Wonderful picture how sweet you are to me. "Wonderful picture", analysis of Fet's poem
Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet (real name Shenshin) (1820-1892) -
Russian poet, corresponding member of the St. Petersburg Academy of Sciences (1886).
Afanasy Fet was born on December 5 (November 23, old style), 1820
in the village of Novoselki, Mtsensk district, Oryol province. He was illegitimate
son of the landowner Shenshin and at the age of fourteen, by decision of the spiritual
consistory received the surname of his mother, Charlotte Fet, at the same time
lost the right to nobility. Subsequently, he achieved hereditary
noble rank and returned the surname Shenshin, but the literary name -
Fet - remained with him forever.
Athanasius studied at the verbal faculty of Moscow University,
here he became close to Apollon Grigoriev and was a member of a circle of students,
heavily engaged in philosophy and poetry.
University environment (Apollon Alexandrovich Grigoriev, in the house
whom Fet lived throughout his studies, students Yakov Petrovich
Polonsky, Vladimir Sergeevich Soloviev, Konstantin Dmitrievich Kavelin
etc.) contributed to the formation of Fet as a poet in the best possible way.
While still a student, in 1840, Fet published the first collection of his
poems - "Lyric Pantheon". Special resonance "Pantheon" is not
produced, but the collection drew the attention of critics and
opened the way to key periodicals: after its publication, poems
Feta began to appear regularly in Moskvityanin and Otechestvennye
notes."
Fet entered the history of Russian poetry as a representative of the so-called
"pure art". He claimed that beauty is the only goal
artist. Nature and love were the main themes of Fet's works.
But in this relatively narrow sphere, his talent manifested itself with great
glitter. ...
Afanasy Fet especially skillfully conveyed the nuances of feelings, vague,
fugitive or barely nascent moods. "The ability to catch the elusive" -
this is how criticism characterized this feature of his talent.
The poem "Wonderful Picture", created in 1842, is one of the most
bewitching poetic paintings by A. Fet.
wonderful picture,
How are you related to me?
white plain,
Full moon,
the light of the heavens above,
And shining snow
And distant sleigh
Lonely run.
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Kaliningrad hunting club . Epifanych went through the woods into a strange volost... A cloudy shadow from a passing train briefly cut off from a bright spot of ripening rye the tall gray figure of an old man with a gun... - In the utter wilderness, you see, these cast-iron animals have gone! - he said aloud out of habit and dug in his ear with an earkop after the beast screamed for a long time with an iron throat. - Mumbled, epishina mother! And, remembering, he became worried: he saw that before the train appeared, his beloved dog Grunka was chasing a hare along the canvas. - Grunka! Evo-oh, evo-oh!.. There was no dog, and she did not run to the old man's cry. Epifanych, hurriedly going around the rye, walked along the edge to where the hare had last flashed, climbed onto the canvas and saw: not far on the rails lay the back of the dog, mutilated, with its intestines torn out, and the front - with its tongue hanging out - slid down a slope. - Oh, you, shtob cha! epishin's son... - The old man clasped his hands, his long shadow along the yellow slope also swayed all over, waved: - Farewell, Grunka! here are those and Grunka! He bowed his head, fell silent; he went into the forest, and for some reason the wedding lamentation of the old woman over the bride sounded in his ears: Come on, you birds, iron noses ... You pull out, birds, the hammered nails! "Yes, well ... here they are, birds, iron noses ... here they are, animals, snakes of Gorynych, from them the forest will be transferred - the desert ... The beast with iron tanks will emerge from the distant distances, and in the place of the eaten forests the beast will build his lair with cast-iron gates ... He will roar with a copper roar, iron animals will go in different directions, they will begin to take away sawn wood and moss-purdue, and they will bring in colored dishes, patterned glass ..." Epifanych turned around, took off his hat and listened for a long time, bowing his stubborn head, the distant, vague tapping of wheels and the echoes of fading horns. I went back home through the forest, which was considered impassable by many. The old man lived far away from the cast-iron. Some resentment smoldered in him; resentment is vague, but sometimes inexplicably prickly. And when he went to bed by the fire, after eating, before closing his eyes to sleep, he remembered: "Grunka! Oh, you are dear!" The old man dreamed the same thing on the way: the iron beast of the swamp blows up - drains them. And Epifanych, having ascended to the bell tower, sees how the swamps have dried up - quicksand wastelands, and together with them springs and forest rivers have dried up. He sees the old man, people are rushing about - looking for water, lowing and roaring cattle - asking for drink, and new people have come, stand on a dry plain, wave their hands and order to plow dry places with a plow. - Hey, motherfucker! What will you fertilize? - Epifanych cries out in a dream and always wakes up, and when he wakes up, he remembers: "Oh, you Grunka! After all, it was slaughtered! An iron beast, shtob him ... "He sleeps again, and in the morning gets up for a new path, makes a fire, eats porridge, feels a copper ear-kopter on his collar, the one that hangs on a dirty cord instead of a cross, picks at his ears, overgrown with gray fluff, and he says aloud, looking at the sky: "You see, that ... To the wet, apparently, his ears are stuffed up. He is walking. The seasoned pines make a slight noise with their peaks: the early sun plays on the peaks with the ebb of their wet boughs. The boundless distance turns blue between the red and gray trunks; it smells of rosemary, it sips cloudberries from the lowlands; under its bast shoes, staining the birch bark in a bloody color, blueberries crumple. - Look, the mountain ash begins to give paint, you won’t see it - and summer will blow ... which is already forever? .. Epifanych drove away, passing , a herd of skewed ones, one black grouse clung to the bough of a pine tree, pulled its shy head between its wings and clucks. The old man habitually froze in place, only slowly pulls his gun from behind his back. no shot.The old man looks, but the gun has no trigger: trigger, screw rusted. "Of course, epish mother! The gun does not hit, the dog was stabbed to death." He felt the ax behind the belt: "Here!" He took out his cap and filled his pipe. I lit up. Threw the match; lit dry brushwood: it crackled. He pressed his bast shoes, put it out and said, loudly as always: - And what if everything is burned down? a light wind makes the young birches bend - they bow to Epifanych, as if they guessed his cruel thought: "Have mercy, old man! Didn't we welcome you here? Didn't you warm yourself in the rains and come to life in the warmth?" - Yes, but ... not you! - understanding what the trees think, Epifanych says sternly, goes into the bright light and goes out to the shore of the lake. Width - barely a glance is enough. Under the old man's feet is a high, mossy shore; Beyond the lake the distance is blue, and from there an even bluer forest cloud is moving towards the lake. Epifanych threw down his gun, pulled the ax out of his belt and paused, wrinkling his stubborn forehead: "Animals will flee from these places from their holes ... a bird will circle over the nests until it burns down ..." The old man passionately wanted to see the fluttering, hot wings of the conflagration . Listen to how the burnt heavy pines fall, look, maybe for the last time, how the moss lights up with separate lights, like candles, flares up, goes out - crawls low, low like a golden snake and rises again like a candle. And the old man knows that people with axes, with shovels, will not come here, although give me a pound of gold. He also knows that when the forest burns down and a storm follows the conflagration, it will fall out, break everything that has not burned down, but does not hold well on the burnt earth. Epifanych found tar, he hewed it; in the old big stump he took out the gut to make it better, and with a skillful hand laid out the tarry wood chips inside the stump: "Here you are, young people - reign! .." lay her shadow. And as soon as he had time to take off his hat and stand under a dense spruce, thunder struck, and lightning flashed across the water with fiery scattered cracks. Thunder roared, and a century-old pine tree broke apart with a dry crack from lightning and collapsed. - Went padera - epishina mother! It twisted, dropped, broke dry land like a whirlwind, and muffled echoes from the mossy forest desert went to the rippling blue lake with white reflections of lightning. For three hours Epifanych waited for the end of the storm. When it fell silent, the sun opened and the blue distance, even more fragrant, beckoned to him, the old man gathered his butt and, walking around the lake, thought aloud: - Before winter, then, son of Epishin, go home! And there in the forest, you didn’t bring him out ... He won’t forgive you - he will wash you to death ... you’ll see! An old hut at Epifanych. The ceiling in the hut was black, but the women bleached it. The ceiling is high. A tent was attached to the black mouth of the furnace, and a new chimney was laid along the furnace - the chimney was boarded up. Epifanych opposed the innovation, but what to do, the young reign in the house - they insisted: - Very much, every shovel is dirty and smells of smoke. - But the hut, epish mother, will soon rot with your new one. - Oh, old man! A hundred-year prison, but the tenants go there by force. The benches remained the same, wide, grandfathers' heavy backsides on the benches were driven out. On the benches in front, patterns are cut out, as in boyars' chambers... Epifanych's dry, pale feet stick out from the stove, and calluses on his fingers are dried. The long torso of an old man in a white homespun shirt stretched out over the stove; a lush beard glows, moving with his breath, - the old man is delirious in a dream ... Epifanych is dreaming of the hitherto: here he is, drunk, in a red red shirt, in white trousers, entwined to the knees with belted frills of bast shoes, with a stake in his hands, goes ahead of his men to a foreign village. - Don't give up, epish mother! the old man cries hoarsely in his sleep. He knows that everyone is afraid of his powers. - Why did you look at the goose?! Not five! - And he sees: everyone is running away from him, and no one dares to get involved in a fight. - Yeah, that's right, epishin's son! In the woods. One Epifanych goes to the bear, - in his hand is a knife, the other is wrapped in an ox skin. - Daikos, come on, grandfather, let's get together! There is noise, crackling in the forest, a storm knocks down trees, and in green and blue white fire shines - lightning. Epifanych goes, his hat is torn off his head, he ruffles his hair, and he, without raising his hat, shouts and whistles to the dog: - Aaa! Ltd! - and wakes up ... ... Epifanych stopped sleeping on the stove, looks inquisitively at the windows, hears - people rustle like spring. Going on a journey, he understands that nature will soon pull the winter road out from under his feet. - Don't be late, motherfucker! - grumbles the old one, in a white row, in white felt boots, getting up on skis. His round-shouldered, but broad-boned girlfriend straightens her husband's awkwardly sitting pester with grub behind her husband. - It's hard for me, old man, to equip you, if you were sitting at home! Epifanych is silent. Goes to the forest, looks around; draws, like a beast, the air into itself and does not smoke. The old man sees how, feeling the spring, over the white banks of the non-freezing stream, the drakes that have flown up in some places are quacking - bird winterers in the North. Seeing the ducks, a hunting husky will wander through the melted snow, squeal, carefully sniffing the melted shores. "Oh, Grunka! I'm sorry ..." By the spring, the nights are lighter, but the old man knows that it’s impossible to get to the forest hut on leather skis, and he sleeps by the fire: he cooks porridge in snow water, then eats, pulling off his felt boots, warms stockings and shoes. He sleeps, sees a dream: on a white field, surrounded at a long distance by green fire, like a young bush, someone has done extensive bluish circles on white, - he asks himself: - Episha's son! Isn't this your ski track? With the dawn, he gets up, leaves the burning fire to smolder, walks, looking in the forest at high places, the thawed patches that have begun to turn green, and when he passes through deep snow, snowdrifts settle under him with a dull rustling. Epifanych, examining the tracks of the animals, grumbles loudly: - If you could knock off Kunichka, the gun will take a small animal, but the snow is still deep ... yes! There are no marten marks, but the old man sees others, large ones, deeply depressed to black bark. - Elk? you see, it wanders to the bottom ... come on, moose! He won’t take a gun, but I know his habit: it’s hard for him - it’s easy for me to ski; I'll sit on the horns - and with an ax. Hot. He took off his fur hat - the sun is hot, and, sniffing the air, he feels how from the blue forest distance he sips the smell of early grass on thawed patches. Some bird squeaks close on the bare branches of birches. Kosachs yell, the current begins; blue, cobweb-thin shadows from bare branches lie on forest glades. Partridges turn white with large pearls, flying over glades and clearings, falling into the snow, bluish plains are full of terry, pawled patterns of traces. Epifanych stopped, looked at the partridge, but immediately said stubbornly: - You go after the elk - there's nothing to do with the bird! Epifanych is sitting by the fire on a stump, dozing, the strong beast begged him. The old man is dreaming of the old - not of the present, but of the past. The green wall of blooming rye - it obscured the horizon half yellow from dawn in the field, and on its golden background one can see multi-colored figures of women in festive clothes, among the women the most prominent is his busty wife Stepanida, in her hand shines like a crescent silver, a new sickle. In a slumber, the old man moves towards the golden field of sunset - he pokes into the fire, burns his hands, his yellowish-white beard crackles; smells of sheepskin currant from the hat. When he wakes up, he realizes that he has slipped off the stump. He takes off the line from the sheepskin coat, takes off the sheepskin coat and, lounging by the fire on a woolen sheepskin, hiding behind the line, again dozes. He hears that the wind is going through the forest, it is sprinkled with leafy rain all around, the trees are groaning, others are crackling like a wood grouse on a current: tra-a! tra-a! The old man sees, through the branches of trees, the water of lakes shines, and he thinks: is the moon mooning? It's not water - it's ice! - And where is my prey - elk? Sleeping like me, exhausted? I know - you're going fast, but you won't help! You’re afraid, beast, chase - you don’t drink on the run and at the lodging for the night, you don’t eat, because you smell death ... And here I’ll chew porridge, oatmeal, and it’s bad, but I’ll sleep, with the dawn in the course ... Quietly delirious - the years have diminished, I'll come across when you're emaciated... I'll come across, episha mother! From a mile ahead and a little to the side, an elk is sensitively sleeping - a beast ... He is sleeping sweaty, and his sides are icy, the night is cold - the wool has caught frost, it has turned gray from dark. The large stomach of the beast is empty. Bitter in the mouth, saliva flows and freezes. Sometimes he lowers his warm muzzle into the white grave of snow, chills him with malice, he wants to eat all the snow on the way in order to run easier, and he knows that the snow is deep, his strong legs do not grab to the bottom. Under the snow tenacious pricks and cuts, tears wool and meat. The beast does not want to eat - care with fear nestles deep somewhere, drives forward, makes it run faster, and there is less and less strength, and sweat is added ... The beast trembles during the day while walking and at night in an anxious dream ... It draws in a smell alien to the forest , and understands that it is close, it is terrible, inescapable, similar to birch stumps... He does not know where it comes from? Maybe it came from the tops of the trees with the wind. Sometimes, when grasses bloom in the forest, the light burns from above, then it also knocks above, scorches hot, terrible trees, and they fall, and what comes after it also sparkles; sometimes knocks and pricks on burning meat and does not allow to run. Fatigue closes the beast's icy eyelashes, closes its fearful, weeping eyes, and the beast imagines a hot day. Clouds of buzzing, prickling to the point of itching will stick around the body. So he shook himself, shook his horned head, ran, and a swarm of piercing ones flew after him in a noisy cloud. The moose ran to the lake, wandered into the water up to his ears, rested in the coolness, and the buzzing creature disappeared. At ease to the beast on the rapids of the mouth of a forest river in the lake, the water rinses the sides corroded into the blood, only the legs suck in the liquid bottom, the elk pulls up its legs to swim. The sound of water is all around. The animal moves its ears in a dream, and the ears convey anxiety to the eyes. Opening his eyes, the moose realizes that it is not the water that makes noise, but the wooden long paws of the terrible thing that follows him and brings him death ... Before going to bed, the moose, as always, out of precaution, went forward, and turned back to sleep, but did not straight ahead, but to the side, so as to hear when they follow in his footsteps, and, not allowing the enemy to reach the end of the loop, rush to the side ... blackening bark curls, like a terrible evidence, to where he went. The moose throws clods of snow in all directions, breaks the branches on the way with its horns, and death runs lightly along the top of the snow on sliding paws, and the moose smells it close by. - Seventh night! - Epifanych grumbles. - Grub comes out ... He didn’t drive the beast ... Strong - it breaks the snow, breaks the bark ... I also started to get sick, but you won’t leave, mother of epic, - I’ll drive ... snow, you see, deep-ka-ay ... I'll drive it! .. Eh, brother teapots, you started spitting - are you boiling? Epifanych has one concern - to reach the beast, to stretch it, but where he goes - there is no concern, he will finish it - then he will look around. He knows the forest, he will come out to the house. The only bad thing is that the forest began to thin out. Not far away, a driven beast wanders - its legs are skinned to the meat, shreds of wool hang on its belly, and the blood drips, the snow bleeds. In the snow, saliva flows from the mouth without ceasing. Behind him, slowly, saving his strength, Epifanych slips and thinks about when the beast will not go, but will stand quietly, waiting for death. Epifanych smokes on the move and does not take off his gun from his shoulders. The gun will not kill, but only frighten and, look, it will add extra strength to the beast, and suddenly the old man shouted: - Look at you, you motherfucker! Epifanych sees that the beast has wandered out onto the mosses. The hunter knows the place, he knows that these mosses are endless; Ice-free lakes glitter on the mosses. The wind picked up as soon as they reached the plain, it blows snow dust in the face, the old man's eyes water from the wind, and his legs freeze on skis - the cold comes from below. - Yes, here, podikos, from the youth of a person from toe to navel takes heat. .. In old age, the same bottom freezes to the navel, and from this there is little life left for a person in the world. An elk wanders ahead, obediently lowered its horned head, sometimes it will only bend low, get enough snow in its mouth and shake off the overcoming saliva from its muzzle. - Soon you are a dead man - episha mother! And he led me that even the grub would not be enough to get home. The sun seemed to be a white club for a short while, and soon melted into gray clouds. Gloomy, cold. The constant wind walks across the plain and sings its free, age-old songs. - For a century you sing like a faceless robber, do not catch you, do not put you on a chain ... You freeze your face, your hands, your legs shiver ... From your winter hoots - mother of epistle! - the tooth does not fall on the tooth, but you, I suppose, have fun? Al getting dark? And then ... let your prey go, it's not in the forest here - you can see where it has become; I'm not bad at warming my bones. The old man reached a bunch of stunted pines that a lonely family settled in the white desert. Pester dropped, took off his gun, and began to prepare a lodging for the night. And the elk, as if spellbound, turned a few steps to the side and not far, twenty sazhens from the old man, bent his bloodied legs in the snow, lay down, bending his head to one side, with one eye in the direction of the enemy, laid his head on the snow and appointed sentinel ear sticking up. The old man moves - the elk ear moves, but the eye sleeps. Damp pines burn badly. The wind restlessly throws a timid flame with white fluff, the fire hisses from the snow, does not flare up. The old man's legs are getting cold, and his whole body demands a hot warmness, and Epifanych grumbles, making the elk's ear move anxiously: She led me into a slum ... there is no dry place! Epifanych reached into the pestle with his hand and remembered: there is no butter, no oatmeal, only crackers rummage on the birch bark of the purse - that's all, brother, to the end! Somehow the old man boiled a teapot with tea, wetted it, chewed crackers - hungry. He started to boil water. A white padera has risen in the moss-bogs, sweeping prickly dust in heaps, and from the white dust in Epifanych's eyes the pillars are either blue or green, and he does not see anything ahead, only clearly, when the blizzard alternates, lies and stirs in front of him, as if on the tablecloth, moose ear. - You stunted fire! Let me add you, u ... Epifanych furiously cuts the dry, frozen kokorina, hastily puts it into the fading fire. The old man has a lot of strength, but the cold overcomes and his teeth chatter. The teeth are still half intact, and the hair is gray only in the beard, but the blood is not the same. - Shut up, mother fucker! Look, you’ll suffocate, if it is ... without dry land, without pitch, - small hope. And you suffered! .. But I won’t back down, you’re lying! Without tar, the wind will throw snow on the fire and you, episha mother, will bury you with your head. In order not to lose it in the snow, he put the ax to the tree, took off the row, took off the short fur coat, lay down by the fire on the short fur coat, with his feet towards the elk, and put his head higher on the stump, covered himself tightly with the row and tucked his sides. As soon as he lay down, drowsiness began to pour in, but the intrusive thought did not give rest: “Don’t sleep through the fire, epishin’s son! Fire! Do you remember? fire! the old man was about to spread it on the other, too, but the damp tree did not begin ... In the distance, in the milky-white twilight, an elk ear sticks up, a furry one sticks out and does not move. - you're finished!.. If the fire is intact - I'll get up at dawn... Extinguished - you'll go... The wind helps you... lives, causes the smell of the way... I understand everything about you... The wind doesn't love me - I am a man and I force him to work for myself, but he is free ... Wind, elk, forest, bear - my own ... I am a stranger, I am a man ... I have strength ... you have help - strength and wind ... Epifanych lies on the moss, does not sleep, but he sees far away, he clearly sees - his legs grow, stretched out across the white plain and heels rested on the lake, which sparkles with non-freezing water through the white mists, and Epifanych's legs grow colder and colder less. A fire burns on the side, but it has turned green and rises like a sparkling ice floe ... Today, with the dawn, the elk was the first to rise - it went slowly, slowly. The man became worried and also somehow warmed up - he got up, leaving his gun and motley at the lodging for the night, and it began to get dark - the man lay down on his skis, without taking off either the row or the sheepskin coat. The beast obediently lay down three fathoms from the man, but the man, having an ax, was unable to move towards him, to finish off the prey. With the dawn again, the elk was the first to rise. He staggered on his bloody legs, licked his icy side and snorted warily in the direction of the man. The old man, having gathered his strength, shouted: - You see, I'm lying, episha mother! Lie down ... I'll still warm myself under the snow ... During the night the wind swept snow on the old man - it's warm under the snow ... The elk, staggering, wandered to the first lake; came, looked back, got drunk, wandered into the water and slowly swam to the other side, from where there was a smell of distant forest and forest thawed patches.“A wonderful picture, how dear you are to me!”
(the life of nature and man in the lyrics of A.A. Fet)
Russian literature knew many great poets who sang the beauty of their native nature. And a special place is occupied by Afanasy Fet - a poet, a connoisseur of "pure art", who showed the importance of every natural phenomenon, every moment of life.
Fet's work is imbued with love for nature. In every word we can feel the poet's reverent attitude to her beauty. We cannot but marvel at how beautiful Fet's nature is in all the iridescence of colors, sounds, fragrances, how beautiful a person is in all the complexity of his spiritual impulses, in the strength of his affections, in the depth of his experiences.
Landscape lyrics are the main wealth of the poet's lyrics. Fet knows how to see and hear an extraordinary amount in nature, depict her innermost world, convey his romantic admiration for meeting nature, philosophical reflections born while contemplating her appearance. Fet is characterized by the amazing subtlety of the painter, the variety of experiences born from communication with nature. At the heart of his poetics is a special philosophy expressing the visible and invisible connections between man and nature.
In each of his poems, Fet describes with filigree accuracy the smallest details of the picture of nature, as if examining the canvas of a painter:
Let's sit here by this willow
What wonderful twists
On the bark around the hollow!
And under the willow how beautiful
Golden overflows
A jet of trembling glass!
Thanks to Fet’s talent, we not only see a beautiful landscape, but also inhale the aroma of flowers, listen to the sounds of nature: the gentle singing of birds is complemented by the chirping of grasshoppers, and distant rumbles of thunder are already heard ... "And the "grasshoppers' restless ringing" is heard!
Unusually accurate, capacious and at the same time dynamically draw pictures of nature in the verbless poems of Afanasy Fet. The poem "This morning, this joy ..." worries us more and more with each line. We see a bright blue sky, an avalanche of sounds falls on us, and the final chord is a sleepless night. This only happens in the spring!
This morning, this joy
This power of both day and light,
This blue vault
This cry and strings
These flocks, these birds,
This voice of the waters
These willows and birches
These drops are these tears
This fluff is not a leaf,
These mountains, these valleys,
These midges, these bees,
This tongue and whistle
These dawns without eclipse,
This sigh of the night village,
This night without sleep
This haze and the heat of the bed,
This fraction and these trills,
It's all spring.
There is not a single verb in the narrator's monologue - Fet's favorite trick, but there is also not a single defining word here, except for the pronominal adjective "this" ("these", "this"), repeated twenty-two times! Refusing epithets, the author seems to admit to the impotence of words.
The lyrical plot of this short poem is based on the movement of the narrator's eyes from the vault of heaven - to the earth, from nature - to the dwelling of man. First we see the blue of the sky and flocks of birds, then the sounding and blooming spring land - willows and birches covered with delicate foliage, mountains and valleys. Finally, there are words about a person. In the last lines, the gaze of the lyrical hero is turned inward, into his feelings.
For a person, spring is associated with the dream of love. At this time, creative forces awaken in him, allowing him to “soar” above nature, to recognize and feel the unity of all that exists.
The incredibly romantic poem "Whisper, timid breathing" takes us to a quiet summer night. The murmur of the stream and the song of the nightingale are the music that accompanies the meeting of lovers. There are no verbs in the poem, and yet it is filled with movement. Fragmentary images (the life of the heart, the life of nature) are formed, like mosaic pieces, into a single picture.
Fet does not describe a complete picture, but gives several precise strokes so that the "mixing of colors" into a single "tone" occurs in the reader's imagination.
A whisper, a timid breath.
trill nightingale,
Silver and flutter
Sleepy stream.
Night light, night shadows,
Shadows without end
A series of magical changes
sweet face,
In smoky clouds purple roses,
reflection of amber,
And kisses, and tears,
And dawn, dawn!..
This figurativeness, this close attention to detail, richness in epithets and definitions make up the special style of the poet. The theme of nature also reveals other features of Fet's lyrics: his associativity and the musicality of his syllable.
In the haze - the unknown
The spring month has sailed.
color garden breathes
Apple, cherry.
So it clings, kissing
Secretly and immodestly.
And aren't you sad?
And you are not languid?
It is not entirely clear why one should be sad on such a quiet, languid night. And even after reading the poem to the end, we experience a feeling of some understatement, as if we did not learn something very important. And we can only guess, fantasize, dream.
Fet's lyrics are very musical - many of his poems have become famous romances. It should also be noted such a feature of Fet's work as the absence of acute social conflicts, pictures of poverty and lack of rights, which were often addressed by many of the poet's contemporaries, for example, N. A. Nekrasov. Such detachment from social problems was sometimes condemned by other poets. However, the value of Fet's lyrics does not decrease from this. There is an opinion that "a poet in Russia is more than a poet," but not everyone can be formidable orators, calling on the people to transform society. Perhaps, in our technogenic age, it is much more important to understand how beautiful and defenseless the nature around us is, and to be able to preserve it so that our descendants can also admire the sparkling ponds, lush green grass, springs, forests and fields.
Indeed, the landscapes created by the poet are amazing and inspiring, close to the heart of every Russian person. Fet's nature is not connected with peasant labor, like Nekrasov's, with the world of spiritual experiences, like Lermontov's. But at the same time, the poet's perception of it is lively, directly and emotionally. The landscape here is always an individual-personal perception, fixing not only some natural phenomenon, but also the mood of the poet. Fet's nature is always an object of artistic delight and aesthetic pleasure. Moreover, the focus of the poet's attention is on the most ordinary phenomena, and not at all on spectacular, colorful paintings. And each fleeting impression has its own attraction for Fet. He unconsciously enjoys life without thinking about it. He is characterized by some kind of ingenuous view of the phenomena of life, characteristic of an unclouded consciousness.
All our seasons are represented in the works of the poet: gentle spring - with fluffy willows, with the first lilies of the valley, with thin sticky leaves of blossoming birches; burning, sultry summer - with sparkling tart air, with a blue canvas of the sky, with golden ears of fields stretching in the distance; cool, invigorating autumn - with motley slopes of forests, with birds stretching into the distance; dazzling Russian winter - with its irrepressible blizzard, fresh snow, intricate patterns of frost on the window glass. Fet loves to observe the mystery of natural life, and his whole cycle, all its diversity and polyphony, opens up to his eyes. Here the “idle spies of nature” follow the flight of a swallow over the “evening pond”, here the airy outlines of a butterfly clearly appear on a flower, here the rose queen blooms, blazing with a delicate aroma, feeling the closeness of the nightingale, here the noisy herons come to life, rejoicing at the first rays of the sun, here is a careless bee crawling into the "carnation of fragrant lilac."
A special place in the natural lyrics of A. Fet is occupied by the theme of spring. With the advent of spring, everything around changes: nature seems to wake up after a long sleep, sheds the shackles of winter. And the same awakening, renewal occurs in the soul of the lyrical hero Fet. But along with joy, the soul is filled with incomprehensible longing, sadness, confusion. And Fet became the first poet to show the complex, conflicting feelings of the hero, the change in his moods, the influence of nature on his state of mind.
The poem “Still fragrant bliss of spring ...” is interesting, in which the author shows the very beginning of spring, when nature is just, just beginning to wake up. The snow still lies, the roads are covered with ice, and the sun warms only at noon. But the soul already lives in anticipation of warmth, light, love.
Another fragrant bliss of spring
We did not have time to descend,
Still ravines are full of snow,
Still dawn the cart rumbles
On a frozen path
As soon as the sun warms at noon,
The linden blushes in height,
Through, the birch tree turns a little yellow,
And the nightingale does not yet dare
Sing in a currant bush.
But the news of rebirth is alive
There are already in the flying cranes,
And, following their eyes,
There is a beauty of the steppe
With blush bluish cheeks.
Reading "Spring Thoughts", one cannot help but admire how masterfully Afanasy Fet owns the word:
Again the birds fly from afar
To the shores that break the ice
The warm sun is high
And the fragrant lily of the valley is waiting.
Again in the heart nothing will die
Till the ascending blood cries,
And with a bribed soul you believe
That, like the world, love is endless.
But will we come together again so close
In the midst of nature, we are pampered,
As seen walking low
us the cold sun of winter?
“Ice-breaking shores” – and we already hear the crack of breaking ice, see seething river streams and even feel the tart, pungent, exciting smell that fills only the March wind.
The green round dance of trees, the sonorous song of a sparkling stream, curly ivy, participatory in spring thirst - all this pleases and excites the poet, instilling in him an extraordinary thirst for life, admiration for its eternal beauty. Fet correlates nature with human feelings, with a special perception of life. So, spring gives rise to some special laziness in him, an indistinct melancholy, sensual bliss:
I will disappear from melancholy and laziness,
Lonely life is not sweet
Heart aching, knees weak,
In every carnation of fragrant lilac,
Singing, a bee crawls in.
Let me go out into the open field
Or completely lost in the forest ...
With every step it's not easier at will,
The heart is beating more and more
Like coal in my chest I carry.
No, wait! With my longing
I will part here. Bird cherry is sleeping.
Ah, those bees under her again!
And I can't understand
Whether on flowers, whether it rings in the ears.
In poems about spring, the inextricable link between nature and man can be traced as clearly as possible. Almost all poems that seem to be written about nature also tell about love experiences. Fet often reveals the soul of a lyrical hero through images of nature, so we can talk about the symbolism of his poems.
Athanasius Fet, singing the beauty of nature, showed the beauty of human souls. His sincere, deep, sensual poems still resonate in the hearts of readers.
The romance “At dawn, you don’t wake her up ...”
A. A. Fet addressed the images of nature many times throughout his career. Describing nature, the poet conveys the most subtle, almost elusive shades of the emotional states of the lyrical hero. In these verses, the "life of the soul" acquires fullness and meaning in contact with nature, and nature finds its true being in contact with the living soul, refracted through the "magic crystal" of human perception.
But the focus of the poet is not only groves, trees, flowers, fields; the poetic world of Fet, like the real world, is inhabited by living beings, whose habits are clearly described by the poet. Here is a nimble fish gliding at the very surface of the water, and its “bluish back” casts silver; in the winter frost in the house "the cat sings, his eyes screw up." Birds are especially often mentioned in Fet's lyrics: cranes, swallows, rooks, a sparrow and just a bird hiding in its nest from bad weather:
And the roll call thunders,
And the noisy haze is so black...
Only you, my dear bird,
Barely visible in a warm nest.
The natural images created by the poet are extremely concrete, tangible, full of numerous visual details, smells, and sounds. Here is a hot summer day, sparkling and sultry, playing with its bright, dazzling colors: “the vaults of the sky turn blue”, wavy clouds quietly float. From somewhere in the grass comes the restless and crackling call of a grasshopper. Indistinctly hesitating, dozing dry and hot noon. But a dense linden tree is spread nearby, in the shade of its branches it is fresh and cool, the midday heat does not penetrate there:
How fresh it is here under the thick linden -
The midday heat did not penetrate here,
And thousands hanging over me
Swing fragrant fans.
And there, in the distance, the burning air sparkles,
Hesitating, as if he were dozing.
So sharply dry hypnotic and crackling
Grasshoppers restless ringing.
Behind the haze of branches, the vaults of the sky turn blue,
Like a little haze,
And, like the dreams of a dying nature,
Wavy pass clouds.
The famous poem "I came to you with greetings ..." - a passionate monologue uttered in one breath - allows you not only to see all the shades of the summer morning landscape, but also to get an idea of the spiritual properties of the narrator - about the richness of his emotional life, liveliness of perception, ability to see and express the beauty of the world.
I came to you with greetings
Say that the sun has risen
What is hot light
The sheets fluttered;
Tell that the forest woke up
All woke up, each branch,
Startled by every bird
And full of spring thirst;
Tell that with the same passion
Like yesterday, I came again
That the soul is still the same happiness
And ready to serve you;
Tell that from everywhere
Joy blows over me
I don't know what I will
Sing - but only the song matures.
Particular attention to the "music of the world" can be found in most of the poet's works. Fet is generally one of the most "musical" Russian poets. The poet saturates his works with harmonious sounds, melodic intonations.
Fetovsky's lyrical hero does not want to know suffering and sorrow, to think about death, to see social evil. He lives in his harmonious and bright world, created from exciting and endlessly diverse pictures of nature, refined experiences and aesthetic shocks.
Nature for Fet is a source of constant inspiration and delight. The poet shows us nature at different times of the year, each of which is beautiful in its own way.
Autumn in most people is associated with a period of dying in nature. Yes, and the poets did not pay too much attention to this time of year.
Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet's poem "Autumn Rose" describes late autumn. Autumn is a time of rest, a time of departure and farewell, a time of reflection. She is filled with emptiness. It seems that outside of autumn there is nothing but eternity. But at the same time, it pleases that the only rose does not want to let go of the warm season, therefore it “blows in the spring.” The poet claims that life goes on, that the flower will remind him of sunny days and take him to the future, closer to spring.
He showered the forest on his peaks,
The garden bared its brow
September died, and dahlias
The breath of the night burned.
But in a breath of frost
Alone among the dead
Only you alone, queen rose,
Fragrant and opulent.
In spite of cruel trials
And the malice of the fading day
You are the shape and breath
In the spring you blow on me.
In the poem "Autumn", written in 1883, two different, even opposite moods are reflected at once. The poem was written in October. This is just the middle of autumn, the time when summer is already gone, and winter has not yet come, and the soul is in turmoil. Therefore, at the beginning of the work, we feel how the author begins to grieve about the coming autumn.
Further, the poet also recalls that autumn is still not so sad and sad, that at this time you can also live and love, you can enjoy what is happening and believe that everything is just beginning.
How sad are the dark days
Silent autumn and cold!
What languor desolate
They are asking for our souls!
But there are days when in the blood
Golden-leaved headwear
Burning autumn is looking for eyes
And the sultry whims of love.
The bashful sadness is silent,
Only the defiant is heard
And, fading so magnificently,
She no longer regrets anything.
The emotionality of the poem is slowly decreasing, feelings fade, peace and tranquility sets in.
The pictures that A. A. Fet gives in his poems are very easy to imagine, so accurately the poet notices the main signs of weather changes in a particular season. However, Fet's landscape lyrics are not a photographic shot, where everything is frozen once and for all. Poetic images in Fet's poems can rather be compared with video filming, which allows you to capture a picture of the world around you in motion.
The nature and tension of Fet's lyrical experience depend on the state of nature. The change of seasons occurs in a circle - from spring to spring. In the same kind of circle, the movement of feelings in Fet takes place: not from the past to the future, but from spring to spring, with its necessary, inevitable return. In the collection (1850), the cycle "Snow" is highlighted in the first place. The winter cycle of Fet is multi-motive: he also sings about a sad birch tree in winter attire, about how “the night is bright, the frost shines”, “and the frost drew patterns on the double glass”. Snowy plains attract the poet:
wonderful picture,
How are you related to me?
white plain,
Full moon,
the light of the heavens above,
And shining snow
And distant sleigh
Lonely run.
Fet confesses his love for the winter landscape. In his poems, the radiant winter prevails, in the brilliance of the sun, in the diamonds of snowflakes and snow sparks, in the crystal of icicles, in the silvery fluff of frosty eyelashes. The associative series in this lyric does not go beyond nature itself, here is its own beauty, which does not need human spiritualization. Rather, it spiritualizes and enlightens the personality. It was Fet who, following Pushkin, sang the Russian winter, only he managed to reveal its aesthetic meaning in such a multifaceted way. Fet introduced rural landscapes, scenes of folk life into poetry, appeared in verses “bearded grandfather”, he “grunts and crosses himself”, or a coachman on a daring troika.
If the poet’s spring pictures of nature are joyful, filled with light, warmth, life, then in winter landscapes the motif of death often appears: a sad birch is dressed in a “mourning” outfit, an ominous wind whistles over an oak cross, bright winter light illuminates the course of the crypt. The thought of death, of non-existence, of the deserted earth merges in the poet's imagination with the view of winter nature, which has fallen asleep in eternal sleep:
The village sleeps under a snowy veil,
There are no paths throughout the steppe.
Yes, it is: over a distant mountain
I recognized a church with a dilapidated bell tower.
Like a frozen traveler in snow dust,
She sticks out in a cloudless distance.
No winter birds, no midges in the snow.
I understood everything: the earth has long cooled down
And died...
If the poet associates spring nature with morning awakening, then winter nature is associated with the silence of a moonlit night. In Fet's lyrics, we often meet a winter night landscape:
The night is bright, the frost is shining,
Come out - the snow crunches;
The tie-down is freezing cold
And it doesn't stand still.
Let's sit down, I'll fasten the cavity, -
The night is bright and the path is smooth.
You do not say a word, I will shut up,
And - went somewhere!
Feta has always attracted the poetic theme of evening and night. The poet is early
there was a special aesthetic attitude to the night, the onset of darkness. On
In the new stage of his work, he already began to call entire collections "Evening Lights", in them, as it were, a special, Fetov's philosophy of the night. The image of the night in the lyrics of A.A. Feta is unsteady, hesitant. It envelops the reader in a light haze and then disappears somewhere. For the lyrical hero A.A. Feta night is a wonderful time of day when a person is left alone with himself and his thoughts. And in this gloomy haze he thinks...
The song "I won't tell you anything..."
In the poem "What a night! .." the author admires his favorite time of day. The poet describes the night with the extraordinary delight inherent in true romance. He describes the extraordinary beauty of a leaf, shadow, wave, noticing the smallest details in them. The poet animates them. Thus, the clear boundary between man and nature is washed away, they find harmony in silence. And at this time, the feelings of the lyrical hero become sharper, he watches nature with special attention.
What a night! How clean the air
Like a silver leaf slumbers,
Like a shadow of black coastal willows,
How peacefully the bay sleeps
As the wave does not sigh anywhere,
How silence fills my chest!
Midnight light, you're the same day:
Only shine is whiter, shadow is blacker,
Only the smell of juicy herbs is thinner,
Only the mind is brighter, more peaceful disposition,
Yes, instead of passion, he wants breasts
Here is the air to breathe.
In the poem “In the Moonlight”, a beautiful, light night helps the lyrical hero forget about worries and go for a walk. He is not able to torment the soul in the house, he cannot change his habit. The lyrical hero needs contact with the darkness of the night, like air, he lives in anticipation of the cherished hour - the night, then all his feelings will be directed to merge with the night nature.
Let's go out with you to wander
In the moonlight!
How long to torment the soul
In dark silence!
A pond like shining steel
Weeping herbs,
Mill, river and distance
In the moonlight.
Is it possible to grieve and not live
Are we in awe?
Let's go quietly wandering
In the moonlight!
All this expanse is imbued with the spirit of the night, saturated with moonlight. This landscape sketch fully helps the reader to understand the lyrical hero, because the night charmed him with its beauty. The image of the dark time of the day is drawn by the author in a quiet, serene, light moonlight, this gives the night a special mystery. It is at this time that you want to live, love, enjoy the world around you and not miss a single minute in vain.
In the poem “Another May Night”, the reader is shown the beauty of the last month of spring, and at night. Here two favorite motifs of A.A. Feta - spring and night.
What a night! On everything what bliss!
Thank you, native midnight land!
From the realm of ice, from the realm of blizzards and snow
How fresh and clean your May flies!
What a night! All the stars to one
Warmly and meekly look into the soul again,
And in the air behind the song of the nightingale
Anxiety and love spread.
The birches are waiting. Their leaf is translucent
Shyly beckons and amuses the gaze.
They tremble. So maiden newlywed
And her dress is joyful and alien.
No, never more tender and incorporeal
Your face, O night, could not torment me!
Again I go to you with an involuntary song,
Involuntary - and the last, maybe.
Probably, this is due to the evening time of the day, when the soul of the lyrical hero feels nature more sharply and is in harmony with it. At this magical time, the air is saturated with nightingale singing, disturbing thoughts and love. At night, all images take on a special shape, everything comes to life and plunges into the world of night sensations. Birches become like newlywed maidens, they are just as young and fresh, their leaves shyly beckon and amuse the eye, their movements are hesitant, trembling. This gentle, incorporeal image of the night has always tormented the soul of the lyrical hero. The mysterious world of the darkness of the night again and again pushes him "with an involuntary song" to plunge into himself.
Thus, the image of the night in the lyrics of A.A. Feta appears to the reader as a wonderful time, full of mysteries, beautiful landscapes, light sensations. The author constantly glorifies the night. It is at night that all the permanent corners of the human soul open up, because this is the time of creation, creativity, poetry.
The poet sang beauty where he saw it, and he found it everywhere. He was an artist with an exceptionally developed sense of beauty, which is probably why the pictures of nature in his poems are so beautiful, which he took as she is, without allowing any decorations of reality.
In all descriptions of nature, A. Fet is impeccably faithful to its smallest features, shades, moods. It is thanks to this that the poet created amazing works that have been striking us for so many years with psychological accuracy, filigree accuracy.
Fet builds a picture of the world that he sees, feels, touches, hears. And in this world everything is important and significant: the clouds, and the moon, and the beetle, and the harrier, and the corncrake, and the stars, and the Milky Way. Each bird, each flower, each tree and each blade of grass is not just a part of the overall picture - they all have only their characteristic signs, even character.
Fet's relationship with nature is a complete dissolution in her world, this is a state of anxious expectation of a miracle:
I'm waiting... Nightingale echo
Rushing from the shining river
Grass under the moon in diamonds,
Fireflies are burning on the cumin.
I'm waiting... Dark blue skies
Both in small and large stars,
I hear a heartbeat
And trembling in the hands and feet.
I'm waiting... Here's a breeze from the south;
It is warm for me to stand and go;
A star rolled to the west...
I'm sorry, golden, I'm sorry!
Nature in Fet's lyrics lives its varied life and is shown not in some static states fixed in time and space, but in dynamics, in motion, in transitions from one state to another:
Growing, growing bizarre shadows
Into one merging shadow...
Already paid the last steps
Day passed.
What called to live, what made the forces hot -
Far beyond the mountain.
Like the ghost of the day, you pale luminary,
You rise above the earth.
In the lines of Fetov's lyrics, the landscape of central Russia is miraculously visibly drawn. And the fulfillment of this task alone would be enough for the name of Fet to be imprinted in the history of our literature. But Fet set an even more grandiose goal: behind the field, in the literal sense of the word, the reader had to see the field of the human soul. For the sake of this, Fet rubbed paints on his palette, for the sake of this he looked closely, and listened, and clinged to trees and grasses, lakes and rivers. Fet's lyrics depict nature and the person who perceives it in a harmonious unity, in the totality of inseparable manifestations.
Fet is surprisingly modern. His poetry is fresh and tremulous, it excites our imagination, evokes deep thoughts, makes us feel the beauty of our land and the harmony of the Russian word. The poet teaches us to notice the beauty of every moment and appreciate it, realizing that eternity is born from moments.
The captivating verses of Fet are eternal, like "the voice of the stars in heaven", like the trills of a nightingale, like a timid breath of love ...
Fet appreciated his creativity and beauty in everything. His whole life is a search for beauty in nature, love, even in death. Did he find her? This question will be answered only by someone who really understood Fet's poetry: he heard the music of his poems, saw the canvases of the landscape, felt the beauty of his poetic lines and himself learned to find beauty in the world around him.
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wonderful picture,
How are you related to me?
white plain,
Full moon,the light of the heavens above,
And shining snow
And distant sleigh
Lonely run.
Analysis of Fet's poem "A wonderful picture ..."
The ability to convey all the beauty of the surrounding nature in a few phrases is one of the most striking distinguishing features of the work of Afanasy Fet. He went down in the history of Russian poetry as an amazingly subtle lyricist and thoughtful landscape painter, who managed to find simple and precise words, describing rain, wind, forest, or various seasons. At the same time, only the early works of the poet differ in such liveliness and accuracy, when his soul was not yet overshadowed by a sense of guilt in front of the woman he once loved. Subsequently, he devoted a huge number of poems to Maria Lazich, moving further and further into love and philosophical lyrics in his work. Nevertheless, many early works of the poet have been preserved, which are filled with amazing purity, lightness and harmony.
In 1842, Afanasy Fet wrote the poem "A wonderful picture ...", masterfully depicting a winter night landscape. For such works, the poet was often criticized by venerable writers, believing that the lack of deep thoughts in poetry is a sign of bad taste. However, Afanasy Fet did not claim to be an expert on human souls. He was just trying to find simple and accessible words to describe what he sees and feels. It is noteworthy that the author rarely expressed his personal attitude to the surrounding reality, trying only to fix various objects and phenomena. Nevertheless, in the poem, the poet cannot help admiring and, talking about a frosty winter night, admits: “How dear you are to me!”. Fet feels a special charm in what surrounds him - "a white plain, a full moon" bring long-forgotten feelings of joy and peace to the author's life, which are enhanced by "a lonely sleigh running".
It would seem that in the recreated picture of the winter night there is nothing remarkable and worthy of attention. Probably, the poem itself was written at the moment when Afanasy Fet was making a short journey through the vast Russian expanses. But the tenderness that the author puts into every line of this work indicates that such a night walk gave the author incomparable pleasure. Fet manages to convey his true feelings and remind us all that you can experience happiness even from simple and familiar things that we often simply do not pay attention to.
