Reflection at the front door native land. Reflections at the front door. Poems by Nekrasov. Means of artistic expression

Here is the front entrance. On solemn days, Possessed by a servile illness, A whole city with some kind of fright Drives up to the cherished doors; Having written down their name and rank, The guests go home, So deeply pleased with themselves, What do you think - that is their vocation! And on ordinary days this magnificent entrance is besieged by wretched faces: Projectors, searchers for places, And an old man, and a widow. From him and to him then know in the mornings All couriers with papers are jumping. Returning, another sings "tram-tram", And other petitioners cry. Once I saw, the peasants came up here, Russian village people, Prayed at the church and stood in the distance, Dangling their blond heads to their chests; The doorman showed up. "Let me," they say With an expression of hope and anguish. He looked at the guests: they are ugly to look at! Tanned faces and arms, A thin Armenian girl on her shoulders, On a knapsack on her backs bent, A cross on her neck and blood on her feet, Shod in homemade bast shoes (To know, they wandered for a long time From some distant provinces). Someone shouted to the porter: "Drive! Ours does not like tattered mob!" And the door slammed shut. After standing, The pilgrims untied the purse, But the porter did not let him in, not taking a meager mite, And they went, burning with the sun, Repeating: "God judge him!" And the owner of luxurious chambers Still was deeply embraced by sleep... You, who consider life enviable Intoxication with shameless flattery, Drag and go, gluttony, game, Wake up! There is another pleasure: Bring them back! you are their salvation! But the happy ones are deaf to good... The thunders of heaven do not frighten you, And you hold the 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? With an eternal holiday, the fast-running Life does not let you wake up. And why? You call the people's good fun as fun; Without him you will live with glory And you will die with glory! Serene Arcadian idyll Old days will roll. Under the captivating sky of Sicily, In the fragrant tree shade, Contemplating how the purple sun Dive into the azure sea, With stripes of its gold, - Lulled by the gentle singing of the Mediterranean wave - like a child You will fall asleep, surrounded by the care of Dear and beloved family (Waiting for your death with impatience) ; Your remains will be brought to us, To honor with a funeral feast, And you will go down to the grave ... a hero, Secretly cursed by your homeland, Exalted by loud praise! Shouldn't we take out our anger on them? - It's safer ... It's even more fun To find solace in something. .. It doesn't matter that the peasant will endure: So the providence leading us Indicated ... yes, he's used to it! Behind the outpost, in a wretched tavern, the poor will drink everything 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 keeper, Where would a Russian peasant not moan? He groans in the fields, along the roads, He groans in prisons, in prisons, In mines, on an iron chain; He groans under a barn, under a stack, Under a cart, spending the night in the steppe; Moaning in his own poor house, God's light of the sun is not happy; Groans in every remote town, At the entrance of courts and chambers. Come out to the Volga: whose groan is heard Over the great Russian river? We call this groan a song - Then barge haulers go tow! .. Volga! Volga!.. In the high-water spring You flood the fields not so, As our land overflowed with great sorrow of the people, - Where the people, there is a groan ... Oh, my heart! What does your endless moan mean? Will you wake up, full of strength, Or, obeying the law of fate, You have already done everything you could, - Created a song like a groan, And spiritually rested forever? ..

Here is the front entrance. On solemn days
Possessed by a servile disease,
A whole city with some kind of fright
Drives up to the cherished doors;
Writing down your name and rank,
Guests are leaving home
So deeply satisfied with myself
What do you think - that is their calling!
And on ordinary days, this magnificent entrance
Poor faces besiege:
Spotlights, place seekers,
And an old man, and a widow.
From him and to him then know in the morning
All couriers with papers are jumping.
Returning, another sings "tram-tram",
And other petitioners are crying.
Once I saw the men came here,
Village Russian people
We prayed to the church and stood far away,
Dangling blond heads to the chest;
The doorman showed up. "Let it go," they say
With an expression of hope and anguish.
He looked at the guests: they are ugly to look at!
Sunburnt faces and hands
Armenian thin on the shoulders,
By knapsack on the backs bent,
Cross on the neck and blood on the legs
Shod in homemade bast shoes
(Know, they wandered for a long time
From some distant provinces).
Someone shouted to the porter: “Drive!
Ours does not like ragged mob!
And the door slammed shut. after standing,
The pilgrims untied the bag,
But the porter did not let me in, without taking a meager mite,
And they went, burning with the sun,
Repeating: "God judge him!",
Spreading hopelessly hands,
And as long as I could see them,
With their heads uncovered...
And the owner of luxurious chambers
Another dream was deeply embraced ...
You, who consider life enviable
Intoxication with shameless flattery,
red tape, gluttony, game,
Wake up! There is also pleasure:
Take them back! you are their salvation!
But the happy are deaf to good...
The thunders of heaven do not frighten you,
And you hold earthly things in your hands,
And these people are unknown
Inexorable grief in the hearts.
What is this crying sorrow to you,
What are these poor people to you?
Eternal holiday fast running
Life won't let you wake up.
And why? Clickers fun
You call the people's good;
Without him you will live with glory
And die with glory!
Serene arcadian idyll
The old days will roll:
Under the captivating skies of Sicily,
In fragrant tree shade,
Contemplating how the sun is purple
Dive into the azure sea
Stripes of his gold, -
Lulled by gentle singing
Mediterranean waves - like a child
You will fall asleep, surrounded by care
Dear and beloved family
(Waiting for your death with impatience);
Your remains will be brought to us,
To honor with a funeral feast,
And you will go to the grave ... hero,
Secretly cursed by the motherland,
Exalted with loud praise!
However, why are we such a person
Worrying for small people?
Shouldn't we take our anger out on them? —
Safer...More fun
Find some solace...
It does not matter that the peasant will suffer;
So the providence that guides us
Indicated ... yes, he's used to it!
Behind the outpost, in a poor tavern
The poor will drink everything to the ruble
And they will go, begging the road,
And they will groan... Native land!
Name me a place like this
I didn't see that angle.
Wherever your sower and keeper,
Where would a Russian peasant not moan?
He groans through the fields, along the roads,
He groans in prisons, prisons,
In mines, on an iron chain;
He groans under the barn, under the stack,
Under the cart, spending the night in the steppe;
Moaning in his own poor little house,
The light of God's sun is not happy;
Moaning in every deaf town,
At the entrance of courts and chambers.
Come out to the Volga: whose groan is heard
Over the great Russian river?
We call this moan a song -
That barge haulers are towing! ..
Volga! Volga! .. In the spring of high water
You don't flood the fields like that
Like the great grief of the people
Our land is full,
Where there are people, there is a groan... Oh, my heart!
What does your endless moan mean?
Will you wake up, full of strength,
Or, fate obeying the law,
All that you could, you have already done -
Created a song like a moan
And spiritually rested forever? ..

Here is the front entrance.
On solemn days
Possessed by a servile disease,
A whole city with some kind of fright
Drives up to the cherished doors;
Writing down your name and rank,
Guests are leaving home
So deeply satisfied with myself
What do you think - that is their calling!
And on ordinary days, this magnificent entrance
Poor faces besiege:
Spotlights, place seekers,
And an old man, and a widow.
From him and to him then know in the morning
All couriers with papers are jumping.
Returning, another sings "tram-tram",
And other petitioners are crying.

Once I saw the men came here,
Village Russian people
We prayed to the church and stood far away,
Dangling blond heads to the chest;
The doorman showed up. "Let it go," they say
With an expression of hope and anguish.
He looked at the guests: they are ugly to look at!
Tanned faces and hands.
Armenian thin on the shoulders,
By knapsack on the backs bent,
Cross on the neck and blood on the legs

Shod in homemade bast shoes
(Know, they wandered for a long time
From some distant provinces).
Someone shouted to the porter: “Drive!
Ours does not like ragged mob!
I. the door slammed shut. after standing,
The pilgrims untied the bag,
But the porter did not let me in, without taking a meager mite,
And they went, burning with the sun,
Repeating: God judge him!
Spreading hopelessly hands,
And as long as I could see them,
With their heads uncovered...

And the owner of luxurious chambers
Another dream was deeply embraced ...
You, who consider life enviable
Intoxication with shameless flattery,
red tape, gluttony, game,
Wake up! There is also pleasure:
Take them back! you are their salvation!
But the happy are deaf to good...

The thunders of heaven do not frighten you,
And you hold earthly things in your hands,
And these people are unknown
Inexorable grief in the hearts.

What is this crying sorrow to you,
What are these poor people to you?
Eternal holiday fast running
Life won't let you wake up.
And why? Clickers fun
You call the people's good;
Without him you will live with glory

And die with glory!
Serene arcadian idyll
The old days will roll:
Under the captivating skies of Sicily,
In fragrant tree shade,
Contemplating how the sun is purple
Dive into the azure sea

Stripes of his gold, -
Lulled by gentle singing
Mediterranean waves - like a child,
You will fall asleep, surrounded by care
Dear and beloved family
(Waiting for your death with impatience);
Your remains will be brought to us,
To honor with a funeral feast,
And you will go to the grave ... hero,
Secretly cursed by the motherland,
Exalted with loud praise!
However, why are we such a person
Worrying for small people?
Shouldn't we take out our anger on them? -
Safer...More fun
Find some solace...
It doesn't matter what the man will suffer:
So the providence that guides us
Indicated ... yes, he's used to it!
Behind the outpost, in a wretched tavern,
The poor will drink everything to the ruble
And they will go, begging the road,
And they will groan... Native land!
Name me a place like this
I didn't see that angle.
Wherever your sower and keeper,
Where would a Russian peasant not moan?
He groans through the fields, along the roads,
He groans in prisons, prisons,
In mines, on an iron chain;
He groans under the barn, under the stack,
Under the cart, spending the night in the steppe;
Moaning in his own poor little house,
The light of God's sun is not happy;
Moaning in every deaf town,
At the entrance of courts and chambers.
Come out to the Volga: whose groan is heard
Over the great Russian river?
We call this moan a song -
That barge haulers are towing! ..
Volga! Volga! .. In the spring of high water
You don't flood the fields like that

Like the great grief of the people
Our land is full,
Where there are people, there is a groan... Oh, my heart!
What does your endless moan mean?
Will you wake up, full of strength,
Or, fate obeying the law,
All that you could, you have already done -
Created a song like a moan
And spiritually rested forever?

Here is the front entrance. On solemn days
Possessed by a servile disease,
A whole city with some kind of fright
Drives up to the cherished doors;
Writing down your name and rank,
Guests are leaving home
So deeply satisfied with myself
What do you think - that is their calling!
And on ordinary days, this magnificent entrance
Poor faces besiege:
Spotlights, place seekers,
And an old man, and a widow.
From him and to him then know in the morning
All couriers with papers are jumping.
Returning, another sings "tram-tram",
And other petitioners are crying.
Once I saw the men came here,
Village Russian people
We prayed to the church and stood far away,
Dangling blond heads to the chest;
The doorman showed up. "Let it go," they say
With an expression of hope and anguish.
He looked at the guests: they are ugly to look at!
Sunburnt faces and hands
Armenian thin on the shoulders,
By knapsack on the backs bent,
Cross on the neck and blood on the legs
Shod in homemade bast shoes
(Know, they wandered for a long time
From some distant provinces).
Someone shouted to the porter: “Drive!
Ours does not like ragged mob!
And the door slammed shut. after standing,
The pilgrims untied the bag,
But the porter did not let me in, without taking a meager mite,
And they went, burning with the sun,
Repeating: "God judge him!",
Spreading hopelessly hands,
And as long as I could see them,
They walked with their heads uncovered ...

And the owner of luxurious chambers
Another dream was deeply embraced ...
You, who consider life enviable
Intoxication with shameless flattery,
red tape, gluttony, game,
Wake up! There is another pleasure:
Take them back! you are their salvation!
But the happy are deaf to good...

The thunders of heaven do not frighten you,
And you hold earthly things in your hands,
And these people are unknown
Inexorable grief in the hearts.
What is this crying sorrow to you,
What are these poor people to you?
Eternal holiday fast running
Life won't let you wake up.
And why? Clickers fun
You call the people's good;
Without him you will live with glory
And die with glory!
Serene arcadian idyll
The old days will roll.
Under the captivating skies of Sicily,
In fragrant tree shade,
Contemplating how the sun is purple
Dive into the azure sea
Stripes of his gold, -
Lulled by gentle singing
Mediterranean waves - like a child
You will fall asleep, surrounded by care
Dear and beloved family
(Waiting for your death with impatience);
Your remains will be brought to us,
To honor with a funeral feast,
And you will go to the grave ... hero,
Secretly cursed by the motherland,
Exalted with loud praise!

However, why are we such a person
Worrying for small people?
Shouldn't we take our anger out on them? -
Safer...More fun
Find some solace...
It doesn't matter what the man will suffer:
So the providence that guides us
Indicated ... yes, he's used to it!
Behind the outpost, in a poor tavern
The poor will drink everything to the ruble
And they will go, begging the road,
And they will groan... Native land!
Name me a place like this
I didn't see that angle.
Wherever your sower and keeper,
Where would a Russian peasant not moan?
He groans through the fields, along the roads,
He groans in prisons, prisons,
In mines, on an iron chain;
He groans under the barn, under the stack,
Under the cart, spending the night in the steppe;
Moaning in his own poor little house,
I am not happy with the light of God's sun;
Moaning in every deaf town,
At the entrance of courts and chambers.
Come out to the Volga: whose groan is heard
Over the great Russian river?
This groan we call a song -
That barge haulers are towing! ..
Volga! Volga! .. In the spring of high water
You don't flood the fields like that
Like the great grief of the people
Our land is full,
Where there are people, there is a groan... Oh, my heart!
What does your endless moan mean?
Will you wake up, full of strength,
Or, fate obeying the law,
All that you could, you have already done -
Created a song like a moan
And spiritually rested forever? ..

Nikolay Alekseevich Nekrasov

Here is the front entrance. On solemn days
Possessed by a servile disease,
A whole city with some kind of fright
Drives up to the cherished doors;

Writing down your name and rank,
Guests are leaving home
So deeply satisfied with myself
What do you think - that is their calling!
And on ordinary days, this magnificent entrance
Poor faces besiege:
Spotlights, place seekers,
And an old man, and a widow.
From him and to him then know in the morning
All couriers with papers are jumping.
Returning, another sings "tram-tram",
And other petitioners are crying.
Once I saw the men came here,
Village Russian people
We prayed to the church and stood far away,
Dangling blond heads to the chest;
The doorman showed up. "Let it go," they say
With an expression of hope and anguish.
He looked at the guests: they are ugly to look at!
Sunburnt faces and hands
Armenian thin on the shoulders,
By knapsack on the backs bent,
Cross on the neck and blood on the legs
Shod in homemade bast shoes
(Know, they wandered for a long time
From some distant provinces).
Someone shouted to the porter: “Drive!
Ours does not like ragged mob!
And the door slammed shut. after standing,
The pilgrims untied the bag,
But the porter did not let me in, without taking a meager mite,
And they went, burning with the sun,
Repeating: "God judge him!",
Spreading hopelessly hands,
And as long as I could see them,
They walked with their heads uncovered ...

And the owner of luxurious chambers
Another dream was deeply embraced ...
You, who consider life enviable
Intoxication with shameless flattery,
red tape, gluttony, game,
Wake up! There is also pleasure:
Take them back! you are their salvation!
But the happy are deaf to good...

The thunders of heaven do not frighten you,
And you hold earthly things in your hands,
And these people are unknown
Inexorable grief in the hearts.

What is this crying sorrow to you,
What are these poor people to you?
Eternal holiday fast running
Life won't let you wake up.
And why? Clickers3 fun
You call the people's good;
Without him you will live with glory
And die with glory!
Serene arcadian idyll4
The old days will roll.
Under the captivating skies of Sicily,
In fragrant tree shade,
Contemplating how the sun is purple
Dive into the azure sea
Stripes of his gold, -
Lulled by gentle singing
Mediterranean waves - like a child
You will fall asleep, surrounded by care
Dear and beloved family
(Waiting for your death with impatience);
Your remains will be brought to us,
To honor with a funeral feast,
And you will go to the grave ... hero,
Secretly cursed by the motherland,
Exalted with loud praise!

However, why are we such a person
Worrying for small people?
Shouldn't we take out our anger on them? -
Safer…More fun
Find some solace...
It doesn't matter what the man will suffer:
So the providence that guides us
Indicated ... yes, he's used to it!
Behind the outpost, in a poor tavern
The poor will drink everything to the ruble
And they will go, begging the road,
And they will groan... Native land!
Name me a place like this
I didn't see that angle.
Wherever your sower and keeper,
Where would a Russian peasant not moan?
He groans through the fields, along the roads,
He groans in prisons, prisons,
In mines, on an iron chain;
He groans under the barn, under the stack,
Under the cart, spending the night in the steppe;
Moaning in his own poor little house,
The light of God's sun is not happy;
Moaning in every deaf town,
At the entrance of courts and chambers.
Come out to the Volga: whose groan is heard
Over the great Russian river?
We call this moan a song -
That barge haulers are towing! ..
Volga! Volga! .. In the spring of high water
You don't flood the fields like that
Like the great grief of the people
Our land is full,
Where there are people, there is a groan... Oh, my heart!
What does your endless moan mean?
Will you wake up, full of strength,
Or, fate obeying the law,
All that you could, you have already done -
Created a song like a moan
And spiritually rested forever? ..

The textbook poem "Reflections at the front door" was written by Nikolai Nekrasov in 1858, becoming one of the many works that the author dedicated to the common people. The poet grew up on a family estate, but because of the cruelty of his own father, he realized very early that the world is divided into rich and poor. Nekrasov himself was among those who were forced to drag out a semi-beggarly existence, as he was disinherited and earned his living on his own from the age of 16. Understanding what it is like for ordinary peasants in this soulless and unfair world, the poet regularly turned to social topics in his works. Most of all, he was oppressed by the fact that the peasants did not know how to defend their rights and did not even know what exactly they could count on under the law. As a result, they are forced to turn into petitioners, whose fate directly depends not so much on the whim of a high-ranking person, but on the mood of an ordinary doorman.

In one of the houses of St. Petersburg, petitioners are especially frequent, because the governor lives here. But getting to him is not an easy task, since a formidable doorman stands in the way of the petitioners, shod in "home-made bast shoes". It is he who decides who is worthy of a meeting with an official, and who should be persecuted in the neck, even despite the meager offering. Such an attitude towards petitioners is the norm, although the peasants, naively believing in the myth of a good master, blame his servants for everything and leave without having achieved justice. However, Nekrasov understands that the problem lies not in the porters, but in the representatives of power themselves, for whom there is nothing sweeter than "rapture with shameless power." Such people are not afraid of the "thunders of heaven", and they easily solve all earthly problems with the power of their own power and money. The needs of ordinary people are of no interest to such officials at all, and the poet focuses on this in his poem. The author is outraged that there is such a gradation in society, because of which it is impossible to achieve justice without money and a high social status. Moreover, the Russian peasant is a constant source of irritation and a reason for anger for such bureaucrats. No one thinks about the fact that it is precisely on the peasants that the whole of modern society is based, which is not able to do without free labor. The fact that all people, by definition, are born free, is deliberately concealed, and Nekrasov dreams that someday justice will still prevail.