And everything that he saw before him / He despised or hated
From the poem "Demon" (1839) by M. Yu. Lermontov (1814-1841) (part 1, stanza 4):
... But, apart from cold envy,
Nature did not excite the brilliance
In the exile's barren chest
No new feelings, no new forces;
And all that he saw before him
He despised or hated.
Ironically: about an embittered, unsociable person, about a misanthrope.
Encyclopedic Dictionary of winged words and expressions. - M.: "Lokid-Press". Vadim Serov. 2003 .
See what "And everything that he saw before him, / He despised or hated" in other dictionaries:
Not everything in the world I despised. (inosk.) about the undoubted existence of absolutely beautiful and involuntary worship of him Cf. The spirit of denial, the spirit of doubt I looked at the pure spirit... Forgive me, he spoke, I saw you, And you didn't shine for me: I'm not all in the world... ... Michelson's Big Explanatory Phraseological Dictionary
Demon ("Demon")- See also Sad and gloomy, proud and crafty, restless and vicious, infernal spirit, the spirit of exile and doubt. A crown of rainbow rays did not adorn his curls. It was like a clear evening: no day, no night, no darkness, no light. He was powerful like... Dictionary of literary types
- "DEMON", a poem, one of the central products. L., the poet returned to work on Crimea for almost the entire creative work. life (1829-39). Based on the biblical myth of a fallen angel who rebelled against God. To this image, personifying the "spirit of denial" ... Lermontov Encyclopedia
Arbenin, Evgeny Alexandrovich ("Masquerade")- See also A solid man, looks like a lamb. Gambler and sharper; beast and hell. He had three thousand souls and the patronage of the nobility. He did not want ranks, but he did not achieve fame. By his own admission, he was born with a seething soul, like lava: until ... ... Dictionary of literary types
Sad Demon, spirit of exile(...)
Sad Demon, spirit of exile,
He flew over the sinful earth -
And better days of remembrance
Crowded in front of him
M.Yu. Lermontov. Demon.
Wed Wormwood after honey is bitterer than itself.
Wed Having no more but thought of what thou wert,
To torture thee the more, being what thou art.
Nothing left but the memory of what you were
To intensify your torment about what you are now.
Wed For fortunes sharpe adversite,
The worst kind of infortune is this,
A man that has been in prosperite
And it remember, when it passed is.
Chaucer. Troilus and Creseida. 3, 1625.
Wed Deh non parlare al misero
Del suo perduto bene...
F. M. Piave. Rigoletto (mus. di Verdi) 1, 9.
Wed O dolcezze perdute! about memorie
D "un amplesso che mai non s" oblia! ..
Ant. somma. Un ballo in maschera. 3, 1.
Wed Stette, e dei di che furono
L "assalse il sovvenir.
Manzoni. Il cinque Maggio, ode (about Napoleon on the island of Helena).
Wed Il ben passato e la presente noia!
Tasso. Aminta. 2, 2.
Wed Nessun maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria.
There is no greater torment
How to remember a happy time
In misfortune.
Dante. Divin. Com. Inferno. 5, 121-123. transl. Minaev.
Byron took this verse as an epigraph to the poem "Corsar".
Wed In omni adversitate fortunae infelicissimun? genus infortunii est fuisse felicem.
Of all the vicissitudes of fate, the greatest misfortune is when you previously experienced happy days (when you remember former happy days).
Boethius Console. Philos. 2, 4. († c. A.D. 524)
Wed He remembered Jerusalem, in the days of her calamity and her sufferings, of all her treasures that she had in former days.
Lamentations. 1, 7.
Russian thought and speech. Yours and someone else's. Experience of Russian phraseology. Collection of figurative words and parables. T.T. 1-2. Walking and well-aimed words. Collection of Russian and foreign quotations, proverbs, sayings, proverbial expressions and individual words. SPb., type. Ak. Sciences.. M. I. Mikhelson. 1896-1912.
See what "sad Demon, spirit of exile(...)" is in other dictionaries:
demon- a, m. demon; gr. daimon spirit, deity. 1. Spirit (in pagan, mystical and poetic representations). Sl. 18. In all eastern India they believe that the sun and the moon are eclipsed by the fact that some demon, which has very black claws, ... ... Historical Dictionary of Gallicisms of the Russian Language
SAD, sad, sad; sad, sad, sad. 1. adj. to sadness in 1 sign. Sad feeling. Sad mood. Very sad (adv.) mood. || Experiencing sadness, grief. "A sad demon, spirit of exile." Lermontov. "You… … Explanatory Dictionary of Ushakov
demon- a, m. 1) In Greek mythology: a generalized idea of some indefinite and unformed divine power, evil or (less often) beneficent, often determining the fate of a person. The crafty demon revolted my careless ignorance, and he is mine ... ... Popular dictionary of the Russian language
BUT; m. [Greek. daimōn] 1. In ancient mythology: a good or evil spirit that influences life, the fate of people, nations. 2. According to religious ideas: an evil spirit, devil, demon, devil; fallen Angel. * A sad demon, the spirit of exile, Flew over ... ... encyclopedic Dictionary
- (among Christians) an evil spirit, a genius, in the sense of a tempter Demonic irresistibly influencing Cf. The sad Demon, the spirit of exile, Flew over the sinful earth And memories of better days Crowded before him. M.Yu. Lermontov. Demon. Poem. Wed She has something…… Michelson's Big Explanatory Phraseological Dictionary
demon- a; m. (Greek daimōn) see also. demonic 1) In ancient mythology: a good or evil spirit that influences life, the fate of people, peoples. 2) a) According to religious ideas: an evil spirit, devil, demon, devil; fallen Angel. * Sad demon, spirit… … Dictionary of many expressions
Demon ("Demon")- See also Sad and gloomy, proud and crafty, restless and vicious, infernal spirit, the spirit of exile and doubt. A crown of rainbow rays did not adorn his curls. It was like a clear evening: no day, no night, no darkness, no light. He was powerful like... Dictionary of literary types
Ah, m. In Christian mythology: an evil spirit, a fallen angel. The sad demon, the spirit of exile, Flew over the sinful earth. Lermontov, Demon. || trans.; what. obsolete The personification of what passions, hobbies, vice. We set out to travel together, but… … Small Academic Dictionary
Sad Demon, spirit of exile,
He flew over the sinful earth,
And better days of remembrance
A crowd crowded before him;
Those days when in the dwelling of light
He shone, a pure cherub,
When a running comet
A smile of affectionate greetings
Loved to trade with him
When through eternal fogs,
Greedy for knowledge, he followed
Nomadic caravans
In the space of abandoned luminaries;
When he believed and loved
Happy firstborn of creation!
He knew neither malice nor doubt.
And did not threaten his mind
A barren series of centuries...
And many, many... and everything
He did not have the strength to remember! .. (c)
Mikhail Lermontov. Demon
In 1891, Vrubel was asked to illustrate the collected works of M.Yu. Lermontov.
In a letter to his sister, Vrubel writes: “For a month now I have been writing the Demon, that is, not exactly the monumental Demon, which I will write over time, but “demonic”. A half-naked, winged, young, sadly thoughtful figure sits, hugging her knees, against the background of a sunset and looks at a flowering meadow, from which branches bending under flowers stretch out to her.
Mikhail Vrubel.
Demon seated. 1890.
Tretyakov Gallery, Russia.
Perhaps the commission for the construction of the Vladimir Cathedral in Kyiv also pushed the artist to the demonic theme, which rejected his series of sketches for murals. But Vrubel's biographers claim that work on the "demonic" theme was started in 1885. This is confirmed by the words of the artist himself "... that is, not that of a monumental Demon, which I will write over time ...." Only a well-thought-out idea can be thought of in the light of a long-term perspective.
The first demon of Vrubel was written in 1890, in the house of S. Mamontov. “Seated Demon” is a young man who is either dull or bored. This is an image of proud, painful loneliness, which has a beginning, but is endless in its duration. Vrubel's demon is not a caricature Gogol's devil and not a biblical devil seducing Christ. This is something pensive, longing, suffering ...
Appears in the same year "Head of the Demon against the backdrop of mountains", where the demon looks longingly into an unknown space.
He is alert, he is preparing to look into a world in which he has no place. And again, Vrubel depicted not an abstract being, not a blind universal evil that had fallen away from God. Vrubel's demon does not seduce anyone, does not exalt himself over anyone, he is outwardly passive, but in his gloomy face, in a frozen look, one feels the energy of thought and philosophical contemplation.
In 1899, "The Flying Demon" was written. The picture is almost abstract, full of movement and swiftness. The demon stood up and flew over the tops of the mountains in the currents of air, towards the dark sky.
Flying Demon "Mikhail Vrubel, 1899.
In 1901-1902, "Demon Defeated" was written - a dynamic moment, full of colors and tragic movement. The motionless action and calmness of “Seated Demon” and “Demon’s Head”, the feeling of free flight in “Flying Demon”, is replaced by the chaos of falling, in which it is difficult to make out where are desperately outstretched arms, where are powerless, broken wings, and where is the world that rejected the demon.
Mikhail Vrubel. Demon defeated.
1902. Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow, Russia.
Demon defeated. Sketch
Demon defeated. Sketch
The fate of Vrubel is tragic. Madness. Blindness. It seems that the demons suddenly revealed their secret to him, and the mind of the artist could not contain it. Alexandre Benois, who watched Vrubel nervously copy the Demon Downcast, which was already hanging in the exhibition hall and open to the public, later recalled: “I believe that the Prince of Peace posed for him. There is something deeply truthful in these terrible and beautiful pictures, moving to tears. His Demon remained true to his nature. He, who fell in love with Vrubel, nevertheless deceived him. These sessions were sheer mockery and teasing. Vrubel saw one or the other feature of his deity, then both at once, and in pursuit of this elusive, he quickly began to move towards the abyss, to which he was driven by the passion for the damned. His madness was the logical end to his demonism."
Demon seated. Sketch
After completing his work on drawings for Lermontov, Vrubel did not return to the demonic theme for a very long time. Didn't come back to come back one day - and stay with her forever. In the last years of his life, the theme of the Demon became central to Vrubel's life. . He created many drawings, sketches and painted three huge paintings on this subject - the Demon sitting, the Demon flying and the Demon defeated. He continued to "improve" the last of them even when it was already exhibited in the gallery, thereby surprising and frightening the public. By this time, the deterioration of the physical and mental state artist, which only added fuel to the fire and strengthened the legend that had already arisen about the master who sold his soul to the devil. But, as Vrubel himself said , They don’t understand the demon - they confuse it with the devil and the devil, while the “devil” in Greek simply means “horned”, the devil is “slanderer”, and “Demon” means “soul” and personifies the eternal struggle of the restless human spirit, seeking reconciliation overwhelmed his passions, knowledge of life and not finding an answer to his doubts either on earth or in heaven.
I
Lermontov. Demon. audiobook
Sad Demon, spirit of exile,
He flew over the sinful earth,
And better days of remembrance
A crowd crowded before him;
Those days when in the dwelling of light
He shone, a pure cherub,
When a running comet
A smile of affectionate greetings
Loved to trade with him
When through eternal fogs,
Greedy for knowledge, he followed
Nomadic caravans
In the space of abandoned luminaries;
When he believed and loved
Happy firstborn of creation!
He knew neither malice nor doubt.
And did not threaten his mind
A barren series of centuries...
And many, many... and everything
He did not have the strength to remember!
II
Demon. Artist M. Vrubel, 1890
Long outcast wandered
In the wilderness of a world without shelter:
After the century, the century fled,
Like a minute a minute
Uniform sequence.
Insignificant dominating the earth,
He sowed evil without pleasure.
Nowhere to your art
He met no resistance
And evil bored him.
III
And over the peaks of the Caucasus
The exile of paradise flew by:
Under it, Kazbek, like a facet of a diamond,
Shined with eternal snows,
And, deep down blackening,
Like a crack, a serpent's dwelling,
The radiant Daryal curled,
And Terek, jumping like a lioness
With a shaggy mane on the ridge,
Roared, - and a mountain beast and a bird,
Circling in the azure height
Heeded the word of his waters;
And golden clouds
From the southern countries, from afar
He was escorted north;
And the rocks in a tight crowd,
Full of mysterious slumber,
Bowed their heads over him
Following the flickering waves;
And towers of castles on the rocks
Looked menacingly through the mists -
At the gates of the Caucasus on the clock
Guard Giants!
And wild and wonderful was around
All God's world; but a proud spirit
looked contemptuously
Creation of your god
And on his high forehead
Nothing was reflected.
IV
And in front of him is a different picture
Living colors bloomed:
Luxurious Georgia Valley
Carpet spread out in the distance;
Happy, lush end of the earth!
Pillar-shaped rains.
Ringing running streams
Along the bottom of multi-colored stones,
And bushes of roses, where the nightingales
Sing beauties, unrequited
To the sweet voice of their love;
Chinar spreading canopy,
Thick crowned with ivy.
Caves where the scorching day
Timid deer lurk;
And shine, and life, and the noise of sheets,
Hundred-sounding voices,
The breath of a thousand plants!
And half a day voluptuous heat,
And fragrant dew
Always wet nights
And stars as bright as eyes
Like the look of a young Georgian woman!..
But, apart from cold envy,
Nature did not excite the brilliance
In the exile's barren chest
No new feelings, no new forces;
And all that he saw before him
He despised or hated.
V
Tall house, wide yard
Gray-haired Gudal built himself ...
Works and tears, he cost a lot
Slaves obedient for a long time.
In the morning on the slope of neighboring mountains
Shadows cast from its walls.
Steps are cut into the rock;
They are from the corner tower
They lead to the river, flickering along them,
Covered with white veil,
Princess Tamara young
He goes to Aragva for water.
VI
Always silent on the valleys
I looked from the cliff a gloomy house;
But there is a big feast in it today -
Zurna sounds, and guilt pours -
Gudal betrothed his daughter,
He called the whole family to the feast.
On the carpeted roof
The bride sits between her friends:
Among games and songs their leisure
Passes. distant mountains
The semicircle of the sun is already hidden;
Striking in the palm of your hand,
They sing - and their tambourine
The young bride takes.
And here she is, with one hand
Circling it over your head
Then suddenly it rushes lighter than a bird,
It will stop, look -
And her wet eyes shine
From under an envious eyelash;
That will lead with a black eyebrow,
Then suddenly it leans a little,
And glides on the carpet, floats
Her divine foot;
And she smiles
Full of children's fun.
But a ray of the moon, in unsteady moisture
Slightly playing at times
Hardly compares to that smile
Like life, like youth, alive
VII
I swear by the midnight star
Beam of sunset and east,
Ruler of Persia golden
And not a single king of the earth
I did not kiss such an eye;
Harem Sprinkling Fountain
Never hot sometimes
With its pearly dew
I did not wash such a camp!
Still no one's earthly hand,
Wandering over the sweet brow,
She did not unravel such hair;
Ever since the world lost paradise
I swear she's such a beauty
Under the sun of the south did not bloom.
VIII
She danced for the last time.
Alas! expected in the morning
Her, the heiress of Gudal.
Freedom frisky child
The fate of the sad slave
Fatherland, alien to this day,
And an unknown family.
And often secret doubt
Dark light features;
And all her movements were
So slender, full of expression,
So full of sweet simplicity
What if the Demon, flying,
At that time he looked at her
Then, remembering the former brothers,
He turned away b - and sighed ...
IX
And the Demon saw... For a moment
inexplicable excitement
He suddenly felt in himself.
The dumb soul of his desert
Filled with blessed sound -
And again he comprehended the shrine
Love, kindness and beauty! ..
And long sweet picture
He admired - and dreams
About the former happiness with a long chain,
Like a star behind a star
They rolled before him then.
Bound by an invisible force
He became familiar with the new sadness;
A feeling suddenly spoke in him
once native language.
Was that a sign of rebirth?
He is the words of insidious temptation
I couldn't find it in my mind...
Forget? I did not give oblivion God:
Yes, he would not take oblivion! ..
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
X
Having exhausted a good horse,
To the wedding feast at sunset
The impatient groom hurried.
Aragva light he happily
Reached the green shores.
Under the heavy burden of gifts
Barely, barely crossing
Behind him camels a long line
The road stretches, flickering:
Their bells are ringing.
He himself, the ruler of the Synodal.
Leading a rich caravan.
A dexterous camp is tightened with a belt;
Saber and dagger frame
Shines in the sun; behind the back
The gun with notch notch.
The wind plays with its sleeves
His chuhi - all around she
All trimmed with galloon.
Colored embroidered silk
His saddle; bridle with brushes;
Under it, a dashing horse covered in soap
Priceless suit, golden.
Pet frisky Karabakh
It spins with ears and, full of fear,
Snoring squints with steepness
On the foam of a galloping wave.
Dangerous, narrow is the coastal path!
Cliffs on the left side
To the right is the depth of the rebellious river.
It's too late. At the top of the snow
The blush fades; fog came up...
The caravan stepped up.
XI
And here is the chapel on the road...
Here for a long time rests in God
Some prince, now a saint,
Killed by a vengeful hand.
Since then, for a holiday or for a battle,
Wherever the traveler hurries,
Always fervent prayer
He brought at the chapel;
And that prayer saved
From a Muslim dagger.
But the daring groom despised
The custom of their great-grandfathers.
His insidious dream
The crafty Demon was indignant:
He is in my thoughts, under the darkness of the night,
Kissed the lips of the bride.
Suddenly, two people flashed ahead,
And more - a shot! - what?..
Standing up on ringing stirrups,
Pulling dads on his eyebrows,
The brave prince did not say a word;
A Turkish trunk flashed in his hand,
Whip I click and, like an eagle,
He rushed... and shot again!
And a wild cry and a deaf moan
Rushed into the depths of the valley -
The battle did not last long:
The timid Georgians fled!
XII
Everything was quiet; huddled in a crowd,
On the corpses of riders sometimes
The camels looked on in horror;
And deaf in the silence of the steppe
Their bells rang.
A magnificent caravan was plundered;
And over the bodies of Christians
Draws circles night bird!
No peaceful tomb awaits them
Under a layer of monastic slabs,
Where the ashes of their fathers were buried;
Sisters with mothers will not come,
Covered with long veils
With longing, sobs and prayers,
To their coffin from distant places!
But with a diligent hand
Here by the road, over the rock
A cross will be erected in memory;
And the ivy that grew in the spring
He, caressing, will wrap around
With its emerald net;
And, having turned off the difficult road,
More than once a tired pedestrian
Rest under God's shadow...
XIII
The horse runs faster than the deer.
Snoring and torn, as if to scold;
Then suddenly besiege at a gallop,
Listens to the wind
Widely flaring nostrils;
That, at once hitting the ground
With thorns of sonorous hooves,
Waving his tousled mane,
It flies forward without memory.
It has a silent rider!
He beats on the saddle sometimes,
Leaning on the mane with his head.
He no longer rules the occasions
Putting your feet in the stirrups,
And blood in wide streams
You can see him on the saddle.
Dashing horse, you are the master
Brought out of the battle like an arrow
But an evil Ossetian bullet
Caught him in the dark!
XIV
In the Gudala family weeping and groaning,
People are crowding in the yard:
Whose horse rushed on fire
And fell on the stones at the gate?
Who is this breathless rider?
Kept a trail of swearing anxiety
Wrinkles of a swarthy brow.
In the blood of weapons and dress;
In the last frenzied shake
The hand on the mane froze.
Not for long the young groom,
Bride, your gaze was waiting:
He kept the prince's word,
He rode to the wedding feast...
Alas! but never again
Do not sit on a dashing horse! ..
XV
For a carefree family
God's punishment flew like thunder!
Fell on her bed
Sobs poor Tamara;
Tear after tear
The chest is high and difficult to breathe;
And now she seems to hear
Magical voice above you:
"Don't cry, child! don't cry in vain!
Your tear on a mute corpse
Living dew will not fall:
She only blurs her clear eyes.
Virgin cheeks burn!
He is far away, he does not know
Will not appreciate your anguish;
Heavenly light now caresses
The disembodied gaze of his eyes;
He hears heavenly tunes...
That life is petty dreams
And the groans and tears of the poor maiden
For a guest of the heavenly side?
No, the lot of mortal creation
Believe me, my earthly angel,
Not worth a moment
Your sorrow dear!
On the ocean of air
No rudder and no sails
Quietly floating in the fog
Choirs of slender luminaries;
Among the boundless fields
Walking in the sky without a trace
Clouds elusive
Fibrous herds.
The hour of parting, the hour of goodbye
They neither joy nor sorrow;
They have no desire in the future
And don't feel sorry for the past.
On the day of agonizing misfortune
You only remember them;
Be to the earth without participation
And as careless as they are!"
"Only the night with its cover
The tops of the Caucasus will overshadow
Only the world, with a magic word
Bewitched, shut up;
Only the wind over the rock
Will move the withered grass,
And the bird hidden in it
Flutters more cheerfully in the darkness;
And under the vine,
Dew of heaven swallowing greedily,
The flower will bloom at night;
Only a golden month
From behind the mountain will quietly rise
And steal a glance at you,
I will fly to you;
I will stay until morning
And silk eyelashes
Dreams of gold evoke ... "
XVI
The words fell silent in the distance
After the sound, the sound died.
She jumps up and looks around...
Unspeakable confusion
In her chest; sadness, fear,
Rapture ardor - nothing in comparison.
All the feelings in her boiled suddenly;
The soul tore its shackles,
Fire ran through my veins
And this voice is wonderfully new,
She thought it still sounded.
And before the morning dream is desired
Tired eyes closed;
But he revolted her thought
A prophetic and strange dream.
The stranger is foggy and mute,
Beauty shining unearthly,
He bowed to her headboard;
And his gaze with such love,
Looked at her so sadly
As if he regretted it.
It was not a heavenly angel.
Her divine guardian:
Crown of Rainbow Beams
Did not decorate his curls.
That was not hell, a terrible spirit,
Vicious martyr - oh no!
It looked like a clear evening:
Neither day nor night, neither darkness nor light!
Part II
I
"Father, father, leave threats,
Do not scold your own Tamara;
I cry: you see these tears,
They are not the first.
In vain the suitors crowd
Hurry here from distant places...
There are many brides in Georgia;
And I can't be anyone's wife!
Oh, don't scold me, father.
You yourself noticed: day by day
I wither, the victim of an evil poison!
I'm tormented by the evil spirit
Irresistible dream;
I'm dying, have pity on me!
Give to the sacred abode
Your reckless daughter;
A savior will protect me there,
I will shed my anguish before him.
I have no fun in the world...
Shrines of the world of autumn,
Let the gloomy cell accept
Like a coffin, in advance of me ... "
II
And in a secluded monastery
Her family took
And a humble sackcloth
They clothed the young breast.
But also in monastic clothes,
As under a patterned brocade,
All a lawless dream
Her heart was beating like before.
Before the altar, by the light of candles,
In the hours of solemn singing,
Familiar, among prayers,
She often heard speech.
Under the dome of the gloomy temple
A familiar image sometimes
Gliding without a sound or a trace
In a mist of light incense;
He shone softly like a star;
He beckoned and called ... but - where? ..
III
In the cool between two hills
The holy monastery hid.
Chinar and poplars in rows
He was surrounded - and sometimes,
When the night lay down in the gorge,
Flashed through them, in the windows of the cell,
The lamp of the young sinner.
All around, in the shade of almond trees,
Where a row stands sad crosses,
Silent guardians of the tombs;
Choirs of light birds sang.
They jumped on the stones, made noise
Keys in a cold wave
And under the overhanging rock
Merging friendly in the gorge,
Rolled on, between the bushes,
Frosted flowers.
IV
Mountains were visible to the north.
At the brilliance of the morning Aurora,
When the blue smoke
Smoking deep in the valley
And turning to the east
Muetzins are calling to prayer,
And the sonorous voice of the bell
Trembling, awakening the abode;
In a solemn and peaceful hour,
When a Georgian is young
With a long jug for water
The steep descends from the mountain,
Snow chain tops
light purple wall
Drawn in the clear sky
And dressed at sunset
They are a ruddy veil;
And between them, cutting through the clouds,
He stood, all above his head,
Kazbek, the mighty king of the Caucasus,
In turban and chasuble brocade.
V
But, full of criminal thoughts,
Tamara's heart is unavailable
Pure delight. in front of her
The whole world is dressed in a gloomy shadow;
And everything in it is an excuse for torment -
And the morning beam and the darkness of the nights.
It used to be only sleepy nights
Coolness will cover the earth,
Before the divine icon
She falls into madness
And cries; and in the silence of the night
Her heavy sobbing
The traveler's attention worries;
And he thinks: "That is a mountain spirit
Chained in the cave groans!"
And sensitive straining hearing,
Drives a tired horse.
VI
Full of longing and trembling,
Tamara is often at the window
Sitting alone in thought
And looks into the distance with a diligent eye,
And the whole day, sighing, waiting ...
Someone whispers to her: he will come!
No wonder dreams caressed her.
No wonder he appeared to her.
With eyes full of sadness
And wonderful tenderness of speeches.
For many days she languishes,
She doesn't know why;
Does he want to pray to the saints -
And the heart prays to him;
Tired of the constant struggle
Will he bow down on the bed of sleep:
The pillow burns, she is stuffy, scared,
And all, jumping up, she trembles;
Her chest and shoulders are burning,
No strength to breathe, fog in the eyes,
Embrace eagerly looking for a meeting,
Kisses melt on the lips ...
. . . . . . . . .
VII
Evening haze airy cover
Already dressed the hills of Georgia.
Habit sweet obedient.
The Demon flew to the monastery.
But for a long, long time he did not dare
Shrine of Peaceful Shelter
Violate. And there was a minute
When he seemed ready
Leave intent cruel.
Thoughtful against the high wall
He wanders: from his steps
Without wind, a leaf trembles in the shade.
He looked up: her window,
Illuminated by a lamp, shines;
She's been waiting for someone!
And in the midst of the general silence
Chingura slender rattling
And the sounds of the song resounded;
And those sounds flowed, flowed,
Like tears, measured one after another;
And this song was tender
As if for the earth she
Was stacked in the sky!
Is it an angel with a forgotten friend
I wanted to see you again
Stealthily flew here
And he sang about the past,
To alleviate his pain?
The anguish of love, its excitement
Comprehended the Demon for the first time;
He wants to leave in fear...
His wing doesn't move!
And, miracle! from faded eyes
A heavy tear rolls...
Until now near that cell
Through the burnt stone is visible
Tears hot as a flame
Inhuman tear!..
VIII
And he enters, ready to love,
With a heart open to goodness,
And he thinks that a new life
The desired time has come.
A vague thrill of anticipation
Silent fear of the unknown
Like a first date
Confessed with a proud soul.
That was an evil omen!
He enters, looks - in front of him
Messenger of heaven, cherub,
Guardian of the beautiful sinner,
Standing with a shining brow
And from the enemy with a clear smile
He painted her with a wing;
And a ray of divine light
Suddenly blinded by an unclean gaze,
And instead of a sweet hello
There was a heavy reproach:
IX
"The spirit is restless, the spirit is vicious.
Who called you in the midnight darkness?
Your fans are not here
Evil has not breathed here until now;
To my love, to my shrine
Do not lay a criminal trail.
Who called you?"
In response to him
The evil spirit chuckled slyly;
His eyes flushed with jealousy;
And again in his soul woke up
Poison of ancient hatred.
"She's mine!" he said menacingly, -
Leave her, she's mine!
You, protector, appeared late,
And she, like me, you're not a judge.
With a heart full of pride
I have set my seal;
Your shrine is no longer here
Here I own and love!"
And the angel with sad eyes
Looked at the poor victim
And slowly flapping your wings
I drowned in the ether of the sky.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
X
Tamara and Demon. Artist M. Vrubel, 1890
Tamara
O! who are you? your speech is dangerous!
Did hell or heaven send you to me?
What do you want?..
Demon
You're beautiful!
Tamara
But say who are you? answer...
Demon
I am the one who listened
You are in the midnight silence
Whose thought whispered to your soul,
Whose sadness did you vaguely guess,
Whose image I saw in a dream.
I am the one whose gaze destroys hope;
I am the one no one loves;
I am the scourge of my earthly slaves,
I am the king of knowledge and freedom,
I am the enemy of heaven, I am the evil of nature,
And, you see, I am at your feet!
I brought you tenderness
Silent love prayer
Earthly first torment
And my first tears.
O! listen - out of regret!
Me good and heaven
You could return with a word.
Your love with a holy cover
Dressed, I would appear there.
Like a new angel in a new brilliance;
O! just listen, please, I
I am your slave - I love you!
As soon as I saw you -
And secretly suddenly hated
Immortality and my power.
I envied involuntarily
Incomplete earthly joy;
Not to live like you, it hurt me
And it's scary - it's different to live with you.
In a bloodless heart, an unexpected ray
Warmed up again,
And sadness at the bottom of an old wound
She moved like a snake.
What is this eternity without you?
My dominion is infinity?
Empty sounding words
A vast temple - without a deity!
Tamara
Leave me, O evil spirit!
Shut up, I don't trust the enemy...
Creator... Alas! I can't
Pray... deadly poison
My weakening mind is embraced!
Listen, you will ruin me;
Your words are fire and poison...
Tell me why you love me!
Demon
Why, beauty? Alas,
I don't know!.. Full of new life,
From my criminal head
I proudly took off the crown of thorns,
I threw all the past into dust:
My heaven, my hell in your eyes.
I love you with an unearthly passion,
How can you not love
With all rapture, with all power
Immortal thoughts and dreams.
In my soul, from the beginning of the world,
Your image has been printed
He hovered in front of me
In the deserts of eternal ether.
For a long time disturbing my thought,
The name sounded sweet to me;
In the days of bliss me in paradise
You were missing one.
O! if you could understand
What a bitter languor
All my life, centuries without separation
And enjoy and suffer
Do not expect praise for evil,
No reward for good;
Live for yourself, miss yourself
And this eternal struggle
No celebration, no reconciliation!
Always regret and not wish
Know everything, feel everything, see everything,
Try to hate everything
And despise everything in the world! ..
Only God's curse
Fulfilled from the same day
Nature's hot embrace
Forever cool for me;
The space was blue before me;
I saw the wedding dress
Luminary, familiar to me for a long time ...
They flowed in crowns of gold;
But what? former brother
None recognized.
Exiles like themselves
I called out in desperation.
But words and faces and evil eyes,
Alas! I didn't recognize myself.
And in fear I, flapping my wings,
Rushed - but where? why?
I don't know... old friends
I was rejected; like eden,
The world has become deaf and dumb for me.
At the free whim of the current
So damaged rook
No sails and no rudder
Floats, not knowing the destination;
So early in the morning
A fragment of a thundercloud,
In the azure height blackening,
Alone, not daring to stick anywhere,
Flies without a goal and a trace,
God knows where and where!
And I ruled people for a short time.
Taught them sin for a short time,
All noble dishonored,
And he blasphemed everything beautiful;
Not long... the flame of pure faith
Easily forever I poured into them ...
But were my labors worth it?
Only fools and hypocrites?
And I hid in the gorges of the mountains;
And began to wander like a meteor,
In the deep darkness of midnight...
And the lonely traveler rushed,
Deceived by a close flame,
And falling into the abyss with a horse,
I called in vain and the trail is bloody
Behind him twisted along the steepness ...
But malice is gloomy fun
I didn't like it for long!
In the fight against a mighty hurricane,
How often, raising the ashes,
Dressed in lightning and mist,
I ran noisily in the clouds,
So that in the crowd of rebellious elements
Silence the murmur of the heart,
Save yourself from the inevitable thought
And forget the unforgettable!
What a tale of painful deprivation,
The labors and troubles of the human crowd
To come, past generations,
Before one minute
My unacknowledged torment?
What people? what is their life and work?
They have passed, they will pass...
There is hope, I am waiting for the right court:
He can forgive, even condemn!
My sadness is here forever.
And there will be no end to her, like me;
And do not take a nap in her grave!
She fawns like a snake
It burns and splashes like a flame,
That crushes my thought, like a stone I
Hopes of the dead and passions
Invincible mausoleum!
Tamara
Why should I know your sorrow
Why are you complaining to me?
You have sinned...
Demon
Is it against you?
Tamara
We can be heard!
Demon
We are alone.
Tamara
And God!
Demon
They don't look at us:
He is busy with heaven, not earth!
Tamara
And the punishment, the torments of hell?
Demon
So what? You will be there with me!
Tamara
Whoever you are, my random friend, -
Lost peace forever
Involuntarily, with the joy of mystery,
Sufferer, I hear you.
But if your speech is sly,
But if you're a deceit...
O! spare me! What glory?
What is my soul to you?
Am I dearer to the sky
Everyone you didn't see?
They, alas! beautiful too;
Like here, their virgin bed
Not crumpled by a mortal hand...
Not! give me a fatal oath ...
Tell me - you see: I yearn;
You see women's dreams!
You involuntarily caress the fear in your soul ...
But you understood everything, you know everything -
And, of course, you will take pity!
Swear to me... from evil possessions
Renounce now vow.
Really no oaths, no promises
Are there no more invincibles? ..
Demon
I swear on the first day of creation
I swear on his last day
I swear on the shame of crime
And eternal truth triumph.
I swear to fall by bitter flour,
Victory by a short dream;
I swear on a date with you
And again threatening separation.
I swear by the host of spirits,
The fate of the brothers subject to me,
With swords of impassive angels.
My unsleeping enemies;
I swear by heaven and hell
Earthly shrine and you
I swear by your last look
Your first tear
Your gentle lips with breath,
A wave of silk curls
I swear by bliss and suffering.
I swear on my love:
I renounced the old revenge
I renounced proud thoughts;
From now on, the poison of insidious flattery
Nothing disturbs the mind;
I want to reconcile with the sky
I want to love, I want to pray.
I want to believe good.
Wipe away with a tear of repentance
I am on a forehead worthy of you,
Traces of heavenly fire -
And the world in ignorance is calm
Let it bloom without me!
O! believe me: I'm alone until now
You comprehended and appreciated:
Choosing you as my shrine
I have placed power at your feet.
I'm waiting for your love as a gift,
And I will give you eternity in a moment;
In love, as in malice, believe, Tamara,
I am immutable and great.
I am you, free son of ether,
I'll take it to the superstellar regions;
And you will be the queen of the world
My first friend
Without regret, without participation
You will look at the ground
Where there is no true happiness
No lasting beauty
Where there are only crimes and executions,
Where petty passions only live;
Where they do not know how without fear
Neither hate nor love.
Do you not know what is
People momentary love?
The excitement of the blood is young, -
But the days run and the blood runs cold!
Who can resist separation
The temptation of a new beauty
Against fatigue and boredom
And the willfulness of dreams?
Not! not you, my friend,
Find out, appointed by fate
Wither silently in a tight circle
Jealous rudeness slave,
Among the cowardly and cold,
False friends and enemies
Fear and fruitless hopes,
Empty and painful labors!
Sad behind the high wall
You will not die without passions,
Among the prayers, equally far
From god and people.
Oh no, beautiful creature
You are assigned to something else;
Other suffering awaits you.
Other delights depth;
Leave your old desires
And the miserable light of his fate:
The abyss of proud knowledge
In return, I will open it for you.
A crowd of my office spirits
I will bring you to your feet;
Handmaidens of light and magical
To you, beauty, I will give;
And for you from the eastern star
I will pluck a golden crown;
I'll take the midnight dew from the flowers;
I will put him to sleep with that dew;
A beam of ruddy sunset
Your camp, like a ribbon, I will wrap,
With a breath of pure fragrance
I will drink the surrounding air;
All the time wonderful game
I will cherish your hearing;
I will build magnificent halls
From turquoise and amber;
I will sink to the bottom of the sea
I will fly beyond the clouds
I will give you everything, everything earthly -
Love me!..
XI
And he's a little
Touched with hot lips
Her trembling lips;
Temptation full speeches
He answered her prayers.
A mighty gaze gazed into her eyes!
He burned her. In the darkness of the night
Above her, he sparkled,
Irresistible as a dagger.
Alas! the evil spirit triumphed!
The deadly poison of his kiss
Instantly penetrated into her chest.
Anguished, terrible scream
Night revolted the silence.
It was everything: love, suffering.
Rebuke with a last plea
And a hopeless goodbye
Farewell to young life.
XII
At that time the midnight watchman
One around the wall is steep
Quietly completing the appointed path.
Wandered with a cast-iron board,
And near the cell of the young virgin
He tamed his measured step
And a hand over a cast iron board,
Confused, he stopped.
And through the surrounding silence,
He thought he heard
Two mouths consonant kiss,
A momentary cry and a faint moan.
And unholy doubt
Penetrated into the heart of the old man ...
But another moment passed
And everything was quiet; from afar
Just a breath of wind
The murmuring of the leaves brought
Yes, with a dark coast sadly
The mountain river whispered.
Saint's saint's canon
He hurries to read in fear,
So that the obsession of an evil spirit
Drive away from sinful thought;
Crosses with trembling fingers
Dream agitated chest
And silently with quick steps
The regular one continues on.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
XIII
Like a peri sleeping sweetheart
She lay in her coffin
Whiter and cleaner bedspreads
There was a languid color of her brow.
Forever lowered eyelashes ...
But who would, oh heaven! didn't say
That the gaze below them only dozed
And, wonderful, just expected
Or a kiss, or dennitsa?
But it's useless daylight beam
Sliding over them with a golden stream,
In vain they are in mute sadness
Kissing lips...
Not! death eternal seal
Nothing can break it!
XIV
Never been in the days of fun
So colorful and rich
Tamara's festive outfit.
Flowers of the native gorge
(So the ancient requires the rite)
They pour their fragrance over her
And, squeezed by a dead hand.
How to say goodbye to the earth!
And nothing in her face
Didn't hint at the end
In the heat of passion and ecstasy;
And were all her features
Filled with that beauty
Like marble, alien expression.
Deprived of feeling and mind,
Mysterious as death itself.
A strange smile froze
Flickering across her lips.
Talked about a lot of sad things
She attentive eyes:
There was cold contempt in her
Soul ready to bloom
The last thought expression,
Forgive the soundless earth.
A vain reflection of the life of the past,
She was even deader
Still more hopeless for the heart
Forever faded eyes.
So at the hour of the solemn sunset,
When, melted in a sea of gold,
The chariot of the day has already disappeared,
Snow of the Caucasus, for a moment
The tide is ruddy,
They shine in the dark distance.
But this beam is half alive
In the desert you will not meet a reflection,
And it won't light anyone's path
From its icy peak!..
XV
A crowd of neighbors and relatives
Already gathered in a sad way.
Tormenting gray curls,
Silently hitting the chest
Goodal sits down for the last time
On a white-maned horse
And the train started moving. Three days.
Three nights their journey will last:
Between the old grandfather's bones
The shelter of the deceased was dug for her.
One of the forefathers of Gudal,
Robber of wanderers and villages,
When sickness took hold of him
And the hour of repentance has come
Sins past in redemption
He promised to build a church
On top of the granite rocks
Where only blizzards hear singing,
Where only the kite flew.
And soon between the snows of Kazbek
A lonely temple has risen
And the bones of an evil man
We calmed down there again;
And turned into a graveyard
Rock native to the clouds:
Like closer to heaven
Warmer posthumous dwelling? ..
As if further from people
The last dream will not be indignant ...
In vain! the dead won't dream
No sadness, no joy of the past days.
XVI
In the space of blue ether
One of the angels of the saints
Flying on golden wings
And a sinful soul from the world
He carried in his arms.
And sweet speech of hope
Dispelled her doubts
And a trace of misconduct and suffering
He washed away her tears.
From afar the sounds of paradise
They reached them - when suddenly,
Free path crossing,
An infernal spirit rose up from the abyss.
He was powerful, like a noisy whirlwind,
Shined like lightning,
And proudly in insane insolence
He says: "She's mine!"
She clung to her protective chest,
Prayer drowned out the horror,
Tamara sinful soul -
The fate of the future was decided
Again he stood before her,
But, God! - who would recognize him?
With what an evil look he looked,
How full of deadly poison
Enmity that knows no end -
And breathed grave cold
From a motionless face.
"Disappear, gloomy spirit of doubt! -
The heavenly messenger replied:
You have triumphed enough;
But the hour of judgment has now come -
And God's decision!
The days of testing are over;
With the clothes of the mortal earth
The shackles of evil fell from her.
Find out! we have been waiting for it for a long time!
Her soul was one of those
Whose life is one moment
unbearable pain,
Unattainable pleasures:
Creator from the best ether
Weaved their living strings,
They are not made for the world
And the world was not created for them!
Redeemed at the price of cruel
She has her doubts...
She suffered and loved -
And heaven opened for love!"
And the angel with stern eyes
Looked at the tempter
And with joyful flapping of wings,
I drowned in the radiance of the sky.
And cursed Demon defeated
Your crazy dreams
And again he remained, arrogant,
Alone, as before, in the universe
Without hope and love!
_________________
On the slope of a stone mountain
Above the Koishaur valley
Still standing to this day
The teeth are the ruins of an old one.
Stories scary for children
There are still stories about them...
Like a ghost, a silent monument,
Witness those magical days.
Blackens between the trees.
The village crumbled below.
The earth blossoms and turns green;
And voices discordant rumble
Gets lost and caravans
They go, ringing, from afar,
And, plunging through the mists,
The river sparkles and foams.
And life forever young.
Coolness, sun and spring
Nature is joking,
Like a carefree child.
But sad is the castle that has served
Years in turn
Like a poor old man who survived
Friends and lovely family.
And just waiting for the moon to rise
Its invisible inhabitants:
Then they have a holiday and freedom!
Buzzing, running in all directions.
Gray-haired spider, new hermit,
Spins the webs of its warp;
Green lizard family
Plays merrily on the roof;
And a wary snake
Creeps out of a dark hole
On the slab of the old porch,
Then suddenly it will fit into three rings,
That will lie in a long strip
And shines like a damask sword,
Forgotten in the field of old sich,
Unnecessary to the fallen hero!..
Everything is wild; there are no traces anywhere
Years gone by: the hand of the ages
Diligently, swept them away for a long time,
And don't remember anything
About the glorious name of Gudala,
Oh, his dear daughter!
But the church is on a steep peak,
Where are the bones taken by their earth,
We keep the power of the saint,
It is still visible between the clouds.
And at her gate stand
On guard are black granites,
Covered with cloaks of snow;
And on their chest instead of armor
The eternal ice is burning.
Falls sleepy bulks
From the ledges, like waterfalls,
Frost seized suddenly
They hang around frowning.
And there the blizzard walks on patrol,
Blowing dust off gray walls
That song starts a long one,
That calls out to sentries;
Hearing news in the distance
About a wonderful temple, in that country,
There are only clouds from the east
The crowd rush to worship;
But over a family of tombstones
Nobody is sad for a long time.
Rock of the gloomy Kazbek
Prey greedily guards,
And the eternal murmur of man
Their eternal peace will not disturb.
"A sad demon, a spirit of exile..."
Perhaps no one will deny that the poem "Demon" is the main poetic creation of Mikhail Lermontov. Masterpiece of world poetry. I'm not going to write a literary article now, this is a different genre. But the poem "Demon" is also a significant part of Lermontov's life, a milestone in his biography. Yes, and he worked on this poem from 1829 until the very end of his life.
Literary historians and literary scholars have written and continue to write a lot about the influence on the poem "Demon" and Pushkin's poems "Angel" (1827) and "Demon" (1823), and Byron's "Cain", and "Faust" by Goethe, and "Paradise Lost" by Milton … It's like that. But let's not always look for this or that borrowing from our Russian geniuses. It is more interesting to trace the demonic beginning in the fate of Lermontov himself. Other historians and literary critics, out of the best of intentions, translate the "demonic principle" itself as a kind of audacity, liberty. Alas, let's not hide it: in demonism there is always a God-fighting principle.
Let's listen to the poet himself. Once, Prince V.F. Odoevsky asked him:
Tell me, Mikhail Yuryevich, from whom did you write off your Demon?
To which the poet jokingly replied:
From yourself, prince, didn't you recognize it?
But you do not look like such a terrible Protestant and gloomy seducer, - Odoevsky began to justify his interlocutor.
Believe me, prince, I am even worse than my Demon.
All participants in the conversation laughed. But the joke was remembered, they began to talk about the autobiographical nature of the poem, they began to look for prototypes.
Of course, neither Demon nor Tamara has any real prototypes. But we will not reject the recognition of Lermontov himself in proximity to the image of the Demon. There was actually a certain demonic beginning in him. How can one not recall his distant ancestor Thomas Lermont, taken away to the realm of mythical fairies.
And the Demon of Lermontov himself is not like the heroes of the poems of his great predecessors. So independent that I rather agree with the statement of the witty Grand Duke Mikhail Pavlovich, who remarked after reading the poem:
We had Italian Beelzebub, English Lucifer, German Mephistopheles, now the Russian Demon has appeared, which means that evil spirits have arrived. I just don’t understand who created whom: is Lermontov the spirit of evil, or is the spirit of evil Lermontov?
Indeed, not a young poet at the age of 15 came up with a variety of infernal images, but certain forces hovered in him from childhood. We will not plunge headlong into demonology, but we admit that, rather, from childhood, from birth, a mystical demonic beginning was present in the fate of Mikhail Lermontov. And therefore, already at the very beginning of his work, from 1823, through all the frank imitations and borrowings of Pushkin or Byron, Goethe or Zhukovsky, a purely Lermontov transcendent, supermundane, cosmic line was visible.
When he wrote the first versions of the poem in 1829, while still studying at the university's Noble Boarding School, he imagined two heroes - a demon and an angel, in love with the same nun. Then his demon, having fallen in love with a nun, out of jealousy for an angel, destroys his beloved. Naturally, like everything else in Lermontov's work, traces of autobiography are already visible in the first drafts of The Demon. For me, it is rather an autobiography of the soul of the poet himself, his feelings, sprouting from purely human, youthful emotions. In the second edition of the poem (1831) he writes:
Like my demon, I'm an evil chosen one,
Like a demon, with a proud soul,
I am a careless wanderer among people,
For the world and heaven a stranger ...
However, in lyrical poems dedicated to a particular woman, he also compares himself with a fallen demon. You can, of course, become a secular chronicler and find more than one documentary story from Lermontov's life about how he seduced a woman who was ready to meet an angel, also a very specific person, the poet's rival. And even this story was not alone. Almost all of his passions of those youthful years, and Sushkov, and Ivanov, and Lopukhin, were seduced in their own way by Lermontov the demon and at the same time had their angel, who later became a lawful husband. It also happened vice versa: the poet is fond of, loves his girlfriend, but soon she will get bored with him, but her former angel has already left her. The heroine is doomed to death. I'm not going to paint all these documentary versions now. For behind the autobiographical truth of the fact, Mikhail Lermontov always hides, even apart from his desire, a deep intention, his comprehension of human passions. His gaze from heaven. Autobiography of his soul, his deep contradictions.
The most cosmic poet in Rus' was Mikhail Yurievich Lermontov. The sky was originally his element. If other poets looked from the earth - to the sky, then Mikhail Lermontov, rather, looked from the sky to the earth. He sent us his verses from heaven.
As a sixteen-year-old youth, he wrote: "People feed each other / Envy; / I, on the contrary, / Only envy the beautiful stars, / Only I would like to take their place." However, that is what happened. All his poetic life he lived in the starry world. He spoke to God as an equal, for "perfect love excludes fear." And God accepted him as an equal, for his verses brought heavenly grace to people. "Across the midnight sky an angel flew, / And he sang a quiet song; / And the moon, and the stars, and the clouds in a crowd / Listened to that song of the saint ..."
Shouldn't Russia be the first to turn towards space with such a poet? If the whole cosmos listened to the holy song of Mikhail Lermontov? This is what distinguishes Lermontov from other remarkable Russian writers in that they depict a natural man, embarrassed before heaven. And with Lermontov, a person is already perfect, he has already passed his past, before him is only the present and the future, and he is ready to see a new world, ready to know it, to fly up.
Mikhail Lermontov floats in front of us on his airship along the blue waves of the ocean, somewhere far away, into space, to unknown peaks, "only the stars will flash in the sky", and the poet is accompanied in this flight only by people close and equal to him, whom he appreciated and on the wrong earth. And no one else.
The attentive reader will notice that almost all of Lermontov's poetry is on the peaks: "Mountain peaks sleep in the darkness of night ...", "In the wild north stands alone / On a bare peak a pine tree ...", "A golden cloud spent the night / On the chest of a giant cliff ...", " The Terek howls, wild and vicious, / Between the rocky masses. But if he descends to the plain, then the whole starry sky descends with him. And again, outer space is alone with him.
I go out alone on the road;
Through the mist the flinty path gleams;
The night is quiet. The desert listens to God
And the star speaks to the star.
Where, from what galaxy, from what cosmic heights does the poet look down on us and mark our earthly destinies?
In heaven solemnly and wonderfully!
The earth sleeps in the radiance of blue ...
And where did he notice the blue glow of the earth even before any space flights? Who prompted? Indeed, with God on an equal footing. That is why all these petty human details seemed so insignificant to him. Some absurd quarrels, duels... "I won't shoot this fool," he said to Martynov. Everything earthly, carnal, as it were, touched him a little. He had already experienced his immortality during his lifetime. That is why he wrote: "Russia is all in the future," because he foresaw this future. He foresaw both his greatness and the greatness of Russia. If he argued with heaven, it was not about his personal fate, but about the fate of Russia. He created for us a new heavenly myth: “I, the Mother of God…”, “Angel”, “I go out alone on the road…”: he was the Apostle Michael. I think that such a subtle, such a cosmic poet as Mikhail Lermontov is no more either in Rus' or in the world. There is a style superior to him, more perfect in design, more inventive in composition, but there is no longer such a Russian sorcerer who was taken away by some force so early to the heavenly world. One of his dreams within a dream, naive, simple and magical in execution, is worth many high volumes. It would seem that they lowered him from the cosmic heavenly heights to our very sinful earth:
In the afternoon heat in the valley of Dagestan
With lead in my chest, I lay motionless;
A deep wound still smoking,
My blood dripped drop by drop...
Soon, on July 15, 1841, the poet actually ended up with lead in his chest in the valley of Dagestan ... And the already deceased hero of the poem dreamed of an evening feast in his native land. At the feast, one young soul, without entering into a cheerful conversation, she herself plunged into a sad dream:
And she dreamed of the valley of Dagestan;
A familiar corpse lay in that valley;
In his chest, smoking, black wound,
And the blood was flowing in a cold stream.
Such a terrifying dream in a dream attracts with its phantasmagoria. Lermontov, as if flying in the skies over Russia, throws us his moments of truth, amazing moments.
... But, alas, like everything in Russia, the creations of Mikhail Lermontov were not completed. However, he foresaw this in his "Russian Melody" of 1829: "And the beginning of the song is heard! - but in vain! / - No one will sing the end of it! .."
Many researchers like to portray him as a fallen angel, but even the very history of writing the poem "Demon" very clearly shows to any attentive reader how the demonic principle in his poetry gradually humbled himself before the soul of his guardian angel.
“Her soul was one of those, / Whose life is one moment / Unbearable torment, / Unattainable pleasures ...” - this angel not only speaks to the Demon, and not only about the soul of the heroine of Tamara's poem. I think that the soul of the poet himself was also taken to heaven, no matter how the demons fought for it: "And paradise opened for love ..."
Mikhail Lermontov begins his great poem with a story about the fate of the Demon, about those times when "he shone, a pure cherub", when in heaven he "believed and loved."
Sad Demon, spirit of exile,
He flew over the sinful earth,
And better days of remembrance
A crowd crowded before him;
Those days when in the dwelling of light
He shone, a pure cherub,
When a running comet
A smile of affectionate greetings
Loved to trade with him
When through eternal fogs,
Greedy for knowledge, he followed
Nomadic caravans
In the space of abandoned luminaries;
When he believed and loved
Happy firstborn of creation!
He was a pure angel and knew neither malice nor doubt. But everything passed ... he became a Demon, a fallen angel.
Insignificant dominating the earth,
He sowed evil without pleasure.
Nowhere to your art
He met no resistance
And evil bored him.
The story of writing "Demon" is the story of growing up, growing up and enlightening the poet himself. Lermontov's attitude to the Demon changed, the dispute was going on in himself. Different editions of the poem, different dedications and endings, as it were, dispute each other. There is no need to link the poem either to the poet's beloved Varvara Lopukhina, although there is a dedication to the second version of the 1831 poem "Accept my gift, my madonna! ..", or to members of the imperial family, including the mysterious Grand Duchess Maria Nikolaevna, daughter Emperor Nicholas I, with all its complex attitude to the work of the poet.
Yes, there was a conditionally called, and now rejected by many, Lopukhin version of the poem "The Demon", there was also the so-called court version, the last version of 1839. But in general, I am a little skeptical about the influence of women on the work of Mikhail Lermontov.
Neither "Valerik", nor "I, Mother of God ...", nor "The Beggar" I would classify as the poet's love creations. To whom he dedicates his poems, as soon as he goes a little deeper into poetry itself, nothing remains of his lovely graces, the love theme goes to second or third place. Even in simple album poems. And even more so in the poem "Demon". By the way, he started it in 1829, long before all his passionate novels. He often had re-dedications of the same poems from album to album, but more on that later. Of course, in all the first editions of the poem one can find a domestic basis. Lermontov meets with his beloved, is fond of her, but with her someone else or she gets married. And he angrily dooms his former beloved to mystical death, laughing at this or that angel. I will tell about the romantic hobbies of the poet elsewhere, but above all earthly stories, without which there is no literature itself, grandiose mystical symbols and cosmic images already reign. After returning from the Caucasus, he not only writes some ethnographic observations and landscape sketches into the poem "Demon", but gets rid of autobiographical traces and personal stories. The more reliable the historical basis of the poem becomes, the more real the Georgian nature, the more powerful and imperious, charming and legendary the image of the Demon is seen. However, the image of Tamara is also enlarged. If we compare these heroes, then perhaps with Shakespeare's.
I read the book by D. A. Alekseev "The Secret of Lermontov's Code" with great interest. I admit that in various later versions of the poem, he started from the real engagement of the Grand Duchess Maria Nikolaevna and the Duke of Leuchtenberg, which took place on December 4, 1838, and it is no coincidence that the so-called "court version of the poem" is marked on this day. All the details of their high-society life may come in handy. But, frankly, neither the Grand Duchess Maria Nikolaevna nor her future husband, the Duke of Leuchtenberg, who lived not so long and lived in Russia that he did not love, give anything to understand the poem "Demon" itself.
And the action of the poem developed from the first version of 1829 to the last eighth version of December 1839, by no means depending on the poet's love interests or on his court intrigues. All these dedications and plot details only frame the main idea of the poem, serve as insignificant decorations. To devote the whole book to the search for secondary prototypes and not to say anything about the secret and most complex idea of the poem, in my opinion, is too small for such a powerful creation.
"Demon" is the most mysterious work in Russian poetry, but not because the female addressees are so difficult to guess. Do all lovers of Mikhail Lermontov's poetry worry about the secrets of his love affairs? Reading different versions of the "Demon", rather, you see the development of his character, his attitude towards good and evil, his understanding of the world.
At the age of 15, a student at Moscow University, Mikhail Lermontov wrote the poem "My Demon" (1829). For starters, this is a kind of personification of evil, which the poet feels in himself. "The assembly of evils is his element..." He is indifferent to both nature and people. "He is a stranger to love and regret." Devoid of pity and compassion. The poet, as it were, foresees his whole future life as a struggle with this demon.
And the proud demon will not lag behind,
While I live, from me,
And it will illuminate my mind
Ray of wonderful fire;
Show the image of perfection
And suddenly take away forever
And, giving a premonition of bliss,
Never give me happiness.
With this poem, Lermontov clearly separated himself from the demon of evil for the rest of his future life, no matter how later in conversations or in verse he sometimes put on his mask, did not talk about the demon of his poetry. Of course, the demon did not lag behind the poet until the end of his days and even illuminated him with a ray of wonderful fire, but he acted with him, as in the poem with Tamara, not allowing him to achieve perfection, depriving him of happiness both in life and in poetry. And leaving him an imperfect, underestimated genius. Improving the image of the Demon, the poet at the same time fought with him, overcame him. The path of comprehending the demon both in oneself and in the world with Lermontov continued from "My Demon" to the unfinished "Tales for Children".
Already in "A Tale for Children" he seemed to recall the image of a hero that struck him from childhood:
My young mind used to resent
Mighty image; among other visions,
Like a king, dumb and proud, he shone
Such magically sweet beauty,
What was scary ... and the soul longing
Shriveled - and this wild nonsense
Haunted my mind for many years.
This wild nonsense was called the poem "Demon". Nikolai Gogol also remarked: “Recognizing the power of some seductive demon over himself, the poet tried more than once to depict his image, as if wanting to get rid of him with verses. to give him. It is evident that he grew up not from his own strength, but from the fatigue and laziness of a person to fight him. In his unfinished poem, called "A Tale for Children", this image receives more definition and meaning. Perhaps with the end of this story ... he would get rid of the spirit itself ... "
Lermontov gives demonic traits to the heroes of his early works: the hunchback Vadim in the unfinished story "Vadim", who rebelled against the world of Arbenin in the play "Arbenin" and later in "Masquerade". But there was a need in him to focus no longer on the demonic hero, but on the Demon himself.
In his notes for 1830, he first writes about the idea of the poem "Angel of Death": "Write the poem" Angel of Death. Greeks. He is wounded in battle and must die; the angel is no longer an angel, but only a virgin, and his kiss does not ease the death of the young man, as it used to be. The angel leaves the body of the virgin, but since then his kisses have been painfully dying. " It seems to be a poem about the angel of death, but it is no coincidence that the next entry in the diary already refers to the poem "Demon": "Memor: write a long satirical poem: the adventures of the Demon." These ideas of the young poet are closely interconnected, where there is an angel, there is a demon.
The poem "Angel of Death" is dated by the author himself "1831 September 4th day". In the poem itself, the action is transferred to India, to Lermontov's east, which is always alluring, the Greek turned into the hermit Zoraim, who reminds us of the ancient prophet Zoroaster, the founder of the ancient religion of fire worshipers, widespread in Iran, Afghanistan and part of India. Zoraim dies, the angel also leaves the body of an already mortal woman and returns to heaven. But this is no longer a bright angel, "... for the death of a friend, there remains in him / The desire of the world to take revenge on everything." Angel on the way to becoming a Demon. But nothing came of the satirical poem about the Demon. Not that hero, and not that author. The Demon demanded its incarnation, the author began to know his Demon.
As always with the early Lermontov, the poem "The Angel of Death" is based on one of the Western creations - the short story "The Death of an Angel" by J.P. Richter, but also, as always with the poet, using to some extent the idea and plot of Richter, Mikhail Lermontov gives his own poem a different meaning, instead of the mercy of Heaven, there is a battle between good and evil. Therefore, I do not like to talk about the influence on Lermontov of one or another of his great predecessors. Plots, myths, the names of heroes, the poet can still generously borrow from others at first, but with what independence and independence from his very first, still imperfect, creations, he develops his understanding of the world, his knowledge of both man and heaven.
No worse than Shakespeare, who always borrowed plots and images from the works of various authors, but using them as a hook for his own plan, he then created his brilliant tragedies and comedies. Mikhail Lermontov also often took the primary scheme of action from some Western poem or cycle of verses, but then unfolded it in his poetry according to the mystical Lermontov laws of comprehending the world.
He approaches his Demon in his other early poem "Azrael", already dedicated to the Muslim angel of death. Having not known the Caucasus properly by that time, while still living in Moscow and Serednikov near Moscow, studying at a boarding school and Moscow University, reading all English, French and German authors in the original, nevertheless, he stretches to the east - to India, to Persia. Like a northern pine tree on a bare peak, he dreams of a beautiful palm tree growing there "where the sun rises."
In the first version of 1829, we still see an unequivocal straightforward Demon of Evil, consciously and vindictively seducing a nun. This is a dull and gloomy ice Demon. The first version of the "Demon" Lermontov draws as a fifteen-year-old boy, in 1829. It consists of verse studies and two prose recordings of the plot. These are just sketches of the poem, two dedications, two abstracts of the plot, which were later embodied. A novice poet only sketches out different versions of the plot. "The demon falls in love with a mortal (nun), and she finally loves him, but the demon sees her guardian angel and, out of envy and hatred, decides to destroy her. She dies, her soul flies to hell, and the demon, meeting an angel who cries from on high heaven, reproaches him with a caustic smile ... "
All action is outside of time and space. The demon, although he wins in the first versions of the poem, remains the canonical villain. There are no heretical motives either. The world villain seduced a young nun and rushed off, pleased with the victory of evil. If he had left such a plot, the poem would hardly have interested the reader. But a genius is a genius, to abandon the vulgar routine. However, already in the first version, amazing lines were born from a fifteen-year-old teenager: "A sad demon, a spirit of exile ..." This sad Demon will remain wandering, flying over the sinful earth in all eight editions of the poem. The size of the poem will also remain unchanged.
For some period of time, Mikhail Lermontov is going to move the action of the "Demon" to the time of the "captivity of the Jews in Babylon." But the biblical "Demon" remained in the plans.
The second edition of the poem, already quite large, 442 verses, was written in a Moscow boarding school in early 1830. Additions to this edition are already dated 1831. In this second edition of the 1830 poem, the action is transferred to Spain. But for how long? Appear "lemon grove", "Spanish lute".
In the third edition of 1831, a dedication appears, according to Pavel Viskovaty, addressed to Varenka Lopukhina: "Accept my gift, my madonna! .." And the author is already compared with the image of the Demon, and already his beloved, like the heroine of the poem, protects this gloomy Genius for heaven and for hope. One could get carried away by comparing the image of a nun with Lopukhina, and Lermontov himself with the Demon, but ... the poet himself does not allow this to be done. The action of the poem develops both deeper and further than a simple retelling of the poet's earthly love. In the third version of the poem, the Moscow period of his passionate hobbies, the famous heretical dialogue between the Demon and the nun appears: "Why should I know your sorrows ...", in which the Demon already denies God's providence. This dialogue was deleted only in the court edition of the poem.
And in fact, why should the Empress and her daughters, the Grand Duchesses, know the sorrows of the Demon or know the sorrows of the poet? Yes, and risky. But in the original, the poet did not cross out this dialogue. Appeared in the third version and "Song of the nun." At the same time, Lermontov continued to work on his other poems "Azrael" and "Angel of Death". Something obviously does not satisfy him in the knowledge of the Demon. He writes at the end of the fourth edition: "I wanted to write this poem in verse: but no. - It's better in prose."
Mikhail Lermontov begins writing a novel in prose from the time of the Pugachev uprising "Vadim" with the demonic Vadim at the center of events. And here something does not satisfy him. Moreover, in life he did not work out with Moscow University, then St. Petersburg University, he went to study at the Junker School. For two years he was distracted from almost all poetic ideas. But to the Demon from time to time returns. The demon is still the same, and the heroine dies from his villainous plan. Evil also triumphs. Out of revenge on the angel, the Demon destroys his former love.
The fifth, last pre-Caucasian edition of the poem "Demon" was written already in 1835, after graduating from the Junker School, after being promoted to officer. He is already reworking the poem with the hope of success in society. The officer, the dashing hussar Lermontov, wants to frankly use his talent, his creations, his bewitching and attracting Demon, just to win the hearts of beauties. But in reality, of course, Lermontov's "Demon", even in its unpublished form, gained all-Russian fame in two editions - the sixth, Lopukhin's, and the eighth, court.
The demon falls in love with Tamara. He destroys her fiancé, the owner of Sinodal, but opens up to her "the abyss of proud knowledge." But Tamara is just an earthly Georgian princess. Having fallen in love with the Demon, she dies, it could not be otherwise. The demon is doomed to eternal loneliness. His struggle with heaven is eternal. And even if evil is bored, reconciliation with God is impossible for him, even if he wanted to. To do this, one must renounce liberty and independence, and the Demon will never renounce his freedom. “I am the king of knowledge and freedom, / I am the enemy of heaven, I am the evil of nature,” he says to Tamara ...
Mikhail Lermontov, during his exile, heard in Georgia a legend about the evil spirit Guda, who fell in love with a beautiful princess and killed her fiancé. He mentions this legend in A Hero of Our Time. This is how the old prince Gudal appeared at Lermontov's. And the bride really went to the monastery, which is located not far from Gudaul.
As befits a mystical Demon, it does not have a final canonical version. Time itself puts forward one or the other version of the poem. Already the first Caucasian version of the poem, dated September 8, 1838, transfers the action to the Caucasus. An unknown nun becomes the Georgian princess Tamara. Instead of the struggle of the Demon with the angel, we see the ancient princely Georgian family of the real "rulers of the Synodal". Returning from the first Caucasian exile, Lermontov subjected the poem to a major revision. Instead of allegories and abstractions, the wild nature of the Caucasus, which delighted Belinsky, appears, real semi-legendary characters from Georgian history appear. The mountains of the Caucasus, Kazbek, which seems to the Demon flying over it as a "edge of a diamond", "radiant Daryal", the Kaishauri valley, the bright Aragva, the stormy Terek, the gloomy Good Mountain. Pavel Viskovaty suggested that the poet, in his reworking of the poem, already relied on Caucasian legends and tales. Unlike most other researchers who traditionally look for borrowings from Western civilized literature from Russian writers, Viskovaty in his book on Lermontov convincingly proves that Lermontov retooled the poem, becoming well acquainted with the life and legends of Georgia.
First of all, "Demon" conquered the fair sex. Princess M.A. Shcherbatova, one of Mikhail Lermontov's favorite women, confessed to the poet after reading "The Demon":
I like your Demon: I would like to sink to the bottom of the sea with him and fly beyond the clouds.
You know, Lermontov, I am fond of your Demon ... His oaths are charming to the point of delight ... It seems to me that I could fall in love with such a powerful, powerful and proud creature, believing from the bottom of my heart that in love, as in malice, he would really be unchanged and great …
All the same, women are attracted to a strong demonic beginning. It is no coincidence that it was Eve who reached for the apple of sin. It is no coincidence that the imperial family, especially its female half, wanted to read the poem and turned to the poet with a request to provide them with an exact list of the poem. Perhaps, for the sake of the empress, the poet was forced to make some cuts in the most heretical places, but in general, I think this appeal of the imperial family benefited the "Demon": Mikhail Lermontov, firstly, brought the text of the poem to a complete form , rewrote it cleanly. Secondly, the court "Demon" is completely different from the poem "Death of the Poet", but it also received the widest distribution both in court society and in literary society. It was somehow indecent not to know Lermontov's Demon. The Empress read the court edition of the poem on February 8 and 9, 1839. A.P. Shan-Giray recalls: "One of the members of the royal family wished to read The Demon ... Lermontov set to work on this poem for the fourth time, completed it completely, gave it to be rewritten in calligraphy and ... transmitted it to its destination."
Who was the mediator is unknown. Like everything in the life of Mikhail Lermontov, the shadow of a secret hangs over everything. Either the maid of honor of the Empress S. N. Karamzin, or the former maid of honor A. O. Smirnova-Rosset. The poet V. E. Zhukovsky, who at that time was the tutor of the heir and lectured to the eldest daughters of the emperor, could also convey the poem. The imperial family did not come to great delight from the poem, or, at least, was embarrassed to express their love for demonic images. They returned the "Demon" to the poet with words expressing the opinion of the imperial family: "The poem is no words, it's good, but its plot is not particularly pleasant. Why does Lermontov not write in the style of" Borodin "or" Songs about Tsar Ivan Vasilyevich ...". I think this is not the opinion of the female half of the family. Purely male opinion, and even political opinion. It is unlikely that the Grand Duchesses were fond of battles or fights. It can be seen that the emperor himself got acquainted with the "Demon".
It is interesting that Lermontov did not hurry with the publication of the poem, they say, let him lie down - he said, leaving for the Caucasus. So, I thought about working on the poem further. So, as before, he strove for the sky, for starry spaces. It is no coincidence that in the late version of the "Demon" such heavenly verses appear:
On the ocean of air
No rudder and no sails
Quietly floating in the fog
Choirs of slender luminaries;
Among the boundless fields
Walking in the sky without a trace
Clouds elusive
Fibrous herds.
During the period from 1838 to 1841, the poem became known no less than the poem "Death of a Poet", which had been handed over in its time. That's who was the founder of our samizdat, so it's Mikhail Lermontov. He launched the text of the poem "Demon" into the court and literary circles consciously and thoughtfully. "The Demon" had already finally made Lermontov the first poet in Russia, there was even no one to put next to him. Fyodor Tyutchev was still engaged in his diplomatic work, was in no hurry to prove himself in literature, Pushkin and Griboyedov died, all other poets were of a completely different level.
Impressed by The Demon, Belinsky wrote to V.P. Botkin in March 1842 about Lermontov’s work: “... the content extracted from the bottom of the deepest and most powerful nature, a gigantic swing, a demonic flight - a proud enmity with the sky - all this makes one think that we have lost a poet in Lermontov who, in terms of content, would have stepped further than Pushkin. In connection with "Masquerade", "Boyar Orsha" and "Demon" Belinsky said: "... this is a satanic smile on life, twisting the lips of infants, this is" proud enmity with heaven ", this is the contempt of fate and a premonition of its inevitability. All this is childish, but terribly strong and sweeping. Lion nature! Terrible and powerful spirit! Do you know why I took it into my head to rant about Lermontov? I just finished copying his "Demon" yesterday, from two lists, with big differences - and more in them is this childish, immature and colossal creation ... "Demon" has become a fact of my life, I repeat it to others, I repeat to myself, in it for me are worlds of truths, feelings, beauties.
Preparing for publication his version of "The Demon", the naturally free-spirited rebellious critic Vissarion Belinsky removed all courtly smoothness and combined all Lermontov's rebellious versions of the poem. His Demon is a symbol of freedom, independence and knowledge, struggling with the imperfection of God's world. After all, the poet removed even his favorite line in the court version: “Or a proud enmity with heaven ...” The demon and Tamara carried away into his struggle with heaven, made her doubt God. And therefore, in contrast to the court version, where the angel announces that Tamara "at the cost of cruel redemption / She redeemed her doubts", in Lopukhin's version of 1838 the angel simply descended on her grave, and "for the soul of a young sinner / he prayed to the Creator ...". The victory remained with the Demon.
Belinsky called the Demon "the demon of movement, eternal renewal, eternal rebirth." “He is so terrible, so powerful, that he will hardly give birth to doubt in you about what you have hitherto considered to be an indisputable truth, as the ideal of a new truth already shows you from afar.”
Botkin himself, already as if answering his friend Belinsky, continued: “What a cold-blooded, calm contempt for all kinds of patriarchy, authoritative, familiar conditions that have turned into routine ... The spirit of analysis, doubt and denial, which now make up the character of the modern movement, is nothing more than that devil, demon... Lermontov boldly looked him straight in the eye, made friends with him and made him the king of his fantasy, which, like the ancient Pontic king, ate poisons.
Already today, the writer Dmitry Bykov spoke as follows: “Another autistic, withdrawn and well-read child, an eternal loner, a demon appeared - a flying creature of the 1833 model. It is symptomatic, however, that the Demon, and Carlson, and Lermontov, and Pechorin are breeds: they demonically destroy everything they touch, and they do it not out of their own evil will, but because they do not fit into society. Let's remember: the Demon, the spirit of exile, feels infinitely lonely - like Carlson. Here Bykov is right, since childhood, a lonely child lacked his heavenly patron, instead of Carlson, Mikhail Lermontov found his Demon and fought with him until the end of his life, along with him.
For a long time, literary critics believed that the last, eighth version of the "Demon" dates back to 1841, whole books and studies on this topic were published. But when documents from the royal archives were published and we learned that the empress read the poem not in 1841, but two years earlier, everything became clear with the court edition of the poem. It is another matter that even after the return of the poem to Mikhail Lermontov, right up to his departure for the Caucasus for the last time, he could well continue to work on the text of his dear creation.
The image of the Demon is the most multifaceted and diverse image in the poet's work. This is not the devil, not Satan, but not some small imp either. He is powerful and vindictive, rebels against the established world order, and at the same time he yearns for both love and ideal. For a heavenly creature, he is too human. He is too attached to the author himself.
Frankly, I do not think that the so-called court list of the poem did Lermontov any good. Yes, according to this list, A. I. Filosofov in 1856 in Karlsruhe printed the poem "Demon" in the printing house of Gasper in a meager edition of 28 copies. And so, preserved for eternity. A year later, in 1857, the same Philosophers published the second edition of The Demon, having already combined the court list with Lopukhin's, introducing a dialogue between the Demon and Tamara. In Russia, the poem appeared only in 1873, 35 years after Lermontov put the last point in it.
But with all the censorship and self-censorship cuts, the imperial court could not approve the demonic poem. No matter how the empress herself and her daughters secretly admired his poems, for the harsh court officials and Orthodox hierarchs, the "Demon" was indecent. It is no coincidence that after the death of the poet, the empress writes in her diary: “Thunder from a clear sky. Almost the whole morning with the Grand Duchess we read Lermontov’s poems ...” And when soon the Grand Duchess Maria Pavlovna, the “pearl of the family”, leaves for her husband in Germany, the Empress gives to her as the most precious "Poems" by Mikhail Lermontov and the novel "A Hero of Our Time".
They say that the emperor more than once was almost jealous of the poet for his family. But more about that another time.
Alas, during the life of the poet, "Demon" was not allowed by the censors. And the hero of the poem, the Demon, suffered the final catastrophe in the battle for Tamara, and his demonic reflection in the soul of the poet also suffers defeat.
Did Lermontov have to remake the poem for the imperial court? Maybe not necessary, Belinsky is right. But the poet always creates, and it was in the court version that the wonderful monologue of the Demon arose, which is worth all the alteration.
I swear on the first day of creation
I swear on his last day
I swear on the shame of crime
And eternal truth triumph.
I swear to fall by bitter flour,
Victory by a short dream;
I swear on a date with you
And again threatening separation.
I swear by the host of spirits,
The fate of the brothers subject to me,
With swords of impassive angels,
My unsleeping enemies;
I swear by heaven and hell
Earthly shrine and you
I swear by your last look
Your first tear
Your gentle lips with breath,
A wave of silk curls
I swear by bliss and suffering,
I swear on my love...
If the poet called his hero not a Demon, but Prometheus or some Eastern or Slavic lonely and proud hero, maybe fate would have turned out differently.
I think that the Demon is also disliked by our current church and government authorities. Neither the lonely rebellion of the hero, nor the rebellion against the injustice of the world order suits them. And it is not clear whether the world is bringing evil to the proud, restless Demon, or the Demon himself is dissatisfied with the world.
And he enters, ready to love,
With a heart open to goodness,
And he thinks that a new life
The desired time has come.
A vague thrill of anticipation
Silent fear of the unknown
Like a first date
Confessed with a proud soul ...
It is clear that these are the thoughts of Mikhail Lermontov himself. But why do they, from his very first poem, acquire a certain demonic beginning either in the hunchback Vadim, then in Arbenin, then in Mtsyri, then in the Demon itself. Let him, having parted with other dreams, in the end get rid of the Demon with verses. Alas, the ending in life still happened to be demonic.
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Chapter VI. Sad end Summer in the village. - Gogol is taken again for the 2nd volume of "Dead Souls" and finishes it in draft. - Moving to Moscow. - Reading the first chapters in the Aksakov family and general delight. – Constant alterations of the manuscript. – Gogol is seized by the “fear of death”. -
CHAPTER VI. SAD END Summer in the countryside. - Gogol is taken again for the 2nd volume of "Dead Souls" and finishes it in draft. - Moving to Moscow. - Reading the first chapters in the Aksakov family and general delight. - Constant alterations of the manuscript. - Gogol embraces the "fear of death." -
V. I am not afraid of exile... Bold patience was born in me again... Pushkin. "To Chaadaev", 1821 From October 19 in one direction - two weeks left until November 4, until the anonymous letter, and then - further and to the end ... to the other, in which we are moving in this study, that is, back, we
Demon Moonless night. Gloomy predawn hour. Through a light haze of fog, the snowy peaks of the mountain range glow. They glow dimly, dully, as snow glows from itself on moonless nights. A huge figure appears on a dark rock. One hand is stretched out on the rock. Another
A SAD DEMON AND THE RUSSIAN FATE In the 40 years that have passed since the "turbulent 60s" much has changed, and often looks in a different light. But some important lines of fate, on the contrary, can only now be truly appreciated and seen in the interweaving of a common