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
Open 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
Alarm last sleep Petra!

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,
Short-sighted, sloths,
For whom life is much easier!
That he serves only 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 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 set off
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 glances
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, anxiety, 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 down 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 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,
I started laughing.
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.
Evgeniy 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 back...
Evgeny jumped up; remembered vividly
He is a past horror; hastily
He got up; went wandering, and suddenly
Stopped - and around
He quietly 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
A 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 an adult
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.

(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 by V. N. Berkh.

INTRODUCTION

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 (1),
Stand with a firm foot by the sea.
Here on new waves
All 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 is 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 (2).
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 noise and 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,
Shot through and 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,
Mindless sloths,
For whom life is much easier!
That he serves only 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? Well…. Why not?
It's hard, of course.
But well, he's young and healthy,
Ready to work day and night;
He'll arrange something for himself
Shelter humble and simple
And it will calm Parasha.
“Perhaps another year will pass -
I’ll get a place - Parashe
I will entrust our farm
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 already coming... (3)
Terrible day!
Neva all night
Longing for the sea against the storm,
Without overcoming their violent foolishness...
And she was unable 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 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 started running; all 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 hundreds 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 set off (4)
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 glances
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 my back is 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 down 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
Everything goes on, he goes around,
Talks loudly to himself -
And suddenly, hitting him on the forehead with his hand,
I started laughing.
Night haze
She came down to 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 hired him out when the deadline passed,
The owner of the poor poet.
Evgeniy 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
He quietly 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? (5)

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 an adult
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.

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

(2) See the verses 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 Benckendorf.

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

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

BRONZE HORSEMAN

Petersburg story

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
stood He, 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
Open 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 is 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,
Short-sighted, sloths,
For whom life is much easier!
That he serves only 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;
He'll arrange it somehow for himself
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 farm
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 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 started running; all 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 set off
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 glances
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.

“The Bronze Horseman” by Pushkin is a fairly short poem, consisting of only 500 verses written in iambic tetrameter. However, such was the talent of the creator (who, by the way, called it “The Petersburg Tale,” putting it in the subtitle) that his work contained everything he wanted to say, turning out to be both a majestic monument to the Peter the Great period and a realistic depiction of modernity. In order to achieve ideal content and the form corresponding to it, Pushkin constantly rewrote each verse several times, sometimes even more than ten. At the center of the narrative part of the poem “The Bronze Horseman,” which can be read in full online or downloaded on our website, is real event- the terrible St. Petersburg flood, which in fact was just one of many troubles. The author shows in retrospect what the decision of the great king led to - these are small sacrifices. The mythological and realistic plans of the poem intersect, closely interact, intertwine to ultimately create a compositional unity in which there is a place for both Peter’s thoughts and love little man, and a description of the “city of Petrov”.

The Boldino exile became one of the most fruitful periods in creative life Pushkin Alexander Sergeevich. The Russian poet then wrote many works that became classics of Russian literature. This period ended with the creation of the poem “The Bronze Horseman,” which was written in less than a month. In it, the poet, who has always been interested in the history of the Fatherland, and especially the personality of Peter 1, simultaneously reflects on the epoch-making influence of this tsar on the development of Russia. This is by no means a historical poem in the classical sense, since the king is not here actor, at least not in the usual sense, he is an “idol”, a monument and a myth.

The text of “The Bronze Horseman” must be read very carefully, since Pushkin introduced into it another important idea about the relationship between man and power, moreover, a tragic relationship based on contradictions. Pushkin touches on two important issues that relate to social contradictions and the future of the country. The poet shows the reader past, present and future events in Russia as one whole, as an inextricably important story. This topic has always interested the poet, but it is presented in such an interpretation for the first time, subsequently finding reflection in a number of his poems. A book about a small man and a great city, about small troubles and great achievements, became one of the first works dedicated to a small drama or internal conflict a hero, but the life of an ordinary person, in which there are also many tragedies, they are simply as invisible as he himself.

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

BRONZE HORSEMAN

Preface

Petersburg story

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

stood He, 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

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 is 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,

Short-sighted, sloths,

For whom life is much easier!

That he serves only 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? Well... why not?

It’s hard, of course;

But well, he's young and healthy,

Ready to work day and night;

He'll arrange something for himself

Shelter humble and simple

And it will calm Parasha.

“Perhaps a year or two will pass -

I’ll get a place, - Parashe

I will entrust our farm

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

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 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 started running; all 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!

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

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 glances

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, anxiety, 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 down 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,

I started laughing.

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.

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.

Evgeniy 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

He quietly 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

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 an adult

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.

Notes

Written in 1833. The poem is one of the deepest, boldest and most perfect in artistically works of Pushkin. The poet in him, with unprecedented strength and courage, shows the historically natural contradictions of life in all their nakedness, without trying to artificially make ends meet where they do not converge in reality itself. In the poem, in a generalized figurative form, two forces are opposed - the state, personified in Peter I (and then in symbolic image a revived monument, “The Bronze Horseman”), and a person in his personal, private interests and experiences. Speaking about Peter I, Pushkin glorified in inspired verses his “great thoughts”, his creation - the “city of Petrov”, a new capital built at the mouth of the Neva, “under the pestilence”, on “mossy, marshy banks”, for military-strategic reasons, economic and to establish cultural connection with Europe. The poet, without any reservations, praises the great state work of Peter, the wonderful city he created - “full of beauty and wonder of the world.” But these state considerations of Peter turn out to be the reason for the death of the innocent Eugene, a simple, ordinary man. He is not a hero, but he knows how and wants to work (“...I am young and healthy, // I’m ready to work day and night”). He was brave during the flood; “He was afraid, poor thing, not for himself. // He did not hear how the greedy wave rose, // Washing his soles, he “boldly” sails along the “barely resigned” Neva to find out about the fate of his bride. Despite poverty, what Eugene values ​​most is “independence and honor.” He dreams of simple human happiness: to marry the girl he loves and live modestly by his own labor. The flood, shown in the poem as a revolt of the conquered, conquered elements against Peter, ruins his life: Parasha dies, and he goes crazy. Peter I, in his great state concerns, did not think about defenseless little people forced to live under the threat of death from floods.

The tragic fate of Eugene and the poet’s deep, sorrowful sympathy for it are expressed in “The Bronze Horseman” with enormous power and poetry. And in the scene of the collision of the mad Eugene with the “Bronze Horseman”, his fiery, gloomy protest and a frontal threat to the “miraculous builder” on behalf of the victims of this construction, the poet’s language becomes as highly pathetic as in the solemn introduction to the poem. “The Bronze Horseman” ends with a spare, restrained, deliberately prosaic message about the death of Eugene:

...Flood

Brought there while playing

The house is dilapidated...

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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.

Pushkin does not give any epilogue that returns us to the original theme of the majestic Petersburg, an epilogue that reconciles us with the historically justified tragedy of Eugene. The contradiction between the full recognition of the rightness of Peter I, who cannot take into account the interests of an individual in his state “great thoughts” and affairs, and the full recognition of the rightness of a little man who demands that his interests be taken into account - this contradiction remains unresolved in the poem. Pushkin was quite right, since this contradiction lay not in his thoughts, but in life itself; it was one of the most acute in the process historical development. This contradiction between the good of the state and the happiness of the individual is inevitable as long as class society exists, and it will disappear with its final destruction.

Artistically, The Bronze Horseman is a miracle of art. In an extremely limited volume (the poem has only 481 verses) there are many bright, lively and highly poetic pictures - see, for example, the individual images scattered before the reader in the introduction, from which the whole majestic image of St. Petersburg is composed; saturated with strength and dynamics, from a number of private paintings, a description of the flood is formed, an image of the delirium of the insane Eugene, amazing in its poetry and brightness, and much more. What distinguishes The Bronze Horseman from other Pushkin poems is the amazing flexibility and variety of its style, sometimes solemn and slightly archaic, sometimes extremely simple, colloquial, but always poetic. The poem is given a special character by the use of techniques almost musical structure images: repetition, with some variations, of the same words and expressions (guard lions over the porch of the house, the image of a monument, “an idol on a bronze horse”), carrying through the entire poem in different changes the same thematic motif - rain and wind , Neva - in countless en aspects, etc., not to mention the famous sound recording of this amazing poem.

Pushkin’s references to Mickiewicz in the notes to the poem refer to a series of poems by Mickiewicz about St. Petersburg in the recently published third part of his poem “The Wake” (“Dziady”). Despite the benevolent tone of the mention of Mickiewicz, Pushkin in a number of places in his description of St. Petersburg in the introduction (and also partly when depicting the monument to Peter I) polemicizes with the Polish poet, who in his poems expressed a sharply negative opinion about Peter I, and about his activities, and about Petersburg, and about Russians in general.

“The Bronze Horseman” was not published during Pushkin’s lifetime, since Nicholas I demanded from the poet such changes in the text of the poem that he did not want to make. The poem was published shortly after Pushkin's death in a revision by Zhukovsky, who completely distorted its main meaning.

From early editions

From the manuscripts of the poem

After the verses “And what will he be with Parasha // Separated for two, three days”:

Here he warmed up heartily

And he daydreamed like a poet:

“Why? why not?

I'm not rich, there's no doubt about that

And Parasha has no name,

Well? what do we care?

Is it really only the rich?

Is it possible to get married? I'll arrange

A humble corner for yourself

And in it I will calm Parasha.

Bed, two chairs; cabbage soup pot

Yes, he is big; What more do I need?

Let's not know whims

Sundays in the summer in the field

I will walk with Parasha;

I’ll ask for a place; Parashe

I will entrust our farm

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..."

After the verse “And the drowning people at home”:

The senator comes from his sleep to the window

And he sees - in a boat along the Morskaya

The military governor is sailing.

The senator froze: “Oh my God!

Here, Vanyusha! stand up a little

Look: what do you see through the window?”

I see, sir: there is a general in the boat

Floats through the gate, past the booth.

“By God?” - Exactly, sir. - “Besides a joke?”

Yes, sir. - The senator rested

And asks for tea: “Thank God!

Well! The Count gave me anxiety

I thought: I’m crazy.”

Rough sketch of Eugene's description

He was a poor official

Rootless, orphan,

Pale, pockmarked,

Without clan, tribe, connections,

Without money, that is, without friends,

However, a citizen of the capital,

What kind of darkness do you meet,

Not at all different from you

Neither in face nor in mind.

Like everyone else, he behaved laxly,

Like you, I thought a lot about money,

How you, feeling sad, smoked tobacco,

Like you, he wore a uniform tailcoat.

Cut a window to Europe- Algarotti said somewhere: “Pйtersbourg est la fenctre par laquelle la Russie regarde en Europe.”

And the pale day is coming...- 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.

The generals set off- Count Miloradovich and Adjutant General Benckendorff.

Russia reared up- See the description of the monument in Mickiewicz. It is borrowed from Ruban - as Mickiewicz himself notes.