Dmitry Venevitinov. Biography
Dmitry Vladimirovich Venevitinov(September 14 (26), 1805, Moscow - March 15 (27), 1827, St. Petersburg) - Russian romantic poet, translator, prose writer, philosopher.
Biography
Dmitry Venevitinov was born on September 14 (26), 1805 in Moscow. His father, a retired ensign L.-Gds. Semenov Regiment Vladimir Petrovich Venevitinov, came from a wealthy noble provincial family, known since the beginning of the 17th century from the census and collapsible books of the city of Voronezh. Mother, Anna Nikolaevna, came from an ancient family of princes Obolensky - Bely. Through her, Dmitry Venevitinov was distantly related (fourth cousin) with A. S. Pushkin. Venevitinov received a classical home education, supervised by his mother. French and Latin, as well as classical literature, were taught to Venevitinov by his tutor Dorer, a retired French officer. Greek - the Greek of Beil (Bailo). Paintings - artist Lapersh. Russian literature was taught by Professor of Moscow University A.F. Merzlyakov, and music, most likely, I.I. Genishta. He perfectly studied Venevitinov and the German language, apparently under the guidance of H.I. Gerke, the tutor of his brother Peter, who died early. In 1822, Dmitry Venevitinov entered Moscow University, where he became interested in German philosophy and romantic poetry. At Moscow University, he listened to individual lectures, in particular the courses of A. F. Merzlyakov, I. I. Davydov, M. G. Pavlov and Loder. He participated in the meetings of the student literary circle of N. M. Rozhalin. In 1823, Dmitry Vladimirovich Venevitinov successfully passed the exam at the university course and in 1824 he entered the service of the Moscow Archives of the Collegium of Foreign Affairs (“archival youths” - this is how Pushkin ironically called the employees of this archive in his novel “Eugene Onegin”).
Together with Prince V. F. Odoevsky, he organized a secret philosophical "Society of Philosophy", which also included I. V. Kireevsky, A. I. Koshelev, V. P. Titov, N. A. Melgunov and others. M. P. Pogodin and S. P. Shevyrev attended meetings of the circle, not formally being its members. The circle was engaged in the study of German idealistic philosophy - the works of F. Schelling, I. Kant, Fichte, Oken, F. Schlegel and others.
Venevitinov took an active part in the publication of the magazine "Moscow Bulletin".
An important role in the life of Dmitry Vladimirovich Venevitinov was played by his acquaintance with Princess Zinaida Alexandrovna Volkonskaya, an intelligent and highly educated woman. An excellent singer and amateur drama actress, Volkonskaya was the center of one of the most famous literary and artistic salons in Moscow. Dmitry Venevitinov was fascinated by her mind and beauty, and his unrequited feeling for Princess Volkonskaya worried his sensitive nature until the last days.
In November 1826, Venevitinov, under the patronage of Z.A. Volkonskaya, moved from Moscow to St. Petersburg, having entered the service in the Asian Department of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. At the entrance to St. Petersburg, the poet, together with F.S. Khomyakov and librarian gr. Laval O. Voshe, who accompanied the wife of the Decembrist prince to Siberia. S.P. Trubetskoy, Ekaterina Ivanovna (nee Laval), was arrested on suspicion of involvement in the Decembrists' conspiracy. He spent three days under arrest, which affected his weakened lungs. After that, on March 2, returning lightly dressed from the ball, Venevitinov caught a bad cold.
The poet died on March 15 (27), 1827 in St. Petersburg, apparently from severe pneumonia, before reaching the age of 22. He was buried in the cemetery of the Simonov Monastery in Moscow. He bequeathed to put on his finger at the hour of death a ring from Herculaneum - a gift from Zinaida Volkonskaya. When he fell into oblivion, the ring was put on his finger. But suddenly Venevitinov woke up and asked: “Are they going to marry me?” And died. A. Pushkin and A. Mitskevich were at the funeral. Reburied in the 1930s. at the Novodevichy cemetery.
Creation
In his literary activity, Venevitinov showed versatile talents and interests. He was not only a poet, but also a prose writer, wrote literary and programmatic and critical articles (his controversy with N. A. Polevoy about the 1st chapter of Pushkin's "Eugene Onegin" is known), translated the prose works of German authors, including Goethe and Hoffmann (E. A. Maimin. "Dmitry Venevitinov and his literary heritage." 1980).
Venevitinov wrote only about 50 poems. Many of them, especially later ones, are filled with deep philosophical meaning, which is a distinctive feature of the poet's lyrics.
The central theme of Venevitinov's last poems is the fate of the poet. In them, the cult of the romantic poet-chosen one, highly exalted above the crowd and everyday life, is noticeable:
... But in a pure thirst for pleasure
Entrust not every harp with hearing
Not many true prophets
With the seal of power on the forehead,
With gifts of lofty lessons,
With the verb of heaven on earth.
A number of Venevitinov's poems of 1826-1827, written a few months before the poet's death ("Testament", "To my ring", "Poet and friend") can rightfully be called prophetic. In them, the author seemed to foresee his early death:
... The soul told me a long time ago:
You will rush through the world like lightning!
You can feel everything
But you won't enjoy life.
Venevitinov was also known as a gifted artist, musician, and music critic. When a posthumous edition was being prepared, Vladimir Odoevsky suggested that it include not only poems, but also drawings and musical works: “I would like to publish them together with the works of my friend, who wonderfully combined all three arts.”
1805 - 1827
Dmitry Vladimirovich Venevitinov(14 (26). 09. 1805-15 (27). 03. 1827) was born in Moscow in Krivokolenny Lane, in a noble-aristocratic family. Father - Vladimir Petrovich Venevitinov (1777-1814) - a retired guards ensign of the Preobrazhensky Regiment, died when Dmitry was only 9 years old. Mother - Anna Nikolaevna, nee Princess Obolenskaya (1782-1841) - second cousin of Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin. The house in which Dmitry was born has survived to this day. It stands not far from Myasnitskaya Street, at the first turn of the alley. There is a memorial plaque on it, which says that in this house at the Venevitinovs A.S. Pushkin read "Boris Godunov".
D. V. Venevitinov received an excellent home upbringing and education. Dmitry's direct education was entrusted to the teachers of Moscow University: the materialist scientist, physician Iustin Egorovich Dyadkovsky; mathematician P. S. Shchepkin; poet, translator, literary critic Alexei Fedorovich Merzlyakov; composer, conductor, pianist Iosif Iosifovich Genishte; artist Lapersh. By the age of 14, Dmitry read Virgil, Horace, Homer, Aeschylus in the original, translated them into Russian, was fluent in French, German, English and studied Italian.
The first surviving poem by Venevitinov is dated 1821. It is called "To Friends" and is a response to A. S. Khomyakov's "Message to the Venevitinovs" addressed to Dmitry and Alexei.
In 1822, sixteen-year-old Dmitry entered Moscow University as a volunteer and attends lectures at once in all 4 departments: moral-political, verbal, physical-mathematical and medical, gaining truly encyclopedic knowledge. At the university, he developed as a romantic poet with his characteristic style. Professor M. G. Pavlov (a native of the city of Yelets, graduated from the Voronezh Theological Seminary) had a great influence on D. V. Venevitinov in shaping his interest in philosophy and its deep study. It was Pavlov who drew Venevitinov to a serious study of the classic of German philosophy - Schelling. The romantic nature of Venevitinov's worldview found expression in the philosophical knowledge of life.
In November 1823, D. V. Venevitinov graduated from the university and entered the Moscow Archive of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. By this time, he was already the author of several poems, mostly freely transcribing ancient and modern European authors.
In 1823, the Literary and Philosophical Circle "Society of Philosophy" (1823-1825) was organized in Moscow. In addition to the chairman V. F. Odoevsky and the secretary D. V. Venevitinov, the circle included critic I. V. Kireevsky, writers N. M. Rozhalin and A. I. Koshelev; the prose writer and historian M.P. Pogodin, the poet and philologist S.P. Shevyrev adjoined the circle. Members of the circle studied the works of B. Spinoza, I. Kant, I. Fichte, F. Schelling, and subsequently played a significant role in the development of Russian philosophical thought and literature. At meetings of the society, Venevitinov read excerpts from his philosophical prose: "Sculpture, Painting and Music", "Morning, Noon, Evening and Night", "Plato's Conversations with Alexander". For a short time, Pushkin became close to the philosophers. The members of the circle were published mainly in the journal "Bulletin of Europe" and the almanac "Mnemosyne", and after the dissolution of the society, most of them united around the magazine "Moskovsky Vestnik", created on the advice of A. S. Pushkin and according to the program of D. V. Venevitinov, which came out with early 1827
The capital life of Venevitinov alternated with trips to the provinces. The Venevitinovs had quite numerous possessions in the Voronezh and Zemlyansk districts of the Voronezh province. As a child, Dmitry, along with his parents, stayed in the "family nest". After the death of their father, the Venevitinov family stopped coming to Novozhivotinnoye. The estate was managed by a manager who failed to deal fairly and honestly with the peasants. At the end of the summer of 1824, Dmitry, together with his brother Alexei, were forced to go to their Voronezh estate Novozhivotinnoye in order to resolve problems in management affairs. The way to the estate lay through Voronezh, where the brothers stopped for two days and met with relatives and friends. Dmitry wrote to his mother about his stay in Voronezh, reporting on a visit to the Voronezh governor N. I. Krivtsov. Nikolai Ivanovich was a participant in the Battle of Borodino, the brother of the Decembrist Sergei Ivanovich Krivtsov, as well as close friends, N. M. Karamzin, P. A. Vyazemsky and. Venevitinov also paid visits to the marshal of the nobility, the prosecutor and the chairman of the civil chamber. The poet had the opportunity to see Voronezh, walk along its main street - Bolshaya Dvoryanskaya. He lived in Novozhivotinnoye for about a month, often recalled his childhood, wrote letters to his mother and sister Sofya, and composed poetry.
A trip to the Voronezh possessions taught the poet a lot, helped to see the real life of peasant Russia. The delight of the beauty of the Don nature led to reflections on involvement in the endless miracle of life and the philosophical perception of being. Upon his return from the Voronezh province, Venevitinov will have philosophical novels and poems about nature.
By 1825, the unique literary world of the poet had finally taken shape. Venevitinov's first appearance in the press as a literary critic also dates back to 1825. The magazine "Son of the Fatherland" published his "Analysis of an article about "Eugene Onegin". Pushkin liked this article very much, as well as Venevitinov's comments on the second chapter of "Eugene Onegin" and an excerpt from "Boris Godunov".
An important event in the life of D. V. Venevitinov was his acquaintance with Zinaida Volkonskaya, an outstanding woman, the owner of one of the most brilliant Moscow literary salons. Venevitinov loved her with strong, without reciprocity, poetic love, the symbol of which was the famous princess ring, found at one time during the excavations of Herculaneum and Pompeii. Volkonskaya gave it to the poet when Dmitry Vladimirovich left for St. Petersburg. Venevitinov attached a ring to his watch, in the form of a keychain, announcing that he would put it on only before marriage or death. This event in his life is dedicated to the poem "", which can be called prophetic. Venevitinov's poetic prediction came true. In 1930, the grave of Venevitinov, in connection with the closure of the cemetery at the former Simonov Monastery, was transferred to the Novodevichy cemetery. During the exhumation of the ashes, the ring was removed and now, as a relic, is stored in the State Literary Museum in Moscow.
In November 1826, Venevitinov left Moscow for St. Petersburg, joining the Asian Department of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. At the entrance to St. Petersburg, Venevitinov was arrested on suspicion of involvement in the case of the Decembrists, among whom he had many friends. The arrest had a detrimental effect on the poet: in addition to a heavy moral impression, being in a damp and cold room had a harmful effect on his already poor health. In the future, with all his enthusiasm for the new service in the Asian Department, he suffered from the northern climate.
The Petersburg period of Venevitinov's life is filled with intense activity and a high creative upsurge. By this time, Venevitinov can already be spoken of as an established, mature poet, capable of not only finding original themes, but also expressing them in an original way, creating his own unique style of philosophical lyrics. Poems relating to the last year of his life are distinguished by the perfection of form and depth of content, being the pinnacle of his lyrics. This is a kind of cycle consisting of 6 poems: "", "", "Poet", "Sacrifice", "Consolation", "Message to Rozhalin". His translations from Goethe's Egmont and Faust are also brilliant. Venevitinov wrote only about 50 poems. Many of them, especially later ones, are filled with deep philosophical meaning, which is a distinctive feature of the poet's lyrics.
In St. Petersburg, Dmitry began to write a novel in prose "Vladimir Parensky". Unfortunately, the work was not completed; excerpts from the novel were published in 1831, after the death of the author. The poet did not have to fulfill many of his intentions ...
At the beginning of March 1827, Venevitinov caught a bad cold, but the illness could not be stopped. The poet died on March 15 (27), 1827, before reaching the age of 22.
Poems and are dedicated to Venevitinov.
Venevitinov was also known as a gifted artist, musician, and music critic. When the posthumous edition of the poet was being prepared, V. Odoevsky suggested including not only poems, but also drawings and musical works: “I would like to publish them together with the works of my friend, who wonderfully combined all three arts.”
In 1994, on the outskirts of the Kominternovsky district of Voronezh, there was Venevitinovskaya street.
In 2005, Voronezh residents celebrated the 200th anniversary of the poet's birth. In honor of the 200th anniversary of Dmitry Venevitinov, a monument to the poet was opened on the territory.
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Fragment of the exhibition in VOUNB named after I. S. Nikitin
Venevitinov DV Complete works / ed. B. V. Smirensky; ed. intro. Art. D. D. Blagoy. - M.; L.: ACADEMIA, 1934. - p.
. Venevitinov D. V. With the verb of heaven on earth: Poems. Poems and dramas in verse. Prose. Articles. Contemporaries about D. V. Venevitinov / comp.: R. V. Andreeva, L. F. Popova; scientific ed., entry. Art., comment. B. T. Udodova. - Voronezh: Spirit Center. revival of Chernozem. edge, 2003. - 351, p., l. ill.
. Venevitinov DV Quietly my days bloomed in the valley of life...: Poems. Letters from the village / D. V. Venevitinov. - Moscow: White City, 2013. - 175 p. : ill.
. Venevitinov DV The souls of prophecy are true... / DV Venevitinov. - Voronezh: Spirit Center. revival of Chernozem. edge, 2017. - 184 p., l. ill. : ill.
***
. Osokin V. N. Venevitinov's ring: sketches about artists and writers. - M.: Sov. Russia, 1969. - 123 p.
. Literary criticism of the 1800-1820s / ed. intro. Art., comp., note. and prepare. text by L. G. Frizman. - M.: Artist. lit., 1980. - 343 p., l. ill.
. Chernyshev M. A. “In the soul of an unsolved thought melting ...”: about the life and work of Dm. Venevitinov. - Saratov: Zavolzhye, 1992. - 280 p.
. Voronezh residents: famous biographies in the history of the region / ed.-comp. Yu. L. Polevoy. - Voronezh, 2007. - S. 116-120.
. Voronezh historical and cultural encyclopedia: personalities / ch. ed. O. G. Lasunsky. - 2nd ed., add. and correct. - Voronezh, 2009. - S. 91.
http://www.azlib.ru/w/wenewitinow_d_w/
“Had Venevitinov lived for at least ten years more, he would have moved our literature forward for decades…”
N. G. Chernyshevsky
Dmitry Vladimirovich Venevitinov(September 14 (26), 1805 - March 15 (27), 1827) - Russian poet, translator, prose writer.
Dmitry Vladimirovich Venevitinov was born in Moscow. His father, retired ensign of the Semyonovsky regiment Vladimir Petrovich Venevitinov (1777-1814), came from a wealthy Voronezh noble family. Mother, Anna Nikolaevna, came from the princely family of Obolensky-Bely. Through her, Dmitry Venevitinov was distantly related (fourth cousin) with A. S. Pushkin.
Venevitinov received a classical home education, in 1822-1824. as a volunteer attended lectures at Moscow University. He was fond of not only history, philosophy and the theory of literature, but also mathematics and the natural sciences. Having passed the exams for the university course, in 1824 he entered the service of the Moscow Archive of the Collegium of Foreign Affairs, but his main occupation was literature. By this time, he was already the author of several poems, mostly freely transcribing ancient and modern European authors. Venevitinov was one of the organizers of the Moscow Society of Philosophy, which aimed to study idealistic philosophy and romantic aesthetics.
In November 1826, Venevitinov moved from Moscow to St. Petersburg, joining the Asian Department of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. At the entrance to St. Petersburg, the poet was arrested on suspicion of involvement in the Decembrists' conspiracy. He spent three days under arrest in one of the guardhouses in St. Petersburg. Being away from relatives and friends oppressed the poet. In addition, Venevitinov caught a bad cold, which led to an early death on March 15 (27), 1827, apparently from severe pneumonia. The body was sent to Moscow. Venevitinov was buried on April 2, 1827 at the cemetery of the Simonov Monastery in Moscow. At the funeral were Pushkin, Mickiewicz and other friends of the poet.
In his literary activity, Venevitinov showed versatile talents and interests. His romantic poetry is full of philosophical motifs. Many poems are dedicated to the high purpose of poetry and the poet, the cult of friendship: "Poet" (1826), "Poet and friend" (1827). He dedicated poems to friends, close people, beloved Zinaida Volkonskaya: "To my goddess" (1826), "Elegy" (1827), "Testament" (1826).
Venevitinov bequeathed at the hour of his death to put a ring on his finger - a gift from Zinaida Volkonskaya. When he fell into oblivion, AS Khomyakov put the ring on his finger. In the 1930s, during the demolition of the Simonov Monastery, the body of D.V. Venevitinov was exhumed and reburied at the Novodevichy cemetery. During the exhumation, the ring was removed from the poet's finger and is now kept in the Literary Museum.
Venevitinov was not only a poet, but also a translator, prose writer, wrote literary critical articles, translated the works of E. T. A. Hoffmann, J. V. Goethe and others. He was also known as a gifted artist, musician, and music critic.
The name of Dmitry Venevitinov is closely connected with our region. The Venevitinovs had possessions in the Voronezh province. As a child, Dmitry, together with his parents, stayed in the "family nest" - in Novozhivotinny. After the death of his father, the Venevitinov family stopped coming to the estate. But in August - September 1824, together with his younger brother Alexei, Dmitry Venevitinov visited Voronezh and his Voronezh estate. He lived in Novozhivotinnoye for about a month, often recalled his childhood, wrote letters to his mother and sister Sofya, and composed poetry. Now there is a monument of federal significance - the Museum-estate of D. V. Venevitinov.
In 1994, in the outskirts of the Kominternovsky district of Voronezh, a new street was formed - Venevitinskaya. In 2005, in honor of the 200th anniversary of Dmitry Venevitinov, a monument to the poet was opened on the territory of the Museum-estate of D. V. Venevitinov.
Works by D. V. Venevitinov
Venevitinov DV Complete works / DV Venevitinov; ed. A. P. Pyatkovsky. - St. Petersburg: Printing house of O. I. Bakst, 1862. - 264 p.
The complete works of the poet, published in 1862 in the St. Petersburg printing house of Bakst under the editorship of A.P. Pyatkovsky, also contain a portrait of the author, a facsimile and articles about his life and writings.
Venevitinov D.V.Poems / D. V. Venevitinov. - Moscow: Soviet Russia, 1982. - 174 p. - (Poetic Russia).
Venevitinov D.V.Poems. Poems. Dramas / D. V. Venevitinov. - Moscow: Fiction, 1976. - 128 p.
The poet's books include his selected works.
Venevitinov DV Poems // Anthology of Russian poetry. – URL: http://www.stihi-rus.ru/1/Venevitinov/ .
Poets of Pushkin's time: selected poems. - Moscow; Leningrad: Detgiz, 1949. - 286 p. - (School library).
The collection includes selected poems by sixteen of the greatest poets of Pushkin's time, including Dmitry Venevitinov.
Russian poetry of the first halfXIX century. - Moscow: Slovo, 2001. - 765 p. - (Pushkin Library).
The book presents the work of fifty-six poets of various trends, including Dmitry Venevitinov (pp. 379–389).
Literature about the life and work of D. V. Venevitinov
Akinshin A. N. Voronezh nobility in persons and destinies: historical and genealogical essays with the application of the List of noble families of the Voronezh province / A. N. Akinshin, O. G. Lasunsky. – Ed. 2nd, revised. and additional - Voronezh: Center for the Spiritual Revival of the Chernozem Territory, 2009. - 432 p.
The book of Voronezh scientists presents biographies of the noble families of the Voronezh province, who lived on the territory of the region until 1917. The Venevitinovs and Stankeviches, the Raevskys and Tulinovs, the Potapovs and the Somovs… Poets and educators, manufacturers and military men. Among the illustrations, you can find drawings by the brother of the poet Dmitry Venevitinov Alexei Vladimirovich, who captured views of the village of Novozhivotinnoye in the middle of the 19th century.
Budakov V. V. Poet-philosopher Dmitry Venevitinov / V. V. Budakov // Voronezh: Russian Provincial Journal. - Voronezh, 2003. - Special. issue : Day of Slavic Writing and Culture. – S. 118.
Budakov V. V. “It is too early to die, but to live ...” (Dmitry Venevitinov) / V. V. Budakov // Devotees of the Russian word / V. V. Budakov. - Voronezh, 2007. - S. 110-116.
The book "Ascetics of the Russian word" - lyrical essays about writers and poets, life and work related to the black earth region, the Central Russian strip. One of the essays is dedicated to Dmitry Venevitinov.
Venevitinov Dmitry Vladimirovich // Literary map of the Voronezh region. – URL: http://lk.vrnlib.ru/?p=persons&id=66 .
Dmitry Venevitinov. Estates of the Venevitinovs. The creative heritage of the poet / [intro. Art. E. G. Novichikhina]. - Voronezh: Center for the Spiritual Revival of the Chernozem Territory, 2010. - 215 p.
The name of the poet is closely connected with the Voronezh region: four estates of the Venevitinov family were located in Ramon - on the picturesque banks of the Don. The world of the noble estate was saved only in the village of Novozhivotinnoye. This book offers not only an acquaintance with biographical materials and the work of a remarkable poet, critic, philosopher. For the first time, the reader will be able to look into all four estates, learn about their history and modern life, walk through the halls of the house-museum of D. Venevitinov.
Zhikharev V. In the captivity of the "queen of muses and beauty": (Dmitry Venevitinov and Miniato Ricci) / V. Zhikharev // Rise. - Voronezh, 2012. - No. 12. - P. 218–223.
Vitaly Zhikharev's essay brings new details to the love story of the twenty-year-old Russian poet Dmitry Venevitinov for Zinaida Volkonskaya, who, in turn, was carried away by the Italian chamber singer Count Miniato Ricci.
Lasunsky O. G. Venevitinov Dmitry Vladimirovich / O. G. Lasunsky // Voronezh Encyclopedia: [in 2 volumes] / [ch. ed. M. D. Karpachev]. - Voronezh, 2008. - T. 1. - P. 126.
Mordovchenko N. I. Venevitinov and poets of wisdom / N. I. Mordovchenko // History of Russian literature: in 10 volumes - Moscow; Leningrad, 1953. - V. 6: Literature of the 1820-1830s. – S. 448–459. – URL: http://feb-web.ru/feb/irl/il0/il6/il6-4482.htm .
An article on the website of the Fundamental Electronic Library (FEB) "Russian Literature and Folklore" tells about the literary and philosophical circle "Society of Philosophy" (1823-1825). Venevitinov took an active part in the organization and work of the circle. The members of the circle were engaged in the study of German idealistic philosophy.
Museum-estate of D. V. Venevitinov. – http://muzeinikitin.vzh.ru/muzej-usadba-d-venevitinova .
Museum-estate of D. V. Venevitinov // Literary map of the Voronezh region. – URL: http://lk.vrnlib.ru/?p=post&id=4 .
The museum-estate of D. V. Venevitinov, opened in 1994, is a monument of federal significance, one of the few noble estates of the 18th century that have survived in Russia. The museum is located in the village of Novozhivotinnoye, Ramonsky District, Voronezh Region. Its exposition includes the decoration of the halls of a noble noble estate of the 19th century and everything connected with the Venevitinov family. The museum includes a two-storey mansion (1760-1770), an outbuilding (1887), a park area with a pond. In 2005, a monument to the poet was unveiled on the estate.
Novichikhin E. Novozhivotinnoe / E. Novichikhina. - Voronezh: Central Black Earth Book Publishing House, 1994. - 114 p. - (Voronezh Land. Encyclopedia of cities and villages).
The book tells about a village in the Voronezh region, originating in the second half of the 17th century. The fate of the poet Dmitry Venevitinov is closely connected with the history of this village.
Poet and philosopher Dmitry Venevitinov // Origins. Ethnocultural features of the Voronezh region. - Voronezh, 2014. - S. 147–148.
An article from a collection that tells about the ethno-cultural features of our region, about the life and traditions of our ancestors, about people associated with the Voronezh land.
Udodov B. Dmitry Vladimirovich Venevitinov / B. Udodov // Voronezh residents: famous biographies in the history of the region. - Voronezh, 2007. - S. 116-120.
Chernyshev M. A. “In the soul of an unsolved thought melting ...” / M. A.Chernyshev. - Saratov: Zavolzhye, 1992. - 280 p.
The book tells about the life and work of the famous poet of the XIX century Dmitry Venevitinov.
twig
[From Gresse]
In the priceless hour of solitude,
When the desert path
With lively delight
You wander with a sweet dream
In the shadow of the silent oak forest, -
Have you seen how playful the wind is
Will you pluck the young twig?
Leaving native bush,
She twirls as she falls
On the mirror of stream waters,
And, a new resident of pure moisture,
Forced to swim with the current.
That over a stream of silver
She runs calmly
Then suddenly disappears before the eyes
And lies at the bottom of the stream;
Floats - meets everything new,
All unfamiliar lands:
Dotted with delicate flowers
Here is a smiling shore
And there are deserts, eternal snow
Ile mountains with formidable rocks.
So far the twig floats
And he completes his wrong path,
Until she drowns
In the abyss of boundless waters.
Here is our life! - so to the right goal
An irresistible wave
Feed us all from the cradle
Attracts to the door of the grave.
Brownie
"What are you, Parasha, so pale?"
- “Native! cursed brownie
He called me today at the window.
All in black, like a shaggy bear,
With a mustache, but what a big one!
You will never see such a thing."
- “Cross yourself, my angel!
Do you want to see the brownie?"
"Didn't you sleep, Parasha, night?"
- “Native! fearfully; does not leave
Cursed demon away from the door;
It knocks with a valve, breathes, wanders,
In the hallway he whispers to me: open it!
- "Well, what are you?" - "Yes, I do not say a word."
- “Eh, that’s enough, my angel, don’t lie:
Can you hear the brownie?"
“Parasha, you are not cheerful;
Did you suffer all night again?”
- "No, nothing: I slept the night."
- “How the night slept! you grieved
Walked, unlocked the door;
Are you scared again?"
- “No, no, darling, believe me!
I didn't see the brownie."
December 1826
Eupraxia
Canto One
Noise, Sturgeon! Your shore is adorned
Affairs of glorious antiquity;
You dig the stones of mossy towers
And ancient solid walls
Overgrown with old grass.
But who is above the bright river
Scattered heaps of bricks
Remains of ancient fortifications
Ruins of bygone days?
Or for future generations
They stand like a monument
Military, high-profile adventures?
So, - abuse burned in this country;
But there are no more swear words: the grave
Compared the mighty with the weak.
On the battlefield - deep sleep.
Victory rejoicing has passed,
The groan of the vanquished ceased;
One dark legend
Broadcasts about the affairs of the ages
And blows around silent coffins.
Away, where in the thick shade,
In the darkness of the mysterious oak forest
The sturgeon hides its flow,
Do you see this majestic hill,
Which is on the edge of the valleys,
Like a lonely giant
Rising head high?
This hill has been famous for a long time.
The ancient legend says
What is in the darkness of antiquity deep
He was dedicated to Perun,
That every time a cereal was born
And the neighboring dol smiled,
Dressed in new clothes,
And the branches fluttered in the forest.
Our ancestors flocked here
Crowded from all sides.
There is even a rumor that the Slavs are here
Upon returning from fierce battles
On the altars of their gods
A blow of superstitious steel
Unfortunate prisoners poured blood
Or betrayed them to the flame
And in cold-blooded silence
They looked at their suffering.
And if you believe the old days,
Barely from the bonfires a wave of black
Smoke ascended to the azure of the mountain, -
Suddenly thunder in silent skies
At the glare of lightning it was heard,
The sturgeon roared in its banks,
And the forest shook with a crack.
Look like a new light
Threatening with a flaming tail,
Ryazan fields lit up
An ominous purple ray.
Meteor sky
It burns with a crimson glow.
The crowd in the princely court
Grows, crowds and makes noise;
Young elders surround
And greedily catch their words;
Various rumors are circulating
Of these, others portend
War bloody or smooth;
Others even say
That soon, to the horror of the universe,
The sacred trumpet will sound
And with a fiery sword in hand
The angel of destruction will rush.
On the faces of superstitious fear,
And with a cold trembling of confusion
The hair rose on their foreheads.
Canto two
In the midst of the tower, in dark peace,
Under a gloomy and huge vault,
Where dimly flashed between the pillars
Light pale, lonely
And lit up with a faint light
And the faces of the walls, and the vault is high
With pictures of saints
Prince Fedor, surrounded by a crowd
Boyars and young brothers.
But there is no joy between them:
In the fight against my anxiety,
Deep in thought, languishing
The young prince bowed to the hand.
And on his beautiful forehead
Thoughts wandered like spring
Clouds wander in the clear sky.
Hour followed hour, then another;
Princes, boyars were all silent -
Only loud bowls pounded
And boiling honey hissed in them.
But honey, Slavic hearts joy,
The soul of feasts and the enemy of worries,
For the prince lost all sweetness,
And Fedor drinks without consolation.
You flew away, happy delight,
And you lovely dreams
Spring life beauty.
Ah, you withered, as in the middle of a field
For a moment, sparkling flowers!
Why, why sad melancholy
Did he give away his young heart?
How long has he been with his sweet wife
Did you know the only joy in life?
It used to be that the brothers were distant
Gathered in a noisy crowd:
Between them young Eupraxia
Was cheerful soul
And the hour of evening leisure
In a friendly conversation,
Like a clean fast moment, flew.
But meanwhile over the river
Batu is preparing an army for battle,
Already under the city walls
Squads of the brave Slavs
They stood in neat rows.
Holy cross - a sign of Christians -
Was hoisted in front of the shelves.
Already a servant of the altars
Sang a prayer of consolation
And the army blessed the battle.
Twelve experienced leaders,
long covered with gray hair,
But strong in their old age,
Stand with ready swords.
Behind them is a young row of princes,
Support of faith and freedom.
Here young Roman matured,
Flattering hope of the Slavs,
Worthy of the rank of governor.
In the brilliant color of youth
He joined the princely council
And often with your wisdom
Ryazan elders surprised.
Long tested by armor,
He has been in many battles
And Polovtsy with a faithful squad
He struck many times on the field.
But, an exemplary leader for warriors,
He despised princes.
He has fun - storm storms,
And a solid shield is his lodging for the night.
Yuri is visible near Roman,
Mstislav, Boris and you, Oleg!
Why is this young man handsome,
A child by heart and years,
Left the shelter where he is, happy,
Walked carelessly through the flowers
Spring without storm and playful?
But he is with damask steel in his young hand
Flies to defend the homeland
And for the first time on the battlefield
Show love for freedom.
But formidable Tatar regiments,
Full of fierce courage
Already along the fast river
How noisy the waves are.
With a wild threat on your lips
They are ready for a bloody battle.
Silver-rimmed swords
Shine in their strong hands.
Their horses are richly trimmed -
Not copper or steel armor
They are kept from copies of their breasts,
But thin precious fabrics -
The booty of Asian swearing -
On the Persians of predators they shine.
Batu, their leader, with damask steel in his hand
Before them on a young horse.
Quiver with feathered arrows
hung on his back,
And a shawl with rich knots
Plays over his head.
Nurtured in the midst of robbery,
But lush luxury hand,
He is a friend of war and a friend of peace
In the days of idleness, in the noise of feasts.
He loves the bliss of pleasure
And at the hour of cheerful ecstasy
Willingly celebrates love.
But he is terrible in the heat of battle,
When with a smile on your lips
With a deadly dagger in the teeth,
Like a whirlwind, he strives for enemies
And in the foam the horse under him smokes.
Everywhere only the cries of the stricken,
And the sound of shields, and the gleam of swords...
Not the youth of sinless days,
Nor old age gray hair respectable
Bulat cruel does not spare.
And suddenly there was a clatter of hooves.
Detachments of the Slavic cavalry
At full speed rush into battle,
But the prince of Ryazan is the first to jump
Roman, followed by Oleg the young
And Yevpaty, the old boyar
With a gray long beard.
Blows are followed by blows.
The young man Oleg is the hottest of all.
Now on the left side, then on the right
His bloody damask glitters.
Such an unexpected run
Led the Mughals in amazement.
The raids of Suzdal are terrible.
They fly, the Tatars are crushed
And, embraced by cold horror,
They run, scattered across the fields.
In vain the brave son of Batu,
Nagai, resists enemies
And the rows of riders are thick
One wants to keep.
Carried away by the crowd of those running,
He involuntarily rushes after ...
So the boat in the midst of a furious storm
Instantly fights a thunderstorm,
Instantly despises the winds,
But suddenly, rushing off with speed,
Yielding to the angry waves...
Sacrifice
O life, insidious siren,
How much you are attracted to yourself!
You are from the brilliant flowers
Chains of disastrous captivity.
You serve the cup of happiness
And sing songs of joy;
But in the cup of happiness - only treason,
And in songs of joy - only a lie.
Do not torment with vain temptation
My tormented breast
And do not catch my eyes
Some kind of bright ghost.
I don't care about false dreams.
To you my stingy hands
They will not bring obedient tribute,
No, I'm not doomed to you.
Your captivating betrayal
You can put in your heart
Minute fire, instant discord,
Pour pallor over the cheeks
And overshadow youth with sadness,
Take away peace, carelessness, joy,
But you won't take it, believe me
Love, hope, inspiration!
Not! my good genius will save them,
And they are not mine now.
I dedicate them from now on
Forever poetry holy
And with a terrible oath and with a prayer
I put it on the altar to the goddess.
1826 or 1827
A life
First, life captivates us:
Everything is warm in it, all the heart warms
And, like a tempting story,
Our bizarre mind cherishes.
Something frightens from afar, -
But there is pleasure in this fear:
He amuses the imagination
How about a magical adventure
An old man's night story.
But the playful deceit will end!
We get used to miracles.
Then - we look at everything lazily,
Then - and life disgusted us:
Her mystery and denouement
Already long, old, boring,
Like a fairy tale retold
Tired before sleep.
Will
Here is the hour of the last suffering!
Take heed: the will of the dead
Pay attention: so that this ring
They didn’t take off the cold hand:
Let my sorrows die with him
And they will be buried with him.
Friends - hello and consolation:
Delights the best moments
I was dedicated to them.
Take heed, my goddess:
Now your soul is sacred
It’s more accessible and clearer to me;
The voice of passions fell silent in me,
Love magic forgotten
The rainbow haze is gone
And what you called paradise
It's open in front of me now.
Come closer! here is the grave door!
Everything is allowed to me now:
I am not afraid of the judgments of the world.
Now I can hug you
Now I can kiss you
As with the first joy of hello
In paradise, the face of the angels of the saints
Kissed with clean lips,
Whenever we delight them
Behind a gloomy coffin met.
But forget this speech:
There is a secret murmur of frenzy in it;
Why cold doubts
Will I pour into a fiery chest?
One, one prayer for you!
Do not forget! .. away from assurances -
Swear!.. Do you believe, dear friend,
What is beyond the grave sim limit
My soul will say goodbye to the body
And will live like a free spirit,
Without image, without darkness and light,
Clothed with one incorruption.
This spirit, like an ever-watchful gaze,
Your companion will be relentless,
And if the memory of a criminal
You will change, trouble since then!
I will secretly put on reproach;
I will stick to the treacherous soul,
I will find food for vengeance in it,
And the heart will be sad, languid,
And I, like a worm, will not fall away.
1826 or 1827
Signs before Caesar's death
Oh Phoebus! dare we call you deceitful?
Is it not your quick glance that can penetrate
To the depths of hearts where vengeance arises
And angry stormy, but secret unrest.
After the death of Caesar, you shared sorrow with Rome,
He covered your forehead with a bloody cloud;
You turned away angry eyes from us,
And the world, the underworld, was afraid of eternal night.
But everything threatened us - and the roar of the sea waves,
And the languid click of the ravens, and the terrible barking of the dogs.
We matured Kolkrats, like Etna's siliceous forge
Molten rocks rotated fiery river
And the flame spewed out in clubs on the field.
The trembling German gazed at the heavens;
With a crash, the clouds fought with the clouds,
And the Alps moved under the eternal snows.
The sacred forest groaned; in the mist of a thick night
Wandered a pale host of flickering shadows.
Copper then flooded (a wonderful sign of sadness!),
We noticed tears on the marbles of the gods.
The earth opened up, the Tiber rushed back,
And the animals, to horror, could broadcast words;
Spilled Eridanus by boiling waves
He carried away the dense forest and the shepherds with their flocks.
In the entrails of the victims the sacred gaze of the priests
I read only disasters and the terrible wrath of the gods;
The streams turned into bloody jets;
The wolves, roaring among the haystacks, wandered in the darkness;
On a clear day we ripened both lightning and thunder,
And a terrible star with a flaming tail.
And so the second eagles fought with eagles.
In the fields of the Filippovs under the same banners
Relatives fought among themselves again regiments,
And in the battle the brother fell from the brother's hand;
Twice fate ordered that the Roman squads
The Thracian valleys fed with blood.
Perhaps, once in these vast fields,
Where our soldiers lie soulless ashes,
A calm villager with a heavy harrow
Hit the helmet with an empty and trembling hand
He will raise a rusty shield, blunted damask steel, -
And the bones under his feet will rattle.
Italy
Italy, motherland of inspiration!
My hour will come when I succeed
Loving you with the delight of pleasure,
How I love your image in a bright dream.
Without grief, I say goodbye to dreams,
And in reality, in the circle of your miracles,
Under the yahont of sparkling skies,
With a young soul, I will play out at will.
There joyfully I will sing the dawn
And congratulate the king of the luminaries on the sunrise,
There proudly I will soar with my soul
Under a fiery boundless vault.
How fun it is golden morning
And sweet silver night!
O world of vanities! then away from thoughts!
In the arms of neg and in creative peace
I will live in the past among the singers,
I will call their hosts from the coffins!
Then, O Tass! I will break your peaceful sleep
And your delight, your midday heat
Will shed both life and song of sweet gifts
Into a cold mind and into a northern soul.
To friends
May the seeker of proud glory
Sacrificing peace to her!
Let him fly into the bloody battle
For a crowd of heroes!
But haughty crowns
The singer of the forests is not deceived:
I'm happy without crowns
With a lyre, with true friends.
Let wealth torment passion
Hungry slaves!
Let them shower with gold
Let them from foreign countries
With loaded ships
Violent waves crush:
I'm rich without gold
With a lyre, with true friends.
Let the cheerful swarm noisy
It draws crowds!
Let them shine on their altar
Everyone will make a sacrifice!
I do not strive for their crowds -
I am without their noisy passions
Cheerful with his fate
With a lyre, with true friends.
To friends for the New Year
Friends! the new year has arrived!
Forget old sorrows
And mourn the days, and the days of worries,
And everything that killed joy;
But don't forget the clear days
Fun, fun light-winged,
Golden hours, for dear hearts,
And old, sincere friends.
Live new in the new year
Leave old dreams
And everything that does not give happiness
And only one will give birth to desires!
Still in this new year
Love jokes, games, joy
And old, sincere friends.
Friends! Meet the New Year
In the circle of relatives, among freedom:
Let it flow for you, friends,
Like childhood happy years.
But in the middle of Petropol's undertakings
Do not forget the sounds of the lyre,
Sweet and peaceful pursuits,
And old, sincere friends.
To the image of Urania
Five stars crowned the forehead of the inspired:
Poetry wondrous star,
Gracious star of sweet hope,
Star of endless love
The radiant star of sincere friendship,
What will the fifth star be?
Let it be, beneficent gods,
Spiritual happiness star.
1826 or 1827
To the music lover
I beg you, do not torment me:
Your noise, your applause,
The tongue of fake fire
Pointless exclamations
Disgusting, hateful to me.
Believe me, the habits of the slave are cold,
Not so, not so delight free
Burning in the depths of the heart.
If only you knew that these sounds
Whenever their secret language
You got a fiery feeling -
Believe, your mouth and hands
They would be shackled, as in the holy hour,
Reverent silence.
Then your soul, numb,
It would be joy to understand
Then she would live more freely
She embraced her soul.
Then rebellious unrest
And heavy storms of passions -
Everything would have calmed down, silenced in her
Before the shrine of pleasure.
Then you wouldn't want to shine
The guise of forced passion,
But you would be in the corner, secluded,
hid the all-loving breast,
You would people were brothers,
You would secretly shed tears
And warm hugs to them,
As a friend of the universe, he extended.
1826 or 1827
To my goddess
Do not raise proud thoughts
Passion-filled chest
Not the waves of the Neva interfere
Rest the tired soul,
When I'm along the wide river
Wandering gloomy, lonely
And the gaze wanders along the shores,
The tongue babbles indistinctly
And softly splashing waves
Words intermittent mosque.
Then far from thoughts
And the proud hope of glory,
And the quiet river
And the Nevsky coast is majestic;
Then not timid longing
Possesses a powerless heart
And a secret murmur inspires me ...
You understand this murmur
O god of my soul!
Cold life of dispassion
Do you know if I can breathe and live?
Do you know if I idolize
A soul not made for happiness
Crowds of habitual dreams
And tributes of servile service
Wear the idol of the bustle?
Not! No! and warm days of friendship
And hot days of love
The heart was taught to another:
Another fire they are in the blood
Other feelings settled.
What is happiness to me? Why is it?
Didn't you say that fate
It is given here only to the timid,
What happiness with a fiery soul
It is impossible to combine in this world,
Why can't I breathe for him...
Oh, be blessed by me!
It's sacred to me
This prophecy of misfortune
And, as keeping his covenant,
With what delight of sweetness
I'm waiting for the ruinous day
And the triumph of insidious fate!
And if the mind is ungrateful
He grumbled to heaven in trouble,
Your appearance, dear angel,
Like a gift from heaven, stopped
Curse on my lips.
My chest would fill again
Saint's reverence
The healing look of your eyes
And again in my soul
The forces of pleasure have risen,
And happiness proud contempt,
And sweet silence.
Behold, that's what lifts my chest
And a secret murmur inspires me!
That's what my soul is full of
When I'm along the Neva wide
I wander gloomy, lonely.
To my ring
You were dug in a dusty grave,
Herald of love for centuries
And again you are grave dust
You will be bequeathed, my ring.
But not love now by you
Blessed eternal flame
And over you, in anguish of the heart,
I made a holy vow...
Not! friendship in the bitter hour of farewell
Gave sobbing love
You as a pledge of compassion.
Oh, be my faithful talisman!
Keep me from grievous wounds
And light, and an insignificant crowd,
From the caustic thirst for false glory,
From a seductive dream
And from spiritual emptiness.
In the hours of cold doubt
Revive your heart with hope
And if in the sorrows of imprisonment,
Far from the angel of love
It will plot a crime, -
You with wondrous power tame
Outbursts of hopeless passion
And from my rebellious chest
Turn away the lead of madness.
When will I be at the hour of death
Say goodbye to what I love here
I will not forget you in farewell:
Then I will ask a friend
So that he is from my cold hand
You, my ring, did not take off,
So that the coffin does not separate us.
And the request will not be fruitless:
He will confirm his vow to me
With the words of the fatal oath.
Ages will fly by, and perhaps
That someone will disturb my ashes
And in it you will open again;
And again timid love
You will whisper superstitiously
Words of tormenting passions,
And again you will be her friend,
As it was for me, my ring is true.
1826 or 1827
To Pushkin
I know: genius is available
For the voice of sincere hearts.
To you, sublime singer,
I call with the fervor of hymns.
Scatter for a moment the delight of the saint,
Meditation of the creative spirit
And condescending hearing
Honor the young muse.
When the prophet of freedom is bold,
Anguished poet,
Left the orphaned world
Leaving glory a hot light
And the shadow of the world's sadness,
Laudatory thunder sounded
Your poems follow him.
You brought tribute to the withered power
And glory on his grave
Bequeathed another name.
You are quieter, sweeter sang
At the muses of the stolen Gaul.
Excited by your song
In my rapturous chest
The soul trembled and trembled.
But you haven't paid yet
Stones of debt of inspiration:
To the praises of mourned graves
Add cheerful praises.
Another singer is waiting for them:
He is ours - a resident of the same world,
For a long time his crown shines;
But the glory of a loud hello
More sonorous, more encouraging is the poet's voice.
Our mentor, your mentor,
He lies in the land of dreams,
In my native Germany.
Hands so cold
Sometimes they run along the strings,
And intermittent sounds
Like after a sad separation
Dear old friendship voice,
We are led to familiar thoughts.
So far, his heart has not cooled down,
And believe me, he is alive with joy
In the shelter of dull old age
And maybe captivated by you
Inspired by the last heat,
The swan will sing in response
And, to the sky with a farewell song
Stirrup solemn flight,
In the delight of a wondrous dream
You, O Pushkin, will be called.
Mid or October 1826
To S[karyatin]
When sending him a vaudeville
Not the fruit of high inspirations
The singer and friend brings you a gift;
Not pierid heavenly heat,
Not fiery delight, not genius
Possessed my soul
My lyre sounded like a discordant song,
And I changed in madness
The smile of the Muses on the laugh of the satyr.
But you will forgive me my innocent sin;
You yourself, a beautiful seeker,
arts happy lover,
Often, for pranks, forgetting the delight of living,
Throwing a brush - an instrument of talent,
Before the muses sinned alone
And bold coal on the wall
He drew fantasy playful creatures.
Imagination without fetters
It is like a butterfly playful:
That loves over a brilliant field
Flutter in a circle of earthly flowers,
It rushes to the rainbow, to the flowers of heaven.
Don't think to go out in me
To high songs heat! No, he is hidden in the soul,
He will be awakened again by the poet's powerful voice,
And, brave disciple of Byron,
I will fly on the wings of a dream
To the fairy side where the swan of Albion is
Picked up forgotten flowers.
Let it be a dream! he comforts me
And I won't be discouraged
As long as fate allows me
Share the delight with friends.
O friend! we are on different paths
Let's go a certain way:
You have chosen a field covered with labors,
I wanted to rest early;
Under the peaceful shade of the olive
I have chosen my shelter; but my lot is happy
Should not flicker with glory:
In modest silence in the bosom
My life will steal away,
Like the still water of a desert stream.
You cheerful spirit doomed Bellone
And, loving the valor of the strong,
Doomed his sword to an idol of loud glory -
Go! - But the camp is noise, military fun,
Everything will be foreign to you
Like dreams of unexpected visions,
As the world of a new phenomenon.
Perhaps on the banks of the Dnieper,
When in the shadow of the moving tent
Your comrades, daring dragoons,
Seething with fighting courage,
They will gather around you in a noisy crowd,
And the round glasses will loudly knock, -
Regretting the thought of the former silence,
You will remember your friends, you will remember me;
Avoiding these new joys,
You will remember my list
Ile, accidentally stopping his gaze on him,
Say to yourself: we once knew how
Play pranks with decency, play pranks with the mind.
K. I. Gerke (In the evening hour of solitude...)
(When sending Werner's tragedy)
In the evening hour of solitude,
When, free from labor,
Your heart yearns for inspiration
Harmony of sweet verses,
Read, dream - let it be before you
The curtain of time will fall
And in a clear long line
A number of past years will rush by!
Look! already a mighty genius
Dissolved the cold darkness of the graves;
Already, having collected the heroes of the shadow,
He surrounded you with a host -
Learn the seal of heavenly power
On their pale foreheads.
She was not smoothed by the ashes of the grave,
And the same flame in their eyes...
But you are in the temple. Around the tomb
Where the sweet child lies
The sad girls sing
And a slender cry flies to the sky:
“Why is she, like the color of May,
For a moment gleaming with beauty,
Left the light so early
And joy took with him!
You listen - and tears fell
On a leaf with flaming cheeks,
And a feeling of quiet sadness
Involuntarily, the heart moves.
Blessed, blessed, who is at noon life
And at the sunset of clear years,
As in the bowels of a joyful homeland,
Still lives in fantasy.
To whom heaven is dear,
Who combines with gray hair
Imagination is young
And a mind with a fiery soul.
In a magical bowl of pleasure
He will not find an empty bottom
And exclaim, in feelings of ecstasy:
"Beautiful has no limits!"
Dagger
Leave me, forget me!
I loved you alone in the world,
But I loved you like a friend
How they love an asterisk on the air,
How they love the bright ideal
Or a clear dream of the imagination.
I learned a lot in life
In one love did not know torment,
And I want to go to the grave
Like an enchanted ignoramus.
Leave me, forget me!
Look - that's where my hope is;
Look - but why are you startled?
No, don't tremble: death is not terrible;
Oh, don't whisper to me about hell:
Believe me, hell in the world, beautiful friend!
Where there is no life, there is no pain.
Give me a kiss as a pledge of goodbye...
Why do your kisses tremble?
Why are your eyes burning in tears?
Leave me, love another!
Forget me, I'll be on my own soon
I will forget the sorrow of earthly life.
wings of life
From Milvois
On light wings
Swallows fly;
But wings are lighter
Life is windy.
Don't know in youth
She's tired
And joy frisky
Takes trustingly
On your wings.
Flying, admiring
I wear beautiful...
But soon painful
She has a dear guest;
tired wings,
And joy frisky
She shakes them off.
Sadness seems to her
Not so heavy
And whimsical
Misty sadness
Beret on wings
And off into the distance
With a new friend.
But the wings are light
All the pain, more
Bend under the burden.
And soon falls
They have a new guest
And life is tired
Alone, no burden
Flying calmer
Only in the wings
Barely noticeable
From burdens thrown
Traces remain
And imprinted
Only in feathers
Two colors are pale:
A little light
From frisky joy
A little dark
From a gloomy guest.
1826 or 1827
love pet inspiration
And bow your proud mind before him;
But in pure thirst for pleasure
Don't entrust your hearing to every harp.
Not many true prophets
With the seal of power on the forehead,
With gifts of lofty lessons,
With the verb of heaven on earth.
Favorite color
(Dedicated to S[ofya] V[ladimirovna]
In [enevitina])
All the flowers in the sky are beautiful.
All nicely shine above the earth,
Everyone breathes mountain beauty.
I love the color of clear azure:
He often captivated with languor
My thoughtful thoughts
And poured into a timid heart
A radiant ray of good hope.
I love, I love the color of the moon
When she is in the fields of the ether
With the gifts of the sweet world
Floats like an angel of silence.
I love the color of the rainbow transparent -
But my favorite of flowers
There is a young dennitsa color:
In this color, as in wedding clothes,
The sky is shining in the morning.
He is the color of happy innocence,
He is pure, like a bashful maiden's gaze,
And clear as a baby's dream.
When both fear and a swarm of fun -
Everything was foreign to you
Within a cramped cradle,
Heaven's messenger, love
Baby's sweet carelessness,
I cherished you in silence
You rested - but in a dream,
Soul unraveling eternity,
Met a clear dream
A sweet, lovely smile.
What broke that smile
What are you mature - I do not know;
But your keeper, heavenly guest
Waved a mysterious wing -
And the shadow of the night ran
Played in the sky
Dennitsa with purple fire,
And a ray of ruddy dawn
Illuminated your cheeks.
Since then, he has become twice as sweet to me,
This ray of ruddy dawn.
Keep him - no wonder he
Burnt on virgin cheeks,
Not a reflection of beauty in vain,
Not! he is the seal of a clear minute,
The pledge is secret, unearthly.
All the flowers in the sky are beautiful
All breathe with mountain beauty;
But among the flowers there is a holy color -
He is the color of a young dennitsa.
My prayer
Souls invisible guardian,
Hear my prayer!
bless my home
And be the guard at her gates,
Yes, through my humble threshold
Do not step, like a thief of the night,
Nor the cunning deceiver,
Neither laziness with a dead soul,
Nor envy with a poisonous eye,
Nor a false friend with cunning in disguise.
Always reliable armor
Let my chest be clothed
Don't shoot me down with an arrow
The treason of the vengeful light.
Don't give my soul
To the sacrifice of vain desires;
But bring up calmly in it
The fire of sublime passions.
Close my mouth in silence,
All the feelings of the secret autumn
Yes, cold eyes do not meet them,
Yes, the ray of vanity will not enlighten
For unseen days.
But pour sweetness into your soul,
Sow seeds of hope
And take away joy from the heart:
She is an unfaithful wife.
For New Year 1827
So again the year flashed like a shadow,
Hidden in the gloomy eternity
And quickly reproached
My lazy carelessness.
Oh, if he asked me:
“Where is the fruit of ardent promises?
What did you do to stop me?" —
I would find no excuse
In my scattered dreams!
I have nothing to drown out the reproach!
But listen, you cruel fugitive!
I swear to you in a farewell moment:
You did not rush off without a return;
I will follow you
And the upcoming brother
I will pay all my heavy debt.
Novgorod
(Dedicated to A.I.T.)
"Go ahead, coachman, but talk,
How far away is Novgorod? — "Near,
Four or three versts.
You see something up there,
Like a black forest from afar ... "
— “Well, I see; it's clouds."
- "Not! These are Novgorod roofs.”
Are you before me, O ancient city
Freedom, glory and trade!
How vividly they say to the heart
Hills of scattered debris!
Your deeds did not fall silent in them,
And the glory of the ancestors passed
In the mouth of true descendants.
"Well, threesome! conveyed in spirit!
- "Be quiet. Where is the Sophia Cathedral?
“The cathedral is close from here, sir.
Here is the street, yes two to the left,
And there you will find yourself
And the cross on the golden head
It will be right in front of you."
Everywhere there is a fresh trace of the past!
Centuries have passed... but their flight
Rushed here without destroying.
"Coachman! Where is Vechevaya Square?
“There is no name for this…”
- "How not?" “Oh, square? Near:
Behind this wide street.
Here is the square. See the six pillars?
According to the tales of our elders,
Once hung on these poles
Huge bell, but
It's been taken away from here for a long time."
“Be quiet, my friend; here is a holy place:
Here the air is cleaner and freer!
Quiet! .. No, go quickly:
What am I looking for here, crazy?
Where is Volkhov? - "Here in front of you
It flows under this mountain ... "
All the same, he is a noisy wave
Playing, running fun!..
He is not sad about the past.
So everything is close here, as before ...
Now you answer me yourself
O Novgrad! In ancient clothes
You are in front of me, as in gray hair,
The same age as immortal knights.
Your ashes speak like a vigilant messenger
About impenetrable antiquity.
Answer, majestic city:
Where are the times of blooming glory,
Sounding like copper here in a stormy evening,
To court or to a bloody slaughter
Called obedient sons?
When your sword, neighbor's storm,
Punished both the knights and the Swede,
And this proud wave
Wore a tribute to the cruel war?
Tell me, where are these times?
They are far away, oh, far away!
Between October and December 1826
liberation of the skald
(Scandinavian story)
El m o r
Lay down the heavy sword. Is it a powerless hand
To own this damask steel, O peaceful singer!
Glory to us in battles, dangerous battles to us;
To you - a crown of sweet-sounding singing.
Forgive me, O son of Scandinavian kings!
In the right hand of the singer, this damask steel is not dishonorable.
Do you remember that Reckner was famous for the harp
And a brave example among the quarrelsome fields.
El m o r
Forgive me, young skald, you are an inspired singer,
But if you want, Egil, we broadcast
About the glory, only in the battles you gained,
For a long, long time you will be silent.
Elmore! or forgot that, proud of the scarlet,
The king of the skald offended, and with the near den
His mournful mother, in bitter tears,
Wept over the cold tomb of her son...
So, with firmness of spirit, with a threat in the mouth,
Egil answers, - and, with a quick foot,
Silent, both, with a sigh in their hearts,
They hid in the oak forest under the leafy darkness.
A whole hour in the silence of the thick night
Sword rattled against sword in the midst of a deaf grove.
Spattered with blood and all exhausted,
Egil! you came out of the oak forest alone.
O brave Elmore! You in vain Armin,
In the halls surrounded by his family,
At the feast awaits the evening under the roof of the native.
You don't have to drink round from the cup.
Without life, without glory, your corpse is distorted
It lies among the oak forest on dry turf.
You bowed to the dust with an arrogant brow.
The surroundings are silent, like a mute grave,
And the death of the Scandinavian avenged the skald.
But in the morning, barely between the bluish vapors
Aurora blushed cold in the sky,
In a dense oak forest, with the barking of dogs,
We recognized the bloody body of Elmore.
Recognizing Elmore, the features are distorted,
Armin stricken by a sudden blow
He doesn't cry, but his chest is torn apart by his hand.
Meanwhile, everything rose up, in the city of excitement,
Everyone is looking for the killer, everyone is demanding revenge.
“I know,” Armin exclaimed, “Ingisfal
He fed his constant malice towards Elmore!
Hurry, hurry to comprehend the villain,
Strive, O friends, strive faster,
Than lightning jagged shine in the sky.
Prepare your weapons for the killer's death.
Meanwhile, let the gates of impregnable dungeon
They will rattle on it on cast-iron hooks.
And everyone rushed. Egil on the banks
By the sea he wandered with a sad foot.
Like a cloud, from which a fiery arrow
Perun fleeting flashed in the sky,
On black wings with the remains of a storm
Floats a little mobile in the azure sky, -
So gloomy is Egil, and wandered pensively.
Suddenly, in front of him, surrounded by a crowd,
To the halls of the innocent goes Ingisfal.
"Elmore triumphs, and revenge on the murderer!" -
So in rage the whole people repeated.
But the skald, rushing into the crowd, exclaimed:
"People! he is innocent; my right hand
The young prince died in the middle of the battle.
But I am not a murderer, O king of the Scandinavians!
Your daring son fought me,
He fell and is glorious in heroic death.
Trembling with anger, Armin commanded
Throw Egil into a deep dungeon.
The innocent is free, death is the lot of the skald.
But the skald is not afraid of captivity, nor the grave,
And quietly, silently, a powerful singer
Walks among the cries of ferocious vengeance,
Goes - as if waiting for his glorious crown
The reward of his sweet-sounding singing.
“Oh, woe to you!” exclaimed all the people,
Oh, woe to you! woe, majestic skald.
Here the bards will not broadcast your glory.
Like a shadow, your memory will pass without noise,
And with life the name of the villain will disappear.
And, circling heavily on copper ropes,
Dungeon iron door locked,
And hid it merged with the whistle of Boreas.
So, he is alone, without joy: but no, -
With him is a harp, in misfortune a friend dragging.
Egil, rattling in the darkness of the dungeon,
Elmora sings the last song.
"Lucky! you fell among the dear homeland,
Your ashes will smolder under the native land,
Your memory did not descend into the coffin with you,
And often over your cold grave
Your sad father will come to shed tears!
And a friend will not forget to visit you.
And I'm dying at the dawn of my life
Far from relatives and from a sweet homeland.
Sister young and tender mother
They will not come to irrigate my coffin with tears.
Farewell, my harp, our songs have passed.
And the young skald happy days -
How fast waves they rushed.
And soon, full of terrible vengeance,
The furious barbarian will stop my age,
And the evil Scandinavian with a ferocious hand
Your consonant strings will break.
Thunder, thunder! breaking up with you
Yes, I will listen to your last song! -
I lived and during my life
I was happy with you, I was glorious with you.
But the bards, performing the rite of the Scandinavians,
Meanwhile, a harsh chant began
And loudly thundered among the wild chorus:
"May perish, perish the murderer of Elmore!"
In their fiery eyes, furious anger,
And all, in a circular united hands,
Elmora discordantly sang praises
And, surrounding the corpse, they walked around.
Already in the middle of a vast field near the forest
Huge and wild piece of rock
To the murder of the singer approved by the altar.
The damask ax lay on him,
And nearby, waiting for the victim, were the killers.
And suddenly, creaking, deep dungeons
The doors have opened, the people are striving.
Alas! everything is ready for Egil's death,
The unfortunate skald's grave is open,
But the skald goes to death without fear.
Nor the cries of the people seething with vengeance,
No formidable steel, no altar, no fire
The singer is not shaken, only he is disgusted
Listens like a bard's frantic choir
Thunders with unworthy Elmora praise.
“O king!” exclaimed the inspired Egil,
Let me say goodbye to the world and singing,
Before death, I repeated my songs
And quietly glorified on the harp consonant
Elmore, whom in the battle unfortunate
I slew, but the way I slew the hero.
He rivers; but with the name of the son of Elmore
The king's heart shook with rage.
Gazing at Egil with fierce eyes,
He already said ... When suddenly it was heard
The dull, gentle sound of a harp,
Armin became numb at the harmony of the strings,
He ordered the noisy crowd to be silent,
And the whole people stood in silent expectation.
The singer leaned on a wild cliff,
I took a faithful harp, a friend in sorrow,
And his fingers played along the strings,
And the wind blew his song in the valley.
"Where is the brave youth who
Reflected the enemies of the fatherland
And the land of fathers, native mountains
Protected by a mighty muscle?
Elmore, not defeated by anyone,
You have fallen, you are no more.
You fell - like a strong wolf will fall,
Slain by a powerless shepherd.
Where are the days when to the bloody war,
Hero, you led the squads,
And returned to Elva with glory,
Did you share happiness with Elva?
Ah, soon quivering girl
Mother will announce with tears
That her true friend lies
In damp earth, in a mute tomb.
But good gods honor the strong,
And he's on the wings of the clouds
Rushed into the mountain chambers,
Heroic residence of spirits.
And I'm along the mysterious shore,
Surrounded by night fog
Always roam condemned
Beneath the cold waves of Leg.*
O skald, what a hostile god
In the middle of a desperate fight
Helped you invisibly
Slay the brave hero
And ruled by your hand?
You won by cruel fate.
Alas! far from home
The grave will be your trophy!
Already I see before me
I see a hungry death
Ready over my head
Stretch a terrible scythe,
With an iron hand
She takes me to the grave.
Farewell, farewell beautiful light
Forever I part with you
And you, playful breeze,
Fly to your beloved homeland,
Tell your family that fierce rock
Told the singer to give up his life
Far from home country!
But what about death, dying,
He sang, remembering them,
And he flew to them with his soul.
My last hour has already come.
Come killer, I'm ready.
Come, strike, let my pale corpse
Fall before the eyes of enemies.
Let the poppy with fragrant grass
Growing graves around mine.
And you, son of the north, above her
Make noise with pleasant coolness.
He fell silent, but for a long time and by itself
The strings sounded in lovely harmony,
And slowly the voice of sadness disappeared from the field.
Armin, beside himself, head bowed,
Silently sat among the astonished crowd, -
But suddenly, awakened as from a long sleep:
"O skald! what song? what a sweet voice
He exclaimed. - What magical power
Did you suddenly instill tender feelings in me?
He sang - and in me the terrible anger went out.
He sang - and shook his cruel heart.
He sang - and his sweet singing,
It seemed that my sadness was quenched,
O skald... O my Elmore... no. Revenge, revenge!
Killer! take deadly steel...
Throw down the altar... let Egil's family
They will be happier than a bitter father.
Go. You are free, magical singer."
And with a joyful cry the crowd repeated:
"Free singer!" Grateful Egil
Washed Armin's right hand with tears
And before the benefactor fell touched.
Egil returned to his native shore,
Where with impatience, under the humble roof,
His mother was waiting with her young sister.
Sad, tormented by evil memory,
He cursed his sword and hid it under a rock.
When, thoughtfully, in the evening,
The singer admired the excitement of the sea,
The gloomy shadow of young Elmore
Appeared to him on the misty shores.
But only in the east did Aurora blush,
This ghost, like a dream, disappeared into the clouds.
1823 or 1824
Song of the Greek
Under the sky of rich Attica
A happy family blossomed.
Like my father, a simple orator,
Behind the plow I sang freedom.
But the Turks are evil militias
Our possessions poured over ...
Mother died, father killed,
My young sister was saved with me,
I hid with her, repeating:
I did not shed tears in cruel grief,
But the chest was tight and cramped;
Our light boat rushed us to the sea,
Burning poor village
And a column of smoke blackened over the rampart.
Sister sobbed - with a veil
The sad look is half-closed;
But, hearing a quiet prayer,
I sang to her in consolation:
“For everything, my sword will avenge them!”
We swim - and under the silvery moon
We see a fortress above a rock.
Above, like a shadow, on a mossy tower
Chagall Turkish sentry;
The turban leaned towards the squeak -
Suddenly the waves sparkled
And now - in my hands lies
Without life, the maiden is young.
I hugged the body, repeating:
“For everything, my sword will avenge you!”
The East blushed at dawn,
The boat landed on the shore,
And above the noisy wave
I dug my sister's grave.
Not marble with the inscription dull
Hides the body of a sweet maiden, -
No, the corpse is buried under the rock;
But on this unchanging rock
I drew a sacred vow:
“For everything my sword will avenge you!”
Since then, the Mohammedans have me
We learned in a skirmish,
Since then, as often in the noise of abuse
I repeat my vow!
Fatherland death, beautiful death,
Everything, everything I will remember in a terrible hour;
And whenever the sword shines
And the head with a turban falls,
I say with an evil smile:
“For everything, my sword will avenge you!”
Song of Colma
[From McPherson]
Terrible night, and I'm alone
Here at the top of the lonely.
The elemental war surrounds me.
In the gorges of the high mountain
I hear the whistle of the winds deaf.
Here on the rocks from the steep mountain
A roaring stream is striving down,
Terrible over my head
Thundering Perun, clouds are rushing.
Where to run? where is my darling?
Alas, under the storm at night
I'm homeless, alone!
Shine on high, moon,
Arise, appear over the mountain!
Perhaps a blessed light
Will lead me to Salgar.
It is true that he is exhausted by fishing,
Surrounded by his dogs
In the oak forest or in the deaf steppe.
He threw off his mighty bow from his shoulders,
With bowstring down
And despising thunders, clouds,
He knows the howl of the storm,
Lies on the ant dry.
Or wait for me on a desert mountain,
Until the day comes
And will not dispel the long night?
Terrible thunder; more terrible shadow;
Howling stronger than the winds;
Stronger than gray-haired waves splashing!
And do not hear the voice!
O faithful friend! Salgar my dear,
Where are you? Oh, how long have I been sad
In the midst of this desert to suffer?
Here is an oak, a stream, about a crushed bank,
Where did you swore to be until the night!
And for Salgar blood dear
And my dear brother is forgotten.
Our families know revenge,
They are enemies to each other
We are not enemies, Salgar, with you!
Shut up, wind, even for a moment!
Stop, gray-haired stream!
Perhaps my lover
Salgar! here Colma waits;
Here is an oak, a stream, crushed on the shore;
Everything is here: only the sweet is not here.
Clara's song
(From Goethe's tragedy "Egmont")
The drums are beating
The whistle has played;
With a retinue of swearing
My friend jumped!
He jumps, he swings
Big spear...
My heart is with him!
Oh, I'm not a warrior!
What I don't have
Spears and horse!
I would run after him
To distant lands
And I would fight him
I have no trepidation!
Enemies staggered -
Behind them...
They have no mercy!
O brave man!
Who is equal to you
In a happy fate!
Mid 1826
Message to R[ozhali]nu (Leave, my friend...)
Leave, my friend, your murmuring,
Subdue criminal unrest;
Doesn't seek solace
A soul rich in itself.
Do not believe that people dispersed
Hearts of sublime sorrow.
Avaricious friendship gives them
Empty caresses, not happiness;
Be proud that you are forgotten by them, -
Their indifferent dispassion
May you be praised.
Stone did not smile at dawn;
So the hearts of the heavenly flame
Crowd soulless and empty
It has always been a mystery.
Meet her with a damask soul
And don't be afraid of weak hands
No severe wounds, no severe pain.
Oh, if you could with a quick glance
My new lot to run
Would you stop tempting
Fate with an unrighteous reproach.
When you see this world
Where the look and taste are disappointed,
Where the feeling freezes, the mind is chained
And where vanity is an idol;
When in the crowded desert
You did not find the soul of one, -
Believe me, you would forever, my friend,
I forgot my reckless murmur.
How often in the flame of speeches,
Carrying thought among friends,
Dream deceptive, obedient
I gave my hand ingenuously -
Nobody shook my hand.
Here the caress of a warm hello
The soul of the young is not warmed.
I do not find here in my eyes
The fire kindled in them by feeling,
And the word, compressed by art,
Involuntarily dying in my mouth.
Oh, if prayers could
Reach for miserly skies
Not a new cup of pleasure
I used to ask them of the old days.
Give me my friends
Give the flame of their embrace
Their quiet but hot gaze,
The language of silent handshakes
And inspirational conversation.
Give sweet sounds:
They guarantee me happiness, -
So quietly they blew
The fire of love in the soul of the ignoramus
And a bright rainbow of hope
My painted days.
But no! not everything changed me:
Another faithful friend to me
He alone is for the sad soul
Friends here replaces the circle.
His talks and lessons
I catch greedy attention;
They are clear and deep
As if the waves of being;
In his rich fantasy
I have lived to the fullest
And early experience did not buy
Raptures of early loss.
He does not sacrifice himself to passions,
He himself does not believe in their dreams;
But, as creatures witness,
He unfolded the fabric of all life.
Him vice and virtue
Equally bear humbly tribute,
As the proud ruler of the world:
My friend, do you recognize Shakespeare?
Message to R[ozhali]nu (I'm young, my friend...)
I am young, my friend, in the color of years,
But I have tasted the sea of life,
And for me there is no secret
Neither in ardent joy, nor in sorrow.
I've been dreaming for a long time
Blindly believed in the stars of heaven
And the ocean is a boundless measure
With his fragile boat.
With haughty joy, it happened,
I looked like my bold boat
I printed my trace in the abyss of waves.
The abyss did not frighten me:
“What to be afraid of?” I thought.
Was the mirror so clear
Like the swell of the seas? So I thought
And proudly swam, forgetting the edges.
And what was hidden under the wave?
About the stone I struck with a boat,
And shatter my boat!
Deceived by heaven and dreams
I cursed fate and dreams...
But from a distance you beckoned me,
As the inviting shore smiled,
I hugged you with delight
I believed again in pleasure
And combined with a cold life
Souls of hot dreams.
Poet
Do you know the son of the gods
A favorite of muses and inspiration?
Would I know between the earthly sons
Are you his speech, his movements?
He is not quick-tempered, and a strict mind
Does not shine in noisy conversation,
But a clear beam of high thoughts
Involuntarily shines in a clear look.
Let around him, in a child of comfort,
Windy youth is raging,
Crazy cry, immodest laughter
And unbridled joy:
Everything is alien, wild for him,
He calmly looks at everything
Only rarely something from his mouth
Breaks a fleeting smile.
His goddess is simplicity,
And the quiet genius of thought
He was given from birth
The seal of silence on the lips.
His dreams, his desires
His fears, hopes -
Everything is a mystery in him, everything in him is silent:
Carefully keeps in the soul
He has unresolved feelings...
When suddenly something
Excite the fiery chest -
Soul, without fear, without art,
Ready to pour out in speeches
And shines in fiery eyes ...
And again he is quiet and bashful
He lowers his gaze to the ground
As if he hears a reproach
For irrevocable impulses.
Oh if you meet him
With meditation on a stern forehead -
Walk without noise near him,
Don't break with a cold word
His sacred, silent dreams;
Look with tears of awe
And say: this is the son of the gods,
A favorite of muses and inspiration.
Poet and friend
You only flourish in life
And the world is clear before you, -
Why are you young at heart
Do you feed on an insidious dream?
Who is close to the door of the grave,
That mouth does not burn
Not so passionate is his soul,
In greetings, the eyes do not brighten,
Is that how his hand shakes?
My friend! your words are in vain
Feelings do not lie to me - their language
I have long been accustomed to understand
And their prophecies are clear to me.
My soul told me a long time ago:
You will rush through the world like lightning!
You can feel everything
But you won't enjoy life.
Nature's precept is not so strict.
Do not despise her gifts:
She is the joy of youth
Gives us hope and dreams.
You proudly heard their greetings;
She's a holy desire
Itself lit in your blood
And in the chest for sweet love
Invested in a young heart.
Nature is not for everyone
He lifts his secret veil:
We still read in it
But who reads and understands?
Only the one who from youthful days
Was a fiery priest of art,
Who did not spare life for feelings,
I bought a crown with torment,
Above the bustle ascended in spirit
And hearts tremble with eager hearing,
To the one who completed the lot,
The loss of life is not a loss -
Without fear, he will leave the world!
Fate is rich in its gifts,
And she has more than one law:
To that - flourish with developed power
And erase the trace of life with death,
Another is to die early
But to live behind a gloomy grave!
My friend! why cheat?
Not! life does not cherish us twice.
I love that my heart warms
What can I call mine
What a pleasure in a full bowl
We are offered every day.
And what's behind the coffin, it's not ours:
Let our shadow be praised
Our naked skeleton is torn off,
At the behest of a windy dream
Give him a face, features
And the ghost is called glory!
No, my friend! glory do not scold.
The soul is related to the dream;
She is good hope
Sorrow lit up the days.
It's sweet for me to believe that with me
Not everything, not everything will die suddenly
And what my mouth was saying -
Fun is a fleeting sound
The melody of thoughtful sadness, -
Still reminds me
And a bold verse will disturb more than once
The mind of an ardent young man in a dream,
And the old man with a tear, perhaps
Works unfaithful will read -
He will find a seal in their souls
And he says a word of compassion:
“How I love his creatures!
He breathes the heat of beauty,
In it mind and heart agreed
And thoughts were full of rushing
On the light wings of a dream.
How he knew life, how little he lived!
The prophecies of the poet came true
And a friend in tears with the beginning of summer
Visited his grave.
How he knew life! how little he lived!
Sonnet (To you, O pure Spirit...)
To you, O pure Spirit, source of inspiration,
My thoughts fly on the wings of love;
She is lost in the vale of confinement,
And everything calls her to heavenly lands.
But you clothed yourself in a veil of eternal mystery:
In vain my spirit strives to soar to you.
I read you in the depths of my heart,
And I'm left with hope and love.
Thunder with hope, thunder with love, lyre!
On the eve of eternity, thunder with his praise!
And if the world collapsed, eclipsed the light of the ether
And chaos crushed nature with emptiness, -
Thunder! Let them mourn among the ruins of the world
Love with hope and holy faith!
Sonnet (Quietly my days...)
Quietly my days bloomed in the valley of life;
I was cherished fun with a dream.
To me the world of fantasy was a clear land of the fatherland,
He attracted me with familiar beauty.
But early the flame of feelings, spiritual impulses
They destroyed me with magical power:
I'm losing a happy ray of sweet life,
Just a memory from the past.
O muse! I have known your charm!
I saw the brilliance of lightning, the ferocity of furious waves;
I heard the crackling of thunders and the howl of a storm:
But what can be compared with a singer when he is full of passion?
Sorry! your pet is dying
And the perishing one blesses you.
three roses
In the deaf steppe of the earth's road,
Emblem of heavenly beauty,
Three roses were thrown to us by the gods,
Eden's best flowers.
Alone under a cashmere sky
Blooms near a bright stream;
She's a marshmallow lover
And the inspiration of the nightingale.
Neither day nor night does she wither,
And if someone breaks it,
As soon as the morning ray peeps through,
A fresh rose will bloom.
Even prettier is the other one:
She, a ruddy dawn
Blooming in the early sky
Captivates with bright beauty.
Fresh from this rose blows
And it's more fun to meet her:
For a moment she glows,
But every day it blooms again.
Still fresh from the third blows,
Although she is not in heaven;
She cherishes for hot lips
Love on virgin cheeks.
But this rose will soon wither:
She is shy and gentle
And in vain the morning ray will glimpse -
It won't bloom again.
three fates
Three fates in the world are enviable, friends.
Lucky, who controls fate for centuries,
In the soul of an unsolved thought melting.
He sows for the harvest, but does not reap the harvest:
The peoples of recognition did not praise him,
The peoples of the curse do not reproach him.
For centuries he bequeaths a deep plan;
After the death of the immortal, things ripen.
More enviable than a poet's destiny on earth.
From infancy, he became friends with nature,
And the heart of the stone saved from the cold,
And the rebellious mind is brought up by freedom,
And a ray of inspiration lit up in the eyes.
He clothes the whole world in harmonious sounds;
Is the heart embarrassed by the excitement of flour -
He will cry out grief in burning verses.
But believe, O others! a hundred times happier
A carefree pet of fun and laziness.
Deep thoughts do not trouble the soul,
He does not know tears and fire of inspiration,
And the day for him, like another, flew by,
And he will meet the future again carelessly,
And the heart will wither without heartache -
Oh rock! why didn't you give me this lot?
Comfort
Blessed is the one to whom fate has invested
In the mouth of a high gift of speech,
To whom she hearts the people
Subdued by magical power;
Like Prometheus, he stole
Source of life, wondrous flame
And around myself, like Pygmalion,
Animates the cold stone.
Few heavenly gift
They receive a happy lot,
And rarely, rarely the heart is hot
The mouth obediently expresses.
But if the soul is invested
Though a spark of noble passion, -
Believe me, she is not in vain in her,
She does not warm fruitlessly ...
It was not with this that fate set her on fire,
So that death is cold ash
She was forever extinguished:
No! - that in the depths of the soul,
The grave will not carry him away:
It will stay with me.
The souls of prophecy are true.
I knew the impulses of the heart
I was their victim, I suffered
And he did not grumble at suffering;
I had comfort in my life
What is not in vain torment
The chest was torn to pieces before the deadline.
He said, "Someday
The fruit of this torment of mystery will ripen
And the word is strong by chance
In the unexpected flame of speeches
It will break out of your chest;
You will drop him for good reason:
It will set fire to someone else's chest,
Like a spark falls into her
And it will wake up in a fire.
But an hour will pass - and our boats
They suffered death towards them!
They are still hidden behind the rock;
But soon they will fly out to the mercy of the shafts.
Son of the North! get ready for a fight.
B a i r o n
I am always ready to die.
Yes! Death is sweet when the color of life
You bring it as a tribute to your fatherland.
I have met her many times
Among our valiant squad,
And the fluctuations of the deep sea
Hope, life and everything entrusted.
I remember the glorious coast of Chio -
He is in the memory of his enemies.
In the midst of the faithful pier, spending the night,
Calm Mohammedans
They did not think about the noise of scolding.
Peace cherished their carelessness.
But we, we Greeks, are not afraid
Disturb the sleep of your enemies:
We fly on ten boats;
Fatal lightnings rose,
And in an instant the waves of the sea lit up.
Hulks of ships took off -
And everything was quiet in the abyss of waters.
What did the ray of clear morning light up?
Just an empty ocean
Where occasionally a wreck of a ship
Rushing to the green shores
Or a cold corpse, and with a turban,
Swinging quietly over the wave.
Ramparts of the Archipelago
Boil under an evil gang;
Friends! on ships
Turbans flicker in the distance,
And the months are shining
On white sails.
The slaves of the Sultan are sailing,
But the commandment of the Quran
They are not guaranteed to win.
May they be carried by courage!
Sons of the Archipelago
They will send death after them.
Eagle! What Perun is hostile
He called you into the darkness of the graves?
Oh Eurus! vey sad news!
Roar sadly, stormy shaft!
May Albion be a distant shore,
Trembling, hears that he has fallen.
Flock, tribes of Hellas,
Sons of freedom and victory!
Let instead of laurels and awards
Our vow will burst over the coffin:
Fight with a fiery soul
For the happiness of Greece, for revenge,
And as a sacrifice to the fallen hero
Bring the faded moon!
Elegy (Sorceress! How sweetly you sang...)
Enchantress! How sweetly you sang
About the wondrous land of charm,
About the hot homeland of beauty!
How I loved your memories
How eagerly I listened to your words
And how he dreamed of the land of the unknown!
You got drunk on this wonderful air,
And your speech so passionately breathes it!
You looked at the color of heaven for a long time
And she brought us the color of heaven in our eyes.
Your soul flared up so clearly
And a new fire in my chest lit.
But this fire is languid, rebellious,
He does not burn with quiet, tender love, -
Not! he burns, and torments, and mortifies,
Agitated by changing desire,
It suddenly subsides, then boils violently,
And the heart will awaken again with suffering.
Why, why did you sing so sweetly?
Why did I listen to you so eagerly
And from your lips, singer of beauty,
Did you drink the poison of dreams and joyless passion?
I feel it burns in me
Holy flame of inspiration
But the spirit soars towards the dark goal...
Who will show me the way of salvation?
I see life in front of me
Boils like a boundless ocean...
Will I find a sure rock
Where can I rest my firm foot?
Ile, full of eternal doubt,
I will sadly look
To the changing waves
Not knowing what to love, what to sing?
Open your eyes to all nature, -
But give them choice and freedom
Your hour has not yet come:
Now chase the wonderful life
And resurrect every moment in it,
For every sound her calling -
Respond with a hymn!
When are the moments of surprise
Like a foggy dream, they will fly by
And the secrets of eternal creation
Clearer read a calm look, -
Humble proud desire
Embrace the whole world in a single moment,
And the sounds of your quiet strings
Merge into slender creatures.
And my faithful strings
Since then, the soul has not changed.
I sing either joy or sorrow,
Now the ardor of passions, then the heat of love,
And fleeting thoughts innocently
I trust in the flame of poetry.
So the nightingale in the shade of the oaks,
Delight short obedient,
When the shadow falls on the valleys,
Sad evening sings
And in the morning cheerfully meets
In the ruddy sky is a bright day.
VENEVITINOV, Dmitry Vladimirovich - Russian poet, critic. Born into an old noble family. He received an excellent home education. Seriously engaged in music and painting.
As a volunteer, he attended lectures at Moscow University. Having passed the exams at the university in 1824, he entered the service of the Moscow archive of the Collegium of Foreign Affairs. In October 1826 he was transferred to the diplomatic service in St. Petersburg, where he died. The extraordinary talent of Venevitinov manifested itself very early and amazed his contemporaries with its depth and versatility. Venevitinov was one of the initiators of the Society for Philosophy (founded in 1823), which studied philosophy, mainly German (F. Schelling, L. Oken, and others). In 1826, Venevitinov developed a plan for a new type of literary and philosophical journal, partly implemented in the journal Moskovsky Vestnik; together with A. S. Pushkin he was one of the participants in the first issue (1827). The small literary heritage of Venevitinov stands out among the romantic poetry of the 1920s for its philosophical orientation and social significance. According to V. G. Belinsky, “in his poems, a truly ideal, and not a dreamily ideal direction shines through; in them one can see the content that contained the self-active force of development. The poetry of Venevitinov reflected the freedom-loving ideas of the era of the Decembrists (,,, "The Death of Byron"). The theme of the ancient Novgorod freemen is reflected in the poem, which was twice banned by censorship. The cycle of poems is dedicated to the cult of friendship - a feeling that Venevitinoa elevated to an all-encompassing love for people-brothers. Many poems and theoretical statements by Venevitinov in his articles are devoted to the high purpose of poetry and the poet. Philosophical motives of Venevitinov's lyrics were further developed in poetry E. A. Baratynsky, M. Yu. Lermontova, F. I. Tyutcheva. Venevitinov owns translations in verse and prose from Latin (Virgil), French (J. B. Gresse, Ch. Milvois), and German (E. T. A. Hoffmann and others). The best are Venevitinov's translations from W. Goethe (excerpts from "Faust", from the tragedy "Egmont", dramas in verse "The Earthly Destiny of the Artist" and "The Apotheosis of the Artist"). Among the literary-critical articles of Venevitinov stands out "Analysis of an article on "Eugene Onegin"", highly acclaimed A. S. Pushkin. Venevitinov also wrote about painting and music. In aesthetics, he put forward the idea of the historical complication of art forms, opposing the normative aesthetics of classicism. Speaking for the nationality and originality of art, he called on the poet to civil service (the article "Answer to Mr. Polevoy", etc.). In philosophical articles (“On the State of Enlightenment in Russia”, published under the title “A Few Thoughts for a Journal Plan”, 1831), Venevitinov operates with dialectical categories, seeing the struggle of contradictions as a source of movement and development. The early death of Venevitinov, “strangled”, according to A. I. Herzen, “by the rough grip of Russian life”, caused poetic epitaphs A. A. Delviga, A. V. Koltsova, A. I. Odoevsky, Lermontov and others. N. G. Chernyshevsky wrote about him: “If Venevitinov had lived for at least ten years more, he would have moved our literature forward for decades ...”.
Cit.: Full. coll. cit., ed. and with note. B. V. Smirensky. Intro. Art. D. D. Blagogo, [M. - L.], 1934; Favorites. Intro. Art., prepared. text and notes. B. V. Smirensky. Moscow, 1956. Poems. Articles, ed. and note. M. Aronson and I. Sergievsky, [L.], 1937; Poems. Intro. Art., ed. and note. V. L. Komarovich, L., 1940; Full coll. poems. Intro. Art., preparation of the text and notes. B. V. Neiman, L., 1960.
Lit .: History of Russian. literature, vol. 6, M. - L., 1953; Pyatkovsky A. P., Prince V. F. Odoevsky and D. V. Venevitinov, 3rd ed., St. Petersburg, 1901; Sakulin P.N., From the history of Russian. idealism, vol. 1, Moscow, 1913; Fatov N., Love and death of D. V. Venevitinova, “Rus. philological Bulletin, Warsaw, 1914, No. 3-4; Oksman Yu., Censored materials about D. V. Venevitinov, “Lit. museum”, 1, P., [b. g.], p. 340-47; Straten V. [V.], D. V. Venevitinov and Mosk. Bulletin", "Izv. ORYAS AN USSR”, L., 1925, v. 29; Mordovchenko N.I., Rus. criticism of the first quarter of the 19th century, M. - L., 1959.
B. V. Smirensky
Brief literary encyclopedia: In 9 volumes - Vol. 1. - M .: Soviet encyclopedia, 1962
In his theoretical statements, Venevitinov is a staunch preacher of the study of German literature, in particular Goethe, who is opposed by him to the "conditional fetters and ignorant self-confidence of the French", and the first theorist of "philosophical romanticism" in Russia. However, Venevitinov managed to embody these principles in his poetic work to a weak degree: they reach their full flowering on Russian soil much later in philosophical lyrics. Tyutchev. The cult of friendship, passionate love, poetry and the poet, opposed to the "soulless and empty crowd" - these are the most typical motifs of Venevitinov's poems, which, in their purely poetic qualities, are very remarkable for a twenty-year-old poet, but in general do not distinguish him from the general channel of poetry of the 20s gg. Venevitinov did not remain alien to the freedom-loving tendencies of the Decembrist era in the coloration of rudimentary Slavophilism (poem), but they also did not receive significant development in his work. The circumstances of his personal life - hopeless love, the charm that he had on his writer friends, untimely death - all this surrounded him with a special romantic halo, made him a living legend of Russian literature. To this, and also to the promises that the highly gifted young man made, more than to the fulfillment, he owes the wide fame that his name and his poetry enjoyed.
Bibliography: I. Complete. coll. sochin., ed. Pyatkovsky, St. Petersburg., 1862 (the best edition available). Unpublished poems by Venevitinov published in the newspaper. "The Day", St. Petersburg., 1913 (supplement to No. 219) and journal. "The Sun of Russia", No. 26/177, St. Petersburg., 1913 and "Russian Antiquity", April, St. Petersburg., 1914.
II. Koshelev A.I., Literary Notes, Berlin, 1884; Barsukov N., Life and Works of Pogodin, St. Petersburg, 1888-1899 (see the index at the last XXII volume); Pyatkovsky A.P., Prince. Odoevsky and Venevitinov, 3rd ed., St. Petersburg, 1901; Bobrov E., Literature and education in Russia in the 19th century, vol. I, Kazan, 1901; Kotlyarevsky N., Ancient portraits, St. Petersburg., 1907; Bobrov E., Philosophy in Russia, Sat. II and News of the Russian branch. lang. and verbal, vol. XV, book. 1, St. Petersburg., 1910; Sakulin P.N., From the history of Russian idealism, book. V. F. Odoevsky, vol. I, M., 1913; Spitzer S., Materials for the biography of Venevitinov, "Voice of the Past", No. 1, 1914; Oksman Yu., Censored materials about Venevitinov, Literary Museum, I, P., 1921; Straten V.V., Venevitinov and the Moscow Bulletin, News of the Russian Department. lang. and verbal R. A. N., vol. XXIX, L., 1924.
D. Blagoy
Literary Encyclopedia: In 11 volumes - [M.], 1929-1939
Dmitry Vladimirovich Venevitinov lived a short, impetuous life. For the education of the future poet, the best teachers were invited, who revealed to him a clear, harmonious, majestic world of antiquity and the secrets of ancient languages. He knew the Venevitins and modern European languages: French, German, English, Italian. He was taught domestic literature by A.F. Merzlyakov, a well-known theorist, critic and poet at that time, the author of the song “Among the flat valley ...”. Music - composer and pianist Genishta. Painting - the artist Lapersh ... What the teachers did not have time or could not give Venevitinov, he made up for self-education: from the age of seventeen he attended lectures at Moscow University as a volunteer.
The completeness of knowledge about the culture of the past has become the basis for independent creativity; by 1824, when Venevitinov entered the service of the Moscow Archives of the Collegium of Foreign Affairs and entered the circle of "archival youths" (expression Pushkin), he was already the author of several poems, mostly freely transcribing ancient and modern European authors.
In his early poems, the path that is usual for a novice poet of those years is captured. From friendly messages (, ), permeated with the usual motifs of “serving the muses”, worshiping freedom and joy, “sweet and peaceful pursuits”, he easily moves on to a poem (1824), tailored according to the model of the Scottish Poems of Ossian (their author was a brilliant mystifier XVIII century J. MacPherson). Next to the Scottish epic - and Russian antiquity (), and the crystal-strict Western European form of the sonnet ...
By the time the "Sonnets" (1825) was created, the unique literary world of the poet Dmitry Venevitinov had finally taken shape. This is a world where the word is freed from the burden of concreteness, and the events of real life are transferred to the space of human thought. The elegiac vocabulary, quite traditional, is transformed, filled with philosophical meaning.
Venevitinov also creates several original philosophical works in prose, among which the Anaxagoras dialogue stands out, where, at the behest of the author, the interlocutors are the ancient Greek philosophers Anaxagoras and Plato, who lived in different eras. It doesn't matter to the young poet when the "real" Plato and Anaxagoras lived and whether they could exchange opinions. The main thing is that both of them loved wisdom more than all earthly pleasures and that in hoary antiquity they were worried about the same question of the possibility of the triumph of a harmonic “golden age”, which in the 19th century also occupies the wise Venevitinov.
By 1823, a circle of lovers of wisdom was formed in Moscow - philosophies, which, in addition to Venevitinov, included prose writer V. F. Odoevsky, critic I. V. Kireevsky, writers N. M. Rozhalin and A. I. Koshelev; the prose writer and historian M.P. Pogodin, the poet and philologist S.P. Shevyrev adjoined the circle. These then young writers challenged the philosophical tastes of the era. They turned their mental gaze to the works of the thinkers of "Germany foggy" - Schelling, Fichte, and partly Kant. Formally, the circle broke up in 1825, but spiritual unity continued to be maintained for some time.
For a short time he became close to the wisdom of wisdom Pushkin. He wrote a poem "Three Keys", clearly echoing in its reflections on the three epochs of human life with Venevitinov's (1826), (1826 or 1827). Pushkin even became the initiator of the publication of the journal of wisdom "Moscow Bulletin" (Venevitinov is the author of his program). But the “poet of reality” was alien to some speculativeness characteristic of Venevitinov, who addressed himself in this way (1826 or 1827):
If only you knew that these sounds, If only their secret language You would penetrate with a fiery feeling, - ... Then you would not want to flash The guise of forced passion, But you would be in a corner, solitary, Hiding an all-loving chest. You would secretly shed tears And warm embraces to them, As a friend of the universe, extended.
Everything is typical in this poem. And the desire not only to experience the structure of music, but to know its “secret language”. And the structure of the phrase, stylized as “German syntax”: “in the corner ... hid all-loving breasts.” And the expression “friend of the universe”, which is much more “vague” and romantically universal than the “friend of mankind” that came into Russian cultural use from France ... After all, even the dramatic feeling of unrequited love for Princess Zinaida Volkonskaya - the hostess of one of the best literary salons in Moscow - becomes the theme of the lyrics, acquired a sublime and philosophical sound from Venevitinov (,, both - 1826 or 1827).
On the shaky foundation of this very expressive combination of dramatic sensations and clarity of thought rests Venevitin's idea of the role of the artist in the world, of his heavenly vocation and position in earthly society. It is no coincidence that the poet, who brilliantly translated a fragment of Faust by I.-V. Goethe chose for free translation two other scenes of the brilliant German writer, which became one of his best poetic transcriptions. The first scene - "The Earthly Destiny of the Artist" (1826 or 1827) - shows the morning from the life of a wonderful painter, forced to paint a portrait of a "fat, bad-looking coquette" for the sake of food, and only snatches between custom works who have the opportunity to work on the image of Venus-Urania. The muse consoles the desperate master: “Your living delight, artist, rewards you. ... And you are rich in honor, although you are not noble. The conflicts of genius and the crowd, righteousness and wealth, creativity and daily bread, familiar from the literature of romanticism. Here they acquire a complete, classically accurate embodiment. But years and years pass, and the events shown in the scene of "The Apotheosis of the Artist" unfold. A young student copies a picture in the gallery when they bring in a canvas depicting Venus-Urania, bought with the money of the prince-philanthropist. “The ceiling is opening. The Muse, holding the artist by the hand, appears on a cloud. But for some reason the great painter is not happy about this; on the contrary, he bitterly asks:
Let all my creations praise! But did I know glory in life? Tell me, my heavenly, What is my consolation now, That they pay for me with gold?
And, destroying the romantic stereotype, he appeals to the Muse, “pointing to the student”: “Prepare a wreath for him in heaven, But here give a vessel of charm, Without poison, tears, without an admixture of suffering!”
Venevitinov himself did not know poverty, was not bypassed by fame, but life brought a very personal and irreparably tragic subtext into these lines of his.
At the entrance to St. Petersburg, the poet, already not distinguished by his health, was mistakenly arrested, interrogated and kept for a day or two in a damp guardhouse. In the future, with all his enthusiasm for the new service in the Asian Department, he suffered from a rotten northern climate. In the winter of 1827 he caught a cold; The disease could not be stopped, and soon the doctor warned the friends who had gathered in the patient's apartment that Venevitinov had only a few hours to live. Tell him the terrible news fell A. S. Khomyakov. Khomyakov went up to the dying man and put on his finger the ring given by Volkonskaya, which the poet swore to wear either on the wedding day or on the day of death ...
A twenty-two-year-old young man passed away from life, beautiful in appearance, showing promise, declaring himself in various fields. The elegiac formulas of his poetry were suddenly filled with an ominous meaning of prophecy: “The poet's prophecies came true, And a friend in tears visited His grave at the beginning of summer. How he knew life! how little he lived! This meaning was "fixed" by numerous epitaphs and poetic responses to the death of the poet ( Delvig and Tumansky, Khomyakov and 3. Volkonskaya, Lermontov and Koltsov...). Thus was born and finally took shape the legend of the brilliant young singer Dmitry Venevitinov, a legend that has become no less significant fact in the history of Russian culture than his wonderful poems.
A. Arkhangelsky
