Nikolai Nekrasov frost red nose. Frost, red nose nekrasov
N. A. Nekrasov dedicated his work to the common people and the poem “Frost, Red Nose”, written by him in 1863, was no exception. This work was intended to show that despite the negative moods that swept society just in the 60s of the 19th century, the social movement still has potential, and this potential is huge. In order to demonstrate this, the poet uses the images of ordinary people. The theme of the moral strength of the Russian woman, so beloved by him, is also outlined here.
Nekrasov's poem "Frost, Red Nose" has a two-part structure: the first part is dedicated to the deceased peasant Proclus and shows a simple and sorrowful peasant life, when parents often bury their children. The second is completely created for the sake of a single image - this is the “stately Slav” Daria, the wife of Proclus. The poem “Frost, Red Nose” must be read in full for an accurate understanding of the idea that the author reveals in the text: a simple Russian woman is selfless, and lives for the sake of others. This is not just a poem - it is a real solemn hymn to her stamina and courage. After all, even the loss of a beloved husband cannot break her - she just does even more work until she herself dies.
Nikolai Alekseevich Nekrasov knew the peasant life well, all the problems of the common people - and sought to convey them to others. Downloading the verse “Frost, Red Nose” is necessary in order to understand where the revolutionary moods in Russia came from, which became a natural consequence of the fact that life was getting harder and harder. The author shows this by the example of the death of a beautiful externally and internally Daria, who could have lived happily ever after, but the peasant's share is not at all like that. Nekrasov also demonstrates the woman's loyalty to her deceased husband - she could have lived in wealth with Frost, but she preferred to die. Unable to give her riches, Red Nose gives peace to the peasant woman.
© The electronic version of the book was prepared by LitRes ()
* * *
Dedicated to my sister Anna Alekseevna
You reproached me again
That I became friends with my Muse,
What are the worries of the day
And he obeyed his pleasures.
For worldly calculations and charms
I would not part with my Muse,
But God knows if that gift went out,
What used to be friends with her?
But a poet is not yet a brother to people,
And his path is thorny, and fragile,
I knew how not to be afraid of slander,
I myself was not concerned with them;
But I knew whose in the darkness of the night
Heart burst with sadness
And on whose chest they fell like lead
And to whom they poisoned life.
And let them pass by
The thunderstorms above me,
I know whose prayers and tears
The fatal arrow was withdrawn ...
Yes, and time has gone - I'm tired ...
Let me not be a fighter without reproach,
But I knew the strength in myself,
I deeply believed in many things,
Now it's time for me to die...
Do not then start on the road,
So that in a loving heart again
Awaken fatal anxiety ...
My subdued Muse
I myself reluctantly caress ...
I sing the last song
For you - and I dedicate to you.
But it won't be fun
It will be much sadder than before
Because the heart is darker
And the future is even more hopeless...
The storm howls in the garden, the storm breaks into the house,
I'm afraid she won't break
The old oak planted by my father
And the willow that mother planted
This willow that you
Strangely connected with our fate,
On which the sheets faded
The night the poor mother was dying...
And the window trembles and dazzles ...
Chu! how large hailstones jump!
Dear friend, you understood a long time ago -
Here, only stones do not cry ...
……………………….
Part one
Death of a Peasant
I
Savraska got stuck in half a snowdrift -
Two pairs of frozen bast shoes
Yes, the corner of a bast-covered coffin
They stick out of poor firewood.
Old woman in big mittens
Savraska came down to goad her.
Icicles on her eyelashes
Cold, I suppose.II
The habitual thought of the poet
She is in a hurry to run ahead:
Like a shroud, dressed in snow,
The hut in the village is
In the hut - a calf in the basement,
The dead man on the bench by the window;
His stupid children make noise,
Wife sobs softly.
Stitching with a nimble needle
On shroud pieces of linen,
Like rain, charged for a long time,
She sobs softly.III
Three heavy shares had fate,
And the first share: to marry a slave,
The second is to be the mother of the son of a slave,
And the third - to obey the slave to the grave,
And all these formidable shares lay down
On the woman of the Russian land.
Centuries passed - everything strived for happiness,
Everything in the world has changed several times,
Only God forgot to change
The harsh share of the peasant woman.
And we all agree that the type was grinding
A beautiful and powerful Slav.
Accidental victim of fate!
You deafly, invisibly suffered,
You are the light of the bloody struggle
And she did not entrust her complaints, -
But you will tell me them, my friend!
You have known me since childhood.
You are all fear incarnate
You are all - age-old languor!
He did not carry a heart in his chest,
Who did not shed tears over you!IV
However, we are talking about a peasant
We started to say
What type of majestic Slav
It is possible to find now.
There are women in Russian villages
With calm gravity of faces,
With beautiful strength in movements,
With a gait, with the eyes of queens, -
Can't the blind see them?
And the sighted one says about them:
“It will pass - as if the sun will shine!
If he looks, he will give you a ruble!”
They go the same way
What all our people go,
But the dirt of the environment is squalid
They don't seem to stick to them. blooms
Beauty, marvelous to the world,
Blush, slim, tall,
Beautiful in every dress
Dexterity for any work.
And hunger, and cold endures,
Always patient, even...
I saw how she mows:
What a wave - then a mop is ready!
The handkerchief fell into her ear,
Look, the braids will fall.
Some guy screwed up
And threw them up, fool!
Heavy blond braids
Fell on a swarthy chest,
Bare feet covered her legs,
They prevent the peasant woman from looking.
She took them away with her hands,
He looks angrily at the guy.
The face is majestic, as in a frame,
Burning with embarrassment and anger...
On weekdays, he does not like idleness.
But you don't recognize her
How the smile of fun will drive away
From the face of the labor seal.
Such a hearty laugh
And songs and dances
Money can't buy. "Joy!" -
The men are talking to each other.
In the game, her equestrian will not catch,
In trouble - he will not fail, - he will save:
Stop a galloping horse
Will enter the burning hut!
Beautiful straight teeth
That she has large pearls,
But strictly ruddy lips
Keep their beauty from people -
She rarely smiles...
She has no time to sharpen her hair,
She won't dare a neighbor
Grip, ask for a pot;
She does not feel sorry for the poor beggar -
Feel free to walk without work!
Lies on it rigorously
And the seal of inner strength.
It is clear and strong consciousness,
That all their salvation is in work,
And her work is rewarded:
The family does not struggle in need,
They always have a warm house
The bread is baked, the kvass is delicious,
Healthy and well-fed guys
There is an extra piece for the holiday.
This woman is going to dinner
Before the whole family ahead:
Sits like on a chair, two years old
The baby is on her chest
Next to a six year old son
The elegant uterus leads ...
And to the heart of this picture
To all those who love the Russian people!V
And you marveled at the beauty
She was smart and strong
But grief dried you up
The wife of the sleeping Proclus!
You are proud - you don't want to cry,
Fasten, but the canvas is coffin
Tears involuntarily wet you,
Stitching with a nimble needle.
Tear after tear falls
On your quick hands.
So the ear silently drops
Ripe grains...VI
In the village, four miles away,
By the church where the wind sways
Storm-beaten crosses
The old man chooses a place;
He is tired, the work is difficult,
Here, too, skill is needed -
So that the cross can be seen from the road,
So that the sun plays around.
In the snow up to the knees of his feet,
In his hands is a spade and a crowbar,
All in hoarfrost hat is big,
Mustache, beard in silver.
Standing still, thinking
An old man on a high hill.
Made up my mind. Marked with a cross
Where will the grave be dug,
It dawned on the cross and began
Shovel the snow.
There were other methods
Cemetery is not like fields:
Crosses came out of the snow
The ground lay in crosses.
Bending your old back
He dug for a long time, diligently,
And yellow frozen clay
Immediately the snow covered.
The crow flew up to him,
Poked her nose, walked:
The earth rang like iron -
The crow got away with nothing ...
The grave is ready for glory, -
"I wouldn't want to dig this hole!"
(The old word escaped)
“Proclus would not rest in it,
Do not Proclus! .. "The old man stumbled,
A crowbar slipped from his hands
And rolled into a white hole,
The old man took it out with difficulty.
Went ... walking along the road ...
There is no sun, the moon has not risen ...
Like the whole world is dying
Calm, snow, semi-darkness ...VII
In the ravine, by the river Jaundice,
The old man caught up with his grandmother
And quietly asked the old woman:
“Is the coffin good?”
Her lips whispered a little
In response to the old man: - Nothing. -
Then they were both silent
And the firewood ran so quietly,
Like they were afraid of something...
The village has not opened yet
And close - the fire flickers.
The old woman made a cross,
The horse shied away -
Without a hat, with bare feet,
With a big pointed stake
Suddenly appeared before them
An old acquaintance Pahom.
Covered with a women's shirt,
The chains on it rang;
Tapped the rustic fool
In the frosty ground with a stake,
Then he mumbled angrily,
He sighed and said: “Don't worry!
He worked quite well for you
And your turn has come!
Mother bought a coffin for her son,
His father dug a hole for him
His wife sewed a shroud for him -
He gave you work all the time! .. "
Mumbled again - and without a goal
The fool ran into space.
The chains rang sadly,
And bare calves shone
And the staff scrawled in the snow.VIII
They left the roof on the house
To a neighbor brought to spend the night
Freezing Masha and Grisha
And they began to dress their son.
Slowly, importantly, severely
A sad thing happened:
No extra word was said
No tears came out.
Fell asleep, working in sweat!
Fell asleep, having worked the earth!
Lies uncared for,
On a white pine table
Lies motionless, severe,
With a burning candle in their heads
In a wide canvas shirt
And in fake new bast shoes.
Large, calloused hands
Having put in a lot of work,
Beautiful, alien to flour
Face - and beard to the hands ...IX
While the dead man was dressed up,
Did not give out a word of longing
And just avoided looking
To each other in the eyes of the poor,
But now it's over
No need to fight longing
And what's on the soul of a naki
Nikolay Alekseevich Nekrasov
Jack Frost
(Dedicated to my sister Anna Alekseevna)
You reproached me again
That I became friends with my muse,
What are the worries of the day
And he obeyed his pleasures.
For worldly calculations and charms
I would not part with my muse,
But God knows if that gift went out,
What used to be friends with her?
But a poet is not yet a brother to people,
And his path is thorny, and fragile,
I knew how not to be afraid of slander,
I myself was not concerned with them;
But I knew whose in the darkness of the night
Heart burst with sadness
And on whose chest they fell like lead,
And to whom they poisoned life.
And let them pass by
The thunderstorms above me,
I know whose prayers and tears
The fatal arrow was withdrawn ...
Yes, and time has gone - I'm tired ...
Let me not be a fighter without reproach,
But I knew the strength in myself,
I deeply believed in many things,
Now it's time for me to die...
Do not then start on the road,
So that in a loving heart again
Awaken fatal anxiety...
My subdued Muse
I myself reluctantly caress ...
I sing the last song
For you - and I dedicate to you.
But it won't be fun
It will be much sadder than before
Because the heart is darker
And the future is even more hopeless...
The storm howls in the garden, the storm breaks into the house,
I'm afraid she won't break
The old oak planted by my father
And the willow that mother planted
This willow that you
Strangely connected with our fate,
On which the sheets faded
The night the poor mother was dying...
And the window trembles and dazzles ...
Chu! how large hailstones jump!
Dear friend, you understood a long time ago
Here, only stones do not cry ...
PART ONE
DEATH OF A PEASANT
Savraska stuck in half a snowdrift
Two pairs of frozen bast shoes
Yes, the corner of a bast-covered coffin
They stick out of poor firewood.
Old woman in big mittens
Savraska came down to goad her.
Icicles on her eyelashes
From the cold, I suppose.
The habitual thought of the poet
She is in a hurry to run ahead:
Like a shroud, dressed in snow,
The hut in the village is
In the hut - a calf in the basement,
The dead man on the bench by the window;
His stupid children make noise,
Wife sobs softly.
Stitching with a nimble needle
On shroud pieces of linen,
Like rain, charged for a long time,
She sobs softly.
Three heavy shares had fate,
And the first share: to marry a slave,
The second is to be the mother of the son of a slave,
And the third - to obey the slave to the grave,
And all these formidable shares lay down
On the woman of the Russian land.
Centuries passed - everything strived for happiness,
Everything in the world has changed several times,
Only one God forgot to change
The harsh share of the peasant woman.
And we all agree that the type was grinding
A beautiful and powerful Slav.
Accidental victim of fate!
You deafly, invisibly suffered,
You are the light of the bloody struggle
And she did not entrust her complaints,
But you will tell me them, my friend!
You have known me since childhood.
You are all fear incarnate
You are all - age-old languor!
He did not carry a heart in his chest,
Who did not shed tears over you!
However, we are talking about a peasant
We started to say
What type of majestic Slav
It is possible to find now.
There are women in Russian villages
With calm gravity of faces,
With beautiful strength in movements,
With a gait, with the eyes of queens,
Can't the blind see them?
And the sighted one says about them:
"It will pass - as if the sun will shine!
Look - the ruble will give!
They go the same way
What all our people go,
But the dirt of the environment is squalid
They don't seem to stick to them. blooms
Beauty, marvelous to the world,
Blush, slim, tall,
Beautiful in every dress
Dexterity for any work.
And hunger, and cold endures,
Always patient, even...
I saw how she mows:
What a wave - then a mop is ready!
The handkerchief fell into her ear,
Look, the braids will fall.
Some guy screwed up
And threw them up, fool!
Heavy blond braids
Fell on a swarthy chest,
Bare feet covered her legs,
They prevent the peasant woman from looking.
She took them away with her hands,
He looks angrily at the guy.
The face is majestic, as in a frame,
Burning with embarrassment and anger...
On weekdays, he does not like idleness.
But you don't recognize her
How the smile of fun will drive away
From the face of the labor seal.
Such heartfelt laughter
And songs and dances
Money can't buy. "Joy!"
The men are talking to each other.
In the game, her equestrian will not catch,
In trouble, he will not fail - he will save:
Stop a galloping horse
Will enter the burning hut!
Beautiful straight teeth
That she has large pearls,
But strictly ruddy lips
Keep their beauty from people
She rarely smiles...
She has no time to sharpen her hair,
She won't dare a neighbor
Grip, ask for a pot;
She does not feel sorry for the wretched beggar
Feel free to walk without work!
Lies on it rigorously
And the seal of inner strength.
It is clear and strong consciousness,
That all their salvation is in work,
And her work is rewarded:
The family does not struggle in need,
They always have a warm house
The bread is baked, the kvass is delicious,
Healthy and well-fed guys
There is an extra piece for the holiday.
This woman is going to dinner
Before the whole family ahead:
Sits like on a chair, two years old
The baby is on her chest
Next to a six year old son
A smart mother leads...
And to the heart of this picture
To all those who love the Russian people!
And you marveled at the beauty
She was smart and strong
But grief dried you up
The wife of the sleeping Proclus!
You are proud - you don't want to cry,
Fasten, but the canvas is coffin
Tears involuntarily wet you,
Stitching with a nimble needle.
Tear after tear falls
On your quick hands.
So the ear silently drops
Ripe grains...
In the village, four miles away,
By the church where the wind sways
Storm-beaten crosses
The old man chooses a place;
He is tired, the work is difficult,
Here, too, skill is needed
So that the cross can be seen from the road,
So that the sun plays around.
In the snow up to the knees of his feet,
In his hands is a spade and a crowbar,
All in hoarfrost hat is big,
Mustache, beard in silver.
Standing still, thinking
This is the most mystical work that came out from under the pen of the writer. It is originally a folk art. The main characters are commoners, simple characters with morals understandable to any Russian person.
There was nothing in common with what the government was promoting at that time in the poet's work. But the plot, where the life of ordinary peasants is shown both in sorrow and in joy, has become clear to everyone, even now, after a century and a half. This is no coincidence. Nikolai Alekseevich, being himself a nobleman by birth, penetrated into all the experiences, sufferings, aspirations, prayers of his heroes and showed a picture that was not always pretty, but always truthful.
With the seeming simplicity of the plot, "Frost, Red Nose" in its construction is one of the most difficult for Nekrasov.
The idea of the poem
Initially, the poem was conceived as a drama, where the key meaning lies in the death of a peasant. But gradually the story developed into an epic work, where the peasant's wife came to the fore.
The author invested in the image of Daria the difficult fate of all Russian peasant women. The bitter widow's tears described at the end of the work are the female tears of all women weighed down by hard work, and great grief, which, it turns out, is not always possible to cope with. The tragic fate of a woman who is not afraid of physical labor and is ready to do any male work is cut short.
Nekrasov treats his heroine with great respect and reverence. He sends death to this strong and courageous woman, as a deliverance from torment.
It is known that in 1861 a reform took place in Russia, serfdom was abolished. It turned out that the reform did not bring the people the long-awaited relief that was expected. In order to observe at least some order in society, severe censorship was introduced. It was not easy for writers to get around sharp corners and "traps" set by the government. But many succeeded, thanks to their talent.
Nikolai Alekseevich found his way. In addition to humorous feuilletons and humorous essays that censorship missed, it was possible to write about a woman. And in those years, the road to the economy and politics was closed to her. And if the censor saw that the work was about a woman, he believed that it did not pose a particular threat to the existing government. This circumstance was used by the writer.
Woe
The story starts gloomy. In the family, tragedy is death. Preparing for the burial of Proclus Sevastyanych. The breadwinner of the family has died.The whole family is busy preparing for the funeral. Mother delivers the coffin. The father of the deceased does the hardest work, he prepares the grave. The widow also does not sit idle - she sews a shroud.
Here is the first thoughtful assessment of what awaits Daria. What fate awaits her. The share of women is rarely joyful. Hard life kills beauty. Why did a woman come into this world? Work, suffer and die?
But now time is rolling back. Here is another assessment. This is a pathetic description of Russian women, where the author literally poured out his love and admiration. He is not shy and compares his heroines with queens, describes simple beauty, dexterity, diligence. Here the poet does not weep over the bitter fate of a simple village woman. He sings a majestic song to her. Maybe a little idealizing and exaggerating, but that's why he is a poet. The author reveals a great knowledge of peasant life and customs of the Russian people. Life in the house, in work on the field, in rest, in customs and beliefs is described in detail.
Daria was such a woman, until the death of her husband. But now grief dries her, and she cannot hold back the tears that roll from her eyes. With these tears she waters the shroud, which she sews with her own hands.
Relatives dress the deceased in silence. The time for lamentation will be later, when all the rites are performed.
On the last journey, Savraska's horse, a faithful assistant in all matters, carries his master on his last journey. Although the family fought for the life of Proclus in all known ways, he did not rise, he died. All the neighbors remember only good things about him.
Daria
This is the main image in the work. The author raises his heroine to an epic height, and reveals her inner world. Now the reader knows what the heroine feels, what she thinks. Numerous images are conveyed in different ways, in the form of memories, hopes, thoughts, illusions.Just after arriving from the cemetery, a tired woman wants to caress her orphaned children. But she doesn't have time for that. It turns out that the house has run out of firewood. And having attached the children to the neighbors, on the same sleigh harnessed by the faithful Savraska, Daria goes to the forest for firewood.
On the way to the forest, tears come to my eyes again. And when the heroine enters the grave chambers of the forest, a deaf, crushing howl escapes from her chest. There is no time to feel sorry for yourself, the peasant woman begins to chop wood. But all her thoughts are turned to her husband. She calls him, talks to him, and then she remembers her dream before Stasov's day.
Various references are spinning in the head of an unfortunate woman. Against the background of the tragedy, like fragmentary memories, she sees a joyful picture of family harmony, where everyone is alive and well, husband and children. But then some army surrounds her. But she is no longer she, but rye ears. And the husband is no longer seen anywhere, and the rye must be harvested by yourself.
Daria understands that it was a prophetic dream. Now she is alone, without a husband, she must do backbreaking work, female and male. She draws her bleak existence. Suddenly the fear of lawlessness overcomes. Fear for his son, who can be recruited. She understands that everything has changed, a very difficult life awaits her.
Behind these thoughts, she chopped wood. You can go home. But taking an ax in her hand, the peasant woman for some reason stops by a pine tree.
It stands under a pine tree a little alive,
No thought, no moan, no tears.
In the forest, the silence of the grave -
The day is bright, the frost is getting stronger.
Daria begins to forget. Like a sculpture, a woman freezes in a forest that has become fabulous. She enters the world of nature, and no longer wants to leave it.
And Daria stood and froze
In your enchanted dream.
Frost the governor appears, waving his mace over Daria. He is a kind old man, ready to take her into his possession, to provide warmth and tranquility. The peasant girl is covered with hoarfrost, and pleasant news comes to her one after another. The face is no longer distorted by torment and suffering.
The writer shows the process of freezing very clearly. Experts say that death from frostbite is one of the most pleasant. Freezing, a person does not feel cold. On the contrary, it seems to the freezing person that he is warm, safe, somewhere on the warm sea or near a warm hearth.
The picture of the life of a peasant woman without a husband, which Nekrasov painted, can be called terrible. Her death is deliverance from multiple sufferings and torments.
Meaning of the poem
☛
The work "Frost, Red Nose" remains relevant for many decades.
The poem was well known to contemporaries. With the advent of Soviet power, it did not lose its relevance, on the contrary, this work was a textbook.
And even now, there is no Russian person who, wanting to speak as figuratively as possible about a brave, agile, dexterous and beautiful woman, would not remember Nekrasov's image:
In the game, her equestrian will not catch,
In trouble - he will not fail, he will save;
Stop a galloping horse
Will enter the burning hut!
Critics and writers highly appreciated the artistic skill that Nekrasov put into his work. The true story, with elements of mysticism, has turned into a real modern epic.
French writer Charles Corbet compared Nekrasov's poem with Homer's epic.
The poem is simply beautiful. She is strange and mysterious. And each generation can try to find its solution in it.
© The electronic version of the book was prepared by LitRes ()
* * *
Dedicated to my sister Anna Alekseevna
You reproached me again
That I became friends with my Muse,
What are the worries of the day
And he obeyed his pleasures.
For worldly calculations and charms
I would not part with my Muse,
But God knows if that gift went out,
What used to be friends with her?
But a poet is not yet a brother to people,
And his path is thorny, and fragile,
I knew how not to be afraid of slander,
I myself was not concerned with them;
But I knew whose in the darkness of the night
Heart burst with sadness
And on whose chest they fell like lead
And to whom they poisoned life.
And let them pass by
The thunderstorms above me,
I know whose prayers and tears
The fatal arrow was withdrawn ...
Yes, and time has gone - I'm tired ...
Let me not be a fighter without reproach,
But I knew the strength in myself,
I deeply believed in many things,
Now it's time for me to die...
Do not then start on the road,
So that in a loving heart again
Awaken fatal anxiety ...
My subdued Muse
I myself reluctantly caress ...
I sing the last song
For you - and I dedicate to you.
But it won't be fun
It will be much sadder than before
Because the heart is darker
And the future is even more hopeless...
The storm howls in the garden, the storm breaks into the house,
I'm afraid she won't break
The old oak planted by my father
And the willow that mother planted
This willow that you
Strangely connected with our fate,
On which the sheets faded
The night the poor mother was dying...
And the window trembles and dazzles ...
Chu! how large hailstones jump!
Dear friend, you understood a long time ago -
Here, only stones do not cry ...
……………………….
Part one
Death of a Peasant
I
Savraska got stuck in half a snowdrift -
Two pairs of frozen bast shoes
Yes, the corner of a bast-covered coffin
They stick out of poor firewood.
Old woman in big mittens
Savraska came down to goad her.
Icicles on her eyelashes
Cold, I suppose.II
The habitual thought of the poet
She is in a hurry to run ahead:
Like a shroud, dressed in snow,
The hut in the village is
In the hut - a calf in the basement,
The dead man on the bench by the window;
His stupid children make noise,
Wife sobs softly.
Stitching with a nimble needle
On shroud pieces of linen,
Like rain, charged for a long time,
She sobs softly.III
Three heavy shares had fate,
And the first share: to marry a slave,
The second is to be the mother of the son of a slave,
And the third - to obey the slave to the grave,
And all these formidable shares lay down
On the woman of the Russian land.
Centuries passed - everything strived for happiness,
Everything in the world has changed several times,
Only God forgot to change
The harsh share of the peasant woman.
And we all agree that the type was grinding
A beautiful and powerful Slav.
Accidental victim of fate!
You deafly, invisibly suffered,
You are the light of the bloody struggle
And she did not entrust her complaints, -
But you will tell me them, my friend!
You have known me since childhood.
You are all fear incarnate
You are all - age-old languor!
He did not carry a heart in his chest,
Who did not shed tears over you!IV
However, we are talking about a peasant
We started to say
What type of majestic Slav
It is possible to find now.
There are women in Russian villages
With calm gravity of faces,
With beautiful strength in movements,
With a gait, with the eyes of queens, -
Can't the blind see them?
And the sighted one says about them:
“It will pass - as if the sun will shine!
If he looks, he will give you a ruble!”
They go the same way
What all our people go,
But the dirt of the environment is squalid
They don't seem to stick to them. blooms
Beauty, marvelous to the world,
Blush, slim, tall,
Beautiful in every dress
Dexterity for any work.
And hunger, and cold endures,
Always patient, even...
I saw how she mows:
What a wave - then a mop is ready!
The handkerchief fell into her ear,
Look, the braids will fall.
Some guy screwed up
And threw them up, fool!
Heavy blond braids
Fell on a swarthy chest,
Bare feet covered her legs,
They prevent the peasant woman from looking.
She took them away with her hands,
He looks angrily at the guy.
The face is majestic, as in a frame,
Burning with embarrassment and anger...
On weekdays, he does not like idleness.
But you don't recognize her
How the smile of fun will drive away
From the face of the labor seal.
Such a hearty laugh
And songs and dances
Money can't buy. "Joy!" -
The men are talking to each other.
In the game, her equestrian will not catch,
In trouble - he will not fail, - he will save:
Stop a galloping horse
Will enter the burning hut!
Beautiful straight teeth
That she has large pearls,
But strictly ruddy lips
Keep their beauty from people -
She rarely smiles...
She has no time to sharpen her hair,
She won't dare a neighbor
Grip, ask for a pot;
She does not feel sorry for the poor beggar -
Feel free to walk without work!
Lies on it rigorously
And the seal of inner strength.
It is clear and strong consciousness,
That all their salvation is in work,
And her work is rewarded:
The family does not struggle in need,
They always have a warm house
The bread is baked, the kvass is delicious,
Healthy and well-fed guys
There is an extra piece for the holiday.
This woman is going to dinner
Before the whole family ahead:
Sits like on a chair, two years old
The baby is on her chest
Next to a six year old son
The elegant uterus leads ...
And to the heart of this picture
To all those who love the Russian people!V
And you marveled at the beauty
She was smart and strong
But grief dried you up
The wife of the sleeping Proclus!
You are proud - you don't want to cry,
Fasten, but the canvas is coffin
Tears involuntarily wet you,
Stitching with a nimble needle.
Tear after tear falls
On your quick hands.
So the ear silently drops
Ripe grains...VI
In the village, four miles away,
By the church where the wind sways
Storm-beaten crosses
The old man chooses a place;
He is tired, the work is difficult,
Here, too, skill is needed -
So that the cross can be seen from the road,
So that the sun plays around.
In the snow up to the knees of his feet,
In his hands is a spade and a crowbar,
All in hoarfrost hat is big,
Mustache, beard in silver.
Standing still, thinking
An old man on a high hill.
Made up my mind. Marked with a cross
Where will the grave be dug,
It dawned on the cross and began
Shovel the snow.
There were other methods
Cemetery is not like fields:
Crosses came out of the snow
The ground lay in crosses.
Bending your old back
He dug for a long time, diligently,
And yellow frozen clay
Immediately the snow covered.
The crow flew up to him,
Poked her nose, walked:
The earth rang like iron -
The crow got away with nothing ...
The grave is ready for glory, -
"I wouldn't want to dig this hole!"
(The old word escaped)
“Proclus would not rest in it,
Do not Proclus! .. "The old man stumbled,
A crowbar slipped from his hands
And rolled into a white hole,
The old man took it out with difficulty.
Went ... walking along the road ...
There is no sun, the moon has not risen ...
Like the whole world is dying
Calm, snow, semi-darkness ...VII
In the ravine, by the river Jaundice,
The old man caught up with his grandmother
And quietly asked the old woman:
“Is the coffin good?”
Her lips whispered a little
In response to the old man: - Nothing. -
Then they were both silent
And the firewood ran so quietly,
Like they were afraid of something...
The village has not opened yet
And close - the fire flickers.
The old woman made a cross,
The horse shied away -
Without a hat, with bare feet,
With a big pointed stake
Suddenly appeared before them
An old acquaintance Pahom.
Covered with a women's shirt,
The chains on it rang;
Tapped the rustic fool
In the frosty ground with a stake,
Then he mumbled angrily,
He sighed and said: “Don't worry!
He worked quite well for you
And your turn has come!
Mother bought a coffin for her son,
His father dug a hole for him
His wife sewed a shroud for him -
He gave you work all the time! .. "
Mumbled again - and without a goal
The fool ran into space.
The chains rang sadly,
And bare calves shone
And the staff scrawled in the snow.VIII
They left the roof on the house
To a neighbor brought to spend the night
Freezing Masha and Grisha
And they began to dress their son.
Slowly, importantly, severely
A sad thing happened:
No extra word was said
No tears came out.
Fell asleep, working in sweat!
Fell asleep, having worked the earth!
Lies uncared for,
On a white pine table
Lies motionless, severe,
With a burning candle in their heads
In a wide canvas shirt
And in fake new bast shoes.
Large, calloused hands
Having put in a lot of work,
Beautiful, alien to flour
Face - and beard to the hands ...IX
While the dead man was dressed up,
Did not give out a word of longing
And just avoided looking
To each other in the eyes of the poor,
But now it's over
no need b
