Snow fell only in January. Analysis of the poem A

CHAPTER FIVE

Oh, do not know these terrible dreams
You are my Svetlana!

Zhukovsky

That year the autumn weather
Stood for a long time in the yard,
Winter was waiting, nature was waiting.
Snow fell only in January
On the third night. Waking up early
Tatyana saw through the window
Whitewashed yard in the morning,
Curtains, roofs and fences,
Light patterns on glass
Trees in winter silver
Forty merry in the yard
And softly padded mountains
Winters are a brilliant carpet.
Everything is bright, everything is white around.

But maybe this kind
Pictures will not attract you:
All this is low nature;
Not much beauty here.
Warmed by God's inspiration,
Another poet with a luxurious style
He painted us the first snow
And all shades of winter bliss;
He will captivate you, I'm sure
Drawing in fiery verses
Secret walks in a sleigh;
But I don't want to fight
Not with him for the time being, not with you,
Young Finnish singer!

Tatyana (Russian soul,
I don't know why.)
With her cold beauty
I loved Russian winter
Frost in the sun on a frosty day,
And the sleigh, and the late dawn
Shine of pink snows,
And the darkness of Epiphany evenings.
Celebrated in the old days
In their house these evenings:
Servants from all over the court
They wondered about their young ladies
And they were promised every year
Husbands of the military and campaign.

Tatyana believed the legends
common folk antiquity,
And dreams, and card fortune-telling,
And the predictions of the moon.
She was troubled by omens;
Mysteriously to her all objects
proclaimed something.
Premonitions pressed against my chest.
A cutesy cat, sitting on the stove,
Purring, with a paw the stigma washed:
That was a sure sign to her,
What guests are coming. Suddenly seeing
Young two-horned face of the moon
In the sky on the left side

She trembled and turned pale.
When is the shooting star
Flew across the dark sky
And crumbled - then
Tanya was in a hurry in confusion,
While the star was still rolling
Whisper her heart's desire.
When something happened
She meet the black monk
Or a quick hare between the fields
Crossed her path
Not knowing what to start with fear
full of sad forebodings,
She expected misfortune.

Well? The beauty found the secret
And in the most horror she:
This is how nature made us
prone to contradiction.
The holidays have arrived. That's joy!
Guessing windy youth
Who has no regrets
Before which life is far
Lies bright, boundless;
Fortune telling old age through glasses
At his grave board,
All having lost irretrievably;
And still: hope for them
He lies with his baby talk.

Tatyana with a curious look
Looks at sunken wax:
He is a wonderfully poured pattern
She says something wonderful;
From a dish full of water
The rings come out in succession;
And she took out a ring
To the song of the old days:
“The men there are all rich,
They row silver with a shovel,
To whom we sing, that's good
And glory! But it promises loss
This song is a pitiful tune;
Dear koshurka to the heart of virgins.

Frosty night, the whole sky is clear;
Luminaries of heaven wondrous choir
It flows so quietly, so according to ...
Tatyana on a wide yard
In an open dress comes out,
Points a mirror for a month;
But alone in the dark mirror
A sad magnifying glass trembles ...
Chu... the snow crunches... a passer-by; Virgo
Flying on tiptoe towards him
And her voice sounds
More tender than flute melody:
What's your name? He looks
And he answers: Agathon.

Tatyana, on the advice of the nanny
Gathering to tell fortunes at night,
Quietly ordered in the bath
Set the table for two appliances;
But Tatyana suddenly became afraid.
And I - at the thought of Svetlana
I was scared - so be it,
With Tatyana, we can’t tell fortunes.
Tatyana silk belt
I took it off, undressed and went to bed
Laid down. Lel is hovering over her,
And under the down pillow
The girl's mirror lies.
Everything calmed down. Tatyana is sleeping.

And Tatyana has a wonderful dream.
She dreams that she
Walking through the snow field
Surrounded by a sad haze;
In the snowdrifts in front of her
Noisy, swirling with its wave
Ebullient, dark and gray
A stream unfettered in winter;
Two perches, glued together with an ice floe,
Trembling, disastrous bridge,
Laid across the stream;
And before the noisy abyss,
Full of confusion
She stopped.

Like an unfortunate separation
Tatyana grumbles at the stream;
Doesn't see anyone who has a hand
On the other hand, I would give it to her;
But suddenly the snowdrift stirred.
And who emerged from under it?
Big, ruffled bear;
Tatyana ah! and he roar
And a paw with sharp claws
He handed it to her; she's holding back
Leaned with a trembling hand
And fearful steps
Crossed the stream;
Went - so what? bear after her!

She, not daring to look back,
Hasty quickens step;
But from a shaggy footman
Can't run away;
Groaning, the unbearable bear brings down;
Before them is a forest; motionless pines
In its frowning beauty;
All their branches are weighed down
tufts of snow; through the peaks
Aspens, birches and lindens naked
A beam of night luminaries shines;
There is no road; bushes, rapids
All are covered with a blizzard,
Buried deep in the snow.

Tatyana in the forest; bear after her;
The snow is loose up to her knees;
Then a long bough around her neck
Hooks suddenly, then out of the ears
Golden earrings will vomit by force;
That in the fragile snow with a sweet leg
A wet shoe will get stuck;
Then she drops her handkerchief;
She has no time to raise; fears,
Bear hears behind him,
And even with a trembling hand
He is ashamed to lift the edge of his clothes;
She runs, he follows everything,
And she has no strength to run.

Fell into the snow; bear nimble
She grabs and carries;
She is insensitively submissive,
Does not move, does not die;
He rushes her along the forest road;
Suddenly, between the trees, a miserable hut;
All around is wilderness; from everywhere he
Covered with desert snow
And the window shines brightly
And in the hut and scream and noise;
The bear said: “Here is my godfather:
Warm up a little!"
And he goes straight into the canopy
And puts it on the threshold.

She came to her senses, Tatyana looks:
There is no bear; she is in the passage;
Behind the door there is a cry and the sound of a glass,
Like a big funeral;
Seeing no point here
She looks quietly into the crack,
And what does he see? .. at the table
The monsters sit around
One in horns with a dog's muzzle,
Another with a cock's head
Here is a witch with a goat's beard,
Here the skeleton is stiff and proud,
There is a dwarf with a ponytail, and here
Half crane and half cat.

Even scarier, even weirder:
Here is a cancer riding a spider,
Here is a skull on a gooseneck
Spinning in a red cap
Here the mill dances squatting
And it crackles and flaps its wings;
Lay, laugh, sing, whistle and clap,
People's talk and horse top!
But what did Tatiana think?
When I found out among the guests
The one who is sweet and terrible to her,
The hero of our novel!
Onegin is sitting at the table
And he looks furtively at the door.

He will give a sign - and everyone is busy;
He drinks - everyone drinks and everyone screams;
He laughs - everyone laughs;
He furrows his eyebrows - everyone is silent;
He is the boss there, it's clear:
And Tanya is not so terrible,
And curious now
Opened the door a bit...
Suddenly the wind blew, extinguishing
Fire of night lamps;
The gang of brownies was embarrassed;
Onegin, sparkling eyes,
From behind the table, rattling, gets up;
Everyone got up; he goes to the door.

And she's scared; and hastily
Tatyana tries to run:
It is impossible in any way; impatiently
Rushing, wants to scream:
Can not; Eugene pushed the door:
And the eyes of hellish ghosts
A maiden appeared; furious laughter
Resounded wildly; everyone's eyes,
Hooves, trunks are crooked,
Crested tails, fangs,
Mustaches, bloody tongues,
Horns and fingers of bone,
Everything points to her.
And everyone screams: mine! my!

My! - said Eugene menacingly,
And the whole gang suddenly hid;
Left in the frosty darkness
The young maiden is with him a friend himself;
Onegin quietly captivates
Tatyana in a corner and lays down
Her wobbly bench
And bows his head
To her shoulder; suddenly Olga enters,
Behind her Lensky; light flashed;
Onegin waved his hand
And wildly he wanders with his eyes,
And scolds uninvited guests;
Tatiana is barely alive.

Argument louder, louder; suddenly Eugene
Grabs a long knife, and instantly
Defeated Lensky; scary shadows
Thickened; unbearable cry
There was a sound ... the hut staggered ...
And Tanya woke up in horror...
Looks, it's already light in the room;
In the window through the frozen glass
The crimson ray of dawn plays;
The door opened. Olga to her
Aurora Northern Alley
And lighter than a swallow, flies in;
"Well, he says, tell me,
Who did you see in your dream?

But she, not noticing her sister,
Lying in bed with a book
Turning over the sheet after the sheet,
And he doesn't say anything.
Although this book did not show
No sweet inventions of the poet,
No wise truths, no pictures,
But neither Virgil nor Racine
Not Scott, not Byron, not Sepeka,
Not even Ladies' Fashion Magazine
So no one was interested:
It was, friends, Martin Zadeka,
Head of the Chaldean wise men,
Fortune teller, interpreter of dreams.

This deep creation
Brought by a wandering merchant
One day to them in solitude
And finally for Tatyana
Him with the disparate "Malvina"
He lost for three and a half,
In addition, taking more for them
Collection of fables areal,
Grammar, two Petriades
Yes Marmontel volume three.
Martin Zadeka became then
Tanya's favorite ... He is a joy
In all sorrows she gives
And he sleeps with her.

She is disturbed by dreams.
Not knowing how to understand it
Dreams of terrible meaning
Tatyana wants to find.
Tatiana in a short table of contents
Finds in alphabetical order
Words: forest, storm, witch, spruce,
Hedgehog, darkness, bridge, bear, blizzard
And others. Her doubts
Martyn Zadeka will not decide;
But an ominous dream promises her
Many sad adventures.
A few days later she
Everyone was worried about that.

But with a purple hand
Dawn from the morning valleys
Leads out with the sun behind him
Happy birthday party.
In the morning, the Larins' house was guests
All full; whole families
Neighbors gathered in wagons,
In wagons, in carts and in sledges.
In the front crush, anxiety;
Meeting new faces in the living room
Lay mosek, smacking girls,
Noise, laughter, crowd at the threshold,
Bows, shuffling guests,
Nurses scream and cry of children.

With his stout wife
The fat Trifle has arrived;
Gvozdin, an excellent host,
Owner of poor men;
Skotinins, gray-haired couple,
With children of all ages, counting
Thirty to two years;
County dandy Petushkov,
My cousin, Buyanov,
In down, in a cap with a visor
(As you, of course, know him),
And retired adviser Flyanov,
Heavy gossip, old rogue,
A glutton, a bribe taker and a jester.

With the family of Panfil Kharlikov
Monsieur Triquet also arrived,
Wit, recently from Tambov,
With glasses and a red wig.
Like a true Frenchman, in your pocket
Triquet brought a couplet to Tatiana
In a voice known to children:
Reveillez-vous, belle endormie.
Between the old songs of the almanac
This couplet was printed;
Triquet, the quick-witted poet,
He was brought to light from the dust,
And boldly instead of belle Nina
Put belle Tatiana.

And here from a nearby settlement
Ripe young ladies idol,
County mothers joy,
The company commander arrived;
Entered ... Ah, the news, but what!
Music will be regimental!
The Colonel sent it himself.
What joy: there will be a ball!
The girls are jumping in advance;
But food was served. couple
They go to the table hand in hand.
Young ladies crowd to Tatyana;
Men against; and, being baptized,
The crowd is buzzing as they sit down at the table.

For a moment the conversations stopped;
The mouth is chewing. From all sides
Clattering cymbals and appliances
Yes, the glasses are ringing.
But soon a few guests
Raise a general alarm.
Nobody listens, they scream
Laughing, arguing and squeaking.
Suddenly the doors are wide open. Lensky enters,
And Onegin is with him. “Oh, the creator! -
The hostess shouts: - finally!
Guests are crowding, everyone takes away
Appliances, chairs quickly;
They call, plant two friends.

Planted directly against Tanya,
And paler than the morning moon
And more tremulous than the persecuted doe,
She has dark eyes
Does not raise: bursts violently
There is a passionate heat in her; she is stuffy, bad;
She greets two friends
Can't hear tears from eyes
They want to drip; already ready
Poor thing to faint;
But will and reason power
They overcame. She two words
Silently spoke through her teeth
And sat at the table

Tragi-nervous phenomena,
Girlish swoons, tears
Eugene could not stand for a long time:
He's had enough of them.
An eccentric, hitting a huge feast,
Was already angry. But, languid maidens
Noticing the trembling impulse,
Lowering your eyes in annoyance,
He pouted and, indignantly,
He swore to infuriate Lensky
And to take revenge.
Now, triumphant in advance,
He began to draw in his soul
Caricatures of all guests.

Of course, not only Eugene
I could see Tanya's confusion;
But the purpose of glances and judgments
At that time, fat was a pie
(Unfortunately, oversalted);
Yes, in a tarred bottle,
Between roast and blanc mange
Tsimlyanskoye is already being carried;
Behind him is a line of narrow, long glasses,
Like your waist
Zizi, the crystal of my soul,
The subject of my innocent verses,
Love is an alluring phial,
You, from whom I was drunk!

Getting rid of the damp cork,
The bottle popped; wine
hisses; and here with an important posture,
Tormented by a couplet for a long time,
Trike gets up; before him the congregation
Keeps a deep silence.
Tatyana is barely alive; Trike,
Turning to her with a leaf in his hand,
Sang out of tune. splashes, clicks
He is greeted. She is
The singer is forced to sit down;
The poet is modest, though great,
Her health first drinks
And she passes the verse.

Send greetings, congratulations;
Tatyana thanks everyone.
When is it up to Evgeny
It came, then the maiden's languid look,
Her embarrassment, fatigue
Pity was born in his soul:
He silently bowed to her,
But somehow the look of his eyes
He was wonderfully gentle. Is that why
That he was really touched
Or he, coquettish, naughty,
Whether involuntarily, or out of good will,
But this look of tenderness expressed:
He revived Tanya's heart.

The chairs are pushed back;
The crowd pours into the living room:
So bees from a tasty hive
A noisy swarm flies to the field.
Satisfied with a festive dinner,
The neighbor sniffs in front of the neighbor;
The ladies sat down to the fire;
The girls whisper in a corner;
The green tables are open:
The name of the playful players
Boston and old men's ombre
And whist, still famous,
monotonous family,
All greedy boredom sons.

Eight Roberts have already played
Vista Heroes; eight times
They changed places;
And they bring tea. I love the hour
Define lunch, tea
And dinner. We know the time
In a village without big fuss:
The stomach is our faithful breguet;
And by the way, I note in parentheses,
What I'm talking about in my stanzas
I am just as often about feasts,
About different foods and traffic jams,
How are you, divine Omir,
You, thirty centuries idol!

XXXVII, XXXVIII, XXXIX

But they bring tea; girls decorously
As soon as they took the saucers,
Suddenly from behind the door in the long hall
The bassoon and flute resounded.
Delighted by the music of thunder,
Leaving a cup of tea with rum
Paris of the county towns,
Suitable for Olga Petushkov,
To Tatyana Lensky; Kharlikov,
Bride of ripe years
My poet takes Tambov,
Buyanov rushed off to Pustyakova,
And everyone poured out into the hall.
And the ball shines in all its glory.

At the beginning of my romance
(See first notebook)
I wanted like Alban
To describe the Petersburg ball;
But, entertained by an empty dream,
I've been reminiscing
About the legs of ladies I know.
In your narrow footsteps
Oh legs, full of delusions!
With the betrayal of my youth
It's time for me to get smarter
Get better in deeds and in style,
And this fifth notebook,
Clear away deviations.

Monotonous and insane
Like a whirlwind of young life,
The waltz whirl is whirling noisily;
The couple flashes by the couple.
Approaching the moment of revenge,
Onegin, secretly smiling,
Suitable for Olga. Fast with her
Spins around the guests
Then he puts her on a chair,
Starts talking about this, about this;
After two minutes later
Again with her he continues the waltz;
Everyone is in amazement. Lensky himself
Doesn't believe his own eyes.

The mazurka rang out. used to
When the mazurka thundered,
Everything in the great hall was trembling,
The parquet cracked under his heels.
The frames shook and rattled;
Now it's not that: and we, like ladies,
We slide on varnished boards.
But in the cities, in the villages
Another mazurka saved
Initial colors:
Jumps, heels, mustaches
All the same: they have not changed
Dashing fashion, our tyrant,
The disease of the newest Russians.

Buyanov, my fervent brother,
Led to our hero
Tatyana with Olga; nimbly
Onegin went with Olga;
Leads her, slipping carelessly,
And, bending down, she whispers gently
Some vulgar madrigal
And shakes his hand - and blazed
In her selfish face
The blush is brighter. my Lensky
I saw everything: I flared up, not myself;
In jealous indignation
The poet is waiting for the end of the mazurka
And calls her to the cotillion.

But she can't. It is forbidden? But what?
Yes, Olga has already given her word
Onegin. Oh god, god!
What does he hear? She could…
Is it possible? A little from diapers
Coquette, windy child!
She knows the trick
Already learned to change!
Lensky is unable to bear the blow;
Cursing women's pranks,
Goes out, requires a horse
And he jumps. A pair of pistols

The magic winter is coming
Came, crumbled; shreds
Hanging on the branches of oaks,
She lay down with wavy carpets
Among the fields around the hills.
A shore with a motionless river
Leveled with a plump veil;
Frost flashed, and we are glad
Leprosy mother winter.

A. S. Pushkin "Winter Morning"

Frost and sun; wonderful day!
You are still dozing, my lovely friend -
It's time, beauty, wake up:
Open eyes closed by bliss
Towards the northern Aurora,
Be the star of the north!

Evening, do you remember, the blizzard was angry,
In the cloudy sky, a haze hovered;
The moon is like a pale spot
Turned yellow through the gloomy clouds,
And you sat sad -
And now ... look out the window:

Under blue skies
splendid carpets,
Shining in the sun, the snow lies;
The transparent forest alone turns black,
And the spruce turns green through the frost,
And the river under the ice glitters.

The whole room amber gleam
Enlightened. Cheerful crackling
The fired oven crackles.
It's nice to think by the couch.
But you know: do not order to the sled
Ban the brown filly?

Gliding through the morning snow
Dear friend, let's run
impatient horse
And visit the empty fields
The forests, recently so dense,
And the shore, dear to me.

A. S. Pushkin “Excerpts from the poem “Eugene Onegin”” Winter was waiting, nature was waiting. ,
Winter!.. The peasant, triumphant

That year the autumn weather
Stood in the yard for a long time
Winter was waiting, nature was waiting.
Snow fell only in January
On the third night. Waking up early
Tatyana saw through the window
Whitewashed yard in the morning,
Curtains, roofs and fences,
Light patterns on glass
Trees in winter silver
Forty merry in the yard
And softly padded mountains
Winters are a brilliant carpet.
Everything is bright, everything is white around.

A. S. Pushkin "Winter Road"

Through the wavy mists
The moon is creeping
To sad glades
She pours a sad light.

On the winter road, boring
Troika greyhound runs
Bell is monophonic
Tiring noise.

Something is heard native
In the coachman's long songs:
That revelry is remote,
That heartache...

No fire, no black hut...
Wilderness and snow... Meet me
Only miles striped
Come across alone.

Bored, sad... Tomorrow, Nina,
Tomorrow, returning to my dear,
I'll forget by the fireplace
I look without looking.

Sounding hour hand
He will make his measured circle,
And, removing the boring ones,
Midnight won't separate us.

It's sad, Nina: my path is boring,
Dremlya fell silent my coachman,
The bell is monotonous
Foggy moon face.

A. S. Pushkin “Winter. What should we do in the village? I meet"

Winter. What should we do in the village? I meet
The servant who brings me a cup of tea in the morning,
Questions: is it warm? has the blizzard subsided?
Is there powder or not? and is it possible to have a bed
Leave for a saddle, or better before dinner
Messing around with your neighbor's old magazines?
Powder. We get up, and immediately on the horse,
And trot across the field in the first light of day;
Arapniki in hands, dogs following us;
We look at the pale snow with diligent eyes;
We circle, we roam, and at times too late,
Having etched two birds with one stone, we are home.
How much fun! Here is the evening: a blizzard howls;
The candle burns darkly; embarrassed, the heart aches;
Drop by drop, slowly swallow the poison of boredom.
I want to read; eyes glide over the letters,
And thoughts are far away... I close the book;
I take a pen, I sit; forcibly pull out
The dormant muse has incoherent words.
No sound goes to the sound ... I lose all rights
Over the rhyme, over my strange servant:
The verse drags on languidly, cold and foggy.
Tired, with a lyre, I stop the argument,
I go to the living room; I hear a conversation
About close elections, about a sugar factory;
The hostess frowns in the likeness of the weather,
With steel knitting needles nimbly moving,
Ile about the red is guessing the king.
Yearning! So day after day goes into solitude!
But if in the evening in a sad village,
When I sit in a corner at checkers,
He will come from afar in a wagon or wagon
An unexpected family: an old woman, two girls
(Two blond, two slender sisters), -
How the deaf side revives!
How life, oh my God, becomes full!
First indirectly attentive glances,
Then a few words, then conversations,
And there is friendly laughter, and songs in the evening,
And frisky waltzes, and whispers at the table,
And languid eyes, and windy speeches,
On the narrow stairs slow meetings;
And the maiden comes out on the porch at dusk:
Open neck, chest, and a blizzard in her face!
But the storms of the north are not harmful to the Russian rose.
How hot the kiss burns in the cold!
How fresh is a Russian maiden in the dust of snow!

Analysis of the poem by A. S. Pushkin "That year, autumn weather ..."

A.S. Pushkin is an unsurpassed poet. Master of love and landscape lyrics. Even in major works of poetry and prose, Alexander Sergeevich paid attention to pictures of nature. Lyrical digressions are long, emotional, intense. There are many such in the poem "Eugene Onegin".

It is known that the novel in verse was written not in St. Petersburg, but in the bosom of nature. Some of the chapters were written in the family estate of Mikhailovskoye, Pskov region. And most of the work is in the Boldino estate of the Nizhny Novgorod region.

The reader finds a description of the nature of these two places in "Eugene Onegin" to this day. For example, in the Mikhailovsky Museum-Reserve, tourists are enthusiastically shown the place of the duel between Onegin and Lensky. Boldino gave the novel all the romantic scenes of autumn. Since it was there that the poet spent this period for two years in a row.

It is known that the off-season was for Alexander Sergeevich the time of the highest creative upsurge. The lyricist never hid his love for October, November. That is clearly reflected in his work.

The poem "That year the autumn weather ..." is an excerpt from the novel "Eugene Onegin". The lines become an introduction to the fifth chapter of the poem. Alexander Sergeevich spent about seven years to complete the narrative line of the work. Therefore, it is difficult to determine the date of writing the passage.

But contemporaries knew her for sure, since the first lines describe a rare a natural phenomenon. Autumn lingered, as the poet writes. Almost until the middle of winter, the weather was off-season. There was no snow.

It is known that this is bad for nature: for plants and animals. Especially this phenomenon upsets people of agricultural labor. There will be no snow cap to warm the earth, winter crops will die. Insects, some types of animals will not be able to endure the cold.

Therefore, in the words of the writer, despair and hope sound: “Winter was waiting, nature was waiting.” This expectation is acutely felt even by the reader. These lines are aphoristic. When winter is late, people often remember Pushkin's poems.

Snow is a pure, bright beginning of another period in nature, a new stage in life. Therefore, his appearance in January "on the third night" cannot but rejoice. main character novel - Tatyana, waking up early in the morning, notices that the yard has turned white. The dark wood of the roof, the dampness of the fence, the blackness of the earth - everything was hidden under a white veil.

It was not just the first snow that happens in November, flutters, and later melts quickly, barely touching the ground. A real winter one. It got cold in the morning. There were even bizarre patterns on the glasses. And the trees dressed up in silver, took on a solemn look. Everything is white, blindingly bright. And the animals and birds rejoice at the changes in the weather: "forty merry ones in the yard."

Pushkin loves his heroes, and he has a particularly reverent attitude towards Tatyana Larina. Through the emotions of the characters, the author conveyed his own mood, feelings. Tatyana was inspired by autumn. And she is happy with the first snow like a child. Whereas Onegin himself is indifferent to nature. He is bored in the village, because there are no balls, theaters and other delights of social life.

Means help the author to convey the excitement of the heroine from the change of weather artistic expressiveness. Epithets: “light patterns”, “winter silver”, “whitewashed yard”, “merry magpies”. Metaphors: "winter is a brilliant carpet", "nature was waiting."

For the novel in verse, Alexander Sergeevich chooses iambic tetrameter. An unusual stanza of fourteen lines is also used. Thus, the passage "In that year the autumn weather ..." is a full-fledged sonnet.

The main idea of the poem is the expectation of the first snow, a premonition of change. The writing style is romantic. A fragment of the work refers to landscape lyrics.

Hello dear.
Last time we finished with the IV part: perhaps it's time to do the fifth.

Like every chapter, it has its own epigraph.
Oh, do not know these terrible dreams
You are my Svetlana!
Zhukovsky.

This is one of the final verses of Zhukovsky's ballad "Svetlana" (1812), which in turn is a free adaptation of the plot of Burger's ballad "Lenora" (1773). "Svetlana" was considered an example of romantic folklorism, hence the direction of Chapter V is clear and who, in the author's opinion, will be the main character.

About late snow - this is generally a very rarity in those years. If we translate the actions of the novel into real time, that is, in the autumn of 1820 - the winter of 1821, then just in that winter the snow fell very early, then melted, and then fell again.
The following passage is one of the most quoted and recognizable. thousands of schoolchildren for many generations crammed it. Why - it's hard for me to answer. But the fact remains.

Winter!.. The peasant, triumphant,
On firewood, updates the path;
His horse, smelling snow,
Trotting somehow;
Reins fluffy exploding,
A remote wagon flies;
The coachman sits on the irradiation
In a sheepskin coat, in a red sash.
Here is a yard boy running,
Planting a bug in a sled,
Transforming himself into a horse;
The scoundrel already froze his finger:
It hurts and it's funny
And his mother threatens him through the window...

I could never understand the expression trot. The trot is the average speed of a horse, if you can call it that - faster than a walk, but slower than a canter. Although some horses at a trot could bypass even galloping ones. So for me, trotting is an oxymoron.

In this case, a wagon is a covered road cart for a coachman. Well, and accordingly, the irradiation is a thick wooden brace, enveloping the upper part of such a wagon. You probably know what a sheepskin coat is, but a sash is just a belt. Part, so to speak, of the coachman's uniform. Well, in the end, I’ll say that the bug is indicated with a small letter because it’s just the then designation of a mongrel, and not the name of an animal.

But maybe this kind
Pictures will not attract you:
All this is low nature;
Not much beauty here.
Warmed by God's inspiration,
Another poet with a luxurious style
He painted us the first snow
And all the shades of winter bliss
He will captivate you, I'm sure
Drawing in fiery verses
Secret walks in a sleigh;
But I don't want to fight
Not with him for the time being, not with you,
Young Finnish singer!

P.A. Vyazemsky

Another poet is about Vyazemsky, and his poem "The First Snow". And the "young Finnish singer" is an allusion to Baratynsky's "Eda". Why Finnish women, we have already discussed in one of the previous posts.
Further - no comment, for another well-known and taught by many piece

Tatyana (Russian soul,
I don't know why.)
With her cold beauty
I loved Russian winter
In the sun it's blue on a frosty day,
And the sleigh, and the late dawn
Shine of pink snows,
And the darkness of Epiphany evenings.
Celebrated in the old days
In their house these evenings:
Servants from all over the court
They wondered about their young ladies
And they were promised every year
Husbands of the military and campaign.

To be continued...
Have a nice time of the day.

"Eugene Onegin"
chapter 5

Do you expect me to tell you how I woke up and saw a similar picture?
But no)
Only the first two lines are correct. And it's not January, and I'm not Tatyana, and I overslept to work today. However, looking out the window, I saw that some snow still fell: the first wet snow. It is clear that it will melt and be dirty. It is clear that if it freezes, then "black ice" will form on the roads.
But it got more fun.
Through the window, in front of my desk, I see a white roof and falling snow, and a yellow flashing light of construction equipment, workers in red overalls and a gray sky, and a lighthouse.
Yes, it's more fun.
Why does our mood depend on external factors?
Why do we invent a whole bunch of conventions for ourselves?
My unreasonable daughter, studying sociology at the university, asked me the other day, as one of the respondents, the question: "Are you happy?"
Immediately, without hesitation, she answered: "Yes"
Later I thought about it and was surprised myself: I am rarely, extremely rarely unhappy.
Is this not a sign of idiocy? Or unpretentiousness?
I'm upset. Yes. Sometimes I worry, but all this does not make me unhappy.
A huge number of things instantly corrects my mood.
For example, when my head develops, even if it is inferior, a text, I am happy. When I buy myself a hundred and twenty-ninth skirt), I get pleasure from trying it on. Movies, books, tea, chocolate, snow, lemons, ginger, good conversation, house cleaning done by me, electricity repaired in the bathroom (not done yet)/. I can go on endlessly.
You come from the cold of the street to a warm house - great!
Bubble bath is great. Oversleep for work, as I did today - cool)
And I also have dreams. Sometimes it's completely unimaginable. Today I dreamed of lilies of the valley.
Shouldn't you still visit a psychiatrist and ask if it's time to be treated with electricity? Or ask for magic pills to cure supposed idiocy?)
"Winter was waiting, nature was waiting..."
Soon, soon to put up a Christmas tree))

A. S. Pushkin "Winter Morning"

A. S. Pushkin “Excerpts from the poem “Eugene Onegin”” Winter was waiting, nature was waiting. , Winter!.. The peasant, triumphant

A. S. Pushkin "Winter Road"

A. S. Pushkin “Winter. What should we do in the village? I meet"

Analysis of the poem by A. S. Pushkin "That year, autumn weather ..."

Other articles in the literary diary:

A. S. Pushkin “Excerpts from the poem “Eugene Onegin”” Winter was waiting, nature was waiting. ,
Winter!.. The peasant, triumphant