Alexander Blok - Retribution. Erase random features - and you will see: the world is beautiful Previously published books

Prologue Life is without beginning and end. Opportunity awaits us all. Above us is the inevitable darkness, Or the clarity of God's face. But you, artist, firmly believe in beginnings and ends. You know where hell and heaven guard us. You have been given a dispassionate measure to measure everything you see. Let your gaze be firm and clear. Erase random features - And you will see: the world is beautiful. Know where the light is, and you will understand where the darkness is. Let everything pass slowly, What is holy in the world, what is sinful in it, Through the heat of the soul, through the coldness of the mind. So Siegfried rules the sword over the forge: Now it turns into red coal, Now it quickly plunges into water - And it hisses and turns black The blade entrusted to the beloved... The blow - it shines, Notung is faithful, And Mime, the hypocritical dwarf, Falls at his feet in confusion ! Who will forge the sword? - Who knew no fear. And I am helpless and weak, Like everyone else, like you - just a smart slave, created from clay and dust, - And the world is terrible for me. The hero no longer strikes freely, - His hand is in the hand of the people, There is a pillar of fire above the world, And in every heart, in every thought - His own arbitrariness and his own law... Over all of Europe, the dragon, With its mouth open, is languishing with thirst... Who will strike him?.. We don’t know: above our camp, as in old times, the distance is wreathed in fog, and smells of burning. There is a fire there. But the song - everything will remain a song, In the crowd, someone is always singing. Behold, the dancer presents his head on a platter to the King; There - he lays down his head on a black scaffold; Here - His poems are branded with a shameful name... And I sing, - But the final judgment is not for you, It is not for you to close my lips!.. Let the dark empty church, Let the shepherd sleep; Before mass I will cross the dewy border, I will turn the rusty key in the lock, And in the scarlet vestibule from dawn I will serve my mass. You, who struck Dennitsa, bless us on this path! Let me turn at least a small page from the book of life. Let me slowly and undeceitfully tell before Your face About what we hide within ourselves, About what is alive in this world, About how anger matures in the hearts, And with anger - youth and freedom, How the spirit of the people breathes in everyone . Sons are reflected in fathers: A short fragment of a family - Two or three links - and the Testaments of dark antiquity are already clear: A new breed has matured - Coal turns into diamond. He, under the hardworking pickaxe, Rising from the depths slowly, Will appear - for show to the world! So strike, know no rest, Let the vein of life be deep: The diamond burns from afar - Fractions, my angry iambic, stones! First chapter The nineteenth century, the iron, Truly a cruel century! You threw a careless man into the darkness of the night, starless! On the night of speculative concepts, Materialistic small matters, Powerless complaints and curses of Bloodless souls and weak bodies! With you came the plague to replace Neutralism, boredom, spleen, A century of smashing foreheads against the wall of Economic doctrines, Congresses, banks, federations, Table matches, red words, A century of shares, annuities and bonds, And ineffective minds, And half-hearted talents (So it’s fairer - in half!), The age of not salons, but drawing rooms, Not Recamier, but simply ladies... The age of bourgeois wealth (Invisibly growing evil!). Under the sign of equality and brotherhood, dark deeds were brewing here... And the man? - He lived weakly: It was not he - the cars, the cities, “Life” so bloodlessly and painlessly Tortured the spirit as never before... But the one who moved, controlling the Puppets of all countries, - He knew what he was doing, sending a Humanistic fog: There , in a gray and rotten fog, The flesh withered, and the spirit went out, And the angel himself of the sacred war seemed to fly away from us: There - blood feuds are resolved with a diplomatic mind, There - new guns prevent Coming face to face with the enemy, There - instead of courage - insolence, And instead of exploits - “psychosis”, And the bosses are always quarreling, And the team drags a long cumbersome convoy behind them, Headquarters, quartermasters, cursing dirt, With a bugler's horn - Roland's horn And a helmet - with a cap... That one They have cursed a lot for centuries and will not tire of cursing. And how can he get rid of his sadness? He lay down softly - but hard to sleep... The twentieth century... Even more homeless, The darkness even more terrible than life (Even blacker and larger is the Shadow of Lucifer's wing). Fires of smoky sunset (Prophecies about our day), Formidable and tailed comets, A terrible ghost in the heights, The merciless end of Messina (Elemental forces cannot be overcome), And the tireless roar of the machine, Forging death day and night, The terrible consciousness of the deception of All former small thoughts and faiths, And the first takeoff of an airplane Into the desert of unknown spheres... And disgust from life, And mad love for it, And passion and hatred for the fatherland... And black, earthly blood Promises us, swelling our veins, All destroying boundaries, Unheard of changes, Unseen riots... What? is a person? - Behind the roar of steel, In the fire, in the smoke of gunpowder, What fiery distances were revealed to your gaze? What is the incessant grinding of cars about? Why - the propeller, howling, cutting the cold - and empty fog? Now follow me, my reader, to the sick capital of the north, to a remote Finnish coast! It’s autumn seventy-eighth The old age is reaching. In Europe, work is going on, But here, as before, the dull dawn is looking into the swamp... But in mid-September That year, look how much sun there is! Where are people going in the morning? And all the way to the outpost Cheers are pouring out like peas, And Zabalkansky and Sennaya are swarming with police, crowds, Shouting, crushing, swearing in the area. .. Beyond the very city limits, Where the golden-domed Novodevichy Convent shines, Fences, slaughterhouses and wasteland In front of the Moscow outpost, - A wall of people, a darkness of carriages, Cabins, droshky and carriages, Sultans, shakos and helmets, The Queen, the court and the high society! And before the touched queen, In the autumn sunny dust, Troops pass in a line From the borders of a foreign land... They walk as if from a parade. Or did the recent camp near Constantinople, a foreign language and cities, leave no trace? Behind them are the snowy Balkans, Three Plevna, Shipka and Dubnyak, Unhealed wounds, And a cunning and formidable enemy... There are the Pavlovians, there are the grenadiers Walking along the dusty pavement; Their faces are stern, their chests gray, George shines here and there, Their battalions are sparse, But those who survived the battle Now bowed their heads under torn banners... The end of a difficult campaign, Unforgettable days! They came to their homeland, They are among their people! How will their native people greet them? Today - oblivion of the past, Today - heavy visions of War - let the wind blow away! And at the hour of the solemn return They forgot about everything: They forgot the life and death of a soldier Under enemy fire, Nights, for many - without dawn, The cold, silent firmament, Lurking somewhere - And overtaking death, Illness, fatigue, pain and hunger, Whistling bullets, the melancholy howl of a cannonball, the cold of the icy lodgements, the unwarming fire of the fire, and even the burden of eternal strife Among the staff and combatants, and (perhaps more bitterly than all others) they forgot the quartermasters of the intrigue... Or did they not forget, perhaps? - Trays with bread and salt are waiting for them, Speeches will be spoken to them, Flowers and cigarettes are on them Flying from the windows of all the houses... Yes, their difficult work is sacred! Look: every soldier has a bouquet of flowers on his bayonet! The battalion commanders have Flowers on their saddles, saddle cloths, In the buttonholes of faded uniforms, On horse hair and in their hands... They walk, they walk... Barely at sunset They will come to the barracks: who - to change the lint and cotton wool on the wounds, Who - to? fly in the evening, captivate beauties, flaunt crosses, drop careless words, lazily move your mustache in front of a humiliated “trick”, playing with a new lanyard on a scarlet ribbon - like children... Or, in fact, are these people so interesting and smart? Why are they exalted so high, why is there faith in them? In the eyes of any officer there are visions of war. Borrowed lights are burning on their previously ordinary faces. Someone else's life turned its pages for them. They are all baptized by fire and deed; Their speeches repeat one thing: How White General on a white horse, among enemy grenades, stood like an unharmed ghost, joking calmly over the fire; Like a red column of fire and smoke Soared over the Mountain Dubnyak; About how the regimental banner was not allowed out of the hands of the murdered man; The colonel helped drag a cannon along mountain paths; Like the royal horse, snoring, he stumbled Before the crippled bayonet, The Tsar looked and turned away, And shaded his eyes with a handkerchief... Yes, they know pain and hunger With a simple soldier on an equal basis... Someone who has been in the war is sometimes pierced by a cold - That fatal all the same, Which prepares the series of world events with only one thing that does not interfere... Everything will be reflected on such with a half-mad mockery... And the government is in a hurry to quickly turn all those who have ceased to be pawns into tours, or into knights... And It’s not fitting for us, reader, to count the horses and the tour, With you today we have been squeezed into the crowd of gawking onlookers, This exultation has completely made us forget yesterday... Our eyes are replete with light, Our ears are thundering with hurray! And many, having forgotten themselves too much, gather dust with their civilian feet, Like street boys, Near the marching soldiers, And this rush of feelings is instantaneous Here - in St. Petersburg September! Look: the venerable head of the family is sitting astride a lantern! His wife has been calling for a long time, Full of vain rage, And so that he can hear, she pokes the umbrella, Wherever there is no trace, she is for him. But he doesn’t feel this either And, despite the general laughter, He sits and doesn’t blow his head, Kanalya, he sees better than everyone else! The water carrier with the barrel has already passed, Leaving the wet path, And the vanka, rounding the bollard, He is yelling at the lady Already on this occasion, Running to help the people (The policeman gives whistles)... The carriages followed, The dawn is playing in the barracks - And the father himself family even climbed obediently from the lantern, But, leaving, everyone is waiting for something... Yes, today, on the day of their return, All life in the capital, like infantry, Thunders along the stone pavements, Walks, walks - in an absurd formation, Magnificent and noisy... One thing will pass - another will come, Take a closer look - she is no longer the same, And the one that flashed, there is no return, You are in her - like in the old days... The pale ray of sunset slowed down In a high, by chance, window. You could notice pale features in that window Behind the frame, You could notice some sign that you don’t know, But you pass and don’t look, You meet and don’t recognize, You follow others into the darkness, You follow the crowd you'll pass. Go, passerby, without attention, lazily tugging at your mustache, let the person and the building you meet, like all the others, be for you. You are busy with all sorts of things, You, of course, have no idea that behind these walls And your fate may be hiding. .. (But if you spread your mind, Forgetting your wife and the samovar, You would open your mouth in fear And sit right on the sidewalk!) It is getting dark. The curtains came down. The room is filled with people, And behind closed doors There are muffled conversations, And this restrained speech is Full of care and sadness. The fire has not yet been lit and they are in no hurry to light it. Faces are drowning in the evening darkness, Look closely and you will see a row of vague shadows, a string of some women and men. The meeting is not voluble, And each guest who enters the door, With a persistent gaze, silently looks around, like an animal. Here someone flashes a cigarette: Among others, a woman sits: A large childish forehead is not hidden by a simple and modest hairstyle, A wide white collar And a black dress - everything is simple, Thin, small in stature, Blue-eyed childish face, But, as if having found something in the distance , Looks carefully, point-blank, And this sweet, tender gaze Burns with courage and sadness... They are waiting for someone... The bell rings. Slowly opening the doors, a new guest enters the threshold: He is confident in his movements and stately; masculine appearance; Dressed just like a foreigner, Exquisitely; the gloss of the tall cylinder glistens in the hand; Barely noticeably darkened. The look of the brown eyes is sternly meek; The restless mouth is framed by a Napoleonic beard; Big-headed, dark-haired - Handsome and ugly together: Anxious, his mouth twitches with a Melancholy grimace. And the host of those gathered fell silent... Two words, two handshakes - And the guest goes to the child in a black dress, passing the others... He looks long and lovingly, And shakes your hand tightly more than once, And says: “Congratulations on your escape, Sonya ... Sofya Lvovna! Again - to the death struggle! And suddenly - for no apparent reason - Two wrinkles lay deep on this strange white forehead... The dawn went out. And the men poured rum and wine into the cup, and the flame ran like a blue light under the full cup. Daggers are placed in a cross above her. Now the flame is expanding - and suddenly, running up over the burnt fire, it trembled in the eyes of those crowding around... The fire, fighting against the crowd of darkness, cast a lilac-blue light, An ancient song of the Haidamaks, a consonant tune sounded, As if - a wedding, a housewarming, As if - everyone no thunderstorm awaits, - Such childish joy has lit up the stern eyes... One thing has passed, another is coming, A motley row of pictures passes by. Don’t slow down, artist: You will pay twice for one moment of sensitive delay, And if at this moment inspiration threatens to leave you, Blame yourself! Let your attention be the only thing you need. In those days, a noble family lived under the St. Petersburg sky. The nobles are all related to each other, And centuries have taught them to look into the face of another circle Always a little down. But power quietly slipped away From their graceful white hands, And the most honest of the royal servants signed up as liberals, And all in natural disgust Between the will of the royal and the people They experienced pain Often from both wills. All this may seem funny and outdated to us, but, really, only a boor can mock Russian life. She is always between two fires. Not everyone can become a hero, And the best people - we will not hide - Are often powerless in front of her, So unexpectedly harsh And full of eternal changes; Like a spring river, it is suddenly ready to move, to pile floes on ice floes, and on its way to destroy the guilty as well as the innocent, and the unofficial as the official... So it was with my family: In it the old days still breathed and prevented us from living in a new way. , Rewarding with silence And belated nobility (It’s not so much sense in it, As is customary to think now, When in any family the door is wide open to the winter blizzard, And not the slightest effort is worth cheating on your wife, Like a husband who has lost his shame). And nihilism here was benign, And the spirit of natural sciences (plunging the authorities into fear) Here was similar to religion. “Family is nonsense, family is a whim,” - People here loved to say angrily, And in the depths of their souls - still the same “Princess Marya Aleksevna”... The living memory of antiquity Should have been friends with disbelief - And all the hours were full of Something new “dual faith”, And this circle was enchanted: Its own words and habits, There are always quotation marks over everything that belongs to others, And even sometimes - fear; Meanwhile, life was changing all around, And everything around was shaking, And with the wind, something new burst into the hospitable old house: Either a nihilist in a blouse Will come and impudently ask for vodka, To disturb the peace of the family (Seeing his civic duty in this), Or - and a very guest The official will run in not at all coolly. " By People's Will "in hands - Consult in a hurry, What? the reason for all the troubles? What? what to do before the “anniversary”? How to reason with the youth, who are making a fuss again? - Everyone knows that in this house they will caress and understand, and with a noble soft light they will illuminate and shower everything... The life of the elders is nearing sunset. (Well, no matter how sorry you are at midday, you won’t stop the creeping bluish smoke from the fields). The head of the family is a colleague from the forties; to this day, among the advanced people, he keeps civil shrines, he has stood guard over enlightenment since Nicholas times, but in the everyday life of the new movement he has become a little lost... Turgenev’s serenity is akin to him; He still fully understands wine, He knows how to appreciate tenderness in food; The French language and Paris are, perhaps, closer to his own (Like all of Europe: look - And the German dreams of Paris), And - an ardent Westerner in everything - In his soul he is an old Russian gentleman, And the French mindset does not put up with many things in him; At Borel’s dinners, he grumbles no worse than Shchedrin: Either the trout is undercooked, or the fish soup is not fatty. This is the law of iron fate: Unexpected, like a flower over the abyss, Family hearth and comfort... Three daughters grow unprimly in the family: the eldest languishes And waits for her husband over the kipsack, The second one is always not too lazy to study, The youngest one jumps and sings, Her disposition dictates lively and passionate Teasing girlfriends in the gymnasium And using a bright red braid To frighten the boss... Now they have grown up: they are taken to visit, They are taken to the ball in a carriage; Someone is already walking near the windows, The younger one sent a note Some playful cadet - And the ardor of the first tears is so sweet, And the eldest - decorous and bashful - Suddenly a curly-haired, ideal fellow offered his hand; She is being prepared for the wedding... “Look, he doesn’t love his daughter much,” the father grumbles and frowns, “Look, he’s not from our circle...” And the mother secretly agrees with him, But they try to hide their jealousy of their daughter from each other. .. The mother hurries up the wedding dress, the dowry is hastily sewn, and for the ceremony (a sad ceremony) friends and relatives are called... The groom is the enemy of all rituals (When “the people suffer like this”). The bride has exactly the same views: She will go hand in hand with him, To throw together a beautiful ray, “A ray of light into the kingdom of darkness” (And she just doesn’t agree to get married without fleur d’orange and a veil). Here - with the thought of a civil marriage, With a brow darker than September, Uncombed, in an awkward tailcoat, He stands at the altar, Marrying “on principle” - This newly minted groom. The old, liberal priest baptizes them with a trembling hand, He, like the groom, has incomprehensible words spoken, And the bride’s head is spinning; pink spots glow on her cheeks, and tears melt in her eyes. .. An awkward moment will pass - They will return to the family, And life, with the help of comfort, will return to its track; They are early in life; It’s not too soon for Healthy shoulders to hunch; Not soon from childish disputes With his comrades at night He will emerge, honest, on the straw In dreams, the deceased groom... In a hospitable kind house There will be a room for them, And the destruction of the way of life, perhaps, does not suit Him: The family will simply be happy with Him, as for the new tenant, Everything will cost a little: Of course, the younger one is populist and touchy, Teasing her married sister, The second one is to blush and intercede, Reasoning and teaching her sister, And the older one is to languidly forget herself, Leaning on her husband’s shoulder; At this time, the husband argues in vain, Entering into a conversation with his father About socialism, about the commune, About the fact that someone is a “scoundrel” From now on should be called For having committed a denunciation... And the “Damned and sore point” will forever be resolved. .. No, the spring ice is crushed, the fast river will not wash away their lives: It will leave both the young man and the old man alone - Watch how the ice rushes, And how the ice breaks, And they both will dream that “the people are calling them forward” "... But these children's chimeras Will not prevent you from finally somehow acquiring manners (Father is not averse to this), Changing a braid for a shirtfront, entering the service, Bringing into the world a boy, Loving a lawful wife, And, without standing at a “glorious post” “, It’s great to do your duty And be a good official, Without bribes, seeing the good in service... Yes, this in life is too early for death; They look like children: Until their mother screams, they play pranks; They are “not my novel”: They are all about studying and chatting, Yes, delighting themselves with dreams, But they will never understand Those with doomed eyes: Different to become, different blood - Different (pathetic) love... So life flowed in family. The waves rocked them. The spring river rushed - dark and wide, And the ice floes hung menacingly, And suddenly, after hesitating, they went around This ancient boat... But soon the foggy hour struck - And a strange stranger appeared in our friendly family. Get up, go out into the meadow in the morning: A hawk is circling in the pale sky, Drawing a smooth circle behind a circle, Looking for where the worst nest is hidden in the bushes... Suddenly - a bird's chirping and movement... He listens... another moment - Flies on straight wings... An alarming cry from neighboring nests, The sad squeak of the last chicks, Soft down? flies in the wind - He claws the poor victim... And again, flapping his huge wing, He took off - to draw a circle after a circle, With an unsatiated eye and a homeless person Inspect the deserted meadow... Whenever you look, - circling, circling... Mother Russia, like bird, grieving About children; but it is her destiny to be tormented by hawks. At Anna Vrevskaya's evenings she was the choice of society. Sick and sad Dostoevsky came here in his declining years to brighten up the burden of a harsh life, to gain information and strength for the “Diary”. (At that time he was friends with Pobedonostsev). Polonsky recited poetry here with outstretched hand and inspiration. Some ex-minister humbly confessed his sins here. And the rector of the university Beketov, a botanist, has been here, And many professors, And servants of the brush and pen, And also servants of the royal power, And partly its enemies, Well, in a word, you can find here a mixture of different states. In this salon, without hiding, Under the charm of the hostess, Slavophile and liberal shook hands with each other (As, however, it has long been customary here in Orthodox Russia: Everyone, thank God, shakes hands). And everyone - not so much with conversation, but with liveliness and gaze - the Hostess could miraculously attract everyone to herself in a few minutes. She, indeed, was known as charmingly beautiful, and at the same time she was kind. Whoever was connected with Anna Pavlovna - Everyone will remember her well (The language of writers is still obliged to remain silent about that). Her public salon accommodated a lot of young people: Some had similar beliefs, One was simply in love with her, Another had a secret business... And everyone needed her, Everyone came to her, and boldly She took part in all matters without exception , As in dangerous enterprises... All three of my family’s daughters were also taken to her. Among the elderly and decorous, Among the green and innocent - In the salon, Vrevskoy was like one of his own One young scientist. A relaxed, familiar guest - He was on first-name terms with many. His features are marked with a Seal that is not quite ordinary. Once (he was passing through the living room) Dostoevsky noticed him. “Who is this handsome man? - he asked Quietly, leaning towards Vrevskaya: “Looks like Byron.” - Everyone picked up the Winged word, And everyone turned their attention to the new face. This time the light was merciful, Usually so stubborn; “Handsome, smart,” the ladies repeated, Men frowned: “poet”... But if men frown, Envy must be taking over them... And no one, the devil himself, can understand the feelings of the fair half... And the ladies were in admiration: “He is Byron, which means he is a demon...” - Well? He really was similar to the proud lord, with an arrogant expression on his face and something that I want to call the heavy flame of sadness. (In general, they noticed something strange about him - And everyone wanted to notice). Perhaps, unfortunately, there was only this will in him... He, by some secret passion, must have been compared to a lord: A descendant of later generations, In which lived the rebellious ardor of Inhuman aspirations, - He resembled Byron, How a sickly brother sometimes resembles a healthy brother: The same reddish glow, And the same expression of power, And the same rush towards the abyss. But - the spirit is secretly bewitched by the tired cold of illness, And the effective flame is extinguished, And the frenzied will of effort is burdened by consciousness. And He promised her a kingdom (without owning a kingdom). And She believed him, turning pale... And He turned her native house into a prison (although this house did not at all resemble a prison...). But everything that was previously sweet has become alien, empty, wild all around - Under this strange charm of speeches promising something new, Under this demonic flicker of eyes drilling with flame... He is life, he is happiness, he is an element, She found a hero in him, - And the whole family and all the relatives are disgusting, they interfere with her in everything, And all her excitement multiplies... She herself does not know that she cannot flirt. She almost went crazy... And he? - He hesitates; he himself doesn’t know why he’s delaying, for what? And he is not at all seduced by the Army's demonism... No, my hero is quite subtle and perspicacious so as not to know How a poor child suffers, What happiness can be given to a child - Now - in his sole power... No, no... but hitherto fiery passions froze in the chest, And someone whispers: wait... Then - a cold mind, a cruel mind Entered into unexpected rights... Then - the torment of a lonely life The head foresaw... “No, he doesn’t love, he plays “,” She repeats, cursing fate, “Why does He torment and frighten the defenseless me... He doesn’t rush explanations, As if he himself is waiting for something...” (Look: this is how a predator accumulates strength: Now - he will flap his sick wing , It will descend silently onto the meadow And will drink living blood Already from horror - a mad, Trembling victim...) - Here is the love of That vampiric age, Which turned into cripples Worthy of the title of man! Be thrice damned, miserable age! Another groom in this place would have shaken off the dust from his feet long ago, But my hero was too honest And could not deceive her: He was not proud of his strange disposition, And it was given to him to know that it was funny to behave like a demon and Don Juan in that age. .. He knew a lot - on his own grief, No wonder he was known as an “eccentric” In that friendly human choir, Which we often call (among ourselves) a flock of sheep... But - “the voice of the people is the voice of God,” And this must be remembered more often , At least, for example, now: If only he had been a little more stupid (Is it his fault, however?), - Perhaps she could have chosen a better path for herself, And, perhaps, with such a gentle Noble girl, having bound Her fate cold and rebellious, - My hero was completely wrong... But everything went inevitably its own way. The leaf, rustling, was spinning. And uncontrollably the soul grew old near the house. Negotiations about the Balkans The diplomats began, The troops came and went to bed, The Neva was shrouded in fog, And civilian affairs began, And civilian questions began: Arrests, searches, denunciations And assassinations - countless... And my Byron became a real book rat in the midst of this haze; With a brilliant dissertation, he won excellent praise and accepted the department in Warsaw. .. Getting ready to give lectures, Confused in civil law, With a soul that began to get tired, - He modestly offered her his hand, Tied her with his destiny And took her into the distance with him, Already harboring boredom in his heart, - So that his wife would be with him to the star I divided my book works... Two years passed. An explosion erupted from the Catherine Canal, covering Russia with a cloud. Everything foreshadowed from afar, That the fateful hour would happen, That such a card would fall out... And this hour of the day - the last - is called the first of March. There is sadness in the family. Abolished As if a large part of her: Everyone was amused by the smaller daughter, But she left the family, And life is both confused and difficult: Then there is smoke over Russia... The gray-haired father is looking into the smoke... Melancholy! There is scant news from my daughter... Suddenly, she comes back... What? with her? How thin the figure is transparent! Thin, exhausted, pale... And a child lies in her arms. Chapter Two Introduction I In those distant, deaf years, sleep and darkness reigned in our hearts: Pobedonostsev spread out his owl's wings over Russia, And there was neither day nor night, But only the shadow of huge wings; He outlined Russia in a wondrous circle, looking into her eyes with the glassy gaze of a sorcerer; Under the clever conversation of a wonderful fairy tale, it is not difficult for a beauty to fall asleep, - And she became misty, Having fallen asleep with hopes, thoughts, passions... But even under the yoke of Lanita’s dark spells, her tan was painted: And in the magician’s power, She seemed full of strength, Which was clamped with an iron hand the knot is useless... The sorcerer burned incense with one hand, And dewy incense smoked in a blue and curly stream... But - He put the other bony hand Living souls under the cloth. II In those immemorial years, Petersburg was even more formidable, Although not heavier, not grayer The vast Neva rolled under the fortress... The bayonet was shining, the chimes were crying, And the same ladies and dandies were Flying here to the islands, And just as the horse was barely audible He answered the horse with laughter, And the black mustache, mixed with the fur, tickled the eyes and lips... I remember, so I used to fly with you, forgetting the whole world, But... really, there is no use in it, my friend , and there is little happiness in this... III The terrible dawn of the East In those years it was still a little red... The St. Petersburg rabble gazed servilely at the Tsar... The people really crowded, The coachman in medals at the door The heavy horses were heated, The policemen on the panel drove the audience... “Hurray” Someone loud and loud starts him up, And the king - huge, watery - Rides with his family from the yard... It’s spring, but the sun is shining stupidly, There are seven whole weeks until Easter, And cold drops from the roofs are already down the collar mine stupidly Slides down, chilling your back... No matter where you turn, it’s all wind... “How sickening it is to live in this world” - You mutter, walking around a puddle; The dog pokes his head under his feet, the detective’s galoshes shine, a sour stench rushes from the courtyards, and the “prince” yells: “Robe, robe! “And having met the face of a passer-by, He would have spit in his face, If I hadn’t read the same desire in his eyes... IV But before the May nights, the whole city fell into sleep, And the horizon expanded; A huge month behind my shoulders Mysteriously blushed my face Before the boundless dawn... Oh, my elusive city, Why did you arise over the abyss? I could hear: in the distance, in the distance, As if from the sea, an alarming sound, Impossible for God’s firmament And unusual for the earth... You foresaw the whole distance, like an angel On a fortress spire; and here - (Dream or reality): a wonderful fleet, Widely deployed flanks, Suddenly blocked the Neva... And the Sovereign Founder Himself Stands on the lead frigate... This is what many people dreamed of in reality... What dreams do you have, Russia, What storms destined?.. But in these times the deaf Not everyone, of course, had dreams... And there were no people in the square at this wondrous moment (One belated lover hurried, raising his collar...) But in the scarlet streams behind the stern Already coming the day was shining, And the morning wind was already playing with dormant pennants, The bloody dawn had already spread out, threatening Arthur and Tsushima, threatening the Ninth of January... The third chapter The father lies in the “Alley of Roses” *, No longer arguing with fatigue, And the train rushes to the son frost From the shores of the native sea... Gendarmes, rails, lanterns, Age-old jargon and sidelocks, - And now - in the rays of the sick dawn The backyards of Polish Russia... Here everything that was, everything that is, Inflated by a vengeful chimera; Copernicus himself cherishes revenge, Bending over the empty sphere... “Revenge! Revenge!" - in the cold cast iron Rings like an echo over Warsaw: Then Pan Frost on an evil horse rattles his bloody spur... Here is the thaw: the edge of the sky will flash more vividly with a lazy yellowness, And the eyes of the ladies boldly draw their caressing and flattering circle... But everything in the sky and on the earth is still full of sadness... Only the rail to Europe in the wet darkness Shines with honest steel. The station is spit-stained; houses, insidiously betrayed by blizzards; The bridge over the Vistula is like a prison; The father, struck down by an evil illness, is still the darling of fate; Even in this meager world, he dreams of something wonderful; He wants to see bread in stone, a sign of immortality on his deathbed, behind the dim light of a lantern he imagines your dawn, God who has forgotten Poland! - What? is he here with his youth? What does he greedily ask the wind for? - A forgotten leaf of autumn days. Yes, the wind carries dry dust! And the night goes by, bringing frost, Fatigue, sleepy desires... How disgusting are the names of the streets! Here, finally, “Rose Alley”!.. - A unique moment: The hospital is immersed in sleep, - But in the frame of the bright window Stands, turning to someone, Father. .. and the son, barely breathing, Looks, not trusting his eyes... As if in a vague dream His young soul froze, And the evil thought cannot be driven away: “He is still alive!.. In a strange Warsaw Talking with him about law, Lawyers with criticize him!..” But everything is a matter of one minute: The son quickly looks for the gate (The hospital is already locked), He boldly answers the bell and enters... The staircase creaks... Tired, dirty from the road, He runs up the steps Without pity and without anxiety... The candle flickers... The gentleman blocked his way And, peering, he said sternly: “Are you the professor’s son?” - “Yes, son...” Then (with an amiable expression): “Please. At five he died. There...” The father in the coffin was dry and straight. The nose was straight, but became an eagle. This crumpled bed was pitiful, And in the room, alien and cramped, a dead man gathered for viewing, Calm, yellow, wordless... “He will rest nicely now” - the son thought, with a calm gaze, looking at the open door... ( With him, someone was constantly next to him, Looking to where the flames of the candles, Bend under the careless wind, the yellow face, the shoes, the narrowness of the shoulders would illuminate alarmingly, - And, straightening up, he faintly drew Other shadows on the wall... And the night stands, stands in the window ...) And the son thinks: “Where is the holiday of Death? The father's face is so strangely quiet... Where are the ulcers of thoughts, the wrinkles of torment, Passion, despair and boredom? Or did death sweep them away without a trace? - But everyone is tired. The dead man can sleep alone today. Relatives have left. Only the son is bending over the corpse... Like a robber, He wants to carefully remove the Ring from the numb hand... (It is difficult for an inexperienced person to boldly straighten the fingers of the dead). And only after kneeling over the very chest of the dead man, he saw what shadows lay along this face... When the Ring slid from the disobedient fingers into the hard coffin, the Son christened his father’s forehead, reading on it the seal of the wanderers, persecuted by? the world's destiny... He straightened his hands, the image, the candles, looked at his thrown shoulders and left, saying: “God is with you.” Yes, the son loved his father then for the first time - and, perhaps, for the last, Through the boredom of funeral services, masses, Through the vulgarity of life without end... The father did not lie very sternly: A crumpled tuft of hair stuck out; The eye opened wider and wider with secret anxiety, the nose bent; A pitiful smile twisted Loosely compressed lips... But decay - beauty Inexplicably won... It seemed that in this beauty He forgot long grievances And smiled at the bustle of Someone else's military memorial service... And the mob tried as best they could: Speeches were spoken over the coffin; The lady covered His raised shoulders with flowers; Then Lead lay on the edges of the coffin in an undeniable strip (So that, having been resurrected, he could not get up). Then, with unfeigned sadness, They dragged the coffin away from the government porch, crushing each other. .. The snowless blizzard screamed. An evil day gave way to an evil night. Through unfamiliar squares From the city to an empty field Everyone followed the coffin on the heels... The cemetery was also called “Will”. Yes! We hear a song about freedom, When the gravedigger hits lumps of yellowish clay with a shovel; When the prison door opens; When we cheat on our wives, And the wives cheat on us; when, having learned about the violation of someone's rights, we threaten ministers and laws from locked apartments; When interest on capital is liberated from the ideal; When... - There was peace in the cemetery. And indeed it smelled of something free: The boredom of the funeral ended, Here the joyful noise of the crows Merged with the roar of the bells... No matter how empty the hearts were, Everyone knew: this life had burned out... And even the sun looked into the grave of the poor father. The son also looked, trying to find at least something in the yellow hole... But everything flashed, blurry, blinding his eyes, constricting his chest... Three days - like three difficult years! He felt his blood run cold... Human vulgarity? Ile - weather? Or - filial love? - From the first years of consciousness, the father left heavy memories in the child’s soul - He never knew his father. They met only by chance, Living in different cities, So alien in all ways (Perhaps, except the most secret). His father came to him like a guest, bent over, with red circles around his eyes. Behind the sluggish words, anger often stirred... His cynical, heavy mind inspired melancholy and evil thoughts, The dirty fog of his filial thoughts. (And the thoughts are stupid, young...) And only a kind, flattering gaze used to fall furtively on the son, a strange riddle, bursting into a boring conversation... The son remembers: in the nursery, on the sofa, the father sits, smoking and angry; And he, madly naughty, turns around in front of his father in a fog... Suddenly (angry, stupid child!) - As if a demon was pushing him, And he headlong thrusts a pin into his father's elbow... Confused, pale with pain, He wildly cried out... This cry With sudden brightness arose Here, above the grave, on “Will”, - And the son woke up... Blizzard whistle; Crowd; the gravedigger levels the hill; The brown leaf rustles and beats... And the woman sobs bitterly, Uncontrollably and brightly... No one knows her. The forehead is covered with a mourning veil. What? there? Does it shine with heavenly beauty? Or - there is the face of an ugly old woman, and tears roll lazily down her sunken cheeks? And wasn’t she then in the hospital guarding the coffin with her son?.. So, without opening her face, she left... Strange people were crowding around... And it’s a pity for the father, an immense pity: He also received a strange inheritance from Flaubert’s childhood - Education sentimentale . The son was spared from funeral services and masses; but he goes to his father's house. We will follow him there and take a last look at the life of our father (so that the lips of the Poets do not praise the world! ). The son comes in. Cloudy, empty Damp, dark apartment... They got used to considering the Father an eccentric - they had the right to do so: The stamp of His melancholy disposition rested on everything; He was a professor and dean; He had scientific merits; I went to a cheap restaurant to eat - and did not have servants; He ran sideways down the street Hastily, like a hungry dog, In a worthless fur coat With a frayed collar; And they saw him sitting on a pile of blackened sleepers; Here he often rested, Staring with an empty gaze into the past... He “reduced to nothing” Everything that we strictly value in life: His wretched den had not been refreshed for many years; On the furniture, on the piles of books, Dust lay in gray layers; He’s used to sitting here in a fur coat and hasn’t lit the stove for years; He took care of everything and carried it in a heap: Papers, scraps of fabric, Leaves, crusts of bread, feathers, Cigarette boxes, Heaps of unwashed linen, Portraits, letters from ladies, relatives And even what I won’t talk about in my Poems... And finally, the wretched light of Warsaw fell on the icon cases and on the agendas and reports of “Spiritual and Moral Conversations”... So, settling a sad account with life, Disdaining the ardor of youth, This Faust, once radical, “Rule”, grew weaker. .. and forgot everything; After all, life no longer burned, it smoked, And the Words in it became monotonous: “freedom” and “Jew”... Only music alone awakened the heavy dream: The grumbling ones fell silent; Trash turned into beauty; The hunched shoulders straightened; With unexpected power the piano sang, Awakening unheard of sounds: Curses of passions and boredom, Shame, grief, bright sadness... And finally - he acquired evil consumption by His own will, And he was admitted to a bad hospital This modern Harpagon... This is how the father lived: as a miser , forgotten by People, and by God, and by themselves, Or a homeless and slaughtered dog In the cruel crush of the city. And he himself... He knew other moments Unforgettable power! It is not for nothing that some kind of sad genius sometimes flew into the boredom, stench and passion of His soul; And Schumann was awakened by the sounds of His embittered hands, He knew the cold behind His back... And, perhaps, in the dark legends of His blind soul, in the darkness - The memory of huge eyes And wings broken in the mountains was kept... In whom this memory dimly glimmers, He is strange and not similar to people: All his life - already a poet, a Sacred trembling embraces him, He is deaf, and blind, and he is mute, A certain god rests in him, He is devastated by the Demon, Over whom Vrubel was exhausted... His insights are deep, But they are drowned out by the darkness of the night, And in cold and cruel dreams He sees “Woe from Wit.” The country is under the burden of grievances, Under the yoke of brazen violence - Like an angel, she lowers her wings, Like a woman, she loses her shame. The people's genius is silent, And does not give a voice, Unable to throw off the yoke of laziness, Lost people in the fields. And only about her son, a renegade, The mother cries madly all night, Yes, the father sends a curse to the enemy (After all, the old have nothing to lose!..). And the son - he betrayed his fatherland! He greedily drinks wine with the enemy, And the wind breaks through the window, Calling to conscience and to life... Isn’t it also true that you, Warsaw, the capital of the proud Poles, were forced to doze by a horde of Military Russian vulgars? Life silently lurks underground, The magnate's palaces are silent... Only Pan-Frost ferociously prowls the expanse in all directions! His gray head will fly furiously above you, Or the folding sleeves will flutter up in a storm over the houses, Or the horse will neigh and the telegraph wire will answer with the ringing of strings, Or Pan will raise the enraged reins, And clearly repeat the cast iron The blows of a frozen hoof On the empty pavement... And again, drooping head, Silent Pan, killed by melancholy... And, wandering on an evil horse, Rattling his bloody spur... Revenge! Revenge! - So the echo over Warsaw Rings in the cold cast iron! The cafes and bars are still bright, The New World is selling bodies, Shameless sidewalks are teeming, But in the alleys there is no life, There is darkness and howling blizzards... Now the sky has taken pity - and the snow Silences the crackling life, Carrying its charm... He curls, creeps, rustles, He is quiet, eternal and ancient... My dear and innocent hero, He will spoil you too, While aimlessly and sadly, Having barely buried your father, You wander, wander endlessly In the sick and lustful crowd... There are no longer any feelings or thoughts, There is no radiance in the empty eyes, As if the heart has aged ten years from wandering... Here the timid light of the lantern drops... Like a woman, from around the corner, Here someone is creeping up flatteringly... Here - she was seduced, she crawled up, And an inexpressible melancholy hurriedly squeezed his heart, As if a heavy hand bent and pressed to the ground... And he’s not walking alone, But as if he’s with someone new... He’s leading quickly down the mountain His “Krakówskie Przedmieście”; Here is the Vistula - the hell of a snow storm... Seeking protection behind the houses, His teeth chattering from the cold, He turned back again... Again above the sphere Copernicus Under the snow is immersed in thought... (And next to him is a friend or rival - There is melancholy... .) He Turned to the right - a little uphill... For a moment his blinded gaze slid over the Orthodox Cathedral. (Some very important thief, Having built it, did not finish it...) My hero quickly doubled his pace, But soon he was exhausted again - He was already beginning to tremble With an invincible small trembling (Everything was painfully intertwined in it: Melancholy, fatigue and frost... ) He's been wandering off-road for hours in the snow, without sleep, without rest, without purpose... The evil screech of the snowstorm subsides, And sleep descends on Warsaw... Where else to go? There is no point in wandering around the city all night. - Now there is no one to help! Now he is in the very heart of the night! Oh, your gaze is black, the nights are dark, And your stone heart is deaf, Without regret and without hearing, Like those blind houses!.. Only snow flutters - eternal, white, In winter - it will snow the square, And it will cover the dead body, In spring - it will run in streams ... But in the thoughts of my hero There is already almost incoherent delirium... There goes... (One trail winds through the snow, but there are two of them, as it were...) There is some kind of vague ringing in the ears... Suddenly - the endless fence of what must be a Saxon garden... He quietly leaned against it. When you are driven and overwhelmed by People, care, or melancholy; When under the gravestone Everything that captivated you sleeps; When through the city desert, Desperate and sick, You return home, And frost weighs your eyelashes, Then stop for a moment Listen to the silence of the night: You will perceive with your ears a different life, Which you did not comprehend during the day; You will take a new look at the distance of the snowy streets, the smoke of the fire, the night quietly waiting for the morning above the white bushy garden, and the sky - a book between books; You will find in your devastated soul Once again the image of your mother bowed, And in this incomparable moment - Patterns on the lantern glass, Frost that freezes your blood, Your cold love - Everything will flare up in a grateful heart, You will bless everything then, Realizing that life is immeasurably more than quantum satis** Brand of will, And the world is beautiful, as always. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1910-1921 * - "Rose Alley" - a street in Warsaw. ** - quantum satis - “To the fullest measure” (lat.) - *the slogan of Brand, the hero of the drama of the same name by G. Ibsen.

The author’s new book provides evidence that “Jesus Christ in a white crown of roses” in A. Blok’s poem is the Antichrist. The red horse of the artist Petrov-Vodkin is a symbol of ordeal. The coat of arms of the House of Romanov is an order for the destruction of the Romanov dynasty.

• “Know where the light is - You will understand where the darkness is” (A. Blok)

* * *

The given introductory fragment of the book Literary theorems and their proofs (Lyudmila Krylova-Lopachenko) provided by our book partner - the company liters.

© Lyudmila Krylova-Lopachenko, 2016

Created in the intellectual publishing system Ridero

“Know where the light is - You will understand where the darkness is” (A. Blok)

Icon "Savior in Power". Andrey Rublev. 1408 Tretyakov Gallery

This book presents works in which the author of the articles presents his own versions of their reading with the help of Christian and mythological symbolism.

1. Poem “The Twelve” by A. Blok.

2. Painting “Bathing the Red Horse” by K. Petrov-Vodkin.

3. Coat of arms of the Romanov dynasty.

From personal experience I advise: in order to facilitate the understanding of the proposed versions, it is necessary to have these works before your eyes and, if possible, the Gospel or the Bible.

It all started with the fact that somehow, many years ago, for the first time after graduating from school, I came across Blok’s poem “The Twelve.” I’m reading, and suddenly I begin to understand that the title of the poem is not simply connected with the number of the Gospel apostles, but that these same “apostles” act in the poem, but in some strange, distorted form beyond recognition and, moreover, probably for complete unrecognizability , with mutilated names. Evangelist John the Theologian - Vanka, Apostle Andrew the First-Called - Andryukha, Chief Apostle Peter - Petka. But most of all, I was struck for the first time by the ending of the poem, where, as if out of the blue, “Christ in a white crown of roses” appeared.

The surprise was due to the fact that nowhere and never - neither in biblical paintings by Western European artists, nor in Orthodox icons (I have been collecting illustrations of both for a long time) - have I seen an image of Christ wearing a white aureole. A little later, I was inspired to understand Blok’s image of Jesus Christ “in a white crown” by the poem “Legend” by the Russian poet A. Pleshcheev.

Christ the Child had a garden,

And He grew many roses in him.

He watered them three times a day,

To weave yourself a wreath later.

When the roses bloomed,

He called the children of the Jews,

They picked a flower

And the garden was completely devastated.

“How will you weave a wreath for yourself?

There are no more roses in Your garden."

“You forgot that thorns

Remained to me,” said Christ.

And from thorns they wove

A wreath of thorns for Him,

And drops of blood instead of roses

His forehead was adorned.

“Christ in the Crown of Thorns” is one of the most common iconographic images of Christ, which appeared in Russia in the 19th century under the influence of Western European art.

In ancient Russian icon painting, Christ was usually depicted in a cross-shaped halo.

Painting “Saint Veronica” by Guido Reni, Italian artist of the 17th century. Jesus Christ wearing a crown of thorns. Pushkin Museum

Consequently, the crown of thorns and the cross-shaped halo are attributes of Christ in the fine religious art of the West and East.

"The Savior in the Crown of Thorns." V. M. Vasnetsov 1906. Vyatka Art Museum.

Icon of the Savior in the Crossed Halo. Simon Ushakov, 1658. TSL (Trinity-Sergius Lavra)

Why did the symbolist poet A. Blok, who was deeply versed in Christian symbolism, depict Christ in a white crown in his poem? It seemed to me that the answer should be sought in the Bible.

And indeed, I find the answer in the Gospel of Matthew: “Many will come in My name and say:

“I am Christ... Then if anyone says-“here is Christ or there”-don't believe it." So, putting a white crown on your Christ and saying at the same time - here “ahead is Jesus Christ in a white crown of roses”– Blok implied that this is not Christ at all, because the white aureole is not His attribute at all.

And then, naturally, the question arises: who acts in the poem in the guise of Christ? The question posed in this way already presupposes an answer for which you just need to find evidence.

The clue was the opening lines of verse from the prologue to the poem “Retribution”:

Life is without beginning and end.

Opportunity awaits us all.

Above us is the inevitable darkness,

Or the clarity of God's Face.

But you, artist, firmly believe

To the beginnings and ends. You know

Where heaven and hell guard us.

Given to you by dispassionate measure

Measure everything you see.

Let your gaze be firm and clear.

Erase random features -

And you will see: the world is beautiful.

Find out where the light is - you will understand where the darkness is.

“Know where the light is, and you will understand where the darkness is.” These lines are often quoted, but what do they mean? What does it mean to know the light? The poet gives answers in the opening lines of the prologue.

First hint.

Above us is the inevitable darkness,

Or the clarity of God's Face.

Hint two.

You know

Where heaven and hell guard us.

And finally:

Find out where the light is - you will understand where the darkness is.

In other words:

Find out where God is - you will understand where darkness, hell and the Devil himself are.

Further, my reasoning boiled down to the following: in the Orthodox icon painting tradition there is a hierarchy of color, where the main color is the color of the summer midday sun, and it belongs to God. Therefore, on icons, God’s clothes are always yellow, ocher or gold, symbolizing sunlight. Sometimes Jesus Christ Himself is depicted on icons as a source of light, for example, in the images of “The Savior in Powers,” in which the words seem to materialize: “God is the light of everything.” This image is presented on the first page in the icon “Savior in Power” by Andrei Rublev.

In addition, Christians associate such familiar concepts as “God is Love” and “God is Good” with God. And finally, divine nature itself is a blooming Garden of Eden, that is, eternal summer. And now all of the above properties, related directly to the Divine Essence, are comparable to those that preceded the appearance of “Christ in a white crown” in the poem “The Twelve”.

First, let us pay attention to the color (light) accompanying this phenomenon. Next - for the time of year, the time of day, for the feelings that arise, it is not yet clear who has them, what kind of feelings. And, finally, against what background will the appearance of the “twelve Red Guards” take place?

"Black evening"

White snow,

Wind, wind!

The man can't stand on his feet

Wind, wind -

All over God's world!

Black, black sky.

Anger, sad anger

It boils in my chest..."

“Black evening”, “black sky”, “malice”, night, snow, cold, blizzard - but this element is diametrically opposed to the one that we have defined as the Divine nature. Therefore, only the antipode of the Divine, which, as is known, is the Antichrist, can act in this element.

“Antichrist (from Greek - opponent of Christ)– a false Christ, a certain powerful man of lawlessness, who has accepted power, who will appear on earth and, having taken possession of it by force and deceit, will lead people to atheism. He himself will sit in the whole Church and demand worship.”

"Encyclopedia of Orthodox Holiness"

While working on the poem “The Twelve,” Blok made the following entry in his diary:

“...Christ with the Red Guards”(these words are in quotation marks).

It is hardly possible to dispute this truth, which is simple for people who read the Gospel and thought about it.” Consequently, a necessary and main condition for understanding the meaning of the poem “The Twelve” is knowledge of the Gospel or at least a careful reading of it.

(How could one study the poem and judge it without reading the Gospel, knowing that the poem was written based on the Gospel?)

However, we can already say with confidence that in the guise of Jesus Christ “in a white crown” the Antichrist acts, and the words "Christ with the Red Guards" put in quotation marks by Blok can only mean one thing - the Antichrist with the “Red Guards”.

But then the “Red Guards” (in quotes) are also not exactly what we think. But who is hiding behind the word “Red Guards” is no longer difficult to find out.

Let us turn again to the Gospel of Matthew and read carefully the following lines:

“False Christs and false prophets will arise and show great signs and wonders to deceive, if possible, the elect.”

Ev. Matthew chapter 24 verse.

In other words, false Christs and false prophets will appear to deceive many, especially the “elect.” That is, the best, who, in fact, are easier to deceive.

The following lines of the Gospel are very important for understanding the image of “Christ in a white crown”:

“Saint John the Theologian, contemplating in revelation events that predict the end of the world, says that the Antichrist will perform great signs - ... fire will bring down from heaven to earth before people.”

This sign indicated in Scripture is the most important of the signs of the appearance of the Antichrist, and the place of his appearance will be in the air.

So isn’t this the main sign of the Antichrist that Blok is talking about in the following lines?

Screensaver for the television play based on A. Blok’s poem “The Twelve” Artist German Travnikov. 1970 “There are lights all around, lights, lights, gun belts around them.”

The wind is blowing, the snow is fluttering, ( air)

Twelve people are walking

Black rifle belts,

There are lights, lights, lights all around. – (fire descending from heaven)

All around there are lights, lights, lights,

Put on gun belts.

It is no coincidence that Blok repeats the word “lights” six times - this is the cry of the poet, who, thus, wants to attract the reader’s attention to the word.

A researcher of A. Blok’s work, M. S. Petrovsky, drew attention to one remarkable fact from the history of the creation of the poem “The Twelve,” which for some reason fell out of the field of view of literary scholars. Here's what he writes: “Somehow it went unnoticed that on the very eve of writing the poem - January 5, 1918 - Blok remembered Pushkin’s “Demons.”

Having recalled this fact, which remained unclaimed by literary criticism, Petrovsky also does not attach importance to it, or does not want to attach it, like others. But what’s easier is to take and compare Pushkin’s lines of poetry from “Demons” and the lines of Blok’s poem.

A. Pushkin

"The clouds are rushing,

The clouds are swirling

Invisible moon

The flying snow illuminates.

The sky is cloudy, the night is cloudy.”

“For the life of me, no trace is visible,

We've lost our way

What should we do?

The demon leads us into the field. it is seen,

Let it circle around."

A. Blok

"Black evening"

White snow.

Wind, wind!

The man is not standing on his feet.

Wind, wind -

All over God's world!

“Some kind of blizzard broke out

Oh, blizzard, oh, blizzard,

Can't see each other at all

In four steps."

We see that both Pushkin and Blok describe the “demonic elements” in the same way - winter, snow, blizzard, dark night.

A. Pushkin

"There's an unprecedented mileage there

He was standing in front of me.

There he sparkled with a small spark

And disappeared into the darkness empty.”

A. Blok

“The snow curled up like a funnel,

The snow rose in columns.

Fuck-bang-tah-tah-tah-tah!

Snowy dust swirled towards the sky"

And the demons themselves manifest themselves in the same way in Pushkin and Blok - in the images of swirling columns of blizzards and sparkling lights. But, if in Pushkin the unfolding “demonic element” has a local character (somewhere in the steppe), then in Blok’s poem it is presented on a much larger scale - “in all of God’s world.” And in the main sign, Pushkin’s demons are inferior in power to Blok’s: for example, Pushkin has a “small spark”, and Blok has “fire”, intensified by repeating this word six times, and in his plans there is a “world fire”.

And here the motto of the once most powerful Bolshevik newspaper Pravda involuntarily comes to mind - “From a spark a flame will ignite.” And the motto, frankly speaking, is satanic. It turns out that with this attribute the newspaper was as much “Pravda” as “Jesus Christ in a white crown.”

From Blok’s diary: “Marxists are the smartest critics, and the Bolsheviks are right to fear the Twelve.”

It turns out that the “smart Bolsheviks” understood that A. Blok identified the revolution they were carrying out with “devils,” and therefore the fact of appealing to Pushkin’s “Demons” was simply ignored. Most likely, there were recommendations on this matter - literary criticism very unanimously ignored such an important fact. Blok also realized that the Bolsheviks would not forgive him for the poem “The Twelve.” Hence the constant fear for my life. Fear, which became the source of his incomprehensible illness, not only for his relatives, but also for experienced doctors. Orlov Vladimir Nikolaevich wrote about this in his book “Gamayun, dedicated to the life and work of Alexander Blok. The mysterious illness and death of the poet is the subject of an article that I found on the Internet - "The mysterious death of Alexander Blok" where the author (I couldn’t find her name) practically duplicates the facts presented in the book. "IN days when the poet felt better, “he sorted out and destroyed archives, notebooks, and records. He took special care to destroy all copies of the Twelve. After nights spent in nightmares, he constantly repeated to his wife, as if in delirium: “Lyuba, look carefully and burn, burn everything.” 1 The article contains other versions of what happened, including the official one, but I will not dwell on them.

M. Petrovsky notes that “the poem (“Twelve”) absorbs all the traditional symbolism of the number twelve, so the collective name of the collective hero of the poem echoes the number of the Gospel apostles.”

But everyone understands that the “twelve Red Guards” from the poem are not at all like the twelve gospel apostles - the first disciples of Christ. Those who from the poem really want to be called “apostles of the new faith.” But what kind of faith? The “Twelve” from the poem not only do not resemble Christ’s disciples, they are something opposite to them.

The apostles are the first disciples of Christ, who, after His death on the cross, brought the light of His teaching and the Good News about Him to the world. And what did the collective hero from the poem bring to the people:

"Freedom, freedom

Eh, eh, without a cross.”

………………………

“We are at grief for all the bourgeoisie

Let's fan the world fire,

World fire in blood..."

Now let’s read Blok’s description of the “collective hero”:

“... Twelve people are coming.

There is a cigarette in his teeth, he has taken a cap,

I need an ace of diamonds on my back!”

The “Ace of Diamonds” is known to be the sign of a criminal murderer. Consequently, the “twelve” from the poem are a gang of criminals who represent the new revolutionary power.

“I need an ace of diamonds on my back”

Council of the Twelve Apostles. Byzantine icon, early 14th century. Pushkin Museum

Let's compare the twelve "Red Guards" - "Apostles of the new faith" - as some literary critics call them, with the twelve apostles - the first disciples of Christ, represented on a Byzantine icon.

The icon, like the picture with the “Red Guards” by German Travnikov, is a group portrait of the twelve apostles, as if it was specially painted for comparison with the group of “Red Guards” from Blok’s poem. The difference is such that one can immediately say that the twelve people from the poem are the antipodes of the twelve gospel apostles, and that Blok’s words from the diary “Christ with the Red Guards” mean only one thing - the appearance of the Antichrist with demons occurred.

Screensaver for the television play based on the poem “The Twelve”, 1970. Artist German Travnikov. “The wind is cheerful and angry and happy, twisting hems, mowing down passers-by”

"Demons" have the same physical body, however, their “matter” is so subtle that they cannot be visible to humans, if his “spiritual doors of perception” are not open... and which instantly materialize in a unspiritual, immoral person what criminals are.

Hieromonk Seraphim Rose. Signs of the appearance of demons Magazine “Science and Religion”. No. 2, 1991

That is why at the very beginning of the poem, in a snowstorm, only the voices of still invisible demons are heard, looking for « open doors spiritual perception" and who, having escaped from the darkness of hell to freedom, cheerfully frolic over their antics with passers-by:

The wind is cheerful

Isolated and glad

Twists hems

Passers-by are mowed down.

Tears, crumples and wears

Large poster:

"All power to the constituent assembly"

And so far their pranks are quite harmless:

"The young lady in karakul"

Slipped

And - bam - she stretched out.

Pull, lift!”

After some time, the demons themselves will appear in the blizzard, materializing in seasoned criminals. (Which could be " doors of spiritual perception" among criminals).

After the appearance of the poem “The Twelve” in print, the writer Ivan Bunin in his public speaking accused Blok of “pathological blasphemy”, mockery of the image of Christ:

“Some sweet little Jesus, dancing with a bloody flag, and at the same time “in a white crown of roses” ahead of these brutes, robbers, murderers.”

It must be said that the “twelve” are not at all a collective hero, as researcher M. Petrovsky writes, since ahead of the detachment are three people with specific names - Vanka, Petka Andryukha - the antipodes of Christ’s favorite disciples.

But why exactly did these anti-entities lead the detachment? What devilish role does the Antichrist have in store for them? To understand Satan's plan, let us turn to the text of Holy Scripture.

Icon of the Transfiguration of the Lord. 1804 Tretyakov Gallery. Moscow. Apostles (from left to right) Peter, John, James

As stated in the Gospel legend, Jesus Christ, shortly before his death on the cross, called his beloved disciples to Mount Tabor, where he was transfigured before them, showing the indwelling God– this is where the word “favorite” comes from, that is, dedicated, beloved.

Among the witnesses of the Transfiguration of the Lord was the beloved disciple of Christ, the future evangelist and author of the New Testament book “Apocalypse” John the Theologian, who wrote his revelation about the end of the world, about the appearance of the Antichrist on earth.

Revelation of John the Theologian. Evangelist John the Theologian with Prokhor. Fragment of the royal gates. Con. XV century (CMiAR)

Therefore, in the vanguard, led by the Antichrist, is the antipode of John the Theologian, the demon Vanka, whose goal is to destroy the testimony of John the Theologian about Jesus Christ, to destroy His Teaching.

Another witness of the Transfiguration was the Apostle Peter, about whom Christ will say that he will become the stone on which the Church will be built, and that he will be entrusted with keeping the key to the Kingdom of Heaven, that is, from Paradise, according to another legend, and the key to Hell. And a key or two keys will become identifying attributes in the iconography of the image of the Apostle Peter.

Icon. Apostle Peter. Byzantium XIV century. Tretyakov Gallery (Apostle Peter with one key)

Icon "Apostle Peter" XIV century. State Russian Museum. (Apostle Peter with two keys)

That is why the demon Petka, the antipode of the Apostle Peter, had to personally participate in the destruction of the Church and the Christian foundations of the state. Petka will do a devilish thing: luring “into the paradise of a single state”, showing the key to it, he will deceive the people who believed in him - he will replace the key and open the gates not to heaven, but to the hell of the revolution, civil war, hunger, cold. Consequently, Vanka and Petka are not only false prophets, but also anti-Preobrazhenists.

Alexander Solzhenitsyn in his book “Characters of Two Revolutions” wrote: “After the revolution of 1917, Bolshevism became the antipode of what Russia had lived spiritually until then.”

However, the third witness of the transfiguration of Christ on Mount Tabor was the Apostle James. This means, according to the supposed logic, the false Jacob should have been in the vanguard of the anti-Transfigurationists, but for some reason Blok replaced him with the false Andrei. I think this can be explained as follows.

As is known, all twelve disciples of Christ were the founders of Christian communities in different countries, which fell to them for missionary activity by lot. There they preached the Good News of Christ and His teaching, so the churches they founded began to be called apostolic, which were considered churches of the highest rank.

The Apostle James became the founder of the Christian Church in ancient land Palestine, therefore, the antipode of Jacob, or the false Jacob, could be in the vanguard of the “twelve” if the revolution took place, for example, in Judea.

But the revolution took place in Russia, where, according to ancient legends that have come down to us, the founder of the Apostolic Church in Ancient Rus' was the Apostle Andrew the First-Called.

Crucifixion of the Apostle Andrew the First-Called. Mosaic. Cathedral Holy Apostle Andrew the First-Called. Greek city Patras, where the apostle was executed.

« The Holy Apostle Andrew is the first Archbishop of Constantinople, Ecumenical Patriarch and Russian Apostle, and his feet stood on the Kyiv mountains, and his eyes saw Russia and blessed his lips.”.

Witnessed by its definition the Kyiv Council of 1621.

IN pre-revolutionary Russia The highest state signs of valor and glory, established by Peter the Great, were associated with the name of Andrew the First-Called. This is St. Andrew's flag, flag naval forces Russia, seventy years later returned to Russian warships.

The St. Andrew's flag is a white cloth on which there is a blue cross, called St. Andrew's, as a sign of the Apostle Andrew's acceptance of martyrdom on an oblique cross tied (to prolong the torment).

Order of the Holy Apostle Andrew the First-Called. 1699

Order of St. Andrew the First-Called – highest award Tsarist Russia since the time of Peter I, now the highest state order, returned to the system of Russian awards.

This means that all these signs of valor and glory had to be destroyed by the false Andrey - Andryukha. We can say that the higher the Divine Essence is in the hierarchy, the stronger, the more merciless its anti-essence, the more terrible its antipode.

That is why everything that constituted the spiritual basis of the state in Russia was so furiously, so mercilessly destroyed “to the ground.”

End of introductory fragment.

“There are in the novel... motifs that lead to Dante, Goethe. But all this is Bulgakov, and only he alone turns to us, having melted in his soul the ideological and moral quest of his great predecessors. True talent is unique. However, the higher his uniqueness, the more and deeper he drew from the culture of mankind, from the spiritual tradition and presented to our judgment a creation, aspiration to the future, as we want to see it in ourselves” (E. Sidorov)

Goals: Reveal in the novel main problem 20th century problem government controlled, everyone's responsibility cultured person for everything that happens in society; Reveal in the novel the main problem of the 20th century - the problem of public administration, the responsibility of every cultured person for everything that happens in society; Show everyone's need storylines the novel in revealing its main idea; Show the need for all plot lines of the novel to reveal its main idea; Understand what unites all the chapters in the novel; Understand what unites all the chapters in the novel; What concept does the author put into the words: Good, Light, Truth. What concept does the author put into the words: Good, Light, Truth.

“Know where the light is, and you will understand where the darkness is. Peace is the place between Good and Evil. A person, born from an infinite, eternal existence, who has gone through the most difficult path of development from a pre-human state to a highly spiritual, cultural awareness of his role on earth, is obliged to take care of the purity and perfection of society. From kindness and attention to another person comes his mercy and compassion, which are human manifestations. Neither God nor the Devil are helpers in this!

Life without beginning and end...

Family of A. Blok - Beketovs in Shakhmatovo

Life is without beginning and end.
Opportunity awaits us all.
Above us is the inevitable darkness,
Or the clarity of God's face.
But you, artist, firmly believe
To the beginnings and ends. You know
Where heaven and hell guard us.
Given to you by dispassionate measure
Measure everything you see.
Let your view be firm and clear.
Erase random features -
And you will see: the world is beautiful.
Know where the light is, and you will understand where the darkness is.
Let everything pass slowly,
What is sacred in the world, what is sinful in it,
Through the heat of the soul, through the coolness of the mind.

100 years ago, Alexander Blok wrote these lines “on a stone near the village of Runova,” not far from the Shakhmatovo estate. Blok’s life and work are inextricably linked with these places.
The sloping hills of the Klinsko-Dmitrovskaya ridge running beyond the horizon, the Lutosnya river slowly flowing nearby... They once charmed the famous scientist D.I. Mendeleev. In 1865 he acquired the Boblovo estate. It was he who advised his friend and colleague A.N. Beketov, a famous scientist and professor of botany, to buy an estate for his family’s summer vacation in these places. And in the history of a small estate near Moscow, which for a long time had not had a permanent owner and passed from hand to hand, a new period began, filled with life in all its manifestations, although only in the summer months, when the Beketov family came here. Apart from the owner, it consisted exclusively of the fair sex: Andrei Nikolaevich’s wife Elizaveta Grigorievna and four daughters: Ekaterina, Sophia, Alexandra and Maria. Thus, the “father of Russian botany” lived in the absolute flower garden of a “small estate” until “the silence was disturbed by dogs barking and children’s screams.” It was the cry of his little grandson... who later became a great poet.

Bastilnik shook his wing,
The carriage rolled up to the house.
And immediately everything became familiar,
As if it had lasted for many years, -
And the gray house, and on the mezzanine
Venetian window,
Glass color - red, yellow, blue,
As if this is how it should be.
The house was opened with an old key
(The old man brought the child there)
And the silence was not disturbed
Dogs barking and children screaming.

This is how Blok described his first appearance in the Chessovsky house in the poem “Retribution.”
“If Blok the man was born in St. Petersburg, then Blok the poet was born in Shakhmatovo,” writes writer and literary critic Vladimir Soloukhin in his essay “Big Shakhmatovo.” “In the warmth of summer with its blue sky, with its pink clover and bright green fields of rye, with bushes of hundred-year-old lilacs and clumps of rose hips, in the evening dawns and fragrant silence, in the hum of bees and the fluttering of butterflies - in all this he was immersed in the middle Russia is like a font... and this was his second baptism, baptism by Russia.”

I plunged into a sea of ​​clover,
Surrounded by tales of bees.
But the wind calling from the north
Found my child's heart.

Called for the battle of the plains -
Fight the breath of heaven.
Showed me deserted road,
Leaving into the dark forest.

I walk along it slopes
And I look forward tirelessly
Ahead with with innocent eyes
My childish heart goes.

Let your sleepless eyes tire,
It will sing, the dust will turn red...
I love flowers and bees
They told not a fairy tale - a true story.

Blok was brought to the estate purchased by his grandfather as a six-month-old baby. Here he spent every summer. Here the first vivid impressions arise: “I vaguely remember large St. Petersburg apartments with a lot of people ... - and the fragrant wilderness of our small estate” (A. Blok “Autobiography”). Indeed, in the summer Shakhmatovo turned into a real fairy tale for the botanist grandfather and little grandson. Sashura and grandfather walked through all the surrounding fields and forests. And these were not just “the beginnings of botany” - these were the first lessons of touching attention to the nature of love for the small homeland - for “Big Shakhmatov”, which will result in a great love for Russia.
Here the themes and images of the future poet’s poems arise. “The radiance of the Russian land” pierced the child’s heart; for the young man it became a mystical vision. Here, in these illuminated expanses, in azure and roses, the Beautiful Lady came to him, whose earthly incarnation, his bride, Lyuba Mendeleeva, he met not far from here, in Boblovo. Through these shining fields and jagged forest, he went on a date to his beloved on a white horse, here they united their destinies - on August 17, 1903, the Poet and the Beautiful Lady got married in the Church of the Archangel Michael in the village of Tarakanovo.

Me and Molo d, and fresh, and in love,
I am in anxiety, in anguish and in prayer,
Turning green, mysterious maple,
Invariably inclined towards you.
A warm wind will pass through the sheets -
The trunks will tremble with prayer,
On the face turned to the stars -
Fragrant tears of praise...

Love for the Beautiful Lady is inseparable from love for the homeland - this is how the two main images of his poetry inextricably merge. And it was here, driving every year on this bumpy Russian road past picturesque fields and fragile villages, that he was able to know so deeply and love his homeland so passionately. Here, in the open spaces of Chessov, Blok was haunted by thoughts about the fate of his homeland, about the spiritual meaning of the events of its history. In the summer of 1908, in Shakhmatovo, he wrote the first of the poems in the cycle of patriotic lyrics “On the Kulikovo Field.”

The river spread out. Flows, lazily sad
And washes the banks.
Above the meager clay of the yellow cliff
The haystacks are sad in the steppe.

Oh, my Rus'! My wife! To the point of pain
We have a long way to go!
Our path is an arrow of the ancient Tatar will
Pierced our chest...

The poet Andrei Bely, having visited Blok, will write: “Here, in the vicinity of Shakhmatovo, there is something of Blok’s poetry; and - even: perhaps this poetry is truly Chess-like, taken from the surrounding area; humps rose up, jagged with forest; the soil became tense and the dawns crashed in,” “and the landscape was wafting with Blok’s line,” “and like a working room, these forests and fields.” And the oldest researcher P.A. Zhurov will say that “Shakhmatovo was Blok’s second, spiritual, homeland, the birthplace of his poetic self-awareness.” From the porch of the Chessovsky house a “ringing” door opened: in front of Blok the child - into the world of summer wonders and discoveries; before Blok the youth - into the Kingdom of poetry and the Beautiful Lady, before Blok the poet - into life.

And the door of the balcony is ringing
Opened to linden and lilac
And into the blue dome of the sky,
And in the laziness of the surrounding villages...
The church across the river turns white
Behind it are forests and fields again...
And all the spring beauty
The Russian land is shining...

Blok wrote these lines in May - July 1921. IN last time he was here in the summer of 1916, before leaving for the war, but Shakhmatovo before last days the poet's life appeared in his dreams, diaries, and poems.
Since 1917, the estate was ruined by local peasants, and in July 1921 the house was burned. The remaining manor buildings were dismantled into logs. The hill was gradually swallowed up by forest, and by the mid-20th century only an overgrown foundation and a “huge silver poplar” marked the site of the former estate.

But in 1946, the photographer of the State Literary Museum, Viktor Sergeevich Molchanov, came here. Passion for poetry, fascination with the “many miles of blue Russian distances” led to the creation of photographs that became the personification of Blok’s poems in photography. Following V.S. The artist I.S. Glazunov, the writer L.B. Libedinskaya, the writer and literary critic S.S. Lesnevsky visited Molchanov - it was with his appearance in Shakhmatovo in 1969 that the active work for the revival of the estate. Even then, buses of pilgrims came to Shakhmatovo to venerate this place and breathe its air. Work on creating a project for the restoration of the Shakhmatovo estate began in 1976. On September 3, 1984, the A. Blok State Historical, Literary and Natural Museum-Reserve was established. In 1987, archaeological excavations on the territory of the estate were completed. Opened the doors in 2001 main house, restored on the previous foundation, according to surviving drawings and photographs, and an outbuilding.

Now in Shakhmatovo the former appearance of the estate has actually been restored: garden, park, main house, outbuilding and outbuildings - kitchen, cellar, barn, coach house, manager's hut. In Tarakanovo, the Church of the Archangel Michael is currently being restored.

Video clip on this topic: http://video.mail.ru/mail/julsiv/_myvideo/2.html

www.proza.ru/2011/11/28/1703Yulia Rechet

For the 44th time, a poetry festival was held in Shakhmatovo. For the first time, poems were heard in Alexander Blok’s “beloved meadow” in 1970. Among those who came to the estate then - and today they mostly go to Shakhmatovo on foot - were Marietta Shaginyan, Konstantin Simonov, Evgeny Yevtushenko, Bulat Okudzhava. But the center of attraction was Pavel Antokolsky, who saw and heard Blok. Almost half a century later, Culture News talks about the poetry festival. In Shakhmatovo, Alexander Blok wrote about 300 poems - the beauty of the landscape is necessary for the poet. Evgeniy Rein admits that it was thanks to Blok that he began to write poetry - his family had the famous six-volume edition of the Alkonost publishing house. “This is one of the most fruitful ways of writing - in nature, when there are no study walls, but there are forests, hills, the sky, when the soul breaks out and the poet writes - I know this, I knew Akhmatova and many others - and they all wrote like that,” says the poet Evgeniy Rein. This festival of poetry is democratic in essence - anyone can speak - and rich in content - poetry lives here in the form of recitations and songs, and even in the form of images - actor Pavel Morozov was invited to play the role of a poet this year. “When I was young, I played in a play about Blok - there is a play by Stein,” says Pavel Morozov. - A fairly good version, and I played Mayakovsky there - we had such a meeting scene - I told Blok in heaven how everyone loves him after his death. Working with this performance for the first time turned me on to Blok’s poems.” For many guests of the estate, a found rhyme is like a successfully thrown ball into a goal - the game of croquet - one of the favorite childhood pastimes of little Alexander Blok, starting this year in Shakhmatovo, everyone can learn it. “Despite the problems of the modern, somewhat harsh, world, people with great joy come to the museum, listen, be inspired by poetry, read their own poems - to understand that poetry is an eternally living, breathing being,” says the director of the Shakhmatovo museum-reserve, Svetlana Misochnik. For those who don’t have enough poetry and games, in Tarakanovo - this is a neighboring estate - they tell the love story of Alexander Blok and Lyubov Mendeleeva, the daughter of the famous chemist. An important event in the poet's life is connected with this temple of the Archangel Michael. It was in this temple that Alexander Blok and Lyubov Mendeleeva were married on August 17, 1903 - while the temple is at the stage of conservation - but for the 110th anniversary of the wedding, the authorities promised the museum workers to help with restoration memorial place. In Russia, such a single-dome masterpiece exists only in the Tver region. The temple where Alexander Blok got married is promised to be restored by 2018.

And the coming day was shrouded in the darkness of irresistible troubles. Vl. Soloviev Again, over the Kulikovo field, the darkness rose and spread, And, like a harsh cloud, covered the coming day. Behind the endless silence, behind the spreading darkness, the thunder of the wonderful battle is not heard, the lightning of battle is not visible. But I recognize you, the beginning of high and rebellious days! Over the enemy camp, as it used to be, And the splashing and trumpets of swans. The heart cannot live in peace, No wonder the clouds have gathered. The armor is heavy, as before a battle. Now your hour has come. - Pray!

December 23, 1908

Class hour

“Know where the light is, you will understand where the darkness is” (A. Blok)

moral and psychological workshop

Participants: class teacher, 11th grade students.

Goals: contribute to the formation in students of the need for spiritual growth

, the ability to conduct an internal dialogue with oneself, analyze one’s actions;

create a situation that allows you to liberate stereotypical thinking and “try on” different social roles;

to promote the development of a sense of empathy, an understanding of the infinity of the road to oneself and to others.

Preparatory work.

Collection of materials (works of fiction and popular science literature, photographs of people in different emotional states, audio tapes) on the topic of the class hour.

Design, equipment and inventory:

a) book exhibition;

b) statements on the board

d) computer, disk with a film.

Progress.

I. The music of F. Goya “Symphony of Love” sounds. Classroom teacher

: The road to yourself and to others is not an easy but interesting path. Let's stop at the main stops, solve psychological and moral problems, and outline the future route.

Listen to the idea of ​​psychologist E. Bern and try to answer the question in your head: “Who are you? Prince or frog?"Princes" do not consider themselves better or worse than others. They are independent and self-reliant. "Princes" may have bow legs, a big nose

- all this does not prevent them from being “princes”. They still love themselves. "Princes" never pretend to know everything. They may not know or be able to do something, but this does not diminish them in their own eyes. They may make mistakes and fail, but they do not lose self-esteem and self-confidence. “Princes” respect the feelings of others and do not allow themselves to be manipulated. They do not solve their problems for others. They enjoy their successes, but do not feel guilty that someone is not succeeding and do not envy others.“helpless and dependent on others. They complain incessantly. Unlike the “princes,” they do not live in the present, but “kill time” by anticipating the future or remembering the past. They do not know how to analyze, have poor understanding of what is happening, invent an illusory world and try to manipulate people and blame them. “Frogs” doubt everything - their right to life, their right to breathe, eat, drink, love, be loved. They are overly dependent on other people's opinions without trusting themselves. For “frogs”, those around them and their living conditions are to blame for their troubles, they are disappointed in other people, in themselves, they are not looking for a way out of the current situation.

Students in groups discuss E. Bern's idea and try to identify the shortcomings of this theory.

Classroom teacher: This is a maximalist view. Two poles are defined, but you should be aware that this classification occurs. Think about whether you want to be a prince..., a frog? Only from yours internal solution depends on who you are.

"Frogs" are born, and "princes"become. Read about how to become a “prince” in the book “Effective Teacher” by A. Krupenin and I. Krokhina.

And now I suggest you watch the animated film “Adagio” by the French author Harry Bardin, and determine its semantic line.

What meaning did you see in this film?

Why did society have complaints about “white” people?

Why exactly are small figures trying to denigrate “white”?

What do you think the theme of rain means?

Where would you like to be?

Classroom teacher: In life and communication there are two main roads. One is wide, but unlit. On it every now and then there are cobblestones of fear and despair, and sometimes the road is blocked by rubble of envy and bitterness. There are a lot of pedestrians on it, but you constantly stumble over the stones of alienation and loneliness, because only deaf and dumb people walk nearby. Breaking through the thicket of grievances and guilt, you wearily push the weaker one out of the way. But in the end, this road will exhaust and destroy you too.

The second road is long, but bright, with lanterns of faith and confidence burning on it. Passers-by have keen hearing, because they hear not only what you say, but also what you feel. On the sides there are beautifully trimmed lawns of mutual support and revenue, and in the flower beds flowers of love, trust and forgiveness burn brightly, trees of mutual understanding and peace of mind provide cozy shade to the tired traveler. Perhaps this road will also tire you, but it will not destroy you.

The first road is the path of unconstructive, destructive communication. The second road is the path of constructive, creative communication. Everyone who is overcome by fear of life strives for the painful first road. These people have problems with communication. There is only one way to rid people of fear and lead them onto a different path: to give them the opportunity to feel smart, good, kind, loved and interesting.

What do you think is the sequel to this film?

Classroom teacher suggests watching the continuation of the film.

Which biblical commandment was broken? actors?

Why do you think this happened?

Why did a hero who was not appreciated during his life become worshiped after death?

Why is this situation dangerous?

Do you think you could be in the place of any hero? Which one?

Students together with the teacher reflect on the proposed questions.

Classroom teacher draws the children's attention to the fact that all people are carriers of different social roles (daughter, son, student, girl, boy, etc.) and throughout life, everyone’s view of themselves and others changes.

Classroom teacher: Tell us about the changes that have occurred in your perception of life and those around you.

After group discussion, students share their observations.

Classroom teacher invites you to listen to how an adult expresses this problem in poetry.

Who am I in this black and white world?

In which bird does my soul live?

Maybe the wing is broken

And I’m not allowed to fly?

Perhaps I feel lonely?

Or maybe I’m singing together with someone,

Or do I enjoy wide freedom,

Or am I taking care of my nest?

Here's a miracle: in every bird there is me!

How multifaceted my life is.

Over the years, there have been fewer facets in life.

I look at many things calmly and tiredly.

I’m not allowed to fly the highest,

But it’s a pity for someone else’s weak wing.

And we should rest! From all insults, from burning fire,

But in the fire, someone will be scared without me! (SI. Emelyanova)

Classroom teacher: Do you think this poem is connected with any character in the film?

Classroom teacher invites you to listen to B. Okudzhava’s song “Let’s exclaim and admire each other” and name the line that most touched the soul.

Completing Classroom hour, the teacher focuses on the fact that each line of the poem contains wisdom that opens the way to oneself and to others.

Teacher: I propose, using the “Target” technique, to determine your place in the team.

“TARGET” METHOD

Target: is the opportunity to find out how schoolchildren themselves assess their position in the team and what they prefer to see it as (this is one of the sociometric methods).

Children are asked to draw two “targets” in five circles. These circles conventionally indicate the children’s activity. First circle (closer to the center of the “target”) - schoolchildren are always active, initiative and suggestions come from them; second - students actively respond to suggestions and come to help, although they themselves do not show initiative; third circle - activity and passivity here coexist side by side, it can be difficult to motivate these guys to do this or that task, but they do it if the elder demands it; fourth - they rarely participate in the affairs of the collective and then only as spectators or performers; fifth circle - they prefer to avoid common affairs and refuse to participate in them.

After the teacher explains to his students the purpose of these circles, you need to ask them to mark in the first “target” with a + sign how far each one is from the center of the circle; in the second - where everyone would like to be. Sheets must be signed. Then you need to transfer the received answers to two final “targets”, placing the numbers of the children according to the class list. Thus, a picture emerges of schoolchildren’s self-assessment of their real position in the class team and their desired position.

Teacher: Guys, we talked a lot, listened to poems, watched a movie, tell me what the main conclusions you made for yourself.

In conclusion, I would like to say: the main thing in our life is to learn to determine where is black and where is white, and only then decide, again independently, whether to follow the path of life independently or following someone. The poet N. Rylenkov offers his conclusion:

Even if you don't go out into the world,

And in the field outside the outskirts, -

While you are following someone,

The road will not be remembered.

But no matter where you end up

And what a muddy road

The road is the one I was looking for,

will never be forgotten

Literature

Krupenin A.L., Krokhina IM Effective teacher. Rostov-n/D, 1995.

Leey V.L. The art of being different. M., 1981.

Hay L. Healing powers are within us. M., 1996.