The master of words, Nikolai Alekseevich, well understood the problems he was talking about and easily conveyed them to the reader even when he had to veil his thoughts.
Nekrasov is a democrat whose ideas inspired many revolutionaries to fight for happiness common people, who even after the reform and abolition of serfdom was still unhappy.
The writer never stood aloof from the problems discussed in society, they concerned ordinary people or intelligentsia. As evidence, one can cite the poem “The Poet and the Citizen.”
Concept and history of creation
The poem was born in thoughts and anguish about the fate of the Motherland and everyone who can and should contribute to the development of history. Having moved away from the liberals and completely sharing the views of the democrats, Nikolai Alekseevich had a fairly clear position during this period of his life. It is expressed in the work.
It is generally accepted that “The Poet and the Citizen” was written in 1855. But since it was rewritten by the author several times, many writers prefer to date it back to 1856, when it began to appear with all the changes. Almost immediately it was published in one of the author’s collections. But before that famous writer Chernyshevsky has already written a positive announcement for this poem by Nikolai Nekrasov, and made a kind of advertisement for it.
Printing the poem in its original form was dangerous. The magazine was constantly on the edge, so to speak. And if only the political orientation of poetry aroused suspicion among the authorities, one could expect not only criticism, but also the complete closure of the magazine.
I had to act subtly.
The mini-performance described in the work is a polemic of ideas, it is a call to a civic position for which one is not ashamed.
It can be assumed that the writer paints a portrait of himself, and he is not shy about reproaches and accusations.
In whom the sense of duty has not cooled,
Who is incorruptibly straight in heart,
Who has talent, strength, accuracy,
Tom shouldn't sleep now...
Nekrasov in his poem tries to show that it does not matter at all who a person is by profession. The poem could well be called “The Accountant and the Citizen” or “The Merchant and the Citizen.” The main word Citizen .
The dialogue between the heroes of Nekrasov’s plot begins with the reproaches of a citizen who is trying to convey to the poet that it is impossible to live like this, that you need to be a patriot and a citizen of your homeland. The citizen tells the poet that right now his unfortunate people need support. But the poet’s internal state is very far from a civically active position; he is moping and seems to be barely breathing. And all this is only because he stopped believing in the effective power of his creativity, disappointment set in his soul.
The controversy between the heroes lasts a long time. Everyone makes arguments to protect their interests. The citizen declares with full confidence that it is impossible for people, educated and conscientious, to remain on the sidelines simply to sing the praises of nature. It is poets and writers, possessing a special gift that nature has endowed them with, who must inspire people and lead them. And this will be their feat.
Any person is, first of all, a citizen and patriot of his country. He must strive to make life much better, so that all people are happy not only spiritually, but also economically.
The poet is disappointed with the years he has lived. Suffering and confrontation seemed to break him. He is in deep sadness.
Under the yoke of years the soul bent,
She's cooled down to everything
And the Muse turned away completely,
Full of bitter contempt.
But the citizen does not back down. He forces you to re-evaluate your melancholic moods and not betray your ideas.
This is how the main main idea of the work is born.
You may not be a poet
But you have to be a citizen.
Composition of Nekrasov's poem
The poem is written interestingly - in the form of a dialogue.
In the citizen's speech, the author introduces large number appeals expressed by rhetorical exclamations and appeals. The poet is no longer talking even with his interlocutor, but he is having a conversation, first of all, with himself. And in this unexpected internal dialogue, the author uses verbs, most of which have imperative. The author of the poem tries to create an emotional mood in the reader and push him to decisive action.
In the image of the Citizen, one can see the views that were inherent in the democrats, among whom were the author himself and his friends. But the Poet’s position is also close to the author. Disappointments lyrical hero understandable.
If only they knew my life,
My love, my worries...
Gloomy and full of bitterness,
I'm standing at the door of the coffin...
The citizen is accustomed to acting. The poet tries to show it better side, naming and demonstrating his best character traits. But he has a lot of them: this is kindness, and directness, coming from the depths of his heart, the strength and accuracy of his words, a sense of duty. The citizen invites his interlocutor to get up from the couch, forget about the blues and boldly remind people of their vices, which need to be gotten rid of.
The author speaks in his own words active hero that for a cause that will benefit his homeland, his people, one can shed blood and even die. Calls his interlocutor the chosen one of the gods and heaven. After all, he knows how to convey all the truths to people. And therefore the Poet must also serve the people.
The censor did not like this passage very much, who considered the words a call for revolutionary movement.
Nikolay Nekrasov uses many different artistic means:
⇒ Metaphor.
⇒ Rhetorical exclamations and questions.
⇒ Epithet.
⇒ Artistic parallelism.
⇒ Comparisons.
⇒ Personifications.
⇒ Comparisons.
⇒Anaphors.
⇒ Antithesis.
Nekrasov's poem is written in two-syllable meter - iambic, although it is tetrameter. It also contains pyrrhichium. Rhymes, male and female, constantly alternate, and the rhyme is completely unordered.
Analysis of Nekrasov’s poem “Poet and Citizen”
There were periods in the writer's life when he doubted his talent, compared himself with other poets and uncontrollably criticized himself. And this is also reflected in the work. In the episode when a citizen, without trying to embellish reality, says: No, you are not Pushkin. But for now,
The sun is not visible from anywhere,
It's a shame to sleep with your talent...
It should be noted that despite the fact that more than 160 years have passed since the work was written, it remains relevant. The civic position of any person, as well as a poet, does not change in society. The drama played out in the work makes you think about your purpose in life, about the quality of life itself, about choosing the right road.
All the calls heard in the poem, which the current government did not like so much, are a method of struggle available to the writer. Therefore, Nekrasov uses all kinds of forms available to the master of the pen to convey the main idea - the path to freedom. This path does not promise to be easy. Sacrifices cannot be avoided along this path. But “lying on the couch” is no longer possible. Society is on the verge of decisive action.
The author of the poem says that the main purpose of any creative personality is to serve your people. Therefore, Nekrasov’s poem can be considered as a call or manifesto, which should call on all writers to come together, unite and speak out in defense of the unfortunate people.
And you, poet! chosen one of heaven,
Herald of age-old truths,
Do not believe that he who has no bread
Not worth your prophetic strings!
Don’t believe that people will fall altogether;
God has not died in the souls of people,
And a cry from a believing chest
Will always be available to her!
Be a citizen! serving art,
Live for the good of your neighbor,
Subordinating your genius to feeling
All-embracing Love;
And if you are rich in gifts,
Don’t bother exhibiting them:
They themselves will shine in your work
Their life-giving rays.
Look: solid stone in fragments
The poor worker crushes
And from under the hammer it flies
And the flame splashes out on its own!
Citizen(included)
Alone again, harsh again
He lies there and writes nothing.
Poet
Add: moping and barely breathing -
And my portrait will be ready.
Citizen
Nice portrait! No nobility
There is no beauty in him, believe me,
It's just vulgar foolishness.
A wild animal knows how to lie down...
Poet
So what?
Citizen
It's a shame to watch.
Poet
Well, then go away.
Citizen
Listen: shame on you!
It's time to get up! You know yourself
What time has come;
In whom the sense of duty has not cooled,
Who is incorruptibly straight in heart,
Who has talent, strength, accuracy,
Tom shouldn't sleep now...
Poet
Let's say I'm such a rarity
But first we need to give a job.
Citizen
Here's the news! You're dealing
You only fell asleep temporarily
Wake up: boldly smash the vices...
Poet
A! I know: “Look, where did you throw it!”
But I'm a shelled bird.
It's a pity, I don't want to talk.
(Takes a book)
Savior Pushkin! - Here is the page:
Read it - and stop reproaching!
Citizen(reads)
“Not for everyday worries,
Not for gain, not for battles,
We were born to inspire
For sweet sounds and prayers."
Poet(with delight)
Inimitable sounds!..
Whenever with my Muse
I was a little smarter
I swear, I wouldn’t pick up a pen!
Citizen
Yes, the sounds are wonderful... hurray!
Their strength is so amazing
That even the sleepy blues
It slipped from the poet's soul.
I’m sincerely happy - it’s time!
And I share your delight,
But I confess, your poems
I take it more to heart.
Poet
Don't talk nonsense!
You are a zealous reader, but a wild critic.
So, in your opinion, I am great,
A poet taller than Pushkin?
Tell me please?!.
Citizen
Well, no!
Your poems are stupid
Your elegies are not new,
Satyrs are alien to beauty,
Ignoble and offensive
Your verse is viscous. You are noticeable
But without the sun the stars are visible.
In the night that is now
We live fearfully
When the beast roams freely,
And the man wanders timidly, -
You held your torch firmly,
But the sky was not pleased
So that it burns under the storm,
Lighting the way publicly;
A trembling spark in the darkness
It burned slightly, blinked, and rushed about.
Pray that he waits for the sun
And drowned in its rays!
No, you are not Pushkin. But for now
The sun is not visible from anywhere,
It’s a shame to sleep with your talent;
It’s even more shameful in a time of grief
The beauty of the valleys, skies and sea
And sing of sweet affection...
The thunderstorm is silent, with a bottomless wave
The skies argue in the radiance,
And the wind is gentle and sleepy
The sails barely flutter, -
The ship runs beautifully, harmoniously,
And the travelers’ hearts are calm,
As if instead of a ship
Beneath them is solid ground.
But the thunder struck; the storm is moaning,
And it tears the rigging, and tilts the mast, -
This is not the time to play chess,
This is not the time to sing songs!
Here is a dog - and he knows the danger
And barks furiously into the wind:
He has nothing else to do...
What would you do, poet?
Is it really in a distant cabin?
You would become an inspired lyre
To please the ears of sloths
And drown out the roar of the storm?
May you be faithful to your destination,
But is it easier for your homeland,
Where everyone is devoted to worship
Your single personality?
Against good hearts,
To whom the homeland is sacred.
God help them!.. and the rest?
Their goal is shallow, their life is empty.
Some are money-grubbers and thieves,
Others are sweet singers,
And still others... still others are sages:
Their purpose is conversation.
Protecting your person,
They remain idle, repeating:
“Our tribe is incorrigible,
We don't want to die for nothing,
We are waiting: maybe time will help,
And we are proud that we do no harm!”
Cunningly hides an arrogant mind
Selfish dreams
But... my brother! whoever you are
Don't believe this despicable logic!
Be afraid of sharing their fate,
Rich in word, poor in deed,
And do not go to the camp of the harmless,
When you can be useful!
The son cannot look calmly
On my dear mother's grief,
There will be no worthy citizen
I have a cold heart for my homeland,
There is no worse reproach for him...
Go into the fire for the honor of your fatherland,
For conviction, for love...
Go and perish impeccably.
You will not die in vain: the matter is strong,
When blood flows underneath...
And you, poet! chosen one of heaven,
Herald of age-old truths,
Do not believe that he who does not have bread
Not worth your prophetic strings!
Don’t believe that people will fall altogether;
God has not died in the souls of people,
And a cry from a believing chest
Will always be available to her!
Be a citizen! serving art,
Live for the good of your neighbor,
Subordinating your genius to feeling
All-embracing Love;
And if you are rich in gifts,
Don’t bother exhibiting them:
They themselves will shine in your work
Their life-giving rays.
Look: solid stone in fragments
The poor worker crushes
And from under the hammer it flies
And the flame splashes out on its own!
Poet
Have you finished?.. I almost fell asleep.
Where do we care about such views!
You've gone too far.
It takes a genius to teach others,
It takes a strong soul
And we with our lazy soul,
Proud and timid,
We're not worth a penny.
In a hurry to achieve fame,
We are afraid to go astray
And we walk along the path,
And if we turn to the side -
Lost, even if you run away from the world!
How pathetic are you, the role of a poet!
Blessed is the silent citizen:
He, alien to the Muses from the cradle,
Master of your actions,
Leads them to a rewarding goal,
And his work is successful, the dispute...
Citizen
Not a very flattering verdict.
But is it yours? was it said by you?
You could judge more correctly:
You may not be a poet
But you have to be a citizen.
What is a citizen?
Fatherland worthy son.
Oh! We will be merchants, cadets,
Bourgeois, officials, nobles,
Even poets are enough for us,
But we need, we need citizens!
But where are they? Who is not a senator?
Not a writer, not a hero,
Not a leader, not a planter,
Who is a citizen of the native country?
Where are you? respond! No answer.
And even alien to the poet’s soul
His mighty ideal!
But if he is between us,
What tears he cries!!
A heavy lot fell on him,
But he doesn’t ask for a better share:
He wears it on his body like his own
All the ulcers of your homeland.
__________________
The thunderstorm makes noise and drives towards the abyss
Freedom's shaky boat,
The poet curses or even groans,
And the citizen is silent and continues
Under your head.
When... But I’m silent. At least a little
And among us fate appeared
Worthy citizens... You know
Their fate?.. Kneel!..
Lazy guy! your dreams are funny
And frivolous penalties!
Your comparison makes no sense.
Here is a word of impartial truth:
Blessed is the chattering poet,
And the silent citizen is pathetic!
Poet
It’s no wonder to achieve this,
There is no need to finish off anyone.
You're right: it's easier for a poet to live -
There is joy in free speech.
But was I involved in it?
Ah, in the years of my youth,
Sad, unselfish, difficult,
In short - very reckless -
How zealous was my Pegasus!
Not roses - I wove nettles
In his sweeping mane
And he proudly left Parnassus.
Without disgust, without fear
I went to prison and to the place of execution,
I went to courts and hospitals.
I won’t repeat what I saw there...
I swear I honestly hated it!
I swear, I truly loved!
So what?.. hearing my sounds,
They considered them black slander;
I had to fold my hands humbly
Or pay with your head...
What was to be done? Recklessly
Blame people, blame fate.
If only I could see a fight
I would fight, no matter how difficult it is,
But... perish, perish... and when?
I was twenty years old then!
Life slyly beckoned forward,
Like free streams of the sea,
And love tenderly promised
My best blessings -
The soul fearfully retreated...
But no matter how many reasons,
I don't hide the bitter truth
And I timidly bow my head
At the word “honest citizen.”
That fatal, vain flame
To this day it burns my chest,
And I'm glad if someone
He will throw a stone at me with contempt.
Poor man! and from what he trampled
Are you a sacred man's duty?
What kind of gift did you take from life?
Are you the son of a sick person of a sick century?..
If only they knew my life,
My love, my worries...
Gloomy and full of bitterness,
I'm standing at the door of the coffin...
Ah, my farewell song
That song was the first!
The Muse bowed her sad face
And, quietly sobbing, she left.
Since then there have been infrequent meetings:
Stealthily, pale, he will come
And whispers fiery speeches,
And he sings proud songs.
Calls now to the cities, now to the steppe,
Full of cherished intentions,
But suddenly the chains rattle -
And she will disappear in an instant.
I wasn’t completely alienated from her,
But how afraid I was! how afraid I was!
When my neighbor drowned
In waves of essential grief -
Now the thunder of heaven, now the fury of the sea
I chanted good-naturedly.
Scouring little thieves
For the pleasure of the big ones,
I marveled at the audacity of the boys
And he was proud of their praise.
Under the yoke of years the soul bent,
She's cooled down to everything
And the Muse turned away completely,
Full of bitter contempt.
Now I appeal to her in vain -
Alas! disappeared forever.
Like the light, I don’t know her myself
And I will never know.
O Muse, a random guest
Have you appeared to my soul?
Or songs are an extraordinary gift
Fate intended for her?
Alas! who knows? harsh rock
Everything was hidden in deep darkness.
But there was one crown of thorns
To your gloomy beauty...
Analysis of the poem “Poet and Citizen” by Nekrasov
Most of Nekrasov's works are written in the genre of civil lyrics. Moreover, in many of them he directly expressed his beliefs about the role of the poet in society, about his civic duty. These views are set out in most detail in the poem “The Poet and the Citizen” (1855).
The poem is a dialogue between the poet and the citizen, which is a reflection of the author's thoughts.
The work begins with a citizen's reproaches to the poet, who is spending his time idly. The poet justifies his inaction by the fact that he is aware of his insignificance before the genius of Pushkin and believes that he will never reach the same heights in creativity. The citizen confirms this, but says that when the sun sets (Pushkin), stars flash in the sky and hold back the darkness until the next dawn. No matter how imperfect the poet’s poems are, he is still obliged to create them, because he keeps a particle of divine fire in his soul. The poet, as the “chosen one of heaven,” must first of all take care of his country and its people.
In response to this sublime speech, the poet declares that his goal is to achieve fame. All the poet’s deeds and actions are subordinated to this goal. Fulfilling civic duty would lead to deviation from the intended path. The citizen’s objection is the central phrase of the work, which has become popular: “You may not be a poet, but you must be a citizen.” He declares that a person's social position and status mean nothing if he is indifferent to the fate of his country. He bitterly admits that there are no such people among his contemporaries. And those who see the plight are afraid to speak the words of truth.
The poet, moved by these words, tells his story. In his youth, he was not afraid of anything and freely denounced social vices in his poems. The Muse accompanied him in this matter. But instead of human gratitude, he experienced ridicule and persecution. Nobody needed his truth. Fear of public condemnation led the poet to avoid sensitive topics, glorifying insignificant actions and deeds. This provided a means of subsistence and a quiet life. But the poet lost the favor of the Muse, who left him forever. Only over the years did he come to understand that the Muse does not tolerate false jewelry. Her beauty is most emphasized by the “crown of thorns”.
The poem “Poet and Citizen” is very important for understanding Nekrasov’s central idea. Service " pure art"is not only useless, but also harmful. The poet must be aware of his civic responsibility. Only this will help him develop and strengthen his creative talent.
The poem was written in 1856 and included in a collection published in 1956. Since by that time the collection of poems of 1856 had already passed censorship, Nekrasov introduced the poem “Poet and Citizen” as a preface, it was printed in a larger font.
In the magazine “Sovremennik” No. 11 for 1856, Chernyshevsky’s review of Nekrasov’s collection included three poems in full, among them “The Poet and the Citizen.” The poem was subject to censorship attacks and was printed in a distorted form in the next edition in 1861.
Literary direction and genre
Nekrasov is a realist poet. The poem “The Poet and the Citizen” belongs to the genre of civil lyrics. It poses a problem: should lyrics always show the author’s civic position?
The poem is written in the form of a dialogue. This refers the reader to Pushkin’s poem “The Poet and the Crowd,” with which Nekrasov argues. In addition, the dialogue between the Poet and the Citizen reveals a conflict, which is simultaneously a conflict between two life positions, active and passive (external), and a conflict in the mind of 35-year-old Nekrasov, who chooses his path as a poet (internal). This poem is a manifesto with which Nekrasov declares his life position.
Images of the Poet and Citizen
The image of the Citizen reflects the views of revolutionary democrats: Nekrasov himself, Chernyshevsky, Belinsky. On the other hand, Nekrasov also identifies himself with the poet.
The poet is passive: alone, stern, lying, moping.
A citizen is like a person’s conscience, which does not allow him to live for himself. He points out the best character traits of the Poet, which he suppresses in himself: a sense of duty, sincerity of heart, talent, strength, accuracy. The citizen calls to wake up (metaphor) and boldly smash vices.
The poet tries to justify himself by Pushkin, citing life credo The poet from the poem “The Poet and the Crowd.” But the emphasis in Pushkin’s poem is somewhat different: the conflict between the pragmatic type of consciousness and the sublimely poetic. Pushkin does not resolve this conflict. In Nekrasov, the Citizen wins - the bearer of an active life position (regardless of whether it is useful or profitable).
In the monologue of the Citizen, his life credo is revealed with the help of metaphors. If Pushkin is the sun, then the Poet is the light of the torch. But the dim light also disperses the darkness of the night. The citizen proclaims: just as a son cannot look at his mother’s grief, so a worthy citizen must go into the fire for the honor of his fatherland, convictions, love (artistic parallelism).
That is, the best fulfillment of civic duty is death for a cause: “You will not die in vain, a cause is strong when blood flows underneath it.” These words caused the most attacks from censorship, which saw a call to political struggle.
The citizen calls the poet the chosen one of heaven (Pushkin’s characteristic), the herald of age-old truths. The citizen calls to serve the people: “Be a citizen! While serving art, live for the good of your neighbor.” As he serves, the poet's gift will manifest itself, like sparks from under a hammer.
The poet makes excuses for his imperfection.
The citizen utters the culminating phrase, which has become an aphorism, which contains the main meaning of the poem: “You may not be a poet, but you must be a citizen.” Everyone should have a civic position as an internal state of a person. External status (poet, merchant, cadet, tradesman, official, nobleman, senator, hero, leader) becomes insignificant.
The citizen does not leave the Poet in the dark about the fact that the citizen’s fate is difficult, because “He, like his own, bears all the ulcers of his homeland on his body.” But “the silent citizen is pitiful” when the boat of freedom flies towards the abyss (metaphor).
At the end, the Poet reveals the reason for his passivity. At the age of 20, he showed his civic position, but “his soul fearfully retreated,” fearing accusations of slander. The poet repents of his betrayal of civic duty, calling it the sacred duty of man, and himself - the sick son of a sick century.
Theme, main idea and composition
The theme of the poem is the definition of the role of the poet and poetry. For Nekrasov, this role is associated with a strong civic position.
The main idea: “You may not be a poet, but you must be a citizen.” A poet must serve the people and fatherland with his talent.
This dialogical form of a poem is called a dramatized poem. The Citizen wins the debate. The poet “at the door of the coffin” turns to the muse, repenting of his wasted talent. This is Nekrasov’s internal victory over his own passivity and laziness.
Meter and rhyme
The poem is written in iambic tetrameter (like Pushkin’s “The Poet and the Crowd”) with numerous pyrrhic elements. Male and female rhymes alternate. Ring, pair and cross rhymes alternate randomly, just like in Pushkin.
- “It’s stuffy! Without happiness and will...", analysis of Nekrasov’s poem
- “Farewell”, analysis of Nekrasov’s poem
Citizen (included)
Alone again, harsh again
He lies there and writes nothing.
Add: moping and barely breathing -
And my portrait will be ready.
Citizen
Nice portrait! No nobility
There is no beauty in him, believe me,
It's just vulgar foolishness.
A wild animal knows how to lie down...
So what?
Citizen
It's a shame to watch.
Well, then go away.
Citizen
Listen: shame on you!
It's time to get up! You know yourself
What time has come;
In whom the sense of duty has not cooled,
Who is incorruptibly straight in heart,
Who has talent, strength, accuracy,
Tom shouldn't sleep now...
Let's say I'm such a rarity
But first we need to give a job.
Citizen
Here's the news! You're dealing
You only fell asleep temporarily
Wake up: boldly smash the vices...
(Takes a book.)
Savior Pushkin! - Here is the page:
Read it and stop reproaching!
Citizen (reads)
"Not for everyday worries,
Not for gain, not for battles,
We were born to inspire
For sweet sounds and prayers."
P oet (with delight)
Inimitable sounds!…
Whenever with my Muse
I was a little smarter
I swear, I wouldn’t pick up a pen!
Citizen
Yes, the sounds are wonderful... hurray!
Their strength is so amazing
That even the sleepy blues
It slipped from the poet's soul.
I’m sincerely happy - it’s time!
And I share your delight,
But I confess, your poems
I take it more to heart.
Don't talk nonsense!
You are a zealous reader, but a wild critic.
So, in your opinion, I am great,
A poet taller than Pushkin?
Tell me please?!.
Citizen
Your poems are stupid
Your elegies are not new,
Satyrs are alien to beauty,
Ignoble and offensive
Your verse is viscous. You are noticeable
But without the sun the stars are visible.
In the night that is now
We live fearfully
When the beast roams freely,
And the man wanders timidly, -
You held your torch firmly,
But the sky was not pleased
So that it burns under the storm,
Lighting the way publicly;
A trembling spark in the darkness
It burned slightly, blinked, and rushed about.
Pray that he waits for the sun
And drowned in its rays!
No, you are not Pushkin. But for now,
The sun is not visible from anywhere,
It’s a shame to sleep with your talent;
It’s even more shameful in a time of grief
The beauty of the valleys, skies and sea
And sing of sweet affection...
The thunderstorm is silent, with a bottomless wave
The skies argue in the radiance,
And the wind is gentle and sleepy
The sails barely flutter, -
The ship runs beautifully, harmoniously,
And the travelers’ hearts are calm,
As if instead of a ship
Beneath them is solid ground.
But the thunder struck; the storm is moaning,
And it tears the rigging, and tilts the mast, -
This is not the time to play chess,
This is not the time to sing songs!
Here is a dog - and he knows the danger
And barks furiously into the wind:
He has nothing else to do...
What would you do, poet?
Is it really in a distant cabin?
You would become a lyre inspired
To please the ears of sloths
And drown out the roar of the storm?
May you be faithful to your destination,
But is it easier for your homeland,
Where everyone is devoted to worship
Your single personality?
Against good hearts,
To whom the homeland is sacred.
God help them!... and the rest?
Their goal is shallow, their life is empty.
Some are money-grubbers and thieves,
Others are sweet singers,
And still others... still others are sages:
Their purpose is conversation.
Protecting your person,
They remain idle, repeating:
"Our tribe is incorrigible,
We don't want to die for nothing
We are waiting: maybe time will help,
And we are proud that we do no harm!”
Cunningly hides an arrogant mind
Selfish dreams
But... my brother! whoever you are
Don't believe this despicable logic!
Be afraid of sharing their fate,
Rich in word, poor in deed,
And do not go to the camp of the harmless,
When you can be useful!
The son cannot look calmly
On my dear mother's grief,
There will be no worthy citizen
I have a cold heart for my homeland,
There is no worse reproach for him...
Go into the fire for the honor of your fatherland,
For conviction, for love...
Go and die blamelessly.
You will not die in vain, the matter is strong,
When blood flows underneath...
And you, poet! chosen one of heaven,
Herald of age-old truths,
Do not believe that he who has no bread
Not worth your prophetic strings!
Don’t believe that people will fall altogether;
God has not died in the souls of people,
And a cry from a believing chest
Will always be available to her!
Be a citizen! serving art,
Live for the good of your neighbor,
Subordinating your genius to feeling
All-embracing Love;
And if you are rich in gifts,
Don’t bother exhibiting them:
They themselves will shine in your work
Their life-giving rays.
Look: solid stone in fragments
The poor worker crushes
And from under the hammer it flies
And the flame splashes out on its own!
Have you finished?... I almost fell asleep.
Where do we care about such views!
You've gone too far.
It takes a genius to teach others,
It takes a strong soul
And we with our lazy soul,
Proud and timid,
We're not worth a penny.
In a hurry to achieve fame,
We are afraid to go astray
And we walk along the path,
And if we turn to the side -
Lost, even if you run away from the world!
How pathetic are you, the role of a poet!
Blessed is the silent citizen:
He, alien to the Muses from the cradle,
Master of your actions,
Leads them to a noble goal,
And his work is successful, the dispute...
Citizen
Not a very flattering verdict.
But is it yours? was it said by you?
You could judge more correctly:
You may not be a poet
But you have to be a citizen.
What is a citizen?
A worthy son of the Fatherland.
Oh! we will be merchants, cadets,
Bourgeois, officials, nobles,
Even poets are enough for us,
But we need, we need citizens!
But where are they? Who is not a senator?
Not a writer, not a hero,
Not a leader, not a planter,
Who is a citizen of the native country?
Where are you? respond? No answer.
And even alien to the poet’s soul
His mighty ideal!
But if he is between us,
What tears he cries!!
A heavy lot fell on him,
But he doesn’t ask for a better share:
He wears it on his body like his own
All the ulcers of your homeland.
The thunderstorm makes noise and drives towards the abyss
Freedom's shaky boat,
The poet curses or even groans,
And the citizen is silent and continues
Under your head.
When... But I’m silent. At least a little
And among us fate appeared
Worthy citizens... You know
Their fate?... Kneel!...
Lazy guy! your dreams are funny
And frivolous penalties!
Your comparison makes no sense.
Here is a word of impartial truth:
Blessed is the chattering poet,
And the silent citizen is pathetic!
It’s no wonder to achieve this,
There is no need to finish off anyone.
You're right: it's easier for a poet to live -
There is joy in free speech.
But was I involved in it?
Ah, in the years of my youth,
Sad, unselfish, difficult,
In short - very reckless,
How zealous was my Pegasus!
Not roses - I wove nettles
In his sweeping mane
And he proudly left Parnassus.
Without disgust, without fear
I went to prison and to the place of execution,
I went to courts and hospitals.
I won’t repeat what I saw there...
I swear I honestly hated it!
I swear, I truly loved!
So what?...hearing my sounds,
They considered them black slander;
I had to fold my hands humbly
Or pay with your head...
What was to be done? Recklessly
Blame people, blame fate.
If only I could see a fight
I would fight, no matter how difficult it is,
But... perish, perish... and when?
I was twenty years old then!
Life slyly beckoned forward,
Like free streams of the sea,
And love tenderly promised
My best blessings -
The soul fearfully retreated...
But no matter how many reasons there are,
I don't hide the bitter truth
And I timidly bow my head
At the word "honest citizen".
That fatal, vain flame
To this day it burns my chest,
And I'm glad if someone
He will throw a stone at me with contempt.
Poor man! and from what he trampled
Are you a sacred man's duty?
What kind of gift did you take from life?
Are you the son of a sick sick century?...
If only they knew my life,
My love, my worries...
Gloomy and full of bitterness,
I'm standing at the door of the coffin...
Oh! my farewell song
That song was the first!
The Muse bowed her sad face
And, quietly sobbing, she left.
Since then there have been infrequent meetings:
Stealthily, pale, he will come
And whispers fiery speeches,
And he sings proud songs.
Calls now to the cities, now to the steppe,
Full of cherished intentions,
But suddenly the chains rattle -
And she will disappear in an instant.
I wasn’t completely alienated from her,
But how afraid I was! how afraid I was!
When my neighbor drowned
In waves of essential grief -
Now the thunder of heaven, now the fury of the sea
I chanted good-naturedly.
Scouring little thieves
For the pleasure of the big ones,
I marveled at the audacity of the boys
And he was proud of their praise.
Under the yoke of years the soul bent,
She's cooled down to everything
And the Muse turned away completely,
Full of bitter contempt.
Now I appeal to her in vain -
Alas! Hid forever.
Like the light, I don’t know her myself
And I will never know.
O Muse, a random guest
Have you appeared to my soul?
Or songs are an extraordinary gift
Fate intended for her?
Alas! who knows? harsh rock
Everything was hidden in deep darkness.
But there was one crown of thorns
To your gloomy beauty...
Notes
The poem opened the collection of 1856. It was printed in a special font and with separate page numbers. All this testified to his programmatic nature. Notifying the readers of Sovremennik about the publication of a book of poems by Nekrasov, Chernyshevsky reprinted “The Poet and the Citizen” (together with the poems “The Forgotten Village” and “Excerpts from the Travel Notes of Count Garansky”). This caused a censorship storm. The poem was seen as having subversive political content. Both the magazine and the collection were subject to repression. The orders of the Minister of Public Education A. S. Norov and the Minister of Internal Affairs S. S. Lansky ordered that “that the book recently printed in Moscow entitled “Poems” by N. Nekrasov should not be allowed to be published in a new edition and that no articles should be allowed to be published, relating to the book, not especially extracts from it.” The editors of Sovremennik were warned that “the first such act would subject... the magazine to complete cessation.” Chernyshevsky subsequently recalled: “The trouble that I brought upon Sovremennik with this reprint was very difficult and long-lasting.” Nekrasov, who was abroad, heard a rumor that upon returning to Russia he would be arrested and imprisoned in the Peter and Paul Fortress. However, this did not frighten the poet (“... I am not a child; I knew what I was doing”; “... we have seen censorship storms that are worse...” the poet wrote). The poem continues a great poetic tradition (“Conversation between a bookseller and a poet” by Pushkin, “Journalist, Reader and Writer” by Lermontov).
Citizen (included)
Alone again, harsh again
He lies there and writes nothing.
Add: moping and barely breathing -
And my portrait will be ready.
Citizen
Nice portrait! No nobility
There is no beauty in him, believe me,
It's just vulgar foolishness.
A wild animal knows how to lie...
So what?
Citizen
It's a shame to watch.
Well, then go away.
Citizen
Listen: shame on you!
It's time to get up! You know yourself
What time has come;
In whom the sense of duty has not cooled,
Who is incorruptibly straight in heart,
Who has talent, strength, accuracy,
Tom shouldn't sleep now...
Let's say I'm such a rarity
But first we need to give a job.
Citizen
Here's the news! You're dealing
You only fell asleep temporarily
Wake up: boldly smash the vices...
P oet (with delight)
Inimitable sounds!..
Whenever with my Muse
I was a little smarter
I swear, I wouldn’t pick up a pen!
Citizen
Yes, the sounds are wonderful... hurray!
Their strength is so amazing
That even the sleepy blues
It slipped from the poet's soul.
I’m sincerely happy - it’s time!
And I share your delight,
But I confess, your poems
I take it more to heart.
Don't talk nonsense!
You are a zealous reader, but a wild critic.
So, in your opinion, I am great,
A poet taller than Pushkin?
Tell me please?!.
Citizen
Well, no!
Your poems are stupid
Your elegies are not new,
Satyrs are alien to beauty,
Ignoble and offensive
Your verse is viscous. You are noticeable
But without the sun the stars are visible.
In the night that is now
We live fearfully
When the beast roams freely,
And the man wanders timidly, -
You held your torch firmly,
But the sky was not pleased
So that it burns under the storm,
Lighting the way publicly;
A trembling spark in the darkness
It burned slightly, blinked, and rushed about.
Pray that he waits for the sun
And drowned in its rays!
No, you are not Pushkin. But for now,
The sun is not visible from anywhere,
It’s a shame to sleep with your talent;
It’s even more shameful in a time of grief
The beauty of the valleys, skies and sea
And sing of sweet affection...
The thunderstorm is silent, with a bottomless wave
The skies argue in the radiance,
And the wind is gentle and sleepy
The sails barely flutter, -
The ship runs beautifully, harmoniously,
And the travelers’ hearts are calm,
As if instead of a ship
Beneath them is solid ground.
But the thunder struck; the storm is moaning,
And it tears the rigging, and tilts the mast, -
This is not the time to play chess,
This is not the time to sing songs!
Here is a dog - and he knows the danger
And barks furiously into the wind:
He has nothing else to do...
What would you do, poet?
Is it really in a distant cabin?
You would become a lyre inspired
To please the ears of sloths
And drown out the roar of the storm?
May you be faithful to your destination,
But is it easier for your homeland,
Where everyone is devoted to worship
Your single personality?
Against good hearts,
To whom the homeland is sacred.
God help them!.. and the rest?
Their goal is shallow, their life is empty.
Some are money-grubbers and thieves,
Others are sweet singers,
And still others... still others are sages:
Their purpose is conversation.
Protecting your person,
They remain idle, repeating:
"Our tribe is incorrigible,
We don't want to die for nothing
We are waiting: maybe time will help,
And we are proud that we do no harm!”
Cunningly hides an arrogant mind
Selfish dreams
But... my brother! whoever you are
Don't believe this despicable logic!
Be afraid of sharing their fate,
Rich in word, poor in deed,
And do not go to the camp of the harmless,
When you can be useful!
The son cannot look calmly
On my dear mother's grief,
There will be no worthy citizen
I have a cold heart for my homeland,
There is no worse reproach for him...
Go into the fire for the honor of your fatherland,
For conviction, for love...
Go and die blamelessly.
You will not die in vain, the matter is strong,
When the blood flows underneath...
And you, poet! chosen one of heaven,
Herald of age-old truths,
Do not believe that he who has no bread
Not worth your prophetic strings!
Don’t believe that people will fall altogether;
God has not died in the souls of people,
And a cry from a believing chest
Will always be available to her!
Be a citizen! serving art,
Live for the good of your neighbor,
Subordinating your genius to feeling
All-embracing Love;
And if you are rich in gifts,
Don’t bother exhibiting them:
They themselves will shine in your work
Their life-giving rays.
Look: solid stone in fragments
The poor worker crushes
And from under the hammer it flies
And the flame splashes out on its own!
Have you finished?.. I almost fell asleep.
Where do we care about such views!
You've gone too far.
It takes a genius to teach others,
It takes a strong soul
And we with our lazy soul,
Proud and timid,
We're not worth a penny.
In a hurry to achieve fame,
We are afraid to go astray
And we walk along the path,
And if we turn to the side -
Lost, even if you run away from the world!
How pathetic are you, the role of a poet!
Blessed is the silent citizen:
He, alien to the Muses from the cradle,
Master of your actions,
Leads them to a noble goal,
And his work is successful, the dispute...
Citizen
Not a very flattering verdict.
But is it yours? was it said by you?
You could judge more correctly:
You may not be a poet
But you have to be a citizen.
What is a citizen?
A worthy son of the Fatherland.
Oh! we will be merchants, cadets,
Bourgeois, officials, nobles,
Even poets are enough for us,
But we need, we need citizens!
But where are they? Who is not a senator?
Not a writer, not a hero,
Not a leader, not a planter,
Who is a citizen of the native country?
Where are you? respond? No answer.
And even alien to the poet’s soul
His mighty ideal!
But if he is between us,
What tears he cries!!
A heavy lot fell on him,
But he doesn’t ask for a better share:
He wears it on his body like his own
All the ulcers of your homeland.
... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ...
The thunderstorm makes noise and drives towards the abyss
Freedom's shaky boat,
The poet curses or even groans,
And the citizen is silent and continues
Under your head.
When... But I’m silent. At least a little
And among us fate appeared
Worthy citizens... You know
Their fate?.. Kneel!..
Lazy guy! your dreams are funny
And frivolous penalties!
Your comparison makes no sense.
Here is a word of impartial truth:
Blessed is the chattering poet,
And the silent citizen is pathetic!
It’s no wonder to achieve this,
There is no need to finish off anyone.
You're right: it's easier for a poet to live -
There is joy in free speech.
But was I involved in it?
Ah, in the years of my youth,
Sad, unselfish, difficult,
In short - very reckless,
How zealous was my Pegasus!
Not roses - I wove nettles
In his sweeping mane
And he proudly left Parnassus.
Without disgust, without fear
I went to prison and to the place of execution,
I went to courts and hospitals.
I won't repeat what I saw there...
I swear I honestly hated it!
I swear, I truly loved!
So what?.. hearing my sounds,
They considered them black slander;
I had to fold my hands humbly
Or pay with your head...
What was to be done? Recklessly
Blame people, blame fate.
If only I could see a fight
I would fight, no matter how difficult it is,
But... perish, perish... and when?
I was twenty years old then!
Life slyly beckoned forward,
Like free streams of the sea,
And love tenderly promised
My best blessings -
The soul fearfully retreated...
But no matter how many reasons there are,
I don't hide the bitter truth
And I timidly bow my head
At the word "honest citizen".
That fatal, vain flame
To this day it burns my chest,
And I'm glad if someone
He will throw a stone at me with contempt.
Poor man! and from what he trampled
Are you a sacred man's duty?
What kind of gift did you take from life?
Are you the son of a sick person of a sick century?..
If only they knew my life,
My love, my worries...
Gloomy and full of bitterness,
I'm standing at the door of the coffin...
Oh! my farewell song
That song was the first!
The Muse bowed her sad face
And, quietly sobbing, she left.
Since then there have been infrequent meetings:
Stealthily, pale, he will come
And whispers fiery speeches,
And he sings proud songs.
Calls now to the cities, now to the steppe,
Full of cherished intentions,
But suddenly the chains rattle -
And she will disappear in an instant.
I wasn’t completely alienated from her,
But how afraid I was! how afraid I was!
When my neighbor drowned
In waves of essential grief -
Now the thunder of heaven, now the fury of the sea
I chanted good-naturedly.
Scouring little thieves
For the pleasure of the big ones,
I marveled at the audacity of the boys
And he was proud of their praise.
Under the yoke of years the soul bent,
She's cooled down to everything
And the Muse turned away completely,
Full of bitter contempt.
Now I appeal to her in vain -
Alas! Hid forever.
Like the light, I don’t know her myself
And I will never know.
O Muse, a random guest
You appeared
my soul?
Or songs are an extraordinary gift
Fate intended for her?
Alas! who knows? harsh rock
Everything was hidden in deep darkness.
But there was one crown of thorns
To your gloomy beauty...