Plescheev's works for children. Alexey Pleshcheev: biography

Nikolai Alekseevich Pleshcheev, whose biography will be briefly described in the article, is a prominent representative of the Russian intelligentsia of the 19th century. He was a prose writer, poet, translator, literary critic, and revolutionary.

The beginning of life

Pleshcheev's life was full of events, rich in memorable facts. The writer was born into a family that belonged to an old noble family. This joyful event took place at the beginning of the winter of 1825 in Kostroma. Since 1826, the family lived in Nizhny Novgorod, where the father of the future poet was transferred to the civil service. However, soon the head of the family dies, and the boy remains in the care of his mother.

In 1839 the future poet Pleshcheev moved with her to live in St. Petersburg. Here he decides to devote his life to military service and enters the School of Guards Ensigns and Cavalry Junkers. But after studying at an educational institution for two years, the young man realizes that this is not his destiny. He leaves his studies and enters the St. Petersburg University at the Faculty of History and Philosophy. Oriental languages \u200b\u200bbecome the subject of his study.

Pleshcheev's circle of acquaintances by this time was already very wide, despite his young age. He is familiar with such famous people as Pletnev, Grigorovich, Kraevsky, Goncharov, Dostoevsky, Saltykov-Shchedrin.

Social activity

In the middle of the 19th century, among the noble youth it was considered prestigious to be a member of various social movements, circles, parties. Young Pleshcheev did not stay away from modern trends. The poet's biography is full of information about his participation in such organizations, including revolutionary ones. All these hobbies were passionate and had a direct impact on the fate of the poet.
So, for example, under the influence of the influence of Beketov, who led one of the student circles, Pleshcheev lost interest in his studies and left the university in 1845 without completing his studies. At the same time, he began to attend meetings of the Petrashevsky circle. But the young poet had a special craving for Durov's circle, where not so much political as literary interests prevailed.

Early creativity

Pleshcheev's poems began to appear in print since 1844, mainly in such well-known publications at that time as Otechestvennye zapiski, Sovremennik, Literaturnaya Gazeta, and Library for Reading. In the poems related to the early period of creativity, the influence of the works of Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov is clearly felt.

Pleshcheev's poetry is characterized by the motives of sadness, loneliness, romance. In the second half of the forties, the poet's lyrics are filled with the energy of protest, a call to fight against injustice and oppression. The revolutionary character of Pleshcheev's poems did not go unnoticed by both admirers of his talent and the authorities.

Years of exile

In 1849, in Moscow, together with other freethinkers who belonged to the Petrashevists, Pleshcheev was also arrested. The poet's biography was replenished with one more page of his life. After his arrest, he was taken to the Peter and Paul Fortress of St. Petersburg, where he was imprisoned for about eight months. On December 22, on the Semenovsky parade ground, he was awaiting execution, which at the very last moment was replaced by a four-year hard labor, depriving him of all rights to inherit his fortune and military rank.

Pleshcheev was sent to the city of Uralsk, to a separate Orenburg corps, as a private. Since 1852, the service took place in Orenburg, where for special merits he was elevated to the rank of non-commissioned officer, and in 1856 the officer's rank was restored. In 1857, the title of nobleman was returned to Nikolai Alekseevich Pleshcheev.

During the years of exile, the poet became close to people close to him in spirit, such as the poet Mikhailov, Polish revolutionaries. The poet's lyrics also change. Sincerity appears in poetry, one feels one's own view of some aspects of life. At the same time, a cycle of poems related to love lyrics was born. They were dedicated to the future wife of Nikolai Alekseevich.

After the link

The years of the poet Pleshcheev's life can be divided into two periods - before and after exile. The time spent in harsh conditions only hardened the poet's character, but did not force him to change progressive ideas.

In 1858 Pleshcheev came to St. Petersburg and met Dobrolyubov, Chernyshevsky, Nekrasov here. In 1859 he moved to live in Moscow. Here he is actively engaged in literary activities. The most famous representatives of the Russian intelligentsia, such as Lev Tolstoy, Nikolai Nekrasov, Ivan Turgenev, Pyotr Tchaikovsky and many other writers, poets, actors, and musicians, attended the creative evenings that Pleshcheev arranged in his home.

Educational work

Many years of Pleshcheev's life were devoted to educational activities, which had a pedagogical focus. In 1861, together with Berg, he published the anthology "Children's Book"; in 1873, in collaboration with Aleksandrov, a collection for children appeared, containing the best works of Russian classical and modern literature. In addition to literary publications, educational and educational collections on geography are published on the initiative of Pleshcheev. In total, seven books on various topics were prepared and published.

Prose writer and translator

In those years of Pleshcheev's life, when he worked as a translator, all his literary talent manifested itself. Many poetic translations from French, German, English, Slavic languages, performed by Nikolai Alekseevich, are still considered the best. Often the poet undertook works that had not been translated into Russian before. Pleshcheev also includes some scientific translations on historical and sociological topics. Literary criticism was also of interest to Nikolai Alekseevich, she is given a special place in his work.

Throughout his creative career, the poet did not leave work on prose. But I must say that the works created by him did not go beyond the framework of the traditions existing at that time. Some of the stories and novellas can be called autobiographical.

Speaking about the fact that the years of the poet Pleshcheev's life were filled with bright events, meetings, acquaintances, hobbies, one cannot but say about Nikolai Alekseevich's addiction to the theater. Pleshcheev himself was an excellent reader. He understood and loved theater art. The poet's pen produced plays that were staged on the stages of the country's leading theaters.

Literary heritage

Nikolai Alekseevich Pleshcheev, whose biography can only arouse the admiration of descendants, left behind a rich cultural heritage.

The original and translated poems of Pleshcheev fascinate with their melodiousness. That is why they did not go unnoticed by such great composers as Tchaikovsky, Mussorgsky, Cui, Grechaninov, Rachmaninov. More than a hundred of the poet's poems have been set to music, being examples of art. About 13 original and 30 translated theatrical plays belong to the pen of Nikolai Alekseevich. Some of them are still included in the repertoire of the country's theaters.
Hundreds of Pleshcheev's poems are published in collections. Many, having become classics, are included in the anthologies of literary reading.

Pleshcheev's life was cut short on September 26, 1893 in Paris, but Nikolai Alekseevich was buried in Moscow.

Yaroshenko N.A. Portrait of A.N. Pleshcheeva. 1887. Oil on canvas. Xxx

Pleshcheev Alexey Nikolaevich (22.11 / 04.12.1825, Kostroma - 26.09 / 08.10.1893, Paris; buried in Moscow) - writer, critic; member of the circle M.V. Petrashevsky.

Born into an impoverished noble family. Having received a home education, he entered the St. Petersburg school of guards ensigns, but, having lost interest in military service, left the school (formally - quitting "due to illness"). In 1843 he entered the Faculty of History and Philology of St. Petersburg University in the category of oriental languages. Pleshcheev's social circle at that time included: the rector of the university and the publisher of the Sovremennik magazine P.A. Pletnev, A.A. Kraevsky, the Maikov brothers, F.M. Dostoevsky, I.A. Goncharov, D.V. Grigorovich, M.E. Saltykov-Shchedrin. He sent the first selection of his poems to Pletnev, who in a letter to Ya.K. Groto wrote: “Have you seen in Sovremennik poems with signature A. P-in? I learned that this was our 1st year student, Pleshcheev. He shows talent. I called him to me and caressed him. " Due to illness, lack of funds, as well as dissatisfaction with the teaching system, Pleshcheev left the University in 1845, devoting himself exclusively to literary activity as a poet, then as a prose writer.

A.N. Pleshcheev began to publish in magazines in 1843. In 1846 he published the collection Poems. In the work of Pleshcheev in the 1840s. there is the influence of M.Yu. Lermontov. In the spirit of the social-utopian views of S. Fourier and F. Lamennais, he developed the theme of Lermontov's "Prophet" in the poems "The Love of a Singer" (1845), "To the Poet" (1846), "Sleep" (1846). Poems “Forward! without fear and doubt "," We feel like brothers, you and me "became revolutionary songs. V.N. Maikov in a review of the first collection of poems by A.N. Pleshcheeva wrote about the poet's faith in "the triumph of truth, love and brotherhood on earth."

In 1872-1884. A.N. Pleshcheev lived in Petersburg. At the invitation of N.A. Nekrasov was a member of the editorial board of Otechestvennye zapiski, and after his death he headed the poetic department of this magazine. Upon the closure of Otechestvennye zapiski, Pleshcheev contributed to the creation of the Severny Vestnik magazine, in which he worked until 1890, also leading the poetry department. A deep friendship connected him with the novice A.P. Chekhov, whom A.N. Pleshcheev considered the most promising of the young writers.

In the 1870-1880s. the poet was mainly engaged in poetic translations from German, French, English and Slavic languages. An important place in the work of A.N. For the last decade of his life, Pleshcheev was interested in children's poetry and literature (the collection "Snowdrop").

Many works by A.N. Pleshcheeva set to music. More than a hundred romances and songs by N.A. Rimsky-Korsakov ("The night flew over the world"), P.I. Tchaikovsky ("Not a word, my friend ..."), M.P. Mussorgsky, Ts. A. Cui, A.T. Grechaninov, S.V. Rachmaninov.

A.N. Pleshcheev died in Paris on September 26, 1893; buried in Moscow at the cemetery of the Novodevichy Convent.

The night is quiet ... The wind barely sways the dark sheets. My chest breathes with languor, And dreams are full of melancholy ... Wonderful sounds rush, I hear, in the stillness of the night: They will freeze, then they will again flow with a Harmonic wave. Here in the distance between the bushes the Light in her window flashed ... As if with hot lips I pressed to her lips! I would kiss the night into oblivion Everything kissed her, kissed her ... And with tears of rapture I would pour over my young breast ... But I alone ... Sad, boring! The light in the window went out ... Dull annoying bell The midnight hour sounded ... * Notturno - Nocturne (Italian) .- Ed.

Notturno (I hear familiar sounds ...)

I hear familiar sounds Rushing in the stillness of the night - Former sleeping agony They awakened in me. I hear familiar sounds, I eagerly listened to them before And silently at white hands, I looked at bright eyes. I hear familiar sounds, And my heart was ashamed: I remember, in a moment of separation, Crying, I listened to her. I hear familiar sounds And I see, again before me On the keys, white hands Glide, silvery by the moon ... * Notturno - Nocturne (Italian) .- Ed.

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

Ball

(Excerpt) I remember the ball. Candles burned brightly, And colorful groups flashed before me. I listened to abrupt speeches, Then Lanner's motive is dull and simple. But he listened to them carelessly and yawning, And with her eyes he was looking for her alone. Where are you, always smart, alive, Like a moth? I haven't seen you for a long time, But all my thoughts rushed to you, You and at this moment they are still full; And I'm waiting for you, tired and gloomy, I, like nature, awaits the breath of spring! And the boring ball lasted until late at night, I left him with dumb annoyance, But suddenly her azure eyes, As if two stars, lit up before me. And I saw again, full of joy, And the shoulders are white, like the first snow of the fields, And thick waves of resin hair, And the light slender body of my beauty. But there is no previous blush on your cheeks ... Do you smile through your tears? Are you sad? Are you tired, spinning in a whirlwind of dance, Or is sorrow at the bottom of your soul hidden? Are you, too, deceived by dreams And doomed to suffer by fate? .. Here is my hand with trembling hands Grabbing, "I'm married," she said; And her chest was agitated high, And the languid gaze burned with a painful fire; And the torment in this gaze was reflected, As in the days of old happiness was reflected in it. And I bowed my head in thought; At first, I was ready to talk about the past, But, dejected by heavy anguish, Remained like a shadow, and gloomy and without words. I remember the ball, the candles were burning brightly ... I watched the motley crowd on the sidelines. But my gaze was not looking for a gratifying meeting - I was not expecting anyone, and I was bored. Suddenly Lanner heard sounds - Dull waltz! He is familiar to the heart from ancient days, And I remembered the love of anxious torment, I remembered the shine of long-extinguished eyes! Yes! like a leaf that turned yellow in the spring, In the morning of days and you withered, my angel; And I saw you in white clothes, In a wreath of white roses lying under the brocade ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... I remembered everything ... And the music thundered, And the motley crowd was spinning in front of me!

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

Unaccountable sadness

Fuhit das Herz ein Schen Und ein susses Weh. Ruckert * The spring night is cool, Fragrant and clear; In the clear sky, the silvery moon is quietly shining, And with a beam she kisses the chest of the cold river; Songs are heard across the river And lights flicker. I'm sad! Longing in my heart Unconscious lies, A tear runs down my cheek! Clouds hid the moon - There are no lights to be seen ... The songs died down ... Soon, my heart, You will stop suffering! * The heart feels languor and sweet sorrow. Rückert.

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

* * *

A pale ray of the moon made its way Through the mysterious foliage, And the wind brings the warm Smell of mown grass. Everything would only be here I lay, Under the canopy of these willows, Into the dumb distance, into the starry dome, Aimlessly aiming gaze; I would have listened to how the top of the dormant willow rustles, As on the dark bottom of the ravine, The spring murmurs over the stones. This quiet murmur, Rustle of leaves, light of the moon - Everything brings to me Reconciling dreams ... Night! with your meek radiance, For a tired me, You are dearer and sweeter than a brightly shining day ...

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

* * *

In court, he listened to the verdict - His galleys were expecting: He was a poor man, and he was a thief. For a week the children were starving, And, depressed by poverty, His wife looked into the coffin; Labor, worries, grief, To know, were beyond her power; And he succumbed to temptation: He stole it for his family's bread. And condemnation impassively Read the Sanhedrin to him; It seemed terrible poverty. None of them was struck; The example is not new, and it is in vain To regret - the law is inexorable! Only one human grief was Accessible at that moment, Love in one gaze shone: He looked - both meek and great - Among the silent silence, Christ crucified - from the wall ...

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

Spring (Again in spring it smelled through my window ...)

Again in the spring, my window smelled, And breathes more joyful and freer ... In my chest oppressive melancholy fell asleep, A swarm of bright thoughts is replacing it. Snow has melted ... Ice shackles Do not weigh on the sparkling waves ... And the plow is waiting for the distant, silent Fields of my native side. Oh, how I would like to go there from these stuffy rooms - to the open, Where there are no crackling and soulless phrases, Where the twisted venal choir does not thunder. Into the fields! into the fields! familiar nature Beckons with bashful beauty ... Into the fields! there the song of the resurrected people, Free and powerful, sounds.

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

Spring (The snow is already melting ...)

The snow is already melting, streams are running, Spring has blown through the window ... The nightingales will soon whistle, And the forest will dress with foliage! The sky blue is clear, The sun has become warmer and brighter, The time of evil snowstorms and storms Has passed again for a long time. And the heart is so strong in the chest Pounding, as if waiting for something, As if happiness was ahead And winter took care of it! All faces are looking merrily. "Spring!" - you read in every gaze; And he, as a holiday, is glad to her, Whose life is only hard work and grief. But high-spirited children ringing laughter And carefree birds singing They tell me - who loves renewal more than all of Nature!

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

* * *

Forward! without fear and doubt For a valiant feat, friends! The dawn of holy redemption I saw in heaven! Be brave! Let's give each other hands And move forward together. And may our Union grow stronger and stronger under the banner of science. We will punish the priests of sin and lies with the Verb of Truth, And we will awaken the sleeping ones from sleep And lead the army to battle! We will not create an idol for ourselves Neither on earth nor in heaven; For all the gifts and blessings of the world We will not fall to the ground before him! .. To proclaim the teaching of love We will be the poor, the rich, And for him we will bear the persecution, Forgiving the mad executioners! Blessed is he who exhausted life in a bloody struggle, In heavy cares; Like a lazy and crafty slave, He did not bury his talent in the ground! Let the Holy Truth burn with a guiding star for us; And believe me, the noble voice will sound not for nothing in the world! Listen well, brothers, to the word of your brother, While we are full of youthful strength: Forward, forward, and without return, What fate would not promise us in the distance!

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

Hidalgo

Midnight. The streets of Madrid are both deserted and dark. Footsteps do not sound on the slabs, And the balconies are not doused with the Light of the fawn moon. The wind breathes with aroma, The dark green of the branches It barely sways ... And no one will hear us, O sister of my soul! Wrap yourself in your satin cloak And go out into the alley. The husband fell asleep ... The fear is in vain. You will rest safely Have a hidalgo on your chest. Or, like a worm, Jealousy gnaws at the old man's heart until morning? I swore by your beauty To take revenge on your husband ... Not to own you to him! I know: you were sold to an evil family to him! Go out on a date, my lovely Donya! The night is full of fragrance, And for a long time your kisses I am waiting under the shadow of myrtle! ..

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

Cottages

I love you, dachas! You go yourself at night, And the windows, balconies are all open; And the sound of the piano rushes from there, And the tunes flow in the silence of the night. But a head suddenly appeared at the window; Here are black eyes like stars shine, On the shoulders of lily silk curls, Satin cheeks burn with blush! And you look - and the night is so fresh and clear, And it smells of roses, and the moon shines!

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

Desdemona

(Viardo Garcia) 1 When your voice is silvery, O Desdemona, I listened, With ardent and pure delight My soul was full! I said: no, these sounds are pouring from heavenly heights; Empty, fruitless life of torment We are given to delight them! In this wonderful moment, People and the world - I forgot everything: I was all hearing and admiration, I greedily caught every sound! You prayed, or sobbed, Or quietly sang a song of love - How my heart beat, sank at the sound of those in my chest! Shakespeare's bright creature You understood so deeply And Desdemona all the suffering So faithfully conveyed to us! 2 While the noise of applause And clicks was announced to the audience, I alone sat in silence, I did not express my delight in anything. I did not throw you bouquets, I did not throw you a wreath; But the verse has ripened in the soul of the poet - Accept: here is my flower! Take it ... Though it does not shine With the beauty of a southern flower, But the sun also revives Leaves and roses ... and a cornflower!

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

* * *

Children of the century are all sick, - They say to me everywhere, - They walk pale, thin, With life they all have discord. No! In vain the old people Slander the poor age; Look: before you is a modern man. Cheeks as if from the frost, So blush and burn; How decent this posture, How calm this look. You impulses of enthusiasm Do not notice behind him; But how full of respect He is for His virtues. He solves all questions easily, without distant thoughts; Does not disturb, does not confuse Never doubt the mind. And a sharp, sweet mockery How he knows how to stab the Dissatisfied, that sadly They look at the way of life, They hate prejudices, They keep repeating about the ideal And only evil and death they see In what the world has recognized as good. Light by pleasant conversation And captivated by his mind; The ladies exclaim in unison: “How sweet he is! how smart he is! " No! In vain does old age raise Slander against a poor age: Modern man spends a blissful life!

Duma (Like children or slaves ...)

Like children or slaves, they are obedient to tradition, How often in life we \u200b\u200bare indifferent To the fact that our hearts should break, That tears should be pulled out of our eyes. We don’t want to cry, we don’t want to be tormented And to look for prejudices in doubts; Is it not better to blindly obey them in everything, And calmly blame fate for disasters! And, walking past the victims in a noisy crowd, Sigh and say: this is what fate has commanded! When the conscience suddenly, waking up, will say to us: "The culprit of your troubles, you, miserable mortal, yourself ... You are deaf as an idol, to my voice remained And, having created a ghost, obeyed him!" - We will hurry to drown out the cry of our heart So as not to poison the peace of our days! When, in the midst of the crowd, sometimes the Prophet appears with a mighty, great soul, With the verb of sacred truth on his lips, - Alas, he is rejected! The crowd in his words does not find the Doctrine of love and truth ... It seems to her a shame to listen to his speeches, And, inspired, when he begins to broadcast - With a mockery, everyone walks away with a wave of his hand. ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

I'm sorry for her

(To Count DA Tolstoy) Give me your hand ... I understand Your sinister sadness And, full of secret torment, I listen to Your words: " Her I'm sorry. "As sometimes in a river a wide Thunderstorm torn off a leaf It rushes pale, lonely, Where the stream draws it, - So she, by the command of fate Always obedient, will go Without tears, without complaint and reproach, Where he will lead her. Now there is so much Love ... My God, Do not let her waste the Fire that you kindled in the desert! But this calm, clear gaze, May it be forever warmed by it, And may another soul give an answer to the call of a beautiful soul. Yes, believe me , friend, I understand Your sinister sadness And, full of sadness, I repeat With you myself: " Her I'm sorry".

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

* * *

If you want to peacefully, Your days are clear, Throw disturbing questions And lofty goals. Let the eagles soar high Somewhere under the clouds; What do you care about them! Like a wolf Howl to yourself, living with wolves. Believe, much closer to the point, Putting aside empty ravings About these air castles, Stand for an hour in the front; More often to flatter the one who is strong (But not to flatter rudely - with skill), Than to uselessly on untruth To attack with ferocity. Do not disdain fools - This is the power in our time; Thou shalt not diminish Their breeding tribe with mockery. Listen to their nonsense patiently: Someone of them, perhaps, will help people jump out; Anyone can annoy. Generally accepted morality You adhere strictly And go, not avoiding, Thorny, beaten road. In those who turn from her, Full of zealous zeal, And you throw stones and dirt without mercy. So that any misfortune does not come of it, be faithful to the Diplomat's dictum: "Do not give in to the Heart's first movement"; Give up dreams of the welfare of your neighbors, be an exemplary family man; And the wife and children Provide the faithful income. And your century will pass happily; And you will leave our mortal world, They will all say, walking behind the coffin: "Here is a venerable husband passed away; He was too good for the world, and therefore he was taken by God." And perhaps even the press will honor you with an obituary.

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

* * *

There are days: no malice, no love, No thirst for deeds, no longing for truth - Nothing excites my blood; And the heart is asleep and the mind is numb. I remain deaf to the calls of life; I look so coldly, so dispassionately At everything that once disturbed and tormented my spirit all the hour. And a woman's caress in me In those days does not even find an answer; In inaction, in the shameful sleep of Soul forces, an hour passes by an hour. I'm scared, scared for myself; I'm afraid that my heart does not cool down at all, So that I do not lose my feelings, While there is fire in the blood and strength in the body. For years I am not yet old ... Oh God, all who yearn for redemption, Do not let the heat of the ashes of the heart Fall asleep dead doubt!

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

* * *

Why, at the sound of these songs, Familiar songs of old times, You, heart, beat so strongly, As if in the days of your spring? Are delights and sorrows, All the storms of youthful years, Have you left an indelible mark forever? You hotly believed, loved - But life broke all dreams. Life has spared nothing, What did you fear! And colder from year to year Blood began to flow in you ... Why did you start up? Or did the flame, long extinguished, flare up again? Or is it just a pity to you for the past: Anxiety and feelings experienced? But, like a wave that rushed away into the distance, Do not return them to us more! Leave the vain impulses, Forget the old worries ... Oh! it would be better for us to go to these sounds With you last sleep to fall asleep!

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

Sounds

Don't be silent, don't be silent! These sounds are pleasing to the heart, Even for a single moment, let the torment slumber in the patient's chest. The excitement of the past, old days Your song reminds me; And tears are pouring from my eyes, And sweetly my heart stops ... And it seems to me that I hear a familiar voice, dear to my heart; He used to draw me To himself by some wonderful force; And as if before me again A calm, quiet gaze shines And the soul with sweet longing, Fills with longing of bliss ... So sing! The chest breathes easier, And the doubts of the torment have subsided in it ... Oh, if I could ever die to these sounds!

* * *

Familiar sounds, wonderful sounds! Oh, how much power has been given to you! Past happiness, past torment, And the joy of meeting, and tears of parting ... You are destined to resurrect everything. Familiar shadows appear again, They pass one after another ... And the heart is ready to believe in deception, And thirsts and prays for the whole life of the past, Warmed by the passion of the past. And everything that was killed by the fruitless struggle, Again stirred in my chest ... To a valiant feat, to a battle with fate I walk bravely, and Hope burns ahead as a bright star. In the beloved gaze, in the smile of participation I have read for a long time that we love; Thunderstorms are not terrible to me, bad weather is not terrible; I know - endless happiness of love awaits me! Enough, enough! .. shut up, sounds! You torment my chest ... Past happiness, past torment, And the joy of a meeting, and tears of separation, O heart! forget forever! ..

Vsevolod Rozhdestvensky. Favorites. M., L .: Fiction, 1965.

From Heine (Take the drum ...)

Take the drum and do not be afraid, Kiss the market woman louder! Here is the meaning of the deepest art, Here is the meaning of philosophy throughout! Knock harder, and wake those who sleep from sleep with anxiety! Here is the meaning of the deepest art; And march ahead yourself! Here is Hegel! Here is book wisdom! Here is the spirit of philosophical principles! Long ago I grasped this secret, Long ago I became a drummer!

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

Hypochondria

It’s scary to think that such an End is destined for the drama of life; That you will be in a narrow, dark pit Lie motionless and dumb; That the worms will begin to sharpen Your abandoned body - To sharpen that heart that is able And to hate and love. And after many, many years Some idle dreamer Will find your ugly skull And take it to his office, So that instead of marble He would lie on sheets of dusty paper Or children, a grave lodger, As they scare, he scared.

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

To D ... (When I pressed ...)

(From Byron) When I pressed you to my chest, Love and happiness is full and reconciled with fate, I thought: only death will part us from you; But now we are torn apart by the envy of people! Let you forever, lovely creature, Took away their malice from my heart; But, believe, they will not expel your image from him, Until your friend fell under the burden of suffering! And if the dead leave their shelter And to eternal life the dust will be reborn from decay, Again my forehead will bow on your chest: There is no paradise for me, where you are not with me!

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

* * *

When I meet a wounded man, under the yoke of experience; And with a bitter speech, mocking and evil Shame betrays a mired century in lies; And faith in the human race in his bosom died out, And the spirit that was once full of powerful forces, Like a nightlight that went out without oil, Without faith and love, it became weak and sick; And the ray of truth, sparkling beyond the distance of the Coming days, is invisible to his eyes - How painful it is for me! Deep sadness When I meet that one, I am languishing. And then I say: appear, appear to us again, Lord, in our poor world, where grief and discord; May the divine word sound again And your fallen children will call to life!

Vsevolod Rozhdestvensky. Favorites. M., L .: Fiction, 1965.

* * *

When I am in a crowded hall, We languish with anxiety in secret, I listen to Strauss's wonderful sounds, Now full of sadness, now alive; When the Crowd dazzles before me by the light of bright candles; And now, with a young smile And with the whiteness of transparent shoulders, Shining, you come up to me, Keeping a long gaze at me, And start a conversation with me, Flying, ballroom conversation ... Oh, why is it so sad, it hurts me suddenly? .. You hardly I answer, and involuntarily my head bows on my chest. And everything seems to me, by fate You are doomed to torment, That will be a hard struggle And this chest is exhausted; That the gaze burns with the fire of suffering, Vainly concealing a tear; What a bleak sob For a ringing laugh I hear! And I'm sorry, I'm sorry for you - and tears Are ready to sink out of my eyes ... But these are all sick dreams of my upset soul! Forgive me friend; not knowing boredom, Forgetting the prophetic speech, Whirl, flutter under these sounds In the bright light of ballroom candles!

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

Legend

Christ the child had a garden, And he grew many roses in it; He watered them three times a day, To weave a wreath for himself later. When the roses bloomed, Jewish children with abouthe called; They plucked a flower, And the whole garden was devastated. “How will you weave a wreath now? There are no more roses in your garden! " “You have forgotten that the thorns remained for me,” said Christ. And from thorns they wove a thorny wreath for him, And drops of blood instead of roses decorated him with brow. Note: translation from an unknown English poet.

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

* * *

[M. P. Ya-I] I love to strive with a dream In that fertile country, Where myrtle, drooping his head, Kisses the light wave; Where cypresses majestically ascended to the azure of the sky, Where sweet-sounding octaves From the mouth of the Torkvatovs flowed; Where Dante, sullen and stern, From hell called shadows; Petrarch threw his laurel crown at Laura's footsteps; Where Raphael, in awe, Depicted the face of the Madonna; From the mass of marble Psyche Canova erected a powerful finger; Where at the hour, when the moon shines The bay is wide silted And fragrant breath Pours rose and lemon everywhere, - The gondola mysteriously slides Across the unsteady and dumb moisture, And the barcarole freezes, Like a kiss, in the silence of the night! Luxuriously proud beauty! Oh, tell us how you dreamed about the magic toy! I will listen to you ... And in your eyes I will direct a quiet gaze - And the sky of the southern, wondrous night They will replace the poet! ..

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

Singer's love

On my chest with a beautiful brow, I pray, bow down, my faithful friend! At least for a moment, in a passionate kiss, We will find oblivion and peace! And there, give me your hand - and with you We will proudly carry our cross And to heaven in the fight against fate We will not send pleas for happiness ... Blessed is he who exhausted life in a bloody struggle, In heavy worries, - Like a lazy and crafty slave, His talent I didn't bury it in the ground! Suffer for everyone, suffer immensely, Only find happiness in torment, Smite the hypocritical priests of Baal with the Verb of truth, Proclaim the doctrine of love Everywhere - the poor, the rich - The lot of the poet ... I will not give up excitement For the good of the world. And you! In your chest torment Lurks also, I know, And not a cup of delight awaits, - Phial poisoned you! For a sultry and deep passion You were born - and for a long time the Crowd of meaningless, cruel You are not afraid of the sentence. And for a long time, without regret About the stupid happiness of the days of the past, You suffer, with one forgiveness Paying enemies for their malice! Oh, give me your hand - and with you We will proudly carry our cross And we will not send our pleas for happiness to heaven in the struggle against fate! ..

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

* * *

My evil and stupid jokes, Life, you played with me, And I stand at a crossroads with my head bowed. Hearts best impulses And favorite dreams I ridiculed mercilessly, To smithereens you broke. You instigated slyly On an unequal battle me, And in that battle I spent A lot of passion and fire. Only for the amusement of people Soon I was exhausted; And the consciousness remained to me, That I was weak and sick. Well! I’ll go by the road, I thought, the crowd followed, Modest, quiet, well-meaning, Throwing youthful delirium. What a smooth road! Stones don't cut feet here. If I had walked along it before, I would not have been so exhausted. And the goal is much closer; The pier is peaceful in mind ... How many delights I will find the Unknown! But alas! did not take long To this goal I go, And again I found myself On a country road. And the fault is all these dreams, These dreams of the times of the past ... Unconnected, with me They walked hand and hand. And they all beckoned somewhere, And they whispered something to me, There are so many lovely images Shown aside. I rushed to meet them, filled with new strength: I walked along thorny thorns, I descended into gloomy abysses. And I thought - I go up To my dear ghosts, But in vain, tired, I stretched out my hands to them. Dear ones were moving away, flew away from me ... And suddenly at the crossroads At night I was caught. How long will my night last And what awaits me for her, I do not know; I only know That longing is in my soul. But not a torn road, Early abandoned by me, Awakens regret At this moment in the soul of the patient. I am sorry for the ghosts of my beloved, It is a pity for the luxurious bright dreams, That the day hid so early, Carried away in its rays!

Vsevolod Rozhdestvensky. Favorites. M., L .: Fiction, 1965.

Grave

The leaves rustled sadly At night in autumn; The coffin was lowered into the grave, The coffin illuminated by the moon. Quietly, without crying, they buried And all went away, Only the moon looked at the grave Sadly all night.

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

My acquaintance

He was poor. His father ... He was poor. (His father served in the Hussars for a century, He loved dancers and completely ruined Imenye.) And he was an ardent liberal: He energetically punished all the weaknesses of people, Though he did not write articles. He could not bear to bend his back, He loved the poor class, He loved to prick the landowners with Satire at times evil. And Georges Zandom and Leroux Was passionately carried away, Husbands he taught goodness, He tried to develop wives. When fate pushed my friend into the wilderness, He thought - would temper him With ignorance the struggle. All the covetous, scoundrels He dreamed of being a storm; And for the rights of orphans and widows He swore to stand like a mountain. But, oh! what is coming from us is thick hides darkness; He did not think that the hour was near to enter into a legal marriage. Though he betrayed the Empty, soulless light with a curse, But in the province he was captured by the Maid at thirty. She had other ideas ... She was not familiar with Sand, But they gave three hundred souls behind her And a three-story house. He got married, he liked the life of himself, a friend ... His wife led him immediately into the provincial higher circle. And he began to give dinners, And he considered it an honor, When the know came to him, To eat well. And if a general came to his house from time to time, He, out of happiness, was not himself, He met on the porch. The wife had a tough disposition; And the house and three hundred souls gave her so many rights ... And the husband obeyed. Although sometimes He still punished evil in the circle of friends, But more condescendingly looked At the weaknesses of people. Although he did not lose his completely Mighty gift of words, But somehow His spiritual heat in front of his wife got cold. Sometimes, he would only start a dispute about the serfs, You look, and grips his wife's mouth. And then I met him In another province; He had a decent belly And had a big rank. Before him all the bureaucratic people And trembled and thrilled; And he did not have three hundred souls - he had five hundred of his own. He judged virtue by a deck of cards ... When a young man sometimes entered into excitement before him, He condemned disobedience Like a true bureaucrat ... And he cast a Lightning glance at the guilty one ...

Vsevolod Rozhdestvensky. Favorites. M., L .: Fiction, 1965.

Silence

(From M. Hartmann) Not a word, my friend, not a sigh ... You and I will be silent ... After all, silently over the grave stone The sad willows are bowing ... And only bowing down, they read, As I, tired in your gaze, That there were days of clear happiness That this happiness is gone!

Wonderful Instant. Love lyrics of Russian poets. Moscow: Fiction, 1988.

Supplication

And raising their gaze to the sky, They are filled with sorrow - From the depths of the sick soul, exhausted Soul, they cried out: “We have no strength for feat! Our heart emanates with blood, Unequal battle weary us, Look, look at us with love! " With the word of peace on our lips We walked towards our brothers, Where did their sudden fear come from, Where did this cry of curses come from? Hearing our speech, they grabbed Swords and stones And to the judges, in wild anger, They shouted furiously: “Crucify! Is it possible that we have inflamed enmity and anger in the hearts of people Only by the fact that more evil and darkness have we loved Good and Light? What did they urge the rich, And the mighty of the world, and the free Not to drive the naked and the orphaned and the hungry from their meal? And now, rejected by people, We were exhausted in a long battle. Oh god of truth! take away your persecuted children in prayer! Soften the hearts of the embittered, Open the eyes of the blind and sleeping, And let the pale rays Shine in the deep darkness of the night!

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

At the call of friends

What is your call, friends? With anxious melancholy Cheerful, noisy feast, why should I poison? In enthusiastic verses, behind gold moisture, For a long time I have not been able to glorify Bacchus! The wild hangover does not amuse me, And the blood does not boil in me with the courage of the former; Gone are the days of the old mad fun, Gone are the days of the old mad love! And it seems, for a long time, full of hope, Into the future, I gaze trustingly, And doubts and sufferings were alien to me, And, simple-minded, I thought about happiness. In terrible nakedness the calamities of my native land did not yet appear to Me, And the torment of the brothers did not stir the spirit yet; But now he has received his sight, and peace is alien to him! Do I sometimes enter the golden chambers, Where the sybarite spends life in delights, I look at the palaces, at the age-old temples, - He tells me everything about age-old sufferings. Whether I am sitting surrounded by a noisy crowd At a large feast, I can hear the sound of chains; And appears in the distance, like a ghost, before me Divine plebeian crucified on the cross! .. And I am ashamed, ashamed ... From the place of exultation, Excited, I run under my humble roof; But there consciousness oppresses me of insignificance, And then I am ready to cry out my whole soul! Happy is he who has lived a century without painful doubts, Who gazed with hope to heaven; But I do not know about happiness, regrets And I will not give up my suffering for it! Oh, do not call me - I beg you, - Merry friends, on your noisy holiday: I have not glorified the god of clusters for a long time, And I will not forget myself under the sound of ringing bowls! ..

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

For memory

When, in spite of my desires, the will of fate will part us, Let my verse awaken the memory of the past in you; Will remind you of someone who found happiness Only with you in life, Who paid you for friendship and participation with sincere Love; Who has never lavished flattering words in front of a crowd, But, inspired by beauty, secretly dedicated his verse to you ... Will remind you of everything - and, at your leisure, After reading your cherished album, you will regret your friend, sigh, perhaps, about him. So we are sometimes reminded of a dried Flower of spring, The sound of a sad song exudes a tear from the eyes of antiquity.

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

Chant

Oh, why is my soul full of languor And strange dreams, When, in the quiet of solitude, I hear a familiar song? These sounds of Sadness, which have ceased long ago, do not awaken in the heart, Neither the pangs of love, nor the tears of parting They are destined to resurrect. But I love your inviting voice, The chant of the distant side, Like the mournful murmur of the sea In the hours of evening silence ...

Vsevolod Rozhdestvensky. Favorites. M., L .: Fiction, 1965.

* * *

No! Better death without return, Than a shameful world with darkness and evil, Than to look at the death of your brother yourself with gloating triumph. No! Better to a dark grave To take away timelessly with you And the fervor of the heart, and the strength of the spirit, And the dreams of the mad, passionate swarm, Than, all dull and fat, To drag out your age senselessly, With false humility of the Pharisee Firming: "Man is powerless", Than to exchange for sleep gratifying And honest labor, and an honest fight And imperceptibly in the stinking mud, In the mud get bogged down with your head!

Russian poets. Anthology in four volumes. Moscow: Children's Literature, 1968.

* * *

The lights went out in the house, And everything was quiet in it; In their cribs, the children fell asleep in a sweet dream. From the distant heavens the moon gazes meekly at them; The whole room is illuminated by Her radiance. Branches of Birches and poplars look from the garden And whisper: "We guard the quiet sleep of children; Let the joyful dreams All night long for the little ones dreams, Wonderful visions From a fairyland. When will the silent night Replace the day, Their dreams will be interrupted by the song of the bird. , like brothers dear, They will send their greetings, Nodding heads, Shining dew ... "

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

* * *

He walked the thorny road without complaint, He greeted with joy both death and shame; The lips, broadcasting the doctrine of strict truth, Did not utter reproach to the mocking crowd. He walked resignedly and, crucified on the cross, bequeathed to the Nations both brotherhood and love; For this sinful world, enveloped in darkness by vice, For his neighbor his holy blood was shed. Oh, weak children of the skeptical age! Or does not that mighty image speak to you About the appointment of a great man And does not call upon the sleeping will to feat? Oh no! I do not believe. Self-interest and vanity have not completely drowned out the voice of truth in us; The day will come ... The teaching of Christ will breathe life and strength Into our dilapidated world!

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

Fall

I recognize you, a dull time: These short, pale days, Long nights, rainy, dark, And destruction - wherever you look. Faded leaves are falling from the tree, In the field, turning yellow, bushes droop; Endless clouds float across the sky ... The autumn is boring! .. Yes, it's you! I recognize you, a sad time, A time of heavy and bitter worries: The heart, which once loved so passionately, Presses the deadly doubt oppresses; Sacred dreams go out in him quietly one after another Proud youths holy dreams, And gray hair breaks through in his hair ... Tiring old age! .. Yes, it's you!

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

Answer

We are close to each other ... I know, But alien in spirit ... Love For a long time I have not nourished for you, And my speech is cold ... I cannot lie before you, But the truth is terrible for you ... Why do we torment ourselves with fruitless struggle all the hour? I can't see God in idols, I can't bow my brows before them! I'm destined to hate everything, That you are slavishly accustomed to honor! “Whoever is true, faithful to his calling, has irrevocably doomed himself, And will leave his home and family without murmuring,” the prophet told us ... Oh, believe me, reproaches are in vain: We must part with you ... We are far from love to each other, Friend our soul is alien to a friend! ..

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

Song (Let's go ashore; there are waves ...)

Let's go to b ereg; there the waves Feet will kiss us; Stars with a mysterious sadness Will shine above us. There a fragrant breeze will develop your curls; Let's go ... Sadly swaying, Poplar calls us to him. In a long and sweet oblivion, Listening to the noise of the branches, We will rest from sorrow, We will forget people. They tormented us a lot, They tormented us a lot, my friend: Those - with their stupid love, Those - with endless enmity. We will forget everything, as the month In the dark azure will shine, Everything - as to nature and to God The nightingale will sing a hymn!

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

Song (Good night! - you said ...)

"Good night!" - you said, Shaking your hand to me, And wished for a lot of happiness, A lot of joy in a dream. "Let cute features dream until dawn!" - Smiling slyly, You spoke to your friend! And your desires came true, And I saw you! All your eyes I dreamed of, Eyes full of fire! I dreamed - in a cozy room. We are sitting together; On the floor, the Moon draws patterns with a fawn ray. You drew me with a lily-like hand on your chest, Kissed me gently in your eyes And whispered to me: " love!"And so many more dreamed ... What a wonderful, sweet dream! Wish it to happen to me in reality! ..

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

Song (Everything is quiet, the month is looking ...)

Quiet everything, the month looks In the waters of unsteady rivers; Songs are heard across the river And lights flicker. Why does my heart hurt so much? Did the days of the past become a pity, Or is the future frightened by the Unsolved distance? Why is there languor in my chest? And a tear fogs your eyes? Or is a thunderstorm gathering over me again? Here the month hid in the clouds, the Lights are no longer to be seen; The song died down ... Soon, my heart, Will you stop suffering?

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

* * *

By the feelings of brothers, we are with you, We both believe in redemption, And we will feed to the grave Enmity to the scourges of our native country. When the desired hour strikes And the sleeping peoples will rise - The holy army of freedom In its ranks will see us. Love for the holy truth In you, I know, the heart beats, And, surely, there will be a response in it For my incorruptible voice.

Vsevolod Rozhdestvensky. Favorites. M., L .: Fiction, 1965.

* * *

After the thunder, after the storm, After the hard, gloomy days The vault of azure cleared up, The heart became more cheerful. But for how long? .. There are new clouds running over the sea ... The sun with a cloud, joy with grief Inseparable, you know, they live!

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

sorry

Sorry, sorry, the time has come! We must part with you; My sail is whitening, and the stars Are lit in the blue firmament. Oh, let your tired head lie down on your chest, For the last time, pour tears And the silk of your hair, and the marble of your shoulders! And there we will part for a long time ... When will we meet again, Child! in hearts, perhaps, the cold Will replace the old love! Perhaps all the past is insolent Then we will laugh together, Although stealthily from each other We will shed an involuntary tear ... Forgive me, friend! My soul is full of sorrow ... But the hour has come, And a silvery shaft is calling me with an impatient splash ...

Vsevolod Rozhdestvensky. Favorites. M., L .: Fiction, 1965.

Farewell song

Bright angel, sweet angel! You want to leave us - And my dull tune flies to you for the last time. The heart wants to break; The eyes are foggy with a tear. I pray: stop looking Dai for the last time with you! Oh, appear to me as before At the cherished window, And joyful, like hope, And beautiful, like spring! Forgetting and parting, And the longing of the days to come, I will immerse myself in the contemplation of Your unearthly beauty. I admire the silence of Your blue eyes, Golden curls with a wave, Pale marble shoulders. All in vain. Angel dear! Know, you do not hear me. Only flowers sway sadly At your window ...

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

Heart

Tell me, how long are you destined to err, O heart? It's time to part with dreams ... We are old people with you for a long time. And you, in spite of the years and fate, You beat anxiously and stronger (Though you see little in this), Than you beat in the days of your spring. When, among the excitement of the light, In a noisy and empty crowd, The words of the beloved poet Will speak before you, Or a strict voice speaks of the eternal truth, What anxiety you will sound, What fire burns in you! Shining with bashful beauty, Do feminine features flicker - In pure delight, dying, Towards them as you strive. Oh stop it! You could understand a long time ago, in your years, That the nonsense of poetry is insignificant, That the eternal truth is a dream! That worship is somehow strange In our age, useful to beauty, That now the aspirations of a person should not be the same ... Understand that the truth is where there is strength, Where the achievement of earthly goods is, And, forgetting everything that you loved, Live and fight only for them!

Vsevolod Rozhdestvensky. Favorites. M., L .: Fiction, 1965.

Words for music

(Dedicated to P. N. O [Strovsky] mu) The meek stars were shining for us, A quiet breeze blew slightly, Flowers were fragrant all around, And the waves murmured tenderly At our feet. We were young, we loved, And with faith we looked into the distance; Rainbow dreams lived in us, And we were not afraid of the blizzards of the Gray winter. Where are these nights with their radiance, With fragrant beauty And waves with a mysterious murmur? Hopes, enthusiastic dreams Where is the bright swarm? The stars have faded, and the faded flowers drooped sadly ... When, oh heart, all that was, That spring gave us with you, Will you forget?

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

* * *

I look at her and admire: Like a bird she flutters, And her childish smile, As a May morning, is clear. I look and admire, but my heart The habitual thought oppresses: Perhaps this head is awaiting fate sadly. And soon, perhaps, it will wither Under the storm of everyday life, Eyes will fog up with a tear, That look at the world so brightly. A hard time of anguish and mental anxiety will come ... But still, let it be better for suffering To send her fate, Than the vulgarity of the bottomless maelstrom, That so many victims swallowed up, Where so many die without a trace And honest aspirations and strength.

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

* * *

Again I, full of meditation, I look into the book of the past, But I do not find many pages that are gratifying to my heart! Here are vain aspirations - There is vain love, And the blood grows cold in the heart from year to year. And sometimes it seemed to me that Happiness was found; The same grief! It pretended to be only happiness! Every day the road of life Everything becomes more boring ... And, obedient to the will of fate, Sluggishly I wander along it! Without hope, without desire, As the wave rolls into the distance ... I do not see the goal ahead, And I am not sorry for the past!

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

Sleep (Tormented by anguish ...)

(Excerpt from an unfinished poem) La terre est triste et dessechee; mais elle reverdira. L "haleine du mechant ne passera pas eternellement sur elle comme un souffle qui brule. "Paroles d" un croyant " ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... Tormented by longing, weary weary, I lay down to rest under a thick sycamore. The two-horned moon, like a crooked reaper's sickle, Shone above me in the azure height. Everything around was silent ... Transparent and clear, Only on the rock the wave sometimes crushed. In thought, I listened to the dull rumble of the sea, But soon I closed my tired eyes to sleep. And suddenly there appeared to me, beautiful and bright, the Goddess who chose me as a prophet. Green myrtle crowned her forehead with leaves, And golden silk curls fell on her shoulders. Her gaze was warmed by the fire of holy love, And he poured warmth and light over everything. Full of reverence, I lay motionless And waited for sacred words, breathing soak. But then she bent down to me and touched her hand slightly to the chest of my patient. And finally her mouth opened open, And that's what I heard from her then: “Your chest languishes with suffering and anguish, And before you lies a long way. Shall I tell you what awaits you in your homeland? Your people will raise stones at you For accusing you with a mighty word of Slaves of sin, slaves of shameful vanity! For the fact that you proclaim vengeance the terrible hour to the One who is mired in the mud of evil and idleness! Whose heart was not embarrassed by the groaning of the persecuted brothers, To whom was the law of his fathers! But do not be afraid of them! And know that I am with you, And the stones will fly over the proud head. Whether you are in chains, do not be discouraged and believe, I will open the very dark door of the dungeon. And again you will go, my chosen Levite, And in the world your voice will not sound for nothing. A grain of love will sink deep into hearts; The time will come, and it will give a luxurious fruit. And the man of that time will not wait long, He will not long to languish and suffer. The world will be resurrected to life ... Look, a ray of truth sparkles with a clear flame from behind the clouds! Go, full of faith ... And on my chest You will soon rest from torment and sorrow. " She said ... And then she hid herself, And I awoke, agitated, from sleep. And holy Truth, filled with new strength, I vowed to serve, as I served her before. My fallen spirit rose up ... And again oppressed I went to proclaim freedom and love ...

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

The old man at the piano

What passes will be nice. Pushkin Recollection is the only paradise from which we cannot be expelled; even our forefathers were not deprived of it. Jean-Paul Fille de la douleur, harmonie, harmonie! Langue que pour l "amour inventa le genie! Alfred de Musset (" Lucie ") * Sounds pour into my soul in a harmonious wave: They speak with their souls About the past, about the old days. I remember: we sat at the piano with her in the evening; I remember the night at fountain, Kiss in a dense garden ... I remember a sad farewell In the fatal hour of parting; I remember vows, promises, A gaze moistened with a tear. Everything is now as if it had never happened: She is already married - And my soul has not experienced love For so long. ; memories I were left alone: \u200b\u200bIn the days of sorrow, in the days of suffering They comfort me. And to the sound of the piano How I forget sometimes, Night, a date at the fountain - Everything is alive in front of me. Sounds pour into my soul in a harmonious wave; They speak with the soul Oh past, about antiquity! * Daughter of suffering, harmony, harmony! A language that is an invention for love! Alfred Musset ("Lucy") (French). - Ed.

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

* * *

He suffered a lot in life, a lot, But he did not ask for regret From his neighbors, as well as from God, And he proudly endured evil. And there was a time - and he confided his doubts to others, But in vain ... the poor man did not hear the words of comfort from his brother! He was told: "You are young, The heat in your blood will cool down with years, Ardent dreams will disappear ... So it was exactly with us before!" But he innocently believed, That those aspirations were not in vain, And he saw the law in the distance of Sacred truth. He was told reproachfully, That he did not like his native land; He considered the world his fatherland And humanity - his family! And he loved that family passionately And for her future blessings He was ready to spend every hour An excess of young strength in labor. But he found limits everywhere for his beloved hopes In the land of blind slaves of tradition, And he did not quench his thirst for deeds! And he died in a fruitless struggle, No one solved him; Nobody recognized the impulses of a loving, noble Soul ... They considered him empty, And only regretted his youth; When the cold corpse was buried, there was no Sob over it. Above a fresh young man's grave Now the birches only rustle Yes, in the cloudy morning, the tunes of the sad Oriole sound ...

Vsevolod Rozhdestvensky. Favorites. M., L .: Fiction, 1965.

Wanderer

Oh! quand viendra-t-il donc se jour que je revais, Tardif reparateur de tant de jours mauvais? Jamais, dit la raison ... H. Moreau * Everything is quiet ... Poplars above the sleeping waters, Like ghosts, stand, illuminated by the moon; The vault of heaven is strewn with trembling stars, Fields and forest are immersed in deep sleep; The air currents are full of night coolness, A fragrant breeze blew in my face ... The shore has already become visible ... and my chest breathes with joy, - Hurry me, oh my light canoe. I see a light flashed between the bushes And a bright stripe falls on the river; Are you waiting for the wanderer to your place, with languor and tears, You, good friend, in your cozy corner? With prayer do you stand before the pure Madonna And your whisper is heard in the midnight silence; Or maybe you are tearing the leaves of a fragrant rose, Like Gretchen Faust, wondering about me. Hearing the splash of a wave, with a smile to a young woman, Will you go out to meet your friend in a dark grotto, Where, with your head pressed to my shoulder, You told me, it used to be: "The day will come, And it is close, when there will be no grief or suffering on earth!" - No, he is far away, child; And if you only knew how many hopes, Beautiful and holy, I have since lost! Do you remember how we parted with you, How I was cheerful in spirit, how full of youthful strength! But now the days of parting, like dreams, are past; I visited my homeland and you again! So what then? Tired of fruitless struggle My soul is already. The fire went out in the eyes; And my chest has sunk, tormented by anguish, And the blood does not glow with a blush on my cheeks. I heard the cry of my neighbors, I saw their torment, I found power everywhere in prejudice; And I got scared! And a dark spirit of doubt, A terrible spirit, visited me for the first time! My impotence oppresses me every hour; Already the coldness in my heart, I feel, has penetrated; And I'm in a hurry to you, in a hurry, my beautiful friend, In your arms to forget even for a moment! The darkness thickened over the sleeping waters at night, A fragrant breeze blew in my face. The vault of heaven is strewn with trembling stars, Bring me quickly to the shores, shuttle!

Wonderful Instant. Love lyrics of Russian poets. Moscow: Fiction, 1988.

Clouds

Open, my friend, the window, The air is warm and fragrant, Not a single one sways On the white birch leaves. Open the window, my friend, And don't be afraid. A formidable cloud rushed from the side, frightening us with you. But I see that you are watching her with a timid gaze; And the thunderstorm - you surrender - Foreshadows this silence. Look! The sun flashed. In the pale pink rays The dumb distance of fields is sinking ... Drive away your childish fear; Look how pure and clear the Summer sunset is of the Sun ... And for tomorrow a serene Heaven promises us a day. But I know what kind of thought On your forehead lay: You cannot forget the clouds, That you have sailed far. And, involuntarily raising your sad eyes to the sky, You say to yourself: "A terrible thunderstorm will break over someone! God grant that she does not overtake the Poor wanderers - Poor wanderers wandering In the night without rest and sleep; Would not catch those who abandoned loved ones, homeland and home And went to a distant goal Unknown way! "

Flower

Above the desert, in a sultry afternoon, Proudly and calmly, a light cloud floats. And in the desert, we torment with thirst And a burning ray of burning, To her a flower sends prayers: “Look, in the dull steppe I bloom sick and frail, And without strength, and without beauty ... I bloom so joylessly: There is not a cool shadow here, No fresh dew, I am burning, languishing in the heat, And with my faded head I nestled dry to the ground. Every day with a secret hope I kept expecting that at least by chance you would fly to us for a moment; Here you come ... and I appeal to you with a prayer, and I know that you will bow to the prayer: That a heavy rain will fall, And, shaking off the dusty cover, My sheets will revive, And under the moisture of the clear sky, And luxurious and fragrant, Shine my outfit; And then, in the harsh steppe, For a long, long time to a new life I will remember the return ... ”But, proud, inexorable, A cloud swept past Above a drooping flower. Far away, over the squeezed cornfield, Useless, whimsical She shed rain; And in the desert, we torment with thirst And a burning ray of burning, A sick flower withered ... And he waited, fading, - Another cloud will come ... But there was no other.

A.N. Pleshcheev. Complete collection of poems. Library of the poet. Big series. Moscow, Leningrad: Soviet writer, 1964.

Elegy (Yes, I love you ...)

(To the tune of a French poet) Yes, I love you, lovely creature, Like a pale star in the evening clouds, Like a rose scent, like a breath of breeze, Like a sad song sound on slumbering waters; As dreams I love, as sweet oblivion Under the whisper of the reeds on the seashore, - Without jealousy, without tears, without thirst for rapture: My love for you is a dream of the past ... I look at you, past excitements Come to my mind, forgotten love And everything that has been ridiculed for so long with doubt, What is replaced by it, that will not return again. It is not given to me to enjoy carelessly: Before me lies a distant, sorrowful path; And I'm in a hurry, child, to stop looking at you, Although for a moment to rest my soul from sorrow.

Wonderful Instant. Love lyrics of Russian poets. Moscow: Fiction, 1988.

Aleksey Nikolaevich Pleshcheev (1825 - 1893) - Russian poet, writer, translator, critic. Pleshcheev's works entered the anthology of Russian poetry, prose, children's literature and became the basis for about a hundred romances by Russian composers.

Childhood and youth

Alexey Pleshcheev came from a noble family, which by the time of the birth of the future poet in 1825 had become impoverished. The boy, being the only son of his parents, was born in Kostroma and spent his childhood in Nizhny Novgorod. He received his primary education at home, knew three languages.

In 1843 Pleshcheev entered the Faculty of Oriental Languages \u200b\u200bat St. Petersburg University. In St. Petersburg, his circle of contacts was formed: Dostoevsky, Goncharov, Saltykov-Shchedrin, the Maikov brothers. By 1845 Pleshcheev's acquaintance with a circle of Petrashevists who profess the ideas of socialism belongs.

The first collection of the poet's poems was published in 1846 and was imbued with revolutionary aspirations. The verse published in it “Forward! Without fear and doubt, "the youth perceived as a" Russian Marseillaise. " Pleshcheev's poems of the early period are the first Russian response to the events of the French Revolution, some of them were banned by the censors until the beginning of the 20th century.

Link

The Petrashevsky circle, of which Pleshcheev was an active participant, was covered by the police in the spring of 1849. Pleshcheev and other members of the circle were imprisoned in the Peter and Paul Fortress. The result of the investigation was the death sentence for 21 of the 23 prisoners, involving execution.

On December 22, a staged execution took place, at the last moment of which the imperial decree on pardon and exile of the convicted was read out. Pleshcheev was sent as a private to the Southern Urals, near Orenburg. The poet's military service lasted 7 years, the first years he wrote practically nothing.

For the courage shown during the Turkestan campaigns and the siege of Ak-Mechet, Pleshcheev was promoted and retired. In 1859 he returned to Moscow, and from 1872 he lived in St. Petersburg.

Creativity after link

The second collection of the poet's poems was published in 1858 with the prefixed words by Heine "I was not able to sing ...". Upon his return to Moscow, Pleshcheev actively collaborated with the Sovremennik magazine, published his poems in various publications in Moscow. The appeal to prose dates back to this time. Novels have been created (Inheritance, Father and Daughter, Pashintsev, Two Careers, etc.).

In 1859-66. Pleshcheev joined the group of leaders of the "Moscow Bulletin", directing him towards liberalism. Many critics considered the publication of works and autobiography by T. Shevchenko, whom the poet met in exile, as a bold political act. Poetic creativity was also politicized, for example, the poems "Plea", "Honest people, dear thorny ...", "Towards youth", "False teachers", etc.

In the 60s, Pleshcheev falls into a depressive state. His comrades are leaving, the magazines where he published are closed. The titles of the poems created during this period speak eloquently about the change in the poet's inner state: "Without hopes and expectations", "I walked quietly along a deserted street."

In 1872, Pleshcheev returned to St. Petersburg and headed the journal Otechestvennye zapiski, and then Severny Vestnik. The return to the circle of like-minded people contributed to a new creative impulse.

In the last years of his life, the poet wrote a lot for children: the collections "Snowdrop", "Grandfather's Songs".

Peru Pleshcheev owns translations of poems and prose of a number of foreign authors. The poet's works in drama are significant. His plays "The Happy Couple", "There is a silver lining", "The Commander" are successfully staged in theaters.

Alexey Pleshcheev died on September 26, 1893 in Paris, while there on his way to Nice for treatment. Buried in Moscow.

Alexey Nikolaevich Pleshcheev (1825-1893) - Russian writer, poet, translator; literary and theater critic.
Born on December 4, 1825 in Kostroma, in the family of an official who came from an old noble family. The poet's distant ancestor took part in the battle with the Tatars on the Kulikovo field.
Alexey Pleshcheev spent his childhood in Nizhny Novgorod, studied in St. Petersburg, at the school of guards ensigns, then, leaving it, at the university, at the oriental faculty. In 1844 he wrote his first poems in Sovremennik, in 1846 he published a separate collection of poems, which brought him wide popularity.
Alexey Pleshcheev was a member of the illegal Petrashevsky circle, in which socialist ideas were preached. In particular, he delivered to Petrashevsky a letter from Belinsky to Gogol, banned by the authorities. In April 1849, when the tsarist government defeated the Petrashevsky circle, the poet was arrested and imprisoned in the Peter and Paul Fortress.
On December 22, 1849, Alexei Pleshcheev, along with other Petrashevites, was brought to Semenovskaya Square for execution, which was canceled only at the last minute. The poet was sentenced to four years of hard labor, replaced "in view of his young years" by exile as a private in the Orenburg battalion of the line. He received permission to enter "both capitals" and returned to literary activity after ten years of soldiery. In 1872, at the invitation of Nekrasov, he moved from Moscow to St. Petersburg, taking the position of secretary of the journal "Otechestvennye zapiski" and headed the department of poetry in it. After the closure of Otechestvennye zapiski, Pleshcheev was in charge of the same department in Severny Vestnik.
Alexey Pleshcheev died in 1893 in Paris on his way to a French resort. He was buried in Moscow at the Novodevichy Convent with a large gathering of young people. On the day of his funeral, Moscow newspapers received an order prohibiting any "words of praise for the late poet."