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Circassian with centuries-old roots. North Caucasus through the centuries
In the village, on its thresholds,
The Circassians are sitting idle.
Sons of the Caucasus speak
About abusive, disastrous worries,
About the beauty of your horses,
About the pleasures of wild bliss;
Remember the old days
Irresistible raids
Deceptions of cunning bridles (3),
The blows of the checkers (4) of their cruel,
And the accuracy of the inevitable arrows,
And the ashes of devastated villages,
And the caresses of the black-eyed captives.
Conversations flow in silence;
The moon floats in the night fog;
And suddenly in front of them on horseback
Circassian. He's fast on the lasso
He dragged the young prisoner.
“Here is a Russian!” – the predator screamed.
The village ran to his cry
A fierce crowd;
But the prisoner is cold and dumb,
With a disfigured head,
Like a corpse, he remained motionless.
He does not see the faces of his enemies,
He does not hear threats or screams;
The dream of death flies over him
And breathes a pernicious cold.
And for a long time the young prisoner
He lay in heavy oblivion.
It's already noon on his head
Burnt in a cheerful radiance;
And the spirit of life woke up in him,
An indistinct groan came from his lips;
Warmed by the sun's ray,
The unfortunate man rose quietly;
A weak gaze looks around...
And he sees: inaccessible mountains
A bulk rose above him,
Nest of robber tribes,
Circassian liberty fence.
The young man remembered his captivity,
Like a terrible dream of anxiety,
And he hears: they suddenly thundered
His shackled feet...
Everything, everything was said by a terrible sound;
Nature was eclipsed before him.
Forgive me, sacred freedom!
Behind the saklyas (5) lies
He's at the barbed fence.
Circassians in the field, no supervision,
In the empty village everything is silent.
Before him are desert plains
They lie like a green veil;
There are ridges of hills there
Monotonous peaks;
There's a lonely path between them
Lost in the distance, gloomy -
And the captive's young breast
I was deeply agitated by thoughts...
A long way leads to Russia,
To the country where fiery youth
He began proudly without worries;
Where did he first know joy?
Where I loved a lot of sweet things,
Where I embraced terrible suffering,
Where the stormy life ruined
Hope, joy and desire
And memories of better days
He concluded in a withered heart.
................................................
He experienced people and light
And he knew the price of an unfaithful life.
In the hearts of friends I found betrayal,
In the dreams of love, a crazy dream,
Bored of being a victim as usual
Long despised vanity,
And bilingual hostility,
And simple-minded slander,
Renegade of light, friend of nature,
He left his native land
And flew to a distant land
With the cheerful ghost of freedom.
Freedom! he's the only one for you
I also searched in the desert world.
Feelings destroyed by passions,
Having grown cold to dreams and to the lyre,
With the excitement of the song he listened,
Inspired by you,
And with faith, fiery prayer
Your proud idol hugged.
It has come to pass... the purpose of hope
He sees nothing in the world.
And you, last dreams,
And you hid from him.
He is a slave. Leaning head on the stone,
He waits for the gloomy dawn
The flame of sad life has gone out,
And longs for the canopy of the grave.
The sun is already fading behind the mountains;
There was a noisy rumble in the distance;
People go from the fields to the village,
Sparkling blonde braids.
They arrived; lights came on in the houses,
And gradually the noise is discordant
He fell silent; everything is in the shadow of the night
Enveloped in a calm bliss;
A mountain spring sparkles in the distance,
Running down the stone rapids;
Dress yourself in a veil of clouds
Sleeping peaks of the Caucasus...
But who, in the moonlight,
Among the deep silence
Walking, walking furtively?
The Russian woke up. In front of him,
With gentle and silent greetings,
There is a young Circassian woman standing.
He silently looks at the girl
And he thinks: this is a false dream,
Tired feelings are an empty game.
A little illuminated by the moon,
With a joyful smile of pity
On bended knee, she
Kumis (6) cool to his lips
He brings it with a quiet hand.
But he forgot the healing vessel;
He catches with a greedy soul
Pleasant speech, the sound is magical
And the eyes of a young maiden.
He does not understand alien words;
Live! and the prisoner comes to life.
And he, having gathered the rest of his strength,
Submissive to my dear command,
He stood up and took the wholesome cup
Quenched my thirst.
Then he leaned on the stone again
Burdened with a head;
But all to the young Circassian woman
His faded gaze sought;
And for a long, long time before him
She sat thoughtfully;
As if silently participating
I wanted to console the prisoner;
Lips involuntarily every hour
As soon as the speech began, they opened up;
She sighed more than once
My eyes filled with tears.
Over the days the days passed like a shadow.
In the mountains, shackled, near the herd
The prisoner spends every day.
Caves dark cool
It hides in the summer heat;
When will the horn of the silver moon
It will flash behind the gloomy mountain,
Circassian woman, along a shady path,
Brings wine to the prisoner,
Kumis, and fragrant honeycomb beehives,
And snow-white millet;
The secret supper is shared with him;
A gentle gaze rests on him;
Merges with unclear speech
Eyes and signs conversation;
He also sings songs of the mountains to him,
And songs of happy Georgia (7)
And impatient memory
Transmits a foreign language.
For the first time as a virgin soul
She loved, knew happiness;
But Russian life is young
I lost my voluptuousness long ago:
He couldn't answer with his heart
Infant love, open -
Perhaps a dream of forgotten love
He was afraid to remember.
Our youth will not suddenly fade away,
Not suddenly delights will abandon us,
And unexpected joy
We will hug more than once;
But you, living impressions,
Original love
Heavenly flame of rapture,
You won't come again.
The prisoner seemed hopeless
I got used to a dull life.
Melancholy of bondage, rebellious heat
He hid it deep in his soul.
Lagging between gloomy rocks
In the early morning cool,
He fixed his curious gaze
To remote communities
Gray, ruddy, blue mountains.
Magnificent paintings!
Thrones of eternal snow,
Their peaks seemed to my eyes
A motionless chain of clouds,
And in their circle is a two-headed colossus,
Shining in an icy crown,
Elbrus is huge, majestic,
White in the blue sky (8).
When, merging with a dull roar,
The forerunner of the storm, the thunder roared,
How often does a prisoner over an aul
Sitting motionless on the mountain!
The clouds were smoking at his feet,
Flying dust fluttered in the steppe;
Already a shelter between the rocks
Elen looked frightened;
Eagles rose from the cliffs
And they echoed in the skies;
The noise of herds, the mooing of herds
The voice of the storm has already drowned out...
And suddenly there is rain and hail
Lightning erupted from the clouds;
Waves of a swarm of steepness,
Shifting age-old stones,
Streams of rain flowed -
And the prisoner, from the mountain heights,
Alone, behind a thunder cloud,
I was waiting for the return of the sun,
Out of reach of a thunderstorm,
And storms to a weak howl
He listened with some joy.
But the European gets all the attention
This wonderful people attracted me.
Between the mountaineers the prisoner watched
Their faith, morals, upbringing,
I loved the simplicity of their lives,
Hospitality, thirst for abuse,
Free movements, speed,
And the lightness of the legs, and the strength of the hand;
He looked for hours at a time,
How sometimes the Circassian is agile,
Wide steppe, through the mountains,
In a shaggy hat, in a black burka,
Leaning towards the bow, on the stirrups
Leaning on your slender leg,
He flew at the will of the horse,
Getting used to war in advance.
He admired the beauty
Clothes are abusive and simple.
The Circassian is hung with weapons;
He is proud of him, comforted by him:
He is wearing armor, a arquebus, a quiver,
Kuban bow, dagger, lasso
And a checker, an eternal friend
His works, his leisure.
Nothing bothers him
Nothing will blurt out: on foot, on horseback -
He's still the same; still the same look
Invincible, unyielding.
The threat of careless Cossacks,
His wealth is a zealous horse,
Pet of mountain herds,
Comrade faithful, patient,
In a cave or in the deaf grass
An insidious predator lurks with him
And suddenly, like a sudden arrow,
Seeing a traveler, he strives;
In an instant, a sure fight
His mighty blow will decide,
And a wanderer in the gorges of the mountains
The flying lasso is already attracting.
The horse strives at full speed,
Filled with fiery courage;
All the way to him: swamp, forest,
Bushes, cliffs and ravines;
A bloody trail follows him,
There is a trampling sound in the desert;
The gray stream rustles before him -
He rushes into the boiling depths;
And the traveler, thrown to the bottom,
Swallows a muddy wave,
Exhausted, he asks for death
And he sees her in front of him...
But his powerful horse is like an arrow
The foamy one washes up on shore.
Or, grabbing a horned stump,
Thrown into the river by a thunderstorm,
When there's a veil on the hills
The shadow of a moonless night lies,
Circassian with centuries-old roots,
Hangs on a branch all around
Your own battle armor:
Shield, cloak, armor and helmet,
Quiver and bow - and in the fast waves
Then he rushes after him,
Tireless and silent.
Dead night. The river roars;
A mighty current carries him
Along the secluded shores,
Where on the elevated mounds,
Leaning on their spears, the Cossacks
They look at the dark running of the river -
And past them, in the dark darkness,
The villain's weapon floats...
What are you thinking about, Cossack?
Do you remember previous battles?
On the mortal field your bivouac,
Regimental prayers of praise
And homeland?.. A treacherous dream!
Sorry, free villages,
And the house of the fathers, and the quiet Don,
War and red maidens!
A secret enemy has landed on the shores,
The arrow comes out of the quiver -
Soared - and the Cossack fell
From a bloody mound.
When with a peaceful family
Circassian in his father's home
Sometimes he sits in stormy weather,
And the coals smolder in the ashes;
And, hiding from his faithful horse,
Belated in the desert mountains,
A tired stranger will come to him
And timidly sits by the fire:
Then the owner is supportive
Greetings, kindly, gets up
And to the guest in a fragrant cup
Chikhir (9) gives a gratifying serve.
Under a damp cloak, in a smoky hut,
The traveler enjoys a peaceful sleep,
And in the morning he leaves
Accommodation for the night is hospitable (10).
It happened in bright Bairan (11)
The young men will gather in a crowd;
Game follows game:
Then, having completely dismantled the quiver,
They are winged arrows
They pierce eagles in the clouds;
Then from the heights of steep hills
In impatient rows
At this sign, they will suddenly fall,
Like deer they strike the earth,
The plain is covered with dust
And they run with a friendly stomp.
But the monotonous world is boring
To hearts born for war,
And often games of idle will
They are embarrassed by the cruel game.
Checkers often flash menacingly
In the mad frolic of feasts,
And the heads of the slaves fly to dust,
And the babies splash in joy.
But the Russian matured indifferently
These bloody games.
He used to love the games of fame
And he burned with a thirst for death.
Slave of merciless honor,
He saw his end close,
In fights, hard, cold,
Meeting fatal lead.
Perhaps lost in thought,
He remembered that time
When, surrounded by friends,
He feasted noisily with them...
Did he regret the days gone by?
About the days that deceived hope,
Or, curious, contemplated
Austere simplicity of fun
And the customs of the wild people
In this faithful mirror I read -
He hid in deep silence
The movements of your heart,
And on his high forehead
Nothing has changed.
His careless courage
The terrible Circassians marveled,
They spared his young age
And whisper to each other
They were proud of their spoils.
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Pletnev P. A. "Prisoner of the Caucasus." Tale. Op. A. Pushkin // Pushkin in lifetime criticism, 1820-1827 / Pushkin Commission Russian Academy sciences; State Pushkin Theater Center in St. Petersburg. - St. Petersburg: State Pushkin Theater Center, 1996. - P. 116-124. http://next.feb-web.ru/feb/pushkin/critics/vpk/vpk-116-.htm
P. A. PLETNEV
"Prisoner of the Caucasus". Tale. Op. A. Pushkin
The story "Prisoner of the Caucasus" is written in the style of the latest English poems, which are especially found in Byron. Examining “The Prisoner of Chillon” (N VIII “S p and b”, page 209) 1, we noticed that in them the poet does not indulge in the imagination of the miraculous, does not compose an extensive narrative - but, having chosen one incident in the life of his hero, is limited to finishing pictures that appear to the imagination, depending on all the circumstances surrounding the main action. In such works, the choice of incident, local descriptions and the certainty of the character of the characters are the main thing. The incident in the work we are considering is the simplest, but at the same time the most poetic. One Russian was captured by the Circassians. Having become their slave, chained in irons, he is condemned to look after the herds. Compassion gives birth to love for him in a young Circassian woman. She, with her tender participation, tries to ease the heavy burden of his slavery. The prisoner, pursued by his first unhappy love, which he recognized back in his fatherland, indifferently accepts the caresses of his compassionate comforter. All his attention is focused on the curious lifestyle of his wild rulers. (Here ends the first part of the story.) The Captive’s girlfriend, carried away by her passion and tormented by his cold thoughtfulness, tries to awaken love in him with all the caresses of her sincere affection. Touched by her situation, he reveals his secret that his heart is given to another. Mutual grief separates them for some time. Meanwhile, a sudden alarm leads all the Circassians from the village in one day to their predatory raid. The abandoned Captive sees his tender Circassian woman before him. She conquers her fiery love, saws through the Prisoner’s shackles and opens the way for him to his fatherland. The Russian, having crossed the Kuban, turns from the shore to look once again at his magnanimous savior, but the disappearing circle of splashing waters tells him that she is no longer in the world. This ends the story. From this content it is clear that the incident in “Prisoner of the Caucasus” could have been made more varied and even more complete. According to the usual concept of such incidents, it must be said that the course of passion, which can be inventive and tireless, is too short here. The story of the Captive remains even more incomplete. His fate is somewhat mysterious. One cannot help but wish that he, albeit in a different poem, would appear to us and introduce us to his fate. However, this would not be news: similar appearances are found in Byron's poems 2 . The local descriptions in "Prisoner of the Caucasus" can definitely be called the perfection of poetry. The narrative can be better thought out by a poet with less talent against Pushkin; but his descriptions of the Caucasian region will forever remain the first, the only. They were left with an amazing imprint of visible truth, the understandable, so to speak, tangibility of places, people, their lives and their activities, which we are not too rich in in our poetry 3 . We often see the efforts of people who describe, not being able to give themselves an account of the area, because they are familiar with it from their imagination alone. The descriptions in “Caucasian Prisoner” are excellent not only in the perfection of the verses, but especially because one cannot compose similar ones to them without seeing pictures of nature with one’s own eyes. Moreover, there is so much courage in their outline, so much art in their decoration! Colors and shadows, that is, words and their arrangement, change depending on the difference in objects. The poet is sometimes courageous and sometimes flexible, like the diverse nature of this wild Asian region. To make our observations clearer to readers, we present here some local descriptions. Magnificent paintings! Thrones of eternal snow! Their peaks seemed to their eyes like a motionless chain of clouds, and in their circle a two-headed colossus, in a crown of shining ice, the huge, majestic Elbrus, shone white in the blue sky. When, merging with a dull roar, the Forerunner of a storm, thunder thundered, How often did a captive sit above the village, motionless, on the mountain! The clouds were smoking at his feet; Flying dust fluttered in the steppe; Already frightened Elen was looking for shelter between the rocks; Eagles rose from the cliffs and called to each other in the skies; The noise of herds, the lowing of herds Already drowned out the voice of the storm... And suddenly rain and hail poured out of the clouds through lightning on the houses. In waves of a swarm of steepness, Shifting age-old stones, Streams of rain flowed - And the captive, from the mountain heights, Alone, behind the thunder cloud, Waited for the return of the sun, Unattainable by the thunderstorm, And listened to the storm's weak howl With some joy. Let the curious compare this formidable and at the same time captivating picture, in which each verse shines with a new, befitting color, with the description of the surroundings of Bonnivard’s prison, which Byron made in his “Prisoner of Chillon”; then it will be easier to judge how happily our English poet wins under the same circumstances. Byron's picture, placed next to this one, will seem like a light, weak outline, thrown from the most general glance. We miss another description in “Caucasian Prisoner”, where the art of the Circassians is depicted with a faithful and quick brush, with which they carry out experiments in their brave raids. The gift of poetry and the power of imagination could still have led the poet to compose at least such a picture, if he had not been in those places himself. But we cannot help but give a description of the military cunning beloved among the Circassians, which could not be caught in the imagination if the poet himself had not been to the land he described 4 . Or, having grabbed a horned stump, thrown into the river by a thunderstorm, When the shadow of a moonless night lies on the hills like a shroud, the Circassian hangs on centuries-old roots on the branches all around His battle armor: Shield, cloak, armor and helmet, Quiver and bow - and in the fast waves Behind him then rushes in, Tireless and silent. Dead night. The river roars; A mighty current carries him along the secluded banks, where on elevated mounds, leaning on their spears, the Cossacks look at the dark flow of the river, and past them, in the black darkness, the villain’s weapon floats... What are you thinking about, Cossack? Do you remember previous battles, your bivouac on the mortal field, the regiments' prayers of praise and your homeland?.. A treacherous dream! Forgive me, free villages, And the house of fathers, and the quiet Don, War and red maidens! A secret enemy has moored to the shores, an arrow comes out of the quiver, soars - and the Cossack falls from the bloody mound. The mysterious beginning of the description, like a secret Circassian enterprise, lures the reader to the denouement and maintains all the entertainment that is combined with curiosity until the end. But the denouement, like the sudden death of a Cossack, is instantaneous. All these local particulars, captured from nature, give poetry an inexplicable and lasting beauty. The greatest poets, especially the ancient ones, mostly adhered to this rule - and therefore their paintings have nothing monotonous and tedious. We could give many more examples to prove our main opinion that “Prisoner of the Caucasus”, according to its local descriptions, is the most perfect work of our poetry; but we leave it to the readers to verify our judgment on the whole work: excerpts cannot make the same impression as the whole poem. In "Caucasian Prisoner" (as one can already see from the content) there are only two characters: the Circassian woman and the Russian Prisoner. It is more pleasant for us to first talk about the character of the first; because he is more thoughtful and more perfect than the character of the second. Everything that tender compassion, touching innocence and first innocent love can only imagine to the poet’s imagination - everything is depicted in the character of the Circassian woman. She, apparently, appeared to the poet so openly and vividly that he only had to look at her and draw her portrait. But who, in the radiance of the moon, Among the deep silence, Walks, stepping furtively? The Russian woke up. In front of him, with tender and silent greetings, stands a young Circassian woman. He silently looks at the maiden and thinks: this is a false dream, an empty game of tired feelings. Slightly illuminated by the moon, With a smile of joyful pity, bending her knees, she brings cool kumiss to his lips with a quiet hand. But he forgot the healing vessel; With his greedy soul he catches the magical sound of pleasant speech and the gaze of a young maiden. He does not understand alien words; But the gaze is touching, the heat is on the cheeks, But the gentle voice says: Live! and the prisoner comes to life. And he, having gathered the rest of his strength, obedient to his dear command, stood up and quenched his languishing thirst with a beneficial cup. Then he bowed down on the stone again with his burdened head; But still his faded gaze strove towards the young Circassian woman. And for a long, long time in front of him She sat, thoughtfully; As if with silent participation I wanted to console the prisoner; The lips involuntarily opened every hour with the speech begun; She sighed, and more than once her eyes filled with tears. To more vividly imagine all the touching charm of the appearance of the Circassian woman, you need to know that the Captive was in a terrible situation at that time: drawn to the village on a lasso, disfigured by terrible ulcers and chained, he greedily awaited his death - and instead, in the form of the goddess of health , his deliverer comes to him. Over the days the days passed like a shadow. In the mountains, shackled, at The herd is carried out by the captive every day. The dark coolness of the cave hides Him in the summer heat; When the horn of the silver moon flashes behind the gloomy mountain, the Circassian woman, along a shady path, brings wine to the captive, Kumis, and fragrant honeycombs, and snow-white millet. The secret supper is shared with him; A gentle gaze rests on him; Conversation merges with unclear speech of eyes and signs; He sings to him the songs of the mountains, And the songs of happy Georgia, And conveys to the impatient memory a foreign language. We do not dwell on the beauty of each verse separately. Such an analysis would force us to bore our readers with monotonous exclamations. We only want to give a clear idea of this character, which will forever remain with us as a masterful work, and therefore we are forced to choose places where the poet was able to reveal the whole soul of his heroine. Let's listen to how she strives to awaken in the sad Captive the feeling of love that conquered her heart: ...............Dear Prisoner! Cheer your sad gaze, Bow your head on my chest, Forget freedom, forget your homeland: I am glad to hide in the desert With you, the king of my soul! Love me; no one has kissed my eyes until now; To my lonely bed, a young and black-eyed Circassian did not sneak in the silence of the night; I am known as a maiden of cruel, inexorable beauty. I know the lot ready for me: my father and brother, the stern One, want to sell me to someone else’s village at the price of gold; But I will beg my father and brother; Otherwise, I’ll find a dagger or poison. By an incomprehensible, wonderful power, I am completely drawn to you; I love you, dear slave, My soul is intoxicated with you... Can passion speak more convincingly? This passage brings to mind the tender Moina, who with the same simple-heartedness portrays her love for Fingal 5. But in private decoration there is nothing in common between Ozerov and Pushkin; because the persons they describe were taken from different climates and were in different situations. It should be noted with what skill Pushkin took advantage of the fiery and partly frantic character of the wild mountaineers, which should be visible in the most innocent Circassian woman! She, at the mere thought of involuntary marriage, decisively says: I will find a dagger or poison. After such a tender expression of her love, she hears from him a terrible sentence for herself: The prisoner no longer has control over his heart. How quick and strong must be the transition in her soul from hope to despair! Opening her lips, sobbing without tears, the young maiden sat: Her hazy, motionless gaze silently expressed reproach; Pale as a shadow, she trembled; Her cold hand lay in her lover's hands; And finally, the longing for love poured out in a sad speech: “Ah, Russian, Russian! Why, without knowing your heart, did I surrender to you forever? The maiden rested not long on your bosom in oblivion; Fate has not sent many joyful days to her lot! They will come ever again? Has joy perished forever?.. You could, captive, deceive My inexperienced youth, Even out of pity alone, With silence, feigned affection; I would delight your lot with tender and submissive care; I would guard the moments of sleep , The peace of a yearning friend: You didn’t want...... “The poet omitted nothing to complete the image of this simple-minded and gentle character. The passage we have cited can be called an example of art, how to attract the participation of readers to the characters in the poem. Meanwhile, we do not find such certainty in the character of the Captive. It appears to be an unfinished face. There are places that arouse active participation in it. When so slowly, so tenderly You drink my kisses, And for you the hours of love Pass quickly, serenely; Consuming tears in silence, Then absent-minded, sad, Before me, as in a dream, I see an eternally sweet image; I call him, I strive for him, I am silent, I don’t see, I don’t listen; I surrender myself into oblivion and embrace the secret ghost; I shed tears for him in the desert; He wanders with me everywhere and brings gloomy melancholy to my soul. Or - where it is said even more clearly: Don’t cry! And I am persecuted by fate and have experienced the torment of my heart. No! I did not know mutual love; I loved alone, I suffered alone, And I go out like a smoky flame, Forgotten among empty valleys. I will die far from the desired shores; This steppe will be my grave; Here, on the bones of my exiles, a painful chain will rust... Having read these verses, everyone would have formed a clear understanding of the character of a person devoted to tender love for a sweet object that rejected his fatal passion. In this one form, the Prisoner would be the most interesting person in the poem. But in other places, extraneous features that obscure his character are mixed into the image of the Captive. For example, the writer says that the Prisoner lost his fatherland. .....Where He proudly began his fiery youth without worries, Where he knew the first joy, Where he loved a lot of sweet things, Where he embraced terrible suffering, Where the stormy life ruined Hope, joy and desire- And the memory of better days was concluded in a withered heart. ........................................... ......... ................................ He experienced people and the world, And he knew the price of an unfaithful life: I found treason in the hearts of friends, In the dreams of love - a crazy dream. Bored with being a victim of the usual long-despised vanity, And bilingual hostility, And simple-minded slander, A renegade of the world, a friend of nature, He left his native land And flew to a distant land With the cheerful ghost of freedom. According to this description, the imagination either imagines a person tired of the pleasures of love, or hating the vicious world and joyfully leaving his homeland to find a better land. The writer gets his first thought in another place. Forget about me; your love, I'm not worth your admiration. Don’t waste precious days with me; Call another young man. ........................................... ......... ................................ Without rapture, without desires I wither as a victim of passions. Such unclear words from the lips of a passionately loved person give rise to strange thoughts about him. It would be easier and more noble for him to refuse new love his constant affection, although his first love was rejected: all the more surely he would have earned the compassion and respect of the Circassian woman. Meanwhile the words: I'm not worth your admiration, or: without desires I wither as a victim of passions- they cool off any participation in it. An unhappy lover might say to her: “My heart is alien to new love,” but who has reason to admit that he not worth the excitement innocence, he destroys any charm about his morality. This is what made us say that the character of the Russian in “Prisoner of the Caucasus” was not entirely thought out and, consequently, not entirely successful. However, encountering omissions in this poem indicated by the writer himself, we believe What some circumstances forced him to present his work to the public not exactly in the form in which it was formed in its first state. Among the small errors in poetry, we include the following passage in this poem: In the early morning coolness, Stopped he gazed for a long time To remote communities Gray, ruddy, blue mountains. In the other place: But the European gets all the attention This wonderful people attracted - the first verse came out very prosaic. These almost unique and unimportant mistakes are replaced by the continuous, inimitable beauties of true poetry. Criticism cannot and should not speak in cold blood about such works, because they feed educated taste; by their very appearance they destroy the falsely beautiful, clear the field of literature and resolve the noisy talk of ignorance and bias. Pushkin, gifted with true and original talent, is on a par with other excellent poets of our time. Of course, he is not without mistakes. In his first poem, “Ruslan and Lyudmila,” there is an error in plan; the main persons could have appeared more entertainingly, more fully, and more revealed the strength in their characters; but these mistakes are inseparable from the first experiments of an epic kind, requiring the greatest considerations and the maturity of genius. You can guarantee that constant attention and love for his art will bring him to that perfection in plans that is now so visible in the private finishing of his works.Notes
Competitor of education and charity. 1822. Part 20. N 10 (published on October 5). pp. 24-44. The analysis was read and approved at a meeting of the Free Society of Lovers of Russian Literature, held on September 11, 1822 (Bazanov S. 420). Even before the publication of Pletnev’s article, “Competitor” notified its readers about Pushkin’s new work in the section “Announcements about new books” (1822. Part XIX. No. 9. P. 339). 1 This refers to Pletnev’s review of Byron’s poem in Zhukovsky’s translation (The Prisoner of Chillon, Lord Byron’s poem / Translated from English by V. Zh. SPb., 1822), published in “The Competitor” (1822. N 8. pp. 209-221). This refers to Pletnev’s review of Byron’s poem in Zhukovsky’s translation (The Prisoner of Chillon, Lord Byron’s poem / Translated from English by V. Zh. SPb., 1822), published in “The Competitor” (1822. N 8. pp. 209-221). 2 We are talking about the heroes of Byron's poems "The Corsair" and "Lara" (1814). Initially, Byron actually conceived "Lara" as a continuation of "Corsair", but in the process of work the appearance of the hero changed somewhat. In the preface to the first edition of "Lara" Byron placed the following words: "The reader - if "Lara" is destined to have one - will probably regard this poem as a continuation of "The Corsair"; they are similar in character, and although the characters are placed in different positions, their plots are to some extent connected with each other; the face is almost the same, but the expression is different" ( Byron J.G. Works: In 3 volumes. St. Petersburg, 1905. T. 1. P. 350). 3 As Pushkin’s self-assessments testify, he also valued descriptions in Prisoner of the Caucasus above all. Compare: “The Circassians, their customs and morals occupy the largest and best part of my story...” (letter to V.P. Gorchakov, October-November 1822 - XIII, 52). Wed. also the preface to the second edition of "The Prisoner of the Caucasus" (IV, 367) and "Refutation of the Critics" (XI, 145). 4 Wed. Pushkin’s confession in a letter to N.I. Gnedich: “... I set my hero in the monotonous plains, where I myself lived for two months - where four mountains rise at a far distance from each other, the last branch of the Caucasus” (XIII, 28). 5 Moina And Fingal- the main characters of the tragedy "Fingal" (1805) by V. A. Ozerov (1769-1816). Pletnev is referring to the 6th phenomenon of the first act. 6 A hint of censorship omissions in the first edition of the poem.Dedication to N. N. Raevsky
Accept it with a smile, my friend,
Offering to the free muse:
I dedicated the singing of the banished lyre to you
And your inspired leisure time.
When I was dying, innocent, joyless,
And the whispers of slander were heard from all sides,
When the dagger of betrayal is cold,
When love is a heavy dream
I was tormented and killed,
I still found peace near you;
I rested my heart - we loved each other:
And the storms over me have worn out their ferocity,
I blessed the gods in a peaceful haven.On sad days of separation
My thoughtful sounds
Reminded me of the Caucasus,
Where is the cloudy Beshtu, the majestic hermit,
Five-headed ruler of auls and fields,
Parnassus was new to me.
Will I forget its flinty peaks,
Rattled springs, withered plains,
Sultry deserts, lands where you are with me
Shared young souls' impressions;
Where warlike banditry prowls the mountains
And the wild genius of inspiration
Is there a deaf person lurking in the silence?
You will find memories here
Perhaps some sweet days,
Conflicting passions
Familiar dreams, familiar sufferings
And the secret voice of my soul.
We walked differently in life: in the arms of peace
Barely, barely blossomed and after the hero father
Into the bloody fields, under clouds of enemy arrows,
Chosen Child, you flew proudly.
The Fatherland caressed you with tenderness,
Like a sweet sacrifice, like a faithful light of hope.
I learned sorrow early, I was faced with persecution;
I am a victim of slander and vengeful ignoramuses;
But, having strengthened my heart with freedom and patience,
I waited carelessly for better days;
And the happiness of my friends
It was sweet comfort to me.
Part I
In the village, on its thresholds,
The Circassians are sitting idle.
Sons of the Caucasus speak
About abusive, disastrous worries,
About the beauty of your horses,
About the pleasures of wild bliss;
Remember the old days
Irresistible raids
Deceptions of cunning bridles,
The blows of their cruel checkers,
And the accuracy of the inevitable arrows,
And the ashes of devastated villages,
And the caresses of the black-eyed captives.Conversations flow in silence;
The moon floats in the night fog;
And suddenly in front of them on horseback
Circassian. He's fast on the lasso
He dragged the young prisoner.
“Here is a Russian!” – the predator screamed.
The village ran to his cry
A fierce crowd;
But the prisoner is cold and dumb,
With a disfigured head,
Like a corpse, he remained motionless.
He does not see the faces of his enemies,
He does not hear threats or screams;
The dream of death flies over him
And breathes a pernicious cold.And for a long time the young prisoner
He lay in heavy oblivion.
It's already noon on his head
Burnt in a cheerful radiance;
And the spirit of life woke up in him,
An indistinct groan came from his lips;
Warmed by the sun's ray,
The unfortunate man rose quietly;
A weak gaze looks around...
And he sees: inaccessible mountains
A bulk rose above him,
Nest of robber tribes,
Circassian liberty fence.
The young man remembered his captivity,
Like a terrible dream of anxiety,
And he hears: they suddenly thundered
His shackled feet...
Everything, everything was said by a terrible sound;
Nature was eclipsed before him.
Forgive me, sacred freedom!
He is a slave.
Behind the saklyas lies
He's at the barbed fence.
Circassians in the field, no supervision,
In the empty village everything is silent.
Before him are desert plains
They lie like a green veil;
There are ridges of hills there
Monotonous peaks;
There's a lonely path between them
Lost in the distance, gloomy -
And the captive's young breast
I was deeply agitated by thoughts...A long way leads to Russia,
To the country where fiery youth
He began proudly without worries;
Where did he first know joy?
Where I loved a lot of sweet things,
Where I embraced terrible suffering,
Where the stormy life ruined
Hope, joy and desire
And memories of better days
He concluded in a withered heart.
…………………………………………
…………………………………………He experienced people and light
And he knew the price of an unfaithful life.
In the hearts of friends I found betrayal,
In the dreams of love, a crazy dream,
Bored of being a victim as usual
Long despised vanity,
And bilingual hostility,
And simple-minded slander,
Renegade of light, friend of nature,
He left his native land
And flew to a distant land
With the cheerful ghost of freedom.Freedom! he's the only one for you
I also searched in the desert world.
Feelings destroyed by passions,
Having grown cold to dreams and to the lyre,
With the excitement of the song he listened,
Inspired by you,
And with faith, fiery prayer
Your proud idol hugged.
It is accomplished... the purpose of hope
He sees nothing in the world.
And you, last dreams,
And you hid from him.
He is a slave. Leaning head on the stone,
He waits for the gloomy dawn
The flame of sad life has gone out,
And longs for the canopy of the grave.The sun is already fading behind the mountains;
There was a noisy rumble in the distance;
People go from the fields to the village,
Sparkling blonde braids.
They arrived; lights came on in the houses,
And gradually the noise is discordant
He fell silent; everything is in the shadow of the night
Enveloped in a calm bliss;
A mountain spring sparkles in the distance,
Running down the stone rapids;
Dress yourself in a veil of clouds
Sleeping peaks of the Caucasus...
But who, in the moonlight,
Among the deep silence
Walking, walking furtively?
The Russian woke up. In front of him,
With gentle and silent greetings,
There is a young Circassian woman standing.
He silently looks at the girl
And he thinks: this is a false dream,
Tired feelings are an empty game.
A little illuminated by the moon,
With a joyful smile of pity
On bended knee, she
Cool kumiss to his lips
He brings it with a quiet hand.
But he forgot the healing vessel;
He catches with a greedy soul
Pleasant speech, the sound is magical
And the eyes of a young maiden.
He does not understand alien words;
But the gaze is touching, the heat is on the cheeks,
But a gentle voice says:
Live! and the prisoner comes to life.
And he, having gathered the rest of his strength,
Submissive to my dear command,
He stood up and took the wholesome cup
Quenched my thirst.
Then he leaned on the stone again
Burdened with a head;
But all to the young Circassian woman
His faded gaze sought;
And for a long, long time before him
She sat thoughtfully;
As if silently participating
I wanted to console the prisoner;
Lips involuntarily every hour
As soon as the speech began, they opened up;
She sighed more than once
My eyes filled with tears.Over the days the days passed like a shadow.
In the mountains, shackled, near the herd
The prisoner spends every day.
Caves dark cool
It hides in the summer heat;
When will the horn of the silver moon
It will flash behind the gloomy mountain,
Circassian woman, along a shady path,
Brings wine to the prisoner,
Kumis, and fragrant honeycomb beehives,
And snow-white millet;
The secret supper is shared with him;
A gentle gaze rests on him;
Merges with unclear speech
Eyes and signs conversation;
He also sings songs of the mountains to him,
And songs of happy Georgia
And impatient memory
Transmits a foreign language.
For the first time as a virgin soul
She loved, knew happiness;
But Russian life is young
I lost my voluptuousness long ago:
He couldn't answer with his heart
Infant love, open -
Perhaps a dream of forgotten love
He was afraid to remember.Our youth will not suddenly fade away,
Not suddenly delights will abandon us,
And unexpected joy
We will hug more than once;
But you, living impressions,
Original love
Heavenly flame of rapture,
You won't come again.The prisoner seemed hopeless
I got used to a dull life.
Melancholy of bondage, rebellious heat
He hid it deep in his soul.
Lagging between gloomy rocks
In the early morning cool,
He fixed his curious gaze
To remote communities
Gray, ruddy, blue mountains.
Magnificent paintings!
Thrones of eternal snow,
Their peaks seemed to my eyes
A motionless chain of clouds,
And in their circle is a two-headed colossus,
Shining in an icy crown,
Elbrus is huge, majestic,
White in the blue sky.
When, merging with a dull roar,
The forerunner of the storm, the thunder roared,
How often does a prisoner over an aul
Sitting motionless on the mountain!
The clouds were smoking at his feet,
Flying dust fluttered in the steppe;
Already a shelter between the rocks
Elen looked frightened;
Eagles rose from the cliffs
And they echoed in the skies;
The noise of herds, the mooing of herds
The voice of the storm has already drowned out...
And suddenly there is rain and hail
Lightning erupted from the clouds;
Waves of a swarm of steepness,
Shifting age-old stones,
Streams of rain flowed -
And the prisoner, from the mountain heights,
Alone, behind a thunder cloud,
I was waiting for the return of the sun,
Out of reach of a thunderstorm,
And storms to a weak howl
He listened with some joy.But the European gets all the attention
This wonderful people attracted me.
Between the mountaineers the prisoner watched
Their faith, morals, upbringing,
I loved the simplicity of their lives,
Hospitality, thirst for abuse,
Free movements, speed,
And the lightness of the legs, and the strength of the hand;
He looked for hours at a time,
How sometimes the Circassian is agile,
Wide steppe, through the mountains,
In a shaggy hat, in a black burka,
Leaning towards the bow, on the stirrups
Leaning on your slender leg,
He flew at the will of the horse,
Getting used to war in advance.
He admired the beauty
Clothes are abusive and simple.
The Circassian is hung with weapons;
He is proud of him, comforted by him:
He is wearing armor, a arquebus, a quiver,
Kuban bow, dagger, lasso
And a checker, an eternal friend
His works, his leisure.
Nothing bothers him
Nothing will blurt out: on foot, on horseback -
He's still the same; still the same look
Invincible, unyielding.
The threat of careless Cossacks,
His wealth is a zealous horse,
Pet of mountain herds,
Comrade faithful, patient,
In a cave or in the deaf grass
An insidious predator lurks with him
And suddenly, like a sudden arrow,
Seeing a traveler, he strives;
In an instant, a sure fight
His mighty blow will decide,
And a wanderer in the gorges of the mountains
The flying lasso is already attracting.
The horse strives at full speed,
Filled with fiery courage;
All the way to him: swamp, forest,
Bushes, cliffs and ravines;
A bloody trail follows him,
There is a trampling sound in the desert;
The gray stream rustles before him -
He rushes into the boiling depths;
And the traveler, thrown to the bottom,
Swallows a muddy wave,
Exhausted, he asks for death
And he sees her in front of him...
But his powerful horse is like an arrow
The foamy one washes up on shore.Or, grabbing a horned stump,
Thrown into the river by a thunderstorm,
When there's a veil on the hills
The shadow of a moonless night lies,
Circassian with centuries-old roots,
Hangs on a branch all around
Your own battle armor:
Shield, cloak, armor and helmet,
Quiver and bow - and in the fast waves
Then he rushes after him,
Tireless and silent.
Dead night. The river roars;
A mighty current carries him
Along the secluded shores,
Where on the elevated mounds,
Leaning on their spears, the Cossacks
They look at the dark running of the river -
And past them, in the dark darkness,
The villain's weapon floats...
What are you thinking about, Cossack?
Do you remember previous battles?
On the mortal field your bivouac,
Regimental prayers of praise
And homeland?.. A treacherous dream!
Sorry, free villages,
And the house of the fathers, and the quiet Don,
War and red maidens!
A secret enemy has landed on the shores,
The arrow comes out of the quiver -
Soared - and the Cossack fell
From a bloody mound.When with a peaceful family
Circassian in his father's home
Sometimes he sits in stormy weather,
And the coals smolder in the ashes;
And, hiding from his faithful horse,
Belated in the desert mountains,
A tired stranger will come to him
And timidly sits by the fire:
Then the owner is supportive
Greetings, kindly, gets up
And to the guest in a fragrant cup
Chikhir serves a gratifying one.
Under a damp cloak, in a smoky hut,
The traveler enjoys a peaceful sleep,
And in the morning he leaves
Accommodation for the night is hospitable.It happened in bright Bairan
The young men will gather in a crowd;
Game follows game:
Then, having completely dismantled the quiver,
They are winged arrows
They pierce eagles in the clouds;
Then from the heights of steep hills
In impatient rows
At this sign, they will suddenly fall,
Like deer they strike the earth,
The plain is covered with dust
And they run with a friendly stomp.But the monotonous world is boring
To hearts born for war,
And often games of idle will
They are embarrassed by the cruel game.
Checkers often flash menacingly
In the mad frolic of feasts,
And the heads of the slaves fly to dust,
And the babies splash in joy.But the Russian matured indifferently
These bloody games.
He used to love the games of fame
And he burned with a thirst for death.
Slave of merciless honor,
He saw his end close,
In fights, hard, cold,
Meeting fatal lead.
Perhaps lost in thought,
He remembered that time
When, surrounded by friends,
He feasted noisily with them...
Did he regret the days gone by?
About the days that deceived hope,
Or, curious, contemplated
Austere simplicity of fun
And the customs of the wild people
In this faithful mirror I read -
He hid in deep silence
The movements of your heart,
And on his high forehead
Nothing has changed.
His careless courage
The terrible Circassians marveled,
They spared his young age
And whisper to each other
They were proud of their spoils.
2.3 SYNTACTIC FEATURES OF THE POEM
No less significant than poetic vocabulary, the area of study of expressive means is poetic syntax. The study of poetic syntax consists of analyzing the functions of each of the artistic techniques of selection and subsequent grouping of lexical elements into single syntactic constructions. If in the immanent study of the vocabulary of a literary text, words act as the analyzed units, then in the study of syntax - sentences and phrases. If the study of vocabulary establishes facts of deviation from the literary norm in the selection of words, as well as facts of transfer of word meanings (a word with a figurative meaning, i.e., a trope, manifests itself only in context, only in semantic interaction with another word), then the study of syntax obliges not only a typological consideration of syntactic unities and grammatical connections of words in a sentence, but also to identify facts of adjustment or even change in the meaning of an entire phrase in the semantic relationship of its parts (which usually occurs as a result of the writer’s use of so-called figures).
An archaic syntactic feature of the poem is the use in the poem “Prisoner of the Caucasus” of agreed definitions expressed by short adjectives and participles. It is known that a short semi-predicative adjective has lost its defining function and appears in a sentence, as a rule, as the nominal part of a compound nominal predicate. Therefore, such usage is perceived by the modern reader as outdated.
And for a long, long time before him
She,thoughtful , sat.
The horse strives at full speed,
Completed fiery courage.
….And infast waves
then rushes after him.
Rememberingformer battles...
Pale like a shadow, she trembled.
Dawn on the sultry sky
Over the daysnew builds days.
The abundance of homogeneous members in the sentences of the poem contributes to the expressiveness and completeness of the image:
You will find herememories ,
Perhaps some sweet days,
Contradictions of passions ,
Dreams acquaintances, acquaintancessuffering
And secretvoice of the soul mine.
Sons of the Caucasus speak
ABOUT abusive, disastrousworries ,
About beauty their horses,
About pleasures wild bliss;
Remember the old days
Irresistibleraids ,
Deceptions cunning reins,
Beats their cruel sabers,
And accuracy inevitable arrows,
And ashes devastated villages
And caresses black-eyed captives.
Characteristic of the poem is the abundance of isolated definitions and applications, which often play the role of periphrasis:
The horse strives at full speed,
Completed fiery courage.
Warmed by the sun's ray ,
The unfortunate man rose quietly;
Where is the cloudy Beshtu, majestic hermit,
Five-headed ruler of auls and fields;
He left his native land
And flew to a distant land
With the cheerful ghost of freedom.
A little illuminated by the moon,
With a joyful smile of pity
On bended knee, she
To his lips kumis 6 cool
Brings it with a quiet hand
The most common syntactic poetic device used by Pushkin is various kinds of inversions (Latin inversio - rearrangement). It manifests itself in the arrangement of words in a phrase or sentence in an order different from the natural one. In the Russian language, for example, the order “subject + predicate”, “definition + defined word” is natural. or ";preposition + noun in case form";, and for unnatural ones - the reverse order.
Inverted words can be placed in a phrase in different ways. With contact inversion, the contiguity of words is preserved (“;Like a tragedian in the provinces plays Shakespeare’s drama...”; in Pasternak), with distance inversion, other words are wedged between them (“;An old man obedient to Perun alone...”; in Pushkin). In both cases, the unusual position of a single word affects its intonation emphasis. As noted by B.V. Tomashevsky, “in inverted constructions, words sound more expressive, more weighty”; .
In the text of the poem, such types of inversion are very common. The inversion of the defined word and the agreed definition is especially common:
Insad days separation
My thoughtful sounds
They reminded me of the Caucasus...
Deserts are hot , the edges,
where did you share with me
young souls impressions;
Dreams are familiar , familiar suffering
And the secret voice of my soul;
INbloody fields , under clouds of enemy arrows,
Baby chosen , you flew proudly.
The Fatherland caressed you with tenderness,
Howsweet sacrifice , like a sure light of hope.
In the village, on its thresholds,
Circassians are idle sitting.
Rememberold days
Irresistible raids
Deceptions of cunning bridles...
Butthe prisoner is cold and dumb ,
With a disfigured head,
Like a corpse, he remained motionless.
And the accuracy of the inevitable arrows,
And the ashes of devastated villages,
And caressesblack-eyed captives .
It's already noon on his head
Burnt in a cheerful radiance;
The dream of death flies over him
And the pernicious cold breathes.
The young man remembered his captivity,
Howterrible dream anxiety...
ANDyoung prisoner breast
Long despised vanity,
ANDbilingual hostility ,
And simple-minded slander...
The flame of sad life has gone out,
And thirstytomb canopy .
They arrived; lights came on in the houses,
And graduallydiscordant noise
He fell silent; everything is in the shadow of the night
Embracedcalm bliss ;
WITHgreetings gentle and dumb ,
Costsyoung Circassian .
He silently looks at the girl
And he thinks: this is a false dream,
Tired feelingsthe game is empty .
To his lipscool kumiss
He brings it with a quiet hand.
But he forgothealing vessel ;
He catches with a greedy soul
Have a nice speechthe sound is magical
And the eyes of a young maiden.
He does not understand alien words;
Buttouching look , the heat is on the cheeks,
Live! and the prisoner comes to life.
I wish my dear obedient,
Got up - andcup of goodness
Quenched my thirst.
But that's itto the young Circassian
His faded gaze sought...
She sat thoughtfully;
As ifsilent participation
I wanted to console the prisoner;
When will the hornsilver moon
It will flash behind the gloomy mountain,
Circassian,shady path ,
Brings wine to the prisoner...
And songsHappy Georgia ,
ANDimpatient memory
Transmitsforeign language .
But Russianyoung life
I lost my voluptuousness long ago,
He couldn't answer with his heart
Infant love , open ,
Perhaps a dreamforgotten love
He was afraid to remember...
It seemedhopeless prisoner
I got used to a dull life.
The melancholy of bondage,rebellious heat
He hid it deep in his soul.
Magnificent paintings!
Eternal Thrones snow,
Their peaks seemed to my eyes
A motionless chain of clouds...
Already a shelter between the rocks
Elen is scared looking...
Shiftingcenturies-old stones ,
Teklirain streams ,
And the prisoner, from the mountain heights,
One,behind the thunder cloud ,
Return of the solar waited...
And in their circledouble-headed colossus ,
Vcrown shiningicy ,
Elbrus is huge, majestic
White onblue sky .
He looked for hours at a time,
Like sometimesCircassian agile ,
Wide steppe, through the mountains,
In a shaggy hat, inblack burka ,
Leaning towards the bow, on the stirrups
With a slender leg leaning,
Flew at the will of the horse.
He admired the beauty
Clothes that are abusive and simple...
He's still the same; all the sameview
Invincible, unyielding.
The threat of careless Cossacks,
His wealth iszealous horse ,
Pet of mountain herds,
Comrade faithful, patient ,
In a cave or indeaf grass
An insidious predator is lurking with him...
Circassian oncenturies-old roots ,
Hangs on a branch all around
Theircombat armor …
A mighty current carries him
Alongsecluded shores …
The above examples of inversions are contact ones.
A very expressive option are distant inversions, when the defined word and the agreed definition that follows it are broken up by some member of the sentence, for example: dagger betrayalcold ; blows their checkerscruel ; Vgiven gets lostgloomy; , boredvictim befamiliar ; Vcrown shiningicy; in an instant the right battle will decidehit hismighty; hidden insilence Hedeep; and onbrow hishigh .
In the text there are also combinations of the defined word and the agreed definition preceding it, between which verbs or other members of the sentence are wedged, for example:
And the captive's young breast
Heavy agitated thought ...
A long way leads to Russia,
He began proudly without worries;
Wherehe knew the first joy …
Watchedfor hours he ,
How sometimes the Circassian is agile,
Wide steppe, through the mountains,
In a shaggy hat, in a black burka...
Opening my lips, sobbing without tears,
A young maiden sat:
Hazy, motionless gaze
The silent one expressed reproach .
They are silent young maidens
Familiar listen to the chorus .
Another type of reverse word order is characteristic of the poetic language of A.S. Pushkin and is vividly represented in the poem “Prisoner of the Caucasus.” We are talking about constructions in which an inconsistent definition, expressed, as a rule, by a nominal part of speech, is in preposition to the word being defined, which can sometimes be separated by some members of the sentence. Here are examples of such syntactic constructions:
sharedyoung souls impressions …
I dedicated it to youthe banished lyre singing
And your inspired leisure time.
When the dagger of betrayal is cold,
Whenlove heavy dream
I was tormented and killed,
I'm still close to you
I found peace;
Where is the cloudy Beshtu, the majestic hermit,
Ruler of villages and fields five-headed,
Parnassus was new to me.
And he sees: inaccessible mountains
Erected above himbulk,
Nest of robber tribes,
Circassianliberties fence .
It's already noon on his head
Burnt in a cheerful radiance;
ANDlife spirit woke up in it
The young man remembered his captivity,
Howterrible sleep anxiety ,
And he hears: they suddenly thundered
His shackled feet...
There's a lonely path between them
Lost in the distance, gloomy:
ANDcaptive young breasts
I was deeply agitated by thoughts...
He experienced people and light
And he knew he was unfaithfullife price .
He waits for the gloomy dawn
Goes out sadflame of life …
Dress yourself in a veil of clouds
Sleeping peaks of the Caucasus ...
He silently looks at the girl
And he thinks: this is a false dream,
Tiredfeelings game empty.
He catches with a greedy soul
Have a nice onespeech sound magic
And the eyes of a young maiden.
Caves wetcool
It hides in the summer heat;
Brings wine to the prisoner,
Kumis, andbeehives honeycomb fragrant,
And snow-white millet;
Merges with unclear speech
Eyes and signs conversation ;
But Russianlife young
Long lostvoluptuousness...
ButEuropeans pay attention
This wonderful people attracted...
Loved themsimplicity of life ,
Hospitality, thirst for abuse,
Free movements and speed …
Do you remember previous battles?
On the mortal field your bivouac,
Regimental prayers of praise
And homeland?.. A treacherous dream!
And in the morning he leaves
Overnight shelter hospitable.
Harshsimplicity of fun ,
and wildpeople's morals …
It is known that according to the rules of direct word order, the complement is located after the word being defined. The use of direct and indirect objects in preposition to the verb gives the poem expressiveness and focuses the reader’s attention. In the following contexts, the direct object is prepositive or at the same time remote:
When love is a heavy dream
I was tormented and killed,
I'm still close to you
I found peace ;
I rested my heart
- we loved each other:
And the storms are above me
The ferocity is tired ,
I'm in a peaceful haven
Gods blessed.
Persons enemieshe doesn't see ,
Threats and screams Hedoes not hear …
A long way leads to Russia,
To the country where fiery youth
He proudlybegan no worries ;
The use of the predicate in preposition to the subject, and especially the presence of one or more other members of the sentence separating them, also has important stylistic significance, since it contributes to the expressiveness of speech. So, here are a few examples of using this phrase structure:
They thundered all of a sudden
His chainedlegs…
Faces of enemieshe doesn't see ,
He doesn’t hear threats and screams...
Over itflies mortaldream
And breathes a pernicious cold.
Eclipsed in front of himnature.
Forgive me, sacred freedom!
He is a slave.
Behind the saklyaslies
He at the barbed fence.
Circassians in the field, no supervision,
In the empty village everything is silent.
Renegade of light, friend of nature,
He left native limit...
Alreadythe sun is fading just around the corner,
In the distancerang out noisyhum …
Get dressed a veil of clouds
Caucasus sleeping peaks...
Russian woke up . In front of him,
With gentle and silent greetings,
There is a young Circassian woman standing.
He couldn't answer with your heart
Infant love, open;
Perhaps a dream of forgotten love
He was afraid remember...
Ochamseemed theirpeaks
A motionless chain of clouds...
Love will pass, boredom will set in ,
The beauty will love again…
Interphrasal conjunctions are often found in the text of the poem “Prisoner of the Caucasus”, which contribute to the formation of the integrity of the narrative:
AND long captive young
He lay in heavy oblivion.
It's already noon on his head
Burnt in a cheerful radiance.
AND the spirit of life awoke in him,
An indistinct groan came from his lips;
Warmed by the sun's ray,
The unfortunate man rose quietly;
A weak gaze looks around...
AND sees: inaccessible mountains
A huge mass rose above him.
Pushkin masterfully uses syntactic techniques to convey descriptive context. Let us illustrate this with the following text fragment:
Conversations flow in silence;
The moon floats in the night fog
And suddenly in front of them there was a Circassian on horseback.
He's fast on the lasso
He dragged the young prisoner.
The background, descriptive context of this passage is expressed by the use of imperfect verbs, present tense ( flowing, floating). Then - a sharp change of events: And suddenly in front of them there was a Circassian on horseback. He quickly dragged the Young prisoner on the lasso, - conveyed lexically - by adverb all of a sudden and using a past tense verb.
In the poem “Prisoner of the Caucasus” there are often descriptive text fragments in the form of non-union constructions with connective-enumerative relations, the laconicism and simplicity of which contribute to the semantic capacity and integrity of the picture and the created impression. Among such complex syntactic wholes, constructions of descriptive and narrative types are noted.
He is a slave. Behind the saklyas lies
He's at the barbed fence.
Circassians in the field, no supervision,
In the empty village everything is silent.
Before him are desert plains
They lie like a green veil;
There are ridges of hills there
Monotonous peaks;
There's a lonely path between them
Lost in the distance, gloomy.
The sun is already fading behind the mountains;
There was a noisy rumble in the distance;
People go from the fields to the village,
Sparkling blonde braids.
They arrived, the lights came on in the houses,
And gradually the noise is discordant
He fell silent; everything is in the shadow of the night
Enveloped in a calm bliss;
A mountain spring sparkles in the distance,
Running down the stone rapids;
Dress yourself in a veil of clouds
Sleeping peaks of the Caucasus...
An indistinct groan came from his lips;
Warmed by the sun's ray,
The unfortunate man rose quietly;
A weak gaze looks around...
Opening my lips, sobbing without tears,
A young maiden was sitting.
Hazy, motionless gaze
The silent one expressed reproach;
Pale as a shadow, she trembled:
In the hands of her lover lay
Her cold hand.
She fell silent. Tears and lamentations
The poor maiden's chest was constricted.
The lips murmured the penalty without words.
Without feeling, hugging his knees,
She could barely breathe.
The lights of the night were eclipsed;
In the transparent distance were indicated
Masses of light-snowy mountains;
Bowing my head, looking down,
They parted in silence.
The poem is marked by such an expressive stylistic device - nominative themes. According to E. S. Skoblikova, the “nominative topic” “represents a separate unit of communication, with a specific communicative purpose and broad general content,” i.e., in fact, she recognizes them as sentences, and points to the closeness of the “nominative topic” “to ordinary nominative sentences." “The inherent “understatement” is determined by the fact that its use is characterized by a direct focus on the subtext: it aims to provoke reflection, to encourage the interlocutor to comprehend the properties and role of the named object.”
And flew to a distant land
With a cheerful ghostfreedom.
Liberty ! he's the only one for you
I also searched in the desert world...
An expressive means of poetic syntax in the poem “Prisoner of the Caucasus” is a rhetorical question. A rhetorical question is a rhetorical figure that represents a question to which the answer is known in advance, or a question to which the person asking himself gives the answer. Essentially, a rhetorical question is a question to which an answer is not required or expected due to its extreme obviousness. In any case, an interrogative statement implies a very definite, well-known answer, so a rhetorical question is, in fact, a statement expressed in interrogative form.
Will I forget its flinty peaks,
Rattled springs, withered plains,
Sultry deserts, lands where you are with me
Shared young souls' impressions;
Where warlike banditry prowls the mountains,
And the wild genius of inspiration poems Document
Symbols in progress analysis novel by V.V. Nabokov... everyday life. To content E.P. Chernova, Russian teacher... for linguistic and pedagogical sciences to content V.Yu. ... amazed poem « Caucasiancaptive". In this poem M.Yu.Lermontova Caucasian plot...
The difficulty of understanding any text is largely due to the diversity
Bibliographic index2006. CONTENT Preface………………………………………………………… ...given by psychol. analysis split consciousness. ... romantic -"southern" poems « Caucasiancaptive" (1820-1821 ... Caucasianprisoner). Bruglion - Outdated. Draft... ; RAS, Institute linguistic research. – St. Petersburg. ...
STORY
1820-1821
DEDICATION.
N. N. RAEVSKY.
Accept it with a smile, my friend,
Offering to the free muse:
I dedicated the singing of the banished lyre to you
And your inspired leisure time.
When I was dying, innocent, joyless,
And the whispers of slander were heard from all sides,
When the dagger of betrayal is cold,
When love is a heavy dream
I was tormented and killed,
10 I still found peace near you;
I rested my heart - we loved each other:
And the storms over me have worn out their ferocity,
I blessed the gods in a peaceful haven.
On sad days of separation
My thoughtful sounds
Reminded me of the Caucasus,
10 The blows of their sabers are cruel,
And the accuracy of the inevitable arrows,
And the ashes of devastated villages,
And the caresses of the black-eyed captives.
Conversations flow in silence;
The moon floats in the night fog;
And suddenly in front of them on horseback
Circassian. He's fast on the lasso
He dragged the young prisoner.
“Here is a Russian!” - the predator screamed.
20 The village ran to his cry
A fierce crowd;
But the prisoner is cold and dumb,
With a disfigured head,
Like a corpse, he remained motionless.
He does not see the faces of his enemies,
He does not hear threats or screams;
The dream of death flies over him
And breathes a pernicious cold.
And for a long time the young prisoner
30 He lay in heavy oblivion.
It's already noon on his head
Burnt in a cheerful radiance;
And the spirit of life woke up in him,
An indistinct groan was heard in the mouth,
Warmed by the sun's ray,
The unfortunate man rose quietly.
A weak gaze looks around ...
And he sees: inaccessible mountains
A bulk rose above him,
40 Nest of robber tribes,
Circassian liberty fence.
The young man remembered his captivity,
Like a terrible dream of anxiety,
And he hears: they suddenly thundered
His shackled feet ...
Everything, everything was said by the terrible sound;
Nature was eclipsed before him.
Forgive me, sacred freedom!
50 He is at the barbed fence.
Circassians in the field, no supervision,
In the empty village everything is silent.
Before him are desert plains
They lie like a green veil;
There are ridges of hills there
Monotonous peaks;
There's a lonely path between them
Lost in the distance, gloomy:
And the captive's young breast
60 Heavy agitated thoughts ...
95
A long way leads to Russia,
To the country where fiery youth
He began proudly without worries;
Where did he first know joy?
Where I loved a lot of sweet things,
Where I embraced terrible suffering,
Where the stormy life ruined
Hope, joy and desire,
And memories of better days
70 He concluded in a withered heart.
He experienced people and the world,
And he knew the price of an unfaithful life.
In the hearts of friends I found betrayal,
In the dreams of love, a crazy dream,
Bored of being a victim as usual
Long despised vanity,
And bilingual hostility,
And simple-minded slander,
Renegade of light, friend of nature,
80 He left his native land
And flew to a distant land
With the cheerful ghost of freedom.
Freedom! he's the only one for you
I also searched in the desert world.
Feelings destroyed by passions,
Having grown cold to dreams and to the lyre,
With the excitement of the song he listened,
Inspired by you,
And with faith, fiery prayer
90 Your proud idol embraced.
It's finished ... purpose of hope
He sees nothing in the world.
And you, last dreams,
And you hid from him.
He is a slave. Leaning head on the stone,
He waits for the gloomy dawn
The flame of sad life has gone out,
And longs for the canopy of the grave.
The sun is already fading behind the mountains;
100 A noisy rumble was heard in the distance;
People go from the fields to the village,
Sparkling blonde braids.
We've arrived. The lights came on in the houses,
And gradually the noise is discordant
He fell silent; everything is in the shadow of the night
Enveloped in a calm bliss;
A mountain spring sparkles in the distance,
Running down the stone rapids;
Dress yourself in a veil of clouds
110 sleeping peaks of the Caucasus ...
But who, in the moonlight,
Among the deep silence
Walking, walking furtively?
I woke up Russian. In front of him,
With gentle and silent greetings,
There is a young Circassian woman standing.
He silently looks at the girl
And he thinks: this is a false dream,
Tired feelings are an empty game.
120 Is slightly illuminated by the moon,
With a joyful smile of pity
On bended knee, she
And impatient memory
Transmits a foreign language.
For the first time as a virgin soul
She loved, knew happiness;
170 But Russian life is young
I lost my voluptuousness long ago.
He couldn't answer with his heart
Infant love, open -
Perhaps a dream of forgotten love
He was afraid to remember.
Our youth will not suddenly fade away,
Not suddenly delights will abandon us,
And unexpected joy
We will hug more than once:
180 But you, living impressions,
Original love
Heavenly flame of rapture,
You won't come again.
The prisoner seemed hopeless
I got used to a dull life.
Melancholy of bondage, rebellious heat
He hid it deep in his soul.
Dragging between gloomy rocks,
In the early morning cool,
190 He fixed his curious gaze
To remote communities
Gray, ruddy, blue mountains.
Magnificent paintings!
Thrones of eternal snow,
Their peaks seemed to my eyes
A motionless chain of clouds,
And in their circle is a two-headed colossus,
Shining in an icy crown,
Elbrus is huge, majestic,
200 White in the blue sky.
When, merging with a dull roar,
The forerunner of the storm, the thunder roared,
How often does a prisoner over an aul
Sitting motionless on the mountain!
The clouds were smoking at his feet,
Flying dust fluttered in the steppe;
Already a shelter between the rocks
Elen looked frightened;
Eagles rose from the cliffs
210 And they called to each other in the heavens;
The noise of herds, the mooing of herds
Already the voice of the storm was drowning out ...
And suddenly there is rain and hail
Lightning erupted from the clouds;
Waves of a swarm of steepness,
Shifting age-old stones,
Streams of rain flowed -
And the prisoner, from the mountain heights,
Alone, behind a thunder cloud,
220 I waited for the return of the sun,
Out of reach of a thunderstorm,
And storms to a weak howl
He listened with some joy.
But the European is paying attention
This wonderful people attracted me.
Between the mountaineers the prisoner watched
Their faith, morals, upbringing,
I loved the simplicity of their lives,
Hospitality, thirst for abuse,
230 Free movements, speed,
And the lightness of the legs, and the strength of the hand;
He looked for hours at a time,
How sometimes the Circassian is agile,
Wide steppe, through the mountains,
In a shaggy hat, in a black burka,
Leaning towards the bow, on the stirrups
Leaning on your slender leg,
He flew at the will of the horse,
Getting used to war in advance.
240 He admired the beauty
Clothes are abusive and simple.
The Circassian is hung with weapons;
He is proud of him, comforted by him;
He is wearing armor, a arquebus, a quiver,
Kuban bow, dagger, lasso
And a checker, an eternal friend
His works, his leisure.
Nothing bothers him
Nothing will blurt out; on foot, horseback -
250 He is still the same; still the same look
Invincible, unyielding.
The threat of careless Cossacks,
His wealth is a zealous horse,
Pet of mountain herds,
A loyal and patient comrade.
In a cave or in the deaf grass
An insidious predator lurks with him
And suddenly, like a sudden arrow,
Seeing a traveler, he strives;
260 In an instant, a sure fight
His mighty blow will decide,
And a wanderer in the gorges of the mountains
The flying lasso is already attracting.
The horse strives at full speed,
Filled with fiery courage;
All the way to him: swamp, forest,
Bushes, cliffs and ravines;
A bloody trail follows him,
There is a trampling sound in the desert;
270 The gray stream rustles before him -
He rushes into the boiling depths;
And the traveler, thrown to the bottom,
Swallows a muddy wave,
Exhausted, he asks for death
And he sees her in front of him ...
But the powerful horse shot him with an arrow
The foamy one washes up on shore.
Or grabbing a horned stump,
Thrown into the river by a thunderstorm,
280 When the hills are shrouded
The shadow of a moonless night lies,
Circassian with centuries-old roots,
Hangs on a branch all around
Your battle armor,
Shield, cloak, armor and helmet,
Quiver and bow - and in the swift waves
Then he rushes after him,
Tireless and silent.
Dead night. The river roars;
290 A mighty current carries him
Along the secluded shores,
Where on the elevated mounds,
Leaning on their spears, the Cossacks
They look at the dark running of the river -
And past them, in the dark darkness,
The villain's weapon floats ...
What are you thinking about, Cossack?
Do you remember previous battles?
On the mortal field your bivouac,
300 Regiments prayers of praise
And homeland? ... Treacherous dream!
Sorry, free villages,
And the house of the fathers, and the quiet Don,
War and red maidens!
A secret enemy has landed on the shores,
The arrow comes out of the quiver -
The Cossack soared and fell
From a bloody mound.
When with a peaceful family
310 Circassian in his father's home
Sometimes he sits in stormy weather,
And the coals smolder in the ashes;
And, hiding from his faithful horse,
Belated in the desert mountains,
A tired stranger will come to him
And timidly sits by the fire:
Then the owner is supportive
Greetings, kindly, gets up
And to the guest in a fragrant cup
320 Chikhir delivers a gratifying one.
Under a damp cloak, in a smoky hut,
The traveler enjoys a peaceful sleep,
And in the morning he leaves
Accommodation for the night is hospitable.
The young men will gather in a crowd;
Game is replaced by game.
Then, having completely dismantled the quiver,
They are winged arrows
330 They pierce the eagles in the clouds;
Then from the heights of steep hills
In impatient rows
At this sign, they will suddenly fall,
Like deer strike the earth,
The plain is covered with dust
And they run with a friendly stomp.
But the monotonous world is boring
To hearts born for war,
And often games of idle will
340 They are embarrassed by the cruel game.
Checkers often flash menacingly
In the mad frolic of feasts,
And the heads of the slaves fly to dust,
And the babies splash in joy.
But the Russian matured indifferently
These bloody games.
He used to love the games of fame
And he burned with a thirst for death.
Slave of merciless honor,
350 He saw his end close,
In fights, hard, cold,
Meeting fatal lead.
Perhaps lost in thought,
He remembered that time
When, surrounded by friends,
He feasted noisily with them ...
Did he regret the days gone by?
About the days that deceived hope,
Or, curious, contemplated
360 Rough Simplicity Fun
And the customs of the wild people
In this faithful mirror I read -
He hid in deep silence
The movements of your heart,
And on his high forehead
Nothing changed;
His careless courage
The terrible Circassians marveled,
They spared his young age
370 And whispering among themselves
They were proud of their spoils.
You recognized them, maiden of the mountains,
The delights of the heart, the sweetness of life;
Your fiery, innocent gaze
Expressed love and joy.
When your friend is in the dark of night
I kissed you with a silent kiss,
Burning with bliss and desire,
You forgot the earthly world,
You said: “Dear prisoner,
10 Cheer up your sad eyes,
Bow your head on my chest,
Freedom, forget your homeland.
I'm glad to hide in the desert
With you, king of my soul!
Love me; no one until now
Didn't kiss my eyes;
To my lonely bed
Circassian young and black-eyed
Didn't sneak in the silence of the night;
20 I am reputed to be a cruel maiden,
Relentless beauty.
I know the lot is ready for me:
My father and brother are harsh
They want to sell it to the poor man
To a foreign village at the price of gold;
But I beg my father and brother,
Otherwise, I’ll find a dagger or poison.
Incomprehensible, wonderful power
I am completely attracted to you;
30 I love you, dear slave,
My soul is intoxicated with you ... “
But he is with silent regret
He looked at the passionate maiden
And, full of heavy thoughts,
He listened to her words of love.
He was forgetting himself. It was crowded
Memories of days past
And even tears from my eyes
One day it started to hail.
40 Lied in the heart like lead,
Longing for love without hope.
Before the young maiden at last
He poured out his suffering:
"Forget about me; your love,
I'm not worth your admiration.
Don’t waste precious days with me;
Call another young man.
His love will replace you
My soul is sad;
50 He will be faithful, he will appreciate
Your beauty, your sweet look,
And the heat of infant kisses,
And the tenderness of fiery speeches;
Without rapture, without desires
I wither as a victim of passions.
You see the trace of unhappy love,
The wake of a mental storm is terrible;
Leave me alone; but have pity
About my sad fate!
60 Unhappy friend, why not before
You appeared before my eyes,
In those days, how I believed in hope
And intoxicating dreams!
But it's too late: I died for happiness,
The ghost of hope has flown away;
Your friend has lost the habit of voluptuousness,
Petrified for tender feelings ...
How hard it is with dead lips
Respond to living kisses
70 And eyes full of tears
Greet with a cold smile!
Tormented by vain jealousy,
Having fallen asleep with an insensitive soul,
In the arms of a passionate friend
How hard it is to think about someone else !..
When so slow, so tender
You drink my kisses,
And for you the hours of love
They pass quickly, serenely;
80 Consuming tears in silence
Then absent-minded, sad
In front of me, as in a dream,
I see an image forever sweet;
I call him, I strive for him,
I am silent, I don’t see, I don’t listen;
I surrender myself to you in oblivion
And I hug the secret ghost.
I shed tears for him in the desert;
He wanders everywhere with me
90 And brings gloomy melancholy
I forgive my soul.
Leave me my glands,
Solitary dreams
Memories, sadness and tears:
You cannot separate them.
You heard the confession of the heart;
sorry ... give me your hand - goodbye.
Women's love won't last long
Cold separation saddens;
100 Love will pass, boredom will set in,
The beauty will love again."
Opening my lips, sobbing without tears,
A young maiden was sitting.
Hazy, motionless gaze
The silent one expressed reproach;
Pale as a shadow, she trembled;
In the hands of her lover lay
Her cold hand;
And finally the longing for love
110 In a sad speech she poured out:
“Oh, Russian, Russian, for what,
Without knowing your heart,
I have given myself up to you forever!
Not long on your chest
In oblivion the maiden rested;
Not many happy nights
Fate has given her a lot!
Will they ever come again?
Has joy perished forever? ..
120 You could, captive, deceive
My inexperienced youth,
Even if only out of pity,
Silence, feigned affection;
I would delight your lot
With tender and submissive care;
I would guard the moments of sleep,
The peace of a yearning friend;
You did not want ... But who is she?
Your beautiful friend?
130 Do you love Russian? you are loved ?..
I understand your suffering ...
Forgive my sobs too,
Don’t laugh at my sorrows.”
She fell silent. Tears and lamentations
The poor maiden's chest was constricted.
The lips murmured the penalty without words.
Without feeling, hugging his knees,
She could barely breathe.
And the prisoner, with a quiet hand
140 Raising the unfortunate woman, he said:
“Don’t cry: I too am driven by fate,
And I experienced heartache.
No, I didn’t know mutual love,
Loved alone, suffered alone;
And I go out like a smoky flame,
Forgotten among empty valleys;
I will die far from the desired shores;
This steppe will be my grave;
Here on the bones of my exiled
150 The painful chain will rust ... “
The lights of the night were eclipsed;
In the transparent distance were indicated
Masses of light-snowy mountains;
Bowing my head, looking down,
They parted in silence.
A sad prisoner from now on
One wanders around the village.
Dawn on the sultry sky
After days he builds new days;
160 After the night the night goes away;
He longs for freedom in vain.
Will a chamois flash between the bushes,
Will a saiga gallop through the darkness:
It will flare up and rattle its chains,
He waits to see if the Cossack is sneaking,
Night village destroyer,
Slaves are a brave deliverer.
Calling ... but everything around is silent;
Only the waves splash wildly,
170 And the beast senses man,
He runs into the dark desert.
One day a Russian prisoner hears
A military cry was heard in the mountains:
“To the herd, to the herd!” They run and make noise;
The copper bridles rattle,
Burkas turn black, armor shines,
Saddled horses are boiling,
The whole village is ready for the raid,
And wild pets scold
180 A river poured from the hills
And they gallop along the banks of the Kuban
Collect violent tribute.
The village has quieted down; sleep in the sun
Sakleys have guard dogs.
Babies are dark, naked
In free play they make noise;
Their great-grandfathers are sitting in a circle,
The smoke curling out of the pipes turns blue.
They are silent young maidens
190 An acquaintance is listening to the chorus,
And the hearts of the elders become younger.
Circassian song
A thunderstorm runs in the river;
There is silence at night in the mountains;
The tired Cossack dozed off,
Leaning on a steel copy.
Don't sleep, Cossack: in the darkness of the night
A Chechen walks across the river.
A Cossack sails on a shuttle,
Dragging along the bottom of the river network.
200 Cossack, you will drown in the river,
How little children drown
When swimming in hot weather:
A Chechen walks across the river.
On the shore of the treasured waters
Rich villages are blooming;
A cheerful round dance is dancing.
Run, Russian singers,
Hurry up, red ones, go home:
A Chechen walks across the river.
210 So the virgins sang. Sitting on the shore,
The Russian dreams of escape;
But the slave's chain is heavy,
Fast deep river ...
Meanwhile, having faded, the steppe fell asleep,
The tops of the rocks are darkened.
Through the white huts of the village
The pale light of the moon flickers;
Helens slumber over the waters,
The late cry of the eagles fell silent,
220 And the mountains echo dully
The distant tramp of herds.
Then someone began to be heard,
The maiden's veil flashed,
And now - sad and pale
I approached him she.
The beautiful lips seek speech;
The eyes are filled with longing,
And they fall like a black wave
Her hair covers her chest and shoulders.
230 A saw shines in one hand,
In the other, her dagger is damask;
It seemed as if a maiden was walking
For a secret battle, for a feat of arms.
Looking up at the prisoner,
“Run,” said the maiden of the mountains:
The Circassian will not meet you anywhere.
Hurry up; do not waste the night hours;
Take the dagger: your traces
No one will notice in the darkness.”
240 Taking the saw with a trembling hand,
She bowed at his feet;
The iron squeals under the saw,
An involuntary tear rolled down -
And the chain fell apart and rattled.
“You are free,” the maiden says, “
Run!“ But her look is crazy
He depicted an impulse of love.
She suffered. The wind is noisy
Whistling, its cover swirled.
250 “Oh my friend! - the Russian cried out, -
I am yours forever, I am yours until the grave.
Let's both leave this terrible land,
Run with me ... “ - “No, Russian, no!
She disappeared, the sweetness of life;
I knew everything, I knew joy,
And everything passed, and no trace disappeared.
Is it possible? you loved someone else !..
Find her, love her;
What else am I yearning for?
260 What is my despondency about? ..
Sorry! love blessings
They will be with you every hour.
Forgive me - forget my torment,
Give me your hand ... last time".
He extended his arms to the Circassian woman,
I flew to her with a resurrected heart,
And the long kiss of parting
The union of love was sealed.
Hand in hand, full of despondency,
270 We went down to the shore in silence -
And Russian in the noisy depths
The waves are already floating and foaming,
I've already reached the nasty rocks,
Already grabbing them ...
Suddenly the waves made a dull noise,
And a distant groan is heard ...
He goes out onto the wild shore,
Looking back ... the shores became clearer
And the foamy ones turned white;
280 But there is no young Circassian woman
Neither at the shores, nor under the mountain ...
Everything is dead ... on the shores of the fallen asleep
Only the wind can hear a light sound,
And under the moon in the splashing waters
The flowing circle disappears.
He understood everything. With a farewell glance
He will embrace for the last time
An empty village with its fence,
The fields where the captive herd grazed,
290 The rapids, where he dragged out his chains,
The stream where I rested at noon,
When the Circassians are harsh in the mountains
Sang a song of freedom.
The deep darkness in the sky was thinning,
The day fell on a dark valley,
Dawn has risen. On a distant path
The freed prisoner walked;
And in front of him is already in the fogs
Russian bayonets sparkled,
300 And they called out on the mounds
Guard Cossacks.
So Muse, light friend of Dreams,
Flew to the borders of Asia
And I picked it for myself for a wreath
Caucasian wild flowers.
She was captivated by the harsh outfit
Tribes raised in war
And often in these new clothes
The sorceress appeared to me;
Around the empty villages
10 One wandered along the rocks
And to the songs of orphaned maidens
She listened there;
I loved swear words,
The worries of the brave Cossacks,
Mounds, silent tombs,
And the noise and neighing of the herds.
Goddess of songs and stories,
Memories are full
Perhaps she will repeat
20 Legends of the formidable Caucasus;
He will tell the story of distant countries,
Mstislav's ancient duel,
Treason, death of Russians
In the bosom of vengeful Georgians;
And I will sing of that glorious hour,
When, sensing a bloody battle,
To the indignant Caucasus
Our double-headed eagle has risen;
When on the gray Terek
30 For the first time the thunder of battle struck
And the roar of Russian drums,
And in the battle, with an insolent brow,
The ardent Tsitsianov appeared;
I will sing your praises, hero,
O Kotlyarevsky, scourge of the Caucasus!
Wherever you rushed like a thunderstorm -
Your move is like a black infection,
Destroyed, destroyed tribes ...
Today you left the saber of vengeance,
40 You are not happy about war;
Bored by the world, in the wounds of honor,
You taste the idle peace
And the silence of the home valleys ...
But behold, the East raises its howl ...
Drop your snowy head,
Humble yourself, Caucasus: Ermolov is coming!
And the furious cry of war fell silent,
Everything is subject to the Russian sword.
Proud sons of the Caucasus,
50 You fought and died terribly;
But our blood did not save you,
Nor enchanted armor,
Neither mountains nor dashing horses,
No wild liberty love!
Like the Batu tribe,
The Caucasus will betray its great-grandfathers,
The voice of greedy warfare will forget,
Will leave fighting arrows.
To the gorges where you nested,
60 The traveler will approach without fear,
And they will announce your execution
Legends are dark rumors.
NOTES.
1 Beshtu, or, more correctly, Beshtau, Caucasus Mountain 40 versts from Georgievsk. Known in our history.
2 Aul. This is the name of the villages of the Caucasian peoples.
3 Uzden, chief or prince.
4 Checker, Circassian saber.
5 Saklya, hut.
6 Kumis made from mare's milk; This drink is in great use among all the mountainous and nomadic peoples of Asia. It is quite pleasant to the taste and is considered very healthy.
7 The happy climate of Georgia does not reward this beautiful country for all the disasters it has always endured. Georgian songs are pleasant and mostly mournful. They glorify the momentary successes of Caucasian weapons, the death of our heroes: Bakunin and Tsitsianov, betrayal, murder - sometimes love and pleasure.
8 Derzhavin, in his excellent ode to Count Zubov, was the first to depict the wild pictures of the Caucasus in the following stanzas:
O young leader, completing campaigns,
You passed with the army of the Caucasus,
I saw the horrors, the beauties of nature:
Like pouring from the ribs of those terrible mountains,
Angry rivers roar into the darkness of the abysses;
How to kill them with the roar of snow
They will fall, lying down for centuries;
Like chamois, with their horns bowed down,
They see calmly beneath them in the darkness
The birth of lightning and thunder.
You matured as if in clear times
There are sunbeams, among the ice,
Among the waters, playing, reflecting,
The view seems magnificent;
Like, scattered in multi-colored
There is splashing, thin rain burning;
Like a bluish-amber block there,
Hanging up, he looks into the dark forest;
And there is a golden-crimson dawn
Through the forest pleases the eye.
Zhukovsky, in his message to G. Voeikov, also devotes several charming poems to a description of the Caucasus:
You matured like Terek in a fast run
There was a noise between the vineyards,
Where, often hiding on the shore,
A Chechen or a Circassian sat
Under a burka, with a fatal lasso;
And in the distance in front of you,
Dressed in blue mist
The mountain rose above the mountain,
And in their host there is a gray-haired giant,
Like a cloud, Elborus is two-headed.
Terrible and majestic
Everything shines with beauty there:
Cliffs are mossy masses,
Roaring waterfalls
Into the darkness of the abysses from granite rocks;
Forests that have been asleep for centuries
Not a knock of an ax, not a person
The cheerful voice did not outrage,
In which the gloomy canopy
The daylight has not yet penetrated,
Where occasionally there are only fir trees,
The eagle heard a menacing cry,
Crowded into the crowd, the branches rustle,
And goats with light feet
They run over the rocks.
Everything appears there
Magnificence of creation!
But there, in the solitude
Valleys hidden in the mountains
Both balkar and bang nest,
And the Abazekh and the Kamutsinian,
And Korbulak and Albazinian,
Both Checherets and Shapsuk.
Pike, chain mail, saber, bow
And the horse, fleet-footed comrade -
Theirs are both treasures and gods;
Like chamois galloping through the mountains,
Throwing death over a cliff;
Or along the muddy banks,
In the tall grass in the thicket of the forest
Scattered, they await prey;
Freedom Rocks are their refuge.
But their days wander in the villages
On the crutches of gloomy laziness:
There their life is a dream; shy in a circle
And into the brotherly pot of tobacco
Having stuck the chibouks like shadows,
They sit in the billowing smoke
And they talk about murders;
Or they praise the well-aimed squeaks,
From which their grandfathers shot them;
Or sabers sharpened on flints,
Preparing to kill nova.
9 Chikhir, red Georgian wine .
10 The Circassians, like all wild peoples, are distinguished by their hospitality. The guest becomes a sacred person for them. To betray him or not to protect him is considered among them to be the greatest dishonor. Kunak(i.e., friend, acquaintance) is responsible with his life for your safety, and with him you can go deep into the very middle of the Kabardian mountains.
11 Bayran or Bayram, holiday of breaking the fast. Ramadan, Muslim fast.
12 Mstislav, son. St. Vladimir, nicknamed Delete, appanage prince of Tmutarakan (Taman Island). He fought with the Kosogs (in all likelihood, the current Circassians) and defeated their prince Rededya in single combat. Cm. East. State Ross. Volume II.
