Yaroslavna: Heroes of myths and legends - Mythological encyclopedia. Why is Yaroslavna crying in Putivl? Yaroslavna in Putivl on the visor, saying

A WORD ABOUT IGOR'S REGIMENT,

IGOR SON OF SVYATOSLAVOV, GRANDSON OF OLGOV

Translation by Vladimir Stelletsky

Is it not right for us, brothers,

stories in the old style, sad tales

about the campaign of Igor, Igor Svyatoslavich?

Sing that song according to the stories of our time,

and not according to Boyanov’s plans.

Boyan is prophetic, brothers, if he wanted to write a song to someone.

thoughts spread throughout the tree,

rushed like a gray wolf across the earth,

a gray eagle - in the clouds:

After all, he, the prophet, remembered the battles of ancient times. Then he let ten falcons attack a flock of swans, which the falcon was chasing,

that first song composed

old Yaroslav,

brave Mstislav,

who defeated Rededya before the Kasozh regiments, or the young Roman Svyatoslavich.

Boyan, brothers, there are not ten falcons for a flock of swans

let in

but he laid his prophetic fingers on living strings,

They themselves roared glory to the princes.

Let us tell, brothers, our tale

from old Vladimir to present Igor;

he strained his mind with his will,

he sharpened his heart with courage;

filled with the military spirit,

led his brave regiments to the Polovtsian land for the Russian land.

Then Igor looked at the bright sun

and he sees: from him there is darkness

all his warriors are covered.

And Igor said to his squad:

“Brothers and squad!

It's better to be killed

than to be full of, -

Let us mount, brothers, on our greyhound horses,

Let's look at the distance of the blue Don!

The prince's mind was inflamed with desire,

and the sign of thirst obscured him

to experience the great Don.

“I want,” he said, “to break a spear in the Polovtsian field together with you, Russians;

I either want to lay down my head,

or drink the don’s helmet!”

O Boyan, nightingale of old!

If only you could sing this army with your song,

galloping, nightingale, along the mental tree,

flying with your mind under the clouds,

gaining glory on both sides of this time!

Traversing the Troyan path through the fields to the mountains,

So it would be nice to sing a song about Igor to Velesov’s grandson:

“It was not a storm that carried the falcons across the wide fields,

and it’s not jackdaws that fly in flocks to the great Don...”

Or the prophetic Boyan, Veles’s grandson, would sing like this:

“The horses neigh for Sula -

glory rings in Kyiv.”

Trumpets sound in Novgorod -

there are banners in Putivl;

Igor is waiting for his dear brother Vsevolod.

And Vsevolod said to him:

“One brother, one bright light - you, Igor,

we are both Svyatoslavichs!

Saddle up, brother, your greyhound horses,

and mine are ready, standing near Kursk, saddled,

And my Kurians are seasoned warriors:

under the trumpets the military midwives,

cherished under the helmets,

from the end of the spear they were fed;

they know the ways,

the ravines are known,

their bows are tense,

the quivers are open,

the sabers are sharp;

they themselves gallop like gray wolves in the field,

seeking honor for yourself and glory for the prince.”

Then Prince Igor stepped into the golden stirrup

and drove across an open field.

The sun crossed his path like darkness,

the night moaned to him like a thunderstorm, awakened the birds,

the roar of an animal drove them into the herd.

Div calls from the top of the tree -

commands the unknown land to listen,

Volga, and Pomerania, and Posulia,

and Surozh and Korsun,

and you too, Tmutorokan idol!

And the Polovtsians ran along untravelled roads to the great Don;

The carts scream at midnight, like frightened swans. Igor leads the warriors to the Don.

And the birds in the oak forests are guarding his misfortune;

wolves are calling a thunderstorm through the ravines;

the eagles scream at the bones of the beast;

foxes rush onto the red shields.

Long does the darkness of the night last.

The dawn has lit the light,

darkness covered the field.

The nightingale's tickle fell asleep,

the chatter of the jackdaw awakened.

The Russians blocked wide fields with their scarlet shields,

seeking honor for himself and glory for the prince.

Early on Friday morning they trampled the filthy shelves

Polovtsian

and scattered arrows across the field,

they rushed off the red Polovtsian girls,

and with them gold, and silk, and expensive Aksamites. Cloaks, blankets and blankets, and various Polovtsian patterns

They began to build bridges over swamps and swampy places. Black banner, white banner,

black bangs, silver peak -

brave Svyatoslavich!

Olga’s good-natured nest is dozing in the field, it has flown far away!

It was not born to offend either the falcon or the gyrfalcon

not for you, black raven, filthy half-wit!

Gza runs like a gray wolf,

Konchak follows him - to the great Don!

The next day at an early hour

bloody dawns herald the light;

black clouds are coming from the sea -

they want to cover the four suns,

and blue lightning flutters in them.

May there be great thunder!

Let it rain like arrows from the great Don!

Here the spears will break,

I'll take a saber beating here

about the Polovtsian sheloms

on the river on Kayal, near the Great Don.

O Russian land - O warriors! You have gone over the hill, borderline!

Here are the winds, Stribozh's grandchildren, blowing arrows from the sea to

Igor's brave regiments.

The earth is humming, the rivers are flowing muddy,

the ashes cover the field, the splashes, the banners say,

the Polovtsians come from the Don and from the sea,

Russian regiments were surrounded on all sides.

The demonic children blocked the fields with a cry,

and the brave Russians - with scarlet shields!

Yar-tur Prince Vsevolod!

You're on the defensive

you shoot arrows at the warriors,

you rattle your damask swords against your helmets;

wherever you go, with your golden helmet

shining,

That’s where the filthy Polovtsian heads lie.

Avar helmets were chopped with hot sabers

yours, yar-tur Vsevolod!

Why are there wounds, brothers?

who forgot honor and wealth, and the city of Chernigov father

golden throne,

and his dear wife, clear Glebovna, habits and customs.

There were centuries of Troyans,

The Yaroslav years have passed;

there were campaigns by Oleg, Oleg Svyatoslavich.

That Oleg forged sedition with a sword

and he sowed arrows on the ground:

enters the golden stirrup in the city of Tmutorokan,

the great Vsevolod, the son of old, heard that ringing

Yaroslavov,

and Vladimir, every morning, blocked his ears in Chernigov;

Boris Vyacheslavich

boasting led to the death court,

young and brave prince,

and she laid a green bed on Kanin for offending Olegov. With the same one as now, Svyatopolk took his father to Kayaly

his

between Ugric pacers to St. Sophia to Kyiv.

Then, under Oleg Gorislavich,

was sown and sprouted by strife,

the side of Dazhdbozh’s grandson perished,

in the prince's sedition, the human age was shortened;

then the plowmen rarely shouted across the Russian land,

but often the crows croaked,

dividing the carrion among themselves,

and the jackdaws started talking,

getting ready to fly for the kill.

It was during those battles and those campaigns,

but such a battle has never been heard of.

From dawn until evening,

from evening until light

red-hot arrows are flying,

sabers rattle on helmets,

cracking replica damask steel

in an unknown field, among the Polovtsian land.

The black soil under the hooves was sown with bones,

and watered with blood;

they ascended in grief across the Russian land!

What is making noise, what is ringing from afar?

early before the dawn?

Igor returns the regiments to battle:

I feel sorry for his dear brother Vsevolod!

We fought one day, we fought another,

On the third day, by noon, Igor’s banners fell.

Here two brothers were separated on the banks of the fast Kayala

there's not enough bloody wine here,

here the brave Russians finished the feast:

got the matchmakers drunk,

and they themselves died

for the Russian land.

The grass will fade with pity,

Already a gloomy time, brothers, the time has come,

The Desert has already covered the Russian Power!

Resentment arose with enmity in the regiments of Dazhdbozh’s grandson,

a virgin entered the land of Troyan,

splashed with swan wings on the blue sea near the Don,

splashers, drove away the fun times!

The war between the princes and the filthy has come to an end,

for brother said to brother: “This is mine, and this is mine!”

And the princes began to say about the small “here is the great”

and forge sedition against ourselves,

and the filthy from all sides came with war and misfortune to the Russian land.

ABOUT! A falcon flew far away - to the sea, beating up birds.

But Igor’s brave regiment cannot be resurrected!

Karna clicked on it,

And Zhlya ran across the Russian land,

carrying funeral heat in a fiery horn.

The Russian wives burst into tears, wailing:

“We can no longer think of our dear ones,

I don't even think about it,

you can’t see with your eyes,

and there’s no way to amuse oneself with gold and silver!”

And, brothers, Kyiv groaned with grief,

and Chernigov from troubles and misfortunes,

melancholy spread across the Russian land,

abundant sadness flowed among the Russian land.

And the princes forged sedition against themselves,

and the filthy ones, scouring the Russian land with war and victories,

tribute was collected per century from the yard.

Those two brave Svyatoslavichs,

Igor and Vsevolod,

awakened falsehood by self-will;

she was humbled by a thunderstorm by their father, the great formidable Svyatoslav

Kyiv,

frightened with his mighty regiments and damask swords,

invaded the Polovtsian land,

trampled the hills and ravines,

troubled the rivers and lakes,

dried up the streams and swamps,

and the filthy Kobyak from Lukomorye,

from the great iron regiments of the Polovtsians, like a whirlwind,

snatched it out

and Kobyak fell in the city of Kyiv,

in Gridnitsa Svyatoslavova.

There are Germans and Veneticians here,

there are Greeks and Moravians here

sing the glory of Svyatoslav,

they reproach Prince Igor,

that he drowned the goods at the bottom of Kayala, the Polovtsian river. Russian gold has been scattered!

Here Prince Igor moved from the golden saddle to the saddle

slave!

Their mighty kremlins became sad throughout the cities, and their joy faded.

And Svyatoslav saw a sad dream in Kyiv on the mountains.

“This night they dressed me from the evening,” he said, “with a black blanket on my yew bed,

they drew me blue, ominous wine, mixed with bitterness;

they poured stinging pearls from the empty quivers of filthy interpreters onto my chest, dressing me.

There are already boards without a motherboard in my golden-domed mansion!

All night from the evening, prophetic crows were cawing near Plesnesk on the floodplain,

they flew from the darkness of the Kisansky gorge

and rushed towards the blue sea.”

And the boyars said to the prince:

“Grief, prince, my mind has overcome:

two falcons flew from their father's golden throne

look for the city of Tmutorokani

or drink the don's helmet.

The falcons' wings have already been cut off with filthy sabers,

and they themselves were entangled with iron fetters

For it became dark on the third day: the two suns were eclipsed

both pillars of crimson went out - they became darkened,

and with them two young months, Oleg and Svyatoslav, in darkness

got covered up

and plunged into the sea.

They gave great audacity to the Khin newcomers.

On the river on Kayal, Darkness covered the Light;

The Polovtsians rushed to the Russian land like a brood

leopards.

Dishonor has already fallen to Glory,

Violence has already struck Freedom,

Div has already fallen to the ground!

The Gothic beauties maidens sang on the shore of the blue sea, ringing with Russian gold;

they sing Busovo time,

cherish revenge for Sharukanov’s misfortune.

And we, the squad, have already lost our fun!”

Then the great Svyatoslav uttered a golden word,

mixed with tears, saying:

“Oh my sons, Igor and Vsevolod!

Before the time came, you began to drive the Polovtsian land into tears with swords,

and to achieve glory for yourself,

but they did not enter the battle with honor,

You did not shed vile blood with honor!

Your brave hearts are bound with strong damask steel,

and seasoned in daring!

What have you done to my silver hair?

But I no longer see the power and help of the mighty and rich,

and my many-time brother Yaroslav

with Chernigov nobles,

with governors, with elders, with shelbir boyars;

with warriors-topchaks, with heroes, with brave men,

but they are without shields, with boot knives,

with a click the regiments win,

ringing with great-grandfather's glory!

But you said: “We will argue ourselves,

we will take possession of the new glory alone - and the old one ourselves

Let's share!"

Is it really so wonderful, brothers, for an old man to grow younger?

When the falcon moults,

drives the birds high -

will not give his nest to harm!

But here’s the evil: the princes swore to help me;

turned to bad times!”

Here in Rimov they shout under Polovtsian sabers,

and Vladimir is seriously wounded,

grief and longing for Glebov’s son!

Grand Duke Vsevolod!

I just can’t imagine if my father’s gold could fly to you from afar

guard the throne!

You can splash the Volga with oars, and scoop up the Don with helmets!

If you were here, captives would be sold for next to nothing, and captives even more so!

After all, you can shoot firearms on dry land alive - the daring sons of Glebov.

You, Rurik, and Davyd!

Don't you have warriors with gilded helmets in their blood?

swam?

Don’t you have brave warriors roaring like aurochs, wounded by red-hot sabers on an unknown field? Step, sirs, into the golden stirrup for this offense

time,

daring Svyatoslavich!

Galician Prince Osmomysl Yaroslav!

You sit high on your golden throne,

You have propped up the Ugric mountains with iron regiments,

you stood in the way of the king, you closed the gates of the Danube,

throwing bulks beyond the clouds,

courts as far as the Danube!

Your thunderstorms flow across the lands,

you open the gates of Kyiv,

you shoot from the golden throne at the sultans

behind the lands -

shoot, sir, at Konchak, at the filthy slave, for the Russian land, for Igor’s wounds,

daring Svyatoslavich!

And you, buoy Roman, and Mstislav!

A brave thought directs your mind to action!

You rise high, you float. Roman, for feat in

valor,

like a falcon spreading in the winds,

who wished to overcome the bird in his daring!

Your warriors wear iron armor

under Latin helmets!

Because of them the earth trembled, and many tribes

enemy-Khinova: Lithuania, Yatvingians, Deremelas and Polovtsians -

they threw down their spears,

and bowed their heads

blued like those swords.

But already, prince, the light of the sun has dimmed for Igor,

and the tree dropped its leaves for no good:

The cities were divided along Ros and Sula,

but Igor’s brave regiment cannot be resurrected!

The Don, prince, calls you and calls the princes to victory:

The Olgovichi, brave princes, have already worked hard in battle!

Ingvar and Vsevolod and all three Mstislavichs!

The nests of six-winged falcons are not bad!

We didn’t win our volosts by the lot of victories!

What are your golden helmets, and Lyash spears, and shields for?

Block the enemy's gate with your sharp arrows

for the Russian land, for Igor’s wounds,

daring Svyatoslavich!

Suda no longer flows like silver streams for hail

Pereyaslavl,

and the Dvina flows like a dark mud to those formidable Polotsk residents under the cries of the filthy.

Only Izyaslav, son of Vasilkov,

rang his sharp swords against the Lithuanian helmets, brought down the glory of his grandfather Vseslav,

and he himself was defeated by Lithuanian swords under red shields on the bloody grass,

and, having become engaged to his betrothed, said:

“Your squad, prince, the birds dressed them with wings, and the animals licked their blood!”

There was neither brother Bryachislav nor the other Vsevolod here,

He alone dropped the pearl soul from his brave body through a golden necklace!

Gorodensky trumpets sound.

Yaroslav, you too, all Vseslav’s grandchildren!

Bow down your banners,

Sheathe your chipped swords -

you have strayed from your grandfather's glory!

With your sedition you began to bring filth

to the Russian land,

to Vseslavov parish:

violence came to us because of strife and unrest

from the land of Polovtsian!

In the seventh century of Trojan, Vseslav cast lots for a girl, any one for him.

He, cunningly leaning on his horses, galloped towards the city of Kyiv

and touched the golden throne of Kyiv with a lance;

leapt away from the regiments like a fierce beast at midnight from Belgorod and soared in a blue cloud,

and the next morning he thrust his axes: he opened the gates of Novgorod - he smashed the glory of Yaroslav.

Jumped like a wolf to Nemiga from Dudutki,

on Nemiga they lay down heads in sheaves and thresh them with flails

damask,

they put life on hold, they drain the soul from the body.

The bloody shores of Nemiga were not sown with goodness - they were sown with the bones of Russian sons!

Prince Vseslav judged people in court,

dressed up the princes of the city,

and he prowled the night like a wolf,

from Kyiv he hunted like a wolf until the roosters in Tmutorokan;

I overtook and overtook the great Horse on the way.

The bells rang for him in Polotsk early in the morning

at St. Sophia's

and he heard the ringing in Kyiv!

Although the soul of the sorcerer was in a brave body,

but often suffered from misfortunes.

About him, the prophetic, wise Boyan said in a refrain of old:

“Neither cunning nor much,

nor to the seer of much more

God’s judgment cannot be avoided!”

ABOUT! Moaning the Russian land, remembering the previous time

and the former princes!

That old Vladimir could not be nailed to the Kyiv mountains!

And now his banners have become Rurik’s,

and those are the Davydovs.

But their banners flutter separately, their spears sing separately.

the unknown cuckoo calls early:

“I’ll fly,” he says, “like a cuckoo along the Danube,

I’ll soak my silk sleeve in the Kayala River,

I will wipe off the prince’s bloody wounds on his mighty body.”

Yaroslavna cries early in the morning in Putivl at the loopholes of the Kremlin, wailing:

“O Wind-Sail!

Why, my lord, do you blow the oncoming force,

Why do you aim the enemy’s arrows on your light wings at my warriors?

Was it not enough for you, floating high under the clouds, to cherish the ships on the blue sea?

Why, sir, is my joy in the feather grass field

dispelled?

Yaroslavna cries at light in Putivl-city on the fence of the Kremlin, wailing:

“Oh Dnepr Slovutich!

You broke through the stone mountains among the Polovtsian land with a wave,

you cherished Svyatoslav’s boats on your jets until Kobyakov’s regiment -

Please, sir, hold my good will towards me, so that I don’t send tears to him to the sea early.”

Yaroslavna cries early in the morning in Putivl on the wall of the Kremlin, wailing:

“Bright and bright Sun!

You are warm and beautiful to everyone!

Why, my lord, did you spread your hot rays onto the warriors?

in a waterless field I bent their bows with thirst,

Have you closed your quivers with melancholy?

The sea raged at midnight,

tornadoes are coming in clouds.

God shows the way to Prince Igor

from the Polovtsian land to the Russian land

to the father's golden throne.

The dawns went out in the evening.

Igor is sleeping - Igor is looking,

Igor measures the fields with his thoughts

from the great Don to the small Donets.

At midnight Ovlur whistled his horse across the river,

tells the prince to understand:

“Prince Igor should not be here!” - he clicked.

The earth clattered, the grass rustled -

The Polovtsian elders were alarmed!

And Prince Igor galloped like an ermine into the reeds,

flew like a white goldeneye onto the water;

jumped onto a greyhound horse,

jumped off him like a werewolf

and ran to the Donets meadow,

and flew like a falcon under a cloud,

beating geese and swans

for breakfast, lunch and evening.

When Igor flew like a falcon,

then Ovlur ran like a wolf,

shaking off the chilly dew, -

they drove their greyhound horses!

Donets said: “Prince Igor!

You have a lot of greatness

and Konchak of grief,

and joy to the Russian land!”

Igor said: “Oh my Donets!

You have a lot of greatness

who cherished the prince on the waves,

who spread green grass for him on his silver banks,

who clothed him in warm darkness under the shade of a green tree;

you guarded him with a gogol on the water,

seagulls on the jets,

black in the winds!

This is not what the Stugna River has a reputation for: having an evil stream,

swallowing other people's streams and waters,

expanding towards the mouth,

hid the young man Prince Rostislav at the bottom of the dark shore.

Rostislavov's mother is crying

after the young man Prince Rostislav.

The flowers are saddened in sorrow,

and the tree bowed to the ground with sadness.

And it wasn’t the magpies who chirped -

Gza and Konchak are on the trail of Igorev.

Then the crows didn't caw,

the jackdaws fell silent

the magpies did not chirp,

the nuthatches died down, only crawling.

Woodpeckers knock the way to the river,

Nightingales herald the light with cheerful songs.

Gza says to Konchak:

“When a falcon flies to the nest,

We will shoot Sokolich with our gilded arrows.”

Konchak Gze says:

“When a falcon flies to the nest,

We will entangle Sokolich with the red maiden.”

And Gza said to Konchak:

“If we entangle him with a red maiden,

we won't have a falcon,

there will be no red maiden,

and the birds will begin to beat us in the Polovtsian field!”

Said Boyan, before him - Khodyna, the singer Svyatoslavov, composers of songs about the old times -

Yaroslavov, Olegov, kagan's wives:

“It’s hard for you, head, without shoulders,

evil and a body without a head,” -

Russian land - without Igor!

The sun is shining in the sky:

Igor the Prince is in the Russian land.

The girls sing on the Danube,

Igor travels along Borichev to the Holy Mother of God Pirogoshchaya.

The villages are happy, the towns are happy!

Having sung a song to the old princes, the young ones must also sing:

“Glory to Igor Svyatoslavich,

Buy-turU Vsevolod,

Vladimir Igorevich!

Hello to the princes and squad,

that they stand up for Christians on filthy shelves!

Glory to the princes and the squad!

4. According to the definition of literary critic A. S. Orlov, the hero of “The Tale of Igor’s Campaign” is not just any of the princes, but the entire Russian land. How do you understand this idea? What single thought and mood permeates the entire work? What very important idea for his time was expressed by the author of “The Tale of Igor’s Campaign”?

V. I. Stelletsky. Lament-prayer of Yaroslavna. Poetic arrangement

“I’ll fly like a cuckoo,” he says, “along the Danube,
I’ll wash my silk sleeve in Kayal,
I will wipe away the bloody, grieving wounds
On the mighty body of the prince's frets."

Yaroslavna on the wall of Putivl-grad
Early in the morning he cries, wailing:

"Wind, my lord!
Why are you blowing counter force?
Why are you carrying on light wings?
Enemy Arrows
On the shelves of the spouse - frets,
Or is it not enough for you to fly high under the clouds,
Ships to cherish in the blue sea?
Why, sir, is my joy
Have you scattered feather grass in the steppe?"

Yaroslavna on the fence of the city of Putivl
Early in the morning he cries, wailing:

"Dnepr Slovutych!
In the middle of the great Polovtsian steppe,
You broke through the stone mountains with waves,
You cherished the boats of Svyatoslav
To Kobyak's regiments,
Come close to me, my lord,
So as not to send me tears to the sea to him early!”

On the wall of Putivl-grad Yaroslavna
Early in the morning he cries, wailing:

"The sun is bright, you are so bright, Sun!
You are warm to everyone, you are wonderful to everyone!
Why did it send sultry rays,
My lord,
You're a warrior's wife
And in the waterless, Polovtsian steppe,
You've made them thirsty for their bows
And the quivers are closed with grief?"

I. I. Kozlov. Yaroslavna's cry. Free imitation

Princess 3. A. Volkonskaya

It's not a cuckoo in a dark grove
Cuckoos early at dawn -
Yaroslavna is crying in Putivl
One on the city wall:
"I will leave the pine forest,
I'll fly along the Danube,
And in the Kayal River there is a beaver
I will wet my sleeve;
I will rush home to my native camp,
Where the bloody battle raged,
I will wash the wound for the prince
On his young chest."

Yaroslavna is crying in Putivl,
Dawn, on the city wall:
"Wind, wind, oh mighty one!
Stormy wind, why are you making noise?
Why are you black clouds in the sky?
And you rise and swirl?
What are you with light wings
The flow of the river was disturbed,
Fanning Khan's arrows
To the birthplace shelves?

Yaroslavna is crying in Putivl,
Dawn, on the city wall:
"Is it too tight to breathe in the clouds?
From the steep mountains of a foreign land?
If you want to cherish
There are ships in the blue sea,
Why are you filled with fear?
Our share? For what
Scattered across the feather grass
The joy of my heart?

Yaroslavna is crying in Putivl,
Dawn, on the city wall:
"My glorious Dnieper! you are in waves
The Polovtsians broke through the rocks;
Svyatoslav with heroes
I was running after you.
Don’t worry, the Dnieper is wide,
The rapid flow of icy waters, -
They are my black-eyed prince
He will sail to holy Rus'."

Yaroslavna is crying in Putivl,
Dawn, on the city wall:
"Oh river! give me my friend -
Cherish him on the waves,
To sad girlfriend
She hugged him quickly;
So that I don't see you again
Prophetic horrors in dreams,
So that I don’t send tears to him
Blue sea at dawn."

Yaroslavna is crying in Putivl,
Dawn, on the city wall:
"Sun, sun, you shine
Everything is beautiful and bright!
In a sultry field, what do you burn?
My friend's army?
Thirst bows with strings
Withered in their hands,
And sadness is a quiver of arrows
"Put it on my shoulders."

And quietly in Yaroslavna's tower
Leaving the city wall.

Questions and tasks

1. Why does Yaroslavna turn to different forces of nature three times?

1. Find in Yaroslavna’s lament features characteristic of folk poetry. Compare the text of “The Words...” and its literary adaptations. Explain the meaning of folklore symbols that appear in Yaroslavna’s words.

1. Read the transcriptions of Yaroslavna’s lament by V. I. Stelletsky and I. I. Kozlov. How are these texts different and what do they have in common?

2. What image did the poets strive to create?

18th century literature

M. V. Lomonosov. G. R. Derzhavin. D. I. Fonvizin. N. M. Karamzin.

About Russian literature of the 18th century

"Eighteenth Century". This name was given to his poem by Alexander Nikolaevich Radishchev, an outstanding writer-thinker, an unbending denouncer of despotism, the author of the famous book “Journey from St. Petersburg to Moscow,” for the publication of which he paid with a long exile to Siberia. In 1801–1802, he summed up the results of the past century in poetic form.

No, you will not be forgotten, the century is crazy and wise,
You will be damned forever, forever to the surprise of everyone.
…………………………………….
Oh unforgettable century! you grant to joyful mortals
Truth, freedom and light, the constellation is clear forever...

The seemingly contradictory assessment of the results of the past century is explained by the contradictions of the Russian reality of that era itself. It was a century of creation, the triumph of the Enlightenment, the flourishing of culture, the free human mind, and at the same time a century of destruction, blood, uprisings, and irreconcilable confrontations. In the 18th century, outstanding works were created in Russia, true masterpieces of literature, painting, sculpture, architecture, and major successes were achieved in science and technology.

Assessing the past century, Radishchev paid tribute to Peter I and his persecutor Catherine II, although he was an opponent of the autocracy and the policies of the empress.

Peace, justice, truth, freedom flow from the throne,
Catherine, Peter raised it so that Russia would be happy.
Peter and you, Catherine! your spirit still lives with us.
Look at the new century, look at your Russia...

So, what did the eighteenth century contribute to the history of Russian culture?

About Russian classicism

In the thirties of the 18th century, classicism became the main direction in Russian art. Its largest representatives in literature were A. D. Kantemir, V. K. Trediakovsky, M. V. Lomonosov, A. P. Sumarokov, D. I. Fonvizin, M. M. Kheraskov, Ya. B. Knyazhnin, G. R. Derzhavin, in painting - A. P. Losenko, D. G. Levitsky, in architecture - V. I. Bazhenov, M. F. Kazakov. What united them, what tasks did they set for their work?

The word "classicism" is derived from the Latin classicus, which means "exemplary". In the 18th century, works of ancient art were considered exemplary, and classicists began to turn to antiquity. This was expressed in the use by writers and artists of ancient subjects and images, elements of Greek and Roman mythology.

Following the traditions of ancient authors, as well as European classicists, Russian writers asserted in their works the ideas of enlightened absolutism, patriotism, citizenship, and the education of true sons of the Fatherland. You will see the development of these ideas by reading the odes of Lomonosov and Derzhavin. However, along with praise, Russian writers allowed themselves to express a critical attitude towards the absolute monarchy, to denounce tyranny and arbitrariness, trampling on the laws of the state. This contributed to the development of the satirical orientation of Russian classicism.

Conflicts in the works of classicism were always built on the clash of duty, reason and feeling, and they were resolved in favor of duty, asserting the priority of duties to the state, laws, and moral norms.

The classicists strictly followed the division of literary genres into high and low. The high ones included ode, tragedy, heroic poem, the low ones included satire, comedy, and fable.