Here is the front entrance. On special days,
Possessed by a servile illness,
The whole city is in some kind of fright
Drives up to the treasured doors;
Having written down your name and rank,
The guests are leaving for home,
So deeply pleased with ourselves
What do you think - that’s their calling!
And on ordinary days this magnificent entrance
Poor faces besiege:
Projectors, place-seekers,
And an elderly man and a widow.
From him and to him you know in the morning
All the couriers are jumping around with papers.
Returning, another hums “tram-tram”,
And other petitioners cry.
Once I saw the men come here,
Village Russian people,
They prayed at the church and stood away,
Hanging their brown heads to their chests;
The doorman appeared. “Let it go,” they say
With an expression of hope and anguish.
He looked at the guests: they were ugly to look at!
Tanned faces and hands,
The Armenian guy is thin on his shoulders.
On a knapsack on their bent backs,
Cross on my neck and blood on my feet,
Shod in homemade bast shoes
(You know, they wandered for a long time
From some distant provinces).
Someone shouted to the doorman: “Drive!
Ours doesn’t like ragged rabble!”
And the door slammed. After standing,
The pilgrims untied their wallets,
But the doorman did not let me in, without taking a meager contribution,
And they went, scorched by the sun,
Repeating: “God judge him!”
Throwing up hopeless hands,
And while I could see them,
They walked with their heads uncovered...
And the owner of luxurious chambers
I was still in deep sleep...
You, who consider life enviable
The intoxication of shameless flattery,
Red tape, gluttony, gaming,
Wake up! There is also pleasure:
Turn them back! their salvation lies in you!
But the happy are deaf to goodness...
The thunder of heaven does not frighten you,
And you hold earthly ones in your hands,
And these unknown people carry
Inexorable grief in the hearts.
Why do you need this crying sorrow?
What do you need these poor people?
Eternal holiday quickly running
Life doesn't let you wake up.
And why? Clickers' fun
You are calling for the people's good;
Without him you will live with glory
And you will die with glory!
More serene than an Arcadian idyll
The old days will set.
Under the captivating sky of Sicily,
In the fragrant tree shade,
Contemplating how the sun is purple
Plunges into the azure sea,
Stripes of his gold, -
Lulled by gentle singing
Mediterranean wave - like a child
You will fall asleep, surrounded by care
Dear and beloved family
(Waiting impatiently for your death);
They will bring your remains to us,
To honor with a funeral feast,
And you will go to your grave... hero,
Silently cursed by the fatherland,
Exalted by loud praise!..
However, why are we such a person?
Worrying for small people?
Shouldn't we take our anger out on them? -
Safer... Even more fun
Find some consolation in something...
It doesn’t matter what the man will endure:
This is how providence guides us
Pointed out... but he’s used to it!
Behind the outpost, in a wretched tavern
The poor will drink everything down to the ruble
And they will go, begging along the road,
And they will groan... Native land!
Name me such an abode,
I've never seen such an angle
Where would your sower and guardian be?
Where would a Russian man not moan?
He moans across the fields, along the roads,
He groans in prisons, in prisons,
In the mines, on an iron chain;
He groans under the barn, under the haystack,
Under a cart, spending the night in the steppe;
Moaning in his own poor house,
I am not happy with the light of God's sun;
Moans in every remote town,
At the entrance of courts and chambers.
Go out to the Volga: whose groan is heard
Over the great Russian river?
We call this groan a song -
The barge haulers are walking with a towline!..
Volga! Volga!.. In spring, full of water
You're not flooding the fields like that,
Like the great sorrow of the people
Our land is overflowing, -
Where there are people, there is a groan... Oh, my heart!
What does your endless groan mean?
Will you wake up full of strength,
Or, fate obeying the law,
You have already done everything you could, -
Created a song like a groan
And spiritually rested forever?..
Here is the front entrance. On special days,
Possessed by a servile illness,
The whole city is in some kind of fright
Drives up to the treasured doors;
Having written down your name and rank,
The guests are leaving for home,
So deeply pleased with ourselves
What do you think - that’s their calling!
And on ordinary days this magnificent entrance
Poor faces besiege:
Projectors, place-seekers,
And an elderly man and a widow.
From him and to him you know in the morning
All the couriers are jumping around with papers.
Returning, another hums “tram-tram”,
And other petitioners cry.
Once I saw the men come here,
Village Russian people,
They prayed at the church and stood away,
Hanging their brown heads to their chests;
The doorman appeared. “Let it go,” they say
With an expression of hope and anguish.
He looked at the guests: they were ugly to look at!
Tanned faces and hands,
The Armenian boy is thin on his shoulders,
On a knapsack on their bent backs,
Cross on my neck and blood on my feet,
Shod in homemade bast shoes
(You know, they wandered for a long time
From some distant provinces).
Someone shouted to the doorman: “Drive!
Ours doesn’t like ragged rabble!”
And the door slammed. After standing,
The pilgrims untied their wallets,
But the doorman did not let me in, without taking a meager contribution,
And they went, scorched by the sun,
Repeating: “God judge him!”
Throwing up hopeless hands,
And while I could see them,
They walked with their heads uncovered...
And the owner of luxurious chambers
I was still in deep sleep...
You, who consider life enviable
The intoxication of shameless flattery,
Red tape, gluttony, gaming,
Wake up! There is also pleasure:
Turn them back! their salvation lies in you!
But the happy are deaf to goodness...
The thunder of heaven does not frighten you,
And you hold earthly ones in your hands,
And these unknown people carry
Inexorable grief in the hearts.
Why do you need this crying sorrow?
What do you need these poor people?
Eternal holiday quickly running
Life doesn't let you wake up.
And why? Clickers' fun
You are calling for the people's good;
Without him you will live with glory
And you will die with glory!
More serene than an Arcadian idyll
The old days will set:
Under the captivating sky of Sicily,
In the fragrant tree shade,
Contemplating how the sun is purple
Plunges into the azure sea,
Stripes of his gold, -
Lulled by gentle singing
Mediterranean wave - like a child
You will fall asleep, surrounded by care
Dear and beloved family
(Waiting impatiently for your death);
They will bring your remains to us,
To honor with a funeral feast,
And you will go to your grave... hero,
Silently cursed by the fatherland,
Exalted by loud praise!..
However, why are we such a person?
Worrying for small people?
Shouldn't we take our anger out on them? -
Safer... Even more fun
Find some consolation in something...
It doesn’t matter what the man endures;
This is how providence guides us
Pointed out... but he’s used to it!
Behind the outpost, in a wretched tavern
The poor will drink everything down to the ruble
And they will go, begging along the road,
And they will groan... Native land!
Name me such an abode,
I've never seen such an angle
Where would your sower and guardian be?
Where would a Russian man not moan?
He moans across the fields, along the roads,
He groans in prisons, in prisons,
In the mines, on an iron chain;
He groans under the barn, under the haystack,
Under a cart, spending the night in the steppe;
Moaning in his own poor house,
I am not happy with the light of God's sun;
Moans in every remote town,
At the entrance of courts and chambers.
Go out to the Volga: whose groan is heard
Over the great Russian river?
We call this groan a song -
The barge haulers are walking with a towline!..
Volga! Volga!.. In spring, full of water
You're not flooding the fields like that,
Like the great sorrow of the people
Our land is overflowing, -
Where there are people, there is a groan... Oh, my heart!
What does your endless groan mean?
Will you wake up full of strength,
Or, fate obeying the law,
You have already done everything you could, -
Created a song like a groan
And spiritually rested forever?..
Here is the front entrance. On special days, Possessed by a servile illness, The whole city with some kind of fear Drives up to the cherished doors; Having written down their name and title, the guests leave for home, So deeply satisfied with themselves, What do you think - that is their calling! And on ordinary days, this magnificent entrance is besieged by wretched faces: Projectors, place-seekers, And an elderly man, and a widow. From him and to him you know in the morning All the couriers are jumping with papers. Returning, some sing “tram-tram”, And other petitioners cry. Once I saw, the men came here, Russian village people, prayed at the church and stood in the distance, hanging their brown heads to their chests; The doorman appeared. “Allow me,” they say with an expression of hope and torment. He looked at the guests: they were ugly to look at! Tanned faces and hands, A thin Armenian boy on his shoulders, A knapsack on his bent backs, A cross on his neck and blood on his feet, Shod in homemade bast shoes (You know, they wandered for a long time From some distant provinces). Someone shouted to the doorman: “Drive away! Ours doesn’t like ragged rabble!” And the door slammed. After standing, the pilgrims untied their purses, but the porter did not let him in, not taking a meager contribution, and they went, scorched by the sun, repeating: “God judge him!”, spreading their arms hopelessly, and, as long as I could see them, they walked with their heads uncovered... And the owner of the luxurious chambers was still in a deep sleep... You, who consider life to be enviable, the intoxication of shameless flattery, red tape, gluttony, gambling, Wake up! There is still pleasure: Turn them back! their salvation lies in you! But the happy are deaf to good... Heavenly thunders do not frighten you, But you hold earthly ones in your hands, And these unknown people carry inexorable grief in their hearts. What is this crying sorrow to you, what is this poor people to you? An eternal holiday, quickly running Life does not allow you to wake up. And why? You call the clickers amusement for the people's good; Without it you will live with glory and you will die with glory! More serene than the Arcadian idyll, the old days will set. Under the captivating sky of Sicily, In the fragrant shade of trees, Contemplating how the purple sun plunges into the azure sea, Its stripes of gold, Lulled by the gentle singing of the Mediterranean wave, Like a child You will fall asleep, surrounded by the care of your dear and beloved family (Waiting impatiently for your death) ; They will bring your remains to us, To honor you with a funeral funeral feast, And you will go to your grave... a hero, Silently cursed by your fatherland, Exalted by loud praise!.. However, why are we bothering such a person for small people? Shouldn't we take our anger out on them? - It's safer... It's even more fun to find consolation in something. .. It doesn’t matter what the man endures: So the providence guiding us Indicated... but he’s used to it! Behind the outpost, in a wretched tavern, the poor people will drink up to the ruble, And they will go, begging along the road, And they will groan... Native land! Name me such a monastery, I have never seen such a corner, Where would your sower and guardian be, Where would the Russian peasant not groan? He groans through the fields, along the roads, He groans through prisons, through prisons, In mines, on an iron chain; He groans under a barn, under a haystack, Under a cart, spending the night in the steppe; Moans in his own poor house, The light of God's sun is not happy; Moans in every remote town, At the entrance of courts and chambers. Go out to the Volga: whose groan is heard Over the great Russian river? We call this groan a song - The barge haulers are walking along the towline!.. Volga! Volga!.. In the spring of abundant water You do not flood the fields like our land is overflowing with the great sorrow of the people, - Where the people are, there is a groan... Oh, my heart! What does your endless groan mean? Will you wake up, full of strength, Or, obeying the law of fate, You have already accomplished everything that you could, - Created a song like a groan, And rested spiritually forever?..
Krinitsyn A.B.
Nekrasov most clearly and clearly formulates his attitude towards the people in “Reflections on the Front Entrance.” This is a kind of creative manifesto of Nekrasov. If we try to analyze the genre of this poem, we will be forced to admit that we have never encountered anything like this before. It is structured like a real indictment. This is a work of oratory, and Nekrasov uses literally all the techniques of rhetoric (the art of eloquence). Its beginning is deliberately prosaic in its descriptive intonation: “Here is the front entrance...”, which refers us rather to the realistic genre of the essay. Moreover, this front entrance really existed and was visible to Nekrasov from the windows of his apartment, which also served as the editorial office of the Sovremennik magazine. But from the first lines it becomes clear that what is important to Nekrasov is not so much the entrance itself, but the people who come to him, who are portrayed sharply satirically:
Possessed by a servile illness,
The whole city is in some kind of fright
Drives up to the treasured doors;
Having written down your name and rank,
The guests are leaving for home,
So deeply pleased with ourselves
What do you think - that’s their calling!
Thus, Nekrasov makes a broad generalization: “the whole city” is “driving up to the cherished doors.” The front entrance appears before us as a symbol of the world of the rich and powerful, before whom the entire capital grovels servilely. By the way, the house and entrance described by Nekrasov belonged to Count Chernyshov, who earned notoriety in society for heading the investigative commission on the affairs of the Decembrists, and passed a strict guilty verdict against his relative, hoping to take possession of the property left after him. Hints that this person is odious (that is, hated by everyone) will later appear in the verse (“Silently cursed by the fatherland, exalted by loud praise”).
The poor part of the city is immediately depicted as an antithesis:
And on ordinary days this magnificent entrance
Poor faces besiege:
Projectors, place-seekers,
And an elderly man and a widow.
Next, Nekrasov goes on to describe a specific episode: “Once I saw it, the men came here, Russian village people...”. The last two epithets seem redundant at first glance: it is already clear that since they are men, that means they are from the Russian village. But in this way, Nekrasov expands his generalization: it turns out that in the person of these men, the whole of peasant Russia approaches the entrance with a plea for help and justice. The appearance of the men and their behavior emphasize Christian traits: poverty, gentleness, humility, gentleness. They are called “pilgrims,” like wanderers to holy places, “tanned faces and hands” make one remember the hot sun of Jerusalem and the deserts, where the holy hermits retired (“And they went, scorched by the sun”). “The cross on the neck and the blood on the feet” speak of their martyrdom. Before approaching the entrance, they “prayed at the church.” They beg to be let in “with an expression of hope and anguish,” and when they are refused, they leave “with their heads uncovered,” “repeating: “God judge him!” In the Christian understanding, under the guise of every beggar, Christ himself comes to a person and knocks on the door: “Behold, I stand at the door and knock: if anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and will dine with him, and he with Me.” (Rev. 3.20). Nekrasov thus wants to appeal to the Christian feelings of readers and awaken in their hearts pity for the unfortunate men.
In the second part, the poet sharply changes his tone and makes angry accusations against the “owner of luxurious chambers”:
You, who consider life enviable
The intoxication of shameless flattery,
Red tape, gluttony, gaming,
Wake up! There is also pleasure:
Turn them back! their salvation lies in you!
But the happy are deaf to goodness...
To further shame the dignitary, the accusatory poet describes the pleasures and luxuries of his life, painting pictures of Sicily, a favorite medical resort in Europe at that time, where his “eternal holiday of fast running” life will come to an end:
More serene than an Arcadian idyll
The old days will set:
Under the captivating sky of Sicily,
In the fragrant tree shade,
Contemplating how the sun is purple
Plunges into the azure sea,
Stripes of his gold, -
Lulled by gentle singing
Mediterranean wave - like a child
You will fall asleep...
So Nekrasov unexpectedly resorts to the genre of idyll, which nothing foreshadowed in this poem, drawing a beautiful Mediterranean landscape. Romantic epithets appear: “captivating”, “affectionate”, “fragrant”, “purple”, “azure”. The special rhythm also corresponds to the content: Nekrasov combines masculine and dactylic rhymes [v], and sometimes additionally uses intonation transfers, dividing one sentence between two lines: “With stripes of his gold, - Lulled by the gentle singing - of the Mediterranean wave, - like a child, - You will fall asleep...”, rocking us on the waves of a poetic melody, as if on the waves of a warm sea. However, this beauty is deadly for the rich man - in the literal sense of the word, because we are talking about his death against the backdrop of such a beautiful scenery:
You will fall asleep... surrounded by care
Dear and beloved family
(Waiting impatiently for your death);
<...>And you will go to your grave... hero,
Silently cursed by the fatherland,
Exalted by loud praise!..
Finally, the poet abandons the attention of the rich man and turns not to him, but to the readers, as if convinced that his heart still cannot be reached: “However, why are we bothering such a person for small people?” and takes on the tone of a corrupt journalist, accustomed to hiding the problems and ills of society and writing about them in a condescending and derogatory manner:
... Even more fun
Find some consolation in something...
It doesn’t matter what the man will endure:
This is how providence guides us
Pointed... but he's used to it!
Speaking on his own behalf, Nekrasov, in a mournful and sympathetic tone, paints the perspective of the true hardships and grievances of the men who left with nothing, which unfolds into an epic picture of popular suffering. The verse takes on the measured, stately movement of a drawn-out folk song. The former melodious alternation of dactylic and masculine rhymes is replaced by an alternation of masculine and feminine ones, which is why the verse acquires firmness and, as it were, “fills with strength.” But this “power” is inseparable from unbearable suffering: the key motive and general intonation of the song is a groan:
… Motherland!
Name me such an abode,
I've never seen such an angle
Where would your sower and guardian be?
Where would a Russian man not moan?
He moans across the fields, along the roads,
He groans in prisons, in prisons,
In the mines, on an iron chain;
He groans under the barn, under the haystack,
Under a cart, spending the night in the steppe;
Moaning in his own poor house,
I am not happy with the light of God's sun;
Moans in every remote town,
At the entrance of courts and chambers.
The verb “moans” is heard again and again at the beginning of several lines (that is, it acts as an anaphor), moreover, its constituent sounds are repeated, “echoed” in neighboring words (“he groans ... along the prisons ... under the haystack”). One gets the feeling that the same mournful cry is incessantly heard in all corners of the country. The peasant, so humiliated and powerless, appears as a “sower and preserver,” the creative basis of life for the entire Russian land. It is spoken of in the singular, which conventionally denotes the plurality - the entire Russian people (this technique - singular instead of plural - is also rhetorical and is called synecdoche). Finally, in Nekrasov’s lyrics, barge haulers become the living embodiment of people’s suffering, whose groan echoes over the entire Russian land, spilling over with “the great sorrow of the people.” Nekrasov turns to the Volga, making it at the same time a symbol of the Russian land, the Russian people's element and at the same time of people's suffering:
Go out to the Volga: whose groan is heard
Over the great Russian river?
<...>Volga! Volga!.. In spring, full of water
You're not flooding the fields like that,
Like the great sorrow of the people
Our land is overflowing...
The word “moan” is repeated many times, to the point of exaggeration, and grows into a comprehensive concept: the groan is heard throughout the Volga - the “great Russian river”, characterizes the entire life of the Russian people. And the poet asks the last question, which hangs in the air, about the meaning of this groan, about the fate of the Russian people, and, accordingly, all of Russia.
Where there are people, there is a groan... Oh, my heart!
What does your endless groan mean?
Will you wake up full of strength,
Or, fate obeying the law,
You have already done everything you could, -
Created a song like a groan
And spiritually rested forever?..
This question may seem rhetorical, may seem overly politicized (like a call for an immediate uprising), but from our time perspective we can only state that it really always remains relevant, that the amazing humility of the “patience of an amazing people”, the ability to endure unimaginable suffering in the very in fact, is its essential feature, which more than once turns out to be both saving and hindering the development of society and dooming it to apathy, decay and anarchy.
So, from the image of a certain front entrance, the poem expands to the breadth of the Volga expanses, all of Russia and its eternal questions. Now we can define the genre of this poem as a pamphlet. This is a magazine genre, a genre of political article - a bright, imaginative presentation of one’s political position, distinguished by its propaganda character and passionate rhetoric.
Another programmatic poem for Nekrasov was “The Railway”. Many researchers consider it as a poem. If we compared “Reflections at the Front Entrance” with the pamphlet genre, then the designation of another magazine genre – feuilleton – could not be more applicable to “The Railway”.
A seemingly insignificant conversation on a train between a boy and his general father leads the poet to “think” about the role of the people in Russia and the attitude of the upper strata of society towards them.
Nekrasov’s poem “Reflections at the Front Entrance” was written based on the poet’s personal impressions; he wrote it in just a few hours. A brief analysis of “Reflections at the Front Entrance” according to a plan that can be used in a literature lesson in 7th grade will help students understand the work more deeply.
Brief Analysis
History of creation- the work was written in 1858, the name of Nekrasov was first published in Herzen’s magazine “The Bell”.
Theme of the poem- the fate of the Russian people in general and peasants in particular. It will never make its way to the masters and will never intersect with their world, so all that remains for ordinary people, according to Nekrasov, is to find the strength within themselves and awaken on their own.
Composition– this work consists of three parts, each of which has its own characters and a short story.
Genre- civil lyrics.
Poetic size– multi-foot (three- and four-foot anapest).
Metonymy – “a city possessed by a servile disease.”
Epithets – “cherished doors“, “magnificent entrance”, “tanned faces and hands”, thin Armenian.”
Metaphors – “heavenly thunders do not frighten you, but you hold earthly thunders in your hands“.
Irony – “dear and beloved family (looking forward to your death)“.
History of creation
Avdotya Panaeva spoke about how this poem was written. According to her, one stormy autumn day in 1858, the poet looked out the window at the neighboring front door, where many petitioners flocked, whom both the janitor and the policeman drove away with sticks. Panaeva saw that the poet was very saddened by what he saw, it deeply struck him. Nekrasov immediately, based on fresh impressions, sketched out a genre scene, using real peasant images, supplemented it with satire and generalization - and literally within a couple of hours he had already finished his creation. The history of the creation of the work shows how concerned the poet was with the fate of the people. At the same time, he saw that the peasantry was in the same sleep as the nobles - that is why “Reflections at the Front Entrance” became a call to awakening.
Later, Herzen published it in the magazine “Kolokol”, but the poet’s signature was not under the poem. Subsequently, the last part of “Reflections at the Front Entrance” became a student song.
Subject
The main theme is the sad fate of the Russian peasantry, forced to come with a petition to the rich and leave with nothing, humbly taking off their hats and submitting to their fate. The scene that Nekrasov shows, according to his plan, should encourage people to think about the unjust structure of society, and the images of peasants should evoke sympathy.
Composition
The work is an example of compositional perfection - it is divided into three parts, each of which poses its own problem, but at the same time they are all united by a common meaning.
So, at the very beginning, a “solemn” day is described at the ceremonial of a rich nobleman, to whom they come to ask for favor. Not everyone gets what they wanted, and the men are completely driven away.
The second part tells about a nobleman who is sleeping when a crowd is already standing at his entrance. His life, according to the lyrical hero, is secure, but empty - and will remain so until his death.
The third part shows that what happened at the nobleman’s house is not an exception, but a typical case for Russian realities. In Rus', not only nobles sleep, but also peasants - this is the problem posed in the verse.
Genre
This is a striking example of the genre of civic lyricism, because the poem not only describes the problem of Russian society, but also clearly expresses the position of the author, who advocates for popular awakening. Nekrasov is equally indignant at the indifference of the lazy nobility, at the servility of smaller people before her, and at the obedience of the peasantry.
In this work, Nekrasov uses such a poetic meter as a multi-foot anapest - three- and four-foot segments alternate. The rhyme is also varied - both masculine and feminine are used. The poet also alternates types of rhyme, using ring, cross and adjacent rhymes.
Means of expression
This work of the poet is filled with expressive means. So, Nekrasov used the following techniques:
- Metonymy- “a city possessed by a servile disease.”
- Epithets- “cherished doors”, “lush entrance”, “tanned faces and hands”, thin Armenian.”
- Metaphors- “Heavenly thunders do not frighten you, but you hold earthly ones in your hands.”
- Irony- “dear and beloved family (waiting impatiently for your death).”
In addition, the poet also creates vivid images, using similes to describe the barge haulers (“a groan is called a song,” that is, a song is like a groan). The poem also contains an antithesis: the images of peasants, ugly, exhausted, in homemade bast shoes, are contrasted with the image of a nobleman who sleeps sweetly and eats deliciously, spending his life in idleness.
Poem test
Rating analysis
Average rating: 4.5. Total ratings received: 97.