I don't know how or why.
I have lost that right.
And what will I tell you? - Nothing!
What do you remember? - but, good God,
You have known this for a long time;
And of course you don't care.
And you also don't need to know
Where I am? what am I? in what wilderness?
In soul we are alien to each other,
Yes, there is hardly a soul mate.
Reading the pages of the past
Taking them apart in order
Now with a chilled mind
I disbelieve in everything.
It's funny to be hypocritical
So many years ahead of me;
It would be nice to fool the world!
And even though it's good to believe
For what is no more?
Madly waiting for love in absentia?
In our age all feelings are only temporary;
But I remember you - and for sure,
I couldn't forget you!
First, because many
And for a long, long time I loved you,
Then suffering and anxiety
I paid for the days of bliss;
Then in repentant barren
I dragged a chain of hard years;
And cold reflection
killed last life color.
approaching people carefully,
I forgot the noise of young pranks,
Love, poetry - but you
It was impossible for me to forget.
And I'm used to this thought
I bear my cross without murmuring:
Is it some other punishment?
Not all the same. I comprehended life;
Fate is like a Turk or a Tatar
For everything I am exactly grateful;
I do not ask God for happiness
And silently endure evil.
Perhaps the heavens of the east
Me with the teachings of their Prophet
Involuntarily brought closer. Moreover
And life is constantly nomadic,
Works, worries night and day,
Everything, interfering with thinking,
Restores original look
Sick soul: the heart sleeps,
There is no room for imagination...
And there is no work for the head ...
But you lie in the thick grass,
And slumber under a wide shadow
Chinar il vines,
Tents are whitening all around;
Cossack skinny horses
They stand side by side, hanging their nose;
At the copper cannons the servants sleep,
The wicks barely smoke;
In pairs, the chain stands far away;
Bayonets burn under the sun of the south.
Here's a talk about antiquity
In the nearby tent I can hear;
How did they walk under Yermolov
To Chechnya, to Accident, to the mountains;
How they fought there, how we beat them,
As it happened to us;
And I see nearby
By the river, following the Prophet,
Peaceful Tatar his prayer
Creates without raising his eyes;
And here are the others sitting around.
I love the color of their yellow faces
Similar to the color of the nags,
Their hats, thin sleeves,
Their dark and sly look
And their guttural conversation.
Chu - long shot! buzzed
Stray bullet... nice sound...
Here is a cry - and again everything is around
It calmed down ... but the heat had already subsided,
Lead horses to water
The infantry stirred;
Here jumped one, the other!
Noise, talk. Where is the second company?
What, pack? - what about the captain?
Pull out the wagons quickly!
Savelich! Oh, give me the flint!
Rise hit the drum -
Regimental music hums;
Entering between columns
The guns are ringing. General
He galloped forward with his retinue ...
Scattered in a wide field
Like bees, Cossacks with a boom;
The icons have already appeared
There on the edge - two, and more.
But in a turban one murid
It is important to ride in a red Circassian coat,
The light gray horse is boiling all over,
He waves, calls - where is the brave?
Who will go with him to the mortal battle!
Now, look: in a black hat
The Cossack set off with a comb;
He snatched out his rifle,
It's close... a shot... light smoke...
Hey you, villagers, follow him...
What? injured! - Nothing, bastard...
And a shootout ensued...
But in these collisions remote
Much fun, little sense;
It used to be a cool evening
We admired them
Without bloodthirsty excitement
Like a tragic ballet;
But I saw ideas
Which you don't have on stage...
Once - it was under Gihami,
We were passing through a dark forest;
Breathing fire, blazed over us
Azure-bright vault of heaven.
We were promised a fierce battle.
From the mountains of distant Ichkeria
Already in Chechnya on a fraternal call
Crowds flocked to the daredevils.
Above the antediluvian forests
Beacons flickered all around;
And their smoke curled like a pillar,
That spread out in clouds;
And the forests revived;
Voices called out wildly
Under their green tents.
As soon as the convoy got out
Into the clearing, things have begun;
Chu! they ask for guns in the rearguard;
Here are the guns from the bushes [you] carry,
Here they are dragging people by the feet
And they call loudly doctors;
And here on the left, from the edge,
Suddenly, with a boom, they rushed at the guns;
And a hail of bullets from the tops of the trees
The squad is shattered. Ahead
Everything is quiet - there between the bushes
The stream was running. We come closer.
Launched several grenades;
Still advanced; are silent;
But over the logs of the blockage
The gun seemed to flash;
Then two hats flashed by;
And again everything was hidden in the grass.
It was a terrible silence
It didn't last long
But in this strange expectation
Not one heart beat.
Suddenly a volley ... we look: they lie in rows,
What needs? local shelves
The people tested ... With hostility,
More friendly! resounded behind us.
The blood caught fire in my chest!
All officers ahead...
On horseback rushed to the rubble
Who did not have time to jump off the horse ...
Hurray - and fell silent. - Out daggers,
In butts! - and the massacre began.
And two hours in the jets of the stream
The fight went on. cut brutally
Like animals, silently, with breasts,
The stream was blocked with bodies.
I wanted to scoop up water ...
(And the heat and the battle tired
Me), but muddy wave
It was warm, it was red.
On the shore, under the shade of an oak,
Having passed the blockages of the first row,
There was a circle. One soldier
Was on my knees; dark, rough
The facial expressions seemed
But tears dripped from the eyelashes,
Covered with dust... on an overcoat,
Back to the tree, lying
Their captain. He was dying;
In his chest barely blackened
Two wounds; a little bit of his blood
Oozed. But chest high
And it was difficult to rise, the eyes
They wandered terribly, he whispered ...
Save me brothers. - They are dragged into tori.
Wait - the general is wounded ...
They don't hear... He moaned for a long time,
But everything is weaker and little by little
He calmed down and gave his soul to God;
Leaning on guns, all around
There were gray-haired mustaches ...
And wept quietly ... then
Its remnants are fighting
Covered with a cloak
And they took it. Longingly languid
I looked after them motionless.
Meanwhile comrades, friends
They called with a sigh near;
But I did not find in my soul
I regret, nor sadness.
Everything is already quiet; body
Pulled into a heap; blood flowed
A smoky stream over the stones,
Her heavy fumes
The air was full. General
Sat in the shade on a drum
And received messages.
The surrounding forest, as if in a fog,
Blue in powder smoke.
And there, in the distance, a disorderly ridge,
But always proud and calm,
Mountains stretched - and Kazbek
Glittered with a pointed head.
And with secret and heartfelt sadness
I thought: pathetic person.
What does he want!.. the sky is clear,
Under the sky there is a lot of space for everyone,
But incessantly and in vain
He alone is at enmity - why?
Galub interrupted my dreaming,
Striking on the shoulder; he was
My kunak: I asked him
What is the name of this place?
He answered me: Valerik,
And translate into your language
So will the river of death: right,
Given by old people.
- And how many of them fought approximately
Today? - Thousand to seven.
- Did the highlanders lose a lot?
- How to know? Why didn't you count?
Yes! will be, someone here said,
They remember this bloody day!
The Chechen looked slyly
And shook his head.
But I'm afraid to bore you
In the amusements of the world you are ridiculous
Anxiety wild wars;
You are not accustomed to torment your mind
Heavy thought about the end;
On your young face
Traces of care and sadness
Not to be found and you hardly
Have you ever seen up close
How they die. God bless you
And not to see: other worries
There is enough. In self-forgetfulness
Wouldn't it be better to end life the way?
And sleep soundly
With a dream of a close awakening?
Now farewell: if you
My artless story
Cheer up, take at least a little,
I will be happy. Isn't it? -
Pardon me like a prank
And quietly say: eccentric! ..
written in 1840
I write to you by chance, - right,
I don't know how or why.
I have lost that right.
And what will I tell you? - Nothing!
What do you remember? - but oh my goodness
You have known this for a long time;
And of course you don't care.
And you also don't need to know
Where I am? what am I? in what wilderness?
10
In soul we are alien to each other,
Yes, there is hardly a soul mate.
Reading the pages of the past
Taking them apart in order
Now with a chilled mind
I disbelieve in everything.
It's funny to be hypocritical
So many years ahead of me;
It would be nice to fool the world!
And besides, what's the use of believing
20
For what is no more...
Madly waiting for love in absentia?
In our age, all feelings are only for a while,
But I remember you - and for sure,
I couldn't forget you!
First, because there are many
And for a long, long time I loved you,
Then suffering and anxiety
I paid for the days of bliss,
Then in fruitless remorse
30
I dragged a chain of hard years
And cold reflection
Killed the last life color.
approaching people carefully,
I forgot the noise of young pranks,
Love, poetry - but you
It was impossible for me to forget.
And I'm used to this thought
I bear my cross without murmuring:
Is it some other punishment? -
40
It's not all the same. I got life.
Fate, like a Turk or a Tatar,
For everything, I'm really grateful
I do not ask God for happiness
And silently endure evil.
Perhaps the heavens of the East
Me with the teachings of their prophet
Involuntarily brought closer. Moreover
And life is constantly nomadic,
Works, worries night and day,
50
Everything, interfering with thinking,
Restores original look
Sick soul: the heart sleeps,
There is no room for imagination...
And there is no work for the head ...
But you lie in the thick grass
And slumber under a wide shadow
Chinar il vines,
Tents are whitening all around;
Cossack skinny horses
60
They stand side by side, hanging their nose;
At the copper cannons the servants sleep,
The wicks barely smoke;
In pairs, the chain stands far away;
Bayonets burn under the sun of the south.
Here's a talk about antiquity
In the nearby tent I hear
How did they walk under Yermolov
To Chechnya, to Accident, to the mountains;
How they fought there, how we beat them,
70
As it happened to us.
And I see nearby
By the river: following the prophet,
Peaceful Tatar his prayer
He creates without raising his eyes.
And here are the others sitting around.
I love the color of their yellow faces
Similar to the color of the legs
Their hats, thin sleeves,
Their dark and sly look
80
And their guttural conversation.
Chu - long shot! buzzed
Stray bullet... nice sound...
Here is a cry - and again everything is around
It calmed down ... But the heat had already subsided,
Lead horses to water
The infantry stirred;
Here jumped one, the other!
Noise, saying: "Where is the second company?"
- "What, pack?" - "What about the captain?"
90
- "Pull out the wagons quickly!"
"Savelich!" - "Oh, is it!"
- "Give me a fire!"
Rise hit the drum,
Regimental music is buzzing;
Entering between columns
The guns are ringing. General
He galloped forward with his retinue ...
Scattered in a wide field
Like bees, Cossacks with a boom;
The icons have already appeared
100
There on the edge - two and more.
But in a turban one murid
It is important to ride in a red Circassian coat,
The light gray horse is boiling all over,
He waves, calls - where is the brave?
Who will go out with him to the mortal battle! ..
Now, look: in a black hat
The Cossack set off with a comb,
He snatched out his rifle,
It's close... Shot... Light smoke...
110
"Hey, you stanitsa, follow him..."
- "What? wounded! ..” - “Nothing, trifle ...”
And a shootout ensued...
But in these collisions remote
Much fun, little sense.
It used to be a cool evening
We admired them
Without bloodthirsty excitement
Like a tragic ballet.
But I saw ideas
120
Which you do not have on stage ...
Once - it was under Gihami -
We were passing through a dark forest;
Breathing fire, blazed over us
Azure-bright vault of heaven.
We were promised a fierce battle.
From the mountains of distant Ichkeria
Already in Chechnya on a fraternal call
Crowds flocked to the daredevils.
Above the antediluvian forests
130
Beacons flickered all around
And their smoke curled like a pillar,
It spread like clouds.
And the forests revived
Voices called out wildly
Under their green tents.
As soon as the convoy got out
In the clearing, it's started.
Chu! they ask for guns in the rearguard,
Here are the guns from the bushes ‹you› carry,
140
Here they are dragging people by the feet
And they call loudly doctors.
And here on the left, from the edge,
Suddenly, with a boom, they rushed to the guns,
And a hail of bullets from the tops of the trees
The squad is shattered. Ahead
Everything is quiet - there between the bushes
The stream was running. We come closer.
They fired several grenades.
Moved forward; are silent;
150
But over the logs of the blockage
The gun seemed to shine
Then two hats flashed,
And again everything was hidden in the grass.
It was a terrible silence
It didn't last long
But "in" this strange expectation
Not one heart beat.
Suddenly a volley ... We look: they lie in rows -
What needs? - local shelves,
160
The people tested ... "With hostility,
More friendly! - was heard behind us.
The blood caught fire in my chest!
All officers ahead...
On horseback rushed to the rubble
Who did not have time to jump off the horse ...
"Hooray!" - and fell silent. "Daggers out,
In butts! - and the massacre began.
And two hours in the jets of the stream
The fight went on. Cut brutally
170
Like animals, silently, with breasts,
The stream was blocked with bodies.
I wanted to scoop up water
(And the heat and the battle tired
me)… but a muddy wave
It was warm, it was red.
On the shore, under the shade of an oak,
Having passed the blockages of the first row,
There was a circle. One soldier
Was on my knees. Dark, rough
180
The facial expressions seemed
But tears dripped from the eyelashes,
Covered with dust ... On an overcoat,
Back to the tree, lying
Their captain. He was dying.
In his chest barely blackened
Two wounds, his blood is slightly
Oozed. But chest high
And it was difficult to rise; eyes
They wandered terribly, he whispered:
190
"Save, brothers. Drag to the mountains.
Wait - the general is wounded ...
They don’t hear ... ”He moaned for a long time,
But everything is weaker, and little by little
He calmed down and gave his soul to God.
Leaning on guns, all around
There were gray-haired mustaches ...
And wept quietly... Then
Its remnants are fighting
Covered with a cloak
200
And they took it. tormented by melancholy,
The immovable "I" looked after them.
Meanwhile comrades, friends
They called with a sigh,
But I did not find in my soul
I regret, nor sadness.
Everything has already calmed down; body
Pulled into a heap; blood flowed
A smoky stream over the stones,
Her heavy fumes
210
The air was full. General
Sat in the shade on a drum
And received messages.
The surrounding forest, as if in a fog,
Blue in powder smoke.
And there, in the distance, a disorderly ridge,
But always proud and calm,
Mountains stretched - and Kazbek
Glittered with a pointed head.
And with secret and heartfelt sadness
220
I thought: “Poor man.
What does he want!.. The sky is clear,
Under the sky there is a lot of space for everyone,
But incessantly and in vain
He alone is at enmity - why?
Galub interrupted my daydreaming.
Striking on the shoulder, he was
My kunak, I asked him
What is the name of this place?
He answered me: Valerik ,
230
And translate into your language
So will the river of death: right,
Given by the old people.
- “And how many of them fought approximately
Today?" - "Thousands to seven."
- “Have the highlanders lost a lot?”
- “How to know? Why didn't you count!
- "Yes! will, - someone here said, -
They remember this bloody day!”
The Chechen looked slyly
240
And shook his head.
But I'm afraid to bore you
In the amusements of the world you are ridiculous
Anxiety wild wars.
You are not accustomed to torment your mind
A heavy thought about the end.
On your young face
Traces of care and sadness
Not to be found and you hardly
Have you ever seen up close
250
How they die. God bless you
And not to see: other worries
There is enough. In self-forgetfulness
Wouldn't it be better to end life the way?
And sleep soundly
With a dream of a close awakening?
Now farewell: if you
My artless story
Cheer up, take at least a little,
I will be happy. Isn't it?
260
Pardon me like a prank
And quietly say: eccentric! ..
The lyrics of M. Yu. Lermontov will never cease to amazeto inspire and excite readers. IN Lately we are increasingly turning to his spiritual heritage, discovering new
crowns, forcing us to take a completely new look at the world, at certain phenomena of reality. The theme of a lonely person encourages thinking about the personality of a genius, about the essence of his work. The early death of his mother, separation from his father, whom he was forbidden to see - these are the first bitter impressions of the poet's childhood. It was necessary to have a large supply of mental strength in order not to submit to circumstances and emerge victorious. and\ confrontation with them.
Lermontov wants to tell people about his pain, but everything he knows about does not satisfy him. The older he gets, the more difficult the world seems to him.
Almost every poet has a poem expressing his creative credo. To understand the essence of Lermontov's poetic gift, the famous "Duma" is of great importance.
The lyrical hero of "Duma" is lonely, but he is also worried about the fate of the generation. The more keenly he peers into life, the clearer it becomes that he personally cannot be indifferent to human troubles. Evil must be fought, not run from it. Inaction reconciles with the existing injustice, it causes loneliness and the desire to live in the closed world of one's own "I". And the worst thing is that it breeds indifference to the world and people. Only in struggle does a person find himself. In the "Duma" the poet clearly says that it was inaction that ruined his contemporaries.
It is known that many of Lermontov's poems have rough "sketches". The poet, as it were, approaches the topic several times, considers it in its entirety.
In the poem "I look at the future with fear ..." he seemed to see clearly. Now the poet is reconsidering his beliefs. Let's try to analyze. The first lines are another story about the personal:
I look at the future with fear, I look at the past with anguish, And, like a criminal before execution, I am looking around for my dear soul ...
Now watch how the line "I look at the future with fear" unfolds into the tragic thought of an entire generation:
Sadly, I look at our generation / Its future is either empty or dark ...
I paid earthly tribute to the earth. Love, hope, good and evil...
And immediately the lines appear in the memory of the "diamond fortress":
Shamefully indifferent to good and evil,
At the beginning of the race, we wither without a fight ...
What bitterness these lines are filled with! After all, Lermontov is not talking about physical cowardice. These spiritual slaves evoke not sympathy, but contempt. We read further:
I will not leave my brother in the world, And my tired soul is embraced by darkness and cold...
With a sullen and soon forgotten crowd We will pass over the world without noise or trace, Without leaving a fruitful thought to the centuries, Nor by the genius of the work begun.
The poet is one of this crowd, but he does not want to merge with it. The tragic voice of the generation sounds in unison with the lonely voice of the poet.
Thus, the theme of loneliness is determined not only by the personal fate of Lermontov. It reflects the state of Russian social thought in the period of reaction. That is why in Lermontov's lyrics the lonely
rebel, protestant, at enmity with "heaven and earth", fighting for the freedom of the human person, anticipatingown premature death.
Poems about nature are filled with a feeling of loneliness. Lonely growing pine And palm.
In the wild north stands alone On a bare peak a pine tree...
... Alone and sad on a rock with fuel A beautiful palm tree is growing.
Here is an old cliff... Lonely
He stands deep in thought.
And he cries softly in the desert.
In the lyrical, deeply agitated monologue "I go out alone on the road ...", written by Lermontov shortly before his death, the poet poses painful questions and answers them:
Why is it so painful and so difficult for me? Waiting for what? Do I regret anything? I don’t expect anything from life, I don’t<гль мне прошлого ничуть; Я ищу свободы и покоя! I would like to forget and fall asleep!
Terrible spiritual disunity with other people is a direct consequence of the conditions in which he found himself through the fault of the century. The poet is full of sad hopelessness, we can judge from him how far the disease of society has gone. The idea of life as “a smooth path without a goal” gives rise to a feeling of the futility of desires - “what good is it to wish in vain and eternally? ..” The line: “We both hate and we love by chance” logically leads to a bitter
241
water: "For a while - it's not worth the trouble, but it's impossible to love forever
TL05KNO
The poem "And boring and sad ...", called by V. G. Belinsky "the funeral song of all life", echoes the novel "Hero of Our Time". Pechorin languishes with life, despises it and himself, and at the same time pursues life, greedily catches its joys. In the poem "And boring and sad ..." and in the novel "Hero of our time" the poet, speaking of friendship, of higher spiritual aspirations about the meaning of life, about passions, tries to investigate the reasons for dissatisfaction with his appointment. For example measures, Grushnitsky belongs to a secular society, character thorny feature of which is lack of spirituality. Pechorin, accepting the conditions of the game, is, as it were, above the general realizing that there "flash images of soulless people, decency tightened masks. "Pechorin is not only a reproach to all the best people of the generation, but also a call for civic feat.
Struggle is the moral commandment that should determine life, behavior, deeds and thoughts.
We will not be mistaken if we say that Lermontov has "Sail"symbolizes a strong and independent personality, her lonelinessthe quality and difficulty of the path, the relentless search for purpose and meaning life. A lonely sail appears before us as the embodiment definition of absolute freedom:
Alas!- he is not looking for happiness And not from happiness runs!
The theme of loneliness in Lermontov is in contact with the theme of love. So in the poem "I will not humiliate myself before you ..." he says:
I'll start to deceive shamelessly So as not to love, as I loved, Or it is possible to respect women, When did an angel cheat on me?
Didn't the same thing happen to Pechorin, made him cruelKim in relation to both Princess Mary and Bela?
A feature of Lermontov's genius is the tension and concentration of thought on oneself, on one's "I", the passionate power of personal feeling. We will not find in Lermontov that direct openness to everything sincere, which so enchants in the poetry of A. S. Pushkin.
The theme of bitter loneliness, dissatisfaction with battle, hopelessness, disappointment clearly sounds in the lyrics ke Lermontov, unsurpassed in the beauty of performance. Every time I read Lermontov's works, I again think about his fate. It makes me very sad that even in his youth the poet seemed to have predicted his fate:
No, I'm not Byron, I'm another Chosen yet unknown, Like him, a wanderer persecuted by the world, But only with a Russian soul.
The poem "Valerik" was written by Mikhail Lermontov during his second exile in the Caucasus in 1840. Three years later, it was first published in the anthology "Morning Dawn". The work describes the battle on the Valerik River, in which the poet participated. He was in the detachment of General Galafeev. This unit led active military operations in Chechnya.
The theme of the work is eternal and relevant for all mankind. This is an awareness of the fragility, beauty and value of life in the face of mortal danger in a merciless and senseless war.
Genre poems can be defined as a rare combination of love and military lyrics, where there are sketches of the landscape, and philosophical reflections, and scenes of the life of the highlanders. This is a message-confession of the hero to his beloved. It was addressed to Varvara Lopukhina, to whom Lermontov had tender feelings for many years.
The first and last parts of the poem, where the poet speaks of his love, seem to frame the main part of the work with a description of the battle. Such a compositional technique successfully combines the experiences of the hero and the tragic events of the war into a single whole.
The first part, although addressed to the woman he loves, is completely devoid of a romantic mood. Lermontov justifies this by saying that after the bloody massacre he experienced, his former feelings seem like a game to him. All secular entertainments remained for the poet in the past, and in real life despondency and chaos reign. However, the author is unable to give up a long heartfelt attachment, therefore, he seeks to push his beloved away from himself with irony and memories of the horror experienced. He believes that his beloved is indifferent to him, they do not have spiritual intimacy.
In soul we are alien to each other,
Yes, there is hardly a soul mate.
The second part of the poem describes military operations. Here the tone of the narration changes, the number of hyphenations of one sentence in adjacent lines increases. Lermontov introduces many verbs, avoids personal pronouns: "the case has begun", "come closer", "suddenly rushed with a boom". All this creates a picture of chaos and nervousness, the movement of impersonal masses, an ugly reality.
After the battle, images of individual people reappear - a soldier, a general, a lyrical hero. Lermontov, as in "Borodino", shows military operations from the point of view of their ordinary participant. This new technique for that time finds its expression in precise and simple descriptions, as in the scene with the dying captain.
The author sees the special tragedy of what is happening in the fact that Russians and highlanders, whose free and proud spirit commands deep respect, must kill each other in this senseless and bloody conflict. As in other works devoted to the Caucasus, Lermontov expresses disagreement with the methods by which these territories were annexed to Russia.
And with secret and heartfelt sadness
I thought: pathetic person.
What does he want!.. The sky is clear,
Under the sky there is a lot of space for everyone,
But incessantly and in vain
He alone is at enmity - why?
In the poem, the author never calls the Chechens enemies. He uses only positive definitions - "Highlanders", "dares". And before describing the fierce battle, he even declares his love for this people. Characteristic and the image of "kunak" lyrical hero - Chechen Galuba.
The author contrasts the cruel prose of war with the poetry of nature, the rough language of military commands - with the solemn and majestic style that describes the mountain landscape. "Proud and Calm" mountain peaks should remind a person of eternity, striving for spiritual heights.
The third part of the poem is again addressed to the beloved. The lyrical hero tries to present his deep thoughts and feelings as eccentricities, bitterly believing that the anxieties of war look wild and absurd among secular amusements. At the same time, Lermontov implies that not only his beloved, but the whole secular society thinks so.
In the poem "Valerik" the poet used a variety of visual means. Mobile four-foot and two-foot iambic, irregular rhyming of several stanzas in a row, numerous super-scheme stresses, covering, cross and adjacent rhymes amazingly accurately convey both the natural intonations of the dialogues, and the ragged rhythm of the battle, and the grandeur of the mountain peaks, and the slightly ironic philosophical reasoning of the author.
Belinsky assessed the significance of "Valerik" in the work of Lermontov as a manifestation of his special talent. The poet knew how to look directly at the truth and feelings, without embellishing them.
- "Motherland", analysis of Lermontov's poem, composition
- "Sail", analysis of Lermontov's poem
"Valerik"
Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov in his prose foresaw a duel with Martynov, only gave it in the book a different, happy ending for himself. He also foresaw a link to the Caucasus. In the story "Bela" he writes: "I was soon transferred to the Caucasus; this is the happiest time of my life. I hoped that boredom did not live under Chechen bullets - in vain: a month later I got so used to their buzzing and to the proximity of death that , really, paid more attention to mosquitoes - and I became more bored than before, because I lost my last hope ... "
For about a month, in May 1840, he stayed in his native and beloved Moscow. On the way to the Caucasus for three days, he stops in Novocherkassk with his former commander, General M. G. Khomutov, who, like his other commanders, treated the poet very well. If he were a bad officer, then with all his poetic popularity and with all the connections of the Stolypin family in the troops, he would not be respected. Yes, and he served in the Caucasus in combat conditions. So, there was something to appreciate the officer.
Leaving Moscow at the end of May, only by June 10 did he reach Stavropol, where the main apartment of the commander of the Caucasian Line was located. The lieutenant never went to his Tenginsky infantry regiment, whose headquarters was located in Anapa. Adjutant General Pavel Khristoforovich Grabbe highly valued Mikhail Lermontov both as a brave officer and as a poet, and allowed him to serve quite freely in the Caucasus. At the request of the poet, Lermontov was seconded to the Chechen detachment of General Apollon Vasilyevich Galafeev.
He boastfully stated in a letter dated June 17, 1840 to his friend Alexei Lopukhin: “Tomorrow I’m going to the active detachment, to the left flank, to Chechnya to take the prophet Shamil, whom I hope I won’t take, but if I take, I’ll try to send to you by This prophet is such a scoundrel! Please send him off Aspelinda; they don’t know Indian roosters there in Chechnya, so, perhaps, it will frighten him.
Mikhail Lermontov lived, as a rule, in Stavropol. But as soon as the opportunity arose, he went to military operations, which usually began in the Grozny fortress, participated in expeditions to Lesser and Greater Chechnya, as well as in a campaign in Temir-Khan-Shura. In Stavropol, as usual, Lermontov quickly found himself in the center of the bright and outstanding people living in the city at that time, gathering at the captain of the General Staff, Baron I. A. Vrevsky, besides, old acquaintances of the poet. These were Alexei Stolypin (Mongo), Lev Sergeevich Pushkin, Sergei Trubetskoy, Rufin Dorokhov, Dr. Mayer, Decembrist Mikhail Nazimov. But Lermontov was tired of secular entertainment.
Mikhail Lermontov after the battle on Valerik. Drawing by D. P. Palen. 1840
General Apollon Vasilievich Galafeev. Watercolor copy by E. I. Viskovata from the original by D. P. Palen.
In the same letter to his friend Alexei Lopukhin on the eve of his departure to the detachment on a military expedition on June 17, Lermontov writes: “I have been here in Stavropol, for a week now and have been living with Count Lambert, who is also going on an expedition and who sighs for Countess Zubova, about which I ask her most submissively to convey.
The detachment moved out on July 6 from the Groznaya fortress and, after several minor skirmishes, took the fight near the Valerik River. On July 11, 1840, on a vast territory from the present Valerik, especially in the upper part in the area of the Old Cemetery, between the lands of Valerik and Shalazhi, near the Gekhi River, a fierce battle takes place between the tsarist and Chechen armies. About seven thousand Chechen fighters meet a detachment of the tsarist army. The highlanders were commanded by Naib Akhberdil Mohammed. Mikhail Lermontov in this battle proved to be an experienced and brave fighter. As it was written in the summary of General Galafeev to his chief Adjutant General Grabbe dated October 8, 1840: "Lieutenant Lermontov of the Tengin Infantry Regiment, during the assault on enemy blockages on the Valerik River, was instructed to observe the actions of the advanced assault column and notify the head of the detachment of its successes which was associated with the greatest danger for him from the enemy, hiding in the forest behind trees and bushes.But this officer, in spite of any dangers, fulfilled the assignment entrusted to him with excellent courage and composure, and with the first ranks of the bravest soldiers broke into the enemy rubble ".
For his courage in battle, Lieutenant Lermontov was presented to the order. But Lermontov was deleted from the list of those awarded by the hand of Emperor Nicholas I. And in the future, when already for other military actions he was presented to the Golden Saber, again, as they say, the award did not find a hero. And how, after this double conscious deletion from the lists of those awarded for military merit, to consider that Nicholas I's dislike for the poet was invented by Soviet scientists. Usually, Nicholas I generously rewarded the heroes of the Caucasian battles. The poet rushes into battle, on the most risky military expeditions, and the emperor writes to keep Lermontov strictly in the regiment, in the rear, and not allow any battles. He deprived the poet of the last reason for asking for his resignation. You never know, Lermontov would have been easily wounded, and, already wounded, the emperor would have been forced to satisfy the request for his resignation. And, therefore, the poet would have appeared in Moscow and St. Petersburg, would have founded his own journal, would have continued to revolt the people with his poems. Not allowed.
The emperor did not want the poet's death, he wanted him to fade away quietly in the barracks life, far from the capitals. Here is how Count Kleinmichel answered General Grabbe:
"Dear Sir Evgeny Alexandrovich!
In submission dated March 5th, No. 458, Your Excellency deigned to apply for the award, among other ranks, transferred on April 13, 1840 for the misconduct of l. - Mrs. from the Hussar Regiment to the Tenginsky Infantry Regiment, Lieutenant Lermontov with the Order of St. Stanislav of the 3rd degree, for the distinction he rendered on an expedition against the highlanders of 1840.
The Sovereign Emperor, after considering the list delivered about this officer, did not deign to express the monarch's assent to the award requested of him. - At the same time, his Majesty, noting that Lieutenant Lermontov was not with his regiment, but was used on an expedition with a Cossack team specially entrusted to him, commanded to inform you, dear sir, about confirmation that Lieutenant Lermontov would certainly be present in the front, and so that the authorities would not dare, under any pretext, to remove him from front-line service in their regiment.
I have the honor to notify you of such a royal will.
Genuine signed Count Kleinmichel.
That's royal justice for you!
As they wrote in the "Journal of military operations of the detachment on the left flank of the Caucasian line" (which, according to a number of assumptions, was led by Mikhail Lermontov himself): "The dagger and saber lost to the bayonet. The fanatical frenzy of desperate murids could not resist the cold-blooded courage of the Russian soldier! The numeral force of the scattered crowd should was to yield to the moral strength of well-ordered troops, and the Chechens ran out to a clearing on the left bank of the Valerika River, from where a canister shot from two horse guns, under the command of Lieutenant Evreinov's guard horse artillery, again drove them into the forest.
The feelings of Mikhail Lermontov himself after the first battles also split in two. On the one hand, with his hot Scottish highland blood, he was drawn to combat mortal combat and, probably, shot or hacked more than one highlander during the battles. Yes, and many villages and ancient towers were destroyed during these sorties by Russian troops. As the poet himself writes to the same Lopukhin: "I got a taste of war and am sure that for a person who is accustomed to the strong sensations of this bank, there are few pleasures that would not seem cloying." It was sharper than playing cards or winning the hearts of beauties. It was already a game of chance with death. As he writes about the battle on the Valerik River in the same letter to Lopukhin: "... in a ravine where there was fun."
The cocky brave man, ready to fight on all fronts, in himself coexisted with the ancient Scottish highlander, to whom the freedom-loving Chechens were close and dear, he sang them more than many of their own national poets. Above all this, the heavenly messenger also reigned in him, who came to us from above on the sinful earth.
As often happened with Lermontov, it begins as an ordinary love letter to a former girlfriend of a young age. A sort of romantic poetry. But then love memories smoothly move to a description of military life:
Tents are whitening all around;
Cossack skinny horses
They stand side by side, hanging their nose;
At the copper cannons the servants sleep.
The wicks barely smoke;
In pairs, the chain stands far away;
Bayonets burn under the sun of the south.
Following are already, as a continuation of "Borodino", the stories of old people about past battles:
How did they walk under Yermolov
To Chechnya, to Accident, to the mountains;
How they fought there, how we beat them,
How did we get...
Then the daring Cossack clashes with the Chechen murids are already described. Soldiers and officers of both sides really got away with such youthful skirmishes for the time being, without any military benefit for either side. And finally, a hot fight on the Valerik River. And Mikhail Lermontov himself, as eyewitnesses say, without even jumping off his horse, rushed to the rubble, under the fire of the highlanders, to his death. But - passed:
On horseback rushed to the rubble
Who did not have time to jump off the horse ...
"Hurrah" - and fell silent. - "Daggers out,
In butts!" - and the massacre began.
And two hours in the jets of the stream
The fight went on. Cut brutally
Like animals, silently, with breasts,
The stream was blocked with bodies.
I wanted to scoop up water ...
(And the heat and the battle tired
Me), but muddy wave
It was warm, it was red.
Thousands killed on one side, thousands on the other, and all in the name of what? Here, Mikhail Lermontov goes far from battle poetry:
And there, in the distance, a disorderly ridge,
But always proud and calm,
Mountains stretched - and Kazbek
Glittered with a pointed head.
And with secret and heartfelt sadness
I thought: "Poor man.
What does he want!.. the sky is clear,
Under the sky there is a lot of space for everyone,
But incessantly and in vain
He alone is at enmity - why?"
They have been fighting and fighting for thousands of years, killing millions of people, and you have to be a cosmic, mystical poet, so that right from the battlefield, covered in blood, your own and someone else's, you yourself are not an outside observer, but one of the desperate thugs of the special forces, and suddenly ascend there, up and, seeing the native land in the radiance of blue, wonder why, among its earthly beauties, people so mercilessly cut and kill each other.
The eternal question: yesterday, today, tomorrow - why? And then descend to the sinful earth and clarify with your mountain kunak: what was the name of that bloody place? Do the earth and space need these incessant bloodshed, this human enmity?
Galub interrupted my dreaming,
Striking on the shoulder; he was
My kunak: I asked him
What is the name of this place?
He answered me: "Valerik,
And translate into your language
So will the river of death: right,
given by the old people."
Possessing both courage and experience, military skill, indeed Mikhail Lermontov in that Caucasian war did not possess only confidence in its necessity. The poet had some kind of fatal, playful attitude to everything that happened:
Back to the tree, lying
Their captain. He was dying;
In his chest barely blackened
Two wounds; a little bit of his blood
Oozed. But chest high
And it was difficult to rise, the eyes
They wandered terribly, he whispered ...
"Save me, brothers. They are dragging us to the mountains.
Wait - the general is wounded ...
They don't hear..." He groaned for a long time,
But everything is weaker, and little by little
He calmed down and gave his soul to God;
Leaning on guns, all around
There were gray-haired mustaches ...
And wept quietly ... then
Its remnants are fighting
Covered with a cloak
And they took it. tormented by melancholy,
The immovable "I" looked after them.
Meanwhile comrades, friends
They called with a sigh near;
But I did not find in my soul
I regret, nor sadness.
The poem was written shortly after the battle itself. Confession of the hero before the not yet forgotten, once beloved woman. Or rather, a confession before oneself and before heaven. Starting as a love letter, moving on to a description of battles and sorrowful thoughts about human nature, Lermontov ends the poem "Valerik" again with an appeal to a woman so dear to him once:
But I'm afraid to bore you
In the amusements of the world you are ridiculous
Anxiety wild wars;
You are not accustomed to torment your mind
Heavy thought about the end;
On your young face
Traces of care and sadness
Not to be found and you hardly
Have you ever seen up close
How they die. God bless you
And not to see: other worries
There is enough. In self-forgetfulness
Wouldn't it be better to end life the way?
And sleep soundly
With a dream of a close awakening?
Now farewell: if you
My artless story
Cheer up, take at least a little,
I will be happy. Isn't it?
Pardon me like a prank
And quietly say: eccentric! ..
But if this love message had not had a completely different, non-love content, I think the poem would hardly have become one of the pinnacles in the poet's work. All the same, these "pranks of an eccentric" were much more important than the "alarms of self-forgetfulness." Yes, and battle lyrics, too, in themselves differ little from scenes from Borodino and other battle creations of the poet. Most important of all is his breakthrough upward, deep into a person and his existence, and this somewhat chilling, cosmic, without any regret and sadness, demonic grief for a person as such, first of all, determines the meaning of the poem "Valerik". The verse is as broken and disordered as the war itself. Like life itself. Like an old, flaring love from time to time.
Later, on September 12, Lermontov wrote about what had already happened from Pyatigorsk to Alexei Lopukhin: “My dear Alyosha. I am sure that you received my letters that I wrote to you from the active detachment in Chechnya, but I am also sure that you did not answer me, because I I don't hear anything about you in writing. Please don't be lazy: you can't imagine how painful it is that our friends forget us. Since I've been in the Caucasus, I haven't received any letters from anyone, I haven't even heard from home. Maybe they disappear because I was nowhere in the place, but staggered all the time in the mountains with a detachment. We had business every day, and one rather hot one that lasted 6 hours in a row. We were only 2 thousand infantry, and there were up to 6,000 of them, and they fought with bayonets all the time. We lost 30 officers and up to 300 privates, and their 600 bodies remained in place - it seems good! - imagine that in the ravine, where there was fun, an hour after the action it still smelled When we see each other, I will tell you very interesting details - only God knows when we will see each other. I have now recovered almost completely and I am going back from the waters to the detachment in Chechnya. If you will write to me, then here is the address: to the Caucasian Line, to the active detachment of Lieutenant General Galafeev, to the left flank. I will spend here until the end of November, and then I don’t know where I will go - to Stavropol, to the Black Sea or to Tiflis. I've got a taste of the war and I'm sure that for a person who is accustomed to the strong sensations of this bank, there are few pleasures that would not seem cloying. Only it’s boring that it’s either so hot that you can’t walk, or it’s so cold that you shiver, or there’s nothing to eat, or there’s no money - that’s exactly what is happening to me now. I lived everything, but they don’t send from home. I do not know why there is not a single letter from my grandmother. I don't know where she is, in the village or in Petersburg. Please write if you saw her in Moscow. Kiss Varvara Alexandrovna's hand for me and goodbye. Be healthy and happy.
Your Lermontov.
He fought bravely and at the same time dreamed of resignation and sang in verse the Chechens, whom he mercilessly blew off their heads. That is life! As General Galafeev writes: “I am quite indebted to the success of this day to diligence and courage ... Evenly on this day they distinguished themselves by courage and selflessness when transmitting orders under the fire of the enemy of His Majesty’s Cavalier Guard Regiment, Lieutenant Count Lambert and the Tengin Infantry Regiment, Lieutenant Lermantov. From the journal of military operations of the detachment on left flank of the Caucasian line from September 25 to October 7, 1840".
After the Valerik battle, the poet creates a kind of artistic triptych: the beginning of the battle on July 11, 1840, the moment of decisive hand-to-hand combat, the funeral of those killed on the morning of July 12.
"Episode from the Battle of Valerik" occupies the main place here. This little watercolor masterpiece was created when Lermontov, together with the artist Grigory Gagarin, came on a short vacation to the Caucasian waters. Gagarin did only the coloring. Gagarin himself admits: "The drawing of Lermontov, painted by me during my stay in Kislovodsk" and the date is July 11, 1840.
The battle at the Valerik River was not decisive in the Caucasian War, but it became decisive both for life and for the late, mature poetry of Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov. He experienced anew already in reality all his stories from "A Hero of Our Time". He famously fought the Chechens, but he also respected their desire for freedom, their freedom and independence of behavior. Even now Chechens, as Chechen writers told me in Grozny, consider Lermontov their own. Participation in the battles is forgiven him, that's why the war is to fight, there is no time for sentimentality, who wins. But his respect for the peoples of the Caucasus, his affinity with them is always highly valued in the Caucasus.
He admits to almost a kindred attraction to them, to their way of life, and how can one not recall his highland Scottish roots:
I love the color of their yellow faces
Similar to the color of the legs
Their hats, thin sleeves,
Their dark and sly look
And their guttural conversation.
Even in battles, these are not enemies, these are mountaineers. But at the same time, Lermontov understands that in the confrontation between Asia and Russia, the Caucasus, and in his opinion, should be in the orbit of his homeland. And therefore he is always looking for a peaceful union, looking for kunachestvo, and not destruction.
During this period, the life of Lermontov as an officer and the life of Lermontov as a poet sharply separated from each other. In life, Mikhail Lermontov, after the injury of his friend, another daring Rufin Dorokhov, took command of a detachment of desperate brave men, the current special forces, from him. And by order of the command made daring attacks on the highlanders. He, always a bit of a veil and loving to dress beautifully, had no time for dressing up in these outings. As one of his eternal secular enemies Baron Lev Vasilievich Rossillon reports with hostility about Lermontov:
“I remember Lermontov well. He was an unpleasant, mocking person, he wanted to seem something special. He boasted of his courage, as if in the Caucasus, where everyone was brave, it was possible to surprise anyone with it!
Lermontov gathered some kind of gang of dirty thugs. They did not recognize firearms, crashed into enemy villages, waged a partisan war and were called by the loud name of the Lermontov detachment. This did not last long, however, because Lermontov could not sit anywhere, he was always rushing somewhere and did not bring anything to the end. When I saw him at Sudak, he disgusted me because of his extraordinary untidyness. He wore a red kanaus shirt, which, it seems, was never washed and looked blackened from under the forever unbuttoned coat of the poet, which he wore without an epaulette, which, however, was the custom in the Caucasus. Lermontov prancing on a horse as white as snow, on which, valiantly wringing his white canvas hat, he rushed to the Circassian rubble. Pure youth, for who rushed to the rubble on horseback! We laughed at him for it."
In addition, according to Baron Lev Rossillon, Lermontov was a veil, thinking too much about himself. However, hearing such conversations about himself, Mikhail Lermontov, as if by the way, himself remarked about Baron Rossillon: "Not a German, not a Pole, but perhaps a Jew."
And about his special forces, Lermontov wrote to Alexei Lopukhin, having already returned to the Groznaya fortress:
“I am writing to you from the fortress of Grozny, to which we, that is, the detachment, returned after a 20-day expedition in Chechnya. I don’t know what will happen next, but for now, fate does not offend me very much: I inherited from Dorokhov, who was wounded, a select team hunters, consisting of a hundred Cossacks - various rabble, volunteers, Tatars, etc., this is something like a partisan detachment, and if I happen to act successfully with him, then maybe they will give something; I only commanded them for four days in business and did not I still know quite well to what extent they are reliable, but since we will probably still be fighting all winter, I will have time to get to the bottom of them.
I haven't received any letters from you or anyone else for three months. God knows what has become of you; forgot what? or [letters] disappear? I waved my hand. I don’t have much to write to you: our life here outside the war is monotonous, and they don’t order to describe expeditions. You see how obedient I am to the laws. Maybe someday I will sit by your fireplace and tell you the long labors, the night fights, the tiresome skirmishes, all the pictures of military life that I have witnessed. Varvara Alexandrovna will yawn behind the embroidery frame and, finally, fall asleep from my story, and the steward will call you into another room, and I will stay alone and finish my story to your son, who will make me poop on my knees ... Do me a favor, write to me as much as possible more. Farewell, be healthy with your children and household, and kiss the hand of your concubine for me.
Your Lermontov.
Still, a real war, like any other, made Mikhail Lermontov from a youth, despite his young age, already a completely mature person.
After these military sorties, the poet returned to Stavropol, went to Pyatigorsk. This is followed by a very mysterious journey to the Crimea, acquaintance or romance with the Frenchwoman Ommer de Gelle.
Originally published in the translation of Prince Pavel Petrovich Vyazemsky, the notes of a French writer traveling around the Caucasus were used by all Lermontov's biographers, from Pavel Viskovaty to Pavel Shchegolev, and were published in 1933 in the famous edition of "Academia". Then it turned out that they were added, completed, invented by the great mystifier Vyazemsky, and all references to Ommer de Gelle were crossed out. They decided that such a person did not exist at all. Our scientists like to shirk from one extreme to another. But now, in Moscow, the original notes of Ommer de Gell, already in a high-quality translation from French, came out recently. There is no mention of Lermontov, but it is definitely proved that he and the poet were in the Caucasus at the same time.
And what, the French writer was not at all interested in our already famous poet at that time? And what, Mikhail Lermontov, who was always fond of beautiful women, was not interested in a charming Frenchwoman, moreover, a writer who was passionate about Russia? Isn't it time for the French Slavists to take a proper look at the Ommer de Gelle archive? I am sure that some traces of their communication will certainly be found. I think, most likely, Prince Vyazemsky only added his fantasies to the real notes of the traveler, or maybe her oral stories? Whether Ommer de Gelle went to the Crimea with the poet before his last trip to St. Petersburg, no one knows for the time being. But they certainly knew each other in the Caucasus.
After the exposure of Vyazemsky's hoaxes, almost no one turns to the memoirs of General E. I. von Meidel, who served all his life in the Caucasus. And he, regardless of Vyazemsky, talks about his conversations with Lermontov: “Do you know the baron, last autumn I went to her (my French friend. - V. B.) to Yalta... Oh, if you only knew what kind of woman she is! Smart and seductive like a fairy. I wrote French poems for her ... "This was the wife of the French consul in Odessa, the famous French geologist Xavier Ommer de Gelle. Her name was Jeanne Adele Erno Ommer de Gelle. According to the memoirs of Baron Maydel, Ommer de Gelle spoke of Lermontov: "This is Prometheus, chained to the rocks of the Caucasus… The kites tormenting his chest don’t understand what they are doing, otherwise they would tear their breasts to pieces…” By the way, this is not much different from the version of the hoaxer Vyazemsky: “I feel sorry for Lermontov… He will end badly. He was not born for Russia. His ancestor came from free England with his squad under the grandfather of Peter the Great. And Lermontov is a great poet...
Maybe this hoax had a real basis? It is good that Ekaterina Sosnina, the author of a book devoted to the little-studied facts of the biography of M. Yu. Lermontov, "Black Diamond", has now taken up this problem. Maybe she will get to the bottom of the French archives of the Ommer de Gelle family?
The poet indeed wrote French poems at that time, obviously dedicated to Ommer de Gelle:
… Tormented by the specter of hope
In the thick grass I close my eyelids
And I forget, alone
But suddenly a dull dream is dispelled:
The touch of lovely feet.
Regardless of whether Mikhail Lermontov was in the Crimea in the late autumn of 1840 or not, having returned to Stavropol and participated in the next military expeditions, for which he was already presented by the command to the Golden Saber, also rejected by the emperor, he is no longer fussing about resignation, but at least about a vacation and receives it at the very end of 1840 for a period of several months. Again, the efforts of a loving grandmother helped.
He arrived in St. Petersburg in early February 1841. Arrived directly to the enthusiastic readers of the novel "A Hero of Our Time". He arrived as a hero of the Caucasus, having acquired bloody combat experience, matured, and prepared a book of his best poems for publication. This was already the last and most triumphant visit of the famous Russian poet to the capital he conquered.
The first book of lyrical poems, published at the very end of 1840, was already waiting for him. Today we only need to be amazed at the exactingness of Mikhail Yuryevich. He selected only 28 poems out of hundreds he had written. Granted that "The Death of a Poet" and "The Demon" would not have passed the censorship, but how many poems that have now become classics were they not allowed into the book? All Russian poets should be so demanding of themselves.
But all the released ones are masterpieces of world lyrics. I will not refrain from listing all the poems selected by the poet in the first book. These are "Song about ... the merchant Kalashnikov", "Borodino", "Prisoner", "Prayer" ("I, the Mother of God ..."), "Duma", "Mermaid", "Palestine Branch", "Do not believe yourself ...", "Jewish melody", "To the album" ("Like a lonely tomb ..."), "Three palm trees", "In a difficult minute of life ..." ("Prayer"), "Gifts of the Terek", "In memory of Odoevsky", "1st January", "Cossack lullaby", "Journalist, Reader and Writer", "Airship", "Both boring and sad", "Child", "Why", "Gratitude", "From Goethe", "Mtsyri", “When the yellowing field is agitated…”, “Neighbor”, “We parted, but your portrait…”, and the last one, written by the poet right on the day of his departure from St. Petersburg to the Caucasian exile with the Karamzins, became the majestic and sad finale of the collection “Clouds”. The book was compiled by the poet himself shortly before leaving for exile. Almost all newspapers and magazines, from Bulgarin to Belinsky, wrote enthusiastically about her.
So, in February 1841, in Petersburg, they met not some unknown exiled officer with insignificant verses, as Martynov's apologists like to write now, but the best Russian poet known to the reading public throughout Russia, the initiator of new Russian prose.
Or were all the nobles and officers really illiterate, uneducated people and did not know anything about this? When will we finally understand that the last year of Lermontov's life, the year 1841, was the year of the life of the universally recognized brilliant Russian poet. And all these Martynovs and Vasilchikovs perfectly understood whom they raised their hands against. As Emperor Nicholas I understood this, and his whole family. As understood by Benckendorff and Nesselrode.
In the meantime, Mikhail Lermontov was waiting for the St. Petersburg carnival. The doors of all the salons were opened to him, the most noble and prim aristocrats called him to him.
Friends and a loving grandmother were waiting for him.
