Dad, does anyone know gypsy?
They themselves, of course, know, but from others I have not seen anyone who could create with them.
I would like to learn. I would like to know what he sang... Dad, are they pagans? Maybe he sang about his gods: how they lived, how they fought...
We got home and I'm lying under the covers, and the imagination is still working and creating strange images in a small head already leaning on the pillow.
Now bears are no longer led through the villages. Yes, and the gypsies rarely wander: for the most part they live in the places where they are assigned, and only sometimes, paying tribute to their age-old habit, they get out somewhere to pasture, pull on a sooty linen and live with their whole families, engaged in forging horses, horseshoeing and mercenary . I even happened to see that the tents gave way to hastily put together wooden booths. It was in a provincial town: not far from the hospital and the market square, on a piece of land not yet built up, next to the postal road, the gypsies set up a whole small town. Only swarthy, big-eyed faces, curly hair, dirty clothes of men, dirty bright rags of women and naked bronze children reminded me of the former picture of a free gypsy camp. From the booths came the clanging of iron; I looked into one of them: some old man was forging horseshoes. I looked at his work and saw that this was no longer the old gypsy blacksmith, but a simple artisan who took the order and worked to finish it as soon as possible and pile on a new one. He forged horseshoe after horseshoe, throwing them one by one into a heap in the corner of the booth; he worked with a gloomy, concentrated air, in great haste; it was afternoon; passing quite late in the evening, I went up to the booth and saw an old man doing the same thing. It was already factory. And it was strange to see a gypsy camp almost inside the city, between the zemstvo hospital, the bazaar, the prison and some kind of parade ground, where soldiers studied and every minute they heard "on the shoulder! on guard!" - next to the road, from which the wind raised clouds of dust, bringing it both wooden booths, and bonfires with bowlers, in which gypsies wrapped in colorful scarves cooked some kind of gruel, and the gypsies themselves, and their naked children.
They walked through the villages, giving their last performances. For the last time, the bears showed their artistic skill: they danced, wrestled, showed how boys steal peas, how a young woman walks and how an old woman walks; the last time they received a treat in the form of a glass of vodka, which the bear, standing on its hind legs, took with both soles of its front paws, applied it to its furry snout and, tilting its head back, poured it into its mouth, after which it licked its lips and expressed its pleasure with a quiet roar, full of some strange breaths. For the last time, old men and women came to the gypsies to be treated with a sure, tried and tested remedy, which consisted in lying on the ground under a bear, which lay on the patient's belly, spreading its four paws wide in all directions on the ground, and lay until the gypsies did not consider the session long enough. The last time they were led into the huts, and if the bear voluntarily agreed to enter, he was led to the front corner and planted there, and his consent was rejoiced as a good sign; and if, despite all the persuasion and caresses, he did not cross the threshold, then the owners would be sad, and the neighbors would say:
Shos take e! Bo win know!
Most of the gypsies came from the western districts, so they had to go down to Belsk by a two-verst descent, and, seeing from afar the place of their misfortune, this town with its thatched and iron roofs and two or three bell towers, the women began to howl, the children to cry, and the bears out of sympathy, maybe, who knows? - having understood from human rumors their bitter fate, to roar so much that the wagon trains they met turned off the road to the side so as not to frighten the oxen and horses too much, and the dogs accompanying them with a squeal and trembling huddled under the very wagons, to where the crests tie the tar _maznytsyu_ with _quachem_.
Several old gypsies gathered at the gates of the Belsky police officer. They dressed up to present themselves to the authorities in a decent form. They all wore black or blue cloth beshmets with stacked silver and niello belts, silk shirts with a narrow galloon at the collar, plush trousers, large boots, some with embroidered and cut-through tops, and mostly lambskin hats. This decoration was worn only on the most solemn occasions.
Sleeping? - asked a tall, straight, yellowed from old age gypsies coming out of the courtyard of the policeman, one of the eleven who were obliged to maintain order in the city of Belsk.
Get up, get dressed. Now they will call you, - answered the policeman.
The old men, who until then had been sitting and standing motionless, began to stir and began to talk quietly among themselves. The elder took something out of the pocket of his trousers; everyone surrounded him and looked at the object that was in his hands.
Nothing will happen,” he said at last. - Can he do anything? Is it from him? This is from St. Petersburg, the minister himself ordered. Bears are being beaten in all places.
Let's try, Ivan, maybe somehow ... - answered another old man.
You can try, - answered Ivan dejectedly. - Only he will take our money and will not help in any way.
They were called to the police station. They crowded into the hall, and when a mustachioed man in an unbuttoned police uniform came out to them, from under which a red canaus shirt was visible, the old men fell at his feet. They begged him, offering him money. Many cried.
Your Excellency, - said Ivan, - judge for yourself, where will we go now? We had bears - we lived quietly, we didn’t offend anyone ... We have good fellows who live in a dashing business; yes, your honor, are there not enough horse thieves and Russians? There was no offense from our animals, everyone was happy. Now what will happen? We must go through the world, otherwise we will be thieves, vagabonds. Our fathers and grandfathers drove bears; we do not know how to plow the land; we are all blacksmiths, but it was good to be blacksmiths, going all over the earth to work, but now work will not come to us by itself. And our fellows will be thieves-horse thieves: there is nowhere else to go, your honor. As I say before God, I do not hide: they did a great evil to us and to all good people, having taken the bears from us. Maybe you can help us; God will send you for this, good sir!
The old man fell to his knees and bowed at the police officer's feet. The rest did the same. The major stood grimly, stroking his long mustache and thrusting his other hand into the pocket of his blue breeches. The old man took out a rather thick leather wallet and handed it over.
I won’t take it,” said the police officer gloomily. - Can not do anything.
Yes, you would take, your high nobility, - was heard in the crowd. - Maybe something ... You would write.
I won't take it, - the police officer said louder than before. - My pleasure. Nothing is possible. This is the law... You were given five years of benefits... What can we do here?..
And he threw up his hands.
The old people were silent. The clerk continued:
I myself know what a misfortune it is for you and us - now just look after the horses; yeah what can i do? You, grandfather, hide the money: I don’t take money for nothing. If your guys with horses come across to me - do not be angry, but it is not in my rules to take for nothing. Hide, hide, old man: money will come in handy for you.
Your Excellency, - said Ivan, still holding the wallet in his hands, - allow me to say one more word. Let tomorrow... (his voice trembled) - let tomorrow finish. We are exhausted, exhausted. I came here with mine for two weeks, lived at all ...
There is no more party, old man; have to wait. I'm with you here and so the whole city went crazy. We must together.
Yes, they have already come, your high nobility: as we went to you, we descended from the mountain. Do such a favor, sir! Don't torment us.
Well, if you have come, then tomorrow, at ten o'clock, I will come to you. Do you have guns?
There are guns, but not everyone.
Okay, I'll ask the colonel to give from the team. With God! I'm sorry for you, very sorry.
The old men went to the door, but the police officer called out to them:
Wait, hey you! So I'll tell you what: you go to the pharmacist, Foma Fomich - you know the pharmacy, near the cathedral? - Go tell me I sent you. He will buy all the bear fat from you: it will be used as an ointment for him. And skins, maybe. Will give a good price; they don’t disappear like that, really.
The gypsies thanked and crowded to the pharmacy. Their hearts were broken; almost without bargaining they sold the mortal remains of their friends. Foma Fomich bought up all the fat for fourteen kopecks, and promised to talk about the skins later. The merchant Rogachov, who happened right there, hoping to make a good scam, bargained for all the bear's hams at a nickel a pound.
In the evening of the same day, the Izotov brothers ran out of breath to the treasurer's brother.
Olga Pavlovna, Olga Pavlovna, they've made an appointment for tomorrow! Everyone has come! The colonel has already given us guns,” they said, vying with each other. - Foma Fomich bought all the fat for fourteen kopecks a pound. Rogachov ham...
Wait, wait, Leonid, - Olga Pavlovna interrupted, - why does Foma Fomich need bear fat?
For ointments; excellent pomade for hair growth.
And at the same time, Konstantin told an interesting anecdote about how a certain bald gentleman, smearing his head with bear fat, grew hair on his arms.
And I had to shave them every two days, ”concluded Leonid, and both brothers burst into laughter.
Olga Pavlovna smiled and thought. She had been wearing a chignon for a long time, and the information about bear fat came to her heart; and when in the evening the pharmacist Foma Fomich came to play a bullet with her husband and the treasurer, she started a conversation from afar and deftly forced him to promise to send her bear lipstick.
Certainly, sir, certainly, sir, Olga Pavlovna. Even with spirits. What do you prefer - patchouli or ylang-ylang?
It was a cloudy, cold, real September morning. Occasional light rain fell, but in spite of it, many spectators of both sexes and all ages came to the meadow to watch an interesting spectacle. The city is almost deserted. All available carriages: one carriage available in the city, several phaetons, droshky and rulers - were busy transporting the curious; they delivered them to the camp and returned to the city for new batches. By ten o'clock everyone had already gathered.
The gypsies have lost all hope. There was no great noise in the camp: the women huddled in tents together with small children so as not to see the execution, and only occasionally did a desperate cry escape from one of them; the men frantically made final preparations. They rolled carts to the edge of the camp and tied animals to them.
The police chief and Foma Fomich walked along the row of convicts. The bears were not entirely calm: the unusual situation, strange preparations, a huge crowd, a large accumulation of themselves in one place - everything led them into an excited state; they dashed impulsively on their chains, or gnawed at them with low growls. Old Ivan stood near his huge crooked bear. His son, an elderly gypsy, already with silver gray in his black hair, and his grandson, the same young man - Adonis, to whom Olga Pavlovna turned her attention, with dead faces and burning eyes, hastily tied the bear. The clerk caught up with them.
Well, old man, - he said, - order the guys to start.
The crowd of spectators became agitated, the conversation rose, shouts, but soon everything died down, and in the middle of dead silence a low but important voice was heard. This was said by old Ivan.
Allow me, good sir, to say a word to me. Please, brethren, let me finish first. I am older than all of you: ninety years later I will hit, and I have been driving bears since childhood. And in the whole camp there is no beast older than mine.
He lowered his grey, curly head to his chest, shook it bitterly, and wiped his eyes with his fist. Then he straightened up, raised his head, and continued louder and more firmly than before:
That's why I want to finish first. I thought that I would not live to see such grief, I thought that my beloved bear would not live, but, apparently, it was not fate: with my own hand I must kill him, my breadwinner and benefactor. Untie him, let him loose. He will not go anywhere: we, old people, cannot run from death. Untie him, Vasya: I don't want to kill him like cattle on a leash. Do not be afraid, - he said to the noisy crowd, - he will not touch anyone.
The young man untied the huge beast and led a little away from the cart. The bear sat on its hind legs, lowering its front legs down, and swayed from side to side, sighing heavily and wheezing. He was really very old; his teeth were yellow, his skin turned red and came out; he gazed amiably and sadly at his old master with a single small eye. There was dead silence all around. All that could be heard was the clang of the barrels and the dull thump of the ramrods of the loaded rifles on the wads.
Give me the gun, the old man said firmly.
The son gave him a rifle. He took it and, pressing it to his chest, began to speak again, turning to the bear:
I'll kill you now, Potap. God forbid that my old hand does not tremble, so that a bullet hits you in the very heart. I don't want to torment you, you didn't deserve it, my old bear, my good comrade. I took you as a little bear cub, your eye was gouged out, your nose was rotten from the ring, you were sick and sick; I followed you like a son, walked and took pity on you, and you grew up to be a big and strong bear; there is no other like it in all the camps that have gathered here. And you grew up and did not forget my goodness: among people I had no friend like you. You were kind and humble, and understanding, and learned everything, and I have not seen a beast kinder and more understanding. What was I without you? By your work, my whole family is alive. You made me two triplets of horses, you built a hut for me for the winter. You have done more: you have saved my son from the soldiery. Our big family, and everyone, from the old to the small baby, you still fed and protected in it. And I loved you deeply and did not hurt you, and if I am guilty of anything in front of you, forgive me, I bow at your feet.
He fell at the bear's feet. The beast growled softly and plaintively. The old man sobbed, trembling all over.
Bey, father! his son told him. - Don't break our hearts.
Ivan got up. Tears no longer flowed from his eyes. He moved his gray mane that had fallen on him from his forehead and continued in a firm and sonorous voice:
And now I must kill you... They ordered me, old man, to shoot you with my own hand; you can no longer live in the world. What? May God in heaven judge between us and them.
He cocked the hammer and with a still firm hand aimed at the beast, at the chest under the left paw. And the bear understood. A plaintive, desperate roar escaped from its mouth; he reared up, raising his front paws and as if closing his eyes with them so as not to see the terrible gun. A cry rang out among the gypsies; many in the crowd wept; the old man with a sob threw the gun on the ground and fell helplessly on top of it. The son rushed to pick it up, and the grandson grabbed the gun.
Will be! he shouted in a wild, frenzied voice, his eyes flashing. - Enough! Bay, brothers, one end!
And running up to the beast, he put the muzzle point-blank to his ear and fired. The bear collapsed in a lifeless mass; only his paws trembled convulsively, and his mouth opened, as if yawning. Shots crackled all over the camp, drowned out by the desperate howls of women and children. A light wind carried the smoke to the river.
Broke! broke! - resounded in the crowd. Like a flock of frightened sheep, everyone rushed in all directions. The police officer, the fat Foma Fomich, the boys, Leonid and Konstantin, the young ladies - they all ran in panic, bumping into tents and carts, falling on top of each other and screaming. Olga Pavlovna almost fainted, but fear gave her strength, and, lifting her dress, she ran across the meadow, not thinking about the mess in her dress caused by her hasty flight. The horses harnessed to the carriages waiting for the gentlemen began to rage and rushed in different directions. But the danger was not so great. The beast, maddened with horror, not yet an old dark brown bear, with a piece of chain around its neck, fled with surprising ease; everything parted before him, and he rushed like the wind, straight to the city. Several gypsies with guns ran after him. The few pedestrians that came across on the street pressed against the walls if they did not have time to hide through the gates. The shutters were locked; all living things hid; even the dogs disappeared.
The bear rushed past the cathedral, along the main street, sometimes rushing to the side, as if looking for a place to hide, but everything was locked. He rushed past the shops, met by the frantic cry of the clerks who wanted to frighten him, flew past the bank, the gymnasium, the barracks of the county team, to the other end of the city, ran out onto the road to the river bank and stopped. The pursuers fell behind, but soon a crowd of more than just gypsies appeared from the street. The police officer and the colonel rode in a droshky, with guns in their hands; the gypsies and a platoon of soldiers kept up with them at a run. Leonid and Konstantin were running at the very droshky.
Here he is, here he is! - shouted the police officer. - Fry roll it!
Shots rang out. One of the bullets hit the beast; in mortal fear he ran faster than before. A mile away from the city, up the Rokhla, where he fled, there is a large water mill, surrounded on all sides by a small but dense forest; the beast was heading there. But, entangled in the branches of the river and dams, he lost his way; a wide expanse of water separated him from the dense oak thicket, where he might perhaps find, if not salvation, then respite. But he did not dare to swim. On this side, a strange shrub, growing only in southern Russia, the so-called lucium, has grown densely. Its long, flexible, unbranched stems grow so densely that it is almost impossible for a person to pass through the thicket; but the roots have gaps and clearings into which dogs can crawl, and since they often go there to escape the heat and gradually widen the passage with their sides, a whole labyrinth of passages is formed in a dense thicket. That's where the bear ran. The Mukosei, who were looking at him from the top floor of the mill, saw this, and when a breathless and exhausted chase came running, the police officer ordered to cordon off the place where the beast had hidden.
The unfortunate man huddled in the very depths of the bushes; his wound from a bullet sitting in his thigh was in great pain; he curled up in a ball, his muzzle buried in his paws, and lay motionless, stunned, mad with fear, depriving him of the opportunity to defend himself. The soldiers fired into the bushes, thinking to hit him and make him roar, but it was difficult to hit at random.
He was killed already late in the evening, driven out of the shelter by fire. Anyone who had a gun considered it his duty to put a bullet into a dying beast, and when they took off his skin, it was good for nothing.
Recently I happened to visit Belsk. The city has hardly changed: only the bank burst, and the progymnasium turned into a gymnasium. The police chief was replaced, giving him the position of a private bailiff in a provincial town for his diligence; the Izotov brothers still shout "granron" and "rebur" and run around the city with stories about the latest news; The pharmacist Foma Fomich has grown even fatter and, despite the fact that he did a profitable job by buying bear fat for fourteen kopecks, and selling it for eight hryvnias a pound, which gave a considerable amount in general, he still speaks with great displeasure about beating bears.
That's when I told Olga Pavlovna what kind of horse thief would come out of this Adonis ... Well, so what? A week has not passed - brought my pair of gray, bastard.
Do you know what he is? I asked.
How can he not? After all, he was tried last year for horse-stealing and robbery. Went to hard labor.
Oh, how I felt sorry for him! Olga Pavlovna said sadly.
The poor lady has aged considerably over the years, and despite the fact that, according to Foma Fomich (who told me this in confidence), she smeared four pounds of bear lipstick on her head, her hair not only did not become thicker, but even thinned. However, the chignon covers them so well that absolutely nothing is noticeable.
Summary >> Literature and Russian languageThat gypsies should shoot their own bears after 5 years of delay. ... the next day the execution begins bears. Children and women are watching... Ivan with the biggest and oldest bear. He said goodbye to Potap, ... - his grandson had to shoot bear into ear. One of...
Medvedev, Dmitry Anatolyevich
Abstract >> HistoryFederation 1 class Literature Roy Medvedev. Dmitry Medvedev- President of Russian Federation. M: "Time" ... the highest order of RELP. Dmitry Anatolyevich Medvedev Medvedev became an honorary doctor of the University of the World...
Medvedev, Peter Mikhailovich
Abstract >> HistoryIntroduction Pyotr Mikhailovich Medvedev(January 15 (27), 1837 ... and cultural figures. 1. Biography Peter Medvedev from a theatrical family: older sister ... of many theatrical drama and opera enterprises ( Medvedev- Founder of the first Russian opera troupe...
Analysis of the poem by A.S. Pushkin "Imitation of the Koran"
“And the tired traveler grumbled at God. " is the ninth and final poem of the cycle "Imitation of the Koran", written in 1825. Pushkin, relying on the Russian translation of M. Verevkin, freely transposed fragments of suras, that is, chapters of the Koran. Genre- parable.
Pushkin's cycle "Imitation of the Koran" is not just separate, although interconnected episodes from the life of the prophet, but the most important stages of human destiny in general.
The final poem of the cycle “And the tired traveler grumbled at God. "is clearly parable in nature, and plot its simple enough. The “tired traveler” languishes from thirst caused by the heat of the desert, focused on his physical suffering. He “murmurs” at God, having lost hope for salvation, and does not realize the Divine omnipresence, does not believe in the constant care of the Creator about his creation.
When the hero was already completely losing faith in salvation, he sees a well with water and greedily quenches his thirst. After that, he falls asleep for many years. Waking up, the traveler discovers that by the will of the Almighty he slept for many years and became an old man:
Sobbing, trembling head drooped.
But a miracle happens: God returns youth to the hero:
And the traveler feels both strength and joy;
The resurrected youth played in the blood;
Holy raptures filled the chest:
And with God he goes far on his way.
In this poem, Pushkin uses the mythological plot of "death - rebirth", due to which it is of a generalizing nature. The traveler is perceived as a person in general. His "death" and "resurrection" symbolize the life path of a person from error to truth, from disbelief to faith, from gloomy disappointment to optimism. Thus, the "resurrection" of the hero is interpreted, first of all, as a spiritual rebirth.
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Analysis of the poem by Alexander Pushkin "Imitation of the Koran"
Pushkin is known for his rebellious nature and free spirit. It was difficult for him to keep his thoughts under control and not pour them out on paper. Due to his complex nature, he made enemies and had continuous problems. After his southern exile, the poet again falls under persecution. He is put under arrest in the family estate in Mikhailovskoye. The only thing that the young rebel was allowed to do for two whole years was to visit his neighbors.
In conversations with neighbors, the poet allowed himself not to restrain his own thoughts, sometimes horrifying people. He especially remembered conversations with Praskovya Alexandrovna Osipova. This woman was smart and educated. It was possible to discuss various topics with her for hours and even argue. Their disputes about world religions and faith greatly influenced the poet. Pushkin dedicated his poem "Imitation of the Koran" to this educated woman. In 1825, it came out from the author's pen and caused a lot of controversy.
This poem is still perceived ambiguously. In it, the author touched on such a subtle topic as religion. Hiding behind Islam as the most strict and irreconcilable religion, he spoke about absolutely any faith and religion. He touched on such subtle topics that he received a lot of unfriendly reviews. Pushkin began to be called an atheist. But those who did not understand what the author wanted to convey thought so. And the author wanted to say that religion, faith is not only the observance of some traditions and customs, it is a sincere love for God. And those who do not understand the essence of a particular faith - simply belittles their own personality.
Pushkin himself respected all religions. And this is expressed in how subtly and sensitively he used excerpts from the Koran. The text of the work is based on excerpts from the Koran. To understand the essence of this work, you need to somehow be familiar with Islam, with its basic postulates.
"Imitation of the Quran" is a nine-part verse cycle. Each part is a separate work. Each part tells a story from the life of the Prophet Mohammed. But they are connected by one common idea, theme and meaning.
This poem refers to Pushkin's philosophical lyrics. It shows that the author can not only masterfully describe nature and lyrical experiences. But he is also acutely sensitive to social problems. Subtly feels changes and reacts to them. This work is filled with the spirit of freedom and encourages people to be honest, first of all, with themselves.
After Southern exile Alexander Pushkin was forced to spend almost two years under house arrest, becoming an unspoken prisoner of the Mikhailovskoye family estate, where the poet's father voluntarily assumed the role of warden. The only entertainment of the 26-year-old rebel was visits to neighbors, where he could feel quite free and not be afraid that his seditious speeches would become the property of the tsarist secret police.
The owner of the Trigorskoye estate, which was located not far from Mikhailovsky, was the landowner Praskovya Alexandrovna Osipova, for whom the poet had very warm and friendly feelings. This woman was distinguished by a subtle mind and was a very erudite person, so Pushkin liked to talk with her on various topics, including religious ones. It was Praskovya Osipova, after another heated debate, that the poet dedicated his poem "Imitation of the Koran". written in 1925 and consisting of nine separate chapters.
After reading a series of poems "Imitation of the Quran" one gets the impression that Pushkin considers himself an atheist, but this is not at all the case. He accepts any faith, and treats pious people with respect. But at the same time, he does not want to come to terms with the fact that for someone religion is a path to spiritual purification, and someone uses it for their own selfish purposes.
"Imitation of the Quran" A. Pushkin
Dedicated to P. A. Osipova
I swear by odd and even
I swear by the sword and the right fight,
I swear by the morning star
I swear by the evening prayer:
No, I didn't leave you.
Whom in the shade of calm
I introduced, loving his head,
And hid from vigilant persecution?
Didn't I drink on the day of thirst
You desert waters?
Didn't I give your tongue
Mighty power over the minds?
Be of good cheer, despise deceit,
Follow the path of righteousness,
Love orphans and my Quran
Preach to the trembling creature.
Oh, pure wives of the prophet,
From all you wives are distinguished:
Terrible for you and the shadow of vice.
Under the sweet shadow of silence
Live modestly: you should
Veil of a celibate maiden.
Keep Faithful Hearts
For negs lawful and bashful,
Yes, the gaze of the wicked wicked
Doesn't see your face!
And you, O guests of Mohammed,
Flocking to his supper,
Flee the vanities of the world
Confound my prophet.
In the guy of pious thoughts,
He does not like eloquent
And words immodest and empty:
Honor the feast with humility,
And chaste inclination
His young slaves.
Confused, the prophet frowned,
The blind man hearing the approach:
Runs, but vice does not dare
Show him confusion.
From the heavenly book the list is given
You, prophet, are not for the obstinate;
Calmly recite the Quran
Not forcing the wicked!
Why is the person boasting?
For the fact that he came into the world naked,
That he breathes for a short century,
What is weak will die, how weak was born?
For the fact that God will kill
And resurrect him - at will?
What keeps his days from heaven
And in joys and in bitter share?
For what gave him fruit,
And bread, and dates, and olives,
Blessing his work
And the garden, and the hill, and the cornfield?
But twice the angel will sound;
The thunder of heaven will strike the earth:
And brother will run from brother
And the son will recoil from his mother.
And all will flow before God,
Disfigured by fear;
And the wicked will fall
Covered in fire and dust.
With you anciently, O almighty,
Mighty compete imagined
Crazy pride plentiful;
But you, Lord, humbled him.
You rivers: I give life to the world,
I will punish the earth with death,
My hand is up for everything.
I also, he rivers, give life,
And I also punish with death:
With you, God, I am equal.
But the boasting of vice was silent
From the word of your wrath:
I will raise the sun from the east;
Raise him from the sunset!
The earth is motionless - the sky vaults,
Creator, supported by you,
May they not fall on land and water
And they won't overwhelm us.
You lit the sun in the universe
Let it shine on heaven and earth,
Like flax, drunk with oil,
Crystal shines in the lamp.
Pray to the Creator; he is powerful:
He rules the wind; on a hot day
Sends clouds to the sky;
Gives the earth a tree canopy.
He is merciful: he is to Mohammed
Opened the shining Quran,
May we flow into the light,
And let the fog fall from the eyes.
Not for nothing you dreamed of me
In battle with shaved heads,
With bloodied swords
In the ditches, on the tower, on the wall.
Hear the joyous cry
O children of the fiery deserts!
Lead captive young slaves,
Share the spoils of spoils!
You won: glory to you,
A cowardly laugh!
They are on a call
They did not go, not believing in wondrous dreams.
Enticed by the spoils of war,
Now in repentance
Rekut: take us with you;
But you say: we won't take it.
Blessed are those who fall in battle:
Now they've entered Eden
And drowned in pleasure
Not poisoned by anything.
Arise, fearful one:
In your cave
Holy lamp
It burns until the morning.
heartfelt prayer,
Prophet, go away
sad thoughts,
Crazy dreams!
Until the morning prayer
Create humbly;
heavenly book
Read till morning!
Trading conscience before pale poverty,
Do not scatter your gifts with a prudent hand:
Full generosity is pleasing to heaven.
On the day of the terrible judgment, like a fat field,
O prosperous sower!
She will reward your work a hundredfold.
But if, having regretted the labors of earthly gain,
Giving the beggar a mean alms,
You squeeze your envious hand, -
Know: all your gifts, like a handful of dust,
That heavy rain washes from the stone,
Disappear - God's rejected tribute.
And the tired traveler grumbled at God:
He was thirsty and hungry for shadows.
Wandering in the desert for three days and three nights,
And heavy eyes with heat and dust
With hopeless longing he drove around,
And suddenly he sees a treasure trove under a palm tree.
And he rushed to the desert palm tree,
And eagerly refreshed with a cold stream
Burning heavily tongue and pupils,
And he lay down, and he fell asleep near the faithful donkey -
And many years passed over him
By the will of the lord of heaven and earth.
The hour of awakening for the traveler has come;
He gets up and hears an unknown voice:
“How long have you been in a deep sleep in the desert?”
And he answers: the sun is already high
In the morning sky shone yesterday;
From the morning I slept deeply until morning.
But a voice: “O traveler, you slept longer;
Look: you lay down young, but rose up as an old man;
Already the palm tree has decayed, and the well is cold
Dried up and withered in the waterless desert,
Long covered by the sands of the steppes;
And the bones of your donkey turn white.
And grief-stricken instant old man,
Sobbing, trembling head drooped ...
And then a miracle happened in the desert:
The past in a new beauty revived;
The palm tree is again shaking with its shady head;
Again, the well is filled with coolness and haze.
And the decrepit bones of the donkey rise,
And they put on the body, and they make a roar;
And the traveler feels both strength and joy;
The resurrected youth played in the blood;
Holy raptures filled the chest:
And with God he goes far on his way.
Analysis of Pushkin's poem "Imitation of the Koran"
After the Southern exile, Alexander Pushkin was forced to spend almost two years under house arrest, becoming an unofficial prisoner of the Mikhailovskoye family estate, where the poet's father voluntarily assumed the role of overseer. The only entertainment of the 26-year-old rebel was visits to neighbors, where he could feel quite free and not be afraid that his seditious speeches would become the property of the tsarist secret police.
The owner of the Trigorskoye estate, which was located not far from Mikhailovsky, was the landowner Praskovya Alexandrovna Osipova, for whom the poet had very warm and friendly feelings. This woman was distinguished by a subtle mind and was a very erudite person, so Pushkin liked to talk with her on various topics, including religious ones. It was Praskovya Osipova, after another heated debate, that the poet dedicated his poem "Imitation of the Koran", written in 1925 and consisting of nine separate chapters.
Each of them is a separate work that tells about one of the episodes in the life of the prophet Mohammed. However, all parts of the poem are united by a common thread of narration. However, behind the religious plot, the features of an ordinary person are visible, who must obey the laws, not understanding their meaning. These are the “pure wives of the prophet” - Muslim girls doomed to celibacy, and Muslim warriors who, in the name of their faith, draw their swords, believing that “blessed are those who fell in battle.” It is for this reason that, addressing all believers, the poet calls: "Arise, timid one." And this applies not only to Muslims, but also to the Orthodox, who really live according to the laws of God, not realizing that someone, hiding behind the name of the Almighty, freely creates lawlessness.
After reading the cycle of poems "Imitation of the Koran", one gets the impression that Pushkin considers himself an atheist, but this is not at all the case. He accepts any faith, and treats pious people with respect. But at the same time, he does not want to come to terms with the fact that for someone religion is a path to spiritual purification, and someone uses it for their own selfish purposes.
Theosophical disputes with Praskovya Osipova, who was a very devout person, prompted Pushkin to express his views in verse. Moreover, for these purposes, he chose Islam as a tougher and more uncompromising religion, in which a person as such is assigned a secondary role, which is an excellent tool for manipulating his consciousness.
"Imitation of the Quran", analysis of the cycle of Pushkin's poems
History of creation
The poem "Imitation of the Qur'an" was written in 1824. Pushkin is 25 years old. The southern exile has ended, but the poet is forced to live in Mikhailovsky under house arrest for another 2 years. His father spied on him, opening his letters. Upon learning of this, Pushkin for some time found shelter with neighbors on the estate. The mistress of Trigorsky, Praskovya Alexandrovna Osipova, was an educated and intelligent woman. She was pious, often arguing with the young poet about faith. It was to her that Pushkin dedicated "Imitations of the Koran", although the cycle is not about Christianity, but about Islam.
Chronologically, the first was the poem "Confused, the prophet frowned." Then "Trading in conscience before pale poverty", about which Pushkin wrote to his brother Leo, that he is working for the glory of the Koran. The first poems of the cycle did not have a Muslim flavor. These are arguments about faith and a person's place in it. Tomashevsky called them spiritual odes.
In exile in Mikhailovsky, Pushkin studied the not very accurate French translation of the Koran available to him and the biography of Mohammed. The signs of the Muslim were concretized in the verses "I swear by the odd and even", which open the cycle, and in other poems.
Literary direction, genre
The cycle "Imitation of the Koran" was written during that period of Pushkin's work, which researchers conditionally call the transition from romanticism to realism. The lyrical hero of each individual poem is a romantic, unconditionally believing in his rightness and infallibility of the God he serves. But the life circumstances of the heroes force the reader to notice inconsistencies, unnecessary and senseless sacrifices of faith. It seems that above the cycle stands the image of an observer who is higher than the lyrical hero of each individual poem and, like God to Mohammed, dictates his critical (that is, realistic) attitude to him.
The cycle belongs to the philosophical lyrics, as it is reasoning about the place of man in the universe, about God. The poems within the cycle can also be divided into three groups: spiritual odes, that is, glorifying Allah; edifying and preaching and hagiographic, that is, describing the life of the prophet Mohammed.
Theme, main idea and composition
The cycle consists of nine separate works. Everyone rehashes some sura (chapter) of the Koran or an episode from the life of Mohammed. All parts are connected by common motives, themes.
The first part is about how Allah gave the Koran to the Prophet. The second part is about the wives and friends of the prophet. The third is about human pride and retribution, the fourth is about how the prophet dared to equal himself with God, the fifth praises God the creator, God the creator. The sixth is dedicated to the warriors of Allah, who died for their faith and entered Eden. The seventh part is devoted to an episode from the life of Mahomet, when God hid him from his enemies in a cave. The eighth part teaches what should be a true, pleasing to God alms. The cycle ends with the parable of the one who grumbles against God.
Each part is some facet of faith. The cycle as a whole is about true faith and the delusions of the human mind. In the first part, Pushkin uses the term “trembling creature” in relation to a person, which was later used by Dostoevsky in Crime and Punishment. It is interesting that there are no such words in the Koran, but they were in the French translation read by Pushkin. The third part deals with whether fear can lead to God. The sixth part prompts the question of whether it is worth dying for faith.
The main idea of the cycle is not in criticism of Islam or any other faith, for example, Christianity. Pushkin treats the Koran with all respect, even writing in the notes that "many moral truths are set forth in the Koran in a strong and poetic way." At the same time, the lyrical hero does not enter into the depicted relationship between God, the prophet, the righteous and sinners, the faithful and the unfaithful. The lyrical hero takes the position of an outside observer and tries to analyze the motives and actions of God, the prophet and people, to fit them into an integral picture of the world. If we consider the last parable as a conclusion, morality, then the lyrical hero reconciles with God. Perhaps that is why Pushkin dedicated the cycle to Osipova, who wanted this reconciliation in the poet's life.
The traveler (an allegory of the living) grumbles at God unfairly, because he gives everything you need (a storehouse under a palm tree). But, having received what you asked for, you cannot relax and fall asleep, otherwise spiritual death sets in. If a person comes to his senses and turns to God without grumbling, then his soul is filled with holy delights, “and with God he further sets off on his journey.”
Size and rhyme
The first six parts are written in iambic six-foot, the seventh part is in amphibrach two-foot, the eighth is in iambic six-foot, and the ninth is in amphibrach four-foot. The variety of poetic sizes emphasizes the breadth of the topics depicted. Rhyme meets feminine and masculine. The rhyme is very different: both pair, and ring, and cross. The lines of the seventh part do not rhyme. It seems that this prayer is straight from the Koran.
Paths and images
Pushkin conveys the style of the sacred book with the help of Old Slavonicisms, as in those cases when he writes on biblical topics: canopy, thirst, head, path, creature. High style epithets are used: pious, eloquent, indiscreet, empty, chaste .
In some parts, Pushkin does not use paths at all, for example, in the third. From this, the picture of human crimes and God's judgment is especially truthful and formidable. In the fifth part, which describes the creation of God, on the contrary, there are magnificent comparisons (the sun shines like oil in a lamp-crystal) and metaphors (believers flow to the light, fog falls from their eyes). The eighth and ninth parts are rich in paths, which seem to be less connected in meaning with the rest of the cycle: this is a lesson and a parable on universal topics. The last poem sums up the entire cycle and echoes the first: do not grumble at the difficulties that are described at the beginning, and at the end you will receive a reward.
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He fell at the bear's feet. The beast growled softly and plaintively. The old man sobbed, trembling all over.
- Bay, father! the son told him. Don't break our hearts.
Ivan got up. Tears no longer flowed from his eyes. He moved his gray mane that had fallen on him from his forehead and continued in a firm and sonorous voice:
- And now I have to kill you ... They ordered me, old man, to shoot you with my own hand; you can no longer live in the world. What? May God in heaven judge between us and them.
He cocked the hammer and with a still firm hand aimed at the beast, at the chest, under the left paw. And the bear understood. A plaintive, desperate roar escaped from its mouth; he reared up, raising his front paws and as if closing his eyes with them so as not to see the terrible gun. A cry rang out among the gypsies: many in the crowd were weeping; the old man with a sob threw the gun on the ground and fell helplessly on top of it. The son rushed to pick it up, and the grandson grabbed the gun.
And, running up to the beast, he put the muzzle point-blank to his ear and fired. The bear collapsed into a lifeless mass.
- Will be! he shouted in a wild, frenzied voice, his eyes flashing. - Enough. Bay, brothers, one end!
And, running up to the beast, he put the muzzle point-blank to his ear and fired. The bear collapsed in a lifeless mass; only his paws trembled convulsively, and his mouth opened, as if yawning. Shots crackled all over the camp, drowned out by the desperate howls of women and children. A light wind carried the smoke to the river.
- Broke! broke! resounded in the crowd.
Like a flock of frightened sheep, everyone rushed in all directions. The police officer, the fat Foma Fomich, the boys, Leonid and Konstantin, the young ladies - they all ran in panic, bumping into tents, carts, falling on each other and screaming. Olga Pavlovna almost fainted, but fear gave her strength, and, lifting her dress, she ran across the meadow, not thinking about the mess in her dress caused by her hasty flight. The horses harnessed to the carriages waiting for the gentlemen began to rage and rushed in different directions. But the danger was not so great. The beast, maddened with horror, not yet an old dark brown bear, with a piece of chain around its neck, fled with surprising ease; everything parted before him, and he rushed like the wind straight to the city. Several gypsies with guns ran after him. The few pedestrians that came across on the street pressed against the walls if they did not have time to hide through the gates. The shutters were locked; all living things hid; even the dogs disappeared.
The bear rushed past the cathedral, along the main street, sometimes rushing to the side, as if looking for a place to hide, but everything was locked. He rushed past the shops, met by the frantic cry of the clerks who wanted to frighten him, flew past the bank, the gymnasium, the barracks of the county team, to the other end of the city, ran out onto the road to the river bank and stopped. The pursuers fell behind, but soon a crowd of more than just gypsies appeared from the street. The police officer and the colonel rode in a droshky, with guns in their hands;
the gypsies and a platoon of soldiers kept up with them at a run. Leonid and Konstantin were running at the very droshky.
- Here he is, here he is! - shouted the police officer. - Fry, roll it!
Shots rang out. One of the bullets hit the beast; in mortal fear he ran faster than before. A mile away from the city, up the Rokhla, where he fled, there is a large water mill, surrounded on all sides by a small but dense forest; the beast was heading there. But, entangled in the branches of the river and dams, he lost his way; a wide expanse of water separated him from the dense oak thicket, where he might perhaps find, if not salvation, then respite. But he did not dare to swim. On this side, a strange shrub, growing only in southern Russia, the so-called lucium, has grown densely. Its long, flexible, unbranched stems grow so densely that it is almost impossible for a person to pass through the thicket; but the roots have gaps and clearings into which dogs can crawl, and since they often go there to escape the heat and gradually widen the passage with their sides, a whole labyrinth of passages is formed in a dense thicket. That's where the bear ran. The Mukosei, who were looking at him from the top floor of the mill, saw this, and when a breathless and exhausted chase came running, the police officer ordered to cordon off the place where the beast had hidden.
The unfortunate man huddled in the very depths of the bushes; his wound from a bullet sitting in his thigh was in great pain; he curled up in a ball, his muzzle buried in his paws, and lay motionless, stunned, mad with fear, depriving him of the opportunity to defend himself. The soldiers fired into the bushes, thinking to hit him and make him roar, but it was difficult to hit at random.
He was killed already late in the evening, driven out of the shelter by fire. Anyone who had a gun considered it his duty to put a bullet into a dying beast, and when they took off his skin, it was good for nothing.
Recently I happened to visit Belsk. The city has hardly changed: only the bank has burst and the progymnasium has turned into a gymnasium. The police chief was replaced, giving him the position of a private bailiff in a provincial town for his diligence; the Izotov brothers still shout “granron” and “rebur” and run around the city with stories about the latest news; The pharmacist Foma Fomich has grown even fatter and, despite the fact that he did a profitable job by buying bear fat for fourteen kopecks, and selling it for eight hryvnias a pound, which gave a considerable amount in general, he still speaks with great displeasure about beating bears.
“That’s when I told Olga Pavlovna what kind of horse thief would come out of this Adonis ... Well, so what?” A week has not passed - brought my pair of gray, bastard.
“Do you know what he is?” I asked.
- How can he not? After all, he was tried last year for horse-stealing and robbery. Went to hard labor.
Oh, how I felt sorry for him! Olga Pavlovna said sadly.
The poor lady has aged considerably over the years, and despite the fact that, according to Foma Fomich (who told me this in confidence), she smeared four pounds of bear lipstick on her head, her hair not only did not become thicker, but even thinned. However, the chignon covers them so well that absolutely nothing is noticeable.
The Tale of the Toad and the Rose
A rose and a toad lived in the world.
The rose bush, on which the rose blossomed, grew in a small semicircular flower garden in front of the village house. The flower garden was very neglected; weeds grew densely in the old flowerbeds grown into the ground and along the paths, which no one had cleaned or sprinkled with sand for a long time. A wooden lattice with pegs trimmed in the form of tetrahedral peaks, once painted with green oil paint, is now completely peeled off, dried out and fell apart; the pikes were stolen by village boys to play soldiers, and to fight off an angry watchdog with a company of other dogs, peasants approached the house.
And the flower garden from this destruction became no worse. Hops, dodder with large white flowers, and mouse peas, hanging in whole pale green bunches, with pale purple tassels of flowers scattered here and there, were braided with the remains of the lattice. The prickly thistles on the oily and moist soil of the flower garden (there was a large shady garden around it) reached such large sizes that they almost seemed like trees. The yellow mulleins raised their flower-studded arrows even higher. Nettles occupied a whole corner of the flower garden; it burned, of course, but it was possible to admire its dark greenness from afar, especially when this greenery served as a backdrop for the delicate and luxurious pale rose flower.
It blossomed on a fine May morning; when she opened her petals, the departed morning dew left a few clean, transparent tears on them. Rose was crying. But everything around her was so good, so pure and clear on that beautiful morning, when she saw the blue sky for the first time and felt the fresh morning breeze and the rays of the shining sun, penetrating her thin petals with a pink light; in the flower garden it was so peaceful and calm that if she could really cry, it would not be from grief, but from happiness. She couldn't speak; she could only, bowing her head, spread around her a delicate and fresh scent, and that scent was her words, her tears, and her prayer.
And below, between the roots of the bush, on the damp earth, as if clinging to it with a flat belly, sat a rather fat old toad, which hunted worms and midges all night and sat down in the morning to rest from work, choosing a place shady and damp. She sat with her toad-like eyes covered with membranes, and barely perceptibly breathed, puffing out her dirty gray warty and sticky sides and putting one ugly paw to the side: she was too lazy to move it to her belly. She did not rejoice in the morning, or the sun, or good weather; She had already eaten and was going to rest.
But when the breeze ceased for a moment and the smell of the rose did not drift away, the toad felt it, and this caused her a vague anxiety; however, for a long time she was too lazy to see where the smell was coming from.
No one went to the flower garden where the rose grew and where the toad sat for a long time. Last year in the autumn, on the very day when the toad, having found a good gap under one of the foundation stones of the house, was about to climb there for hibernation, a little boy entered the flower garden for the last time, who spent the whole summer sitting in it every clear day under the window of the house. A grown girl, his sister, was sitting by the window; she was reading a book or sewing something, and from time to time looked at her brother. He was a little boy of about seven, with big eyes and a big head on a thin body. He was very fond of his flower garden (it was his flower garden, because, apart from him, almost no one went to this abandoned place) and, having come to it, sat down in the sun, on an old wooden bench that stood on a dry sandy path that had survived near the very at home, because they went to close the shutters along it, and began to read the book he had brought with him.
- Vasya, do you want me to throw a ball to you? the sister asks from the window. Maybe you can run with him?
- No, Masha, I'd rather like this, with a book.
And he sat for a long time and read. And when he got tired of reading about the Robinsons, and wild countries, and sea robbers, he left the open book and climbed into the thicket of the flower garden. Here he was familiar with every bush and almost every stem. He squatted down in front of a thick mullein stalk, surrounded by shaggy whitish leaves, which was three times taller than he was, and for a long time watched how the ant people ran up to their cows - grass aphids, how the ant delicately touches the thin tubes sticking out of the aphids on the back, and picks up clean droplets of sweet liquid that appear on the tips of the tubes. He watched the dung beetle busily and diligently dragging its ball somewhere, like a spider, spreading a cunning rainbow net, guarding flies, like a lizard, opening its blunt muzzle, sitting in the sun, shining with green shields of its back; and once, in the evening, he saw a live hedgehog! Here, too, he could not restrain himself from joy and almost screamed and clapped his hands, but, afraid to frighten off the prickly animal, he held his breath and, wide-opening his happy eyes, watched in delight as he, snorting, sniffed the roots of a rose bush with his pig's snout. , looking for worms between them, and comically fingered his plump paws, similar to bears.
“Vasya, dear, go home, it’s getting damp,” my sister said loudly.
And the hedgehog, frightened by the human voice, quickly pulled his prickly fur coat over his forehead and on his hind legs and turned into a ball. The boy softly touched his thorns; the animal shrank even more, and puffed muffledly and hastily, like a small steam engine.
Then he got to know this hedgehog a little. He was such a weak, quiet, and meek boy that even various small animal species seemed to understand this and soon got used to him. What a joy it was when the hedgehog tasted milk from a saucer brought by the owner of the flower garden!
This spring the boy could not go out to his favorite corner. As before, his sister was sitting beside him, but no longer by the window, but by his bed; she read the book, but not for herself, but aloud to him, because it was difficult for him to lift his emaciated head from the white pillows and it was difficult for him to hold even the smallest volume in his skinny hands, and his eyes soon got tired from reading. He must never go out to his favorite corner again.
- Masha! he suddenly whispers to his sister.
- What, honey?
- What, is it good in the kindergarten now? Have the roses bloomed?
His sister leans down and kisses him on his pale cheek, wiping away a tear in the process.
“Very well, my dear, very well. And the roses bloomed. On Monday we will go there together. The doctor will let you out.
The boy doesn't answer and takes a deep breath. The sister starts reading again.
- It will already be. I'm tired. I'll sleep better.
His sister adjusted his pillows and white blanket; he turned with difficulty to the wall and fell silent. The sun shone through the window overlooking the flower garden, and cast bright rays on the bed and on the little body lying on it, illuminating the pillows and blanket and gilding the short-cropped hair and thin neck of the child.
Rose knew none of this; she grew and flaunted; on the next day it should have blossomed in full bloom, and on the third day it should begin to wither and crumble. That's the whole pink life! But even in this short life she had a chance to experience a lot of fear and grief.
The toad noticed her.
When she first saw the flower with her evil and ugly eyes, something strange stirred in the toad's heart. She could not tear herself away from the delicate rose petals and kept looking and looking. She really liked the rose, she felt a desire to be closer to such a fragrant and beautiful creature. And to express her tender feelings, she did not think of anything better than these words:
"Wait," she croaked, "I'll eat you up!"
Rose shuddered. Why was she attached to her stem? Free birds, chirping around her, jumped and flew from branch to branch; sometimes they were carried away somewhere far away, where the rose did not know. Butterflies were also free. How she envied them! Had she been like them, she would have fluttered and flown away from the evil eyes that pursued her with their gaze. Rosa did not know that toads sometimes lie in wait for butterflies.
- I'll devour you! - repeated the toad, trying to speak as gently as possible, which came out even more terrible, and crawled closer to the rose.
- I'll devour you! she repeated, still looking at the flower.
And the poor creature saw with horror how nasty sticky paws cling to the branches of the bush on which it grew. However, it was difficult for the toad to climb: its flat body could crawl freely and jump only on level ground. With every effort she looked up, where the flower swayed, and the rose froze.
- God! she prayed. - If only I could die a different death!
And the toad kept climbing higher. But where the old trunks ended and the young branches began, she had to suffer a little. The dark green smooth bark of the rose bush was all planted with sharp and strong thorns. The toad broke its paws and belly about them and, bloody, fell to the ground. She looked at the flower with hatred...
“I said I would eat you!” she repeated.
Evening came; it was necessary to think about supper, and the wounded toad trudged along to lie in wait for careless insects. Anger didn't stop her from stuffing her stomach like she always did; her scratches were not very dangerous, and she decided, after resting, to again reach the flower that attracted her and hated her.
She rested for quite some time. Morning came, noon passed, the rose almost forgot about her enemy. She had already fully blossomed and was the most beautiful creature in the flower garden. There was no one to come to admire her: the little master lay motionless on his bed, his sister did not leave him and did not appear at the window. Only birds and butterflies scurried around the rose and the bees, buzzing, sometimes sat down in its open corolla and flew out from there, completely shaggy from the yellow flower dust. The nightingale flew in, climbed into the rose bush and sang his song. How different it was from the wheezing of a toad! Rosa listened to this song and was happy: it seemed to her that the nightingale was singing for her, but maybe it was true. She did not see how her enemy climbed the branches unnoticed. This time, the toad no longer spared either paws or belly: the blood covered it, but it bravely climbed all the way up - and suddenly, amid the sonorous and gentle roar of the nightingale, the rose heard a familiar wheezing:
- I said I'll eat it, and I'll eat it!
Toad eyes stared at her from a nearby branch. The evil animal had only one move to grab the flower. Rosa realized that she was dying ...
The little master had been lying motionless on the bed for a long time. The sister, who was sitting in an armchair by the head of the bed, thought he was asleep. She had an open book in her lap, but she did not read it. Little by little her tired head bowed: the poor girl did not sleep for several nights, not leaving her sick brother, and now she dozed off a little.
“Masha,” he suddenly whispered.
The sister was startled. She dreamed that she was sitting at the window, that her little brother was playing, as last year, in the flower garden and was calling her. Opening her eyes and seeing him in bed, thin and weak, she sighed heavily.
- What, honey?
- Masha, you told me that roses have blossomed! Can I... have one?
- You can, my dear, you can! She went to the window and looked at the bush. There grew one, but very magnificent rose.
- Just for you, a rose has blossomed, and what a glorious one! Would you like to put it here on the table in a glass? Yes?
Yes, on the table. I would like to.
The girl took the scissors and went out into the garden. She had not left the room for a long time; the sun blinded her, and the fresh air made her dizzy a little. She came to the bush at the very moment when the toad wanted to grab the flower.
- Oh, what a mess! she cried. And, seizing a branch, she shook it violently: the toad fell to the ground and flopped on its belly. In a rage, she jumped at the girl, but could not jump above the edge of the dress and immediately flew far away, thrown back by the toe of her shoe. She did not dare to try again and only from a distance saw how the girl carefully cut the flower and carried it into the room.
When the boy saw his sister with a flower in her hand, for the first time after a long time he smiled weakly and with difficulty made a movement with his thin hand.
When the boy saw his sister with a flower in her hand, for the first time after a long time he smiled weakly and with difficulty made a movement with his thin hand.
“Give it to me,” he whispered. - I'm sniffing.
The sister put the stem into his hand and helped him to move it to his face. He breathed in a gentle scent and, smiling happily, whispered:
- Oh, how good ...
Then his face became serious and motionless, and he fell silent ... forever.
The rose, although it was cut before it began to crumble, felt that it had been cut for a reason. She was placed in a separate glass near a small coffin. There were whole bouquets of other flowers, but, to tell the truth, no one paid any attention to them, and the young girl, when she put it on the table, raised it to her lips and kissed it. A small tear fell from her cheek onto the flower, and it was the best thing in the life of a rose. When it began to wither, they put it in a thick old book and dried it, and then, after many years, they gave it to me. That's why I know the whole story.
Signal
Semyon Ivanov served as a watchman on the railroad. It was twelve versts from his booth to one station, and ten versts to another. A large spinning mill was opened at four versts last year; because of the forest, its tall chimney turned black, and closer, except for neighboring booths, there was no housing.
Semyon Ivanov was a sick and broken man. Nine years ago he went to war: he served as a batman with an officer and made a whole campaign with him. He was starving, and cold, and roasted in the sun, and made crossings of forty and fifty miles in heat and frost; it happened to be under bullets, yes, thank God, none of them hurt. Once the regiment stood in the first line; there was a skirmish with the Turks for a whole week: our chain lay, and across the hollow - the Turkish one, and from morning to evening they shoot. The officer Semyonov was also in the chain; every day three times Semyon brought him from the regimental kitchens, from the ravine, a hot samovar and lunch. He walks with a samovar in an open place, bullets whistle, they click on stones; Semyon is terrified, he cries, but he walks. The gentlemen officers were very pleased with him: they always had hot tea. He returned from the campaign whole, only his arms and legs began to ache. Since then, he has had to taste a lot of grief. He came home - the old father died; the son was in his fourth year - he also died, he had a sore throat; Semyon remained with his wife, a friend himself. They did not even manage to farm, and it is difficult to plow the land with chubby arms and legs. They had to be unbearable in their village; went to new places of happiness to seek. Semyon and his wife visited the Line, and Kherson, and the Donshchina; happiness is nowhere to be found. The wife went into the service, and Semyon still wanders around. He had to go by car once; at one station he sees - the boss seems to be familiar. Semyon looks at him, and the boss also peers into Semyon's face. We recognized each other: an officer of his regiment turned out to be.
Are you Ivanov? - He speaks.
“That’s right, Your Honor, I am the one.”
– How did you get here?
Semyon told him: so, they say, and so.
– Where are you going now?
“I don't know, your honor.
- How so, fool, you can not know?
“That’s right, your honor, so there’s nowhere to go. What kind of work, your honor, you need to look for.
The stationmaster looked at him, thought, and said:
- That's what, brother, stay for a while at the station. You seem to be married? Where is your wife?
- So exactly, your honor, married; wife in the city of Kursk, in the service of a merchant is.
- Well, write to your wife to go. I'll get a free ticket. Here we have a road booth will be cleared; I'll ask the head of the distance for you.
“Thank you very much, your honor,” Semyon replied.
He stayed at the station. I helped the boss in the kitchen, chopped firewood, yard, chalked the platform. Two weeks later his wife arrived, and Semyon rode a handcart to his booth. The booth is new, warm, as much firewood as you want; a small garden remained from the former watchmen, and there was half a dozen arable land on the sides of the canvas. Semyon rejoiced; began to think about how he would start his own farm, buy a cow, buy a horse.
They gave him all the supplies he needed: a green flag, a red flag, lanterns, a horn, a hammer, a wrench - to tighten nuts, a crowbar, a shovel, brooms, bolts, crutches; They gave me two books with rules and train timetables. At first, Semyon did not sleep at night, he kept repeating the whole schedule; the train will leave in another two hours, and he will go around his section, sit down on a bench by the booth and keep watching and listening to see if the rails are trembling, if the train is making noise. He confirmed the rules by heart; although he read badly, in warehouses, he nevertheless confirmed it.
It was summer; the work is not hard, there is no need to shovel the snow, and trains are rare on that road. Semyon will go around his verst twice a day, in some places he will try to tighten the nuts, trim the gravel, look at the water pipes and go home to arrange his household. In the economy, only he had an obstacle: whatever he decides to do, ask the road foreman about everything, and he will report to the head of the distance; until the request returns, the time has passed. Semyon and his wife even began to get bored.
Two months have passed; Semyon began to get acquainted with the neighbor watchmen. One was an old man; everyone was going to replace him: he barely got out of the booth. His wife did the detour for him. The other watchman, who was closer to the station, was a young man, thin and wiry. They met Semyon for the first time on the canvas, in the middle between the booths, on the bypass; Semyon took off his cap and bowed.
- Good, - he says, - health, neighbor.
The neighbor looked at him from the side.
“Hello,” he says.
Turned and walked away. The women met each other afterwards. Arina Semenova greeted her neighbor; she didn't talk much either, she left. Semyon saw her once.
“What is it,” he says, “you, young lady, have a taciturn husband?”
The woman was silent, then she says:
“What is he talking about with you?” Everyone has his own ... Go with God.
However, another month passed, we got to know each other. Semyon and Vasily will meet on the canvas, sit on the edge, smoke pipes and talk about their life. Vasily remained silent more and more, and Semyon told about his village and about the campaign.
“A lot,” he says, “I have taken grief in my lifetime, and God knows how much my lifetime. God did not give happiness. So to whom what talent-fate the Lord will give, so it is. So, brother, Vasily Stepanych.
And Vasily Stepanych knocked his pipe against the rail, got up and said:
- Not talent-fate seizes us with you, but people. There is no beast in the world more predatory and more evil than man. A wolf does not eat a wolf, but a man eats a man alive.
- Well, brother, the wolf eats the wolf, don't say that.
- By the way, I had to, and said. Still, there is no crueler creature. It would not be human anger and greed - it would be possible to live. Everyone strives to grab you by the living, and bite off a bite, and devour you.
Simon thought.
“I don’t know,” he says, “brother. Maybe it is so, but if so, then there is a position from God for that.
- And if so, - says Vasily, - then there is nothing for us to talk with you. If you dump all filthiness on God, but sit and endure it yourself, then, brother, it’s not a man to be, but cattle. Here's my story for you.
He turned and left without saying goodbye. Semyon also got up.
- Neighbor, - shouts, - why are you swearing?
The neighbor did not turn around, he went. Semyon looked at him for a long time, until Vasily was no longer visible in the recess at the turn. He returned home and said to his wife:
- Well, Arina, and we have a neighbor: a potion, not a man.
However, they did not quarrel; met again and began to talk as before, and all about the same thing.
“Eh, brother, if it weren’t for people ... we wouldn’t be sitting with you in these booths,” says Vasily.
- Well, in the booth ... nothing, you can live.
- You can live, you can live ... Oh, you! Lived a lot, made a little, looked a lot, saw a little. To a poor man, in a booth there or somewhere, what a life! These flayers are eating you. All the juice is squeezed out, and when you get old, they will throw it away, like some kind of cake, for pigs to feed. How much salary do you get?
- Yes, not enough, Vasily Stepanovich. Twelve rubles.
- And I'm thirteen and a half. Let me ask you why? According to the rule from the board, everyone is entitled to one thing: fifteen rubles a month, heating, lighting. Who is it for you and me, twelve or thirteen and a half determined there? Whose belly is for fat, in whose pocket do the remaining three rubles or one and a half rely? Let me ask you? ... And you say you can live! You understand, we are not talking about one and a half or three rubles. Even if all fifteen paid. I was at the station last month; the director was passing by, that's how I saw him. Had such an honor. Rides himself in a separate carriage; went out onto the platform, stands, spread the golden chain over his stomach, his cheeks are red, as if poured ... He drank our blood. Oh, if only strength and power! .. May I not stay here long; I'll go where my eyes look.
"Where are you going, Stepanych?" Good is not sought from good. Here you have a home, it is warm, and there is little land. Your wife is a worker...
- Earthlings! You should have looked at my land. There is no rod on it. I planted cabbages in the spring, and then the road foreman arrived. “This, he says, what is it? Why no delivery? Why without permission? Dig up so that her spirit does not exist. ” Drunk was. Another time I wouldn’t have said anything, but then it came to my mind ... “Three rubles a fine! ..”
Vasily paused, pulled the pipes and said quietly:
“A little more, I would have beaten him to death.”
- Well, neighbor, and you are hot, I'll tell you.
“I am not hot, but I speak and think in truth. Yes, he will wait for me, red face! I will complain to the head of the distance. Let's see!
And sure enough, he complained.
Once the head of the distance passed the way to inspect. Three days later, important gentlemen from St. Petersburg had to pass along the road: they were doing an audit, so everything had to be put in order before their passage. The ballast was added, leveled, the sleepers were revised, the crutches were knocked up, the nuts were screwed up, the poles were tinted, at the crossings they ordered to add yellow sand. Neighbor-watchman and her old man drove out to pluck the grass. Semyon worked for a whole week; He brought everything in order and repaired the caftan on himself, cleaned it, and rubbed the copper badge with a brick until it shone. Vasily also worked. The head of the distance arrived on a railcar; four workers turn the handle; gears buzz; the cart rushes about twenty miles an hour, only the wheels howl. Flew up to Semyonov's booth; Semyon jumped up and reported like a soldier. Everything turned out to be in good order.
– How long have you been here? the boss asks.
“From the second of May, your honor.
- Okay. Thank you. And who is in number one hundred and sixty-four?
The roadmaster (together with him rode a trolley) replied:
- Vasily Spiridov.
- Spiridov, Spiridov ... Oh, is this the same one that was at your notice last year?
- He is the very one, sir.
- Well, okay, let's see Vasily Spiridov. Touch.
Workers leaned on the handles; the trolley went into motion.
Semyon looks at her and thinks: "Well, they will have a game with their neighbor."
About two hours later he went around. He sees someone walking along the canvas from the recess, as if white is visible on his head. Semyon began to look closely - Vasily; a stick in his hand, a small bundle behind his shoulders, a cheek tied with a handkerchief.
- Neighbor, where are you going? Simon screams.
Vasily came quite close: there is no face on him, white as chalk, his eyes are wild; began to speak - the voice breaks off.
- To the city, - he says, - to Moscow ... to the board.
- To the board ... That's what! Are you going to complain? Come on, Vasily Stepanych, forget it...
- No, brother, I will not forget. Too late to forget. You see, he hit me in the face, broke me into blood. As long as I'm alive, I won't forget, I won't leave it like that. They need to be taught, bloodsuckers ...
Semyon took him by the hand:
“Let it go, Stepanych, I’m telling you right: you can’t do better.”
- What's better! I know myself that I won’t do it better; you spoke the truth about talent-fate. I won’t do better for myself, but you have to stand for the truth, brother.
“Tell me, how did it all start?”
- Yes, why ... He examined everything, got off the trolley, looked into the booth. I already knew that he would ask sternly; corrected everything properly. I really wanted to go, but I complained. He is now screaming. “Here, he says, is a government audit, such and such, and you file complaints about the garden! Here, he says, are secret advisers, and you climb with cabbage! I could not stand it, I said a word, not that much, but it seemed so insulting to him. How will he give me ... Our damned patience! It would be necessary here ... but I stand to myself, as if it were the way it should be. They left, I came to my senses, so I washed my face and went.
- How about the booth?
- My wife stayed. Does not miss; yes, they are completely and with expensive ones!
Vasily got up and got ready.
- Farewell, Ivanovich. I don't know if I can manage myself.
- Are you going to walk?
- At the station I will ask for a freight; I will be in Moscow tomorrow.
The neighbors said goodbye; Vasily left, and he was gone for a long time. His wife worked for him, did not sleep day and night; exhausted completely, waiting for her husband. On the third day, a revision passed: a steam locomotive, a baggage car and two first-class, but Vasily was still not there. On the fourth day, Semyon saw his mistress: her face was puffy from tears, her eyes were red.
And the tired traveler grumbled at God:
He was thirsty and hungry for shadows.
Wandering in the desert for three days and three nights,
And heavy eyes with heat and dust
With hopeless longing he drove around,
And suddenly he sees a treasure chest under a palm tree.
And he rushed to the desert palm tree,
And eagerly refreshed with a cold stream
Burning heavily tongue and pupils,
And he lay down, and he fell asleep near the faithful donkey -
And many years passed over him
By the will of the lord of heaven and earth.
The hour of awakening for the traveler has come;
He gets up and hears an unknown voice:
“How long have you been in a deep sleep in the desert?”
And he answers: the sun is already high
In the morning sky shone yesterday;
From the morning I slept deeply until morning.
But a voice: “O traveler, you slept longer;
Take a look: you lay down young, but you rose up as an old man,
Already the palm tree has decayed, and the treasure is cold
Dried up and withered in the waterless desert,
Long covered by the sands of the steppes;
And the bones of your donkey turn white.
And grief-stricken instant old man,
Sobbing, trembling head drooped ...
And then a miracle happened in the desert:
The past in a new beauty revived;
The palm tree is again shaking with its shady head;
Once again, the well is filled with coolness and haze.
And the decrepit bones of the donkey rise,
And they put on the body, and they make a roar;
And the traveler feels both strength and joy;
The resurrected youth played in the blood;
Holy raptures filled the chest:
And with God he goes far on his way.
IMITATIONS OF THE QURAN. Published in a collection of 1826. Writings in November 1824. In these imitations, Pushkin used the Russian translation of the Koran by M. Verevkin, ed. 1790. However, in his arrangement of the passages he chose, he deviated far from the original and put into the verses a meaning that is often absent in the original. Therefore, imitations should be considered as Pushkin's original poems, sometimes filled with autobiographical content and only stylized in the spirit of the Koran. The dedication to P. A. Osipova is explained by the fact that imitations of the Koran were written mainly in her Trigorsky estate, where Pushkin spent his days after a quarrel with his father, caused by the fact that Sergei Lvovich took on the task of the police authorities to monitor the behavior of his son.
IX. And the tired traveler grumbled at God. Completely free development of several words from ch. II "Krava".
Notes. In the first edition, the fourth note read: “From the book, the Blind” (Tiflya). That is why the word is revered by the Turks for the most severe abuse. "not Turkish, but Greek, and the Koran is not written in Turkish, but in Arabic.
Alexander Pushkin
IMITATION OF THE QURAN
Dedicated to P. A. Osipova
I swear by odd and even
I swear by the sword and the right fight,
I swear by the morning star
I swear by the evening prayer:
No, I didn't leave you.
Whom in the shade of calm
I introduced, loving his head,
And hid from vigilant persecution?
Didn't I drink on the day of thirst
You desert waters?
Didn't I give your tongue
Mighty power over the minds?
Be of good cheer, despise deceit,
Follow the path of righteousness,
Love orphans and my Quran
Preach to the trembling creature.
Oh, pure wives of the prophet,
From all you wives are distinguished:
Terrible for you and the shadow of vice.
Under the sweet shadow of silence
Live modestly: you should
Veil of a celibate maiden.
Keep Faithful Hearts
For negs lawful and bashful,
Yes, the gaze of the wicked wicked
Doesn't see your face!
And you, O guests of Mohammed,
Flocking to his supper,
Flee the vanities of the world
Confound my prophet.
In the guy of pious thoughts,
He does not like eloquent
And words immodest and empty:
Honor the feast with humility,
And chaste inclination
His young slaves.
Confused, the prophet frowned,
The blind man hearing the approach:
Runs, but vice does not dare
Show him confusion.
From the heavenly book the list is given
You, prophet, are not for the obstinate;
Calmly recite the Quran
Not forcing the wicked!
Why is the person boasting?
For the fact that he came into the world naked,
That he breathes for a short century,
What is weak will die, how weak was born?
For the fact that God will kill
And resurrect him - at will?
What keeps his days from heaven
And in joys and in bitter share?
For what gave him fruit,
And bread, and dates, and olives,
Blessing his work
And the garden, and the hill, and the cornfield?
But twice the angel will sound;
The thunder of heaven will strike the earth:
And brother will run from brother
And the son will recoil from his mother.
And all will flow before God,
Disfigured by fear;
And the wicked will fall
Covered in fire and dust.
With you anciently, O almighty,
Mighty compete imagined
Crazy pride plentiful;
But you, Lord, humbled him.
You rivers: I give life to the world,
I will punish the earth with death,
My hand is up for everything.
I also, he rivers, give life,
And I also punish with death:
With you, God, I am equal.
But the boasting of vice was silent
From the word of your wrath:
I will raise the sun from the east;
Raise him from the sunset!
The earth is motionless - the sky vaults,
Creator, supported by you,
May they not fall on land and water
And they won't overwhelm us.
You lit the sun in the universe
Let it shine on heaven and earth,
Like flax, drunk with oil,
Crystal shines in the lamp.
Pray to the Creator; he is powerful:
He rules the wind; on a hot day
Sends clouds to the sky;
Gives the earth a tree canopy.
He is merciful: he is to Mohammed
Opened the shining Quran,
May we flow into the light,
And let the fog fall from the eyes.
Not for nothing you dreamed of me
In battle with shaved heads,
With bloodied swords
In the ditches, on the tower, on the wall.
Hear the joyous cry
O children of the fiery deserts!
Lead captive young slaves,
Share the spoils of spoils!
You won: glory to you,
A cowardly laugh!
They are on a call
They did not go, not believing in wondrous dreams.
Enticed by the spoils of war,
Now in repentance
Rekut: take us with you;
But you say: we won't take it.
Blessed are those who fall in battle:
Now they've entered Eden
And drowned in pleasure
Not poisoned by anything.
Arise, fearful one:
In your cave
Holy lamp
It burns until the morning.
heartfelt prayer,
Prophet, go away
sad thoughts,
Crazy dreams!
Until the morning prayer
Create humbly;
heavenly book
Read till morning!
VIII
Trading conscience before pale poverty,
Do not scatter your gifts with a prudent hand:
Full generosity is pleasing to heaven.
On the day of the terrible judgment, like a fat field,
O prosperous sower!
She will reward your work a hundredfold.
But if, having regretted the labors of earthly gain,
Giving the beggar a mean alms,
You squeeze your envious hand, -
Know: all your gifts, like a handful of dust,
That heavy rain washes from the stone,
They will disappear - a tribute rejected by the Lord.
And the tired traveler grumbled at God:
He was thirsty and hungry for shadows.
Wandering in the desert for three days and three nights,
And heavy eyes with heat and dust
With hopeless longing he drove around,
And suddenly he sees a treasure trove under a palm tree.
And he rushed to the desert palm tree,
And eagerly refreshed with a cold stream
Burning heavily tongue and pupils,
And he lay down, and he fell asleep near the faithful donkey -
And many years passed over him
By the will of the lord of heaven and earth.
The hour of awakening for the traveler has come;
He gets up and hears an unknown voice:
“How long have you been in a deep sleep in the desert?”
And he answers: the sun is already high
In the morning sky shone yesterday;
From the morning I slept deeply until morning.
But a voice: “O traveler, you slept longer;
Look: you lay down young, but rose up as an old man;
Already the palm tree has decayed, and the well is cold
Dried up and withered in the waterless desert,
Long covered by the sands of the steppes;
And the bones of your donkey turn white.
And grief-stricken instant old man,
Sobbing, trembling head drooped ...
And then a miracle happened in the desert:
The past in a new beauty revived;
The palm tree is again shaking with its shady head;
Again, the well is filled with coolness and haze.
And the decrepit bones of the donkey rise,
And they put on the body, and they make a roar;
And the traveler feels both strength and joy;
The resurrected youth played in the blood;
Holy raptures filled the chest:
And with God he goes far on his way.