Analysis of the poem “All day she lay in oblivion. Analysis of the poem "All day she lay in oblivion ..." Tyutcheva She lay in oblivion Tyutchev
Fedor Ivanovich Tyutchev
All day she lay in oblivion,
And shadows covered it all.
Lil warm summer rain - its jets
The leaves sounded merry.
And slowly she came to her senses
And I started listening to the noise
And listened for a long time - passionate,
Immersed in conscious thought...
And so, as if talking to myself,
Consciously she spoke
(I was with her, killed, but alive):
“Oh, how I loved all this!”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
You loved, and the way you love -
No, nobody has succeeded yet!
Oh my God! .. and survive it ...
And the heart was not torn to shreds ...
Elena Deniseva
Fyodor Tyutchev has a whole cycle of works dedicated to Elena Denisyeva, the poet's beloved, whom he idolized and considered his muse. Tyutchev's personal life was the subject of secular jokes and gossip, since for 14 years he actually supported two families, legally married to Ernestina Dernberg, but at the same time raising three children from Elena Denisyeva.
However, the romance with the Russian aristocrat ended tragically - in 1864 she died of tuberculosis. On the eve of her death, the poet spent all day at the bedside of Elena Denisyeva, realizing that he was unable to help his beloved. A few months later, Tyutchev wrote the poem "All day she lay in oblivion ...", which became the epitaph for his romance with a woman who managed to make the poet truly happy.
This work, filled with tragedy and endless love, describes the last hours of the life of Elena Denisyeva, who no longer got out of bed and was unconscious. Recalling this warm summer day, Tyutchev notes that “shadows covered her all.” However, the rain suddenly began, the jets of which "sounded merrily over the leaves," brought the dying woman to consciousness. The woman began to listen to the sounds of falling drops, enthusiastically and as if immersed in memories. What was she thinking at that moment? Did she realize that she was dying? Apparently, yes, because she uttered a completely conscious and distinct phrase: “Oh, how I loved all this!”.
How depressed Tyutchev was after the death of Elena Denisyeva is evidenced by the last quatrain of the work, in which the poet admits that only this woman could love so sincerely and faithfully. Indeed, for the sake of Tyutchev, she renounced her inheritance and high society, which condemned her relationship with the poet and the birth of children out of wedlock. Elena Denisyeva had to forget about her noble origin and the family that renounced the woman, leaving her to her fate and without a livelihood. Fyodor Tyutchev perfectly understood what sacrifices his chosen one made in the name of love, therefore he considered it his duty to take care of her until her death. The departure from the life of the one that was the meaning of the poet's existence, Tyutchev bitterly notes that fate turned out to be unfair to him and did not allow him to reunite with his beloved after her death. “Oh my God!.. and survive it ... And my heart didn’t tear to shreds ...”, the poet notes, regretting that he continues to live after such a tragedy.
According to eyewitnesses, the death of Elena Denisyeva actually turned Tyutchev into an old man, decrepit, hunched and helpless. After all, tuberculosis also took the lives of his two children, whose death the poet could not forgive himself, believing that the kids had to be taken away from the house where their sick mother was. After these tragic events, Tyutchev left for Nice, hoping that a change of scenery would help him cope with personal grief. His wife accompanied the poet on this trip and, having forgiven him for treason, tried to do everything possible to brighten up Tyutchev's loneliness. Later, the poet admitted that fate gave him the opportunity to experience the love of the most beautiful and sensitive women in the world, to whom he owes a lot. And, in particular, it was thanks to them that many delightful poems were created, which to this day are the standard of Russian lyric poetry.
It is worth noting that over the next years, Tyutchev repeatedly addressed Elena Denisyeva in verse and dedicated surprisingly tender lines to her, filled with admiration, love and gratitude. But at the same time, until the end of the poet's life, Ernestine's wife remained his faithful companion, who considered it her duty to take care of the person whom she loved infinitely.
“All day she lay in oblivion…” Poems devoted to memories of the last hours of Denisyeva's life, sounds the pain of the loss of a loved one. Tyutchev recalls how on the last day of her life she was unconscious, and outside the window the August rain was falling, merrily murmuring through the leaves. Having come to her senses, Elena Alexandrovna listened for a long time to the sound of rain, realizing that she was dying, but still reaching out for life. The second part of the poem is a description of the situation and the state of the hero, heartbroken. The hero suffers, but the person, it turns out, can survive everything, only the pain in the heart remains. The poem is written in iambic, cross female and male rhyme, polyunion give the poem smoothness, the repetition of sounds [w], [l], [s] conveys the quiet rustle of summer rain. The poem is characterized by exclamatory sentences, interjections, dots convey the difficult state of mind of the hero. Artistic tropes: epithets (“warm summer rain”), metaphors (“and the heart did not break into pieces ...”).
During the period when the poem was written, the poet felt, by his own admission, “as if on the other day after her death.” He wrote then “I can’t live, my friend Alexander Ivanovich, I can’t live ... The wound is festering, it doesn’t heal ... What I have not tried during these last weeks - society, nature, and, finally, the closest kindred affections ... I am ready to blame myself for ingratitude , in insensibility, but I can’t lie: it wasn’t easier for a minute, as soon as consciousness returned.
Great about verses:
Poetry is like painting: one work will captivate you more if you look at it closely, and another if you move further away.
Little cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creak of unoiled wheels.
The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is that which has broken.
Marina Tsvetaeva
Of all the arts, poetry is most tempted to replace its own peculiar beauty with stolen glitter.
Humboldt W.
Poems succeed if they are created with spiritual clarity.
The writing of poetry is closer to worship than is commonly believed.
If only you knew from what rubbish Poems grow without shame... Like a dandelion near a fence, Like burdocks and quinoa.
A. A. Akhmatova
Poetry is not in verses alone: it is spilled everywhere, it is around us. Take a look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life breathe from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.
I. S. Turgenev
For many people, writing poetry is a growing pain of the mind.
G. Lichtenberg
A beautiful verse is like a bow drawn through the sonorous fibers of our being. Not our own - our thoughts make the poet sing inside us. Telling us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens in our souls our love and our sorrow. He is a wizard. Understanding him, we become poets like him.
Where graceful verses flow, there is no place for vainglory.
Murasaki Shikibu
I turn to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to blank verse. There are too few rhymes in Russian. One calls the other. The flame inevitably drags the stone behind it. Because of the feeling, art certainly peeps out. Who is not tired of love and blood, difficult and wonderful, faithful and hypocritical, and so on.
Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin
- ... Are your poems good, tell yourself?
- Monstrous! Ivan suddenly said boldly and frankly.
- Do not write anymore! the visitor asked pleadingly.
I promise and I swear! - solemnly said Ivan ...
Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "Master and Margarita"
We all write poetry; poets differ from the rest only in that they write them with words.
John Fowles. "The French Lieutenant's Mistress"
Every poem is a veil stretched out on the points of a few words. These words shine like stars, because of them the poem exists.
Alexander Alexandrovich Blok
The poets of antiquity, unlike modern ones, rarely wrote more than a dozen poems during their long lives. It is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, behind every poetic work of those times, a whole Universe is certainly hidden, filled with miracles - often dangerous for someone who inadvertently wakes dormant lines.
Max Fry. "The Talking Dead"
To one of my clumsy hippos-poems, I attached such a heavenly tail: ...
Mayakovsky! Your poems do not warm, do not excite, do not infect!
- My poems are not a stove, not a sea and not a plague!
Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky
Poems are our inner music, clothed in words, permeated with thin strings of meanings and dreams, and therefore drive away critics. They are but miserable drinkers of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Don't let his vulgar groping hands in there. Let the verses seem to him an absurd lowing, a chaotic jumble of words. For us, this is a song of freedom from tedious reason, a glorious song that sounds on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.
Boris Krieger. "A Thousand Lives"
Poems are the thrill of the heart, the excitement of the soul and tears. And tears are nothing but pure poetry that has rejected the word.
All day she lay in oblivion,
And shadows covered her all -
Lil warm summer rain - its jets
The leaves sounded merry.
And slowly she came to her senses
And I started listening to the noise
And listened for a long time - passionate,
Immersed in conscious thought...
And so, as if talking to myself,
Consciously she spoke
(I was with her, killed, but alive):
"Oh, how I loved all this! .."
· · ·
· · ·
You loved, and the way you love -
No, no one has yet succeeded -
Oh Lord! .. and this live through…
And the heart was not torn to shreds ...
COMMENTS:
Autograph - RSL. F. 308. K. 1. Unit. ridge 8. L. 1–2.
First post - RV. 1865. V. 55. No. 2, February. S. 685. Then - Ed. 1868. S. 208, with a note - "July 7, 1864". The same text and with the same note is reprinted in Ed. SPb., 1886. S. 264 and in Ed. 1900. S. 266.
Printed by autograph.
White's autograph, two rows of dots after the third stanza. Dash (other than reproduced) in the 1st, 4th, 6th lines.
The time of the creation of the poem was most accurately determined by K. V. Pigarev: “Dedicated to the memory of the last hours of the life of E. A. Denisyeva. Since Denisyeva died on August 4, 1864, the date of the poem as July of the same year is no longer valid. It was sent by a poet from Nice to A. I. Georgievsky for placement in RV in a letter dated December 13, 1864, along with two poems written in October - December of this year (“The biza has subsided ... It breathes easier ...” and “Oh, this south, oh, this Nice ...”) ”( Lyric I. S. 421). A. I. Georgievsky spoke in detail about Tyutchev’s desire to print this text in his memoirs ( LN-2. pp. 128–129).
July 20 / August 1, 1864 E. F. Tyutcheva wrote to D. I. Sushkova about her father: “... he is sad and depressed, since m-lle D<енисьева>very ill, which he told me in half hints; he fears that she will not survive, and showers himself with reproaches; he did not even think of asking me to see her; his sadness is depressing, and my heart was breaking. Since his return from Moscow, he has not seen anyone and devotes all his time to caring for her. LN-2. S. 350).
After the funeral, Tyutchev said in a letter to Georgievsky dated August 8, 1864: “It's all over - yesterday we buried her ... What is it? What happened? I don’t know what I am writing to you about… Everything is killed in me: thought, feeling, memory, everything… I feel like a complete idiot. Emptiness, terrible emptiness. And even in death, I do not foresee relief. Oh, I need her on earth, but not somewhere else... The heart is empty - the brain is exhausted. Even to remember her - to call her, alive, in memory, how she was, looked, moved, spoke, and I can’t do that ”( Ed. 1984. T. 2. S. 269).
“Suffering and weakness are expressed by Tyutchev not only as the direct content of many poems,” N.V. Nedobrovo noted, “but they also went into the form of his work, saturating it to such an extent that it was clear, for a sensitive ear, they sounded in the very verse with a high moaning note ”(Nedobrovo N.V. About Tyutchev. Introductory article and publication by E. Orlova // Questions of Literature. 2000. November - December. P. 285) ( A. A.).
