Frost, red nose poem by Nikolai Nekrasov. “Frost, Red Nose”, analysis of Nekrasov’s poem Read Frost the Red Nose

The work “Frost, Red Nose” was written in 1863-1864. During these years, Nikolai Alekseevich had long been in the position of a successful and not poor writer. But he did not lose his closeness with the people, he continued to live in thoughts about ordinary people, knew their life well and talentedly conveyed the range of feelings that he put into his poems.

This is the most mystical work that came from the writer’s pen. This is originally a folk work. The main characters are common people, simple characters with morals that are understandable to any Russian person.

The poet’s work had nothing in common with what the government was promoting at that time. But the plot, where the life of ordinary peasants is shown both in sorrow and in joy, has become clear to everyone, even now after a century and a half. This is no coincidence. Nikolai Alekseevich, being himself a nobleman by birth, penetrated into all the experiences, suffering, aspirations, prayers of his heroes and showed a picture that was not always attractive, but always truthful.

Despite the apparent simplicity of the plot, “Frost, Red Nose” in its construction is one of the most complex by Nekrasov.

Poem idea

Initially, the poem was conceived as a drama, where the key meaning lies in the death of the peasant. But gradually the story developed into an epic work, where the peasant’s wife came to the fore.

The author put into the image of Daria the difficult fate of all Russian peasant women. The bitter widow's tears described at the end of the work are the women's tears of all women burdened with hard work and great grief, which, it turns out, is not always possible to cope with. The tragic fate of a woman who is not afraid of physical labor and is ready to do any man’s work is cut short.

Nekrasov treats his heroine with great respect and awe. He sends death to this strong and brave woman as relief from torment.

It is known that in 1861 a reform took place in Russia, serfdom was abolished. It turned out that the reform did not bring the people the long-awaited relief that was expected. In order to maintain at least some order in society, severe censorship was introduced. It was not easy for writers to avoid sharp corners and “traps” set by the government. But many succeeded thanks to their talent.

Nikolai Alekseevich found his way. In addition to humorous feuilletons and humorous essays, which the censorship let through, it was possible to write about a woman. And in those years, her path to both economics and politics was closed. And if the censor saw that the work was about a woman, he believed that it did not pose a particular threat to the existing government. The writer took advantage of this circumstance.

Grief

The story begins sadly. There is a tragedy in the family - death. They are preparing for the burial of Procl Sevastyanich. The family breadwinner died.

The whole family is busy preparing for the funeral. The mother is delivering the coffin. The father of the deceased does the hardest work; he prepares the grave. The widow also does not sit idle - she sews a shroud.

Here comes the first thoughtful assessment of what awaits Daria. What fate awaits her? A woman's lot is not often joyful. A hard life kills beauty. Why did a woman come into this world? Work, suffer and die?

But time is spinning backwards. Another assessment is also given here. This is a pathetic description of Russian women, where the author literally splashed out his love and admiration. He is not shy and compares his heroines with queens, describes simple beauty, dexterity, and hard work. Here the poet does not cry over the bitter fate of a simple village woman. He sings a majestic song to her. Maybe a little idealizing and exaggerating, but that’s why he’s a poet. The author reveals great knowledge of peasant life and customs of the Russian people. Life in the house, in work in the field, in leisure, in customs and beliefs is described in detail.

Daria was such a woman before her husband’s death. But now grief is drying her up, and she cannot stop the tears that roll from her eyes. With these tears she waters the shroud that she sews with her own hands.

Relatives dress the deceased in silence. The time for lamentation will be later, when all the rituals have been performed.

The horse Savraska, a faithful assistant in all matters, takes his master on his last journey. Although the family fought for the life of Proclus with all its known means, he did not rise and died. All the neighbors remember only good things about him.

Daria

This is the main image in the work. The author raises his heroine to epic heights and reveals her inner world. Now the reader knows what the heroine feels and what she thinks about. Numerous images are conveyed in different ways, in the form of memories, hopes, thoughts, illusions.

Having just arrived from the cemetery, a tired woman wants to caress her orphaned children. But she doesn't have time for that. It turns out that the house has run out of firewood. And having placed the children with the neighbors, on the same sleigh drawn by the faithful Savraska, Daria goes into the forest to get firewood.

On the way to the forest, tears come to my eyes again. And when the heroine enters the grave chambers of the forest, a dull crushing howl bursts out of her chest. There is no time to feel sorry for herself, the peasant woman begins to chop wood. But all her thoughts are turned to her husband. She calls him, speaks to him, and then remembers her dream before Stas’s Day.

Various ideas are spinning in the head of the unhappy woman. Against the backdrop of the tragedy that happened, like fragmentary memories, she sees a joyful picture of family harmony, where everyone is alive and well, husband and children. But then some army surrounds her. But she is no longer she, but rye ears. And your husband is no longer visible anywhere, and you have to reap the rye yourself.

Daria understands that it was a prophetic dream. Now she is alone, without a husband, she must do backbreaking work, both female and male. She imagines her joyless existence. Suddenly the fear of lawlessness overcomes. Fear for his son, who might be recruited. She understands that everything has changed, a very difficult life awaits her.

With these thoughts in mind, she chopped wood. You can go home. But for some reason, taking the ax in her hand, the peasant woman stops at a pine tree.

Standing under the pine tree, barely alive,
Without thinking, without moaning, without tears.
There is deathly silence in the forest -
The day is bright, the frost is getting stronger.

Daria begins to forget herself. Like a sculpture, a woman freezes in a forest that has become fabulous. She enters the natural world and no longer wants to leave it.

And Daria stood and froze
In your enchanted dream.

Frost the Voivode appears and waves his mace over Daria. He is a kind old man, ready to take her into his possessions and provide her with warmth and tranquility. The peasant girl is covered with frost and pleasant news comes to her one after another. The face is no longer distorted by torment and suffering.

The writer very clearly shows the freezing process itself. Experts say that death from frostbite is one of the most pleasant. When freezing, a person does not feel the cold. On the contrary, it seems to someone who is freezing that he is warm, safe, somewhere on the warm sea or near a warm fire.

The picture of the life of a peasant woman without a husband that Nekrasov painted can be called scary. Her death is a deliverance from multiple sufferings and torments.

The meaning of the poem

☛ The work “Frost, Red Nose” remains relevant for many decades.

The poem was well known to contemporaries. With the advent of Soviet power, it did not lose its relevance; on the contrary, this work was textbook.

And even now, there is no Russian person who, wanting to speak as figuratively as possible about a brave, agile, dexterous and beautiful woman, would not remember Nekrasov’s image:

In the game the horseman will not catch her,
In trouble, he will not fail, he will save;
Stops a galloping horse
He will enter a burning hut!

Critics and writers highly appreciated the artistic skill that Nekrasov put into his work. The true story, with elements of mysticism, has turned into a real modern epic.

The French writer Charles Corbet compared Nekrasov's poem with Homer's epic.

The poem is simply beautiful. She is unusual and mysterious. And each generation can try to find its own solution in it.

N.A. Nekrasov was always concerned about the fate of the Russian peasantry, and especially the position of women. He devoted many works to this topic, including the poem “Frost, Red Nose” published in 1863 - already in the post-reform period. The summary of the work, of course, does not make it possible to fully appreciate its merits, but it allows us to outline the range of problems that concern the author.

Introduction

N. Nekrasov dedicated the poem to his sister, Anna Alekseevna. Already in the extensive introduction its general theme and mood are indicated. This is the author’s recognition of the difficult lot of a poet who knows much more about life than other people. That’s why the new song “will be much sadder than the previous one,” and in the future everything seems “even more hopeless.”

Memories of his home and the death of his mother end with a direct appeal to his sister: “... you realized a long time ago - here only stones do not cry...”.

Part 1. Death of a Peasant

The poem evokes sad thoughts in the reader. Here is its summary.

Nekrasov begins “Frost, Red Nose” with a description of the tragedy in the life of a peasant family. Its head and breadwinner died, leaving his parents, wife and two young children orphans. The father went to dig his son’s grave (“It’s not for me to dig this hole!”). Mother went for the coffin. The wife “quietly sobs” over the shroud - she sews the last outfit for her husband. And only “stupid children” make noise, not yet understanding what happened.

About the hard lot of the Slav woman

The story about the difficult life of a peasant woman occupies an important place in part 1 of the poem “Frost, Red Nose.” Its summary is as follows.

Initially, a Russian woman is destined for three bitter fates: as the mother of a slave, and also to submit to fate until the grave. And no matter how many centuries pass, this situation does not change. But no harsh life can break the “beautiful and powerful Slavic woman” - this is exactly how Daria is seen from the poem “Frost, Red Nose.”

Beautiful and dexterous in everything, patient and stately, with the gait and “look of a queen,” a Russian woman always evokes admiration. She is beautiful both when she squints and when her face “burns with anger.” She doesn’t like idleness even on weekends, but if a “smile of fun” appears on her face, replacing the “labor mark” on it, then she has no equal in song or dance.

She feels responsible for the whole family, so her house is always warm, the kids are fed, and she has an extra piece saved for the holiday. And when such a “woman” goes to mass with a child in her arms, “everyone who loves the Russian people” becomes “to the heart” of the resulting picture - this is how N.A. ends the story. Nekrasov. “Frost, Red Nose,” thus, is primarily a poem about the fate of a Russian peasant woman.

Proud Daria strengthens herself, but tears involuntarily roll down, falling on her “quick hands” and shroud.

Farewell to Proclus

All preparations have been completed: the grave has been dug, the coffin has been brought, the shroud is ready. “Slowly, importantly, sternly” they began to dress Proclus. His whole life was spent in work. Now, motionless and stern, he lies with a candle in his head. The author notes large, worn-out hands and a face - “beautiful, alien to torment.”

And only when the rites were given to the deceased, “the relatives of Procles began to howl.” In their crying there is pain from the loss of a loved one, and praise to the breadwinner, and mourning the bitter orphaned lot of children, a widowed wife, old parents...

And in the morning, the faithful horse Savraska took his owner on his final journey. He served Proclus for many years: in the summer - in the field, in the winter - as a carriage driver. While rushing to deliver the goods on time on his last trip, the peasant caught a cold. Returned home - “there is a fire in my body.” He was treated with all known folk methods. Finally, the wife went to a distant monastery to get the miraculous icon. But I was late. When she returned, Proclus, seeing her, groaned and died...

They returned from the cemetery, and Daria, wanting to warm the children, saw that there was not a log left. Bitter is the lot of a widow! Leaving her son and daughter with a neighbor, she went into the forest.

Part 2. Daria

Finding herself alone in the open air, among the forest and plains sparkling with diamonds, Daria can no longer contain her feelings. The forest, the sun, the birds became witnesses to the “widow’s great grief”... Having cried to her heart’s content, she begins to chop wood. And tears keep rolling from my eyes, like pearls, and all my thoughts are about my husband. And also about what now awaits the young widow and her children. Now you need to keep up everywhere yourself: both in the field and around the house. Masha and Grisha will grow up, but there will be no one to protect them.

Daria also remembers a dream she recently had. She fell asleep in the field, and it seemed that the ears of corn, like an army of soldiers, surrounded her on all sides. She started calling for help. Everyone came running, except for my dear friend. She set to work, but the grains kept falling out - she couldn’t do it alone. The dream turned out to be prophetic: “Now I will reap alone.” Long and lonely winter nights await her. She is weaving canvases for her son’s wedding, but now recruits are already waiting for Grisha - the headman is dishonest, and there is no one to intercede. I chopped wood so much with bitter thoughts that I couldn’t take it away.

But the heroine of the work “Frost, Red Nose” is in no hurry to go home.

Brief summary of the meeting with the majestic governor of forests and fields

After thinking, Daria leaned against a tall pine tree, standing “without a thought, without a groan, without tears.” The exhausted soul suddenly found peace, terrible and involuntary. And the frost is getting stronger. And then he appears, bends over the unfortunate woman’s head, and invites her into his kingdom. And suddenly Frost turned to Proklushka and whispered tender words.

Daria is getting colder and colder, and a picture appears before her eyes. Hot Summer. She is digging potatoes, her mother-in-law and Masha are nearby. Suddenly the husband appears, walking next to Savraska, and Grisha jumps out of the pea field. And under her heart is a child who should be born in the spring. Then Proclus stood on the cart, put Mashutka with Grisha - and “the cart rolled.” And on the face of Daria, looking after them, a “smile of contentment and happiness” appears. Through her sleep she hears a lovely song, and her soul sinks more and more into the long-awaited peace. A squirrel jumping on a pine tree drops snow on the heroine, and Daria stands and freezes “in her enchanted dream.” This is how the poem “Frost, Red Nose” ends.

© The electronic version of the book was prepared by liters company ( www.litres.ru)

* * *

Dedicated to my sister Anna Alekseevna

You reproached me again
That I became friends with my Muse,
What are the worries of the day?
And he obeyed his amusements.
For everyday calculations and charms
I would not part with my Muse,
But God knows whether that gift has not gone out,
What happened to me being friends with her?
But the poet is not yet a brother to people,
And his path is thorny and fragile,
I knew how not to be afraid of slander,
I myself was not preoccupied with them;
But I knew whose in the darkness of the night
My heart was bursting with sadness
And on whose chest did they fall like lead?
And whose life they poisoned.
And let them pass by,
There were thunderstorms above me,
I know whose prayers and tears
The fatal arrow was retracted...
And time has passed, I’m tired...
I may not have been a fighter without reproach,
But I recognized the strength in myself,
I believed in a lot of things deeply,
And now it’s time for me to die...
Don’t go on the road then,
So that in a loving heart again
Awaken the fatal alarm...

My subdued Muse
I myself am reluctant to caress...
I'm singing the last song
For you - and I dedicate it to you.
But it won't be any more fun
It will be much sadder than before,
Because the heart is darker
And the future will be even more hopeless...

The storm howls in the garden, the storm breaks into the house,
I'm afraid that she won't break
The old oak tree that my father planted
And that willow that my mother planted,
This willow tree that you
Strangely connected with our fate,
On which the sheets have faded
The night the poor mother died...

And the window trembles and becomes colorful...
Chu! how large hailstones jump!
Dear friend, you realized long ago -
Here only the stones do not cry...
……………………….

Part one
Death of a Peasant

I

Savraska got stuck in half a snowdrift -
Two pairs of frozen bast shoes
Yes, the corner of a matting-covered coffin
They stick out from the wretched woods.

Old woman in big mittens
Savraska came down to urge.
Icicles on her eyelashes,
From the cold - I guess.

II

The usual thought of a poet
She hurries to run ahead:
Dressed in snow like a shroud,
There is a hut in the village,

In the hut there is a calf in the basement,
Dead man on a bench by the window;
His stupid children make noise,
The wife is quietly sobbing.

Stitching with a nimble needle
Pieces of linen on the shroud,
Like rain that charges for a long time,
She sobs softly.

III

Fate had three hard parts,
And the first part: to marry a slave,
The second is to be the mother of a slave's son,
And the third is to submit to the slave until the grave,
And all these formidable shares fell
To a woman of Russian soil.

Centuries passed - everything strived for happiness,
Everything in the world has changed several times,
God forgot to change one thing
The harsh lot of a peasant woman.
And we all agree that the type was crushed
A beautiful and powerful Slavic woman.

Random victim of fate!
You suffered silently, invisibly,
You are the light of the bloody struggle
And I didn’t trust my complaints, -

But you will tell them to me, my friend!
You have known me since childhood.
You are all fear incarnate,
You are all age-old languor!
He didn't carry his heart in his chest,
Who didn’t shed tears over you!

IV

However, we are talking about a peasant woman
We started it to say
What type of majestic Slavic woman
It is possible to find it now.

There are women in Russian villages
With calm importance of faces,
With beautiful strength in movements,
With the gait, with the look of queens, -
Wouldn't a blind person notice them?
And the sighted man says about them:
“It will pass - as if the sun will shine!
If he looks, he’ll give me a ruble!”

They go the same way
How all our people are coming,
But the dirtiness of the situation is wretched
It doesn't seem to stick to them. Blooms

Beauty, the world is a wonder,
Blush, slim, tall,
She is beautiful in any clothes,
Dexterous for any job.

He endures both hunger and cold,
Always patient, even...
I saw how she squints:
With a wave, the mop is ready!

The scarf fell over her ear,
Just look at the scythes falling.
Some guy got it wrong
And he threw them up, the fool!

Heavy brown braids
They fell on the dark chest,
Bare feet covered her feet,
They prevent the peasant woman from looking.

She pulled them away with her hands,
He looks at the guy angrily.
The face is majestic, as if in a frame,
Burning with embarrassment and anger...

On weekdays he does not like idleness.
But you won't recognize her,
How the smile of joy will disappear
The stamp of labor is on the face.

Such a hearty laugh
And such songs and dances
Money can't buy it. "Joy!" -
The men repeat among themselves.

In the game the horseman will not catch her,
In trouble, he will not fail, he will save:
Stops a galloping horse
He will enter a burning hut!

Beautiful, straight teeth,
That she has large pearls,
But strictly rosy lips
They keep their beauty from people -

She rarely smiles...
She has no time to sharpen her lasses,
Her neighbor won't dare
Ask for a grip, a potty;

She doesn't feel sorry for the poor beggar -
Feel free to walk around without work!
Lies on it with strict efficiency
And the seal of inner strength.

There is a clear and strong consciousness in her,
That all their salvation is in work,
And her work brings reward:
The family does not struggle in need,

They always have a warm house,
The bread is baked, the kvass is delicious,
Healthy and well-fed guys,
There is an extra piece for the holiday.
This woman is going to mass
In front of the whole family in front:
Sits like he's sitting on a chair, two year old
The baby is on her chest

Six year old son nearby
The elegant uterus leads...
And this picture is to my heart
To everyone who loves the Russian people!

V

And you amazed me with its beauty,
She was both dexterous and strong,
But grief has dried you up
The wife of the sleeping Proclus!

You are proud - you don’t want to cry,
You strengthen yourself, but the canvas is grave
You involuntarily wet your tears,
Stitching with a nimble needle.

Tear after tear falls
In your quick hands.
So the ear silently drops
Their ripened grains...

VI

In the village, four miles away,
By the church where the wind shakes
Storm-damaged crosses,
The old man chooses a place;
He is tired, the work is difficult,
Here, too, skill is needed -
So that the cross can be seen from the road,
So that the sun plays all around.
His feet are covered in snow up to his knees,
In his hands is a spade and a crowbar,

A big hat covered in frost,
Mustache, beard in silver.
Stands motionless, thinking,
An old man on a high hill.

Made up his mind. Marked with a cross
Where will the grave be dug?
He made the sign of the cross and began
Shovel the snow.

There were other methods here,
The cemetery is not like the fields:
Crosses came out of the snow,
The ground lay in crosses.

Bend your old back,
He dug for a long time, diligently,
And yellow frozen clay
Immediately the snow covered it.

The crow flew up to him,
She poked her nose and walked around:
The earth rang like iron -
The crow got away with nothing...

The grave is ready for glory, -
“It’s not for me to dig this hole!”
(The old man let out a word)
“I wouldn’t curse him to rest in it,

I won’t curse you!..” The old man stumbled,
The crowbar slipped from his hands
And rolled into a white hole,
The old man took it out with difficulty.

He went... walking along the road...
There is no sun, the moon has not risen...
It's like the whole world is dying:
Calm, snow, semi-dark...

VII

In a ravine, near the river Zheltukha,
The old man caught up with his woman
And he quietly asked the old woman:
“Did the coffin go well?”

Her lips barely whispered
In response to the old man: “Nothing.” -
Then they were both silent,
And the logs ran so quietly,
As if they were afraid of something...

The village has not yet opened,
And close - the fire flashes.
The old woman made a sign of the cross,
The horse darted to the side -

Without a hat, with bare feet,
With a large pointed stake,
Suddenly appeared before them
An old acquaintance Pakhom.

Covered with a woman's shirt,
The chains on it rang;
The village fool knocked
A stake into the frosty ground,
Then he hummed compassionately,
He sighed and said: “No problem!
He worked quite hard for you,
And your turn has come!

The mother bought a coffin for her son,
His father dug a hole for him,
His wife sewed a shroud for him -
He gave you all a job at once!..”

He hummed again - and without purpose
The fool ran into space.
The chains rang sadly,
And bare calves glittered,
And the staff scribbled across the snow.

VIII

They left the roof on the house,
They took me to a neighbor's house to spend the night
Freezing Masha and Grisha
And they began to dress up their son.

Slow, important, harsh
It was a sad affair:
No extra words were said
No tears came out.

I fell asleep after working hard in sweat!
Fell asleep after working the soil!
Lies, uninvolved in care,
On a white pine table,

Lies motionless, stern,
With a burning candle in our heads,
In a wide canvas shirt
And in fake new bast shoes.

Large, calloused hands,
Those who put up a lot of work,
Beautiful, alien to torment
Face - and beard down to the arms...

IX

While the dead man was being dressed,
They didn’t express melancholy with a word
And they just avoided looking
Poor people look into each other's eyes,

But now it's over,
There's no need to fight the sadness
And what boiled in my soul,
It flowed like a river from my mouth.

It’s not the wind that hums through the feather grass,
It's not the wedding train that's thundering -
The relatives of Procles howled,
According to Procles, the family says:

“You are our blue-winged darling!
Where did you fly away from us?
Comeliness, height and strength
You had no equal in the village,

You were an adviser to parents,
You were a worker in the field,
Hospitable and welcoming to guests,
You loved your wife and children...

Why haven't you walked around the world enough?
Why did you leave us, dear?
Have you thought about this idea?
I thought about it with damp earth -

I thought better of it - should we stay?
He commanded the world, the orphans,
Do not wash your face with fresh water,
Burning tears for us!

The old woman will die from the cliff,
Neither will your father live,
Birch in a forest without a top -
A housewife without a husband in the house.

You don’t feel sorry for her, poor thing,
You don’t feel sorry for the children... Get up!
From your reserved strip
You'll reap the harvest this summer!

Splash, darling, with your hands,
Look with a hawk's eye,
Shake your silken curls
Dissolve your sugar lips!

For joy we would cook
And honey and intoxicating mash,
They would seat you at the table:
“Eat, beloved, dear!”

And they themselves would become the opposite -
The breadwinner, the hope of the family!
They wouldn't take their eyes off you,
They would catch your words..."

X

To these sobs and groans
The neighbors came in a crowd:
Having placed a candle near the icon,
Made prostrations
And they walked home silently.

Others took over.
But now the crowd has dispersed,
Relatives sat down for dinner -
Cabbage and kvass with bread.

The old man is a useless mess
I didn’t let myself control myself:
Getting closer to the splinter,
He was picking at a thin bast shoe.

Sighing long and loudly,
The old woman lay down on the stove,
And Daria, a young widow,
I went to check on the kids.

All night, standing by the candle,
The sexton read over the deceased,
And he echoed him from behind the stove
A cricket whistling shrilly.

XI

The blizzard howled harshly
And threw snow at the window,
The sun rose gloomily:
That morning the witness was
It's a sad picture.

Savraska, harnessed to a sleigh,
Ponuro stood at the gate;
Without unnecessary speeches, without sobs
The people carried out the dead man.
Well, touch it, Savrasushka! touch it!
Pull your tug tight!
You served your master a lot,
Serve for the last time!..

In the trading village of Chistopolye
He bought you as a sucker,
He raised you in freedom,
And you came out a good horse.

I tried together with the owner,
I stored bread for the winter,
In the herd the child was given
He ate grass and chaff,
And he held his body pretty well.

When did the work end?
And the frost covered the ground,
You went with the owner
From homemade food to transport.

There was a lot here too -
You carried heavy luggage,
It happened in a severe storm,
Exhausted, losing the way.

Visible on your sunken sides
The whip has more than one stripe,
But in the inns' yards
You ate plenty of oats.

Did you hear on January nights
Blizzards piercing howl,
And the wolf's burning eyes
I saw it at the edge of the forest,
You will be chilled, you will suffer from fear,
And there - and again nothing!
Yes, apparently the owner made a mistake -
Winter has finished him off!..

XII

Happened in a deep snowdrift
He'll have to stand for half a day,
Then in the heat, then in the chills
Walk for three days behind the cart:

The deceased was in a hurry
Deliver the goods to the location.
Delivered, returned home -
No voice, my body is on fire!

The old woman doused him
With water from nine spindles
And she took me to a hot bathhouse,
No, he hasn’t recovered!

Then the fortune tellers were called -
And they sing, and they whisper, and they rub -
Everything is bad! It was threaded
Three times through a sweaty collar,

They lowered my dear one into the hole,
They put a roost under the chicken...
He submitted to everything like a dove -
And the bad thing is he doesn’t drink or eat!

Still put under the bear,
So that he can crush his bones,
Sergachevsky walker Fedya -
The one who happened here suggested.
But Daria, the owner of the patient,
She drove the adviser away:
Try different means
The woman thought: and into the night

Went to a distant monastery
(Thirty versts from the village),
Where in some icon revealed
There was healing power.

She went and returned with the icon -
The sick man lay speechless,
Dressed as if in a coffin, receiving communion,
I saw my wife and groaned

And he died...

XIII

...Savrasushka, touch it,
Pull your tug tight!
You served your master a lot,
Serve one last time!

Chu! two death blows!
The priests are waiting - go!..
Murdered, mournful couple,
Mother and father walked ahead.

Both guys and the dead man
We sat, not daring to cry,
And, ruling Savraska, at the tomb
With the reins their poor mother

She was walking... Her eyes were sunken,
And he was no whiter than her cheeks
Worn on her as a sign of sadness
A scarf made of white canvas.

Behind Daria - neighbors, neighbors
A thin crowd trudged along
Interpreting that Proklov's children
Now fate is unenviable,

That Daria's work will arrive,
What dark days await her.
“There will be no one to feel sorry for her,”
They decided accordingly...

XIV

As usual, they lowered me into the pit,
They covered Proclus with earth;
They cried, howled loudly,
The family was pitied and honored
The deceased with generous praise.

He lived honestly, and most importantly: on time,
How God saved you
Paid dues to the master
And presented the king with a tribute!”

Having spent my reserve of eloquence,
The venerable man groaned,
“Yes, here it is, human life!” -
He added and put on his hat.
“He fell... otherwise he was in power!..
We’ll fall... not a minute for us either!..”
Still baptized at the grave
And with God we went home.

Tall, gray-haired, lean,
Without a hat, motionless and mute,
Like a monument, old grandfather
I stood at my dear one’s grave!

Then the bearded old man
He moved quietly along it,
Leveling the earth with a shovel,
Under the cries of his old woman.

When, having left his son,
He and the woman entered the village:
“He’s staggering like a drunken man!
Look at this!..” - the people said.

XV

And Daria returned home -
Clean up, feed the children.
Ay-ay! How the hut got cold!
He's in a hurry to light the stove,

And lo and behold, not a log of firewood!
The poor mother thought:
She feels sorry for leaving the kids,
I would like to caress them

Yes, there is no time for affection.
The widow took them to a neighbor
And immediately, on the same Savraska,
I went to the forest to get firewood...

Dedicated to my sister
Anna Alekseevna.

You reproached me again
That I became friends with my muse,
What are the worries of the day?
And he obeyed his amusements.
For everyday calculations and charms
I would not part with my muse,
But God knows whether that gift has not gone out,
What happened to me being friends with her?
But the poet is not yet a brother to people,
And his path is thorny and fragile,
I knew how not to be afraid of slander,
I myself was not preoccupied with them;
But I knew whose in the darkness of the night
My heart was bursting with sadness,
And on whose chest they fell like lead,
And whose life they poisoned.
And let them pass by,
There were thunderstorms above me,
I know whose prayers and tears
The fatal arrow was retracted...
And time has passed, I’m tired...
I may not have been a fighter without reproach,
But I recognized the strength in myself,
I believed in a lot of things deeply,
And now it’s time for me to die...
Don’t go on the road then,
So that in a loving heart again
Awaken the fatal alarm...

My subdued muse
I myself am reluctant to caress...
I'm singing the last song
For you - and I dedicate it to you.
But it won't be any more fun
It will be much sadder than before,
Because the heart is darker
And the future will be even more hopeless...

The storm howls in the garden, the storm breaks into the house,
I'm afraid that she won't break
The old oak tree that my father planted
And that willow that my mother planted,
This willow tree that you
Strangely connected with our fate,
On which the sheets have faded
The night the poor mother died...

And the window trembles and becomes colorful...
Chu! how large hailstones jump!
Dear friend, you realized long ago -
Here only the stones do not cry...
…

Part one
Death of a Peasant

I
Savraska got stuck in half a snowdrift, -
Two pairs of frozen bast shoes
Yes, the corner of a matting-covered coffin
They stick out from the wretched woods.

Old woman, in big mittens,
Savraska came down to urge.
Icicles on her eyelashes,
From the cold - I guess.

II
The usual thought of a poet
She hurries to run ahead:
Dressed in snow like a shroud,
There is a hut in the village,

In the hut there is a calf in the basement,
Dead man on a bench by the window;
His stupid children make noise,
The wife is quietly sobbing.

Stitching with a nimble needle
Pieces of linen on the shroud,
Like rain that charges for a long time,
She sobs softly.

III
Fate had three hard parts,
And the first part: to marry a slave,
The second is to be the mother of a slave's son,
And the third is to submit to the slave until the grave,
And all these formidable shares fell
To a woman of Russian soil.

Centuries passed - everything strived for happiness,
Everything in the world has changed several times,
God forgot to change one thing
The harsh lot of a peasant woman.
And we all agree that the type was crushed
A beautiful and powerful Slavic woman.

Random victim of fate!
You suffered silently, invisibly,
You are the light of the bloody struggle
And I didn’t trust my complaints, -

But you will tell them to me, my friend!
You have known me since childhood.
You are all fear incarnate,
You are all age-old languor!
He didn't carry his heart in his chest,
Who didn’t shed tears over you!

IV
However, we are talking about a peasant woman
We started it to say
What type of majestic Slavic woman
It is possible to find it now.

There are women in Russian villages
With calm importance of faces,
With beautiful strength in movements,
With the gait, with the look of queens, -

Wouldn't a blind person notice them?
And the sighted man says about them:
“It will pass - as if the sun will shine!
If he looks, he’ll give me a ruble!”

They go the same way
How all our people are coming,
But the dirtiness of the situation is wretched
It doesn't seem to stick to them. Blooms

Beauty, the world is a wonder,
Blush, slim, tall,
She is beautiful in any clothes,
Dexterous for any job.

And endures hunger and cold,
Always patient, even...
I saw how she squints:
With a wave, the mop is ready!

The scarf fell over her ear,
Just look at the scythes falling.
Some guy got it wrong
And he threw them up, the fool!

Heavy brown braids
They fell on the dark chest,
Bare feet covered her feet,
They prevent the peasant woman from looking.

She pulled them away with her hands,
He looks at the guy angrily.
The face is majestic, as if in a frame,
Burning with embarrassment and anger...

On weekdays he does not like idleness.
But you won't recognize her,
How the smile of joy will disappear
The stamp of labor is on the face.

Such heartfelt laughter
And such songs and dances
Money can't buy it. "Joy!"
The men repeat among themselves.

In the game the horseman will not catch her,
In trouble, he will not fail, he will save;
Stops a galloping horse
He will enter a burning hut!

Beautiful, straight teeth,
What big pearls she has,
But strictly rosy lips
They keep their beauty from people -

She rarely smiles...
She has no time to sharpen her lasses,
Her neighbor won't dare
Ask for a grip, a potty;

She doesn't feel sorry for the poor beggar -
Feel free to walk around without work!
Lies on it with strict efficiency
And the seal of inner strength.

There is a clear and strong consciousness in her,
That all their salvation is in work,
And her work brings reward:
The family does not struggle in need,

They always have a warm house,
The bread is baked, the kvass is delicious,
Healthy and well-fed guys,
There is an extra piece for the holiday.

This woman is going to mass
In front of the whole family in front:
Sits like he's sitting on a chair, two year old
The baby is on her chest

Six year old son nearby
The elegant uterus leads...
And this picture is to my heart
To everyone who loves the Russian people!

V
And you amazed me with its beauty,
She was both dexterous and strong,
But grief has dried you up
The wife of the sleeping Proclus!

You are proud - you don’t want to cry,
You strengthen yourself, but the canvas is grave
You involuntarily wet your tears,
Stitching with a nimble needle.

Tear after tear falls
In your quick hands.
So the ear silently drops
Their ripened grains...

VI
In the village, four miles away,
By the church where the wind shakes
Storm-damaged crosses,
The old man chooses a place;

He is tired, the work is difficult,
Here, too, skill is needed -

So that the cross can be seen from the road,
So that the sun plays all around.
His feet are covered in snow up to his knees,
In his hands is a spade and a crowbar,

A big hat covered in frost,
Mustache, beard in silver.
Stands motionless, thinking,
An old man on a high hill.

Made up his mind. Marked with a cross
Where will the grave be dug?
He made the sign of the cross and began
Shovel the snow.

There were other methods here,
The cemetery is not like the fields:
Crosses came out of the snow,
The ground lay in crosses.

Bend your old back,
He dug for a long time, diligently,
And yellow frozen clay
Immediately the snow covered it.

The crow flew up to him,
She poked her nose and walked around:
The earth rang like iron -
The crow got away with nothing...

The grave is ready for glory, -
“It’s not for me to dig this hole!
(The old man burst out a word.)
I wouldn’t curse him to rest in it,

I won’t curse you!..” The old man stumbled,
The crowbar slipped from his hands
And rolled into a white hole,
The old man took it out with difficulty.

He went... walking along the road...
There is no sun, the moon has not risen...
It's like the whole world is dying:
Calm, snow, semi-dark...

VII
In a ravine, near the river Zheltukha,
The old man caught up with his woman
And he quietly asked the old woman:
“Did the coffin go well?”

Her lips barely whispered
In response to the old man: “Nothing.”
Then they were both silent,
And the logs ran so quietly,
As if they were afraid of something...

The village has not yet opened,
And close - the fire flashes.
The old woman made a sign of the cross,
The horse darted to the side -

Without a hat, with bare feet,
With a large pointed stake,
Suddenly appeared before them
An old acquaintance Pakhom.

Covered with a woman's shirt,
The chains on it rang;
The village fool knocked
A stake into the frosty ground,

Then he hummed compassionately,
He sighed and said: “No problem!
He worked quite hard for you,
And your turn has come!

The mother bought a coffin for her son,
His father dug a hole for him,
His wife sewed a shroud for him -
He gave you all a job at once!..”

He hummed again - and without purpose
The fool ran into space.
The chains rang sadly,
And bare calves glittered,
And the staff scribbled across the snow.

VIII
They left the roof on the house,
They took me to a neighbor's house to spend the night
Freezing Masha and Grisha
And they began to dress up their son.

Slow, important, harsh
It was a sad affair:
No extra words were said
No tears came out.

I fell asleep after working hard in sweat!
Fell asleep after working the soil!
Lies, uninvolved in care,
On a white pine table,

Lies motionless, stern,
With a burning candle in our heads,
In a wide canvas shirt
And in fake new bast shoes.

Large, calloused hands,
Those who put up a lot of work,
Beautiful, alien to torment
Face - and beard down to the arms...

IX
While the dead man was being dressed,
They didn’t express melancholy with a word
And they just avoided looking
Poor people in each other's eyes.

But now it's over,
There's no need to fight the sadness
And what boiled in my soul,
It flowed like a river from my mouth.

It’s not the wind that hums through the feather grass,
It’s not the wedding train that’s thundering, -
The relatives of Procles howled,
According to Procles, the family says:

“You are our blue-winged darling!
Where did you fly away from us?
Comeliness, height and strength
You had no equal in the village,

You were an adviser to parents,
You were a worker in the field,
Hospitable and welcoming to guests,
You loved your wife and children...

Why haven't you walked around the world enough?
Why did you leave us, dear?
Have you thought about this idea?
I thought about it with damp earth, -

I've changed my mind - should we stay?
Commanded in the world; orphans,
Do not wash your face with fresh water,
Burning tears for us!

The old woman will die from the cliff,
Neither will your father live,
Birch in a forest without a top -
A housewife without a husband in the house.

You don’t feel sorry for her, poor thing,
You don’t feel sorry for the children... Get up!
From your reserved strip
You'll reap the harvest this summer!

Splash, darling, with your hands,
Look with a hawk's eye,
Shake your silken curls,
Open your sugar lips!

For joy we would cook
And honey and intoxicating mash,
They would seat you at the table -
Eat, beloved, dear!

And they themselves would become the opposite -
Breadwinner, family's hope! -
They wouldn't take their eyes off you,
They would catch your words..."

X
To these sobs and groans
The neighbors came in a crowd:
Having placed a candle near the icon,
Made prostrations
And they walked home silently.

Others took over.
But now the crowd has dispersed,
Relatives sat down for dinner -
Cabbage and kvass with bread.

The old man is a useless mess
I didn’t let myself control myself:
Getting closer to the splinter,
He was picking at a thin bast shoe.

Sighing long and loudly,
The old woman lay down on the stove,
And Daria, a young widow,
I went to check on the kids.

All night, standing by the candle,
The sexton read over the deceased,
And he echoed him from behind the stove
A cricket whistling shrilly.

XI
The blizzard howled harshly
And threw snow at the window,
The sun rose gloomily:
That morning the witness was
It's a sad picture.

Savraska, harnessed to a sleigh,
Ponuro stood at the gate;
Without unnecessary speeches, without sobs
The people carried out the dead man.

Well, touch it, Savrasushka! touch it!
Pull your tug tight!
You served your master a lot,
Serve for the last time!..

In the trading village of Chistopolye
He bought you as a sucker,
He raised you in freedom,
And you came out a good horse.

I tried together with the owner,
I stored bread for the winter,
In the herd the child was given
He ate grass and chaff,
And he held his body pretty well.

When did the work end?
And the frost covered the ground,
You went with the owner
From homemade food to transport.

There was a lot here too -
You carried heavy luggage,
It happened in a severe storm,
Exhausted, losing the way.

Visible on your sunken sides
The whip has more than one stripe,
But in the inns' yards
You ate plenty of oats.

Did you hear on January nights
Blizzards piercing howl
And the wolf's burning eyes
I saw it at the edge of the forest,

You will be chilled, you will suffer from fear,
And there - and again nothing!
Yes, apparently the owner made a mistake -
Winter has finished him off!..

XII
Happened in a deep snowdrift
He'll have to stand for half a day,
Then in the heat, then in the chills
Walk for three days behind the cart:

The deceased was in a hurry
Deliver the goods to the location.
Delivered, returned home -
No voice, my body is on fire!

The old woman doused him
With water from nine spindles
And she took me to a hot bathhouse,
No, he hasn’t recovered!

Then the fortune tellers were called -
And they sing, and they whisper, and they rub -
Everything is bad! It was threaded
Three times through a sweaty collar,

They lowered my dear one into the hole,
They put a roost under the chicken...
He submitted to everything like a dove, -
And the bad thing is he doesn’t drink or eat!

Still put under the bear,
So that he can crush his bones,
Sergachevsky walker Fedya -
The one who happened here suggested.

But Daria, the owner of the patient,
She drove the adviser away;
Try different means
The woman thought: and into the night

I went to a distant monastery
(ten versts from the village),
Where in some icon revealed
There was healing power.

She went and returned with the icon -
The sick man lay speechless,
Dressed as if in a coffin, receiving communion.
I saw my wife and groaned

XIII
...Savrasushka, touch it,
Pull your tug tight!
You served your master a lot,
Serve one last time!

Chu! two death blows!
The priests are waiting - go!..
Murdered, mournful couple,
Mother and father walked ahead.

Both guys and the dead man
We sat, not daring to cry,
And, ruling Savraska, at the tomb
With the reins their poor mother

She was walking... Her eyes were sunken,
And he was no whiter than her cheeks
Worn on her as a sign of sadness
A scarf made of white canvas.

Behind Daria - neighbors, neighbors
A thin crowd trudged along
Interpreting that Proklov's children
Now fate is unenviable,

That Daria's work will arrive,
What dark days await her.
“There will be no one to feel sorry for her,”
They decided accordingly...

XIV
As usual, they lowered me into the pit,
They covered Proclus with earth;
They cried, howled loudly,
The family was pitied and honored
The deceased with generous praise.

He lived honestly, and most importantly: on time,
How God helped you out
Paid dues to the master
And presented the king with a tribute!”

Having spent my reserve of eloquence,
The respectable man grunted:
“Yes, this is human life!” -
He added and put on his hat.

“He fell... otherwise he was in power!..
We’ll fall... not a minute for us either!..”
Still baptized at the grave
And with God we went home.

Tall, gray-haired, lean,
Without a hat, motionless and mute,
Like a monument, old grandfather
I stood at my dear one’s grave!

Then old bearded
He moved quietly along it,
Leveling earth with a shovel
Under the cries of his old woman.

When, having left his son,
He and the woman entered the village:
“He’s staggering like a drunken man!
Look!..” - the people said.

XV
And Daria returned home -
Clean up, feed the children.
Ay-ay! How cold the hut has become!
He's in a hurry to light the stove,

And lo and behold - not a log of firewood!
The poor mother thought:
She feels sorry for leaving the kids,
I would like to caress them

Yes, there is no time for affection,
The widow took them to a neighbor,
And immediately on the same Savraska
I went to the forest to get firewood...

Part two
Jack Frost

XVI
It's frosty. The plains are white under the snow,
The forest ahead is blackening,
Savraska trudges neither walking nor running,
You won't meet a soul on the way.

There’s no point in looking around,
The plain glitters in diamonds...
Daria's eyes filled with tears -
The sun must be blinding them...

XVII
It was quiet in the fields, but quieter
In the forest and it seems brighter.
The farther away the trees get taller,
And the shadows are longer and longer.

Trees, and sun, and shadows,
And the dead, grave peace...
But - chu! mournful penalties,
A dull, crushing howl!

Grief overpowered Daryushka,
And the forest listened indifferently,
How moans flowed in the open space,
And the voice tore and trembled,

And the sun, round and soulless,
Like the yellow eye of an owl,
Looked from heaven indifferently
To the grave torment of a widow.

And how many strings have broken?
In the poor peasant soul,
Remains hidden forever
In the uninhabited wilderness of the forest.

Great grief of the widow
And mothers of small orphans
Free birds overheard
But they didn’t dare to give it to the people...

XVIII
It is not the huntsman who trumpets the oak tree,
Cackling, daredevil, -
Having cried, he stabs and chops
Firewood for a young widow.

Having cut it down, he throws it on the wood -
I wish I could fill them quickly
And she hardly notices
That tears keep pouring from my eyes:

Another eyelash will fall off
And it will fall on the snow in a big way -
It will reach the very ground,
It will burn a deep hole;

He will throw another one onto a tree,
On the die - and look, she
It will harden like a large pearl -
White, and round, and dense.

And she will shine on the eye,
It will run like an arrow across your cheek,
And the sun will play in it...
Daria is in a hurry to get things done,

Know, he chops, he doesn’t feel the cold,
He doesn’t hear that his legs are chilling,
And, full of thoughts about her husband,
Calls him, speaks to him...

XIX
…
…
Darling! our beauty
In the spring in a round dance again
Masha's friends will pick her up
And they will start swinging on their arms!

They will start pumping
Throw upwards
Call me Poppy,
Shake off the poppy!1

Our whole body will turn red
Poppy flower Masha
With blue eyes, with a brown braid!

Kicking and laughing
It will be... and you and I,
We admire her
We will be, my beloved!..

XX
You died, you didn’t live to live,
Died and buried in the ground!
A person loves spring,
The sun is burning brightly.

The sun revived everything
God's beauties have been revealed,
The plow field asked
The herbs are asking for scythes,

I got up early, bitter,
I didn’t eat at home, I didn’t take it with me,
I plowed the arable land until nightfall,
At night I riveted my braid,
This morning I went to mow...

Stand tight, little legs!
White hands, don't whine!
One must keep up!

It’s annoying to be alone in the field,
It’s discouraging to be alone in the field,
I’ll start calling my dear!

Did you plow the arable land well?
Come out, darling, take a look!
Was the hay removed dry?
Did you sweep the haystacks straight?..
I was resting on a rake
All hay days!

There’s no one to fix a woman’s work!
There is no one to teach a woman some sense.

XXI
The little cattle began to go into the forest,
Mother rye began to rush into the ear,
God sent us a harvest!
Nowadays straw is up to a man's chest,
God sent us a harvest!
May I not prolong your life, -
Whether you like it or not, keep up on your own!..

The gadfly buzzes and bites,
Mortal thirst languishes,
The sun heats the sickle,
The sun blinds my eyes,
It burns your head, shoulders,
My legs are burning, my little hands are burning,
Made from rye, as if from an oven,
It also gives you warmth,
My back aches with strain,
My arms and legs hurt
Red, yellow circles
They stand before your eyes...
Reap and reap quickly,
You see, the grain has flowed...
Together things would be smoother,
It would be more casual together...

XXII
My dream was perfect, dear!
Sleep before the rescue day.
I fell asleep alone in the field
Afternoon, with sickle;
I see that I'm falling
Strength is a countless army, -
He waves his arms menacingly,
His eyes sparkle menacingly.
I thought I'd run away
Yes, the legs did not listen.
I started asking for help,
I started screaming loudly.

I hear the earth tremble -
The first mother came running,
The grasses are bursting, making noise -
The children are rushing to see their beloved ones.
Doesn't wave wildly without the wind
Windmill in a field with a wing:
Brother goes and lies down,
The father-in-law trudges along.
Everyone came running,
Only one friend
My eyes did not see...
I started calling him:
"You see, I'm getting overwhelmed
Strength is a countless army, -
He waves his arms menacingly,
His eyes sparkle menacingly:
Why aren’t you going to help out?..”
Then I looked around -
God! What went where?
What was wrong with me?
There is no army here!
These are not dashing people
Not the Busurman army,
These are ears of rye,
Filled with ripe grains,
Come out to fight with me!

They wave and make noise; are coming,
Hands and face tickle
They themselves bend the straw under the sickle -
They don't want to stand anymore!

I began to reap quickly,
I reap, and on my neck
Large grains are falling -
It’s like I’m standing under hail!

It will leak, it will leak overnight
All our mother rye...
Where are you, Prokl Sevastyanich?
Why aren’t you going to help?..

My dream was perfect, dear!
Now I will be the only one to reap.

I will begin to reap without my dear one,
Knit the sheaves tightly,
Drop tears into sheaves!

My tears are not pearls
Tears of a grief-stricken widow,
Why does the Lord need you?
Why are you dear to him?..

XXIII
You are in debt, winter nights,
It's boring to sleep without a sweetheart,
If only they didn't cry too much,
I will begin to weave linen.

I weave a lot of canvases,
Subtle good news,
It will grow strong and dense,
An affectionate son will grow up.

It will be in our place
At least he's a groom,
Get a guy a bride
We will send reliable matchmakers...

I combed Grisha’s curls myself,
Blood and milk is our first-born son,
Blood and milk and the bride... Go!
Bless the newlyweds at the end of the aisle!..

We have been waiting for this day like a holiday,
Do you remember how Grishukha began to walk,
We talked all night long,
How are we going to marry him?
We started saving a little for the wedding...
Here we are, thank God!

Chu, the bells are talking!
The train has returned
Come forward quickly -
Pava-bride, falcon-groom!-
Sprinkle grains of grain on them,
Shower the young with hops!..2

XXIV
A herd wanders near the dark forest,
Tearing tusks in the forest for a shepherdess,
A gray wolf emerges from the forest.
Whose sheep will he carry away?

Black cloud, thick, thick,
Hangs right above our village,
A thunder arrow will shoot out of the clouds,
Whose house is she breaking into?

Bad news is spreading among the people,
The boys don't have long to walk freely,
Recruitment coming soon!

Our young man is a loner in the family,
All of our children are Grisha and a daughter.
Yes, our head is a thief -
He will say: worldly sentence!

The kid will die for no reason.
Get up, stand up for your dear son!

No! You won’t intercede!..
Your white hands have fallen,
Clear eyes closed forever...
We are bitter orphans!..

XXV
Didn’t I pray to the Queen of Heaven?
Was I lazy?
At night alone according to the wonderful icon
I didn’t get scared - I went.

The wind is noisy, blowing snowdrifts.
There is no month - at least a ray!
You look at the sky - some coffins,
Chains and weights come out of the clouds...

Didn’t I try to take care of him?
Did I regret anything?
I was afraid to tell him
How I loved him!

The night will have stars,
Will it be brighter for us?..

The hare jumped out of the night,
Bunny, stop! don't you dare
Cross my path!

I drove off into the forest, thank God...
By midnight it became worse, -

I hear evil spirits
She kicked and howled,
She started screaming in the forest.

What do I care about evil spirits?
Forget me! to the most pure virgin
I'm bringing an offering!

I hear a horse neighing,
I hear the wolves howling,
I hear someone chasing me -

Don't attack me, beast!
Dashing man, don't touch
Our penny of labor is precious!

* * *
He spent the summer working,
I haven’t seen the children in winter,
I think about him at night,
I didn't close my eyes.

He’s driving, he’s chilling... and I, sad,
From fibrous flax,
As if his road is alien,
I'm pulling the thread for a long time.

My spindle jumps and spins,
It hits the floor.
The proklushka walks on foot, crosses himself in a pothole,
He harnesses himself to the cart on the hill.

Summer after summer, winter after winter,
This is how we got the treasury!

Be merciful to the poor peasant,
God! we give everything away
What about a penny, a copper penny?
We made it through hard work!..

XXVI
All of you, forest path!
The forest is over.
By morning the golden star
From God's heaven
Suddenly she lost her grip and fell,
The Lord blew on her,
My heart trembled:
I thought, I remembered -
What was in my thoughts then,
How did the star roll?
I remembered! steel legs,
I try to go, but I can’t!
I thought it was unlikely
I will find Proclus alive...

No! The queen of heaven will not allow it!
A wonderful icon will give healing!

I was overshadowed by the cross
And she ran away...

He has heroic strength,
God be merciful, he will not die...
Here is the monastery wall!
The shadow is already reaching my head
To the monastery gate.

I bowed to the ground,
I stood on my little legs, and lo and behold -
The raven sits on a gilded cross,
My heart trembled again!

XXVII
They kept me for a long time -
The sister's schema-montress was buried that day.

Matins was going on
Nuns walked quietly around the church,
Dressed in black robes,
Only the deceased woman was in white:
Sleeping - young, calm,
He knows what will happen in heaven.
I kissed you too, unworthy,
Your white pen!
I looked into the face for a long time:
You are younger, smarter, cuter than everyone else,
You are like a white dove among sisters
Between gray, simple pigeons.

The rosary beads turn black in my hands,
Written aureole on the forehead.
Black cover on the coffin -
The angels are so meek!

Say, my killer whale,
To God with holy lips,
So that I don't stay
A bitter widow with orphans!

They carried the coffin in their arms to the grave,
They buried her singing and crying.

XXVIII
The holy icon moved in peace,
The sisters sang as they saw her off,
Everyone attached themselves to her.

The mistress was greatly honored:
The old and the young quit their jobs,
They followed her from the villages.

The sick and wretched were brought to her...
I know, mistress! I know: many
You dried a tear...
Only you showed us no mercy!
…
…
"God! how much wood I chopped!
You can’t take it on a cart...”

XXIX
Having finished the usual business,
I put firewood on the logs,
I took the reins and wanted
The widow sets off on the road.

Yes, I thought about it again, standing,
She automatically took the ax
And quietly, intermittently howling,
I approached a tall pine tree.

Her legs could barely hold her up
The soul is tired of longing,
There has come a lull of sadness -
Involuntary and terrible peace!

Standing under the pine tree, barely alive,
Without thinking, without moaning, without tears.
There is deathly silence in the forest -
The day is bright, the frost is getting stronger.

XXX
It is not the wind that rages over the forest,
Streams did not run from the mountains,
Moroz the voivode on patrol
Walks around his possessions.

Looks to see if the snowstorm is good
The forest paths have been taken over,
And are there any cracks, crevices,
And is there any bare ground somewhere?

Are the tops of the pines fluffy?
Is the pattern on oak trees beautiful?
And are the ice floes tightly bound?
In great and small waters?

He walks - walks through the trees,
Cracking on frozen water
And the bright sun plays
In his shaggy beard.

The path is everywhere for the sorcerer,
Chu! The gray-haired man comes closer.
And suddenly he found himself above her,
Over her head!

Climbing up a large pine tree,
Hitting the branches with a club
And I’ll delete it to myself,
Sings a boastful song:

XXXI
“Take a closer look, young lady, be bolder,
What a governor Moroz is!
It's unlikely that your boyfriend is stronger
And it turned out better?

Blizzards, snow and fog
Always submissive to the frost,
I'll go to the sea-oceans -
I will build palaces from ice.

I'll think about it - the rivers are big
I'll hide you under oppression for a long time,
I will build ice bridges,
Which ones the people will not build.

Where are the fast, noisy waters
Recently flowed freely -
Pedestrians passed by today
The convoys with goods passed.

I love in deep graves
Dressing the dead in frost,
And freeze the blood in my veins,
And the brain in my head is freezing.

Woe to the unkind thief,
To the fear of the rider and the horse,
I love it in the evening
Start a chatter in the forest.

Little women, blaming the devils,
They run home quickly.
And the drunk, and on horseback, and on foot
It's even more fun to be fooled.

Without chalk, I’ll whiten my whole face,
And your nose will burn with fire,
And I’ll freeze my beard like that
To the reins - even chop with an axe!

I'm rich, I don't count the treasury
But goodness is not lacking;
I'm taking away my kingdom
In diamonds, pearls, silver.

Come into my kingdom with me
And be the queen in it!
Let us reign gloriously in winter,
And in the summer we will fall asleep deeply.

Come in! I’ll take a nap, warm you up,
I’ll take the palace to the blue one..."
And the governor stood over her
Swing an ice mace.

XXXII
“Are you warm, young lady?” -
He shouts to her from a tall pine tree.
- Warm! - the widow answers,
She herself is getting cold and trembling.

Morozko went lower,
Swung the mace again
And he whispers to her more affectionately, more quietly:
“Is it warm?..” - Warm, golden!

It’s warm, but she’s getting numb.
Morozko touched her:
The breath blows into her face
And it sows prickly needles
From the gray beard to her.

And then he fell in front of her!
“Is it warm?” - he said again,
And suddenly he turned to Proklushka,
And he began to kiss her.

In her mouth, in her eyes and in her shoulders
The gray-haired sorcerer kissed
And the same sweet speeches to her,
What dear one about the wedding, he whispered.

And did she really like it?
Listen to his sweet words,
That Daryushka closed her eyes,
She dropped the ax at her feet,

The smile of a bitter widow
Plays on pale lips,
Fluffy and white eyelashes,
Frosty needles in the eyebrows...

XXXIII
Dressed in sparkling frost,
Standing there, she’s getting cold,
And she dreams of a hot summer -
Not all the rye has been brought in yet,

But it was compressed - it became easier for them!
The men carried the sheaves,
And Daria was digging potatoes
From neighboring lanes near the river.

Her mother-in-law is right there, old lady,
Worked; on a full bag
Beautiful Masha the frolic
She sat with a carrot in her hand.

The cart, creaking, drives up, -
Savraska looks at her people,
And Proklushka strides along
Behind the cartload of sheaves of gold.

God help! Where is Grishukha? -
The father said casually.
“In peas,” said the old woman.
- Grishukha! - the father shouted,

He looked at the sky - Tea, isn’t it early?
I would like to drink... - The hostess gets up
And Proclus from a white jug
He serves kvass to drink.

Grishukha meanwhile responded:
Entangled in peas all around,
The agile boy seemed
A running green bush.

He’s running!.. uh!.. he’s running, little shooter,
The grass is burning under your feet!
Grishukha is as black as a little pebble,
Only one head is white.

Screaming, he runs up to squat
(A pea collar around the neck).
Treated my grandmother, my womb,
Little sister - she's spinning like a loach!

Kindness from the mother to the young man,
The boy's father pinched him;
Meanwhile, Savraska was not dozing either:
He pulled and pulled his neck,

Got there, baring his teeth,
Chews peas appetizingly,
And into soft kind lips
Grishukhina's ear is being taken...

XXXIV
Mashutka shouted to her father:
- Take me, daddy, with you!
She jumped off the bag and fell,
Her father picked her up. “Don't howl!

Killed - no big deal!..
I don't need girls
Another shot like this
Give birth to me, mistress, by spring!

Look!..” The wife was ashamed:
- Enough for you alone! -
(And I knew under my heart it was already beating
Child...) “Well! Mashuk, nothing!”

And Proklushka, standing on the cart,
I took Mashutka with me.
Grishukha also jumped up with a running start,
And the cart rolled off with a roar.

The flock of sparrows has flown away
From the sheaves, it soared above the cart.
And Daryushka looked for a long time,
Shielding yourself from the sun with your hand,

How the children and their father approached
To your smoking barn,
And they smiled at her from the sheaves
The rosy faces of the children...

My soul flies away for a song,
She gave herself completely...
There is no more beautiful song in the world,
Which we hear in our dreams!

What is she talking about - God knows!
I couldn't catch the words
But she satisfies my heart,
There is a limit to lasting happiness in her.

There is a gentle caress of participation in it,
Vows of love without end...
Smile of contentment and happiness
Daria can't get it off her face.

XXXV
Whatever the cost
Oblivion to my peasant woman,
What needs? She smiled.
We won't regret it.

There is no deeper, no sweeter peace,
What kind of forest sends us,
Motionless, fearlessly standing
Under the cold winter skies.

Nowhere so deep and free
The tired chest does not breathe,
And if we live enough,
We can't sleep better anywhere!

XXXVI
Not a sound! The soul dies
For sorrow, for passion. Are you standing
And you feel how you conquer
Its this dead silence.

Not a sound! And you see blue
The vault of the sky, the sun, and the forest,
In silver-matte frost
Dressed up, full of miracles,

Attracted by an unknown secret,
Deeply dispassionate... But here
A random rustle was heard -
The squirrel goes up the tops.

She dropped a lump of snow
On Daria, jumping on a pine tree,
And Daria stood and froze
In my enchanted dream...

Year of writing: 1862-1863

"Jack Frost!" Nikolay Nekrasov. 1821-1877

It is not the wind that rages over the forest,
Streams did not run from the mountains,
Moroz the voivode on patrol
Walks around his possessions.

Looks to see if the snowstorm is good
The forest paths have been taken over,
And are there any cracks or crevices?
And is there any bare ground somewhere?

Are the tops of the pines fluffy?
Is the pattern on oak trees beautiful?
And are the ice floes tightly bound?
In great and small waters?

He walks - walks through the village,
Cracking on frozen water,
And the bright sun plays
In his shaggy beard.

The path is everywhere for the sorcerer,
Chu! The gray-haired man comes closer.
And suddenly he found himself above her,
Over her head!

Climbing up a large pine tree,
Hitting the branches with a club
And I’ll delete it to myself
Sings a boastful song:

"Take a closer look, young lady, be bolder,
What a governor Moroz is!
It's unlikely that your boyfriend is stronger
And it turned out better?

Blizzards, snow and fog
Always submissive to the frost,
I'll go to the sea-oceans -
I will build palaces from ice.

I'll think about it - the rivers are big
I'll hide you under oppression for a long time,
I will build ice bridges,
Which the people have not built.

Where are the fast noisy waters
Recently flowed freely, -
Pedestrians passed by today
The convoys with goods passed.

I love in deep graves
Dressing the dead in frost,
And freeze the blood in my veins,
And the brain in my head is freezing.

Woe to the unkind thief,
To the fear of the rider and the horse,
I love it in the evening
Start a chatter in the forest.

Little woman, blaming the devils,
He runs home quickly.
And the drunk, and on horseback, and on foot
It's even more fun to fool around.

Without chalk, I’ll whiten my whole face,
And your nose will burn with fire,
And I’ll freeze my beard like that
To the reins - even chop with an axe!

To be continued...

I'm rich, I don't count the treasury
And everything is not lacking in goodness;
I'm taking away my kingdom
In diamonds, pearls, silver.

Come into my kingdom with me
And be the queen in it!
Let us reign gloriously in winter,
And in the summer we will fall asleep deeply.

Come in! I’ll take a nap, warm you up,
I will take the palace to the blue one..."
And the governor stood over her
Swing an ice mace.

“Are you warm, young lady?”
He shouts to her from a tall pine tree.
"Warm!" the widow answers,
She herself is getting cold and trembling.

Morozko went lower,
Swung the mace again
And he whispers to her more affectionately, more quietly:
"Is it warm?" - "Warmth, golden!"

It’s warm, but she’s getting numb.
Morozko touched her:
The breath blows into her face
And it sows prickly needles
From the gray beard to her!

And then he fell in front of her!
"Is it warm?" said again,
And suddenly he turned to Proklushka
And he began to kiss her.

In her mouth, in her eyes and in her shoulders
The gray-haired sorcerer kissed
And the same sweet speeches to her,
What dear one about the wedding, he whispered.

To be continued...

And did she really like it?
Listen to his sweet words,
That Daryushka closed her eyes,
She dropped the ax at her feet.

The smile of a bitter widow
Plays on pale lips,
Fluffy and white eyelashes,
Frosty needles in hogweeds...

Not a sound! The soul dies
For sorrow, for passion. Are you standing
And you feel how you conquer
Its this dead silence.

Not a sound! And you see blue
The vault of the sky, the sun, and the forest,
In silver-matte frost
Dressed up, full of miracles,

Attracted by an unknown secret,
Deeply dispassionate...But here
A random rustle was heard -
The squirrel goes at the tops.

She dropped a lump of snow
On Daria, I jumped on the pine tree.
And Daria stood and froze
In my enchanted dream...

Excerpt from the poem "Frost, Red Nose"

Reviews

The daily audience of the portal Stikhi.ru is about 200 thousand visitors, who in total view more than two million pages according to the traffic counter, which is located to the right of this text. Each column contains two numbers: the number of views and the number of visitors.