* October 19 (“The forest is dropping its crimson attire...”) (p. 102). October 19 is the founding day of the lyceum, constantly celebrated by the lyceum students of the first graduating class.
He didn't come, our curly singer Korsakov, Nikolai Alexandrovich, composer, died September 26, 1820 in Florence.
Alien skies restless lover Matyushkin, Fedor Fedorovich (17991872), sailor; At that time he was already on his third voyage, around the world.
For a long separation... paraphrase of the final verses of Delvig’s “Farewell song of the students of the Tsarskoye Selo Lyceum”:
Oh my Pushchin, you were the first to visit... Pushchin came to Pushkin in Mikhailovskoye for one day, January 11, 1825. He later spoke about this visit in his “Notes about Pushkin.”
You, Gorchakov... A. M. Gorchakov met with Pushkin at his uncle, A. N. Peschurov, on the Lyamonovo estate, not far from Mikhailovsky, in the summer of 1825.
Oh my Delvig... Delvig visited Pushkin in Mikhailovskoye in April 1825.
Tell me, Wilhelm... Kuchelbecker.
Unhappy friend... survived all his fellow graduates A. M. Gorchakov, who died at the age of 84.
In the original white version there were stanzas that Pushkin did not include in the final text; after the verse “A momentary oblivion of bitter torments...” (stanza 1):
Comrades! Today is our holiday.
Cherished deadline! Today there, far away
To the feast of love, to the sweet supper
You flocked together at the clinking of peaceful bowls. ė
You gathered, instantly becoming younger,
Renew the tired spirit of the past,
Speak the language of the Lyceum
And be free to fool around with life again.
My soul strives for the feast of love...
I see you, I hug you dear ones.
I establish the order of the holiday...
I'm inspired, oh listen friends:
So that thirty places await us again!
Sit down as you sat there,
When places are in the shadow of holy shelter
Difference dictated to us.
Captivating us with a Spartan soul,
Raised by the stern Minerva,
Let Walkhovsky sit down first again,
The last one is me, il Broglio, il Danzas.
But many will not appear among us...
Let their place, friends, be empty.
They will come: of course, over the waters
Or on a hill under the canopy of thick linden trees
They repeat a painful lesson,
Or the novel is secretly devoured,
Or lovers compose poems,
And the noon call is forgotten.
They will come! for idle utensils
They will sit down; fill your glass,
Conversations will merge into a discordant chorus,
And our cheerful pean will thunder.
After the verse “You turned his lyceum into the day” (stanza 9) follows a stanza about I.V. Malinovsky:
Why didn’t I meet you right there with him?
You, our Cossack, both ardent and kind,
Why are you in my gravestone canopy?
Didn’t you illuminate with your presence?
We would remember how Bacchus was brought
We are the silent victim for the first time,
How all three of us fell in love for the first time,
Confidants, comrades of mischief...
All three fell in love Pushkin, Pushchin and Malinovsky fell in love with E. P. Bakunina (see note to the poem “Autumn Morning” vol. 1).
After the verse “He took Paris, he founded the Lyceum” (stanza 17) followed:
Kunitsyn tribute to heart and wine!
He created us, he raised our flame,
They set the cornerstone,
They lit a clean lamp...
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.
Kunitsyn, Alexander Petrovich teacher of “moral and political sciences” at the Tsarskoye Selo Lyceum, one of Pushkin’s most beloved and respected professors, known for his progressive beliefs.
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, not seeing any traces there.
Tell me, Wilhelm, is that not what happened to us?
Is my brother related by muse, by destiny?
A.S. Pushkin, “October 19”
The poet and Decembrist Wilhelm Karlovich Kuchelbecker recalled his childhood: “I am definitely German by father and mother, but not by language: until I was six years old I did not know a word of German, my natural language is Russian, my first mentors in Russian literature there was my nurse Marina, and my nannies Kornilovna and Tatyana.”
In 1811, a relative of the Küchelbeckers, Barclay de Tolly, helped place Wilhelm in the Tsarskoye Selo Lyceum. At the Lyceum, Kuchelbecker had a hard time at first. He was immediately given the nickname Kyukhlya and the nickname “perfect freak.” Clumsy, somewhat deaf, absent-minded, ready to explode like gunpowder at the slightest offense, Kukhlya was the subject of daily ridicule from his comrades, sometimes very cruel.
V. Kuchelbecker. Self-portrait (from a lyceum notebook) (1816-1817)
Kuchelbecker Wilhelm, Lutheran, 15 years old. Capable and very diligent; Constantly busy reading and writing, he does not care about other things, which is why there is little order and neatness in his things. However, he is good-natured, sincere... His irritated nerves require him not to be too busy, especially with his essays.
Lyceum characteristics of V. Kuchelbecker
They did a lot of things to poor Kükhlya - they teased him, tormented him, they even poured soup on his head, and they wrote countless epigrams. One of them - Pushkin’s: “and I, my friends, felt both Kuchelbecker and sick” - has almost become a proverb. Out of grief, Wilhelm even tried to drown himself in the pond, but he was caught, and on the same day a funny caricature appeared in the Lyceum magazine.
Kuchelbecker. Rice. A.S. Pushkin
However, they soon became friends with Pushkin. Wilhelm admired his comrade’s poetic gift, and Pushkin fully appreciated Küchli’s encyclopedic knowledge, literary talent and direct character. “When I decide on something, I won’t back down!” - this was one of his main principles. And he realized it - in friendship, in literature and in life.
Kuchelbecker on Senate Square. Rice. A.S. Pushkin
After the December uprising he was arrested. By special decree of Emperor Nicholas I, he was shackled as a “particularly dangerous state criminal.” The shackles were removed only many years later, after the settlement was released in 1835. Kuchelbecker spent 20 long years in Siberian exile, overshadowed by news of the deaths of close friends - Griboyedov and Pushkin.
Kuchelbecker spent the last years of his life in Tobolsk. He married a half-Russian, half-Buryat woman late in life and gave birth to three children. The wife never managed to pronounce her husband's last name correctly.
V. Kuchelbecker died in Tobolsk on August 11, 1846. By that time he was already blind, and his last words were: “And so there is darkness all around, now it is eternal.”
He was able to leave the family only a large chest, filled to the brim with manuscripts, which adult readers mocked no worse than lyceum teenagers.
But no matter how literary critics scolded him, Wilhelm Kuchelbecker became a genuine Russian poet. A brilliant expert on Russian poetry, Korney Ivanovich Chukovsky once exclaimed enthusiastically: “Do you know what kind of poems Kuchelbecker has? Pushkinsky!
Fatigue (1845)
I need oblivion, I need silence:
I'll dive into the waves of deep sleep,
You, torn harp, rebellious sounds,
Be silent, thoughts, and feelings, and torments.
Yes! the cup of worldly bile is full;
But I drank this cup to the dregs, -
And now drunk, with a headache
I bow and bow to the grave's peace.
I recognized exile, I recognized prison,
Recognized the darkness of blindness
And the terrible conscience learned reproaches,
And I feel sorry for the slave of my dear homeland.
I need oblivion, I need silence
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Lyceum Day.
He is not cameour curly singer.
With fire in the eyes, with sweet-voiced guitar.
Under myrtles of beautiful Italy
he sleeps quietly, and a friendly chisel
did not inscribe over the Russian grave
a few words on
native language,that I once found hello sad
son of the North, wandering in foreign land.
Nikolai Alexandrovich Korsakov. Drawing K. Gampelna.
1800 – 26.09.1820
He came from a noble but impoverished Korsakov family. Father- retired guard warrant officer Alexander Stepanovich Korsakov, mothernee Ryazanova. Brother M. A. Dondukova-Korsakova And P. A. Korsakova.
Korsakov was fellow student of Pushkin at the Tsarskoye Selo Lyceum. At the Lyceum he occupied room no.43. In 1812, Korsakov was the first to publish a literary handwritten magazine “Inexperienced Pen”, the authors of which were himself, Pushkin and Delvig. IN This magazine published Pushkin's poem "Rose".
Korsakov wrote poetry, mostly satirical or humorous, but was best known as a musician. In a poem "Feasting Students" (1814) Pushkin mentions his guitar playing and names Korsakov “our dear singer, beloved by Apollo.”
His romances based on poems by Pushkin and Illichevsky were popular: “Dragaya Delia,” “To the Painter,” “Yesterday Masha Ordered Me.” According to Pushchin, “these stanzas were then sung by young girls in almost all houses where the Lyceum had the right of citizenship.”
"The Spirit of the Lyceum Troubadours"- collection of literature, compiled in 1816year, with the own hands of the gentlemen.
After graduating from the Lyceum (Korsakov received a certificate of merit No.3 with the right to a silver medal), he became an employee of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. In the fall of 1819, he was seconded to the Russian mission in Rome. In Italy he fell ill and soon died in Florence from consumption.
E.A. Engelhardt, director of the Imperial Tsarskoye Selo Lyceum, subsequently told V. P. Gaevsky: “...An hour before his death, he composed the following inscription for his monument, and when he was told that in Florence they would not be able to carve Russian letters, he himself wrote it in large letters and ordered it to be copied on stone.”
Passer-by, hurry to your native country!
Ah, it’s sad to die far from friends!
All personal papers of N. A. Korsakov were lost without a trace. Official short biography it does not contain an exact date of birth. Pushkin dedicated to N. A. Korsakov's poem "The Coffin of a Young Man" and mentions him in the poem "October 19".
According to the authors of the study about Pushkin’s lyceum comrades, M. and S. Rudensky, “Nikolai Korsakov, of all Pushkin’s classmates, is perhaps stood closest to him both in his temperament and in his significant natural talent.”
The young man's coffin.
He hid himself
Love, fun, gentle pet.
All around him is deep sleep
and the coldness of a serene grave...
He loved the games of our maidens,
when in the spring in the shade of trees
they circled in freedom.
But now in a frisky round dance
I can no longer hear its chorus.
How long have the elders admired
his gaiety alive?
Smiled half-sadly
and they said to each other:
“And we loved round dances,
our minds also shone;
but wait: the years will come,
and you will be what we are now.
How can we, O playful guest of the world,
You will be ashamed of the white light.
Now play..."
But the elders are alive
and he faded in his prime.
And without him friends feast,
Having already managed to love others;
Rarely, rarely named
Him in the conversation of young maidens.
Of the dear wives who loved him,
one, perhaps, is shedding tears.
And the memory of the joys of the deceased
calls for habitual thought...
For what?..
Over clear waters
tombs, peaceful family,
under tilted crosses
hiding in a centuries-old grove.
There, on the edge of the big road,
where the old linden tree makes noise,
forgetting the worries of the heart,
our poor young man lies...
In vain the ray of the morning star shines,
or the moon walks among the heavens,
and around the unconscious tomb
the stream gurgles and the forest whispers;
In vain in the morning for raspberries
beauty with a basket to the stream
goes even in cold weather
fearfully lowers his leg:
Nothing causes it
from the peaceful canopy of the grave...
1821
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 among 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 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 Tsarskoe 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 him into a lyceum day.
You, Gorchakov, 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.
Strict fate has assigned us different paths;
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, wasn’t that 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 come 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 is a human! 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, distant, are orphans;
Fate is watching, we are withering; the days are flying;
Invisibly bowing and growing cold,
We are nearing the beginning...
For some of us in old age, Lyceum Day
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.
A brilliant diplomat served Russia well -
It’s not for nothing that one of the best was his brother from the Lyceum.
Not the closest friend, but the most successful of all
in the fate, career and confessions of the Court -
what were you thinking, imposing, in tails ribbons,
reading an old poem from a magic pen...
...
"He will remember us and the days of connections,
Closing my eyes with a trembling hand..."
The last lyceum student - brilliant generations -
forever because with Pushkin's fate!...
................................................
A.S. Pushkin
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 is not waiting 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 among 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 a soul, is indivisible 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 Tsarskoe 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,
Here I hugged. The poet's house is disgraced,
Oh my Pushchin, you were the first to visit;
You sweetened the sad day of exile,
You turned him into a lyceum day.
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.
Strict fate has assigned us different paths;
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
Heart heat, 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 come 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 is a human! 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, distant, are orphans;
Fate is watching, we are withering; the days are flying;
Invisibly bowing and growing cold,
We are nearing our beginning...
To whom<ж>of us in old age the day of the lyceum
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.
<1825>
Shchegolev - "Pushkin and Prince Gorchakov"
........................................."At a meeting of lyceum students on October 19, 1870, it was decided organize a committee to build a monument to the poet.
On behalf of those gathered, J.K. Grot and N.A. Shtorkh came to the prince. Gorchakov with
invitation to become a member of this committee. “But Prince Gorchakov did not find it possible to agree to their request, citing his studies, and, it seems, his health.” And 10 years later, in 1880, he refused to attend the celebration
opening of the monument. “He,” writes Grotto, “received me very kindly and expressed regret that he could not be at the celebration in honor of his comrade, and having read most of his message from memory, he expanded on his attitude towards
Pushkin".............................
This last lyceum student from Pushkin’s graduating class was Prince. Gorchakov.
He did not live up to the Poet's dreams."