Problems and artistic features of A.A. Blok’s poems “The Nightingale Garden” and “Retribution”. "Retribution", analysis of the poem by Alexander Blok - Composing any on the topic Block cycle retribution

”, his poetic talent reached its peak. The prologue and the first chapter are true masterpieces. The second chapter is not finished, the third remained in outline. Russian poetry rarely attained such prophetic grandeur. Here is what Blok wrote in 1919 in the preface to the poem:

Feeling neither the need nor the desire to finish the poem, full of revolutionary forebodings, in the years when the revolution had already taken place, I want to preface the outline of the last chapter with a story about how the poem was born, what were the causes of its occurrence, where did its rhythms come from.

It is interesting and useful both for oneself and for others to recall the history of one's own work. Besides, we, the happiest or unhappiest children of our age, have to remember all our lives; all our years are sharply colored for us, and - alas! - you can’t forget them, - they are painted too indelibly, so that each figure seems to be written in blood; we cannot forget these figures; they are written on our own faces.

The theme is how the links of a single chain of the genus develop. Individual offspring of every kind develop to their limits and are then reabsorbed by the surrounding world environment; but in each offspring something new and something sharper matures and is deposited, at the cost of endless losses, personal tragedies, life failures, falls, etc.; at the cost, finally, of the loss of those infinitely lofty qualities that once shone like the finest diamonds in the human crown (such as, for example, humane qualities, virtues, impeccable honesty, high morality, etc.).

In a word, the world whirlpool sucks almost the whole person into its funnel; there is almost no trace left of the personality, it itself, if it still exists, becomes unrecognizable, disfigured, crippled. There was a man - and there was no man, there was a crappy sluggish flesh and a smoldering little soul. But the seed is sown, and in the next firstborn a new, more stubborn one grows; and in the last first-born, this new and stubborn finally begins to tangibly act on environment; thus, a race that has experienced the retribution of history, environment, era, begins in turn to create retribution; the last first-born is already capable of snapping and roaring like a lion; he is ready to grasp with his human hand the wheel by which the history of mankind moves. And maybe grab hold of it...

The poem was to consist of a prologue, three large chapters and an epilogue. Each chapter is framed by a description of events of world significance: they form its background.

The first chapter develops in the 70s of the last century, against the backdrop of the Russian-Turkish war and the People's Will movement, in an enlightened liberal family; a certain “demon”, the first sign of “individualism”, a man resembling Byron, with some unearthly impulses and aspirations, blunted, however, by the disease of the century, beginning fin de stecle, appears in this family.

The second chapter, set at the end of the 19th and beginning of the 20th century, never written, except for an introduction, was to be dedicated to the son of this "demon", the heir to his rebellious impulses and painful falls - the insensible son of our age. This is also only one of the links of a long family; apparently, nothing will remain of him either, except for a spark of fire, thrown into the world, except for the seed, thrown by him on a passionate and sinful night into the bosom of some quiet and feminine daughter of a foreign people.

The third chapter describes how the father ended his life, what happened to the former brilliant "demon", into what abyss this once bright man fell. The action of the poem is transferred from the Russian capital, where it has been developing so far, to Warsaw - which at first seems to be the "backyard of Russia", and then apparently called upon to play a certain messianic role associated with the fates forgotten by God and tormented Poland. Here, over the fresh grave of the father, the development and life path of the son ends, which gives way to his own offspring, the third link of the same high-flying and low-falling family.

The epilogue should depict an infant held and cradled on her lap by a simple mother, lost somewhere in the wide Polish clover fields, unknown to anyone and herself unaware of anything. But she cradles and breastfeeds her son, and the son grows up, he already begins to play, he begins to repeat after the mother in warehouses: “And for you, my freedom, I will ascend the black scaffold.”

Here, apparently, is the circle of human life, the last link in a long chain; that circle, which itself will finally begin to bristle, put pressure on the environment ... here is the offspring of the genus, which, perhaps, will finally grab the wheel that moves human history with its little hand.

The whole poem must be accompanied by a certain leitmotif of “retribution”: this leitmotif is the mazurka, the dance that Marina, who dreamed of the Russian throne, carried on her wings, and Kosciuszka with her right hand stretched to heaven, and Mickiewicz at Russian and Parisian balls. In the first chapter, this dance is easily heard from the window of some Petersburg apartment - the deaf 70s; in the second chapter, the dance thunders at the ball, mingling with the ringing of officer spurs, like the foam of fin de siecle champagne, the famous veuve Clicquot ... in the third chapter, the mazurka has cleared up: it rings in a snow blizzard sweeping over Warsaw at night, over snow-covered Polish clover fields . The voice of Retribution is already clearly heard in it.

Although unfinished, the poem is rightfully considered a masterpiece. Travel, funeral, posthumous closeness to his father shocked the poet.

“Yes, the son loved his father then!” - he writes in the third chapter, and in a letter to his mother from Warsaw we read:

“Everything testifies to the nobility and height of his spirit, to some extraordinary loneliness and exceptional largeness of nature. Death, as always, explained a lot, improved a lot and crossed out a lot of superfluous things.

In the prologue of the poem, the iambic resembles Pushkin's verse. The nineteenth century, which Blok speaks of in the first chapter, is the era of Beketovaded, calm, simple, active, with its liberalism, sweet way of thinking and no less sweet way of life. But disintegration begins very quickly - around the person and in himself: gradually, imperceptibly, still imperceptibly, but already clearly the first signs of it affect. In external life everything changes, as in minds seized with feverish and fruitless constructions:

A bugler's horn - Roland's horn And a helmet - a cap replace ...

But the 20th century is coming - the century of comets, the Messinian earthquake, armaments, aviation and the impoverishment of faith:

And disgust from life, And insane love for it, And passion and hatred for the motherland... And black, earthly blood Promises us, inflating veins, All destroying the frontiers, Unheard-of changes, Unseen revolts.

The story continues. The "demon" rushes at its prey like a hawk, and a young girl, born for a peaceful life, is torn from the bosom of her family.

In the second chapter, the young hero wanders along the wide embankments of the blue Neva. He addresses the accursed city, which one day is destined to disappear:

Oh, my elusive city, Why did you arise above the abyss? You foresaw all the distance, like an angel On the spire of a fortress...

Here you can hear the echoes of Pushkin's "The Bronze Horseman", the voices of Gogol and Dostoevsky. Like them, Blok became a singer of St. Petersburg, its secrets, its extraordinary fate.

The specificity of Blok's artistic thinking was most expressively manifested in the poem "Retribution", conceived after his trip in 1909 to his father's funeral in Warsaw. The poem is autobiographical and at the same time broad in its generalizations.

It traces the fate of a noble family (in which the history of the "Beketov's house" is easily guessed) in connection with Russian life. late XIX- early 20th century

But the creative task of the poet was not limited to typing the life of one family. The deep intention of the poem, full of "revolutionary forebodings" (3, 295), was to reveal the history of humanistic culture in Russia, its heyday, decline and death.

The noble, but fenced off from life world of an intelligent family associated with the traditions of liberalism and positivism, is gradually being destroyed by “demons” - carriers of individualistic consciousness: the Father (in whom it is easy to recognize A. L. Blok) and the Son (whose prototype is the poet himself). Strong only with the poison of denial, the Father and the Son are crushed by the "world environment", descend and perish.

However, in the finale conceived by Blok, the “last first-born” of the family, born of a Polish peasant woman, becomes the bearer of a new, popular and revolutionary consciousness and administers the “retribution” of life that has crippled generations of people (3, 298). The dialectical nature of the world is manifested in history as a constant movement and "courageous" duel and environment. The old culture is replaced by a new one, but life remains, always mobile and eternal.

Blok broadly recreates the historical background of the life of the heroes, referring to the traditions of a realistic, primarily Pushkin's poem. However, the general concept and structure of images diverge in many respects from this tradition. Each epoch, according to Blok, is a stage in the development of the cosmically universal "spirit of music". Therefore, history, life, on the one hand, and culture, the characters of the characters, on the other, are not connected by a causal relationship.

These are parallel, "corresponding", deeply related to each other manifestations of the universal cause - the "single musical pressure" of time. For the same reason, the accurately written details of the era are at the same time symbols of some other (“corresponding” to them) events or the “zeitgeist” in general: the scene of the return of troops from the Russian-Turkish war in the first chapter is a symbol of life going “like infantry, hopelessly"; the leitmotif of the mazurka is a symbol of the coming "retribution", etc.

History of Russian literature: in 4 volumes / Edited by N.I. Prutskov and others - L., 1980-1983

In the poem "Retribution" Blok tells about the end of the Russian nobility, to use the words of the author himself, "the one who loved him dearly, whose grateful memory preserved all the wonderful gifts to his Russian art and the Russian public in the last century, who clearly understood that it was time to stop crying about the fact that his fertile juices have gone to their native land irretrievably. ". Blok said goodbye to this past, like the hero of another of his poems - to the "nightingale garden", where much remained, painfully dear to him. But any delay in this "garden" seems

To him a painful, unforgivable betrayal of other, incomparably higher and nobler ideals:

Intoxicated with golden wine, scorched by golden fire, I forgot about the rocky path,

About his poor comrade.

The nightingale's song is sweet, even the poetic lines themselves seem to ring with its sonorous tints and variations (drunk - singed, wine - fire, golden - golden).

Why are we suddenly reminded of Pushkin's:

Years passed. Storms rebellious impulse Dispelled former dreams,

Your heavenly features.

Maybe in contrast? After all, the plot situation in the poem is almost

Not the opposite of Pushkin's: not in the "darkness of imprisonment" her hero languishes, but on the contrary - in a beautiful garden, in the arms of a beauty, and his "comrade" is just a donkey, obediently sharing hard work with him:

Suddenly - a vision: a high road

And the tired tread of a donkey.

But let us recall the old Blok lines, generated by the echoes of the 1905 revolution:

I go out on the road, open to the eyes, The wind bends the elastic bushes, The broken stone lay down on the slopes, The yellow clay meager layers.

Who lured me to the familiar path, Smiled at me through the prison window?

After all, both there and in a poem related in pathos “Here he is - Christ - in chains and roses. "Prison" is the "nightingale garden" of a carefree life. And the nondescript landscape, where “a wretched artist created the sky” and where so prosaically “a cabbage garden lies on a hillock,” excites and attracts just like a common stranger “in her chintz kerchief” (“Your face is so familiar to me.”).

The most lively moral necessity calls the poet to go "on the path open to the eyes."

Without this path, the days drag on “without a deity, without inspiration. ". It is characteristic that, much later, Blok would give this title to his article on poets, who, in his words, “sleep in a deep sleep without dreams. they do not have and do not want to have a shadow of an idea about Russian life and about the life of the world in general. ".

Joining the tragedy of the First World War further aggravated Blok's sense of homeland:

Yes, night ways, fatal,

Separated us and brought us together again

And again we are to you, Russia,

Dobreli from a foreign land.

“Foreign land” is an image of isolation from the motherland, from its cares and destinies. The biographical basis of the poem is not only the spiritual throwing of Blok himself during the “night hours” of the reaction, but also the stormy passion of his actress wife for fashionable theatrical quests (“Modernists separate her from me.”, the poet’s diary says woefully). In the first years of the war, L.D. Blok worked in a military hospital near the front, and this, according to her husband, should have sobered her up from her former addictions.

But, of course, the meaning of the poem is incomparably wider than the episodes of someone's personal biography:

The cross and the mound of the fraternal grave,

That's where you are now, silence!

Only the aching song of a soldier From afar rushes a wave.

These lines resonate with Nekrasov's famous poems: "There is noise in the capitals, whirls are thundering, a verbal war is in full swing, and there, in the depths of Russia, there is centuries-old silence." Like Nekrasov, the silence is contrasted here with the fuss and hype raised around the events taking place (“. boasting in poetry and prose was deafening, like Moscow bell-copper ringing,” was written about this time in the chronicle magazine published by Maxim Gorky).

Other poems of Blok of these years are also permeated with a sense of ever-increasing tragic tension:

shutters with hinges

At the first, newspaper publication, this poem was called "Wind". Once again this "hero" of Blok's poetry appears before us, bringing with it anxiety and vague forebodings. Less than two years will pass, and the singing of the poem - “The wild wind oppresses the glass. ”- will turn out to be that rhythmic “spark” from which the stormy flame of “The Twelve” will flare up: “Black evening. White snow. Wind, wind!

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Short story creation. The poem "The Nightingale Garden" is dated January 6, 1914 - October 14, 1915. This was the period of Blok's stormy romance ...

Prologue

Life is without beginning and end.
Chance awaits us all.
Above us - the inevitable dusk,
Or the clarity of God's face.
But you, the artist, firmly believe
Beginnings and ends. You know
Where heaven and hell guard us.
You have been given an impassive measure
Measure everything you see.
Your gaze - let it be firm and clear.
Erase random features -
And you will see: the world is beautiful.
Know where the light is, you will understand where the darkness is.
Let everything go slowly
What is holy in the world, what is sinful in it,
Through the heat of the soul, through the coldness of the mind.
So Siegfried rules the sword over the forge:
That will turn into red coal,
It will quickly plunge into the water -
And hiss and turns black
Beloved entrusted blade ...
Blow - it shines, Notung is faithful,
And Mime, hypocritical dwarf,
In confusion falls at the feet!
Who forges a sword? - Knowing no fear.
And I'm helpless and weak
Like everyone, like you, is just a smart slave,
Made of clay and dust,
And the world is scary for me.
The hero no longer strikes freely, -
His hand is in the hand of the people,
There is a column of fire above the world,
And in every heart, in every thought -
Your arbitrariness and your law ...
Over all Europe a dragon,
Open mouth, thirsty...
Who will strike him?
We do not know: over our camp,
As of old, the distance is twisted by mist,
And it smells like burning. There is a fire.
But the song - everything will be a song,
In the crowd, everyone sings.
Here is his head on a platter
The dancer gives the king;
There - he is on a black scaffold
lays down his head;
Here - the name is branded shameful
His poems ... And I sing -
But the final judgment is not yours,
Don't you close my mouth!..
Let the dark church be empty
Let the shepherd sleep; me before noon
I will pass the dewy border,
I'll turn the rusty key in the gate
And in the porch scarlet from the dawn
I will serve my dinner.
You, who struck Dennitsa,
Bless on this path!
Let me at least a small page
Turn from the book of life.
Give me slowly and undeceitfully
Tell before Your face
About what we hide in ourselves,
About what is alive in this world,
About how anger ripens in the hearts,
And with anger - youth and freedom,
How the spirit of the people breathes in everyone.
Sons are reflected in fathers:
A short snippet of the kind -
Two or three links - and it's already clear
Precepts of dark antiquity:
A new breed has matured, -
Coal turns into diamond.
He, under the hardworking pick,
Rising from the bowels slowly,
It will appear - for show to the world!
So beat, do not know rest,
Let the vein of life be deep:
Diamond burns from afar -
Fractions, my angry iambic, stones!
First chapter
Nineteenth century, iron,
Truly a cruel age!
You in the darkness of the night, starless
Careless abandoned man!
In the night of speculative concepts,
materialistic small deeds,
Powerless complaints and curses
Bloodless souls and weak bodies!
With you came the plague to replace
Neurasthenia, boredom, spleen,
A century of smashing foreheads against the wall
economic doctrines,
Congresses, banks, federations,
Table speeches, red words,
Age of stocks, rents and bonds
And inactive minds
And half gifts
(So fair - in half!),
A century not of salons, but of living rooms,
Not a recamier, but just ladies ...
Age of bourgeois wealth
(Growing invisibly evil!).
Under the sign of equality and brotherhood
There are dark things going on here...
And the man? - he lived without will:
Not him - cars, cities,
"Life" is so bloodless and painless
Tortured the spirit like never before...
But the one who moved, driving
Puppets of all countries -
He knew what he was doing, sending
Humanistic Fog:
There, in the gray and rotten fog,
The flesh withered, and the spirit went out,
And the angel of holy war himself,
It seemed to fly away from us:
There - blood feuds decide
diplomatic mind,
There - new guns interfere
Come face to face with the enemy
There - instead of courage - impudence,
And instead of feats - "psychosis",
And bosses always quarrel
And a long bulky convoy
The team drags along
Headquarters, quartermasters, cursing dirt,
Horn of a bugler - horn of Roland
And a helmet - a cap replacing ...
That century was cursed a lot
And they won't stop cursing.
And how to get rid of his sadness?
He gently laid - yes hard to sleep ...
Twentieth century ... More homeless
Even worse than life is darkness
(Even blacker and bigger
Shadow of Lucifer's wing).
Smoky sunset fires
(Prophecies of our day)
Comets formidable and tailed
A terrible ghost in the sky
Merciless end of Messina
(Elemental forces cannot be overcome),
And the relentless roar of the machine
Forging death day and night
Consciousness of a terrible deceit
All former small thoughts and faiths,
And the first airplane takeoff
Into the wilderness of unknown realms...
And disgusted with life
And crazy love for her
And passion and hatred for the motherland ...
And black, earthly blood
Promises us, inflating veins,
All destroying the frontiers,
Unheard of changes
Unforeseen riots...
What is a man? - Behind the roar of steel,
In fire, in powder smoke,
What fiery distances
Have you opened your eyes?
About what - machines incessant rattle?
Why - propeller, howling, cuts
The fog is cold - and empty?
Now follow me, my reader,
To the sick capital of the north,
To the remote Finnish coast!
Already autumn seventy-eighth
Brings out the old age.
In Europe, work is arguing
And here - still in the swamp
Looks sad dawn ...
But in the middle of September
In that year, look how much sun!
Where do people go in the morning?
And all the way to the outpost
Peas are pouring cheers,
Both Zabalkansky and Sennaya
They are swarming with police, the crowd,
Scream, stampede, cursing areal ...
Beyond the city limits
Where the golden-headed one shines
Novodevichy Convent,
Fences, slaughterhouses and wasteland
In front of the Moscow outpost, -
The wall of the people, the darkness of carriages,
Cabins, droshky and carriages,
Sultans, shakos and helmets,
Queen, court and high society!
And before the touched queen,
In the autumn sun dust
Troops march in line
From the borders of a foreign land ...
They walk as if from a parade.
Ile left no trace
The recent camp at Tsargrad,
Foreign language and cities?
Behind them - the snowy Balkans,
Three Plevens, Shipka and Dubnyak,
non-healing wounds,
And a cunning and not weak enemy ...
Out - Pavlovtsy, out - grenadiers
They walk along the dusty pavement;
Their faces are stern, their breasts are gray,
George shines here and there,
Their battalions are sparse,
But survivors of the battle
Now under tattered banners
Bowed their heads...
End of a hard journey
Unforgettable days!
They came to their home
They are among their people!
How will their native people meet?
Today - oblivion of the past,
Today - heavy visions
Wars - let the wind blow!
And at the hour of solemn return
They forgot about everything:
Forgotten the life and death of a soldier
Under enemy fire
Nights, for many - without dawn,
Cold, silent firmament,
Lurking somewhere -
And overtaking death
Sickness, fatigue, pain and hunger,
The whistle of bullets, the dreary howl of the cannonball,
Frozen lodgments cold,
The unheated fire of the fire,
And even - the burden of eternal discord
Among staff and combatant,
And (maybe worse than all the others)
Forgotten commissaries intrigues ...
Ile not forgotten, maybe? -
Trays await them with bread and salt,
They will speak speeches
On them - flowers and cigarettes
They fly from the windows of all houses ...
Yes, their hard work is sacred!
Look: every soldier
A bouquet of flowers is put on the bayonet!
The battalion commanders
Flowers on saddles, saddlecloths,
In buttonholes of faded uniforms,
On horse bangs and in hands ...
They go, they go ... Barely by sunset
They will come to the barracks: who will replace
Lint and cotton wool on the wounds,
Who - to fly in the evening, captivate
Beauties, flaunt crosses,
Drop careless words
Lazily moving his mustache
Before the humiliated "stunt",
Playing with a new lanyard
On a scarlet ribbon - like children ...
Ile, in fact, these people
So interesting and smart?
Why are they lifted up
So high, why do they have faith?
In the eyes of any officer
There are visions of war.
On their usual faces
Borrowed fires are burning.
Alien life own pages
Turned them over. They are
All are baptized by fire and deed;
Their speeches say about one thing:
how White General on white
Horse, among enemy grenades,
Stood like a ghost unscathed
Joking calmly over the fire;
Like a red pillar of fire and smoke
Soared over the Mountain Dubnyak;
About how the regimental banner
The dead man did not let him out of his hands;
Like a cannon through mountain paths
The colonel helped to drag;
Like a royal horse, snoring, stumbled
Before the crippled bayonet,
The king looked and turned away,
And covered his eyes with a handkerchief ...
Yes, they know pain and hunger
With a simple soldier on a par ...
The one who was in the war
Sometimes it gets cold
That fatal anyway
which prepares
A series of world events
The only one that doesn't interfere...
Everything will be reflected in
A half-hearted laugh...
And the government is in a hurry
All those who have ceased to be a pawn,
Turn into a tour, or into horses ...
And we, the reader, do not fit
There is no way to count horses and a tour,
With you now we are tangled
Into the crowd of staring onlookers,
Us at all jubilation is
Made me forget yesterday...
Our eyes are full of light,
Our ears are ringing with cheers!
And many, forgetting too much,
Legs of civilians are dusting,
Like street boys
Near the marching soldiers
And this rush of feelings is instantaneous
Here - in St. Petersburg September!
Look: the head of the family is venerable
Sitting on a lantern!
His wife has been calling for a long time,
Full of futile rage
And, to hear, the umbrella pokes,
Wherever there is a trace, she is to him.
But he doesn't feel it either.
And despite the general laughter,
He sits and does not blow in his mustache,
Canaglia, sees the best!..
Gone ... Only an echo groans in my ears,
And that's all - do not disperse the crowd;
The water carrier has already passed with a barrel,
Leaving the wet path
And Vanka, bending around the curbstone,
Naper on the mistress - yelling
Already on this occasion
Running to help the people
(City - gives whistles) ...
The carriages followed
Dawn played in the barracks -
And even the father of the family
Climbed obediently from the lantern,
But, dispersing, everyone is waiting for something ...
Yes, today, on the day of their return,
All life in the capital, like infantry,
Thundering on the stone pavement,
It goes, it goes - in a ridiculous formation,
Gorgeous and noisy...
One thing will pass, another will come
Look, she's not the same anymore
And the one that flashed, there is no return,
You are in it - as in the old days ...
Slowed down the pale ray of sunset
In a high, by chance, window.
You could notice in that window
Behind the frame - pale features,
You might see a sign
which you don't know
But you pass - and do not look,
You meet and you don't know
You follow others into the dusk,
You follow the crowd.
Go, passerby, without attention,
Lazily tugging at your mustache,
Let the oncoming person and the building -
Like everyone else - for you.
You are busy with all sorts of things
Of course you don't know
What's behind these walls
And your hiding can rock ...
(But if you spread your mind,
Forgetting his wife and samovar,
With fear you would open your mouth
And I would sit right on the sidewalk!)
It's getting dark. The curtains came down.
The room is full of people
And behind closed doors
There are silent conversations
And this restrained speech
Full of care and sadness.
The fire has not yet been lit
And they are not in a hurry to light it up.
Faces drown in the evening darkness,
Take a look - you will see row one
Shadows obscure, a string
Some women and men.
The meeting is not verbose,
And every guest entering the door
Stubborn gaze silently
Looks like an animal.
Here someone broke out with a cigarette:
Among others - a woman is sitting:
Big childish forehead is not hidden
Simple and modest hairstyle
Wide white collar
And the black dress - everything is simple,
Skinny, short,
Blue-eyed child's face,
But, as if finding something in the distance,
Looks carefully, point-blank,
And this sweet, gentle look
It burns with courage and sadness ...
They are waiting for someone ... The bell rings.
Slowly opening doors
A new guest enters the threshold:
Confident in your movements
And stately; courageous look;
Dressed just like a foreigner
Exquisite; glitters in the hand
High gloss cylinder;
Barely obscured
The look of brown eyes is sternly meek;
Napoleonic beard
The restless mouth is framed;
Big-headed, dark-haired -
Handsome and ugly together:
Anxious twisted mouth
Melancholy grimace.
And the crowd of those gathered fell silent ...
Two words, two handshakes -
And a guest to a child in a black dress
Goes past the others...
He looks long and lovingly
And firmly shakes his hand more than once,
And says: "Congratulations to you
With escape, Sonya ... Sofya Lvovna!
Again - to the mortal fight!
And suddenly - for no apparent reason -
On that strange white forehead
Two wrinkles lay deep ...
Dawn has gone out. And men
Rum and wine are poured into a bowl,
And a blue flame
It ran under a full bowl.
Daggers are placed over it with a cross.
Here the flame is expanding - and suddenly,
Running up over the burnt, trembled
In the eyes of those crowded around ...
Fire, fighting the crowd of darkness,
Lilac-blue light cast,
The ancient song of the Haidamaks
The consonant chant sounded
As if - a wedding, housewarming,
As if - everyone is not waiting for a thunderstorm, -
Such childish fun
Severe eyes lit up ...
One thing is gone, another is coming
Passes a motley row of pictures.
Don't Slow Down Artist: Double
You will pay for one moment
sensitive delay,
And if at this moment you
Threatens to leave inspiration, -
Blame yourself!
The only one you need
Let it be - your intentness.
In those days under the Petersburg sky
A noble family lives.
Nobles - all relatives to each other,
And taught them for centuries
To face another circle
Always a little overbearing.
But the power slipped away
From their graceful white hands,
And joined the liberals
The most honest of the king's servants,
And all in natural disgust
Between the will of the king and the people
They were in pain
Often from both wills.
All this may seem
Funny and outdated to us,
But, right, can only boor
To mock Russian life.
She is always between two fires.
Not everyone can be a hero
And people are the best - let's not hide -
Often powerless before her,
So unexpectedly harsh
And full of eternal changes;
Like a spring river, she
Suddenly ready to move
Heap ice floes on ice floes
And crush on your way
Guilty as well as innocent
And non-officials, as officials ...
It was the same with my family:
The old woman still breathed in her
And prevented me from living in a new way,
Rewarding with silence
And belated nobility
(It doesn't make much sense at all,
How to think now
When in any family the door
Open wide to the winter blizzard,
And not the slightest work
Don't cheat on your spouse
Like a husband without shame.)
And nihilism here was harmless,
And the spirit of the natural sciences
(Authorities plunging into fear)
It was like a religion here.
“Family is nonsense, family is a whim”, -
They loved to say angrily here,
And in the depths of my soul - everything is the same
"Princess Marya Aleksevna" ...
Living memory of antiquity
Should have been friends with disbelief -
And all hours were full
Some new "double faith"
And this circle was bewitched:
Your words and habits
Above everything else - always quotes,
And even sometimes - fear;
And life meanwhile changed around,
And everything shook around,
And the new wind rushed in
To a hospitable old house:
That nihilist in a kosovorotka
He will come and brazenly ask for vodka,
To disturb the peace of the family
(Seeing your civil duty in that),
And then - and the guest is very official
Runs not at all cold-blooded
With the "Narodnaya Volya" in the hands -
Advise in a hurry
What is the cause of all the troubles?
What to do before the "anniversary"?
How to reason with youth
Raised the hubbub again? -
Everyone knows that in this house
And caress, and understand
And noble soft light
Everything will be illuminated and showered ...
The life of the elders is coming to an end.
(Well, no matter how sorry for noon,
You won't stop from the fields
Creeping smoke bluish).
Head of family - forties
Years colleague; he still
Among the leading people
Keeps civil shrines,
He is from Nikolaev times
Stands guard over enlightenment
But in the everyday life of a new movement
He got a little confused...
Turgenev serenity
He is akin; still quite
He understands wine
In food he knows how to appreciate tenderness;
Language French and Paris
His own, perhaps closer
(Like all of Europe: you'll see -
And the German dreams of Paris)
And - an ardent Westerner in everything -
In his heart he is an old Russian master,
And belief warehouse French
He does not put up with many things in him;
He is at dinners at Borel
Bruzhzhit not worse than Shchedrin:
That is undercooked trout,
And then - their ears are not fat.
Such is the law of iron fate:
Unexpected, like a flower over the abyss,
Family hearth and comfort…
Growing up in the family
Three daughters: the eldest is languishing
And waiting for her husband over the keepake,
The second is always not too lazy to learn,
The smaller one jumps and sings,
Tells her temper is lively and passionate
Teasing at girlfriends gymnasium
And a braid of bright red
Intimidate the boss...
Here they have grown up: they are taken to visit,
They are taken to the ball in a carriage;
Someone is walking near the windows,
Smaller note sent
Some playful junker -
And the first tears are so sweet fervor,
And the eldest - decorous and bashful -
Suddenly offered a hand
Swirly perfect small;
She is being prepared for the crown ...
“Look, he loves his daughter a little, -
The father grumbles and frowns, -
Look, he is not of our circle ... "
And my mother secretly agrees with him,
But jealousy for daughter from each other
They try to hide...
Mother hurries wedding dress,
The dowry is hastily sewn,
And for the rite (rite sad)
Friends and family are called...
The groom is the enemy of all rites
(When "the people suffer like this").
Bride - exactly the same views:
She will go hand in hand with him
To cast a beautiful beam together,
"A Ray of Light into the Realm of Darkness"
(And I just don’t agree to get married
Without fleur dorange and veil).
Here - with the thought of a civil marriage,
With a brow darker than September,
Uncombed, in a clumsy tailcoat
He is at the altar
Entering into marriage "in principle", -
This new fiancé.
The priest is old, liberal,
With a trembling hand he baptizes them,
He, like a groom, is incomprehensible
spoken words,
And the bride has a head
spinning; pink spots
Burning on her cheeks
And tears melt in my eyes...
An awkward moment passes
They return to the family
And life, with the help of comfort,
He will return to his track;
They are early in life; not soon
Healthy hunched shoulders;
Not soon from childish disputes
With comrades at night
He will come out, honest, on straw
In dreams, the deceased groom ...
In a hospitable kind house
There's a room for them
And the destruction of the way
It probably doesn't suit him.
The family will just be happy
Him, as a new tenant,
Everything will cost a little:
Of course, the youngest to the core
Populist and touchy
Teasing a married sister
The second is to blush and intercede,
Reasoning and teaching sister,
And the older one is languidly forgotten,
Leaning at her husband's shoulder;
The husband at this time argues in vain,
Entering into a conversation with the father
About socialism, about the commune,
That someone is a "scoundrel"
From now on it should be called
For committing a denunciation...
And forever will be resolved
"Cursed and sick question" ...
No, crushing spring ice will not wash away
Their life is a fast river:
She will leave alone
Both the young man and the old man -
Watch how the ice will be worn,
And how the ice will break
And they both will dream
That their "people are calling forward"...
But these childish chimeras
Finally don't interfere
Somehow acquire manners
(Father is not averse to this),
Kosovorotka on the bib
Change, enter the service,
Bring forth a boy
To love a lawful wife,
And, not standing at the post "glorious",
Great to do your duty
And be a good official
Seeing no sense in the service without bribes ...
Yes, this in life - before death early;
They look like guys
Until the mother screams, they are naughty;
They are "not my novel":
They - everything to study, but to chat,
Yes, indulge in dreams
But they never understand
Those with doomed eyes:
Another become, another blood -
Another (pathetic) love ...
So life went on in the family. rocked
their waves. spring river
Rushed - dark and wide,
And the ice floes hung menacingly,
And suddenly, after a pause, they skirted
This old boat...
But soon the foggy hour struck -
And to our friendly family
A strange stranger appeared.
Get up, go out in the morning to the meadow:
In the pale sky the hawk is circling,
Drawing round and round a smooth circle,
Looking for where it's worse
The nest is hidden in the bushes...
Suddenly - bird chirping and movement ...
He listens ... for a moment -
Flying on straight wings...
An alarming cry from neighboring nests,
The sad squeak of the last chicks,
Soft fluff flies in the wind -
He claws at the poor victim...
And again, waving a huge wing,
Soared - draw a circle around the circle,
Unsatisfied eye and homeless
Explore the desert meadow...
Whenever you look, it spins, spins...
Mother Russia, like a bird, grieves
About kids; but it's her destiny
To be tormented by hawks.
At the evenings at Anna Vrevskaya
There was a choice color of the society.
Sick and sad Dostoevsky
Went here in my declining years
Harsh life brighten up the burden,
Collect information and strength
For the diary. (He is at this time
He was friends with Pobedonostsev).
With an outstretched hand inspired
Polonsky read poetry here.
Some ex-minister humbly
Here he confessed his sins.
And the rector of the university
There was a botanist here Beketov,
And many professors
And the servants of the brush and pen,
And also - the servants of the royal power,
And partly her enemies,
Well, in a word, you can meet here
Mix of different states.
In this salon without concealment,
Under the spell of the mistress
Slavophile and liberal
shook hands with each other
(As, however, it has long been customary
Here, in Orthodox Russia:
Everyone, thank God, shake hands).
And all - not so much by talking,
With what liveliness and gaze, -
Hostess in a few minutes
She could attract to herself surprisingly.
She really heard
Charmingly beautiful
And together they were kind.
Who was associated with Anna Pavlovna, -
Everyone will remember her well
(For the time being, I must remain silent
The language of writers about that).
Accommodated a lot of young people
Her public salon:
Others are similar in beliefs,
He is simply in love with her,
Another - with a conspiratorial case ...
And everyone needed her
Everyone came to her - and boldly
She took part
In all matters without exception,
As in dangerous enterprises ...
To her also from my family
All three were carrying their daughters.
Among the elderly and sedate,
Among green and innocent -
In the salon, Vrevskoy was like his own
One scientist is young.
A laid-back guest, familiar -
He was with many on "you".
His marked features
The print is not quite normal.
Once (he was passing by the living room)
Dostoevsky noticed him.
"Who is this handsome man? - he asked
Quietly, leaning towards Vrevskaya: -
Looks like Byron." - Slovtso
Winged all picked up,
And all on a new face
They turned their attention.
This time the light was kind
Usually - so stubborn;
"Beautiful, smart" - repeated the ladies,
Men grimaced: "poet" ...
But if men frown
They must be jealous...
And the feelings of the beautiful half
No one, the devil himself, will understand ...
And the ladies were in awe:
"He's Byron, so he's a demon..." - Well?
He really was like a proud lord
Haughty faces
And something I want to call
A heavy flame of sadness.
(In general, they noticed strangeness in him -
And everyone wanted to notice).
Probably not, unfortunately
There is only this will in him ... He
Some secret passion
Must have been compared to the lord:
Descendant of later generations
In which lived the rebellious fervor
Inhuman aspirations -
He looked like Byron
Like a painful brother to a brother
Healthy sometimes looks like:
The same reddish glow
And the expression of power is the same,
And the same rush to the abyss.
But - the spirit is secretly bewitched
Tired cold disease,
And the active flame went out,
And the will of a frenzied effort
Loaded with consciousness.
So
The predator rotates the cloudy specter,
Sick spreading their wings.
"How interesting, how smart," -
For the general chorus repeats
Little daughter. And inferior
Father. And invited to their house
Our newfound Byron.
And he accepts the invitation.
Accepted in the family as a native,
Handsome young man. at first
In an old house on the Neva
He was welcomed as a guest
But soon the old people attracted
His noble warehouse is old,
The custom is polite and decorous:
Though free and wide
There was a new lord in his views,
But he was polite
And kissed the ladies' hands
He has no contempt.
his brilliant mind
Contradictions were forgiven
The contradictions of these darkness
Kindly did not notice
They were overshadowed by the brilliance of talent,
There is some kind of burning in the eyes ...
(Do you hear the crash of downed wings? -
That predator strains his eyesight ...)
With his people back then
The smile of youth gave birth,
Back in those early years
It was easy to play and...
He did not know his own darkness...
He dined in the house
And often everyone in the evenings
Lively and fiery conversation
Captivated. (Although he was a lawyer,
But a poetic example
Did not disdain: Konstan was friends
In it with Pushkin, and Stein with Flaubert).
Freedom, right, ideal -
Everything was no joke for him,
He was just secretly terrified:
He affirmed and denied
And he affirmed, denying.
(Everything is used - in extremes to wander the mind,
And the middle is golden
Everything was not given to him!)
He is hateful - love
I tried sometimes to surround
As if the corpse wanted to pour
Alive, playing with blood ...
"Talent" - repeated all around -
But without being proud (not yielding),
He suddenly turned strange...
The soul is sick, but young,
Scared of myself (she's right)
Seeking consolation: alien
She became all the words ...
(Oh, word dust! What needs
In you? - You can hardly console
You can hardly solve the torment!) -
And on a submissive piano
Powerful hands lay down,
Picking sounds like flowers
Crazy, bold and bold
Like women's rags rags
With a body ready to surrender ...
The strand fell on the forehead ...
He was shaking in a secret tremor...
(Everything, everything - as in the hour, when on the bed
Two desire intertwined ...)
And there - behind the musical storm -
Suddenly arose (as then)
Some kind of image - sad, distant,
Unfathomable never...
And the wings are white in azure,
And unearthly silence...
But this quiet string
Drowned in a musical storm...
What happened? - All that should be:
shaking hands, talking
Downcast eyes...
The future is separated
Barely noticeable feature
From the present... He became
Yours in the family. He is beauty
Charmed the little daughter.
And the kingdom (not owning a kingdom)
He promised her. And to him
She believed, turning pale ...
And her home in prison
He turned (although not much
This house did not look like a prison ...).
But it became alien, empty, wild
Everything that was sweet before is around -
Under this strange charm
Promising new speeches,
Beneath this demonic shimmer
Flaming eyes...
He is life, he is happiness, he is the element,
She found a hero in him, -
And the whole family, and all relatives
They hate, interfere with her in everything,
And all her excitement multiplies ...
She doesn't know herself
What can not flirt.
She almost went crazy...
And he? -
He hesitates; he himself does not know
Why does he hesitate, why?
And after all, it does not seduce
His army demonism…
No, my hero is pretty thin
And perspicacious not to know
How a poor child suffers
What happiness to give a child -
Now - in his single power ...
No, no ... but froze in the chest
Still fiery passions,
And someone whispers: wait...
That is a cold mind, a cruel mind
Entered into unexpected rights ...
That is the torment of a lonely life
Head predicted...
"No, he does not love, he plays, -
She repeats, cursing fate, -
Why torment and scare
He is defenseless, me ...
He doesn't rush to explain.
It's like he's waiting for something...
(Look: this is how a predator of strength accumulates:
Now - he will wave his sick wing,
Silently descend into the meadow
And drink living blood
Already from horror - insane,
Trembling victim ...) - Here is love
That vampiric age
who turned him into a cripple
Worthy titles man!
Thrice be damned, miserable age!
Another suitor in this place
I would have shaken off the dust from my feet long ago,
But my hero was too honest
And he couldn't deceive her.
He was not proud of his strange temper,
And he was given to know
What a demon and Don Juan
Behaving in that age is ridiculous ...
He knew a lot - on his grief,
Not for nothing is it called an "eccentric"
In that friendly human choir,
which we often call
(Among themselves) - a herd of sheep ...
But - "the voice of the people is God's voice",
And this should be remembered more often
At least, for example, now:
If only he were a little more stupid
(Is it his fault, however?), -
Perhaps the best way
She could choose
And maybe with such tender
Noble girl tying
Its fate is cold and rebellious, -
My hero was completely wrong...
But everything went inexorably
In my own way. Already a leaf, rustling,
Spinning. And irresistibly
The soul of the house is aging.
Negotiations on the Balkans
The diplomats have already led
The troops came and went to bed,
Neva wrapped in fog
And the civilians went on,
And the civilians asked questions:
Arrests, searches, denunciations
And attempts - without number ...
And a real book rat
My Byron stood in the midst of this darkness;
He's thesis brilliant
Received excellent praise
And he accepted the chair in Warsaw ...
Getting ready to lecture
Entangled in civil law
With a soul that began to tire, -
He modestly offered her his hand,
Tied her to my destiny
And took her away with him
Already feeding in the heart of boredom, -
To wife with him up to the star
Shared book work...
Two years have passed. Explosion
From Catherine's channel,
Covering Russia with a cloud.
Everything predicted from afar
That the hour will be fatal,
What will such a card fall ...
And this century is the hour of the day -
The last one is named the first of March.
The family is sad. Abolished
As if part of it is large:
Everyone was amused by the smaller daughter,
But she left the family
And to live is both confusing and difficult:
That - there is smoke over Russia ...
Father, graying, looks into the smoke ...
Yearning! Little news from my daughter...
Suddenly, she comes back...
What with her? How transparent is thin!
Thin, exhausted, pale ...
And the child is in her arms.
Second chapter
(Introduction)
I
In those years distant, deaf,
Sleep and darkness reigned in the hearts:
Victorious over Russia
Spread out owl wings,
And there was neither day nor night
And only - the shadow of huge wings;
He outlined in a wondrous circle
Russia, looking into her eyes
With the glassy gaze of a sorcerer;
Under the clever voice of a wonderful fairy tale
It is not difficult for a beauty to fall asleep, -
And she blurted out
Asleep hopes, thoughts, passions...
But under the yoke of dark spells
Lanita painted her tan:
And the wizard has power
She seemed full of energy
Which with an iron hand
Clamped in a useless knot ...
The sorcerer censed with one hand,
And a trickle of blue and curly
Dewy incense was smoking ... But -
He put his other bony hand
Living souls under the cloth.
II
In those immemorial years
Petersburg was even more formidable,
Though not harder, not gray
Under the fortress rolled water
The boundless Neva…
The bayonet shone, the chimes cried,
And the same ladies and dandies
We flew here to the islands,
And just like a horse with a barely audible laugh
He answered towards the horse,
And a black mustache, mixing with fur,
Eyes and lips tickled ...
I remember that I used to
I flew with you, forgetting the whole world,
But ... really, there is no use in this,
My friend, and there is little happiness in this ...
III
East terrible dawn
In those years, a little more red…
Niello Petersburg stare
Subservient to the king ...
The people were really crowded
In medals the coachman at the door
Heavy hot horses
Police officers on the panel
They drove the audience ... "Hurrah"
Starts someone vociferous,
And the king - huge, watery -
With the family goes from the yard ...
Spring, but the sun shines stupidly,
Until Easter - as many as seven weeks,
And cold drops from the roofs
Already behind my collar stupidly
Slipping, cold back...
Wherever you turn, it's all wind...
"How sickening it is to live in this world" -
You mumble, bypassing the puddle;
The dog gets under your feet
The detective's galoshes are shining,
The stench of sour rushes from the yards,
And the "prince" yells: "Robe, robe!"
And meeting the face of a passerby,
He would not care in the face,
When would the desire of the same
I didn't read it in his eyes...
IV
But before the May nights
The whole city went to sleep
And the sky expanded;
Huge month behind
Mysteriously blushed face
Before the unfathomable dawn...
Oh, my elusive city,
Why did you arise above the abyss? ..
Do you remember: leaving the white night
There, where the sphinx looks into the sea,
And on hewn granite
Bowing his heavy head,
You could hear: far, far,
As if from the sea, the sound is disturbing,
For God's firmament impossible
And unusual for the earth ...
You saw all the distance like an angel
On the spire of the fortress; and so -
(Dream or reality): wonderful fleet,
Widely deployed flanks,
Suddenly blocked the Neva ...
And the Sovereign Founder Himself
It stands on the head frigate ...
So many dreamed in reality ...
What are your dreams, Russia,
What storms are destined?..
But these times are deaf
Not everyone, of course, had dreams ...
And there were no people
On the square in this wonderful moment
(One belated lover
He hurried, raising his collar ...)
But in scarlet streams for stern
Already the coming day shone
And dormant pennants
The morning wind was playing
Spread boundlessly
Already a bloody dawn
Threatening Arthur and Tsushima,
Threatening the Ninth of January ...
Third chapter
Father lies in the Alley of Roses,
Street in Warsaw.
No longer arguing with fatigue,
And the son's train rushes in the cold
From the shores of the native sea ...
Gendarmes, rails, lights,
Jargon and sidelocks are age-old, -
And now - in the rays of the sick dawn
The backyards of Polish Russia...
Here is everything that was, everything that is,
Inflated by a vengeful chimera;
Copernicus himself cherishes revenge,
Leaning over an empty sphere...
"Revenge! Revenge!" - in cold cast iron
Ringing like an echo over Warsaw:
That Pan Frost on an evil horse
Rattles with a bloody spur ...
Here is the thaw: it will shine alive
The edge of the sky is lazy yellow,
And the pann's eyes draw bolder
Your circle is affectionate and flattering ...
But everything in the sky, on earth,
Still full of sadness...
Only a rail to Europe in the wet haze
Shines with honest steel.
The station is spit on; Houses,
Insidiously devoted to blizzards;
The bridge across the Vistula is like a prison;
Father, stricken with an evil illness, -
Everything is again the minion of fate;
Him and in this meager world
Dreaming of something wonderful;
He wants to see bread in stone,
Immortality sign - on the deathbed,
Behind the dim light of a lantern
He sees the dawn
Yours, who has forgotten Poland, God! -
What is he doing here with his youth?
What is it eagerly asking the wind for? -
Forgotten leaf of autumn days
Yes, the wind carries dry dust!
And the night goes on, leading the frost,
Fatigue, sleepy desires ...
How disgusting are the names of the streets!
Here, finally, is the "Roses Alley"! .. -
Unique minute:
The hospital is immersed in sleep, -
But in the frame of a bright window
It stands, turning to someone,
Father ... and son, barely breathing,
He looks, not trusting his eyes ...
As if in a vague dream of the soul
His young froze
And do not drive away an evil thought:
“He is still alive! .. In a foreign Warsaw
Talk to him about law
To criticize lawyers with him! .. "
But everything is a matter of one minute:
Son quickly looking for the gate
(The hospital is already closed)
He takes the call boldly
And enters ... The staircase creaks ...
Tired, dirty from the road
He runs up the stairs
No regrets, no worries...
The candle is flickering... Mister
blocked his way
And, peering, he says strictly:
"Are you the professor's son?" - "Yes son…"
Then (already with a kind mine):
"I ask you to. At five he died. There…"
The father in the coffin was dry and straight.
There was a straight nose - but it became aquiline.
This crumpled cod was pitiful,
And in the room, alien and cramped,
The dead man, gathered for the review,
Calm, yellow, wordless...
"He will have a good rest now" -
The son thought with a calm look
Looking through the open door...
(Someone is always with him
I looked where the flame of candles is,
Under the careless wind
Bending down, illuminates alarmingly
Yellow face, shoes, narrow shoulders, -
And, straightening up, weakly draws
Other shadows on the wall...
And the night stands, stands in the window ...)
And the son thinks: “Where is the feast of Death?
Father's face is so strangely quiet

“To the fullest extent” (lat.) - the slogan of Brand, the hero of the drama of the same name by G. Ibsen.

Analysis of the poem "Retribution" by Blok

Alexander Blok's poem "Retribution" is an unfinished work about Russia and its fate, told through the story of one family. It is full of revolutionary forebodings and the poet, in his own words, did not consider it necessary to finish work on it at a time when the outcome of the revolution was already clearly understood. The author wrote it in the style of realism, realizing that history is moving forward and, in spite of everything, the world remains beautiful.

Most block scholars evaluate "Retribution" as a kind of result of the poet's work, which combined the author's creative searches and his views on life, although this work does not at all belong to the most studied in the poet's work. Disputes about genre affiliation are still being conducted by literary critics.

Before his death, Blok will write a preface to the poem: explaining its intention, he quotes G. Ibsen (“Youth is retribution”). Referring to the structure of the work, he says that it should have consisted of a prologue, three chapters and an epilogue, while the actions of each chapter take place against the backdrop of historical events of world significance.

The poem begins as an appeal to the artist and an appeal to his faith in "beginnings and ends":

Erase random features -
And you will see: the world is beautiful.

This is followed by the thought of gender, which runs like a red thread through the entire work: that the son is a reflection of the father and his continuation, that both of them are links in the same chain. Here it is worth recalling Father Blok, with whom these lines are inextricably linked and whom the poet knew so little.

The action takes place in the 70s of the 19th century: during the time of the Narodnaya Volya movement, an attractive young man appears in one of the liberal-minded families, who at the same time looks like Byron and a demon. He gradually infiltrated a family of intellectuals, marrying one of his daughters and subsequently taking her to Europe. A few years later, the daughter returns to her homeland with her first child in her arms.

The next part of the poem is dedicated to the son of the "demon", who appears as an insensitive son of the 21st century. In the final part, Blok describes what his father comes to the end of his life with and what changes have taken place in this bright “demon”. All the events of this part take place in the capital of Poland, where the poet's father actually lived.

In the work "Retribution" Blok manifests himself as the direct heir to the realism of A.S. Pushkin, as he describes the end of the nobility, but without hysterical suffering, realizing that life is not over, but continues and, moreover, one can still see beauty in it.

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MINISTRY OF EDUCATION AND SCIENCE OF THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION

NOVOKUZNETSK INSTITUTE (BRANCH)

FEDERAL STATE BUDGET EDUCATIONAL INSTITUTION OF HIGHER PROFESSIONAL EDUCATION

"Kemerovo State University"

Faculty of Russian Language and Literature

Department of Russian Language and Literature

TEST

by discipline "StoryRussian literaturexix- xxBB. »

Subject « A. Blok's poem "Retribution"»

Student group RLz-10-01

E.V. Korotkevich

Novokuznetsk, 2015

Introduction

1. Background and history of the creation of the poem

2. Images in the poem, features of its composition, position of the author

Bibliographic list

Introduction

Alexander Alexandrovich Blok (November 16 (28), 1880, St. Petersburg, Russian Empire - August 7, 1921, Petrograd, RSFSR) - Russian poet, classic of Russian literature of the 20th century, one of the greatest poets of Russia. A. Blok's father is Alexander Lvovich Blok (1852-1909), lawyer, professor at Warsaw University. Mother - Alexandra Andreevna, nee Beketova, (1860 - 1923) - daughter of the rector of St. Petersburg University A. N. Beketov. The marriage, which began when Alexandra was eighteen years old, turned out to be short-lived: after the birth of her son, she broke off relations with her husband and subsequently did not renew them. In 1889, she obtained a decree of the Synod on the dissolution of marriage with her first husband and married Guards officer F.F. Kublitsky-Piottukh, while leaving the surname of her first husband to her son. In 1909, Alexander Lvovich Blok, the poet's father, died in Warsaw, with whom, in fact, Alexander himself almost did not communicate, due to family circumstances. But after returning from the funeral, the poet conceives the poem "Retribution". Taking the fate of his family as a basis, Blok sought to create a grandiose work, a kind of novel in verse, a new "encyclopedia of Russian life", as Pushkin once did in Eugene Onegin.

1 . Prerequisites and andcreation historypoems

It was assumed that the work will have a broad narrative covering the events of Russian and European history from the end of the 19th to the beginning of the 20th century. The story about the fate of the “kind” had to be interspersed with various lyrical and philosophical digressions, describe portraits of dozens of characters. Blok sought not only to throw out his emotions, but also to capture historical events, an entire era, so the work was created in the lyrical-epic genre of the poem. For example, in the poem by N.A. Nekrasov “Who should live well in Russia” reflects the era of post-serfdom Russia, and in the poem by A.T. Tvardovsky "By the Right of Memory" reflected the whole Stalin era. “The poem “Retribution” was conceived in 1910 and outlined in 1911,” Blok wrote in the preface to this work. The poem was written when "the smell of burning, iron and blood was already palpable." Blok tried to convey in it his thoughts and moods, his foreboding of the impending storm. These premonitions and expectations form the leitmotif of the poem. "Retribution" is the most important milestone on the path of the poet's ideological and creative growth. Blok himself was clearly aware of this, stating that "the poem signifies the transition from the personal to the general" (Zapisnye knizhki, June 1916). The poem, which remained unfinished, was conceived as a broad picture of Russian history of the second half of XIX and the beginning of the 20th century. poet block poem retribution

Blok studied a wide variety of historical materials, intended to reflect (partially reflected) the most significant events in the life of Russia: the assassination attempt on Alexander II, student unrest, the “Polish unrest”, the funeral of T. Shevchenko, the activities of revolutionary democrats, the populist movement, the reaction of the 80s years, the eve of the first revolution, the events of 1905, etc. The poet thought to show against the background of these events and in connection with them the fate of three generations noble family. “In the epilogue,” he wrote, “the baby should be depicted, which is held and cradled on her lap by a simple mother; ... the son is growing; ... he begins to speak in syllables after his mother: "And I will go towards the soldiers ... And I will throw myself on their bayonets ... And for you, my freedom, I will ascend the black scaffold."

Blok read the prologue and the first chapter of Retribution in the presence of symbolist friends. And if she struck some with the freshness of perception of history, objectivity, everyday sketches - all that, in essence, was forbidden for the symbolists, then Andrei Bely, Vyach. Ivanov and other apologists for this trend "threw thunder and lightning." They saw decay, the result of apostasy, crime and death. Blok did not know how to defend himself, he was depressed, and the poem, left unfinished, lay on the table, where it lay almost until his death. Only in 1921 did Blok again turn to the unfinished poem in order to, if not finish, then at least put it in order. So formally it remained unfinished, because all academic collections included only the prologue, the first chapter and unfinished fragments of the second and third.

In the "Preface", written before his death, Blok explained the idea of the poem and its title, using the words of G. Ibsen "Youth is retribution." He wrote that in 1921, when the revolution had already taken place, there was no point in finishing a poem "full of revolutionary forebodings". The poem was to consist of a prologue, three large chapters and an epilogue, and each chapter should be "framed with a description of events of world significance" so that "they constitute its background."

2 . Images in the poem, features of its composition, position of the author

In vivid artistic images, in strict iambic verses, in which the elastic rhythm of Pushkin's "The Bronze Horseman" is felt, Blok recreates the historical picture of Russia, compares two centuries:

Nineteenth century, iron,

Truly a cruel age.

You in the darkness of the night, starless

Careless abandoned man! ..

In those years distant, deaf,

Sleep and darkness reigned in the hearts:

Victorious over Russia

Spread owl wings...

Twentieth century ... More homeless

Even worse than life is darkness

Even blacker and more enormous is the Shadow of Lucifer's wing.

Blok also created a cycle of poems "Retribution" (1908-1913). If in the 906 poem "Rus", where Russia is presented as a fabulous country with the legends of antiquity, Blok considered sorcerers, sorcerers as romantic attributes of ancient Russia, now his sorcerer is an ominous monster, Pobedonostsev, who, back in 908, in an article about L Tolstoy called Blok a ghoul. The poet's idea of the black forces of Russia partly goes back to Gogol's folklore images, in particular, to the image of the sorcerer in The Terrible Revenge. On October 2, 905, Blok wrote to A. Bely about the latter’s article “Green Meadow”: “I have nothing closer than yours about Pani Katerina.” Blok meant A. Bely’s interpretation of the image of Pani Katerina in Gogol’s story: “Russia has become like a symbolic image of the sleeping Pani Katerina, whose soul was stolen by a terrible sorcerer in order to torture and torment her in a strange castle ... In the colossal images of Katerina and the old sorcerer, Gogol is immortal expressed the languor of the sleeping homeland - Beauty.

In the poem "Retribution" this concept resonated in a new way: in the symbolic images of the sleeping beauty-Russia and the sorcerer Pobedonostsev:

He outlined in a wondrous circle

Russia, looking into her eyes

With the glassy gaze of a sorcerer;

Under the clever voice of a wonderful fairy tale

Falling asleep is not difficult for a beauty,

And she blurted out

Asleep hopes, thoughts, passions...

The image of a terrible sorcerer, a bird of prey haunted Blok's imagination until October, breaking away from its prototype - Pobedonostsev and turning into a broad social generalization. Such a depiction of Russia does not at all speak of Blok's pessimism: after all, these gloomy pictures were associated with bourgeois Russia. The poet lived with a dream of a revolutionary storm, of joyful changes:

And disgusted with life

And crazy love for her

And passion and hatred for the motherland ...

And black, earthly blood

Promises us, inflating veins,

All destroying the frontiers,

Unheard of changes

Unseen riots.

Blok expressed his optimism, faith in the renewal of life, his understanding of the present, the human in it in a vivid, aphoristic phrase:

Erase random features -

And you will see: the world is beautiful.

Know where the light is, you will understand where the darkness is.

The poem "Retribution", as already mentioned, was not completed. In 1919, the poet admitted that he felt "neither the need nor the desire to finish a poem full of revolutionary forebodings in the years when the revolution had already taken place." Nevertheless, the poem has a great artistic and educational value. It shows what a huge step in its development Blok made from "Poems about the Beautiful Lady" in a relatively short period. On the other hand, the poem testifies that Blok's path to revolution was natural and logical. From the drafts of Retribution, Blok removed a number of passages and combined them into the Yamba cycle; this included 2 small poems written from 1907 to 1914.

The very title of the cycle is profoundly significant. It's not just that the verses of this cycle (like the poem "Retribution") are written in iambic tetrameter. During these years, Blok persistently strove to harmonize his poetry with life. The world was perceived by him musically - in sounds, noises, rhythm. In the preface to the poem "Retribution" he wrote:

“I think that the simplest expression of the rhythm of that time, when the world, preparing for unheard-of events, developed its physical, political and military muscles so intensively and systematically, was iambic. This is probably why it also prompted me, who had long been driven around the world by the scourges of this iambic, to surrender to its elastic wave ... "The prologue of the poem ends with an expressive line:" Fractions, my angry iambic, stones!

The prologue begins with an appeal to the artist, who must believe in "beginnings and ends", because he "has been given a dispassionate measure to measure everything" that he sees. He calls:

Erase random features -

And you will see: the world is beautiful.

At the end of the prologue, the idea of the genus sounds, that it is a single chain, that each link of the chain is a reflection in the son of the father, and two or three links are a “new breed”. Of course, he also meant his father, whom he hardly knew and fell in love with when he saw him dead in a coffin.

The first chapter of the poem, dedicated to the "nineteenth century, the cruel century," describes the events of the 70s, when Narodnaya Volya developed and a young handsome man appeared in one of the liberal families, similar to Byron and a demon at the same time. It was clear to all contemporaries that this was Blok's father, Alexander Lvovich. The poem reflects a real episode from life, when Dostoevsky himself noted his beauty and even wanted to make him the hero of one of his novels.

This “demon” gradually settled in an intelligent family, and then “modestly offered his hand” to his youngest daughter and “took her far away with him” to Warsaw, where, after defending his dissertation, he accepted the department. Two years later, the daughter returned without him, but with her son in her arms. The second chapter is therefore devoted to the son of the "demon" - "the insensible son of our age."

The third chapter describes how the father ended his life, how this bright "demon" has changed. The action takes place in Warsaw, where Alexander Lvovich really lived and died. According to the poet's plan, over the fresh grave of his father, his son would have to restore the lost link in the family chain - to give way to his son. But it so happened that in the year when his father died, the newborn son of Blok and his wife, Lyubov Dmitrievna, also died. Perhaps because of this, the poem was never completed.

In the poem "Retribution" Blok tells about the end of the Russian nobility, to use the words of the author himself, "the one who loved him dearly, whose grateful memory preserved all the wonderful gifts to his Russian art and the Russian public in the last century, who clearly understood that it was time to stop crying about the fact that his fertile juices have gone to their native land irretrievably ... ". Blok said goodbye to this past, like the hero of another of his poems - to the "nightingale garden", where much remained, painfully dear to him. But any delay in this "garden" seems to him a painful, unforgivable betrayal of other, incomparably higher and nobler ideals:

Intoxicated with golden wine, Scorched by golden fire, I forgot about the stony path, About my poor comrade.

The nightingale's song is sweet, even the poetic lines themselves seem to ring with its sonorous tints and variations (drunk - singed, wine - fire, golden - golden)

In the poem "Retribution", Blok acted as the direct heir to Pushkin's realism: he described the end of the Russian nobility, but parted with this past without undue grief, realizing that history goes forward, and "the world is always beautiful."

Bibliographic list

1. Blok A.A. Mikhail Aleksandrovich Bakunin // Blok A.A. Collected Works in 6 volumes. L.: 1982. - V.4.

2. "Yamby", Pg., 1919

3. Collected works. T. 1-8, M.-- L., IHL, 1960--63. 200,000 copies

4. Complete (academic) collected works and letters in twenty volumes. T. 1-5, 7-8. -- M., "Science", 1997

5. Notebooks. 1901-1920. M., IHL, 1965.

6. Letters of Alexander Blok to relatives: [Foreword. V.A. Desnitsky, note. M.A. Beketova]. T. 1-2. -- M.-L.: Academia, 1927--1932.

7. A.I. Revyakin, "The problem of the typical in fiction". Publishing house "Uchpedgiz", M., 1959

8. Kolpakova E., Kupriyanevsky P., Maksimov D. Materials for the bibliography of Alexander Blok for 1928-1957 // Uch. app. Vilnius Pedagogical Institute. 1959. Vol. 6.

9. Berberova N.N. Alexander Blok and his time. M., 1999

10. Novikov V. Alexander Blok. - M.: Young Guard, 2010. - 362 p. -- (Life of remarkable people. Issue 1258).

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