daughter's secret volume
Slept until morning under the pillow.
His wife was herself
Mad about Richardson.
She loved Richardson
Not because I read
Not because Grandison
She preferred Lovlace Grandison and Lovlas, heroes of two glorious novels.;
But in the old days, Princess Alina,
Her Moscow cousin
She often told her about them.
At that time there was still a groom
Her husband, but by captivity;
She sighed for another
Who in heart and mind
She liked much more:
This Grandison was a glorious dandy,
Player and Guard Sgt.
Like him, she was dressed
Always in fashion and to the face;
But without asking her advice,
The girl was taken to the crown.
And to dispel her grief,
The sensible husband left soon
To her village where she is
God knows who surrounded
I broke down and cried at first
Almost divorced her husband;
Then she took up housekeeping
I'm used to it and I'm satisfied.
The habit from above is given to us:
She is a substitute for happiness Si j'avais la folie de croire encore au bonheur, je le chercherais dans l'habitude (Chateaubriand) If I had the temerity to still believe in happiness, I would look for it in habit (fr.)..
Shark old Selina
And finally updated
On cotton wool is a dressing gown and a cap.
But her husband loved her heartily,
Did not enter into her ventures,
In everything she believed carelessly,
And he himself ate and drank in a dressing gown;
Quietly his life rolled;
In the evening sometimes converged
Good family of neighbors
unceremonious friends,
And grieve, and slander,
And laugh about something.
Time passes; meanwhile
They will order Olga to cook tea,
Dinner is there, it's time to sleep there,
And the guests are coming from the yard.
They kept in a peaceful life
Sweet old habits;
They have oily Shrovetide
There were Russian pancakes;
Twice a year they fasted;
Loved the round swing
Podbludny songs, round dance;
On Trinity Day, when people
Yawning listens to a prayer,
Tenderly on a beam of dawn
Poor Yorik! - Hamlet's exclamation over the jester's skull. (See Shakespeare and Stern.) he said dejectedly,He held me in his arms.
How often did I play as a child
His Ochakov medal!
He read Olga for me,
He said: will I wait for the day? .. "
And, full of sincere sadness,
Vladimir immediately drew
He has a funeral madrigal.
And there is a sad inscription
Father and mother, in tears,
He honored the ashes of the patriarchal...
Alas! on the reins of life
The instant harvest of a generation,
By the secret will of providence,
Rise, mature and fall;
Others follow them...
So our windy tribe
Grows, worries, boils
And to the grave of great-grandfathers crowds.
Come, our time will come,
And our grandchildren good hour
We will be driven out of the world!
For now, revel in it,
This easy life, friends!
I understand her insignificance
And I am little attached to her;
For ghosts I closed my eyelids;
But distant hopes
Sometimes the heart is disturbed:
Without a trace
I would be sad to leave the world.
I live, I write not for praise;
But I seem to wish
To glorify your sad lot,
To about me, how true friend,
Reminds me of a single sound.
And someone's heart he will touch;
And, preserved by fate,
Perhaps it will not sink in Lethe
A stanza composed by me;
Perhaps (flattering hope!),
The future ignorant will indicate
To my illustrious portrait
And he says: that was a poet!
Please accept my thanks
A fan of peaceful aonids,
O you whose memory will keep
My flying creations
Whose benevolent hand
Shake the old man's laurels!
He believed that the soul is dear
Must connect with him
What, hopelessly languishing,
She is waiting for him every day;
He believed that friends were ready
For his honor to accept shackles,
And that their hand will not tremble
Break the slanderer's vessel;
What are the chosen by fate,
People sacred friends;
That their immortal family
irresistible beams,
Someday, we will be enlightened
And the world will give bliss.
A premonition of love, faith in friends, the expectation of a great field - these are, in fact, all the "gifts" of Lensky, the typical virtues of youth, with which Onegin allowed himself to be interested here, in the countryside, in the wilderness.
(Yes, and who could resist? It is tempting, after all, to bring together in a conversation the real passions of a youngster with his stylized ghosts days of no return so that “the feeling of the old ardor” piquantly “mastered them for a minute” ...)
And further. On the meaning of the last six lines of the stanza. Of course, it seems to us, spontaneous sociologists, that Lotman is right, and these lines are about Korbanarians - but look, in the sixth chapter, describing the death of Lensky, Pushkin again cites the “complete lexicon” of his soul, and what then? No revolution, - poetry filled the soul of the unfortunate young man:
"And you, cherished dreams,
You, ghost of unearthly life,
You, the dreams of the poetry of the saint!
(6 chapter XXXVI),
Echoing the stanza under consideration - also at its end, after “love”, but in plain text, without the possibility of discrepancies: poetry.
"The village where Eugene missed was a lovely corner." The furnishings of my uncle's estate were notable for their uncomplicated old style. Educated Onegin began rural life from the fact that he eased the fate of his peasants:
... he is the yoke of the old corvée
I replaced the quitrent with a light one;
And the slave blessed fate.
But the noble neighbors, having learned about this, decided: Eugene is the most dangerous eccentric. This opinion was strengthened due to the fact that Onegin was unsociable and did not like guests.
At the same time, the young landowner Vladimir Lensky, an admirer of Kant, a lover of fashionable romantic poetry, returned from studying at a German university to another nearby estate. Schiller and Goethe. Unlike the disappointed Yevgeny, Lensky has by no means lost his youthful ardor. He expected bright inspirations from life. The purpose of being for him was a tempting mystery, and he "suspected miracles in it."
He sang separation and sadness,
AND something, And foggy distance
Prone to outspoken effusions, Lensky sought soul mate, aspired to warm friendship. Onegin was funny Lensky's youthful enthusiasm, but he appreciated in him a direct, unsophisticated soul. They became very close friends. Onegin
... thought: it's stupid to interfere with me
His momentary bliss;
And without me it's time to come
Let him live for now
Let the world believe in perfection;
Forgive the fever of youth
And youthful fever and youthful delirium.
Lensky often spoke to Yevgeny about his thirst for love, and at the same time, Onegin's former, now extinguished, impulses surfaced in his memory. Lensky was in love with the daughter of a neighboring landowner, Olga Larina, from childhood. They grew up together.
Olga, a beautiful and sweet girl, had, however, no special spiritual virtues. But they were possessed by her older sister, Tatyana. Thoughtful, sad, silent Tanya in her childhood shied away from ordinary games, replacing them with daydreaming. She passionately loved nature, stories about the innermost and mysterious. From a young age, Tatyana read a lot, especially taking a great interest in sentimental Richardson novels and
