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| Dedication to N. N. Raevsky. North Caucasus through the centuries. Naima Neflyasheva Circassian hangs centuries-old branches on the roots |
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In the village, on their thresholds, Circassians sit idle. The sons of the Caucasus say About abusive, disastrous anxieties, About the beauty of their horses, About the pleasures of wild bliss; Remembering the old days irresistible raids, Tricky Bridles (3) , Checkers strikes (4) their cruel ones, And the accuracy of inevitable arrows, And the ashes of devastated villages, And the caresses of the black-eyed captives. Conversations flow in silence; The moon floats in the night fog; And suddenly in front of them on a horse Circassian. He's fast on the lasso Dragged a young prisoner. "Here's a Russian!" the predator yelled. The village ran to his cry Fierce crowd; But the prisoner is cold and dumb, With a disfigured head Like a corpse, he remained motionless. He does not see the faces of enemies, He does not hear threats and screams; A death dream flies over him And it breathes pernicious cold. And for a long time the prisoner is young He lay in heavy oblivion. Already noon over his head Blazed in a merry radiance; And the spirit of life woke up in him, An indistinct groan was heard in the mouth; warmed by the sun, The unfortunate man quietly got up; A weak gaze circles around ... And sees: impregnable mountains Above him, a mass rose, Nest of robber tribes, Circassian liberty fence. The young man remembered his captivity, Like a dream of terrible anxiety, And hears: thundered suddenly His shackled legs... Everything, everything said a terrible sound; Nature eclipsed before him. Sorry, sacred freedom! Behind the sacks (5) lies He's at the thorny fence. Circassians in the field, no supervision, Everything is silent in the empty village. Desert plains before him They lie in a green veil; There the hills stretch in a ridge Monotonous peaks; Between them a solitary path In the distance is lost gloomy - And the prisoner of the young chest I was agitated by a heavy thought ... A long way leads to Russia, To a country where fiery youth He proudly started without worries; Where did he first know joy, Where he loved a lot Where he embraced terrible suffering, Where stormy life ruined Hope, joy and desire And memories of better days In a withered heart concluded. ................................................ He knew people and light And he knew the price of unfaithful life. In the hearts of friends found treason, In the dreams of love, a crazy dream, Bored of being a victim of being accustomed For a long time despicable vanity, And dislike bilingual, And innocent slander Renegade of the world friend of nature, He left his native land And flew to a distant land With a cheerful ghost of freedom. Liberty! he is one of you I also searched in the desert world. Destroying feelings with passions, Cold to dreams and to the lyre, With the excitement of the song he listened, inspired by you, And with faith, fiery prayer Your proud idol embraced. It's done... the goal of hope He sees nothing in the world. And you, last dreams, And you hid from him. He is a slave. Leaning head on the stone He waits so that with a gloomy dawn The flame of a sad life went out, And longs for the canopy of the grave. The sun is already fading behind the mountains; There was a noisy rumble in the distance; From the fields people go to the village, Glittering bright braids. Came; fires were lit in the houses, And gradually the noise is discordant fell silent; all in the shadow of the night Embraced by a calm bliss; In the distance the mountain key sparkles, Escaping from the stone rapids; Dressed in a veil of clouds Sleeping peaks of the Caucasus... But who, in the glow of the moon, In the midst of deep silence Is he walking furtively? The Russian woke up. In front of him, With gentle and silent greetings, There is a young Circassian. At the girl, silently, he looks And thinks: this is a false dream, Tired feelings the game is empty. A little illuminated by the moon With a smile of pity On her knees, she To his lips koumiss (6) is cool He brings it with a quiet hand. But he forgot the healing vessel; He catches with a greedy soul Pleasant speech sound magical And the eyes of a young maiden. He does not understand foreign words; Live! and the prisoner comes to life. And he, gathering the rest of his strength, Submissive to the command of the dear, I got up and a cup of salutary Quenched the languor of thirst. Then he leaned on the stone again burdened head; But all to the young Circassian His fading gaze strove; And long, long before him She sat thoughtfully; As if the participation of the dumb I wanted to comfort the prisoner; Mouth involuntarily every hour With the speech begun, they opened; She sighed, and more than once Eyes filled with tears. After days the days passed like a shadow. In the mountains, chained, by the herd Conducts a prisoner every day. Caves dark cool He hides in the summer heat; When the horn of the silvery moon Shines behind the dark mountain, Circassian, shady path, Brings wine to the prisoner Koumiss, and fragrant honeycomb hives, And snow-white millet; He shares a secret supper with him; A tender look rests on him; Merges with obscure speech Eyes and signs of conversation; Sings to him the songs of the mountains, And songs of Georgia happy (7) And an impatient memory Conveys a foreign language. For the first time with a virgin soul She loved, knew happiness; But Russian life is young I have long lost my sweetness. He could not answer with his heart Infant love, open - Perhaps a forgotten dream of love He was afraid to remember. Our youth will not suddenly fade, Not suddenly raptures will leave us, And unexpected joy We will hug more than once; But you, living impressions, original love, Heavenly flame of rapture, You don't fly back. Seemed like a hopeless prisoner Get used to a dull life. Anguish of captivity, rebellious heat He hid deep in his heart. Dragging between gloomy rocks In the hour of early, morning coolness, He fixed a curious look To the distant masses Gray, ruddy, blue mountains. Great pictures! Thrones of eternal snows, Their peaks seemed to the eyes A motionless chain of clouds, And in their circle a two-headed colossus, In a crown of shining ice, Elbrus is huge, majestic, White in the blue sky (8). When, with a deaf merging rumble, Forerunner of the storm, thunder rumbled, How often is a prisoner over the village Sitting motionless on the mountain! Clouds were smoking at his feet, Flying ashes rose in the steppe; Already a shelter between the rocks Frightened deer searched; Eagles rose from the cliffs And they called to each other in the sky; The noise of the herds, the lowing of the herds Already the voice of the storm was drowned out ... And suddenly on the valleys rain and hail From clouds through lightning erupted; Waves of a swarm of steepness, Moving the stones of the ages, Rain streams flowed - And the prisoner, from the mountain height, Alone, behind a thundercloud, Waiting for the return of the sun Unreachable by the storm And storms to the weak howl He listened with some joy. But Europeans are all the attention This wonderful people attracted. A prisoner watched among the highlanders Their faith, morals, upbringing, Loved the simplicity of their lives Hospitality, thirst for battle, Movements free speed, And the lightness of the legs, and the strength of the hand; He looked for hours, How agile a Circassian is sometimes, Wide steppe, mountains, In a shaggy hat, in a black cloak, Leaning towards the bow, on the stirrups Leaning with a slender leg, I flew at the will of the horse, Getting used to the war in advance. He admired the beauty Clothes swearing and simple. The Circassian is hung with weapons; He is proud of him, comforted by him: He wears armor, a squeaker, a quiver, Kuban bow, dagger, lasso And checker, eternal friend His labors, his leisure. Nothing bothers him Nothing will blur: on foot, on horseback - He's still the same; all the same look Invincible, relentless. Thunderstorm of careless Cossacks, His wealth is a zealous horse, Pet of mountain herds, Comrade faithful, patient, In a cave or in the deaf grass An insidious predator lurks with him And suddenly, with a sudden arrow, Seeing a traveler, strives; In an instant, a sure fight His mighty blow will decide, And a wanderer in the gorges of the mountains Already attracts a flying lasso. The horse strives at full speed, Filled with fiery courage; All the way to him: swamp, forest, Bushes, cliffs and ravines; A trail of blood runs after him, There is a clatter in the desert; A gray stream rustles before him - He rushes into the depths of the boiling; And the traveler, thrown to the bottom, Swallows a muddy wave Exhausted, asks for death And he sees her in front of him ... But his powerful horse is an arrow It brings foamy to the shore. Or, grasping a horned stump, Thrown into the river by a thunderstorm, When on the hills a veil The shadow of a moonless night lies, Circassian on centuries-old roots, Hangs around on branches Your battle armor: Shield, cloak, shell and helmet, Quiver and bow - and into fast waves Then he rushes after him, Tireless and silent. Silent night. The river roars; A mighty current carries him Along the secluded shores, Where on the elevated mounds, Leaning on spears, Cossacks They look at the dark run of the river - And past them, blackening in the mist, The weapon of the villain floats... What are you thinking, Cossack? Remembering past battles On the death field your bivouac, Polkof laudatory prayers And the homeland?.. An insidious dream! Excuse me, free villages, And the house of the fathers, and the quiet Don, War and red maidens! A secret enemy moored to the shores, The arrow comes out of the quiver - Soared - and the Cossack falls From the bloodied mound. When with a peaceful family Circassian in the father's dwelling Sits in a stormy time And coals smolder in the ashes; And, hiding from the faithful horse, Belated in the desert mountains A tired stranger will come to him And timidly sit down by the fire: Then the owner is kind Greetings, affectionately, rises And a guest in a bowl of fragrant Chikhir (9) is gratifying. Under a damp cloak, in a smoky sakla, The traveler enjoys peaceful sleep, And in the morning he leaves Hospitable shelter for the night (10) . It used to be in bright Bairan (11) The young men will gather in a crowd; The game is replaced by the game: Then, having completely dismantled the quiver, They are winged arrows Pierced in the clouds of eagles; That from the height of the steep hills impatient rows, At this sign, they will suddenly fall, Like deer, they strike the earth, The plain is covered with dust And they run with a friendly clatter. But the boring world is monotonous Hearts born for war And often the games of will are idle The game is cruel embarrassed. Often checkers menacingly shine In the insane agility of feasts, And heads of slaves fly to dust, And in joy babies splash. But the Russian is indifferently mature These bloody games. He loved before the game of glory And burning with a thirst for death. Slave of merciless honor, He saw his end up close, In fights, hard, cold, Encountering fatal lead. Perhaps, immersed in thought, He remembered that time When, surrounded by friends, He feasted with them noisily... Did he regret the days gone by About the days that deceived hope, Ile, curious, contemplated The harsh simplicity of fun And the manners of the wild people In this faithful mirror I read - Tail in silence he is deep The movements of your heart And on his high forehead Nothing has changed. His careless courage Terrible Circassians marveled, Spared his young age And whisper among themselves They were proud of their booty. | | Dedication to N. N. Raevsky
Part I
Pletnev P. A. "Prisoner of the Caucasus". Tale. Op. A. Pushkin // Pushkin in lifetime criticism, 1820-1827 / Pushkin Commission Russian Academy sciences; State Pushkin Theater Center in St. Petersburg. - St. Petersburg: State Pushkin Theater Center, 1996. - S. 116-124. http://next.feb-web.ru/feb/pushkin/critics/vpk/vpk-116-.htm P. A. PLETNEV "Prisoner of the Caucasus". Tale. Op. A. Pushkin The story "Prisoner of the Caucasus" is written in the style of the latest English poems, which are especially found in Byron. Examining the "Prisoner of Chillon" (N VIII "C p and b", str. 209) 1, we noticed that in them the poet does not indulge in miracles, does not compose an extensive narrative - but, having chosen one incident in the life of his hero, he confines himself to finishing pictures presented to the imagination, depending on all the circumstances that accompany the main action. In such writings, the choice of incident, local descriptions and the certainty of the character of the characters are the main thing. The incident in the work we are considering is the simplest, but at the same time the most poetic. One Russian is taken prisoner by the Circassians. Having become their slave, chained in glands, he is condemned to look after the flocks. Compassion gives rise to love for him in a young Circassian woman. With her tender participation, she tries to lighten the heavy burden of his slavery. The captive, pursued by the first unhappy love that he knew back in his own country, indifferently accepts the caresses of his compassionate comforter. All his attention is focused on the curious way of life of his wild rulers. (The first part of the story ends here.) The Captive's girlfriend, carried away by her passion and tormented by his cold thoughtfulness, tries to awaken love in him with all the caresses of her sincere affection. Touched by her position, he reveals his secret that his heart is given to another. Mutual grief separates them for a few times. Meanwhile, a sudden alarm takes away in one day all the Circassians from the village to their predatory raid. The abandoned Prisoner sees before him his tender Circassian. She conquers her fiery love, saws the fetters of the Captive and opens the way for him to the fatherland. The Russian, having crossed the Kuban, turns from the shore to look once more at his generous deliverer, but the disappearing circle of splashing waters tells him that she is no longer in the world. Sim ends the story. From this content it is clear that the incident in the "Prisoner of the Caucasus" could be made more diverse, and even more complete. By ordinary concept about such incidents, it must be said that the course of passion, which is inventive and indefatigable, is too short here. The story of the Prisoner remains even more incomplete. His fate is somewhat mysterious. It is impossible not to wish that he, although in a different poem, would appear to us and acquaint us with his fate. However, this would not be news: similar appearances are found in the poems of Byron 2. The local descriptions in The Prisoner of the Caucasus can definitely be called the perfection of poetry. The narrative can be better thought out by the poet and with lesser talents against Pushkin; but his descriptions of the Caucasian region will forever remain the first, the only ones. They left an amazing imprint of visible truth, understandable, so to speak, the tangibility of places, people, their lives and their activities, which we are not too rich in our poetry 3 . We often see the efforts of people who describe, not being able to give themselves an account of the locality, because they are familiar with it only by imagination. The descriptions in The Prisoner of the Caucasus are excellent not only for the perfection of the verses, but especially for the fact that one cannot compose similar ones without seeing pictures of nature with one's own eyes. Beyond that, how much boldness is in the outline of these, how much art is in the decoration! Colors and shadows, that is, words and their arrangement, change, depending on the difference in objects. The poet is sometimes brave, sometimes flexible, like the diverse nature of this wild Asian region. To make our observations more understandable to readers, we present here some local descriptions. Great pictures! Thrones of eternal snow! Their peaks seemed to the eyes As a motionless chain of clouds, And in their circle a two-headed colossus, In a crown of shining ice, Elbrus is huge, majestic, White in the blue sky. When, with a muffled rumble, Forerunner of the storm, thunder rumbled, How often a prisoner above the village, Motionless, sat on the mountain! Clouds smoked at his feet; Flying ashes rose in the steppe; Frightened Elen was already looking for shelter between the rocks; Eagles rose from the cliffs And called to one another in the sky; The noise of the herds, the bellowing of the herds Already the voice of the storm was muffled ... And suddenly rain and hail fell on the houses From the clouds through the lightning erupted. Waves of a swarm of steepness, Moving centuries-old stones, Rain streams flowed - And a captive, from a mountain height, Alone, behind a thunder cloud, Waited for the return of the sun, Unattainable by a thunderstorm, And listened to the storm's feeble howl With some kind of joy. Let the curious compare this formidable and at the same time captivating picture, in which each verse shines with a new, befitting color, with the description of the surroundings of Bonnivar's dungeon, which Byron made in his Prisoner of Chillon; then it will be easier to judge how happily our English poet wins under the same circumstances. Byron's picture, placed next to this one, will seem like a light, weak outline, thrown from the most general glance. We omit another description in The Prisoner of the Caucasus, where the art of the Circassians is depicted with a true and quick brush, with which they carry out experiments on their brave raids. The gift of poetry and the power of imagination could still lead the poet to compose at least a similar picture, if he himself had not been in those places. But we cannot fail to give descriptions of the military cunning, beloved among the Circassians, which cannot be caught by the imagination if the poet himself were not in the land he describes 4 . Or grasping a horned stump, Thrown into the river by a thunderstorm, When a shadow of a moonless night lies in a veil on the hills, A Circassian on centuries-old roots, On branches hangs around His battle armor: Shield, cloak, armor and helmet, Quiver and bow - and in fast waves Behind him rushes then Tireless and silent. Silent night. The river roars; Its mighty current carries it Along the solitary shores, Where on the lofty mounds, Leaning on spears, the Cossacks Look at the dark course of the river, And past them, blackening in the darkness, The weapon of the villain floats... What do you think, Cossack? Do you remember the old battles, On the mortal field your bivouac, Regiments of laudatory prayers And the homeland?.. An insidious dream! Forgive me, free villages, And the house of the fathers, and the quiet Don, War and red maidens! A secret enemy moored to the shores, An arrow comes out of the quiver, Soared - and the Cossack falls From the bloodied mound. The mysterious beginning of the description, like the secret enterprise of the Circassian, beckons the reader to the denouement and maintains to the end all the amusement that is connected with curiosity. But the denouement, like the sudden death of a Cossack, is instantaneous. All these local particulars, captured from nature, give poetry an inexplicable and enduring beauty. The greatest poets, especially the ancient ones, mostly adhered to this rule - and therefore their pictures have nothing monotonous and tedious. We could give many more examples to prove our main opinion that the "Prisoner of the Caucasus" according to its local descriptions is the most perfect work of our poetry; but we leave it to the readers to believe for themselves our judgment on the whole work: fragments cannot make such an impression as the whole poem. In the "Prisoner of the Caucasus" (as you can already see from the content) there are only two characters: the Circassian woman and the Russian Captive. It is more pleasant for us to first talk about the character of the former; because it is more deliberate and perfect than the character of the second. Everything that gentle compassion, touching innocence and first innocent love can only imagine the poet's imagination - everything is depicted in the character of the Circassian woman. She, apparently, appeared to the poet so openly and vividly that he had only to look at her and draw her portrait. But who, in the radiance of the moon, In the midst of deep silence, Goes furtively stepping? The Russian woke up. In front of him, With gentle and mute greetings, stands a young Circassian. He silently looks at the maiden And thinks: this is a false dream, The game of tired feelings is empty. Slightly illuminated by the moon, With a smile of pity, graciously kneeling, she brings cool koumiss to his lips with a quiet hand. But he forgot the healing vessel; With his greedy soul he catches the magical sound of pleasant speech And the glances of a young maiden. He does not understand foreign words; But the eyes are touching, the heat roams, But the gentle voice says: Live! and the prisoner comes to life. And he, having gathered the rest of his strength, Submissive to the command of his dear, He stood up - and quenched his thirst with a cup of beneficial languishing. Then he bowed again on the stone with his burdened head; But all the way to the Circassian young woman, his faded gaze strove. And for a long, long time in front of him She, thoughtful, sat; How would you like to comfort the captive with dumb participation; The mouth involuntarily opened every hour With the speech begun; She sighed, and more than once her eyes filled with tears. In order to more vividly imagine all the touching charm of the appearance of the Circassian, you need to know that the Captive was at that time in a terrible situation: attracted to the village on a lasso, disfigured by terrible ulcers and chained, he eagerly awaited his death - and instead, in the form of the goddess of health , his deliverer comes to him. After days the days passed like a shadow. In the mountains, chained, at herds Conducts the captive every day. Caves dark coolness It hides in the summer heat; When the horn of the silvery moon Glistens behind the gloomy mountain, Circassian, shady path, Brings wine to the captive, Kumis, and fragrant honeycomb beehives, And snow-white millet. He shares a secret supper with him; A tender look rests on him; Conversation merges with obscure speech Eyes and signs; He sings to him the songs of the mountains, And the songs of happy Georgia, And the impatient memory Transmits a foreign language. We do not dwell on the beauty of each verse separately. Such an analysis would force us to tire our readers with monotonous exclamations. We only want to give a clear idea of this character, which will forever remain with us a masterful work - and therefore we are forced to choose places where the poet was able to reveal the whole soul of his heroine. Let's listen to how she struggles in the dull Prisoner to awaken the feeling of love that conquered her heart: .............. Dear Prisoner! Cheer up your sad eyes, Lean your head to my chest, Forget freedom, homeland: I am glad to hide in the desert With you, the king of my soul! Love me; no one has kissed my eyes until now; To my lonely bed The young and black-eyed Circassian Did not sneak in the stillness of the night; I am reputed to be a cruel maiden, Inexorable beauty. I know the lot is ready for me: My father and brother, stern, Nemilom want to sell In a strange village at the price of gold; But I will beg my father and brother; Otherwise, I'll find a dagger or poison. By an incomprehensible, wondrous power I am all drawn to you; I love you, dear slave, Your soul is intoxicated... Can passion speak more convincingly? This place brings to mind the tender Moina, with the same simple-heartedness depicting her love for Fingal 5 . But in private decoration there is nothing in common between Ozerov and Pushkin; because the faces they describe are taken from different climates and were in different positions. It should be noted with what skill Pushkin used the fiery and partly violent character of the wild mountaineers, which should be visible even in the most innocent Circassian! She, at the mere thought of involuntary marriage, resolutely says: I will find a dagger or poison. After such a tender expression of her love, she hears from him a terrible sentence to herself: The prisoner no longer has power over his heart. What a quick and strong transition must follow in her soul from hope to despair! Opening her mouth, weeping without tears, A young maiden sat: Misty, motionless gaze Silent expressed reproach; Pale as a shadow, she trembled; In the hands of her lover lay Her cold hand; And finally, the longing of love In a sad speech poured out: "Ah, Russian, Russian! Why, Not knowing your heart, I surrendered to You forever? Not long on your chest In oblivion, the maiden rested; Not many joyful days Fate sent down to her lot! They will come Will joy ever perish again? , The peace of a yearning friend: You didn't want to ...... "The poet did not omit anything to complete the portrayal of this ingenuous and gentle character. The place we have cited can be called a model of art, how to attract the participation of readers to the characters acting in the poem. Meanwhile, we do not find such certainty in the character of the Captive. It seems to be an unfinished face. There are places that excite and lively participation in it. When so slowly, so tenderly You drink my kisses, And for you the hours of love Pass quickly, serenely; Eating tears in silence, Then absent-minded, despondent, Before me, as in a dream, I see an image forever sweet; I call him, I aspire to him, I am silent, I do not see, I do not heed; I surrender to you in oblivion And embrace a secret ghost; I shed tears for him in the desert; Everywhere he wanders with me And brings gloomy melancholy to my soul. Or - where even more clearly it is said: Do not cry! And I'm persecuted by fate And I experienced the anguish of the heart. Not! I did not know mutual love; I loved alone, suffered alone, And I go out like a smoky flame, Forgotten among the empty valleys. I will die far off the desired shores; This steppe will be my coffin; Here, on the bones of my exiles, A painful chain will rust ... Having read these verses, everyone would have a clear idea of the character of a person devoted to tender love for a sweet object that rejected his fatal passion. In this one form, the Prisoner would constitute the most entertaining person in the poem. But in other places, extraneous and obscuring features are mixed in with the image of the Captive. For example, the writer says that the Captive has lost his fatherland. ..... Where he proudly began his fiery youth without worries, Where he first knew joy, Where he loved many sweet things, Where he embraced terrible suffering, Where stormy life ruined Hope, joy and desire- And the memories of better days In the withered heart concluded. ......................................... ......... ................................ He knew people and light, And he knew the price of an unfaithful life: I found betrayal in the hearts of friends, In the dreams of love - a crazy dream. Bored of being a victim of the habitual long-contemptible fuss, And hostility of bilingual, And ingenuous slander, Renegade of light, friend of nature, He left his native limit And flew to a distant land With a cheerful ghost of freedom. According to this description, the imagination sometimes represents a person who is tired of the pleasures of love, then who hates the vicious world and joyfully leaves his homeland to find a better land. The writer hits the first thought in another place. Forget me; your love, I'm not worthy of your admiration. Do not waste priceless days with me; Call another young man. ......................................... ......... ................................ Without intoxication, without desires I wither a victim of passions. Such obscure words in the mouth of a man who is ardently loved give rise to strange thoughts about him. It would be easier and nobler for him to refuse a new love with his constant affection, although his first love was rejected: the more surely he would deserve the compassion and respect of the Circassian woman. Meanwhile the words: I'm not worth your admiration, or: without desires I wither a victim of passions- cool any participation in it. The unfortunate lover could tell her: "My heart is foreign to a new love," but who has reason to admit that he not worth the hype innocence, he destroys all charm at the expense of his morality. This is what made us say that the character of the Russian in The Prisoner of the Caucasus is not entirely thought out and, consequently, not entirely successful. However, meeting in this poem the omissions indicated by the writer himself, we believe that what some circumstances forced him to present his work to the public not quite in the form in which it was formed in its first state. Among the small errors in the verses, we include the following passage in this poem: In the hour of the early, morning coolness, stopped he long stare To the distant masses Gray, ruddy, blue mountains. In the other place: But Europeans are all the attention This wonderful people attracted - the first verse came out very prosaic. These almost the only and unimportant errors are replaced by the uninterrupted, inimitable beauties of true poetry. Criticism cannot and must not speak coolly about such works, because they nourish an educated taste; by their mere appearance they destroy the falsely beautiful, clear the field of literature and resolve the noisy rumors of ignorance and predilection. Pushkin, being gifted with a true and original talent, goes on a par with other excellent poets of our time. Of course, he is not without mistakes. In his first poem "Ruslan and Lyudmila" there is an error in plan; the main persons could have appeared more entertainingly, more fully, and more clearly revealed the strength in the characters; but these mistakes are inseparable from the first experiments in the epic kind, requiring the greatest considerations and the maturity of a genius. We can guarantee that constant attention and love for his art will bring him to that perfection in plans, which is now so visible in the private finishes of his works.Notes Competitor of education and charity. 1822. Part 20. N 10 (published on October 5). pp. 24-44. The analysis was read and approved at a meeting of the Free Society of Lovers of Russian Literature, held on September 11, 1822 (Bazanov S. 420). Even before the publication of Pletnev's article, The Competitor informed its readers about Pushkin's new work in the section "Announcements of New Books" (1822. Ch. XIX. N 9. P. 339). 1 This refers to Pletnev's review of Byron's poem translated by Zhukovsky (Prisoner of Chillon, Lord Byron's poem / Translated from English by V. Zh. SPb., 1822). This refers to Pletnev's review of Byron's poem translated by Zhukovsky (Prisoner of Chillon, Lord Byron's poem / Translated from English by V. Zh. SPb., 1822). 2 We are talking about the heroes of Byron's poems "The Corsair" and "Lara" (1814). Initially, Byron really conceived "Lara" as a continuation of "Corsair", but in the process of work, the appearance of the hero changed somewhat. In the preface to the first edition of Lara, Byron placed the following words: "The reader - if "Lara" is destined to have it - will probably consider this poem as a continuation of "The Corsair"; they are similar in character, and although the characters are placed in different positions, their plots are to some extent interconnected; the face is almost the same, but the expression is different" ( Byron J.G. Cit.: In 3 vols. St. Petersburg, 1905. Vol. 1. S. 350). 3 As Pushkin's self-assessments testify, he also valued descriptions in "The Prisoner of the Caucasus" above all. Compare: "The Circassians, their customs and mores occupy the largest and best part of my story ..." (letter to V.P. Gorchakov, October-November 1822 - XIII, 52). Wed also the preface to the second edition of The Prisoner of the Caucasus (IV, 367) and the Refutation of the Critics (XI, 145). 4 Wed. Pushkin's confession in a letter to N. I. Gnedich: "... I put my hero in the monotonous plains, where I myself lived for two months - where four mountains rise at a distance from each other, the last branch of the Caucasus" (XIII, 28). 5 Moina and Fingal- the main characters of the tragedy "Fingal" (1805) by V. A. Ozerov (1769-1816). Pletnev has in mind the 6th phenomenon of the first act. 6 A hint of censorship passes in the first edition of the poem.He looked for hours, How agile a Circassian is sometimes, Wide steppe, mountains, In a shaggy hat, burke black, Leaning towards the bow, on the stirrups Leaning with a slender leg, I flew at the will of the horse, Getting used to the war in advance. (Pushkin, Prisoner of the Caucasus) When on the hills a veil The shadow of a moonless night lies, Circassian on centuries-old roots, Hangs around on branches Your battle armor: Shield, burka, shell and helmet, Quiver and bow - and into fast waves Then he rushes after him, Tireless and silent. (Pushkin, Prisoner of the Caucasus)
Note to the postcard: Avars called Kumyks living in the mountains Tavlintsy. Bridles of copper rattle, turn black burki, shining armor, Saddled horses boil The whole village is ready for the raid, And wild pets of scolding The river gushed from the hills And gallop along the banks of the Kuban Collect violent tribute. (Pushkin, Prisoner of the Caucasus) Everyone is waiting. From sakli at last The father comes out between the wives. Two bridles are carried out behind him On the burke cold corpse. (Pushkin, Tazit)
Commander of the 200th Dagestan Permanent Militia Captain Aleksader bek Alypkachev in Dagestan. 1860. Photo by F. Petrov Jumping off the horse, I wanted to enter the first saklya, but the owner appeared at the door and pushed me away with abuse. I responded to his greeting with a whip. The Turk shouted; the people gathered. My guide, it seems, stood up for me. I was shown a caravanserai; I entered a large saklya, similar to a barn; there was no place where I could spread cloak. (Pushkin, Journey to Arzrum) You matured like the Terek in a fast run Between the vineyards rustled, Where often, crouching on the shore, Chechen or Circassian sat Under cloak, with a fatal lasso ... (Pushkin, Prisoner of the Caucasus) Your horse is ready! By my hand. A bridle is put on, And silver scales. The Kuban notch shines, AND cloak black belt. I tied behind the saddle . (Lermontov, Izmail Bay) He did not know motherly affection: Indeed, in Russia they imagine the Caucasus somehow majestic, with eternal virgin ice, stormy streams, with daggers, burkas, Circassians - all this is something terrible, but, in essence, there is nothing funny about it. (Tolstoy, Woodcutting) Hadji Murad got up and took cloak and, throwing it over his arm, handed it to Marya Dmitrievna, saying something to the interpreter. The translator said: Having taken off his shoes and performed ablution, Hadji Murad stood with his bare feet on cloak, then sat on his calves and, first plugging his ears with his fingers and closing his eyes, said, turning to the east, the usual prayers. (Tolstoy, Hadji Murad) Photo from the collection of Timur Dzuganov on Facebook |
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