The author's new book presents evidence that "Jesus Christ in a white crown of roses" in A. Blok's poem is the Antichrist. The red horse of the artist Petrov-Vodkin is a symbol of an ordeal. The coat of arms of the House of Romanov is an order for the destruction of the Romanov dynasty.
- "Know where the light is - You will understand where the darkness is" (A. Blok)
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The given introductory fragment of the book Literary theorems and their proofs (Lyudmila Krylova-Lopachenko) provided by our book partner - Liters company.
© Lyudmila Krylova-Lopachenko, 2016
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"Know where the light is - You will understand where the darkness is" (A. Blok)
Icon "Savior in Strength". Andrey Rublev. 1408 Tretyakov Gallery
This book presents works in which the author of the articles presents his own versions of their reading using Christian and mythological symbols.
1. The poem "Twelve" by A. Blok.
2. Painting "Bathing a Red Horse" by K. Petrov-Vodkin.
3. Coat of arms of the Romanov dynasty.
From personal experience, I advise: to make it easier to understand the proposed versions, it is imperative to have these works and, if possible, the Gospel or the Bible before your eyes.
It all started with the fact that somehow, many years ago, for the first time after leaving school, I came across a poem by Blok "The Twelve". I read it, and suddenly I begin to understand that the title of the poem is not simply associated with the number of the Gospel apostles, but that these very "apostles" act in the poem, but in a strange, distorted form beyond recognition, and besides, probably for complete unrecognizability , with disfigured names. Evangelist John the Theologian - Vanka, Apostle Andrew the First-Called - Andryukha, Chief Apostle Peter - Petka. But most of all I was struck for the first time by the ending of the poem, where, as if, for no reason, no reason appeared "Christ in a white wreath of roses."
The surprise was due to the fact that nowhere and never - neither in the biblical paintings of Western European artists, nor in Orthodox icons (I have been collecting illustrations of both for a long time) - I have not come across an image of Christ in a white aureole. A little later, I was prompted to understand Blok's image of Jesus Christ “in a white aureole” by a poem by the Russian poet A. Pleshcheev “The Legend”.
Christ the baby had a garden
And He has grown many roses in him.
He watered them three times a day,
To weave a wreath for yourself later.
When the roses bloomed
He called the Jewish children,
They picked a flower
And the garden was all devastated.
“How will you weave a wreath for yourself?
There are no more roses in Your garden. ”
“- You have forgotten that the thorns
Remained for Me, ”- said Christ.
And from thorns they weaved
Thorny wreath for Him,
And drops of blood instead of roses
His brow was adorned.
"Christ in a crown of thorns" is one of the widespread iconographic images of Christ, which appeared in Russia in the 19th century under the influence of Western European art.
In Old Russian icon painting, Christ, as a rule, was depicted in a cross halo.
Painting "Saint Veronica" by Guido Reni, 17th century Italian painter. Jesus Christ in a crown of thorns. Pushkin Museum
Consequently, the crown of thorns and the cross halo are attributes of Christ in the visual religious art of the West and the East.
"Savior Crowned with Thorns." V.M. Vasnetsov 1906. Vyatka Art Museum.
Icon "Savior in a cross halo". Simon Ushakov, 1658. TSL (Trinity-Sergius Lavra)
Why did the Symbolist poet A. Blok, who was deeply versed in Christian symbolism, depicted Christ in a white aureole in his poem? It seemed to me that the answer should be sought in the Bible.
Indeed, I find the answer in the Gospel of Matthew: “Many will come under my name and will say:
“I am Christ ... Then if anyone says-"Here is Christ or there"-do not believe. " So, putting on a white crown on your Christ and saying - right here "Jesus Christ in a white crown of roses is ahead"- Blok implied that this is not Christ at all, because the white halo is not His attribute at all.
And then, naturally, the question arises: who acts in the poem in the guise of Christ? The question posed in this way already presupposes an answer for which one only needs to find evidence.
The opening lines of verses from the prologue to the poem "Retribution" became a clue:
Life is without beginning or end.
We all have a chance.
Above us - the inevitable dusk,
Or the clarity of God's Face.
But you, artist, believe firmly
In the beginning and the ends. You know
Where hell and heaven guard us.
You have been given an impassive measure
Measure everything - what you see.
Your gaze - may it be firm and clear.
Erase the random traits -
And you will see: the world is beautiful.
Know where the light is - you will understand where the darkness is.
"Know where the light is - you will understand where the darkness is." These lines are often quoted, but what do they mean? What does it mean to know the light? The poet gives the answers in the opening lines of the prologue.
First tip.
Above us - the inevitable dusk,
Or the clarity of God's Face.
Second tip.
You know
Where hell and heaven guard us.
Finally:
Know where the light is - you will understand where the darkness is.
In other words:
Know where God is - you will understand where darkness, hell and the Devil himself are.
Further, my reasoning boiled down to the following: in the Orthodox icon-painting tradition there is a hierarchy of color, where the main thing is the color of the summer midday sun, and it belongs to God. Therefore, on icons, God's clothes always have a yellow, ocher or gold color, symbolizing sunlight. Sometimes Jesus Christ Himself is depicted on icons as a source of light, for example, in the images of the Savior in Strength, in which the words, as it were, materialize: “God is the light of everything”. This image is presented on the first page in the icon "Savior in Strength" by Andrei Rublev.
In addition, Christians associate with God such familiar concepts as “God is Love”, “God is Good”. And, finally, the divine nature itself is a blooming Garden of Eden, that is, eternal summer. And now all the properties listed above, directly related to the Divine Essence, are comparable to those that preceded the appearance of "Christ in a white corolla" in the poem "The Twelve".
First, let's pay attention to the accompanying color (light). Further - for the season, time of day, for the feelings that arise, while it is not clear from whom, what feelings. And, finally, on what background will the phenomenon of the "twelve Red Guards" take place?
"Black evening,
White snow,
Wind, wind!
No man stands on his feet
Wind, wind -
All over God's world!
Black, black sky.
Malice, sad malice
Boils in my chest ... "
“Black evening”, “black sky”, “malice”, night, snow, cold, blizzard - and yet this element is diametrically opposite to that which we have defined as Divine nature. Therefore, only the antipode of the Divine, which, as you know, is the Antichrist, can act in this element.
"Antichrist (from Greek - the enemy of Christ)– false Christ, a mighty man of lawlessness, who has received power, who will appear on earth and, having taken possession of it by power and deceit, will lead people to atheism. He himself will sit down in the whole Church and will demand worship to himself. "
"Encyclopedia of Orthodox Holiness"
While working on the poem "The Twelve", Blok made the following entry in his diary:
"... Christ with the Red Guards"(these words are in quotes from him).
It is hardly possible to dispute this truth, which is simple for people who read and thought about the Gospel. " Therefore, a necessary and main condition for understanding the meaning of the poem "The Twelve" is knowledge of the Gospel, or at least a careful reading of it.
(How could one study the poem, judge it without reading the Gospel, knowing that the poem was written based on the Gospel).
However, it is already possible to say with certainty that the Antichrist acts in the form of Jesus Christ "in a white crown", and the words "Christ with the Red Guards" those taken by Blok, also in quotation marks, can mean only one thing - the Antichrist with the "Red Guards".
But then the "Red Guards" (in quotation marks) are also not quite what we think. But who is hiding behind the word "Red Guards" is no longer difficult to find out.
Let's turn again to the Gospel of Matthew and read carefully the following lines:
"False Christs and false prophets will arise and give great signs and wonders to deceive, if possible, the elect."
Ev. Matthew ch. 24 verse.
In other words, false Christs and false prophets will appear to deceive many, especially the “elect”. That is, the best, which, in fact, are easier to deceive.
The following lines of the Gospel are very important for understanding the image of "Christ in a white corolla":
"Saint John the Theologian, contemplating in revelation the events predicting the end of the world, says that the Antichrist will perform great signs - ... fire will bring down from heaven to earth in front of people."
This sign indicated in Scripture is the most important of the signs of the appearance of the Antichrist, and the place of his appearance will be in the air.
So isn't Blok talking about this main sign of the Antichrist in the following lines?
Intro to the TV show based on A. Blok's poem "The Twelve" Artist German Travnikov. 1970 year "There are lights, lights, lights all around, cover up the rifle belts."
The wind is walking, the snow is fluttering, ( air)
There are twelve people walking
Rifle black belts,
All around there are lights, lights, lights. - (fire descending from heaven)
All around lights, lights, lights
Shrug off the rifle straps.
It is not by chance that Blok repeats the word "lights" six times - this is the cry of the poet, who thus wants to draw the reader's attention to the word.
The researcher of A. Blok's creativity M. S. Petrovsky drew attention to one remarkable fact from the history of the creation of the poem "The Twelve", which for some reason fell out of sight of literary scholars. Here's what he writes: “Somehow it remained unnoticed that on the very eve of the writing of the poem - January 5, 1918 - Blok recalled Pushkin's Demons.
Recalling this fact, which remained unclaimed by literary criticism, Petrovsky also does not attach importance to it, or does not want to attach it, like others. But what is easier - to take and compare Pushkin's lines of poems from "Demons" and lines of Blok's poem.
A. Pushkin
"The clouds are rushing,
The clouds are curling
Invisible moon
It illuminates the flying snow.
The sky is cloudy, the night is cloudy. "
“For the life of me - no trace is visible,
We got lost
What should we do?
The demon leads us in the field. it is seen,
Let it go round and round. "
A. Block
"Black evening,
White snow.
Wind, wind!
There is no man standing on his feet.
Wind, wind -
All over God's world! "
"Something blizzard broke out
Oh, blizzard, oh, blizzard,
Not to see each other at all
In four steps. "
We see that both Pushkin and Blok describe the "demonic element" in the same way - winter, snow, blizzard, dark night.
A. Pushkin
"There, an unprecedented mile
He stuck out in front of me.
There he flashed a small spark
And disappeared in the empty darkness. "
A. Block
"The snow curled up deeply,
Snow rose in a column.
Fuck-tararah-tah-tah-tah-tah!
Snowy dust swirled up to the sky "
And the demons themselves in Pushkin and Blok are equally manifested - in the images of swirling pillars of a blizzard and sparkling lights. But, if in Pushkin the "demonic element" played out has a local character (somewhere in the steppe), then in Blok's poem it is presented on a much larger scale - "in all God's light." And in the main sign, Pushkin's demons are inferior in power to those of Blok: for example, Pushkin has a "small spark", while Blok has a "fire" amplified by the sixfold repetition of this word, and in the plans - "world fire".
And here the motto of the once most powerful Bolshevik newspaper "Pravda" - "A spark will kindle a flame" involuntarily comes to mind. And the motto is, frankly, satanic. It turns out that with such an attribute the newspaper was the same "Pravda" as "Jesus Christ in a white corolla."
From Blok's diary: “The Marxists are the smartest critics, and the Bolsheviks are right in fearing the Twelve.
It turns out that the “smart Bolsheviks” understood that A. Blok identified the revolution they were carrying out with “devilry”, and therefore the fact of turning to Pushkin’s “Demons” was simply ignored. Most likely, the recommendations were on this matter - very amicably literary criticism bypassed such an important fact. And Blok also realized that the Bolsheviks would not forgive him the poem "The Twelve". Hence the constant fear for your life. Fear, which became the source of his incomprehensible illness, not only for his relatives, but also for experienced doctors. Vladimir Nikolaevich Orlov wrote about this in his book “Gamayun, dedicated to the life and work of Alexander Blok. An article that I found on the Internet is devoted to the mysterious illness and death of the poet - "The mysterious death of Alexander Blok", where the author (the name was not found), in practice, duplicates the facts stated in the book. "V days when the poet was getting better, “he sorted out and destroyed archives, notebooks, notes. He was especially careful to destroy all copies of the Twelve. After nights spent in nightmares, he incessantly repeated to his wife, as if in delirium: "Lyuba, look well, and burn, burn everything." 1 There are other versions of what happened in the article, including the official one, but I will not dwell on them.
M. Petrovsky notes that "The poem (" Twelve ") incorporates all the traditional symbolism of the number twelve, so the collective name of the collective hero of the poem echoes the number of the Gospel apostles."
But everyone understands that the "twelve Red Guards" from the poem do not at all look like the twelve evangelical apostles - the first disciples of Christ. Those that from the poem really want to be called "apostles of the new faith." But what kind of faith? The "twelve" from the poem not only do not look like the disciples of Christ - it is something opposite to them.
The Apostles are the first disciples of Christ who, after His death on the cross, brought the light of His teaching and the Good News about Him to the world. And what did the collective hero bring to the people from the poem:
"Freedom, freedom
Eh, eh, without a cross. "
………………………
"We are on the woe to all bourgeois
Let's fan the world fire
World blood fire ... "
Now let's read Blok's characterization of a "collective hero":
“… Twelve people are walking.
In the teeth of a cigarette, they will crush the cap,
On your back you need an ace of diamonds! "
"Ace of Diamonds", as you know, is the sign of a criminal murderer. Consequently, the "twelve" from the poem is a gang of criminals representing the new revolutionary power.
"On the back b need an ace of diamonds"
Cathedral of the Twelve Apostles. Byzantine icon from the beginning of the XIV century. Pushkin Museum
Let's compare twelve "Red Guards" - "Apostles of the new faith" - as some literary critics call them with the twelve apostles - the first disciples of Christ, represented on the Byzantine icon.
The icon, like the picture with the "Red Guards" by German Travnikov, is a group portrait of the twelve apostles, as if it was specially written for comparison with a group of "Red Guards" from Blok's poem. The difference is that one can immediately say that the twelve people from the poem are the antipodes of the twelve Gospel apostles, and that Blok's words from the diary “Christ with the Red Guards” mean only one thing - the Antichrist appeared with demons.
Intro to the TV show based on the poem "The Twelve" 1970. Artist German Travnikov. "The wind is cheerful and angry and glad, twists the skirts, mows passers-by"
“Demons” have the same physical body, but their “matter” is so thin that they cannot be visible to a person if his “spiritual doors of perception” are not open ... and which instantly materialize in a spiritually immoral person, which are the criminals.
Hieromonk Seraphim Rose. Signs of the appearance of demons. Magazine "Science and Religion". No. 2, 1991
That is why at the very beginning of the poem in a snowstorm, only the voices of still invisible demons are heard, looking for "Open doors of spiritual perception", and who, having escaped from the darkness of hell to freedom, cheerfully frolic over their antics with passers-by:
The wind is cheerful
Isol and glad
Twists the hem
Passers-by mows.
Tears, crumples and wears
Big poster:
"All power to the constituent assembly"
And while their leprosy is quite harmless:
"The young lady in karakul
Slipped
And - bam - stretched out.
Pull, lift! "
After a while, the demons themselves, materialized in hardened criminals, will appear in a blizzard. (What can be " doors of spiritual perception " from criminals).
After the poem "Twelve" appeared in print, the writer Ivan Bunin in his public speech accused Blok of "pathological blasphemy", a mockery of the image of Christ:
"Some sweet Jesus, dancing with a bloody flag, and at the same time" in a white crown of roses "in front of these cattle, robbers, murderers."
I must say that "twelve" is not at all a collective hero, as the researcher M. Petrovsky writes, since in front of the detachment are three people with specific names - Vanka, Petka Andryukha - the antipodes of the beloved disciples of Christ.
But why exactly did these anti-entities lead the squad? What devilish role has the Antichrist prepared for them? To understand Satan's plan, let us turn to the text of the Holy Scriptures.
Icon of the Transfiguration of the Lord. 1804 Tretyakov Gallery. Moscow. Apostles (left to right) Peter, John, James
As stated in the Gospel legend, Jesus Christ, shortly before his death on the cross, called his beloved disciples to him to Mount Tabor, where he was transformed before them, showing the dwelling god- hence the word "favorite", that is - dedicated, beloved.
Among the witnesses of the transfiguration of the Lord was the beloved disciple of Christ, the future evangelist and author of the book of the New Testament "Apocalypse" John the Theologian, who wrote his revelation about the end of the world, about the appearance of the Antichrist on earth.
Revelation of John the Evangelist. Evangelist John the Theologian with Prokhor. Fragment of the royal gates. Con. XV century. (TsMiAR)
Therefore, in the vanguard, led by the Antichrist, is the antipode of John the Theologian, the demon Vanka, whose goal is to destroy the testimony of John the Theologian about Jesus Christ, to destroy His Teachings.
Another witness of the Transfiguration was the Apostle Peter, about whom Christ will say that it is he who will become the stone on which the Church will be built, and that he will be entrusted to keep the key to the Kingdom of Heaven, that is, from Paradise, according to another legend - and the key to Hell. A key or two keys will become identifying attributes in the iconography of the image of the Apostle Peter.
Icon. Apostle Peter. Byzantium XIV century. Tretyakov Gallery. (Apostle Peter with one key)
Icon "Apostle Peter" XIV century. State Russian Museum. (Apostle Peter with two keys)
That is why the demon Petka, the antipode of the Apostle Peter, had to personally participate in the destruction of the Church and the Christian foundations of the state. Petka will do a devilish thing: by luring "into the paradise of a separate state", showing the key to it, he will deceive people who believe in him - he will change the key and open the gates not to heaven, but to the hell of revolution, civil war, hunger, cold. Consequently, Vanka and Petka are not only false prophets, but also anti-transfigurations.
Alexander Solzhenitsyn in his book "Features of Two Revolutions" wrote: "After the 1917 revolution, Bolshevism became the antipode of what Russia lived spiritually until then."
However, the third witness of the transfiguration of Christ on Mount Tabor was the apostle James. So, according to the supposed logic, the false Jacob should have been at the forefront of the anti-Transfigurations, but for some reason Blok replaced him with the false Andrey. In my opinion, this can be explained as follows.
As you know, all twelve disciples of Christ were the founders of Christian communities in different countries, which fell to them for missionary work by lot. There they preached the good news of Christ and His teachings, so the churches they founded began to be called apostolic, which were considered churches of the highest rank.
The Apostle James became the founder of the Christian church in the ancient land of Palestine, so the antipode of Jacob, or false Jacob, could be in the vanguard of the "twelve" if the revolution took place, for example, in Judea.
But the revolution took place in Russia, where, according to the ancient legends that have come down to us, the founder of the apostolic church in Ancient Russia was the Apostle Andrew the First-Called.
Crucifixion of the Apostle Andrew the First-Called. Mosaic. Cathedral of the Holy Apostle Andrew the First-Called. The Greek city of Patras, where the apostle was executed.
« The Holy Apostle Andrew is the first archbishop of Constantinople, the ecumenical patriarch and Russian apostle, and his feet stood on the Kiev mountains, and his eyes saw Russia and blessed his mouth ".
The Kiev Cathedral of 1621 witnessed by his definition.
In pre-revolutionary Russia, the highest state signs of valor and glory established by Peter the Great were associated with the name of Andrew the First-Called. This is the Andreevsky flag, the flag of the Russian naval forces, which returned to Russian warships seventy years later.
The St. Andrew's flag is a white cloth, on which there is a blue cross, named St. Andrew's, as a sign of the acceptance of the martyrdom by the Apostle Andrew on the oblique cross tied (to prolong the torment).
Order of the Holy Apostle Andrew the First-Called. 1699 g.
The Order of St. Andrew the First-Called is the highest award of tsarist Russia since the time of Peter I, now the highest state order, returned to the system of Russian awards.
This means that all these signs of valor and glory had to be destroyed by the false Anrey - Andryukha. We can say that the higher in the hierarchy the Divine Essence, the stronger, the more merciless its anti-essence, the more terrible its antipode.
That is why everything that constituted the spiritual basis of the state in Russia was so violently, so mercilessly destroyed “to the ground”.
End of introductory snippet.
Prologue Life is without beginning or end. We all have a chance. Above us - the inevitable dusk, Or the clarity of God's face. But you, artist, firmly believe In the beginning and the end. You know, Where hell and heaven guard us. You have been given an impassive measure To measure everything that you see. Your gaze - let it be firm and clear. Erase the random features - And you will see: the world is beautiful. Know where the light is - you will understand where the darkness is. Let everything pass 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 mountain: It will turn it into red coal, Then it will quickly submerge it into the water - And it will hiss, and it will become black The entrusted blade ... ! Who will forge the sword? - Who knew no fear. And I am helpless and weak, Like everyone, like you, - only an intelligent slave, Made of clay and dust, - And the world - it is terrible for me. The hero no longer strikes freely, - His hand is in the hand of the people, There is a column of fire over the world, And in every heart, in every thought - His arbitrariness and his own law ... Above all of Europe, the dragon, Opening its mouth, languishes with thirst ... Who will strike him? .. We do not know: over our camp, As of old, the distance is foggy, And it smells like burning. There is a fire. But the song - the song will be all, Someone sings in the crowd. Here - the dancer gives his head on a platter to the Tsar; There - he is on the black scaffold Lay down his head; Here - the name is branded shameful His verses ... And I sing, - But the last judgment is not yours, It is not for you to close my mouth! .. Let the dark church be empty, Let the shepherd sleep; I will go through the dewy border before mass, I will turn the rusty key in the shutter And in the hallway, scarlet from dawn, I will serve my mass. You, who struck Dennitsa, Bless on this path! Let me turn at least a small page From the book of life. Let me unhurriedly and dishonestly Tell before Your Face About what we hide in ourselves, About what is alive in this world, About how anger ripens in hearts, And with anger - youth and freedom, How the spirit of the people breathes in everyone ... Sons are reflected in the fathers: A short fragment of a family - Two or three links, - and the precepts of the dark antiquity are already clear: A new breed has matured, - Coal turns into a diamond. He, under a hardworking pickaxe, Rising from the bowels slowly, Will appear - for show to the world! So hit, do not know rest, Let life live deeply: The diamond burns from afar - Fractions, my angry iambic, stones! The first chapter Nineteenth century, iron, Truly cruel age! You have thrown a man into the darkness of the night, starless, carefree! On the night of speculative concepts, Materialistic small deeds, Powerless complaints and curses of Bloodless souls and weak bodies! With you came the plague to replace Neurasthenia, boredom, spleen, the Age of bashing their heads against the wall of Economic doctrines, Congresses, banks, federations, Table speeches, red words, the Age of stocks, rents and bonds, And ineffective minds, And half talents (So fair - in half!), The age of not salons, but living rooms, Not Recamier, but simply I will ... The age of bourgeois wealth (Growing invisibly evil!). Under the sign of equality and brotherhood, dark deeds ripened here ... And the man? - He lived weak-willed: Not he - cars, cities, "Life" so bloodlessly and painlessly tortured the spirit as never before ... But the one who moved, controlling the Puppets of all countries, - He knew what he was doing, sending the Humanist fog: There , in a gray and rotten fog, The flesh withered, and the spirit went out, And the angel himself of sacred battle, It seemed, flew away from us: There - blood feuds are resolved with the Diplomatic mind, There - new cannons interfere with Coming face to face with the enemy, There - instead of courage - impudence, And instead of heroic deeds - "psychosis", And the bosses are always quarreling, And the long bulky wagon train of Volo? Cheat behind a team, Headquarters, quartermasters, cursing dirt, Roland's horn with a bugler's horn And replacing a helmet with a cap ... century cursed a lot And do not get tired of cursing. And how to get rid of his sorrow? He gently laid - but hard to sleep ... The twentieth century ... Even more homeless, Even more terrible than life is the darkness (Even blacker and more huge is the Shadow of Lucifer's wing). Smoky fires of the sunset (Prophecies about our day), The terrible and tailed comets A terrible ghost in the sky, The merciless end of Messina (The forces of nature cannot be overcome), And the relentless roar of the machine, Forging death day and night, A terrible deception Consciousness of All former small thoughts and beliefs, And the first takeoff of an airplane Into the desert of unknown spheres ... And disgust from life, And mad love for her, And passion and hatred for the motherland ... And black, earthly blood Promises us, inflating veins, All destroying boundaries, Unheard of changes, Unseen mutinies ... What? man? - Behind the roar of steel, In fire, in powder smoke, What fiery distances Opened to your gaze? What - the incessant rattle of machines? Why - the propeller, howling, cuts the Fog cold - and empty? Now - follow me, my reader, To the sick capital of the north, To the distant Finnish coast! Already seventy-eighth autumn Falls out of the old century. In Europe, work is arguing, And here - as before, in the swamp The dull dawn looks ... But in the middle of September That year, look how much sun there is! Where are the people going in the morning? And all the way to the outpost cheers are pouring in with peas, And the Trans-Balkan, and the Sennaya Are teeming with the police, the crowd, Scream, crush, swearing areal. .. Beyond the city limits, Where the golden-domed Novodevichy Convent shines, Fences, slaughterhouses and wasteland Before the Moscow outpost, - Wall to the people, darkness of carriages, Drivers, droshky and carriages, Sultans, shako and helmets, Tsarina, courtyard and high society! And before the touched queen, In the autumn sun dust, Troops pass in a line From the borders of a foreign land ... They are going, as if from a parade. Ile not left a trace Recent camp near Constantinople, Foreign language and cities? Behind them - the snowy Balkans, Tri Plevny, Shipka and Dubnyak, Non-healing wounds, And a cunning and not weak enemy ... There are Pavlovtsy, there are grenadiers Walking along the dusty pavement; Their faces are stern, their breasts are gray, Georgy shines here and there, Their battalions are sparse, But those who survived the battle Now, under torn banners, They bowed their heads ... The end of a difficult campaign, Unforgettable days! They came to their homeland, They are among their people! How will their native people meet them? Today - oblivion to the past, Today - heavy visions of War - let the wind blow! And in the hour of solemn return They forgot about everything: Forgot the life and death of a soldier Under enemy fire, Nights, for many - without dawn, Cold, dumb firmament, Trapping somewhere - And overtaking death, Illness, fatigue, pain and hunger, Whistling bullets, a melancholy howl of a cannonball, Cold frozen lodgements, Unheating fire of a fire, And even - the burden of eternal strife Among the staff and combatants, And (maybe more bitter than all others) Forgotten the intendants' intrigues ... Or perhaps not forgotten? - Trays with bread and salt are waiting for them, Speeches will be spoken to them, Flowers and cigarettes on them Flying from the windows of all houses ... Yes, their difficult work is sacred! Look: every soldier has a bouquet of flowers on a bayonet! At battalion commanders - Flowers on saddles, saddles, In buttonholes of faded uniforms, On horse bangs and in hands ... They're coming, going ... As soon as sunset They come to the barracks: who - to replace Lint and cotton wool on the wounds, Who - on? an evening to fly, to captivate Beauties, to flaunt crosses, To drop careless words, Lazily wiggling his mustache Before a humiliated "trick", Playing with a new lanyard On a scarlet ribbon - like children ... Or, in fact, these people are So interesting and smart? Why are they lifted up So high, what is their faith for? In the eyes of any officer There are visions of war. Borrowed lights are burning on their, usual before, faces. Someone else's life turned its pages over to them. They are All baptized with fire and deed; Their speeches repeat about one thing: Like a White General on a white horse, among enemy grenades, Stood like a ghost unharmed, Joking calmly over the fire; Like a red column of fire and smoke Soared over Gorny Dubnyak; About how the regimental banner From the hands of the dead did not let; Like a cannon on mountain paths Colonel helped to drag; Like a king's horse, snoring, stumbled Before a 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 an equal footing ... The one who was in the war, Sometimes the cold penetrates such Semi-insane mockery ... And the power is in a hurry All those who have ceased to be a pawn, To turn into a round, or into horses ... And we, the reader, should not count horses and a round in any way, With you we are now crowded into a crowd of gawking onlookers , We are completely gleeful this Made us forget yesterday ... Our eyes are full of light, Our ears are thundering hurray! And many, having forgotten too much, Are dusting with civilian feet, Like street boys, Near marching soldiers, And this tide of feelings is instant Here - in St. Petersburg September! Look: the venerable head of the family Sits astride a lantern! His wife has been calling for a long time, Full of vain rage, And to hear, she pokes an umbrella, Wherever there is a trace, she is to him. But he doesn’t feel it either. And, despite the general laugh, Sits, and doesn’t blow his mustache, Kanalya, he sees better than anyone else! .. Gone ... Only the echo moans in his ears, And all - not to disperse the crowd; Already with a barrel the water carrier drove, Leaving the wet path, And the vanka, bending around the curbstone, Heading at the lady - yells Already on this occasion? families even Obediently climbed from the lantern, But, leaving, everyone is waiting for something ... Yes, today, on the day of their return, All life in the capital, like infantry, Thunders on the stone pavements, Goes, goes - in an absurd formation, Magnificent and noisy ... One will pass - another will come, Look - she is not the same, And the one that flashed, there is no return, You are in it - as in the old days ... The pale ray of sunset slowed down In a high, by chance, window. You could notice in that window Behind the frame - pale features, You could notice some sign, Which you do not know, But you pass - and you will not look, You meet - and you will not recognize, You will sink into the gloom after others, You will follow the crowd you will pass. Go, passer-by, without attention, Pulling your own indolently, Let the oncoming person and building - Like all others - for you. You are busy with all sorts of things, You, of course, do not know that behind these walls And your fate can hide ... (But, if you spread your mind, Forgetting your wife and the samovar, Out of fear you would open your mouth And sit right on the sidewalk !) It's getting dark. The curtains came down. The room is filled with people, And behind closed doors there are deaf conversations, And this restrained speech is Full of care and sorrow. The fire has not been lit yet And they are in no hurry to light it. In the evening gloom faces are drowning, Look closely - you will see a row of one Shadows of obscure, a string of Some women and men. The gathering is not long-winded, And every guest who enters the door, Silently looks around like a beast with a stubborn gaze. Here someone flashed with a cigarette: Among others - a woman sits: A large childish forehead is not hidden A simple and modest hairdo, A wide white collar And a black dress - everything is simple, Thin, short, Blue-eyed childish face, But, as if finding something far away , Looks attentively, point-blank, And this sweet, gentle gaze Burns with courage and sadness ... They are waiting for someone ... The bell rings. Slowly opening the doors, the new Guest enters the threshold: Confident in his movements And stately; courageous appearance; Dressed just like a foreigner, Exquisitely; the gloss of the Tall cylinder shines in the hand; Barely perceptibly darkened The look of the brown eyes is sternly meek; The restless mouth is framed by a Napoleonic beard; Big-headed, dark-haired - Handsome and freak together: Anxious, his mouth twisted with a Melancholic grimace. And the crowd of those gathered fell silent ... Two words, two handshakes - And a guest to the child in a black dress Goes, bypassing the others ... He looks long and lovingly, And he shakes his hand more than once, And he says: “I congratulate you on your escape, Sonya ... Sofya Lvovna! Again - to the mortal struggle! " And suddenly - for no apparent reason - On this strange-white forehead Two wrinkles deeply lay down ... The dawn went out. And the men Pour rum and wine into the bowl, And the flame ran with a blue flame Under a full bowl. Daggers are placed over it with a cross. Here the flame is spreading - and suddenly, Running over the burn, it trembled In the eyes of those crowding around ... The fire, fighting with the crowd of gloom, Threw a purple-blue light, The ancient song of the Haidamaks The song of the accord sounded, As if - a wedding, housewarming, As if - all no thunderstorm awaits, - Such childish fun Lighted up the harsh eyes ... Do not slow down, artist: You will pay twice for one moment of Sensitive delay, And if at this moment your inspiration Threatens to leave you, - Blame yourself! You are the only one for your need. Let it be - your steadfastness. In those days, a noble family lives under the St. Petersburg sky. The nobles are all relatives to each other, And they taught them to look in the face of another circle Always a little haughty. But the power quietly escaped From their graceful white hands, And signed up as liberals The most honest of the royal servants, And all in natural disgust Between the will of the royal and the people They were in pain Often from both wills. All this may seem ridiculous and outdated to us, But, really, only a boor can mock Russian life. She is always between two fires. Not everyone can become a hero, And people are the best - we will not hide - Powerless often in front of her, So unexpectedly severe And full of eternal changes; Like a spring river, it is Suddenly ready to move, Pile up ice floes And on its way crush the Guilty, as well as the innocent, And the innocent, like officials. .. So it was with my family: The old man was still breathing in her And prevented her from living in a new way, Rewarding with silence And belated nobility (Not so much sense in him at all, As it is customary to think now, When in any family the door is wide open in a winter blizzard, And not the slightest effort It is not worth cheating on a wife, Like a husband who has lost his shame). And nihilism here was good-natured, And the spirit of the natural sciences (which plunges the authorities into fear) Here was similar to religion. “The family is nonsense, the family is a whim,” - They loved to say angrily here, And in the depths of my soul - everything is the same “Princess Marya Aleksevna” ... The living memory of old times Should have been friends with infidelity - And all the hours were full Something new "Two faiths", And this circle was enchanted: His words and habits, Above all strangers - always quotes, And even sometimes - fear; And meanwhile life was changing, And everything swayed around, And a new wind burst into a hospitable old house: That nihilist in a blouse Comes and brazenly asks for vodka, To disturb the family's peace (Seeing his civil duty in that), And then - and the guest is very bureaucratic Will run in not at all in cold blood With "Narodnaya Volya" in his hands - To consult in a hurry, What? all the cause of troubles? What? to take before the "anniversary"? How to reason with young people who have raised a clamor again? - Everyone knows that in this house And they will caress and understand, And with a noble soft light They will illuminate and shower everything ... The life of the elders is drawing to a close. (Well, no matter how bad it is at midday, You will not stop from the fields Creeping bluish smoke). The head of the family is an associate of the forties; to this day, Among the people of the forefront, Keeps civil shrines, He has been guarding enlightenment since the times of Nicholas, But in the everyday life of the new movement He got a little lost ... Turgenev's serenity is akin to Him; He still fully understands a lot about wine, He knows how to appreciate tenderness in food; The language of French and Paris is probably closer to him (Like all of Europe: look - And the German is dreaming of Paris), And - an ardent Westerner in everything - In his soul he is an old Russian master, And his convictions are French With many he does not put up with; He is at Borel's dinners. Bruzhzhit is no worse than Shchedrin: That - trout are undercooked, And then - their ear is not fat. This is the law of an iron fate: Unexpected, like a flower over an abyss, A family hearth and comfort ... Three daughters grow up unruly in the family: the eldest is languishing And over the kipsek is waiting for her husband, The second is always not too lazy to learn, The smaller one gallops and sings, She tells her temper lively and passionate Teasing girlfriends in the gymnasium And with a bright red braid Introduce the boss to the fright ... Now they have grown up: they are taken to visit, In a carriage they are taken to the ball; Already someone is walking near the windows, The little one sent a note Some playful cadet - And the first tears are so sweet ardor, And the eldest - decorous and bashful - Suddenly, Vortex offered his hand, an ideal guy; It is cooked down the aisle. .. "Look, he loves his daughter a little, - the father grumbles and frowns, - Look, he is not of our circle ..." And the mother secretly agrees with him, But jealousy of her daughter from each other They try to hide ... The mother hurries the outfit wedding, The dowry is hastily sewn, And for the rite (a sad rite) Friends and relatives are called ... The groom is the enemy of all rituals (When "the people suffer so"). The bride - exactly the same views: She - will go hand in hand with him, To throw a beautiful ray together, "A ray of light into the kingdom of darkness" (And only does not agree to get married Without a fleur d? Orange and a veil). Here - with the thought of a civil marriage, With a gloomier brow than September, Unkempt, in an awkward tailcoat He stands at the altar, Marrying "in principle" - This newly-appeared groom. The priest is old, liberal, With a trembling hand he baptizes them, He, like the groom, is indistinct The spoken words, And the bride's head Is spinning; pink spots Burn on her cheeks, And tears melt in her eyes ... An awkward minute will pass - They will return to the family, And life, with the help of comfort, Will return to its rut; They are early in life; it is not soon Healthy to hunch over shoulders; Not soon from childish disputes With his comrades at night He will come out, honest, on straw In dreams, a sleeping groom ... In a hospitable good house There will be a room for them, For the new tenant, Everything will cost a little: Of course, the younger by nature Narodnitsa and touchy Tease the married sister, The second - to blush and intercede, Sister reasoning and teaching, And the elder - languidly forget, Leaning at her husband's shoulder; The husband at this time argues in vain, Entering into a conversation with his father About socialism, about the commune, About the fact that someone is a "scoundrel" From now on must be called For having made a denunciation ... And the "damned and painful question" will always be resolved. .. No, the spring ice is crushing, the fast river will not wash away Their lives: It will leave both the young man and the old man alone - Watch how the ice will rush, And how the ice will break, And both of them will dream, That their “people are calling ahead "... But these childish chimeras Will not prevent at last Somehow to acquire manners (Father is not averse to this). », Perfectly fulfill your duty And be a serviceable official, Without bribes, seeing a lot in the service ... Yes, this is life - it's too early to die; They are like children: Until their mother shouts, they play pranks; They are “not my romance”: They are all to learn, but to chat, Yes, to indulge in dreams, But they will never understand Those with doomed eyes: Another to become, another blood - Another (pitiful) love. .. So life went on in the family. Rocked Their waves. The spring river Was rushing - dark and wide, And the ice floes hung menacingly, And suddenly, after hesitating, they skirted this old boat ... But soon the foggy hour struck - And a strange stranger appeared in our friendly family. Get up, go out in the morning on the meadow: In the pale sky, the hawk is circling, Drawing a smooth circle around, Looking out for where worse The nest is hidden in the bushes ... Suddenly - bird chirping and movement ... He listens ... for another moment - Flies away on straight wings ... An alarming cry from neighboring nests, The sad squeak of the last chicks, Pooh, tender? flies to the wind - He claws the poor victim ... And again, flapping his huge wing, He flew up - to draw a circle around the circle, With an unhappy eye and the homeless Inspect the desert meadow ... When you look, it circles, circles ... Mother Russia, like the bird grieves About children; but - her fate, To be tormented by a hawk. At Anna Vrevskaya's evenings, the society had a choice color. Sick and sad Dostoevsky Went here in his declining years A harsh life to relieve the burden, To gain information and strength For the "Diary". (He was friends with Pobedonostsev at that time). With an outstretched hand, Polonsky read poetry here with inspiration. Some ex-minister humbly confessed sins here. And the university rector There was a botanist here Beketov, And many professors, And servants of the brush and pen, And also - the servants of the royal power, And its enemies in part, Well, in a word, you can find here Various states of the mixture. In this salon, without concealment, Under the charm of the hostess, the Slavophil and the liberal Shake hands with each other (As, however, it has been customary for a long time We, in Orthodox Russia: Everyone, thank God, shakes hands). And all - not so much by conversation, How liveliness and gaze, - the Mistress in a few minutes Could attract to herself wonderfully. She, indeed, was reputed to be charmingly beautiful, And together she was kind. Whoever was associated with Anna Pavlovna - Everyone will remember her with good (For the time being, the language of writers is obliged to be silent about that). She accommodated a lot of young people Her public salon: Some - in convictions are similar, He is simply in love with her, Others - with a conspiratorial case ... And everyone needed her, Everyone came to her, - and she boldly took part In all issues without exception As in dangerous undertakings ... To her also from my family All three were taken daughters. Among the elderly and the dignified, Among the green and innocent - In the salon Vrevskaya was like his own One young scientist. A relaxed guest, familiar - He was with many on "you". His features are marked with a Seal not quite ordinary. Once (he passed the drawing-room) Dostoevsky noticed him. “Who is this handsome man? - he asked quietly, leaning towards Vrevskaya: "Looks like Byron." - Everyone picked up the word Winged, And they all paid attention to their new face. This time the light was merciful, Ordinarily so stubborn; “Handsome, clever” - the ladies kept repeating, Men frowned: “poet” ... But if men frown, Envy must be taking them ... in admiration: "He is Byron, which means - a demon ..." - Well? He really was like a proud lord Faces haughty expression And something that I want to call Heavy flame of sadness. (In general, we noticed the strangeness in him - And everyone wanted to notice). Perhaps, unfortunately, there was not only this will in him ... He must have been compared with the lord by one secret passion: A descendant of later generations, In which the rebellious ardor of Inhuman aspirations lived, - He resembled Byron, Like a sickly brother, at times Healthy is like: That same reddish glow, And the expression of power is the same, And the same impulse to the abyss. But - the spirit is secretly bewitched By the tired cold of the disease, And the effective flame is extinguished, And the wills of frantic effort Are weighed down by consciousness. So the predator rotates a murky sight, Sick spreading their wings. “How interesting, how clever,” the Younger Daughter repeats after the general chorus. And the Father gives in. And our newly-minted Byro? N is invited to their house. And he accepts the invitation. The family accepted, as a native, Handsome young man. At first, In the old house above the Neva, He was welcomed as a guest, But soon the old people were attracted by His old noble warehouse, The custom is polite and decorous: Although the new lord was free and broad in his views, But he observed politeness And he kissed the ladies' hands without the slightest contempt ... His brilliant mind was forgiven, The contradictions of these darkness By kindness they did not notice, Their talent was overshadowed by the brilliance, There was some kind of burning in the eyes ... (Do you hear the cracking of the broken wings? they made relatives of youth, Even in those early years, It was easy to play and it was possible ... He did not know his darkness himself ... He easily dined in the house And often captivated everyone in the evenings Live and fiery conversation. (Even though he was a lawyer, But he did not disdain a poetic example: Constant was friends in him with Pushkin, and Stein with Flaubert). Freedom, right, ideal - Everything was not a joke for him, He was only secretly creepy: He, arguing, denied And he argued, denying. (Everything used - to wander in extremes for the mind, And the middle was golden Everything was not given to him!) He hated - with love He sometimes sought to surround, As if the corpse wanted to pour Living, playing blood. .. "Talent" - repeated everyone around, - But, not being proud (not giving in), He was strangely darkened suddenly ... Sick soul, but young, Fearing herself (she was right), Seeking consolation: what? All the words were waiting for her ... (Oh, verbal dust! What do you need? - You can hardly console, You can hardly allow the torment!) rags rags From a body ready to surrender ... A strand fell on his forehead ... He shook in a secret trembling ... (Everything, everything - as in an hour, when on the bed of Two, desire weaved ...) And there - beyond the musical storm - Suddenly arose (as then) Some image - sad, distant, Incomprehensible never ... And the wings are white in azure, And unearthly silence ... But this quiet string Sank in a musical storm ... What happened? - All that should be: Handshake, conversations, Downcast eyes ... The future is separated by a Barely noticeable line From the present ... He became His own in the family. He charmed the Younger daughter with the beauty. And the kingdom (not owning the kingdom) He promised her. And She believed him, turning pale ... And He turned her native house into a prison (although this house did not resemble a prison in the least ...). But alien, empty, wild has become Everything, formerly sweet, around - Under this strange charm Promising new speeches, Under this demonic flicker of Flame-piercing eyes ... He is life, he is happiness, he is an element, She found a hero in him, - And the whole family, and all relatives Prevent, interfere with her in everything, And all her excitement multiplies ... She does not know herself, That she really cannot flirt. She - almost lost her mind ... And he? - He hesitates; he does not know why he hesitates, for what? And after all, the Army demonism does not seduce him ... No, my hero is rather subtle And perspicacious, so as not to know How a poor child suffers, What happiness to a child to give - Now - in his single power ... No, no ... but still fiery passions froze in the chest, And someone whispers: wait ... That is a cold mind, a cruel mind Entered into unexpected rights ... That is the torment of a lonely life Foreseeing the head ... “No, he does not love, he plays , - She asserts, the fate of the curse, - For what he torments and frightens He is defenseless, me ... He does not rush to explain, As if he himself is waiting for something ... " , It will descend silently into the meadow And will drink living blood Already from horror - a mad, Trembling victim ...) - Here is the love of That vampiric age, Which turned into cripples Worthy of the title of man! Be damned thrice, wretched age! Another bridegroom in this place would have shaken the dust off his feet for a long time, But my hero was too honest And he could not deceive her: He was not proud of his strange disposition, And he was given to know, That a demon and Don Juan In that age it was ridiculous to behave. .. He knew a lot - on his own mountain, Distinguished not without reason "eccentric" In that friendly human choir, Which we often call (Between ourselves) - a flock of sheep ... But - "the voice of the people is the voice of God", And this should be remembered more often At least, for example, now: When would he be a little more stupid (Is it, however, his fault?) cold and rebellious, - My hero was completely wrong ... But everything went inevitably in its own way. Already the leaf, rustling, Spun. And uncontrollably My soul grew old at home. Negotiations on the Balkans Already the diplomats led, The troops came and went to bed, The Neva wrapped itself up in fogs, And civilians went to work, And civilians went questions: Arrests, searches, denunciations And attempts - without number ... And a real book rat My Byron became among this haze; With a brilliant dissertation, He acquired excellent praises And took the chair in Warsaw ... Preparing to read lectures, Entangled in civil law, With a soul that began to tire, - He modestly offered her his hand, Tied her to his destiny And took her away with him, Already nourishing boredom in my heart, - So that my wife with him to the star She shared her book works ... Two years have passed. An explosion burst from the Catherine Canal, covering Russia with a cloud. All from afar foreshadowed that the fateful hour would come true, That such a card would fall ... And this century's hour of the day - The last one - was named the first of March. There is sadness in the family. Abolished As if a part of it was large: Everyone was amused by the younger daughter, But she left the family, And to live - and confused and difficult: That - over Russia is smoke ... Father, turning gray, looks into the smoke ... Longing! Little news from my daughter ... Suddenly - she comes back ... What? with her? How thin a transparent camp! Thin, exhausted, pale ... And a child lies in her arms. The second chapter Introduction I In those years, distant, deaf, In the hearts of sleep and darkness reigned: Victorious over Russia Stretched owl wings, And there was neither day nor night But only - the shadow of huge wings; He outlined Russia in a wondrous circle, looking into her eyes with the Glass gaze of a sorcerer; Under the clever dialect of a wonderful fairy tale It's not difficult for a beauty to fall asleep, - And she clouded over, Sleeping hopes, thoughts, passions ... But under the yoke of Lanita's dark spells, he painted her a tan: And the magician in power She seemed full of strength, a knot useless ... The sorcerer was burning incense with one hand, And a trickle of blue and curly He smoked dew incense ... But - He put his other bony hand Living souls under the cloth. II In those immemorial years Petersburg was even more formidable, Though not heavier, not gray The boundless Neva rolled the waters under the fortress. .. The bayonet was shining, the chimes were crying, And the same ladies and dandies flew here to the islands, And the horse, with a barely audible laugh, answered towards the Horse, And a black mustache, mixing with the fur, Tickled his eyes and lips ... I remember, so I used to fly with you, forgetting the whole world, But ... really, there is no use in this, My friend, and there is not much happiness in this ... III of the East, a terrible dawn In those years, a little more reddened ... St. Petersburg stared Obsequiously at the tsar ... The people were crowded in fact, In medals the coachman at the doors of the Heavy fueled the horses, Policemen on the panel They drove the public ... "Hurray" from the yard ... Spring, but the sun is shining stupidly, Until Easter - seven whole weeks, And from the roofs cold drops Already behind my collar Slides stupidly, cold back ... Wherever you turn, all the wind ... "How sickening to live on white light "- you mutter, avoiding a puddle; The dog pokes under his feet, The detective's galoshes shine, The sour stench rushes from the yards, And the "prince" yells: "Robe, robe!" And having met his face with a passer-by, He would have spit in his face, If I had not read the desire for the same In his eyes ... IV But before the May nights The whole city was plunged into sleep, And the sky was expanding; A huge month behind my shoulders Mysteriously blushed face Before the imperceptible dawn ... Oh, my elusive city, Why did you rise above the abyss? .. Do you remember: leaving at night white There, where the sphinx looks into the sea, And on the hewn granite Bending with a heavy head, You could hear: in the distance, in the distance, As if from the sea, an alarming sound, For the firmament of God, impossible And unusual for the earth ... You have seen the whole distance, like an angel On a serf spire; and here - (Dream, or reality): a wonderful fleet, Widely deployed flanks, Suddenly blocked the Neva ... And the Sovereign Founder Himself Stands on the head frigate ... So many dreamed in reality ... What dreams do you, Russia, what storms destined? .. But in these times the deaf Not everyone, of course, had dreams ... Yes, and there were no people On the square at this wonderful moment (One belated lover Hurried, raising his collar ...) But in the scarlet streams behind the sterns the day was shining, And with dormant pennants Already the morning wind was playing, The bloody dawn spread beyond sight, Threatening with Arthur and Tsushima, Threatening the Ninth of January ... frost From the shores of the native sea ... Gendarmes, rails, lanterns, Jargon and age-old sidelocks, - And now - in the rays of a sick dawn Polish backyards of Russia ... Here everything that was, everything that is, Inflated with a vengeful chimera; Copernicus himself cherishes revenge, Leaning over the empty sphere. .. "Revenge! Revenge!" - in cold cast iron It rings like an echo over Warsaw: That Pan-Frost on an evil horse Rattles with a bloody spur ... Here is a thaw: the edge of the sky will shine alive with lazy yellowness, And the eyes of the pann can be drawn more boldly His circle is caressing and flattering ... But everything in the sky, on earth, Is still full of sorrow ... Only the rail to Europe in the wet haze Glistens with honest steel. The station is spattered; at home, Insidiously devoted to the blizzards; The bridge over the Vistula is like a prison; Father, struck down by an evil disease, - Everything is new to the darling of destinies; Him and in this meager world Dreams of something wonderful; He wants to see bread in a stone, a sign of Immortality - on his deathbed, Behind the dim light of a lantern He sees Your dawn, who has forgotten Poland, God! - What? is he here with his youth? What does the wind greedily ask for? - Forgotten leaf of autumn days Yes, dry wind carries dust! And the night goes by, leading the frost, Tiredness, sleepy desires ... How disgusting the names of the streets! Here, finally, the Rose Alley! .. - A unique moment: The hospital is immersed in sleep, - But in the frame of a bright window Stands, turning to someone, Father ... and son, barely breathing, Looks, not trusting his eyes. .. As if in a vague dream His soul froze young, And the evil thought cannot be driven away: "He is still alive! .. In a foreign Warsaw, talk to him about the law, criticize lawyers with him! .." But all - one minute business: Son quickly looking for the gate (The hospital is already locked), He takes the bell boldly And enters ... The staircase creaks ... Tired, dirty from the road He runs up the stairs Without pity and without alarm ... The candle flashes ... the road And, peering, he says sternly: "Are you the son of a professor?" - "Yes, son ..." Then (already with a kind face): "Please. He died at five. There ... ”Father in the coffin was dry and straight. There was a straight nose - but it became an aquiline. This crumpled bed was pitiful, And in a strange and cramped room, A dead man gathered for a look, Calm, yellow, wordless ... "He will have a glorious rest now" - Thought his son, with a calm gaze Looking through the open door ... ( With him, someone was inseparably near He looked where the flame of candles was, Under the careless breeze Bending down, it would light up anxiously A yellow face, shoes, narrow shoulders - And, straightening up, weakly drawing Other shadows on the wall ... And the night stands, stands in the window ...) And the son thinks: “Where is the feast of Death? The father's face is so strangely quiet ... Where are the ulcers of thoughts, wrinkles of agony, Passion, despair and boredom? Or did death sweep them away without a trace? " “But everyone is tired. The deceased can sleep alone today. Relatives left. Only the son Bent over the corpse ... Like a robber, He wants to carefully remove the Ring from his numb hand. .. (For an inexperienced person it is difficult to boldly unbend the fingers of the dead). And only kneeling Above the very chest of the dead man, He saw what shadows Lied along this face ... When from the rebellious fingers the Ring slipped into a hard coffin, the Son christened his father's forehead, Reading on it the seal of the wanderers Driven by? the world by fate ... He straightened his hands, the image, the candles, He looked at his thrown shoulders And left, saying: "God is with you." Yes, the son loved then his father For the first time - and, perhaps, the last, Through the boredom of requiem, mass, Through the vulgarity of life without end ... The father did not lie very strictly: A wrinkled tuft of hair protruded; The eyes opened wider and wider with secret anxiety, the nose was bent; A pitiful smile twisted Lax lips ... But decay - beauty Inexplicably won ... It seemed that in this beauty He forgot long insults And smiled at the fuss of an Alien military requiem ... And the mob tried as best they could: Speeches spoke over the grave; The lady removed His raised shoulders with flowers; Then Lead lay on the ribs of the coffin in an indisputable strip (so that he, having resurrected, could not get up). Then, with unfeigned sadness, They dragged the coffin away from the government porch, crushing each other ... The snowless blizzard screamed. An evil day was followed by an evil night. Through unfamiliar squares From the city to an empty field Everyone was following the coffin on the heels ... The cemetery was called “Will”. Yes! We hear the song of will, When the gravedigger beats with a shovel On lumps of yellowish clay; When the prison door is opened; When we cheat on our wives, And wives - to us; when, having learned About the abuse of someone's rights, Threaten the ministers and laws From locked apartments; When the interest on capital is freed from the ideal; When ... - There was peace in the cemetery. And indeed it smelled of something free: The boredom of the funeral ended, Here the joyful clamor of the crows Merged with the hum of the bell ... No matter how empty the hearts were, Everyone knew: this life had burned out ... And even the sun looked Into the grave of poor father. The son also looked, trying to find At least something in the yellow pit ... But everything flashed, blurring, Blinding eyes, cramping his chest ... Three days - like three difficult years! He felt the blood freeze ... Human vulgarity? Or is it the weather? Or filial love? - Father from the first years of consciousness In the child's soul he left Heavy memories - he never knew the Father. They met only by chance, Living in different cities, So alien in all ways (Perhaps, except for the most secret). Father went to him like a guest, Bent over, with red circles around his eyes. Behind the sluggish words Anger often stirred ... Inspired melancholy and evil thoughts His cynical, heavy mind, Dirty fog of filial thoughts. (And thoughts are stupid, young ...) And only a kind, flattering glance, Sometimes he fell stealthily On his son, with a strange mystery Bursting into a boring conversation ... The son remembers: in the nursery, on the couch Sits his father, smoking and angry; And he, madly rambling, Turns around in front of his father in the fog ... Suddenly (an evil, stupid child!) - As if the demon is pushing him, And he headlong into his father's thrust a Pin near the elbow ... Confused, pale from pain, He is wild cried out ... This cry With sudden brightness arose Here, over the grave, on "Volya" - And the son woke up ... Blizzards whistle; Crowd; the gravedigger levels the hill; A brown leaf rustles and beats ... And the woman sobs uncontrollably and lightly ... No one knows her. The brow is covered with a mourning veil. What? there? With heavenly beauty Does it shine? Or - there The face of an ugly old woman, And tears roll lazily Down the sunken cheeks? And wasn’t she then in the hospital guarded the coffin with her son? ... The son was delivered from the funeral services and from the mass; but he goes to his father's house. We will go there for him and take a last look at the life of his father (so that the lips of the Poets do not praise the world!). The son enters. Cloudy, empty Damp, dark apartment ... Accustomed to consider the Father as an eccentric - they had the right to that: The seal of His yearning disposition rested on everything; He was professor and dean; Had scholarly merits; I went to a cheap restaurant to Eat - and did not keep a servant; He ran sideways along the street Hastily, like a hungry dog, In a fur coat worthless with a worn collar; And they saw him sitting On a pile of blackened sleepers; Here he often rested, staring with a deserted gaze into the past ... He "brought to naught" Everything that we strictly value in life: Not refreshed for many years His wretched den; On the furniture, on the piles of books, the dust lay in gray layers; Here in a fur coat he got used to sitting And he hadn't stoked the stove for years; He kept everything and carried in a heap: Papers, scraps of cloth, Leaves, crusts of bread, feathers, Boxes from under cigarettes, Laundry unwashed heaps, Portraits, letters from ladies, relatives And even what I will not talk about in my Poems .. And finally - the wretched light of Warsaw fell on icon cases And on the agenda and reports of "Spiritual and moral conversations" ... So, taking the sad account of life, Despising youth ardor, This Faust, once radical, "Pravel", weakened. .. and forgot everything; After all, life no longer burned - it smoked, And the words became monotonous in it: "freedom" and "Jew" ... Only music - alone awakened a heavy dream: The grumbling fell silent; The trash was transformed into beauty; Hunched shoulders straightened; The piano sang with unexpected force, Waking up unheard-of sounds: Curses of passions and boredom, Shame, grief, light sorrow. .. And finally - evil consumption by His own will, he made, And lay down in a bad hospital This modern Harpagon ... This is how the father lived: a miser, forgotten by People, and God, and himself, Or a homeless and downtrodden dog In the cruel city crush. And he himself ... He knew other moments Unforgettable power! No wonder in boredom, stench and passion of His soul - some genius Sad flew at times; And Schumann was awakened by the sounds of His embittered hands, He knew the cold behind his back ... And, perhaps, in the dark legends of His blind soul, in the dark - The memory of huge eyes And wings broken in the mountains was kept ... In whom this memory dimly dawns, He is strange and does not resemble people: All his life - the Sacred poet already embraces the trembling, Sometimes he is deaf and blind, and he is, In him rests a certain God, He is devastated by the Demon, Over whom Vrubel is exhausted ... His insights are deep, But they are muffled by the darkness of the night, And in cold and cruel dreams He sees "Woe from Wit." The country is under the burden of resentment, Under the yoke of impudent violence - Like an angel, lowers her wings, Like a woman, she loses her shame. The folk genius is silent, And does not give a voice, Not able to throw off the yoke of laziness, In the fields of the lost people. And only about the son, the renegade, The mother cries madly all night, Yes, the father sends a curse to the enemy (After all, the old have nothing to lose! ..). And the son - he betrayed his homeland! He eagerly drinks wine with the enemy, And the wind breaks through the window, Appealing to conscience and to life ... Isn't it the same for you, Warsaw, the capital of proud Poles? Life is deafly hidden in the underground, The magnates' palaces are silent ... Only Pan-Frost at all ends Fiercely prowls in the expanse! His gray head will fly violently over you, Or folding sleeves Will storm over the houses, Or the horse will laugh - and the ringing of strings The telegraph wire will answer, Or the enraged occasion will pull up Pan, And the cast iron will clearly repeat The blows of the frozen hoof On the empty pavement ... And again, drooping his head, Silent Pan, killed by anguish ... And, wandering on an evil horse, Rattles with a bloody spur ... Revenge! Revenge! - So the echo over Warsaw Ringing in cold cast iron! The cafes and bars are still light, “New World” sells the body, Shameless sidewalks are teeming, But there is no life in the alleys, There is darkness and howling blizzards ... Here the sky has taken pity - and the snow Drowns out the raucous life of the run, Carries its charm ... curls, creeps, rustles, He is quiet, eternal and ancient ... My dear and innocent hero, He will dust you too, While aimlessly and sadly, Barely burying your father, You wander, wander endlessly In the sick and lustful crowd ... Already there are no feelings, no thoughts, There is no radiance in empty pupils, As if the heart from wandering Has aged ten years. .. Here is a timid light the lantern drops ... Like a woman, from around the corner Here is someone creeping flatteringly ... Here - she crawled, crawled, And her heart was hastily squeezed Inexpressible melancholy, As if a heavy hand Bent to the ground and pressed .. And he no longer walks alone, But as if with someone new together ... So quickly up the mountain leads His "Krakowskoe suburb"; Here is the Vistula - a blizzard of hell ... Looking for protection behind the houses, Teeth knocking from the cold, He turned back again ... Again over the sphere Copernicus is immersed in thought under the snow ... .) He turned to the right - a little uphill ... For a moment, a blinded gaze slid across the Orthodox cathedral. (Some very important thief, having built It, did not complete it ...) My hero quickly doubled his step, But soon he was exhausted again - He was already starting to tremble Invincible shallow tremors (Everything in her was painfully intertwined: Longing, fatigue and frost ... ) Already hours on impassable roads He wandered through the snow Without sleep, without rest, without a goal ... The angry screeching of a blizzard subsides, And a dream descends on Warsaw ... Where else to go? No urine Wandering around the city all night. - Now there is no one to help! Now he is in the very heart of the night! Oh, your gaze is black, the night is darkness, And your heart of stone is deaf, Without regret and without hearing, Like those blind houses! .. Only the snow flutters - eternal, white, In winter - it will snow the square, And the dead will cover the body, In the spring - it will run in streams ... But in the thoughts of my hero Already almost incoherent delirium ... Goes ... (One trail winds through the snow, but there are two of them, as it was ...) In the ears - some vague ringing ... Suddenly - the endless fence of what must have been a garden in Saxony ... He leaned quietly against it. When you are driven out and downtrodden by People, care, or melancholy; When, under the grave board, Everything that captivated you sleeps; When in the city desert, Desperate and sick, You return home, And your eyelashes are heavy with frost, Then - stop for a moment Listen to the silence of the night: You will comprehend by hearing another life, Which you did not comprehend during the day; In a new way you will take a look at the Dal of snowy streets, smoke of a fire, Night, quietly waiting for the morning Above a white furrowed garden, And the sky - a book between books; You will find in a devastated soul Again the image of a mother bowed, And in this incomparable moment - Patterns on the glass of the lamp, Frost, icing blood, Your cold love - Everything will flash in a grateful heart, You will bless everything then, Realizing that life is immeasurably more, Than quantum satis ** Brand will, And the world is beautiful, as always. ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 1910-1921 * - "Rose Alley" - a street in Warsaw. ** - quantum satis - "To the fullest" (lat.) - * the slogan of Brand, the hero of the drama of the same name by G. Ibsen.“Know where the light is - you will understand where the darkness” by L. Krylova-Lopachenko is a deep literary and philosophical analysis of the famous poem by A. Blok “The Twelve” from the point of view of the Christian teaching about the Holy Apostolic Church and the coming apocalypse. Having studied the poet's diaries and the works of many literary critics, the author tells about the true meaning of the work, which has become the "anthem" of the revolution.
The book is intended for a wide range of readers.
The work was published in 2018 by the International Writers Union Publishing House. The book is part of the "Library of the International Union of Writers" series. On our website you can download the book "Know where the light is - you will understand where the darkness is" in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format or read online. Here you can also, before reading, refer to the reviews of readers who are already familiar with the book, and find out their opinions. In the online store of our partner, you can buy and read a book in paper form.
Life without beginning or end ...A.Blok's family - the Beketovs in Shakhmatovo
Life is without beginning or end.
We all have a chance.
Above us - the inevitable dusk,
Or the clarity of God's face.
But you, artist, believe firmly
In the beginning and the ends. You know
Where hell and heaven guard us.
You have been given an impassive measure
Measure everything that you see.
Your gaze - let it be firm and clear.
Erase the random traits -
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.
100 years ago, Alexander Blok wrote these lines "on a stone near the village of Runova", not far from the Shakhmatovo estate. Blok's life and work are inextricably linked with these places.
The sloping hills of the Klinsko-Dmitrovskaya ridge running behind the horizon, the Lutosnya river slowly flowing not far away ... Once they charmed the famous scientist DI Mendeleev. In 1865 he purchased the Boblovo estate. It was he who advised his friend and colleague A.N. Beketov, a famous scientist, professor of botany, to buy an estate for the family's summer vacation in these places. And in the history of a small estate near Moscow, which had not had a permanent owner for a long time and passed from hand to hand, a new period began, filled with life in all its manifestations, however, only in the summer months, when the Beketov family came here. It was composed, except for the owner, exclusively of the fair sex: the wife of Andrei Nikolaevich Elizaveta Grigorievna and four daughters: Ekaterina, Sophia, Alexandra and Maria. Thus, the "father of Russian botany" lived in the absolute flower garden of the "small estate" until "the silence was disturbed by the barking of dogs and the cry of children." It was the cry of his little grandson ... who later became a great poet.
Bastilnik shaking his wing,
The carriage rolled up to the house.
And immediately everything became familiar,
As if it lasted for many years, -
Both the gray house and the mezzanine
Venetian window,
Glass color - red, yellow, blue,
As if it should be so.
The house was opened with the key of the old house
(The child was brought there by an old man)
And the silence did not revolt
Dog barking and children's cry.
This is how Blok described his first appearance in the chess house in the poem "Retribution".
“If Blok the Man was born in St. Petersburg, then Blok the Poet was born in Shakhmatovo,” writes the writer and literary critic Vladimir Soloukhin in his essay “Bolshoye Shakhmatovo”. “In summer warmth with its blue sky, with its pink clover and bright green fields of rye, with bushes of centenary lilacs and clumps of rose hips, in the evening dawns and fragrant silence, in the hum of bees and fluttering butterflies - in all this he was immersed in the middle Russia is like a baptismal font ... and this was his second baptism, the baptism of Russia. "
I plunged into the sea of clover,
Surrounded by fairy tales of bees.
But the wind calling from the north
Found my childish heart.
Summoned the plains to battle -
Fight the breath of heaven.
Showed me a deserted road
Leaving into the dark forest.
I walk along it sideways
And I look relentlessly ahead
Ahead with innocent eyes
My baby heart is going.
Let your eyes get tired sleepless
It will sing, the dust will glow ...
I have flowers and bees in love
They told not a fairy tale - a reality.
Blok was brought to the estate acquired by his grandfather as a six-month-old baby. Here he spent every summer. Here the first vivid impressions arise: "I vaguely remember the large Petersburg apartments with a mass of people ... - and the fragrant wilderness of our little estate" (A. Blok "Autobiography"). Indeed, in the summer Shakhmatovo turned into a real fairy tale for his botanist grandfather and little grandson. Sashura and his grandfather went to all the surrounding fields and forests. And these were not just "beginnings of botany" - these were the first lessons of touching attention to the nature of love for a small homeland - for "Bolshoi Shakhmatov", which will result in a great love for Russia.
Here the themes and images of the poetry of the future poet are born. The "radiance of the Russian land" pierced the heart of the child; for the youth it became a mystical vision. Here, on these illuminated expanses, in azure and roses, the Beautiful Lady descended to him, whose earthly embodiment, his bride, Lyuba Mendeleev, he met not far from here, in Boblovo. With these shining fields and jagged forest, he went on a date to his beloved on a white horse, here they joined their fates - on August 17, 1903, the Poet and the Beautiful Lady were married in the Church of Archangel Michael in the village of Tarakanovo.
Me and young
d, and fresh and in love,
I am in anxiety, in anguish and in supplication,
Green, mysterious maple,
Invariably inclined towards you.
A warm wind will pass through the sheets -
Trunks will tremble from prayer,
On the face turned to the stars -
Fragrant tears of praise ...
Love for the Beautiful Lady is inseparable from love for the homeland - this is how the two main images of his poetry merge inextricably. Namely here, passing every year on this bumpy Russian road past picturesque fields and fragile villages, he was able to know so deeply and so ardently love his homeland. Here, in the open spaces of chess, Blok did not leave thoughts about the fate of his homeland, about the spiritual meaning of the events in its history. In the summer of 1908 in Shakhmatovo he wrote the first of the poems of the cycle of patriotic lyrics “On the Kulikovo Field”.
The river spreads out. Flows, sad lazily
And washes the banks.
Over the scanty clay of the yellow cliff
The haystacks are sad in the steppe.
Oh, my Rus! My wife! Painfully
We have a long way to go!
Our path is an arrow of the Tatar ancient will
Pierced our chest ...
The poet Andrei Bely, visiting Blok, writes: “Here, in the vicinity of Shakhmatovo, there is something of Blok's poetry; and - even: perhaps this poetry is truly chess poetry, taken from the surroundings; humps arose, jagged by the forest; the soil filled up and the dawns cut in "," and the landscape blew with the line of Blok "," and as if the working room - these forests and fields. " And the oldest researcher PA Zhurov will say that "Shakhmatovo was the second, spiritual, homeland of Blok, the homeland of his poetic self-awareness." A "ringing" door opened from the porch of the Chess House: in front of Blok-child - to the world of summer wonders and discoveries; before Blok the youth - into the Kingdom of poetry and the Beautiful Lady, before Blok the poet - into life.
And the door is a jingling balcony
Opened into lime trees and lilacs
And into the blue dome of the sky,
And the laziness of the surrounding villages ...
The church beyond the river is turning white
Behind her again forests, fields ...
And all the spring beauty
The Russian land is shining ...
Blok wrote these lines in May - July 1921. The last time he was here in the summer of 1916, before leaving for the war, Shakhmatovo, until the last days of the poet's life, appeared in his dreams, diaries, and poetry.
Since 1917, the estate was ravaged by local peasants, and in July 1921 the house was burned down. The rest of the manor buildings were dismantled into logs. The hill was gradually swallowed up by the forest, and by the middle of the 20th century only an overgrown foundation and a "huge silver poplar" marked the place of the former estate.
But in 1946 the photographer of the State Literary Museum Viktor Sergeevich Molchanov came here. Passion for poetry, fascination with "multi-verst blue Russian distances" led to the creation of photographic works, which became the personification of Blok's poems in photography. Following V.S. Molchanov was also visited by the artist I.S. Glazunov, the writer L.B. Libedinskaya, the writer and literary critic S.S. Lesnevsky - it was from his appearance in Shakhmatovo in 1969 that active work on the revival of the estate began. Even then, buses of pilgrims came to Shakhmatovo to bow to this place, breathe its air. Work on the creation of a project for the restoration of the Shakhmatovo estate began in 1976. On September 3, 1984, the State Historical, Literary and Natural Museum-Reserve of A. Blok was established. In 1987, archaeological excavations were completed on the territory of the estate. In 2001, the main house was opened, restored on the previous foundation, according to the preserved drawings and photographs, and the outbuilding.
Now in Shakhmatovo, the former look of the estate has actually been restored: a garden, a park, the main house, an outbuilding and outbuildings - a kitchen, a cellar, a barn, a carriage shed., A manager's hut. In Tarakanov, the Church of Michael the Archangel is currently being restored.
A video clip on this topic: http://video.mail.ru/mail/julsiv/_myvideo/2.html
www.proza.ru/2011/11/28/1703Yulia Rechet
For the 44th time, a poetry festival was held in Shakhmatovo. For the first time in the "beloved meadow" of Alexander Blok, poems sounded in the 70th year. Among those who came to the estate then - and today they mostly walk to Shakhmatovo - were Marietta Shaginyan, Konstantin Simonov, Yevgeny Yevtushenko, Bulat Okudzhava. But the center of attraction was Pavel Antokolsky, who saw and heard Blok. Almost half a century later, the news of culture tells about the festival of poetry. In Shakhmatovo, Alexander Blok wrote about 300 poems - the poet needs the beauty of the landscape. Eugene Rein admits - it was thanks to Blok that he began to write poetry - his family had the famous six-volume edition of the Alkonost publishing house. the soul breaks out and the poet writes - I know this, I knew Akhmatova and many others - and they all wrote like that, ”says poet Yevgeny Rein. This poetry holiday is democratic in essence - everyone can speak - and rich in content - poetry lives here in the form of recitation and the form of songs and even in the form of images - the actor Pavel Morozov was invited to play the role of a poet this year. “When I was young, I played in a production about Blok - there is such a play by Stein,” says Pavel Morozov. - A fairly good version, and I played Mayakovsky there - we had such a scene of a meeting - I told Blok in heaven how everyone loved him after his death. Working with this performance for the first time included me on the poetry of Blok ”. For many guests of the estate, the found rhyme - like a successfully thrown ball into the gate - playing croquet - one of the favorite children's games of little Alexander Blok from this year in Shakhmatovo can be mastered by everyone. “Despite the problems of the modern, somewhat harsh world, people with great joy come to the museum, listen, be inspired by poetry, read their own poetry - to understand that poetry is an eternally living, breathing being”, - Svetlana Misochnik, Director of the Shakhmatovo Museum-Reserve Says Those who do not have enough poetry and games in Tarakanovo - this neighboring estate - are told the love story of Alexander Blok and Lyubov Mendeleeva, the daughter of a famous chemist. An important event in the poet's life is associated with this temple of the Archangel Michael. It was in this church that Alexander Blok and Lyubov Mendeleeva were married on August 17, 1903 - while the temple is at the stage of conservation - but by the 110th anniversary of the wedding, the authorities promised museum workers to help with the restoration of the memorial site. A similar one-domed masterpiece in Russia is still only in the Tver region. The temple, where Alexander Blok got married, is promised to be restored by 2018.
And the darkness of irresistible troubles The coming day was clouded over. Vl. Soloviev Again, over the Kulikov field, haze rose and wasted, And, like a harsh cloud, The coming day was clouded over. Behind the impenetrable silence, Behind the overflowing mist Do not hear the thunder of a wonderful battle, Do not see the battle lightning. But I recognize you, the beginning of the High and rebellious days! Above the enemy camp, as happened, And the splash and trumpets of swans. The heart cannot live in peace, No wonder the clouds have gathered. The armor is heavy as before a fight. Now your hour has come. - Pray! December 23, 1908
Classroom hour
"Know where the light is, you will understand where the darkness is" (A. Blok)
moral and psychological workshop
Participants: class teacher, 11th grade students.
Goals:
contribute to the formation of students' need for spiritual growth, the ability to conduct an internal dialogue with themselves, to analyze their actions;
create a situation that makes it possible to liberate stereotypical thinking and "try on" different social roles;
to promote the development of a sense of empathy, understanding of the infinity of the road to oneself and to others.
Preparatory work.
Collection of materials (works of fiction and popular science literature, photographs of people in different emotional states, audio tapes) on the topic of the class hour.
Decoration, equipment and inventory:
a) exhibition of books;
b) statements on the board
d) a computer, a disc with a movie.
The course of the event.
I. The music of F. Goya "Symphony of Love" is played.
Classroom teacher: The road to yourself and to others is not an easy, but interesting path. Let's linger at the main stops, solve psychological and moral problems, and outline a future route.
Listen to the idea of psychologist E. Berne and try to answer the question in your mind: “Who are you? Prince or frog? "
"Princes" do not consider themselves better or worse than others. They are independent and self-reliant. “Princes” can have crooked legs, a big nose - all this does not prevent them from being “princes”. They love themselves anyway. "Princes" never pretend to know everything. They may not know something, not be able to, but this does not belittle them in their own eyes. They can make mistakes, fail, but do not lose self-esteem and self-confidence. "Princes" respect the feelings of others and do not allow themselves to be manipulated. They do not solve their problems for others. They enjoy their successes, but at the same time they do not feel guilty that someone is failing at something and do not envy others.
"Frogs»Helpless and dependent on others. They complain incessantly. Unlike "princes", they do not live in the present, but "kill time", waiting for the future or remembering the past. They do not know how to analyze, they are poorly oriented in what is happening, they invent an illusory world and try to manipulate people, accuse them. "Frogs" doubt everything - in their right to life, in the right to breathe, eat, drink, love, be loved. They are overly dependent on the opinions of other people, not trusting themselves. The “frogs” are to blame for their troubles, those around them, the living conditions, they are disappointed in other people, in themselves, they are not looking for a way out of this situation.
Students in groups discuss the idea of E. Bern and try to identify the shortcomings of this theory.
Classroom teacher: This is a maximalist view. Two poles are defined, but you should be aware that such a classification takes place. Think if you want to be a prince ... a frog? Who you will be depends only on your inner decision.
"Frogs" are born and "Princes"Become. Read about how to become a "prince" in the book by A Krupenin and I. Krokhina "An Effective Teacher".
And now I invite you to watch the animated film "Adagio" by the French author Harry Bardeen, to define its semantic line.
What is the point you saw in this film?
Why does society have claims to the "white"?
Why exactly are small figures trying to denigrate the "white"?
What do you think the theme of rain means?
Where would you like to be?
Classroom teacher: There are two main roads in life and communication. One is wide, but unlit. On it every now and then there are cobblestones of fear and despair, and sometimes the road is blocked by heaps of envy, anger. There are a lot of pedestrians on it, but you always stumble over the stones of alienation and loneliness, because only the deaf and dumb walk alongside. Breaking through the thicket of resentment, guilt, you wearily push the weaker one out of the way. But in the end, this road will exhaust and destroy you too.
The second road is long, but bright, with lanterns of faith and confidence burning on it. Passers-by have a keen hearing, as they hear not only what you say, but also what you feel. On the sides, lawns of mutual support and revenue are beautifully trimmed, and flowers of love, trust and forgiveness are burning brightly on the flower beds, trees of mutual understanding and peace of mind give a cozy shadow to a tired traveler. Perhaps this road will tire too, but not destroy.
The first road is the path of non-constructive, destructive communication. The second road is the path of constructive, constructive communication. All who are possessed by the fear of life strive for the painful first road. Such people have communication problems. There is only one way to relieve people of fear and take them to another road: to give them the opportunity to feel smart, good, kind, loved and interesting.
What do you think is the continuation of this film?
Classroom teacher offers to watch the continuation of the film.
What Bible commandment was violated by the actors?
Why do you think this happened?
Why did the hero, who was not appreciated during his lifetime, begin to be worshiped after death?
Why is this situation dangerous?
Do you think you could be in the place of a hero? Which one?
Pupils reflect on the proposed questions with the teacher.
Classroom teacher draws the attention of the children to the fact that all people are carriers of different social roles (daughter, son, student, girl, boy, etc.) and in the course of life everyone's view of himself and others changes.
Classroom teacher: Tell us about what changes have occurred in your perception of life and those around you.
Pupils, after discussion in groups, exchange their observations.
Classroom teacher invites you to listen to how an adult expresses this problem in verse.
Who in this black and white world am I?
In which bird does my soul live?
Maybe the wing is broken
And I'm not allowed to fly?
Perhaps I feel lonely?
Or maybe I sing with someone alone,
Or I enjoy wide freedom,
Or do I care about my nest?
Here is a miracle: in every bird - me!
How many-sided my life is.
Over the years, the facets in life have become less.
I look at many things calmly and tired.
I can't fly the highest,
But it's a pity someone else's weak wing.
And we must have a rest! From all insults, from the burning fire,
But in the fire, someone will be scared without me! (SI Emelyanova)
Classroom teacher: Do you think this poem is associated with any hero of the film?
Classroom teacher offers to listen to B. Okudzhava's song "Let's exclaim, admire each other" and name the line that touched the soul the most.
At the end of the class hour, the teacher focuses on the fact that each line of the poem contains wisdom that opens the way to oneself and to others.
Teacher: I propose, using the "Target" method, to determine your place in the team.
TARGET METHOD
Target: consists in the opportunity to find out how schoolchildren themselves assess their position in the team and what they prefer to see it (this is one of the sociometric methods).
Children are invited to draw two "targets" in five circles. These circles conventionally indicate the activity of children. The first circle (closer to the center of the "target") - schoolchildren are always active, they give the initiative and suggestions; second - students actively respond to suggestions, come to help, although they themselves do not show initiatives; the third circle - activity and passivity are side by side here, it is difficult to raise these guys to this or that business, but they do it if the elder demands it; fourth - they rarely participate in the affairs of the collective, and even then as spectators, performers; the fifth circle - they prefer to avoid common affairs, refuse to participate in them.
After the teacher explains to his pupils the purpose of these circles, it is necessary to ask them to mark in the first "target" with a + sign, how far from the center of the circle each is; in the second - where everyone would like to be. Sheets must be signed. Then it is necessary to transfer the received answers to the two final "targets" by placing the children's numbers on the class list. Thus, there is a picture of students' self-assessment of their real position in the classroom and the desired position.
Teacher: Guys, we talked a lot, listened to poetry, watched a movie, tell me what are the main conclusions you made for yourself.
In conclusion, I would like to say: the main thing in our life is to learn to determine where is black and where is white, and only then decide, again independently, whether to go along the road of life on our own or after someone. Poet N. Rylenkov offers his own conclusion:
Even though you don't go out into the world,
And in the field outside the outskirts, -
While you follow someone after,
The road will not be remembered.
But where would you not go
And what a muddy road
The road that I myself was looking for
Will never forget
Literature
Krupenin A.L., Krokhina IM Effective teacher. Rostov-n / D, 1995.
Lei V.L. The art of being different. M., 1981.
Hay L. Healing forces within us. M., 1996.
