Poem by N.A. Nekrasov "Silence
1 All the rye is like a living steppe, No castles, no seas, no mountains ... Thank you, dear side, For your healing space! Over the distant Mediterranean Sea, Under a sky brighter than yours, I was looking for reconciliation with grief, And I did not find anything! I’m not mine there: I’m moping, I’m numb, Not having overcome my fate, I bent down in front of her there, But you breathed - and I’ll be able, Perhaps, to withstand the struggle! I am yours. Let the murmur of reproach Run on my heels, Not to the heavens of someone else's homeland - I composed songs to my homeland! And now I greedily believe My beloved dream And in tenderness I send greetings to Everything ... I recognize the severity of the rivers, always ready to withstand the war with the thunderstorm, And the even noise of pine forests, And the silence of the villages, And the fields are wide ... The temple of God on the mountain flashed And a childishly pure sense of faith Suddenly smelled on the soul. There is no denial, no doubt, And an unearthly voice whispers: Seize a moment of emotion, Enter with an open head! No matter how warm someone else's sea is, No matter how red someone else's distance is, It is not for her to correct our grief, To open Russian sorrow! The temple of sighing, the temple of sorrow - The wretched temple of your land: Neither the Roman Peter, nor the Colosseum have heard heavy groans! Here the people, beloved by you, Brought their irresistible melancholy burdens - And relieved left! Come in! Christ will lay his hands And, by the will of the saint, From the soul of the shackles, from the heart of torment And the ulcers from the conscience of the sick ... So that the God of the oppressed, the God of the mourners, the God of the generations that lie ahead of this meager altar may overshadow me with a cross! 2 It's time! Behind the spiky rye The forests have begun solid, And the resinous aroma of pines reaches us ... "Beware!" Compliant, good-naturedly humble, The peasant is in a hurry to turn ... Again deserted, quiet and peaceful You, the Russian way, the familiar way! Nailed to the ground by the tears of recruiting wives and mothers, Dust no longer stands as pillars Above my poor homeland. Again you send your heart Soothing dreams, And you can hardly remember what you were like during the war, - When over serene Rus' A silent cart creak rose, Sad, like a people's groan! Russia rose from all sides, All that she had, she gave And sent for protection From all country roads of His obedient sons. The troops were led by officers, The marching drum was thundering, The couriers galloped furiously; Behind the caravan, the caravan Went to the place of the fierce battle - They drove bread, drove the cattle. Curses, groans and prayers Went in the air ... The people looked with satisfied eyes At the wagons with captured enemies, Where did the red-haired Englishmen, the French with red legs And the chalmon-bearing Muslims Look at the gloomy faces. .. And, everything passed ... everything is silent ... So the peaceful swans the village, Suddenly frightened, flies And, with a cry, circling the plain of the Deserted, silent waters, Sits down together in the middle And swims more cautiously ... 3 It is done! Dead inveterations, Living stopped crying, Bloody lancets Cleaned by a weary doctor. Military priest, folding his palms, makes a prayer to heaven. And the Sevastopol horses Graze peacefully ... Glory to you! You were where death flies, You were in fatal cuts And, as a widower changes his wife, Changed dashing horsemen. The war is silent - and does not ask for sacrifices, The people, flocking to the altars, Raise zealous praise to the Heavens that have humbled thunder. Hero people! in a harsh struggle You did not stagger to the end, Lighter is your crown of thorns, Victorious crown! And he is silent ... like a headless corpse, Still in blood, still smoking; Not heaven, hardened, It was demolished by fire and lava: The Stronghold, chosen by glory, succumbed to the Thunder of the Earth! Three kingdoms stood in front of her, Before one ... such thunders Even the sky did not throw From the clouds not made by hands! In it, the air was drunk with blood, They riddled every house And, instead of stone, they covered Her with lead and cast iron. There, on a cast-iron platform And the sea flows under the wall. They carried people there to the churchyard, Like dead bees, losing count ... It is done! The stronghold collapsed, the Troops left ... the desert is all around, the Graves ... People in that country still do not believe in silence, But quietly ... Gray fogs enter the stone wounds, And the Black Sea wave sadly splashes into the shore of glory ... Above all Russia silence, But - not a predecessor of sleep: The sun of truth shines in her eyes, And she thinks she thinks. 4 And the troika still flies like an arrow. Seeing the bridge half-dead, The coachman is a seasoned Russian guy, He lowers his horses into the ravine And rides along a narrow path Under the very bridge ... it’s more accurate! The horses are happy: like underground, It's cool there ... The coachman whistles And drives out into the open meadows ... native, favorite species ... There greens are brighter than emeralds, Tender than silk carpets, And, like silver dishes, On a flat tablecloth of meadows There are lakes ... In a dark night We passed a meadow, And now we are driving all day Between the green walls of Dense birches. I love their shadow And the path strewn with sheets! Here the horse's running is inaudibly quiet, Lightly in their pleasant dampness, And blows on the soul from them Some kind of grace-filled wilderness. Hurry there - to the native wilderness! You can live there without offending either God's or Revizh souls And completing your beloved work. There it will be a shame to be discouraged And indulge in idle sadness, Where the plowman loves to cut monotonous labor with a Chant. Does not grief scratch him? - He is cheerful, he walks behind a plow. He lives without pleasure, dies without regret. Strengthen by his example, Broken under the yoke of grief! Don't chase after personal happiness And give in to God - without arguing ...
Nikolay Alekseevich Nekrasov
Silence
1 All the rye is like a living steppe, No castles, no seas, no mountains ... Thank you, dear side, For your healing space! Over the distant Mediterranean Sea, Under a sky brighter than yours, I was looking for reconciliation with grief, And I did not find anything! I’m not mine there: I’m moping, I’m numb, Not having overcome my fate, I bent down there before her, But you breathed - and I’ll be able, Perhaps, to withstand the struggle! I am yours. Let the murmur of reproach Run on my heels, Not to the heavens of someone else's homeland - I composed songs to my homeland! And now I greedily believe My beloved dream And in tenderness I send greetings to Everything ... I recognize the severity of the rivers, always ready to withstand the war with the thunderstorm, And the even noise of pine forests, And the silence of the villages, And the fields are wide ... The temple of God on the mountain flashed And a childishly pure sense of faith Suddenly smelled on the soul. There is no denial, no doubt, And an unearthly voice whispers: Seize a moment of emotion, Enter with an open head! No matter how warm someone else's sea is, No matter how red someone else's distance is, It is not for her to correct our grief, To open Russian sorrow! The temple of sighing, the temple of sorrow - The wretched temple of your land: Neither the Roman Peter, nor the Colosseum have heard heavy groans! Here the people, beloved by you, Brought their irresistible melancholy burdens - And relieved left! Come in! Christ will lay hands on And, by the will of the saint, From the soul of the shackles, from the heart of torment And the ulcers from the conscience of the sick ... So that the God of the oppressed, the God of the mourners, the God of the generations that lie ahead of this meager altar may overshadow me with a cross! 2 It's time! Behind the spiky rye The forests have begun solid, And the aroma of resinous pines reaches us ... "Beware!" Compliant, good-naturedly humble, The peasant is in a hurry to turn ... Again deserted, quiet and peaceful You, the Russian way, the familiar way! Nailed to the ground by the tears of recruiting wives and mothers, Dust no longer stands as pillars Above my poor homeland. Again you send your heart Soothing dreams, And you can hardly remember yourself What you were like during the war, - When over serene Russia A ceaseless squeak of a cart Arose, Sad, like a people's groan! Russia rose from all sides, All that she had, she gave And sent for protection From all country roads of His obedient sons. The troops were led by officers, The marching drum was thundering, The couriers galloped furiously; Behind the caravan, the caravan Went to the place of the fierce battle - They brought bread, drove the cattle. Curses, groans and prayers Went in the air ... The people looked with satisfied eyes At the wagons with captured enemies, Where did the red-haired Englishmen, the French with red legs And the chalmon-bearing Muslims Look at the gloomy faces. .. And, everything passed ... everything is silent ... So the peaceful swans the village, Suddenly frightened, flies And, with a cry, circling the plain of Deserted, silent waters, Sits down together in the middle And swims more cautiously ... 3 It is done! Dead inveterate, Living stopped crying, Bloody lancets Cleared by a weary doctor. Military priest, folding his palms, makes a prayer to heaven. And the Sevastopol horses Graze peacefully ... Glory to you! You were where death flies, You were in fatal cuts And, as a widower changes his wife, Changed dashing horsemen. The war is silent - and does not ask for sacrifices, The people, flocking to the altars, Raise zealous praise to the Heavens that have humbled thunder. Hero people! in a harsh struggle You did not stagger to the end, Lighter is your crown of thorns, Victorious crown! Is silent and he... like a headless corpse, Still in blood, still smoking; Not heaven, hardened, It was demolished by fire and lava: The Stronghold, chosen by glory, succumbed to the Thunder of the Earth! Three kingdoms stood in front of her, Before one ... such thunders Even the sky did not throw From the clouds not made by hands! In it, the air was drunk with blood, They riddled every house And, instead of stone, they covered It with lead and cast iron. There, on a cast-iron platform And the sea flows under the wall. They carried people there to the churchyard, Like dead bees, losing count ... It is done! The stronghold collapsed, the Troops left ... the desert is all around, the Graves ... People in that country still do not believe in silence, But quietly ... Gray fogs enter the stone wounds, And the Black Sea wave sadly splashes into the shore of glory ... Above all Russia silence, But - not a precursor to sleep: The sun of truth shines in her eyes, And she thinks she thinks. 4 And the troika still flies like an arrow. Seeing the bridge half-dead, The coachman is a seasoned Russian guy, He lowers his horses into the ravine And rides along a narrow path Under the very bridge ... it’s more accurate! The horses are happy: like underground, It's cool there ... The coachman whistles And drives out into the open meadows ... native, favorite species ... There greens are brighter than emeralds, Tender than silk carpets, And, like silver dishes, On a flat tablecloth of meadows There are lakes ... In a dark night We passed a meadow, And now we are driving all day Between the green walls of Dense birches. I love their shadow And the path strewn with sheets! Here the horse's running is inaudibly quiet, Lightly in their pleasant dampness, And blows on the soul from them Some kind of grace-filled wilderness. Hurry there - to the native wilderness! You can live there without offending Neither God's nor Revizh souls And completing your beloved work. There it will be a shame to be discouraged And indulge in idle sadness, Where the plowman loves to cut monotonous labor with a Chant. Does not grief scratch him? - He is cheerful, he walks behind a plow. He lives without pleasure, dies without regret. Strengthen by his example, Broken under the yoke of grief! Don't chase after personal happiness And give in to God - without arguing ...
1857
Nikolay Nekrasov
Other poems of the poet
| 1 All rye around, like a living steppe, No castles, no seas, no mountains ... Thank you, dear side, For your healing space! Over the distant Mediterranean Sea, Under a sky brighter than yours, I was looking for reconciliation with grief, And I did not find anything! I’m not mine there: I’m moping, I’m numb, Not having overcome my fate, I bent down there in front of her, But you breathed - and I will be able, Perhaps, to withstand the struggle! I am yours. Let the murmur of reproach Run on my heels, Not to the heavens of someone else's homeland - I composed songs to my homeland! And now I greedily believe My beloved dream And in tenderness I send Hello to All ... I recognize the Severity of the rivers, always ready to withstand the war With a thunderstorm, And the even noise of pine forests, And silence in villages, And wide fields ... The temple of God on the mountain flashed And a childishly pure sense of faith Suddenly smelled on the soul. There is no denial, no doubt, And an unearthly voice whispers: Seize a moment of emotion, Enter with an open head! No matter how warm someone else's sea is, No matter how red someone else's distance is, It is not for her to correct our grief, To open Russian sorrow! The temple of sighing, the temple of sorrow - The wretched temple of your land: Neither the Roman Peter, nor the Colosseum have heard heavy groans! Here the people, beloved by you, Brought their irresistible melancholy burdens - And relieved left! Come in! Christ will lay his hands And, by the will of the saint, From the soul of the shackles, from the heart of torment And the ulcers from the conscience of the sick ... overshadowed me with a cross, the God of the oppressed, the god of the mourners, the God of the generations to come Before this meager altar! 2 It's time! Behind the spiky rye The forests have begun solid, And the resinous aroma of pines reaches us ... "Beware!" Compliant, good-naturedly humble, The peasant is in a hurry to turn ... Again deserted, quiet and peaceful You, the Russian way, the familiar way! Nailed to the ground by the tears of recruiting wives and mothers, Dust no longer stands as pillars Above my poor homeland. Again you send your heart Soothing dreams, And you can hardly remember yourself What you were like during the war, - When over serene Russia A ceaseless squeak of a cart Arose, Sad, like a people's groan! Russia rose from all sides, gave everything that it had, And sent its obedient sons to protection from all country roads. The troops were led by officers, The marching drum was thundering, The couriers galloped furiously; Behind the caravan, the caravan Stretched to the place of the fierce battle - They brought bread, drove the cattle, Curses, groans and prayers were worn in the air ... The people looked with happy eyes At the trucks with captured enemies, Where did the red-haired Englishmen, Frenchmen with red legs And chalmon-bearing Muslims looked gloomy faces ... And everything passed ... everything is silent ... So the village of peaceful swans, Suddenly frightened, flies And, with a cry, circling the plain of Deserted, silent waters, Sits down together in the middle And swims more cautiously ... 3 It is finished! Dead inveterations, Living stopped crying, Bloody lancets Cleaned by a tired doctor. Military priest, folding his palms, makes a prayer to heaven. And the Sevastopol horses Graze peacefully ... Glory to you! All were where death flies, You were in fatal cuts And, as a widower changes his wife, Changed the dashing horsemen. The war is silent - and does not ask for sacrifices, The people, flocking to the altars, Raise zealous praise to the Heavens that have humbled thunder. The people are a hero! in a harsh struggle You did not stagger to the end, Lighter is your crown of thorns, Victorious crown! And he is silent ... like a headless corpse, Still in blood, still smoking; Not heaven, hardened, It was demolished by fire and lava: The Stronghold, chosen by glory, succumbed to the Thunder of the Earth! Three kingdoms stood in front of her, Before one ... such thunders Even the sky did not throw From the clouds not made by hands! In it, the air was drunk with blood, They riddled every house And, instead of stone, they covered Her with lead and cast iron. There, on a cast-iron platform And the sea flows under the wall. They carried people there to the churchyard, Like dead bees, losing count ... It is done! The stronghold collapsed, the Troops left ... the desert is all around, the Graves ... People in that country still do not believe in silence, But quietly ... Gray fogs enter the stone wounds, And the Black Sea wave sadly splashes into the shore of glory ... Above all Russia silence, But - not a predecessor of sleep: The sun of truth shines in her eyes, And she thinks she thinks. 4 And the troika still flies like an arrow. Seeing the bridge half-dead, The coachman is a seasoned Russian guy, He lowers his horses into the ravine And rides along a narrow path Under the very bridge ... it’s more accurate! Horses are happy: as in the underground, It's cool there ... The coachman whistles And drives out into the open spaces of Meadows ... dear, beloved species! There greens are brighter than emeralds, Tender than silk carpets, And, like silver dishes, On a flat tablecloth of meadows There are lakes ... In the dark night We passed a meadow, And now we are driving all day Between the green walls of Thick birches. I love their shadow And the path strewn with sheets! Here the running of a horse is inaudible, quiet, Easy in their pleasant dampness, And blows on the soul from them Some kind of grace-filled wilderness. Hurry there - to the native wilderness! You can live there without offending either God's or Revizh souls And completing your beloved work. There it will be a shame to be discouraged And indulge in idle sadness, Where the plowman loves to cut monotonous labor with a Chant. Does not grief scratch him? - He is cheerful, he walks after the plow. He lives without pleasure, dies without regret. Strengthen by his example, Broken under the yoke of grief! Don't chase after personal happiness And give in to God - without arguing ... 1856-57 |
Notes (edit)
Published according to Art 1879, vol. I, p. 243-249.
First published: С, 1857, No 9 (censored profile - August 31, 1857), from 115-122, signed: "N. Nekrasov", in five chapters, without art. 107-114, 149-152, with corrections in Art. 14-15, 40, 67, 69, 88, 116-118, 179, introduced for censorship and auto-censoring reasons.
For the first time included in the collected works: Art 1861, part 1, consisting of four chapters, with the restoration of Art. 107-114, with outlines instead of Art. 115-118, 149-152 and with the elimination of corrections made for censorship reasons, in Art. 14-15, 40, 67, 69, 88, 179 (reprinted: the 1st part of all subsequent lifetime editions of Poems; Art 1879, vol. I, according to the editor of this edition S. I. Ponomarev, "with a few corrections indicated by the author himself "(Art 1879, vol. IV, p. XLIX): Art. 116-118, 147-152 are given in the final edition, Art. 173 amended).
White autograph chapter 3, with the date: "December 28, 1856. Rome" - GBL (Zap. Tetr. No. 4, l. 37-38). Authorized copy of the journal text - IR LI (Tetr. Panaeva, fol. 2-8). In this copy, Chapter 4, printed in Sovremennik, is crossed out by the poet's hand (as you know, it was no longer included in the text of the poem).
Dated to 1856-1857. With the exception of Chapter 3, the poem was written in the summer of 1857 after Nekrasov returned from abroad in June 1857.
Chapter 3 is devoted to the ended Crimean War, the defense of Sevastopol, the heroism of the Russian people, which admired the poet. No wonder he himself wanted to go to Sevastopol. “I would like to go to Sevastopol,” he informs Turgenev on June 30 - July 1, 1855. “Don't laugh at this. This desire is strong and serious in me - I'm afraid it won't be too late?” At the same time, in a review of the brochure The Siege of Sevastopol, published in Sovremennik, Nekrasov wrote: “A few time ago, the Times correspondent compared the siege of Sevastopol with the siege of Troy. He used this comparison only in terms of the duration of the siege, but we are ready to admit it in a much broader sense, precisely in the sense of heroism, which captures the deeds of the defenders of Sevastopol ... , pp. 263-264).
Chapter 4 of the poem in the first printed text (see: Other editions and variants, pp. 325-326) included a number of sympathetic lines about the reforms of Alexander II. Apparently, this was a tactical move, and not the result of delusions or illusions, as can be judged by the letter from Nekrasov to I.S. On my return from abroad, I stamped "Silence" (half corrected), and a month later it was announced to me that I should submit my book for the 2nd edition ".
The censor's interference led to a significant distortion of a number of lines: instead of "They did not hear heavily moans", Sovremennik published "They did not hear the hotter prayers"; instead of "Curses, groans and prayers" - "Farewells, groans and prayers"; instead of "Neither God's, nor Revizh's Souls" - "Resignedly Submissive Souls". After the death of the poet, the following explanation, written by him, was found regarding the verses that provoked objections to the censorship:
"Let be murmur of reproach
I was running on my heels
Christ will take off
Shackles from the soul
No worldly authority can put fetters on soul, as well as taking them off. It is taken for granted here shackles of sin, shackles of passion, which life and human weakness imposes, and only God can resolve.
Nailed to the ground by tears
Recruiting wives and mothers
That war is a national disaster and that after it there are orphans, widows and mothers who have lost their children - I did not consider it inconvenient to mention this in verse, especially since this already refers to the past.
Curses, groans and prayers
Were flying in the air ...
Cursed captured enemies, groaned wounded, prayed all struck by the scourge of war. If you cross out curses on the grounds that, perhaps, they cursed their own, then after that they will have to cross out and moans, because, perhaps, they were moaning not only from wounds - and then they would have to cross out and prayers, because you never know what you can pray for?
Military pop
It is known that after the army the most suffering persons in the war are the doctor and the priest, who barely manage to heal and perform the funeral service. Therefore, referring to the doctor, I also mentioned the priest serving with the army - in this sense, the adjective is used military"(GBL, f. 195, M5769.2.4).
The poem expresses an ardent feeling of love for the homeland, which gripped the poet with particular force after his return to Russia from Rome, and is closely related to his other works of the mid-1850s, dedicated to the war ("Listening to the horrors of war ...") and the people (" Unhappy "," There is noise in the capitals ... ") (see about this: Yu.V. Lebedev N.A.Nekrasov and the Russian poem of the 1840s-1850s. Yaroslavl, 1971, p. 104-108, 112-115, etc.). The people as a whole became the hero of the poem. The events of the war, the expectation of change, brought to the poem a vivid sense of the history of the people and their strength. L. N. Tolstoy, in a letter to Nekrasov dated October I, 1857, called the first part of the poem "a wonderful nugget" (Tolstoy L.N. Full collection Op. Ser. 3. Letters, t 60 M., 1949, p. 225).
"Silence" was perceived by contemporaries as a new word in Nekrasov's poetry, but almost immediately interpreted by some critics in a conciliatory spirit: "Its content (the poem" Silence ", - Ed.),- wrote the anonymous reviewer of "The Son of the Fatherland" (perhaps it was V. R. Zotov), - sharply contradicts the spirit of his previous works, and we should note this change in the direction of Mr. wants to see in the poet true humility, obedience to the will of providence instead of heavy sadness, dissatisfaction with his fate and other former properties of his poetry. How not to rejoice at such a change! Mr. Nekrasov was abroad and did not find anything there, he drove back, and here in front of him:
The temple of God on the mountain flashed
And a childishly pure sense of faith
Suddenly I smelled ...
We are very glad that Mr. Nekrasov brought such commendable feelings from abroad that he
The prophetic heart rejoices
And touched to the bottom -
and what he says at the end of the poem:
Broken under the yoke of grief
Don't chase personal happiness
And give in to God without arguing ...
The last verse seems only incomplete to us. True humility compels to give in to people "(SO, 1857, No. 43, p. 1052). Reviewer of" Russian speech "A.S.<А. С. Суворин>wrote: "We really love Mr. Nekrasov, but they love him not only because he is a formidable satirist, that he often manages to evoke with his poems a feeling of indignation in the reader, but especially because he feels the life that he found in pei conciliatory element<...>This reassurance is brought into the poet's soul by a feeling of love for the motherland and for the people.<...>And the cornfield will brighten before the poet, it will become more magnificent and more beautiful, and it will gently sweep the forest with its peaks, and tears will pour from his eyes, and in emotion he sends greetings to the rivers of his family, to the village silence, and to the wide cornfields, and God's temple smells childishly pure on him. sense of faith, and denial and doubt will disappear. "Come in with your head open," a voice whispers to him. And wonderful elastic-metallic poems break out from the poet, poems of sorrow and love pour from his pen when he enters the temple of God and remembers the people he loves so much, about the hero paroda who did not stagger in a harsh struggle to the end whose crown of thorns is lighter than the victorious crown "(Rus. speech, 1861, No. 103-104, p. 805).
Responding to Art 1861, criticism as a whole more closely connected "Silence" with other works of Nekrasov: warlike songs of pseudo-folk content, - Mr. Nekrasov wrote the following little poem, which we like more than all warlike poems:
Listening to the horrors of war<...>
Finally, approaching even closer to our time, when after the war, everything seemed to speak and stir, when our capital began to orate and hopes arose - at this time, in 1856, Mr. Nekrasov wrote the following excellent poem "In the capitals noise ... "" (OZ, 1861, No. 11-12, section II, p. 90.
In the same spirit, "Silence" was assessed in an anonymous review of Art 1861 in the "Svetoch" magazine: "At the first step abroad, the poet surrenders all to its enchanting influence; the infinitely spread fields in front of him and in this air finds a source of renewing forces.All nature in the eyes of the poet takes on a festive look, everything smiles at him, "painful thoughts", he endured heavy suffering, burst into bloody tears, as not long ago painful groans escaped from his sore chest; but everything is forgiven, everything has disappeared ... the poet remembers one thing that he is at home, that he sees what used to be in awe, maybe in a distant, long-past childhood. Anyone who knows how to feel this way, maybe, in all honesty, boldly say that he loved and loves his homeland! .. Nekrasov n did not show us such images that he showed in "Silence" "(St., 1862, Vol. 1, dep. "Critical Review", p. 104-105).
At the same time, interpreting "Silence" in the spirit of the soil, Ap. Grigoriev in his article "Poems by N. Nekrasov" connected it with the previous tradition of Pushkin and Lermontov: "Put in parallel with this sincerity of love for soil the first, timid, albeit secretly passionate, confessions of the great Pushkin in love for soil in" Onegin "- and you you will understand ... of course not that “if not for the circumstances, then Nekrasov would have been higher than Pushkin and Lermontov,” but the difference between the two eras of literature. I am the homeland "and so on.) - and then look to what lofty lyricism Nekrasov goes, not in the least embarrassed" (B, 1862, No. 7, section II,
The desire to view the poem as an attempt at reconciliation with life also took place in Soviet literary criticism (see: Evgeniev-Maksimov V.E. The creative path of N. A. Nekrasov. M. - L., 1953, p. 102-103). A different point of view is presented in the aforementioned work of Yu.V. Lebedev (pp. 109-111, etc.).
Art. 40-41 Neither the Roman Peter, nor the Colosseum heard heavy groans! - St. Peter's Basilica in Rome, the main cathedral of the Roman Catholic Church, an outstanding architectural monument of the 15th - 17th centuries. The mention of the world famous Roman Colosseum, associated with the torment of the first Christians, who were thrown to be torn to pieces by wild beasts there, and St. Peter's Cathedral as a place of pilgrimage should have emphasized with particular force the measure of suffering of the Russian people who came to their rural "poor" church.
Art. 93. Frenchmen with red legs ... - During the Crimean War, the French troops included detachments of the Zouaves, recruited mainly from Algerian tribes; a feature of their uniforms were red trousers.
Art. 123. And he is silent ...- The word "he" refers to Sevastopol.
Art. 179. ... no Revizh souls ... - The revision soul is a unit of accounting for the male population subject to poll tax. It existed in Russia from 1718 to 1887. Persons from whom taxes were collected were included in special registration lists - "revision tales", and therefore were called "revision souls".
1 All the rye is like a living steppe, No castles, no seas, no mountains ... Thank you, dear side, For your healing space! Over the distant Mediterranean Sea, Under a sky brighter than yours, I was looking for reconciliation with grief, And I did not find anything! I’m not mine there: I’m moping, I’m numb, Not having overcome my fate, I bent down in front of her there, But you breathed - and I’ll be able, Perhaps, to withstand the struggle! I am yours. Let the murmur of reproach Run on my heels, Not to the heavens of someone else's homeland - I composed songs to my homeland! And now I greedily believe My beloved dream And in tenderness I send greetings to Everything ... I recognize the Severity of the rivers, always ready to withstand the war with the thunderstorm, And the even noise of pine forests, And the silence of the villages, And wide fields ... The temple of God on the mountain flashed And a childishly pure sense of faith Suddenly smelled on the soul. There is no denial, no doubt, And an unearthly voice whispers: Seize a moment of emotion, Enter with an open head! No matter how warm someone else's sea is, No matter how red someone else's distance is, It is not for her to correct our grief, To open Russian sorrow! The temple of sighing, the temple of sorrow - The wretched temple of your land: Neither the Roman Peter, nor the Colosseum have heard heavy groans! Here the people, beloved by you, Brought their irresistible melancholy burdens - And relieved left! Come in! Christ will lay his hands And, by the will of the saint, From the soul of the shackles, from the heart of torment And the ulcers from the conscience of the sick ... So that the God of the oppressed, the God of the mourners, the God of the generations to come Before this meager altar, overshadowed me with a cross! 2 It's time! Behind the spiky rye The forests have begun solid, And the aroma of resinous pines reaches us ... "Beware!" Compliant, good-naturedly humble, The peasant is in a hurry to turn ... Again deserted, quiet and peaceful You, the Russian way, the familiar way! Nailed to the ground by the tears of recruiting wives and mothers, Dust no longer stands as pillars Above my poor homeland. Again you send your heart Soothing dreams, And you can hardly remember yourself What you were like during the war, - When over serene Russia A ceaseless squeak of a cart Arose, Sad, like a people's groan! Russia rose from all sides, All that she had, she gave And sent for protection From all country roads of His obedient sons. The troops were led by officers, The marching drum was thundering, The couriers galloped furiously; Behind the caravan, the caravan Went to the place of the fierce battle - They drove bread, drove the cattle. Curses, groans and prayers Went in the air ... The people looked with satisfied eyes At the wagons with captured enemies, Where did the red-haired Englishmen, the French with red legs And the chalmon-bearing Muslims Look at the gloomy faces. .. And, everything passed ... everything is silent ... So the peaceful swans the village, Suddenly frightened, flies And, with a cry, circling the plain of the Deserted, silent waters, Sits down together in the middle And swims more cautiously ... 3 It is done! Dead inveterations, Living stopped crying, Bloody lancets Cleaned by a weary doctor. Military priest, folding his palms, makes a prayer to heaven. And the Sevastopol horses Graze peacefully ... Glory to you! You were where death flies, You were in fatal cuts And, as a widower changes his wife, Changed dashing horsemen. The war is silent - and does not ask for sacrifices, The people, flocking to the altars, Raise zealous praise to the Heavens that have humbled thunder. Hero people! in a harsh struggle You did not stagger to the end, Lighter is your crown of thorns, Victorious crown! Is silent and he... like a headless corpse, Still in blood, still smoking; Not heaven, hardened, It was demolished by fire and lava: The Stronghold, chosen by glory, succumbed to the Thunder of the Earth! Three kingdoms stood in front of her, Before one ... such thunders Even the sky did not throw From the clouds not made by hands! In it, the air was drunk with blood, They riddled every house And, instead of stone, they covered Her with lead and cast iron. There, on a cast-iron platform And the sea flows under the wall. They carried people there to the churchyard, Like dead bees, losing count ... It is done! The stronghold collapsed, the Troops left ... the desert is all around, the Graves ... People in that country still do not believe in silence, But quietly ... Gray fogs enter the stone wounds, And the Black Sea wave sadly splashes into the shore of glory ... Above all Russia silence, But - not a predecessor of sleep: The sun of truth shines in her eyes, And she thinks she thinks. 4 And the troika still flies like an arrow. Seeing the bridge half-dead, The coachman is a seasoned Russian guy, He lowers his horses into the ravine And rides along a narrow path Under the very bridge ... it’s more accurate! The horses are happy: like underground, It's cool there ... The coachman whistles And drives out into the open meadows ... native, favorite species ... There greens are brighter than emeralds, Tender than silk carpets, And, like silver dishes, On a flat tablecloth of meadows There are lakes ... In a dark night We passed a meadow, And now we are driving all day Between the green walls of Dense birches. I love their shadow And the path strewn with sheets! Here the horse's running is inaudibly quiet, Lightly in their pleasant dampness, And blows on the soul from them Some kind of grace-filled wilderness. Hurry there - to the native wilderness! You can live there without offending either God's or Revizh souls And completing your beloved work. There it will be a shame to be discouraged And indulge in idle sadness, Where the plowman loves to cut monotonous labor with a Chant. Does not grief scratch him? - He is cheerful, he walks behind a plow. He lives without pleasure, dies without regret. Strengthen by his example, Broken under the yoke of grief! Don't chase after personal happiness And give in to God - without arguing ...
All the rye is like a living steppe,
No castles, no seas, no mountains ...
Thank you, dear side,
For your healing space!
Over the distant Mediterranean Sea,
Under the sky is brighter than yours
I was looking for a reconciliation with grief,
And I didn't find anything!
I’m not mine there: I’m moping, I’m numb,
Not having overcome your fate,
I bent over there in front of her,
But you breathed - and I will be able
Maybe endure the fight!
I am yours. Let the murmur be reproachful
He was running after me,
Not to the heavens of someone else's homeland -
I composed songs to my homeland!
And now I greedily believe
My beloved dream
And in tenderness I send
Hello everyone ... I will find out
The severity of the rivers, always ready
Withstand the war with a thunderstorm,
And the even noise of pine forests,
And the silence of the villages
And the cornfields are wide in size ...
The temple of God on the mountain flashed
And a childishly pure sense of faith
Suddenly smelled on the soul.
No denial, no doubt
And an unearthly voice whispers:
Take a moment of emotion
Come in with your head open!
No matter how warm someone else's sea,
No matter how red someone else's distance,
It is not for her to correct our grief,
Open the Russian sadness!
Temple of sighing, temple of sorrow -
The wretched temple of your land:
Didn't hear heavy moans
Neither the Roman Peter nor the Colosseum!
Here the people, beloved by you,
Your irresistible longing
Brought a holy burden -
And the relieved one was leaving!
Come in! Christ will lay his hands
And will remove by the will of the saint
From the soul of shackles, from the heart of torment
And ulcers from the patient's conscience ...
I heeded ... I was childishly touched ...
And for a long time I sobbed and fought
On the plates with old brows,
To forgive, to intercede,
To overshadow me with a cross
God of the oppressed, god of the mourners,
God of generations to come
Before this meager altar!
It's time! For spicy rye
Continuous forests began,
And the pine scent is resinous
It comes to us ... "Beware!"
Compliant, good-naturedly humble,
The man is in a hurry to roll ...
Again deserted-quiet and peaceful
You, the Russian way, the familiar way!
Nailed to the ground by tears
Recruiting wives and mothers
The dust is no longer pillars
Over my poor homeland.
Again you send your heart
Soothing dreams
And you hardly remember yourself
What were you like during the war, -
When over serene Russia
The incessant creak of the cart arose,
Sad, like the moan of the people!
Russia rose from all sides,
I gave everything I had
And sent for protection
From all the back roads
His obedient sons.
The troops were led by officers
The marching drum was thundering
Couriers galloped furiously;
Behind the caravan, the caravan
I was reaching for the place of the fierce battle -
They brought in bread, drove cattle.
Curses, groans and prayers
Were in the air ... the people
I looked with contented eyes
On wagons with captured enemies,
Where do the red-haired English come from,
French with red feet
And the chalmon-bearing Muslims
The gloomy faces looked ...
And, everything has passed ... everything is silent ...
So the village of peaceful swans,
Suddenly scared away, flying
And, screaming around the plain
Deserted, silent waters
Sits down together in the middle
And swims more carefully ...
It is finished! Dead inveterate,
The living stopped crying
Bloody lancets
Cleared by a tired doctor.
Military pop with folded palms
Makes a prayer to heaven.
And the Sevastopol horses
Graze peacefully ... Glory to you!
You were where death flies,
You were in fatal cuts
And, as a widower changes his wife,
They changed dashing riders.
The war is silent - and does not ask for victims,
The people, flocking to the altars,
Praises zealous
Thunder-humbled heavens
Hero people! in the harsh struggle
You didn't stagger to the end
Lighter is your crown of thorns
A victorious crown!
And he is silent ... like a headless corpse,
Still in blood, still smoking;
Not heaven, hardened,
It was demolished by fire and lava:
A stronghold chosen by glory
I succumbed to the thunder of the earth!
Three kingdoms stood before her,
Before one ... such thunders
The sky also didn’t throw
From the miraculous clouds!
They made the air drunk with blood,
Riddled every house
And, instead of a stone, they covered
Its lead and cast iron.
There, on a cast-iron platform
And the sea flows under the wall.
They carried people there to the churchyard,
Like dead bees, losing count ...
It is finished! The stronghold collapsed,
The troops are gone ... the desert is all around,
Graves ... people in that country
They don't believe the silence yet
But quietly ... Into stone wounds
Gray fogs come in
And the Black Sea wave
Sadly on the shore of glory splashes ...
Silence over all of Russia,
But - not a precursor to sleep:
The sun of truth shines in her eyes,
And she thinks about it.
And the troika still flies like an arrow.
Seeing the bridge half-dead,
An experienced coachman, a Russian guy,
Lowers the horses into the ravine
And rides along a narrow path
Right under the bridge ... it's more accurate!
The horses are happy: like underground,
It's cool there ... the coachman whistles
And goes to the open
Lugov ... dear, favorite species ...
There greenery is brighter than an emerald,
Softer than silk carpets
And like silver dishes
On a flat tablecloth of meadows
There are lakes ... in the dark night
We passed a dry meadow,
And now we are driving all day
Between the green walls
Dense birches. Love their shadow
And a path strewn with sheets!
Here the horse's running is inaudibly quiet,
Easy in their pleasant dampness,
And it blows on the soul from them
Some kind of fertile wilderness.
Hurry there - to the native wilderness!
You can live there without offending
Neither God's nor Revizh's souls
And completing my favorite work.
There it will be a shame to be discouraged
And indulge in idle sadness,
Where the plowman likes to cut
The chant is monotonous work.
Does not grief scratch him? -
He is cheerful, he walks after the plow.
He lives without pleasure
Dies without regret.
Strengthen yourself by his example,
Broken under the yoke of grief!
Don't chase personal happiness
And give in to God - without arguing ...
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