Pushkin Alexander drops his crimson forest attire, the frost will silver what has faded. Pushkin Alexander Sergeevich

23.09.2019

The forest drops its crimson robe,
Frost will silver the withered field,
The day will appear as if involuntarily
And it will disappear beyond the edge of the surrounding mountains.
Burn, fireplace, in my deserted cell;
And you, wine, are a friend of the autumn cold,
Pour a gratifying hangover into my chest,
A momentary oblivion of bitter torment.

I am sad: there is no friend with me,
With whom would I drink away the long separation,
Who could I shake hands with from the heart?
And wish you many happy years.
I drink alone; imagination in vain
Around me my comrades are calling;
The familiar approach is not heard,
And my soul does not wait for a sweetheart.

I drink alone, and on the banks of the Neva
Today my friends call me...
But how many of you feast there too?
Who else are you missing?
Who changed the captivating habit?
Who has been drawn away from you by the cold light?
Whose voice fell silent at the fraternal roll call?
Who didn't come? Who is missing between you?

He didn’t come, our curly-haired singer,
With fire in the eyes, with a sweet-voiced guitar:
Under the myrtle trees of beautiful Italy
He sleeps quietly, and a friendly chisel
Didn't inscribe it over the Russian grave
A few words in the native language,
So that you never find hello sad
Son of the north, wandering in a foreign land.

Are you sitting with your friends?
Restless lover of foreign skies?
Or again you are passing through the sultry tropic
And the eternal ice of the midnight seas?
Happy journey!.. From the Lyceum threshold
You stepped onto the ship jokingly,
And from then on, your road is in the seas,
O beloved child of waves and storms!

You saved in a wandering fate
Wonderful years, original morals:
Lyceum noise, lyceum fun
Among the stormy waves you dreamed;
You stretched out your hand to us from across the sea,
You carried us alone in your young soul
And he repeated: “For a long separation
A secret fate, perhaps, has condemned us!”

My friends, our union is wonderful!
He, like the soul, is inseparable and eternal -
Unshakable, free and carefree,
He grew together under the shadow of friendly muses.
Wherever fate throws us
And happiness wherever it leads,
We are still the same: the whole world is foreign to us;
Our Fatherland is Tsarskoye Selo.

From end to end we are pursued by thunderstorms,
Entangled in the nets of a harsh fate,
I tremblingly enter the bosom of new friendship,
The charter, the caressing head...
With my sad and rebellious prayer,
With the trusting hope of the first years,
He gave himself up to other friends with a tender soul;
But their greeting was bitter and unbrotherly.

And now here, in this forgotten wilderness,
In the abode of desert blizzards and cold,
A sweet consolation was prepared for me:
Three of you, my soul's friends,
I hugged here. The poet's house is disgraced,
Oh my Pushchin, you were the first to visit;
You sweetened the sad day of exile,
You turned it into the day of the Lyceum.

You, Gorchakov, have been lucky from the first days,
Praise be to you - fortune shines cold
Didn't change your free soul:
You are still the same for honor and friends.
We are assigned a different path by strict fate;
Stepping into life, we quickly parted ways:
But by chance on a country road
We met and hugged brotherly.

When the wrath of fate befell me,
A stranger to everyone, like a homeless orphan,
Under the storm, I drooped my languid head
And I was waiting for you, prophet of the Permesian maidens,
And you came, inspired son of laziness,
Oh my Delvig: your voice awakened
The heat of the heart, lulled for so long,
And I cheerfully blessed fate.

From infancy the spirit of songs burned in us,
And we experienced wonderful excitement;
From infancy two muses flew to us,
And our destiny was sweet with their caress:
But I already loved applause,
You, proud one, sang for the muses and for the soul;
I spent my gift, like life, without attention,
You raised your genius in silence.

The service of the muses does not tolerate fuss;
The beautiful must be majestic:
But youth advises us slyly,
And noisy dreams make us happy...
Let's come to our senses - but it's too late! and sadly
We look back, seeing no traces there.
Tell me, Wilhelm, is that not what happened to us?
Is my brother related by muse, by destiny?

It's time, it's time! our mental anguish
The world is not worth it; Let's leave the misconceptions behind!
Let's hide life under the shadow of solitude!
I'm waiting for you, my belated friend -
Come; by the fire of a magical story
Revive heartfelt legends;
Let's talk about the stormy days of the Caucasus,
About Schiller, about fame, about love.

It's time for me... feast, oh friends!
I anticipate a pleasant meeting;
Remember the poet's prediction:
A year will fly by, and I will be with you again,
The covenant of my dreams will come true;
A year will fly by and I will appear to you!
Oh, how many tears and how many exclamations,
And how many cups raised to heaven!

And the first one is complete, friends, complete!
And all the way to the bottom in honor of our union!
Bless, jubilant muse,
Bless: long live the Lyceum!
To the mentors who guarded our youth,
To all honor, both dead and alive,
Raising a grateful cup to my lips,
Without remembering evil, we will reward goodness.

Fuller, fuller! and, with my heart on fire,
Again, drink to the bottom, drink to the drop!
But for whom? oh others, guess...
Hurray, our king! So! Let's drink to the king.
He's a man! they are ruled by the moment.
He is a slave to rumors, doubts and passions;
Let us forgive him his wrongful persecution:
He took Paris, he founded the Lyceum.

Feast while we're still here!
Alas, our circle is thinning hour by hour;
Some are sleeping in a coffin, some are orphans in the distance;
Fate is watching, we are withering; the days are flying;
Invisibly bowing and growing cold,
We are nearing our beginning...
Which of us needs the Lyceum Day in our old age?
Will you have to celebrate alone?

Unhappy friend! among new generations
The annoying guest is both superfluous and alien,
He will remember us and the days of connections,
Closing my eyes with a trembling hand...
Let it be with sad joy
Then he will spend this day at the cup,
Like now I, your disgraced recluse,
He spent it without grief and worries.

“THE FOREST IS DROPING ITS Crimson CLOTHING...”
Project “2022” or “Pushkin’s Hours”

A new project “2022” or “Pushkin’s Hours” has started in the Pushkin Nature Reserve, the author and ideological inspirer of which is an employee of the Russian Research Institute of Cultural and natural heritage them. D. S. Likhacheva S. A. Pchelkin.

The project concept is based on the development and development of event tourism in the Pushkin Nature Reserve. The first such Mikhailov “event” was an extremely important date for the poet - October 19, the founding day of the Tsarskoe Selo Lyceum. Participants creative group, consisting of employees of the Pushkin Reserve, invited our guests to immerse themselves in the world of Pushkin’s memories of youth and together with the poet, his friends, neighbors, local peasants, “live” for two autumn days in his “lyceum”, Mikhailovsky.

The first day of the program, October 18, became for our guests a meeting with the world of the Russian village. The very village that became for the poet the subject of his literary quest during the years of exile. The Pushkin Village Museum became the first door that opened the way to the world of the poet’s “village” existence. And next to the museum the “Pokrovskaya Fair” sang, danced and walked, folk festival, which allowed you to plunge into the colorful world national holiday. The fair festivities, songs, and fun certainly left a mark in my memory. Just like souvenir toys made with your own hands in the museum craft center.

The Lyceum day itself - October 19 - began quite early. If it had turned out to be cloudy, then we would have had to go to Mikhailovskoye with an antique lantern prepared in advance. But it was of no use: the morning was clear and bright. The road passed with a heartfelt conversation about the impressions of the past day and expectations of the future.

The early hour allowed us to feel Pushkin’s lines more deeply:

The forest drops its crimson robe,
Frost will silver the withered field,
The day will appear as if involuntarily
And it will disappear beyond the edge of the surrounding mountains.

"Lyceum" tour of the House-Museum of A.S. Pushkin was dedicated to one of the brightest pages of Pushkin’s life - the lyceum brotherhood. Pushchin, Delvig, Gorchakov, Kuchelbecker - how Pushkin waited for them, what words he found for them, celebrating alone the eighth anniversary of his graduation from the Lyceum.

In the “Nanny's House”, a talkative “yard servant”, somewhat reminiscent of the coachman Pyotr Parfenov, was waiting for the guests. In the Pskov “Naretsye” he spoke about Pushkin’s habits, how the poet loved his nanny, how he left Mikhailovsky for Moscow...

In the master’s kitchen, the “cook” happily told about the poet’s favorite dishes, about how they tried at Mikhailovsky to please Pushkin with both simple dishes and culinary delights.

In total, Pushkin wrote five poems dedicated to the Lyceum anniversary: in 1825, 1827, 1828,1831, 1836. They represent a single cycle. Four out of five were created in the same years when the poet came to Mikhailovskoye. These visits bear the imprint of memories of the lyceum brotherhood. The story about this developed completely harmoniously on the way to Savkino.

Lines from the last Lyceum message of 1836 were heard at the walls of the Svyatogorsk Monastery.

... The evening of October 19 was held by candlelight in the cozy fireplace room of the literary hotel "Arina R." Our guests took part in a theatrical literary and musical evening. Poems, romances, charades, pantomime scenes, tests in poetry - as a memory of the Lyceum with its ideal of a free, talented individual.

My friends, our union is wonderful!
He, like a soul, is indivisible and eternal -
Unwavering, free and carefree
He grew together under the shadow of friendly muses.
Wherever fate throws us
And happiness wherever it leads,
We are still the same: the whole world is foreign to us;
Our Fatherland is Tsarskoye Selo.

19 OCTOBER 18 25 .

The forest drops its crimson headdress,
Frost will silver the withered field,
The day will appear as if involuntarily
And it will disappear beyond the edge of the surrounding mountains.
Burn, fireplace, in my deserted cell;
And you, wine, are a friend of the autumn cold,
Pour a gratifying hangover into my chest,
A momentary oblivion of bitter torment.

I'm sad: I don't have a friend with me,
With whom would I drink away the long separation,
Who could I shake hands with from the heart?
And wish you many happy years.
I drink alone; imagination in vain
Around me my comrades are calling;
The familiar approach is not heard,
And my soul does not wait for a sweetheart.

Serving the muses does not tolerate fuss;
The beautiful must be majestic:
But youth advises us slyly,
And noisy dreams make us happy...
Let's come to our senses - but it's too late! and sadly
We look back, seeing no traces there.
Tell me, Wilhelm, is that not what happened to us?
Is my brother related by muse, by destiny?

Fuller, fuller! and, with my heart on fire,
Again, drink to the bottom, drink to the drop!
But for whom? oh others, guess...
Hurray, our king! So! Let's drink to the king.

Let us forgive him his wrongful persecution:
He took Paris, he founded the Lyceum.

Alexander Pushkin .

==========

poem OCTOBER 19, 1825 and music - performed by Yu.K.

re-read Pushkin finally take a closer look...
- as his thought cheerful and always at work
================================== ===

Pushkin about leniency

To the main thing official
audio PUSHKIN about mercy to the chief OFFICIAL

How again I was amazed at the accuracy of the observations
and rare and defining details:

"withering field"- how exactly

"the forest drops its crimson headdress"
- holiday clothes are falling apart

the union grew together "under the shadow of friendly muses"
- youth is pure service to creativity

and is ready to strengthen ties on this basis
- for the good of the cause

and "the whole world is a foreign land"
- i.e. everything is a foreign land where the thought of understanding the world does not beat

what sincere love for all the listed friends
- but how cheerful his thought is

and there is no drunken melancholy - the wine flashes by the way
service to creativity
- how the burning of thought is most important to him

and leniency towards the king
he of course the highest example Christian virtue
- love your enemy

he speaks about the king from the heights of his position, of course
as a thinker about the chief duty officer
but loving and even tenderly loving
forgiving him everything because that hour explains
what lies in his speech as a lawyer's justification for the king

-“Hurray, our king! So! Let’s drink to the king.
He's a man! they are ruled by the moment.
He is a slave to rumors, doubts and passions;
Let us forgive him his wrongful persecution:
He took Paris, he founded the Lyceum."

he softened the anger of his contemporaries
and called for leniency

and again he looks into the depth and essence of the problems
not just relationships
chief official and leading minds

but also - what is art and its nature
about her duality

art belongs to the delight of the viewer
- "but I already loved the applause"
and at the same time privacy
- “the service of the muses does not tolerate fuss”

So his whole life was spent on the road
between capitals and countryside

For what?
so that the thought does not fade
Apart from this, he was not interested in anything...

=====

Essay on Pushkin's poem

The forest drops its crimson attire, the frost turns the withered field silver, the day appears as if against its will, and disappears over the edge of the surrounding mountains. Burn, fireplace, in my deserted cell; And you, wine, friend of the autumn cold, pour a gratifying hangover into my chest, a momentary oblivion of bitter torment. I am sad: there is no friend with me, with whom I would drink the long separation, to whom I could shake hands from the heart and wish many happy years. I drink alone; in vain the imagination calls comrades around me; The familiar approach is not heard, And my dear soul does not wait. I drink alone, and on the banks of the Neva my friends call me today... But how many of you feast there too? Who else are you missing? Who changed the captivating habit? Who has been drawn away from you by the cold light? Whose voice fell silent at the fraternal roll call? Who didn't come? Who is missing between you? He did not come, our curly-haired singer, With fire in his eyes, with a sweet-voiced guitar: Under the myrtle trees of beautiful Italy He sleeps quietly, and a friendly chisel did not inscribe over the Russian grave A few words in his native language, So that the sad Son of the north would once find greetings, wandering in the land stranger. Are you sitting in the circle of your friends, a restless lover of foreign skies? Or are you again passing through the sultry tropic And the eternal ice of the midnight seas? Happy journey!.. From the threshold of the Lyceum You stepped onto the ship jokingly, And from that time on, your path has been in the seas, O beloved child of waves and storms! You have preserved in the wandering fate of the beautiful years the original morals: Lyceum noise, lyceum fun Among the stormy waves you dreamed of; You stretched out your hand to us from across the sea, You carried us alone in your young soul And repeated: “A secret fate, perhaps, condemned us to a long separation!” My friends, our union is wonderful! He, like a soul, is inseparable and eternal - Unshakable, free and carefree, He grew together under the canopy of friendly muses. Wherever fate throws us And wherever happiness leads us, We are still the same: the whole world is foreign to us; Our Fatherland is Tsarskoye Selo. From end to end we are pursued by thunderstorms, entangled in the nets of a harsh fate, I tremblingly into the bosom of a new friendship, Tired, I leaned on the caressing head... With my sad and rebellious prayer, With the trusting hope of the first years, I gave myself up to some friends with a tender soul; But their greeting was bitter and unbrotherly. And now here, in this forgotten wilderness, In the abode of desert blizzards and cold, a sweet consolation was prepared for me: Three of you, friends of my soul, I embraced here. The poet’s house is disgraced, O my Pushchin, you were the first to visit; You sweetened the sad day of exile, You turned it into the day of the Lyceum. You, Gorchakov, have been lucky from the first days, Praise be to you - the cold shine of fortune has not changed your free soul: You are still the same for honor and friends. We are assigned a different path by strict fate; Stepping into life, we quickly parted ways: But by chance, on a country road, We met and embraced brotherly. When the wrath of fate befell me, a stranger to everyone, like a homeless orphan, I hung my languid head under the storm And waited for you, prophet of the Permesian maidens, And you came, inspired son of laziness, O my Delvig: your voice awakened the heat of the heart, so long lulled, And I cheerfully blessed fate. From infancy the spirit of songs burned in us, And we knew a wondrous excitement; From infancy, two muses flew to us, And our destiny was sweet with their caress: But I already loved applause, You, proud, sang for the muses and for the soul; I spent my gift, like life, without attention, You raised your genius in silence. The service of the muses does not tolerate fuss; The beautiful should be majestic: But youth advises us slyly, And noisy dreams make us happy... Let's come to our senses - but it's too late! and sadly we look back, not seeing any traces there. Tell me, Wilhelm, was it not the same with us, My brother by muse, by destiny? It's time, it's time! The world is not worth our mental anguish; Let's leave the misconceptions behind! Let's hide life under the shadow of solitude! I'm waiting for you, my belated friend - Come; with the fire of a magical story, revive heartfelt legends; Let's talk about the stormy days of the Caucasus, About Schiller, about fame, about love. It's time for me... feast, oh friends! I anticipate a pleasant meeting; Remember the poet's prediction: A year will fly by, and I will be with you again, The covenant of my dreams will come true; A year will fly by and I will appear to you! Oh, how many tears and how many exclamations, And how many cups raised to heaven! And the first one is complete, friends, complete! And all the way to the bottom in honor of our union! Bless, jubilant muse, Bless: long live the Lyceum! To the mentors who guarded our youth, With honor to all, both dead and living, Raising a grateful cup to our lips, Without remembering evil, we will reward for good. Fuller, fuller! and, with your heart on fire, drink to the bottom again, to the drop! But for whom? oh, guess what... Hurray, our king! So! Let's drink to the king. He's a man! they are ruled by the moment. He is a slave to rumors, doubts and passions; Let us forgive him for his wrongful persecution: He took Paris, he founded the Lyceum. Feast while we're still here! Alas, our circle is thinning hour by hour; Some are sleeping in a coffin, some are orphans in the distance; Fate is watching, we are withering; the days are flying; Invisibly bowing and growing cold, We are approaching our beginning... Which of us, in our old age, will have to celebrate the day of the Lyceum alone? Unhappy friend! among new generations, a tedious guest, superfluous and alien, He will remember us and the days of unions, Closing his eyes with a trembling hand... Let him with joy, even sad Then he will spend this day at the cup, As now I, your disgraced recluse, spent it without grief and worries.

After graduating from the Lyceum, the graduates decided to gather annually on October 19, the day grand opening in 1811 the Lyceum. In those years when Pushkin was in exile and could not be with his comrades on the day of the anniversary, he more than once sent his greetings to those gathered. In a large message of 1825, Pushkin addresses his friends with warmth, recalls the days of the lyceum, and his classmates. He talks about the friendship of the lyceum students, which united them into a single family.
Pushkin writes this about Pushchin’s visit to him in Mikhailovsky:
...The poet's house is disgraced,
Oh my Pushchin, you were the first to visit;
You sweetened the sad day of exile,
On the day you turned it into a lyceum.

Both Delvig and Kuchelbecker, “brothers in the muse,” were close to the poet. Delvig also visited Pushkin in Mikhailovskoye, and his arrival “awakened (in the poet) the heat of the heart, which had been dormant for so long,” and brought cheerfulness into the soul of the exile.

The Lyceum forever remained in Pushkin’s memory as the cradle of freethinking and love of freedom, as a “lyceum republic” that united lyceum students into a “holy brotherhood.”

The poem is warmed by great and genuine tenderness, deeply sincere feeling love for friends. When Pushkin talks about his loneliness in Mikhailovsky, remembers Korsakov, who died in Italy, courageous sadness sounds in his poems.

Few Russian poets knew how to write about friendship like Pushkin - not just lovingly, but with understanding. And with the same understanding one should read the verse “The forest drops its crimson attire” by Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin. And for this it is worth knowing that they were written on the day when pupils of the Tsarskoye Selo Lyceum from the same class, by agreement, all gathered together. The poet, being in exile at that time, could not be with them and therefore was sad. Thus, Russian literature was replenished with this wonderful friendly message.

The main theme of the work can be easily determined by reading it online - it is a reflection on true friendship. According to Pushkin, only his fellow lyceum students are true friends. The exile taught the poet a useful lesson - only they did not forget the disgraced genius, but many of those whom he also considered worthy of friendly feelings only disappointed him.

The text of Pushkin’s poem “The forest drops its crimson attire” is filled with deep sadness at the same time - which is understandable, because he would like to drink not alone, but with his faithful comrades. At the same time, sadness does not completely cover him - the memories that there is such friendship in his life console him even in exile. This poem must be downloaded and taught to realize the value of true friends.

From end to end we are pursued by thunderstorms,
Entangled in the nets of a harsh fate,
I tremblingly enter the bosom of new friendship,
Tired, with a caressing head...
With my sad and rebellious prayer,
With the trusting hope of the first years,
He gave himself up to other friends with a tender soul;
But their greeting was bitter and unbrotherly.

Feast while we're still here!
Alas, our circle is thinning hour by hour;
Some are sleeping in a coffin, some are orphans in the distance;
Fate is watching, we are withering; the days are flying;
Invisibly bowing and growing cold,
We are approaching our beginning...
Which of us needs the Lyceum Day in our old age?
Will you have to celebrate alone?