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I. I. PUSHCHIN
Notes
I. I. PUSCHIN. My first friend, my priceless friend! It was not published during Pushkin's lifetime. Written on December 13, 1826, in Pskov.
The poem was sent to Pushchin in Siberia for hard labor along with a message to the Decembrists “In the depths of the Siberian ores.”
For the first stanza of this poem, Pushkin took, without changes, the first 5 verses of an unfinished message to Pushchin, written back in 1825. See “From early editions.”
From early editions
In the unfinished message to I. I. Pushchin in 1825, the verse “Your bell rang out” was followed by:
You suddenly revived a forgotten shelter, a disgraced hut with joy, On the deaf and distant side You shared the day of exile, a sad day With a sad friend. Tell me where the years went, Days of hope and freedom› Tell me, what are ours? what friends? Where are these linden vaults? Where is youth? Where are you? Where am I? Fate, fate, with an iron hand, Shattered our peaceful lyceum, But you are happy, oh dear brother, In your chosen course. You defeated prejudices and knew how to demand respect from grateful citizens, in the eyes of public opinion you exalted the dark rank. In its humble foundation You uphold justice, You honor ........... ...................
Unfinished message of 1825. The message was caused by Pushchin’s arrival in Mikhailovskoye, where he spent one day with Pushkin. At the end of the message it is said about the position of judge elected by Pushchin after his departure from the guard.
The author talks about the beginning of everything in the life of every person. He insists that everything once happened to everyone for the first time. Unexpectedly and for the first time in his life, a person meets another person. But we are also destined to link our destinies for the rest of our lives. They become true friends.
The author talks about his faithful and devoted friend. His friend's name was Sasha. They met in kindergarten, but this meeting was very important and decisive for everyone. The author's friend had a very interesting appearance. He was thin, with huge green eyes. I always liked to be neat and dressed neatly. Friends loved spending time together. Each of them listened with pleasure to the other.
Friends studied at different schools. Each of them had friends and classmates, but they never doubted that they were the closest friends and this would be for life. The author compares their friendship with the friendship of Pushchin and Pushkin. He is glad that his friend is also called the Great Poet. The author is proud and rejoices at the strong friendship of two great people. He wants to follow their example. He says that fate has not yet tested his friendship with Sasha, but he is sure that they will be able to overcome everything and maintain their devoted friendship.
Their relationship will be as strong and eternal as that of Pushkin and Pushchin.
Picture or drawing by Nagibin My first friend, my priceless friend
Other retellings and reviews for the reader's diary
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- Summary of Chekhov's Boys
Anton Pavlovich Chekhov's story Boys tells the story of two high school students who came to New Year to visit the parents of one of the boys. They were planning to escape to America on New Year's Eve
- Summary of Chekhov's Scary Night
In the work of A.P. Chekhov's "Terrible Night" Ivan Petrovich Panikhidin tells listeners a story from his life. He visited seance at his friend's house
- Summary of Ushinsky Wind and Sun
The Sun and the Wind could not agree on which of them was the most powerful. We decided to test our strength on a lonely traveler riding on horseback along the road.
- Summary of the tale Two Frosts
Two Frost brothers decided to have fun and freeze people. Just then they saw that on one side a gentleman was riding, wearing a bear’s fur coat, and on the other side was riding a peasant, in a torn sheepskin coat.
In My first friend, my priceless friend
190 years ago the world was born famous poem about friendship
I.I. Pushchina
My first friend
my priceless friend!
And I blessed fate
When my yard is secluded,
Covered in sad snow,
Your bell rang.
I pray to Holy Providence:
Yes my voice to your soul
Gives the same consolation
May he illuminate the imprisonment
A ray of lyceum clear days!
Alexander Pushkin 1826
The friends met in Mikhailovskoye at eight o'clock in the morning on January 11 (23rd New Style) 1825 and spent the whole day, evening and part of the night talking.
Pushchin's arrival was a huge event for the disgraced poet. After all, even relatives did not dare to visit the exile; they and Pushchin dissuaded him from the trip.
The unexpected joy of meeting illuminated not only that short January day, but also much that awaited the friends ahead. When, thirty years later, Ivan Ivanovich Pushchin takes up his pen to describe his meeting with Pushkin in Mikhailovsky, every letter in his manuscript will shine with happiness. “Notes about Pushkin” is one of the brightest works created in the memoir genre in Russian.
Shortly before parting, the friends remembered how they talked through a thin wooden partition at the Lyceum. Pushchin had the thirteenth room, Pushkin the fourteenth. It's right in the middle of the long corridor. From a boy’s point of view, the location is advantageous ─ while the tutor is walking from one end or the other, the neighbors will warn you about the danger. But Pushkin and Pushchin had a common window; a partition divided it strictly in half.
Reviews about the lyceum students of the warden Martyn Piletsky have been preserved; this is what he wrote about the 13-year-old Pushchin:
"...Nobility, good nature with courage and subtle ambition, especially prudence ─ are his excellent qualities."
Who could have known then how useful both this courage and this prudence would be to Ivan...
In Mikhailovskoye, the thirteenth number brought the fourteenth three bottles of Clicquot champagne, the manuscript “Woe from Wit,” a letter from Ryleev, gifts from Uncle Vasily Lvovich, a lot of news, and took away the beginning of the poem “Gypsies,” letters... He left after midnight, at three o’clock January 12.
"...The coachman had already harnessed the horses, the bell rang at the porch, the clock struck three. We still clinked glasses, but we drank sadly: as if it felt like we were drinking together for the last time, and that we were drinking into eternal separation! Silently, I threw my fur coat over my shoulders and ran away in the sleigh. Pushkin said something else after me; hearing nothing, I looked at him: he stopped on the porch with a candle in his hand. I heard: “Farewell, friend!” .."
When Pushkin begins to finish writing his message to Pushchin, he will have been in prison for almost a year - first in the Peter and Paul Fortress, and then in the Shlisselburg Fortress. After the verdict, Ivan Pushchin and Wilhelm Kuchelbecker were deleted from the “Memorable Book of the Lyceum”, as if they did not exist at all.
In October 1827, Pushchin, shackled in hand and leg shackles, was sent along a convoy to the Chita prison. The journey took three months.
“On the very day of my arrival in Chita, Alexandra Grigorievna Muravyova calls me to the stockade and gives me a piece of paper on which was written in an unknown hand: “My first friend, my priceless friend!”
This was at the beginning of 1828. But Pushchin saw the original poem only in 1842.
Dmitry Shevarov "Motherland", No. 5, 2016
Illustration ─ Nikolay Ge. "Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin in the village of Mikhailovskoye" (1875): Pushkin and Pushchin reading "Woe from Wit."
In the presence of the Pskov governor, the collegiate secretary Alexander Pushkin signed a statement that he undertakes to live continuously on his parent’s estate, to behave well, and not to engage in any indecent writings or judgments, reprehensible and harmful. public life, and do not distribute them anywhere. On August 9 I was brought to Mikhailovskoye. Oh, what a terrible fate has fallen on my head! Double supervision - the supervision of my father, the supervision of church authorities entangled me with iron chains. Day after day I drag out an empty and joyless existence. All letters addressed to me are immediately printed, and I am accused of godlessness and bringing punishment on the family. My exile is located in the depths of the pine forests of the Pskov province. The linden alley leads to our estate. On the right is a huge lake with flat shores, on the left is another, smaller one. Below, the Sorot River meanders through the meadow. I live in my grandfather's small, one-story house. Nearby are my nanny and parents, who by chance became my guards. Oh, how many times have I written to the Tsar, begging to be transferred from here, even to a fortress! It's all to no avail. No answer, nothing. At times I feel invisible, a faceless ghost whose words and letters disappear with the tailwind into nowhere. What about my lyceum friends? I haven't heard from you for a long time. It’s as if I’m cut off from the outside world, and the only friend of my days is Arina Rodionovna. My room is modest: a simple wooden bed, a tattered card table and shelves with books - that’s all the decoration. The remaining rooms are boarded up from prying eyes. "Boris Godunov" and "Eugene Onegin" are my joy. They occupy me during hours full of melancholy. However, staying in Mikhailovsky is not without rare happiness. I don’t know what impulses my father gave in to, but my parents suddenly created such a commotion, packed up and left the village, dragging both my sister and brother with them. I was left alone in the care of a nanny. Over time I got used to it. I saw the creative calm that was given to me from above. My genius is growing here.
And I’ll be a scoundrel if I don’t tell you how beautiful today’s frosty day is! It's the eleventh of January, the early rays of the sun come through the window, flood my bed and sparkle on the wooden floor. As usual, I ran out into the yard, picked up a handful of pure snow and rubbed it on my face. The pleasant burning sensation on my cheeks and the crystal water flowing between my fingers pleased me as never before. - Alexander? Someone's insinuating, painfully familiar quiet voice was heard from the direction of the door. I turned around. - Pushchin! I rushed to the familiar figure and embraced him in a tight hug. The unprecedented joy of reunion covered me from my feet to the very top of my head. I remembered my lyceum years and hugged Ivan tighter to my chest. “Well, here we are, dear friend...” he half-asleeply croaked words that were sweet to the ear, and I, coming to my senses, unclenched the grip of my hands. - When did you arrive? - Recently, only in the morning. But let's go, you'll catch a cold! Grabbing me in his arms, involuntarily burying my face in the fur collar of my fur coat, he dragged me into the house and threw me onto the bed. Laughing, I pushed Pushchin away and sat down. - What a habit it is to go out in such cold weather in just a shirt! - He lightly pushed me in the chest with his fist and moved to the table, where the tea carefully poured by the nanny was steaming in the cups, - I recognize my former comrade. “Come on, Ivan,” I pulled off his clothes and landed next to him, begging him to tell him all the news that had not reached me during my stay in Mikhailovsky. There was alcohol in the bins, and we, clinking our glasses, disappeared into long hours in a delightful conversation. Much has changed in our situation in the five years that have passed before this meeting. I became a famous poet. In the silence of Mikhailovsky, my genius fully matured. As I said earlier, I was now working on Onegin and Godunov, and was already finishing both works. Pushchin, as I learned, managed to transform from a brilliant guards officer into a modest judicial official. In 1823 he abandoned military service and following the example of Ryleev, who served in court, he took a judicial seat in the Criminal Chamber - first in St. Petersburg, and then in Moscow. Having talked, towards evening I became more cheerful than before and, with considerable effort, fished my friend out into the street and led him to the lake. The hitherto dull landscape, secluded and quiet, was now firmly anchored with the joy of our date. - Come on, catch it! Pushchin’s cheerful shout cut through the silence and mixed with the rapid snowball that flew straight into my neck and chilled my skin. - Hey! - I laughed, rubbing my palm over the site of the blow. Ivan rushed to run towards the ice-covered lake, but before he could reach the shoreline, I scooped up more snow, crumpled it with my fingers frozen from the cold and sent it after my friend. - Past! The second shell immediately reached its target, and he fell into the nearest snowdrift. - Order? - I jumped up to my friend and extended my hand. When you're in a joking mood, don't forget that your friends can trick you. Before his hand had time to touch mine, my elbow was in a tenacious grip, and I fell into the snow next to Pushchin. He hovered over me, pressing my legs with his thighs, cutting off the path to retreat and deftly raking prickly heaps of heavenly fluff down my collar. Breathing heavily from the struggle, I still managed to knock him over and crush him down. In the moonlight, Ivan’s hair was scattered across the white surface, his cheeks were flushed, and his smile revealed a row of even white teeth. I bent closer to his face, touching the tip of my nose to my friend’s cheek and feeling the hot, convulsive breath on my skin. - Alexander... Childishness took over. At such a quiet moment, my friend’s face distorted into a dissatisfied grimace as soon as my hand pressed an icy handful to his cheek. - And don’t expect to defeat me! I jumped to my feet and rushed towards the light sparkling in the window of the estate, barely making out the creaking steps behind me. The door gave way easily, the house was empty, and after running a short corridor, I flew into my room and collapsed on the bed. I spread my arms and took a deep breath, laughing loudly. “Yeah, I gotcha,” Pushchin jumped up to me, touching the wooden corner of the bed with his knee, and pressed him with his body, “now you can’t run away anywhere!” “Iva-a-n,” I irritably called out his name and began to pull the snow-covered fur coat from my friend’s shoulders, throwing it to the side. I could feel the pillow underneath me absorbing the moisture from my hair. Our loud snoring echoed throughout the little room, and the smell of alcohol still hung in the air. He brazenly straddled my hips, crossed his arms over his chest and looked down triumphantly, like a victorious predator looks at his prey in moments of triumph. The dying lamp faintly illuminated two figures on a narrow bed and outlined the contours of Pushchin’s face. I lay below and looked at him, not without pleasure, long-awaited, happy and intoxicated by fun. His face softened, his fingers tangled the curls of my hair. He rested his elbow on my left, and our lips met in a timid, virginal kiss. At what point did we find ourselves almost naked? The hem of the shirt spread out, revealing her frequently heaving chest. I felt the touch of a hot body and I leaned forward, towards his hips and hands supporting me under the lower back. The impulse passed up the spine, hit my temples, and the dull, subsiding pain still made me arch over the sheets. He pressed my lower abdomen with his palm, and now supported my knee with his other hand. He whispered something in my ear in an intermittent, hoarse voice, and I, as if in delirium, heard only the endings of the words and with each thrust I moaned his name louder. The flickering light of the lamp spread in circles before my eyes, and, taking a deep breath, Pushchin buried himself in the pillow next to me. I pulled him closer and stroked his hair, going lower and tracing the vertebra on the back of his neck with my short nails.
It was long after twelve when I woke up from a rustling sound. The place next to me was empty, and the front door creaked pitifully. I grabbed a candle and ran barefoot onto the porch. - Are you leaving already? - I couldn’t express my surprise in words. - I have to go, I promised... I’m sure we’ll meet again in Moscow. I walked through the snow, despite the frost, and pressed myself against the fur collar of his coat, just like that morning. “Goodbye, dear friend,” we shook hands, and he jumped into the carriage. I hardly saw his carriage, but out of habit I continued to stand in the snow, looking into the distance, following my departing comrade, until the nanny suddenly returned in the middle of the night and forcibly took me into the house. Meanwhile, new lines were born in my head. My first friend, my priceless friend! And I blessed fate, When my secluded yard, covered with sad snow, Your bell rang...
Yuri Markovich Nagibin
My first friend, my priceless friend
We lived in the same building, but didn’t know each other. Not all the guys in our house belonged to the yard freemen. Some parents, protecting their children from the corrupting influence of the court, sent them for a walk in the decorous garden at the Lazarevsky Institute or in the church garden, where old palmate maples overshadowed the tomb of the Matveev boyars.
There, languishing with boredom under the supervision of decrepit, pious nannies, the children secretly comprehended the secrets that the court was broadcasting at the top of their voices. Fearfully and greedily they examined the rock writings on the walls of the boyar tomb and the pedestal of the monument to the state councilor and gentleman Lazarev. My future friend, through no fault of his own, shared the fate of these pitiful, hothouse children.
All the children from Armyansky and adjacent lanes studied in two nearby schools, on the other side of Pokrovka. One was located in Starosadsky, next to the German church, the other was in Spasoglinishchevsky Lane. I was unlucky. The year I entered, the influx was so great that these schools could not accept everyone. With a group of our guys, I ended up in School No. 40, very far from home, in Lobkovsky Lane, behind Chistye Prudy.
We immediately realized that we would have to go solo. The Chistoprudnye reigned here, and we were considered strangers, uninvited strangers. Over time, everyone will become equal and united under the school banner. At first, a healthy instinct of self-preservation forced us to stay in a close group. We united during breaks, went to school in droves and returned home in droves. The most dangerous thing was crossing the boulevard; here we kept military formation. Having reached the mouth of Telegraph Lane, they relaxed somewhat; behind Potapovsky, feeling completely safe, they began to fool around, shout songs, fight, and, with the onset of winter, start dashing snow battles.
In Telegraphny, I first noticed this long, thin, pale, freckled boy with large gray-blue eyes that filled half his face. Standing to the side and tilting his head to his shoulder, he watched our brave fun with quiet, unenvious admiration. He shuddered slightly when a snowball thrown by a friendly, but alien to condescension hand covered someone’s mouth or eye socket, he smiled sparingly at particularly dashing antics, a faint blush of constrained excitement colored his cheeks. And at some point I caught myself shouting too loudly, gesticulating exaggeratedly, feigning inappropriate, out-of-game fearlessness. I realized that I was exposing myself to a strange boy, and I hated him. Why is he rubbing around us? What the hell does he want? Was he sent by our enemies?.. But when I expressed my suspicions to the guys, they laughed at me:
Have you eaten too much henbane? Yes, he’s from our house!..
It turned out that the boy lives in the same building as me, on the floor below, and studies at our school, in a parallel class. It's surprising that we have never met! I immediately changed my attitude towards the gray-eyed boy. His imaginary insistence turned into subtle delicacy: he had the right to keep company with us, but did not want to impose himself, patiently waiting for him to be called. And I took it upon myself.
During another snow battle, I began throwing snowballs at him. The first snowball that hit him on the shoulder confused and seemed to upset the boy, the next one brought a hesitant smile on his face, and only after the third did he believe in the miracle of his communion and, grabbing a handful of snow, fired a return missile at me. When the fight ended, I asked him:
Do you live below us?
Yes, said the boy. - Our windows overlook Telegraphny.
So you live under Aunt Katya? Do you have one room?
Two. The second one is dark.
We do too. Only the light one goes to the trash heap. - After these secular details, I decided to introduce myself. - My name is Yura, what about you?
And the boy said:
...He is forty-three years old... How many acquaintances there were later, how many names sounded in my ears, nothing compares with that moment when, in a snowy Moscow alley, a lanky boy quietly called himself: Pavlik.
What a reserve of individuality this boy, then the young man, had - he never had the chance to become an adult - if he was able to so firmly enter the soul of another person, who was by no means a prisoner of the past, despite all the love for his childhood. There are no words, I am one of those who willingly evokes the spirits of the past, but I live not in the darkness of the past, but in the harsh light of the present, and Pavlik for me is not a memory, but an accomplice in my life. Sometimes the feeling of his continuing existence in me is so strong that I begin to believe: if your substance has entered the substance of the one who will live after you, then you will not all die. Even if this is not immortality, it is still a victory over death.
I know that I still cannot really write about Pavlik. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to write. There are a lot of things I don’t understand, at least what the death of twenty-year-olds means in the symbolism of existence. And yet he must be in this book, without him, in the words of Andrei Platonov, the people of my childhood are incomplete.
At first, our acquaintance meant more to Pavlik than to me. I was already experienced in friendship. In addition to ordinary and good friends, I had a bosom friend, dark-haired, thick-haired, with a girl’s haircut, Mitya Grebennikov. Our friendship began at the tender age of three and a half years, and at the time described went back five years.
Mitya was a resident of our house, but a year ago his parents changed their apartment. Mitya ended up next door, in a large six-story building on the corner of Sverchkov and Potapovsky, and became terribly self-important. The house was, however, anywhere, with luxurious front doors, heavy doors and a spacious, smooth elevator. Mitya, without getting tired, boasted about his house: “When you look at Moscow from the sixth floor...”, “I don’t understand how people manage without an elevator...”. I delicately reminded him that quite recently he lived in our house and got along just fine without an elevator. Looking at me with moist, dark eyes like prunes, Mitya said with disgust that this time seemed like a bad dream to him. This deserved to be punched in the face. But Mitya not only looked like a girl in appearance - he was weak-hearted, sensitive, tearful, capable of hysterical outbursts of rage - and no hand was raised against him. And yet I gave it to him. With a heart-rending roar, he grabbed a fruit knife and tried to stab me. However, being easy-going like a woman, he began to make peace almost the next day. “Our friendship is greater than ourselves, we have no right to lose it” - these were the kind of phrases he knew how to use, and even worse. His father was a lawyer, and Mitya inherited the gift of eloquence.
Our precious friendship almost collapsed on the first day of school. We ended up in the same school, and our mothers took care to seat us at the same desk. When they were choosing class self-government, Mitya proposed me as an orderly. And I did not mention his name when they nominated candidates for other public positions.
