Zakhar Prilepin officers and militias of Russian literature. Zakhar PrilepinPlatoon

"Platoon. Officers and militias of Russian literature ”is one of those books that attracts attention rather than the name, but the name of the author who wrote it. Zakhar Prilepin is an ambiguous personality, but undoubtedly popular. Even if you haven't been following book releases recent years you probably know him. Political figure and a part-time actor, a musician who starred in Kittens and a participant in the battles in the Donbass. Writer, poet, journalist... the list is endless. At the same time, with his presence somewhere or participation in something, Zakhar certainly ensures high ratings. I mean, he knows how to PR well. Luckily, he can write just as well.

While Akunin and Grishkovets are publishing their blogs with a straight face, Prilepin is going the other way.
Photo: Vladimir Andreev

While Akunin, followed by Grishkovets, publish their blogs with a straight face, Prilepin goes the other way. From under his pen comes a lot of different, absolutely original works. Sometimes successful, sometimes not so good. But nevertheless, they clearly show that Zakhar not only knows how to captivate the reader, but also does not hesitate to play with genres and forms, each time giving out something new and original. But the theme almost always remains military. And Platoon. Officers and militias of Russian literature” is no exception.

Prilepin opened up the military side of Pushkin, Chaadaev, Batyushkov and Derzhavin. Photo: Vadim Akhmetov

Opening a solidly printed book in hardcover, the reader will find eleven biographies of poets and writers of the Golden Age. But, biographies are not quite ordinary. creative way not much attention has been paid here. Behind the scenes is the personal life of the characters. And all because Prilepin is interested in his heroes primarily as military men. That is, to their actions on the battlefields, behavior in difficult situations and relations with comrades-in-arms (among whose names there are also many well-known ones), Zakhar devotes all 700-odd pages of his new book.

Starting with an extremely soulful introduction, in which there is a place for both a dark flask from imported beer and Batyushkov littered with corpses, Prilepin moves on to the biography of Derzhavin, and then Shishkov and Davydov. And if in "Distinguishable Silhouettes" he mixes everyone into one cauldron, which successfully creates the effect of a quick change of frames, then further attention is concentrated on one person. And so up to Pushkin. Zakhar fails to completely get away from the notorious "textbook", which often overshadows the impression of historical books. However, dissolving boring but necessary moments in quoting poems and interesting scenes, he achieves the maximum possible immersion of the reader into the atmosphere of ongoing events.

Prilepin left the "textbook" dissolving boring but necessary moments in verse quotations and interesting scenes. Photo: pixabay.com

Zakhar's style is extremely unusual. Those for whom Platoon will be his first book will feel this especially acutely. At first, you will have to get used to the special dynamics of what is happening and the author’s tendency to “jump” from one to another. Namely, create big picture, collecting it from a mosaic of facts and details, but at the same time invariably pleasing with the lightness of the style.“Glinka is shamelessly disingenuous here! And what the hell was he doing on the “day of the incident” with the whole governor general? Did you drink coffee? Discussed secular news?albeit only by asking rhetorical questions, Zakhar conducts a dialogue with the reader. Infects with impressions and emotions. And then arranges a real feast for his inner militarist, thanks to juicy battle scenes.

“Davydov sees champagne and feels great. Glinka is happy for everyone. Batyushkov already wants to leave ... " Prilepin narrates in an impromptu scene of joint gatherings of his characters. Focusing on the human side of their personalities, Zakhar tries to make the characters come alive in the eyes of the readers. Not only eminent writers and poets, and not only brave warriors, but also ordinary people who, according to him, could be invited to visit. Prilepin is not shy about making fun of them and their work, allowing himself and readers to take a lot of things lightly. Well, who else will compare Vyazemsky with Kharms or analyze his “Russian God” so freely? Yes, no one.

In Platoon, Zakhar Prilepin compares Vyazemsky with Kharms. Photo: zdravrussia.ru

"Platoon. Officers and militias of Russian literature” is an extremely successful and significant project for any connoisseur of good historical literature. But it is remarkable not only for its abundance interesting facts. In one of his interviews, Prilepin says that “We must learn to perceive the characters of the Golden Age as our contemporaries” and throughout the book he builds the narrative in such a way that it is possible. Whether there is any sense in this or is it just an interesting feature is a moot point. The only undeniable fact is that Zakhar Prilepin unequivocally succeeded in implementing his idea.

Zakhar Prilepin teaches to perceive the characters of the Golden Age as his contemporaries. Photo: Vladimir Andreev

Half a century ago they were close.

A writer about the people of the Golden Age peered into a bottle of dark glass from an imported beer - and suddenly, as it seemed to him, he began to distinguish between people and situations.

Derzhavin's shaggy eyebrows, his eyes are old and blind. Shishkov tightens his stern mouth. Davydov does not want to be drawn in profile - his nose is small. Then he looks in the mirror: no, nothing. Glinka looks sadly out the window; outside the window is a Tver link. Batyushkov gets frightened alone in a dark room, abruptly runs out into the hall, barely lit by two blinking candles, calls the dog in a whisper - if the dog comes, then ... it means something, the main thing is to remember her name. Hey, how are you. Achilles? Please, Ahi-i-il. He tries to whistle, twists his lips - I forgot how. Or rather, never could. Katenin pours half a glass, then, holding the bottle at the ready, thinks and, after a moment, quickly tops up the glass. Vyazemsky can hardly suppress a smirk. Suddenly it turns out that his heart hurts terribly. He holds back a smirk, because if he laughs out loud, he will faint from pain. Chaadaev is bored, but he has already come up with a joke and is just waiting for the right moment to pronounce it wearily. Raevsky is angry and restless. Plays with jaws. Everything inside him is buzzing. Unbearable people, unbearable times! Bestuzhev looks at the ladies. The ladies are looking at Bestuzhev: Vera, I assure you, this is the same Marlinsky.

Finally, Pushkin.

Pushkin is on horseback, Pushkin cannot be overtaken.

Vial of dark glass, thank you.

It was easier for them, who lived then, in the middle of the last century: Bulat, Natan, or, say, Emil - it seems that one of them was called Emil, they were all called rare names. They described the golden age as if they were painting with the quietest, floating colors: a hint seemed to be everywhere, something white, pale flashed behind the bushes.

The inhabitants of the Golden Age, according to these descriptions, hated and despised tyrants and tyranny. But only absurd censors could think that we are talking about tyranny and tyrants. The conversation was about something else, closer, more disgusting.

If one listens to the slow current of novels about the Golden Age, one can discern the murmur of a secret speech that only a select few can understand. Bulat winked at Nathan. Nathan winked at Bulat. The rest just blinked.

But in the end, much remained as if unclear, unspoken.

Brilliant lieutenants went to the Caucasus - but what did they do there anyway? Yes, they behaved risky, as if to spite someone. But who shot at them, who did they shoot at? What kind of hillbillies are these? What mountains are they from?

FROM Caucasian mountains highlanders - dangerous people. Mikhail Yurievich, you should duck. Not even an hour will fall into Lev Nikolaevich.

Sometimes the lieutenants fought with the Turks, but again no one understood why, why, for what purpose. What, after all, did they need from the Turks? Probably the Turks were the first to start.

Or, say, the Finns - what did they want from the Finns, these lieutenants? Or - from the Swedes?

And if, God forbid, the lieutenant ended up in Poland and crushed, like a flower, another Polish rebellion - it was generally not customary to talk about it. The lieutenant probably got there by accident. He didn’t want to, but he was ordered, they stomped on him: “Or maybe you, lieutenant, should be sent to the depths of Siberian ores?” Looks like they were screaming.

The authors of biographies of lieutenants generously shared their thoughts, aspirations and hopes with their heroes. After all, the authors were sincerely convinced that they had common thoughts, aspirations and hopes, as if a century and a half had not passed. Sometimes they could even compose a poem with them (or even for them): what difference does it make when everything is so close.

And what is at hand: the authors of biographies were born when Andrei Bely, or even Sasha Cherny, was still alive. Akhmatova and even more so seen with their own eyes. But from Akhmatova half a step to Annensky, and another half step to Tyutchev, and now Pushkin showed up. Two or three handshakes.

He pressed his hand, warmed by a handshake, to the bottle of dark glass: while its warmth was melting, he managed to make out the lines of other hands. What if you put your ear to it? There is someone laughing; or crying; and here the words become legible ...

Now, in our days, you squeeze one hand, you don’t feel anything with the other: even from Lev Nikolayevich you can’t hear greetings - where can you reach Alexander Sergeevich or Gavrila Romanovich.

For us, living, familiar - Mayakovsky, Yesenin, Pasternak: the same confusion, the same passions, the same neurosis. I don’t regret, I don’t call, I don’t cry, the candle burned on the table, because someone needs it. They spoke our words, they were no different from us: let me hug you, Sergey Alexandrovich; let me squeeze your paw, Vladimir Vladimirovich; ah, Boris Leonidovich, how so.

The Silver Age is still close, the Golden Age is almost inaccessible.

A bottle of dark glass is no longer suitable for traveling to the Golden Age. You turn it in your hands, twist it, rub it - silence. And did anyone live there?

On the Golden Age, it takes a long time to tune the odd-eyed radio receiver, to listen to the distant, as from another star, spike, crackle, flutter.

Who is it with? About whom? To whom?

Looking at the Golden Age, one has to point in its direction a long, like a tower, a curved telescope. Until itching in the forehead, you peer into the combination of stars, which at first seems spontaneous, random, scattered.

... And then suddenly you can distinguish the full face, the landing of the head, the hand.

In that hand is a pistol.

Derzhavin involuntarily closed his eyes, expecting a shot, but the cannon still struck unexpectedly; he shuddered and immediately opened his eyes. Everyone around shouted: "Ataman ... their chieftain was killed! .., the bastard ran!"

Shishkov rode in a wagon along a wall made of frozen corpses. The wall didn't end. Mentally, he wondered: this one, I forgot how, the street leading to the Neva - is it shorter? No, definitely shorter.

Davydov stood up in his stirrups, looking for Napoleon. He once met his eyes - on the day of the conclusion of the Tilsit peace. But that was a completely different case, then Davydov could not even imagine that he could see him like that - being on a horse, with a saber drawn, at the head of a detachment of thugs who received the order "Do not mess with the prisoners, my children."

Glinka was surprised at himself: as a child, he could be frightened to a terrible heartbeat by a suddenly swooping bumblebee. Now, bypassing enemy positions, he even spurred his horse without frenzy, regretted - despite the fact that they were now hitting Glinka not even with rifle fire - it was not so easy to hit a galloping horseman from a gun, but with grapeshot.

For some time Batyushkov thought that he had died and was buried. And it is torn apart in order to shift it more reliably, more conveniently. And they don’t dig the earth, but as if they were demolishing it, pulling it together in heavy layers stuck together. Finally, he realized that he was lying under several corpses, littered. When Batyushkov was lifted up in his arms, he managed to see one of those who crushed him: he was lying on his side with a strange face - one half of the face was imperturbable and even peaceful, the other was monstrously twisted.

Katenin looked at the back of his acquaintance - at one time a brilliant officer, now demoted to the rank and file. Katenin once wanted to kill him in a duel. Now he, not afraid of the shots, tall, a head taller than Katenin, ran forward with a gun at the ready. Katenin thought: “Maybe shoot him?” – but this thought was frivolous, angry, tired. Katenin spat and raised his people to attack. Why lie down: it’s cold, after all ...

Vyazemsky listened to the roar of the battle and thought with surprise: but there are people who, unlike me, hearing this roar, understand what and where they are shooting from, and for them all this is as clear as for me - the structure of stanzas and the sound of rhymes. But this is impossible: "... this roar is devoid of any harmony whatsoever! .." - and listened again.

“After all, this pike is heavy ...” - Chaadaev decided distantly, as if not talking about himself, and at the same moment he clearly saw - although, it would seem, he should not have been in time - that the person who received a blow in the chest with a pike was clearly puzzled. The thought that flashed through his face could be read something like this: “... oh, what is it with me, why is there no more ground under my feet, and why such a long flight? Such a pleasant, and only a little bit uncomfortable because of the acute heaviness in the chest, flight ... ” Chaadaev’s horse rushed past. The pike stood horizontally, like a tree ready to blossom. It was March.

Half a century ago they were close.

A writer about the people of the Golden Age peered into a bottle of dark glass from an imported beer - and suddenly, as it seemed to him, he began to distinguish between people and situations.

Derzhavin's shaggy eyebrows, his eyes are old and blind. Shishkov tightens his stern mouth. Davydov does not want to be drawn in profile - his nose is small. Then he looks in the mirror: no, nothing. Glinka looks sadly out the window; outside the window is a Tver link. Batyushkov gets frightened alone in a dark room, abruptly runs out into the hall, barely lit by two blinking candles, calls the dog in a whisper - if the dog comes, then ... it means something, the main thing is to remember her name. Hey, how are you. Achilles? Please, Ahi-i-il. He tries to whistle, twists his lips - I forgot how. Or rather, never could. Katenin pours half a glass, then, holding the bottle at the ready, thinks and, after a moment, quickly tops up the glass. Vyazemsky can hardly suppress a smirk. Suddenly it turns out that his heart hurts terribly. He holds back a smirk, because if he laughs out loud, he will faint from pain. Chaadaev is bored, but he has already come up with a joke and is just waiting for the right moment to pronounce it wearily. Raevsky is angry and restless. Plays with jaws. Everything inside him is buzzing. Unbearable people, unbearable times! Bestuzhev looks at the ladies. The ladies are looking at Bestuzhev: Vera, I assure you, this is the same Marlinsky.

Finally, Pushkin.

Pushkin is on horseback, Pushkin cannot be overtaken.

Vial of dark glass, thank you.

It was easier for them, who lived then, in the middle of the last century: Bulat, Natan, or, say, Emil - it seems that some of them were called Emil, they were all called rare names. They described the golden age as if they were painting with the quietest, floating colors: a hint seemed to be everywhere, something white, pale flashed behind the bushes.

The inhabitants of the Golden Age, according to these descriptions, hated and despised tyrants and tyranny. But only absurd censors could think that we are talking about tyranny and tyrants. The conversation was about something else, closer, more disgusting.

If one listens to the slow current of novels about the Golden Age, one can discern the murmur of a secret speech that only a select few can understand. Bulat winked at Nathan. Nathan winked at Bulat. The rest just blinked.

But in the end, much remained as if unclear, unspoken.

Brilliant lieutenants went to the Caucasus - but what did they do there anyway? Yes, they behaved risky, as if to spite someone. But who shot at them, who did they shoot at? What kind of hillbillies are these? What mountains are they from?

Highlanders from the Caucasus Mountains are dangerous people. Mikhail Yurievich, you should duck. Not even an hour will fall into Lev Nikolaevich.

Sometimes the lieutenants fought with the Turks, but again no one understood why, why, for what purpose. What, after all, did they need from the Turks? Probably the Turks were the first to start.

Or, say, the Finns - what did they want from the Finns, these lieutenants? Or - from the Swedes?

And if, God forbid, the lieutenant ended up in Poland and crushed, like a flower, another Polish rebellion - it was generally not customary to talk about this.

The lieutenant probably got there by accident. He didn’t want to, but he was ordered, they stomped on him: “Or maybe you, lieutenant, should be sent to the depths of Siberian ores?” Looks like they were screaming.

The authors of biographies of lieutenants generously shared their thoughts, aspirations and hopes with their heroes. After all, the authors were sincerely convinced that they had common thoughts, aspirations and hopes, as if a century and a half had not passed. Sometimes they could even compose a poem with them (or even for them): what difference does it make when everything is so close.

And what is at hand: the authors of biographies were born when Andrei Bely, or even Sasha Cherny, was still alive. Akhmatova and even more so seen with their own eyes. But from Akhmatova half a step to Annensky, and another half step to Tyutchev, and now Pushkin showed up. Two or three handshakes.

He pressed his hand, warmed by a handshake, to the bottle of dark glass: while its warmth was melting, he managed to make out the lines of other hands. What if you put your ear to it? There is someone laughing; or crying; and here the words become legible ...

Now, in our days, you squeeze one hand, you don’t feel anything with the other: even from Lev Nikolayevich you can’t hear greetings - where can you reach Alexander Sergeevich or Gavrila Romanovich.

For us, living, familiar - Mayakovsky, Yesenin, Pasternak: the same confusion, the same passions, the same neurosis. I don’t regret, I don’t call, I don’t cry, the candle burned on the table, because someone needs it. They spoke our words, they were no different from us: let me hug you, Sergey Alexandrovich; let me squeeze your paw, Vladimir Vladimirovich; ah, Boris Leonidovich, how so.

The Silver Age is still close, the Golden Age is almost inaccessible.

A bottle of dark glass is no longer suitable for traveling to the Golden Age. You turn it in your hands, twist it, rub it - silence. And did anyone live there?

On the Golden Age, it takes a long time to tune the odd-eyed radio receiver, to listen to the distant, as from another star, spike, crackle, flutter.

Who is it with? About whom? To whom?

Looking at the Golden Age, one has to point in its direction a long, like a tower, a curved telescope. Until itching in the forehead, you peer into the combination of stars, which at first seems spontaneous, random, scattered.

... And then suddenly you can distinguish the full face, the landing of the head, the hand.

In that hand is a pistol.

Derzhavin involuntarily closed his eyes, expecting a shot, but the cannon still struck unexpectedly; he shuddered and immediately opened his eyes. Everyone around shouted: "Ataman ... their chieftain was killed! .., the bastard ran!"

Shishkov rode in a wagon along a wall made of frozen corpses. The wall didn't end. Mentally, he wondered: this one, I forgot how, the street leading to the Neva - is it shorter? No, definitely shorter.

Davydov stood up in his stirrups, looking for Napoleon. He once met his eyes - on the day of the conclusion of the Tilsit peace. But that was a completely different case, then Davydov could not even imagine that he could see him like that - being on a horse, with a saber drawn, at the head of a detachment of thugs who received the order "Do not mess with the prisoners, my children."

Glinka was surprised at himself: as a child, he could be frightened to a terrible heartbeat by a suddenly swooping bumblebee. Now, bypassing enemy positions, he even spurred his horse without frenzy, regretted - despite the fact that they were now hitting Glinka not even with rifle fire - it was not so easy to hit a galloping horseman from a gun, but with grapeshot.

For some time Batyushkov thought that he had died and was buried. And it is torn apart in order to shift it more reliably, more conveniently. And they don’t dig the earth, but as if they were demolishing it, pulling it together in heavy layers stuck together. Finally, he realized that he was lying under several corpses, littered. When Batyushkov was lifted up in his arms, he managed to see one of those who crushed him: he was lying on his side with a strange face - one half of the face was imperturbable and even peaceful, the other was monstrously twisted.

Katenin looked at the back of his acquaintance - at one time a brilliant officer, now demoted to the rank and file. Katenin once wanted to kill him in a duel. Now he, not afraid of the shots, tall, a head taller than Katenin, ran forward with a gun at the ready. Katenin thought: “Maybe shoot him?” – but this thought was frivolous, angry, tired. Katenin spat and raised his people to attack. Why lie down: it’s cold, after all ...

Vyazemsky listened to the roar of the battle and thought with surprise: but there are people who, unlike me, hearing this roar, understand what and where they are shooting from, and for them all this is as clear as for me - the structure of stanzas and the sound of rhymes. But this is impossible: "... this roar is devoid of any harmony whatsoever! .." - and listened again.

“After all, this pike is heavy ...” - Chaadaev decided distantly, as if not talking about himself, and at the same moment he clearly saw - although, it would seem, he should not have been in time - that the person who received a blow in the chest with a pike was clearly puzzled. The thought that flashed through his face could be read something like this: “... oh, what is it with me, why is there no more ground under my feet, and why such a long flight? Such a pleasant, and only a little bit uncomfortable because of the acute heaviness in the chest, flight ... ” Chaadaev’s horse rushed past. The pike stood horizontally, like a tree ready to blossom. It was March.

Raevsky's gunners rolled out a gun onto the road, he ran into a nearby copse to help roll out the second one, and suddenly he saw in the distance, on the same road, a whole crowd of enemies. They saw him too. It was necessary to understand: whether to drag the second gun, or return to the first. Among the enemies could be seen several cavalry. They succeed, no? "Charge!" he shouted, looking back at his boys. Frightened by the cry, the bird took off from the branch. Raevsky ran to the gun, cursing and almost falling. There was some amazing and strange feeling that this bird was his voice ... and now his voice has flown away. And how will he give the next command?

Making his way through the thickets, Bestuzhev-Marlinsky caught himself knowing for the umpteenth time exactly where the shot was about to sound, after how many steps he would reach the last of the retreating and stab him with a bayonet, and something else on the left, on a tree, was sitting comfortably shooter. Now the shooter will aim at Bestuzhev ... and miss. “And then I’ll shoot and hit,” Bestuzhev informed himself not with a lightning sensation, but in separate, calm words. Aimed, fired, hit.

... And Pushkin, of course. Pushkin on horseback. Pushkin cannot be overtaken.

We had a secret feeling that all these people had never existed: because who can live like this - from war to war, from duel to duel.

No, it could not be so, all these are fictional characters of some ancient, blind, semi-mythical writer of poems: can one believe in them?

Nobody does that now; at least among the writers.

Nevertheless, they lived - real, bleeding, sick, suffering, afraid of wounds, captivity, death.

Their world was not black and white, faded, crumbling. No, he also had colors and paints.

Pushkin was fair-skinned, with more and more rosy hair over the years. While he was dark, he laughed much more contagiously. The more channels, the less smiled.

Vyazemsky was not looking for a career, but she overtook him; fools accused him of being bought by the sovereign, that's why they are fools - there was hardly a person in Russia who cared so little about all this fuss.

Chaadaev, it seems, had an affair with a prostitute in Poland: he left with a shrug. It seemed absurd and pointless - something like duels, which, however, he was not afraid of, like death in general. Travel very soon became boring; wine, even more so. According to common sense, in the end they remained: he himself, the Motherland, God. Shuffle these cards, only shuffle these cards.

Raevsky changed his character when he left the youthful habit of sticking out his jaw, which made him ugly. But he stopped sticking out - and something went out in his eyes. His eldest son still remembered his father with such a face, as if he was scaring someone or playing with someone, while the younger ones no longer.

Bestuzhev was a caress, his mother adored him, she could hug him and stroke his head, he liked it. So affectionate that he shouldn't have fought at all. But Bestuzhev had one anomaly: he was devoid of a sense of fear. What others overcame, he passed through. Then, already, ill with everything in a row, Bestuzhev bit his hand from stomach pains and growled: to hell with it all, to hell with it - it’s not scary at all, but it hurts terribly in the stomach.

Katenin had this: he thought much more about culture, about theater, about poetry, than about himself. But the world did not reciprocate him so much that no matter what he talked about, it always turned out that about himself, about his irritation. Many did not like this, but not Pushkin. Pushkin understood everything in Katenin. A person has never been born in the world who could appreciate Katenin to the same extent as Pushkin.

Batyushkov was afraid to sleep, and when he woke up, before he opened his eyes, he checked the state of his mind, naming the objects in the room and remembering their location. All the time I forgot one candlestick, in the very corner, completely unnecessary there.

Glinka seriously believed that his dreams were as complete as reality. No, from some day they became even more complete. He wrote more about them than about the prison.

Davydov was an unusually sensible person—one of the most sensible and calm people in Russian literature. Denis Vasilievich rarely wrote poetry because of his mental health: why? well, there will be one more rhyme - I wrote two the year before last, where there are so many ... Now I would attack, equestrian, unexpected - that would be fun to my liking.

Shishkov thought the killing to be monstrous and impossible; where it is better to eat sweets, or, for example, raisins. But Fatherland? The fatherland seemed to him alive to such an extent that he wanted to drink hot milk, wrap it up, hide it. The feeling for his mother, whom he so rarely saw and wanted to see so much, was superimposed on a patriotic feeling.

And Derzhavin? Derzhavin treated himself well, because he knew his worth. To die in the war was, from his point of view, an unreasonable waste of human material.

At some point - probably, it was still in the Preobrazhensky Regiment - he noticed with surprise that all the people around him were stupider than him. Not that they are generally stupid, but their motivations and actions are most often predictable. This surprised him, but not very much: he quickly got used to it.

He was not ambitious. I just knew that I deserved a lot.

Derzhavin was not one of those who sincerely believes that he is speaking with the Gods. He was the first in the opposite sense: to realize the unthinkable vastness of the distance to God. However, he did not leave hope to drive this distance into a line.

He also turned out to be one of the first in our poetry who knew exactly the weight, the price of Russian words and, it seems, even their color. These were not just words with their meanings - an invisible power lurked in their sound, their unexpected combinations struck sparks. Derzhavin built the speech and led it, making the words entrusted to him rumble, scream, squeak, march, sing in chorus, wave banners.

In essence, Derzhavin was not a military man, but he understood the meaning of the war at the level not only political, but also musical.

... He also became a stingy man over the years, he liked to talk about himself, his merits. So I would have listened to how he was praised, and I would have listened.

All of them, all of them were just people. You can muster up the courage and invite them over.

Derzhavin stomps in the hallway, shoveling snow. Shishkov drove up to the next quarter and decided to walk from there. Davydov sees the champagne and feels great. Glinka is happy for everyone. Batyushkov already wants to leave. Katenin won't come at all while Vyazemsky is here. Vyazemsky does not decide what is more in him: irritation with Davydov or love for this impossible, bright, fearless person. Chaadaev said he was ill. Raevsky is far away, but sent a detailed letter. Bestuzhev is even further away, but he also writes.

Finally, Pushkin.

Pushkin will appear soon.

“God is with us, with us; honor all ross "
Lieutenant Gavrila Derzhavin

Oh ross! O noble race!
Oh hard stone chest!
O giant, obedient to the king!
When and where can you reach
Couldn't you be worthy of fame?
Your labors are fun for you;
Your crowns are all around the brilliance of thunders;
Are there battles in the fields - you tmish the starry vault,
Is there a battle in the seas - you foam the abyss, -
Everywhere you fear your enemies.

Like water, from the mountains in spring to the valley
Falling down, foaming, roaring,
Waves, ice shake the dam,
The dew flows to the strongholds.
Nothing raises the path for them;
Does the pale regiment meet deaths,
Or hell gnashes with a yawn to them, -
They go - like thunders are hidden in the clouds,
How silent the hills move;
Under them is a groan, behind them is smoke.

Poems - Derzhavin.

Gavrila Romanovich Derzhavin - ten years as a soldier, and four more years as an officer. Pronouncing such toasts, he understood who he was talking about, and he could drink for himself, after finishing.

Derzhavin - as well as Denis Davydov and, according to family tradition, Konstantin Batyushkov, as well as Alexander Suvorov and Mikhail Kutuzov - came from a Tatar family.

The phrase "Scratch a Russian - you will find a Tatar" has nothing to do with the common people. Slavic polonyanki, who were taken to the Horde, gave birth to Tatars. Rather, the Horde peoples should be rubbed in order to detect Slavic blood. "Scrub a Tatar and you'll find a Russian" - this phrase may well sound the same.

And the idle proposal to rub a Russian in order to find a Tatar was born, most likely, in connection with the Russification of numerous noble Horde families that replenished the Russian aristocracy. That is, in fact, there is nothing humiliating for a Russian person in this saying, because its meaning is something like this: if you rub another Russian nobleman, you will find a Tatar who once came to serve the Russian Tsar. The Yusupovs, the Sheremetevs, the Rostopchins are all descendants of the Murzas.

However, no matter how much you look at the portraits of Derzhavin, nothing Tatar is found there. Apparently worn out over centuries of service.

Meanwhile, he himself often called himself "Murza". From his poems:

I sang, I sing and I will sing them
And in jokes I will proclaim the truth;
Tatar songs from under a bushel,
Like a ray, I will tell posterity.

What Blok would subsequently frighten (Scythia and Asiaticism in the Russian character), Derzhavin still had in an ironic context. But these jokes had a genealogical basis.

His longtime ancestor, Murza Brahim, was indeed baptized by Prince Vasily II the Dark. In baptism, Brahim became Elijah, having received estates near Vladimir, Novgorod and Nizhny Novgorod. Various surnames originated from the sons of Brahim, including the Narbekovs. One of the Narbekovs had a son nicknamed Derzhava. From him came the Derzhavins.

“The lands, however, were divided among the heirs,” writes Vladislav Khodasevich in the book “Derzhavin”, “they were sold, mortgaged, and already Roman Nikolayevich Derzhavin, who was born in 1706, got only a few scattered pieces.”

Born on July 3, 1743, Gavrila Romanovich Derzhavin was named in honor of the Archangel Gabriel, celebrated on July 13. Place of birth: Kazan district, village either Karmachi or Sokura; he himself considered, so as not to trifle, his native city - Kazan. Murza!

Derzhavin writes about himself: “In infancy he was very small, weak and dry, so that, according to the lack of education in that region at that time and the custom of the people, he should have been baked in bread.” (due to the fact that he lived his life as a healthy, three-veined person, apparently, they still baked it: I would like to look at this blinking flour product.)

Throughout his childhood, he dragged his father around the military garrisons (Yaransk, Vyatka, Stavropol-on-Volga, Orenburg); since then, serving life did not frighten him. But let's not say that he was very eager for her.

The poet's father retired as a lieutenant colonel, and died a year later. The mother, Fyokla Andreevna (also the daughter of a military man), left three children in her arms, eleven-year-old Gavrila is the eldest.

They lived poorly; The 15 rubles of debt that remained after the death of his father was completely impossible to pay at first; sued a lot with greedy and prying neighbors. Serfs had a family - ten souls.

Gavrila studied at the Kazan Gymnasium. In many subjects (except mathematics) he was one of the best students; the university newspaper wrote about him. A discouraging acquaintance with Russian piites took place there, which captivated the ear and mind: the big-headed Lomonosov (“Bor and dol makes noise with streams: / “Victory, Russian victory!” / But the enemy that left the sword, / Is afraid of his own trace”), next is the thoroughbred Sumarokov (“The fiery sea has opened, / The earth is trembling and the firmament is groaning, / In the regiments of the sratsinsky fear and grief, / Boiling rage, execution and death. / Minerva Rosska thunders thunders, / Istanbul trembles in horror"), - from such odes our poetry began.

poetic Russian word(we are talking, of course, about secular poetry) arose not as a lyrical murmur, but as a victorious - in honor of military, offensive, victorious glory - salute.

From the gymnasium in 1762, at the age of eighteen, Derzhavin was transferred to the Preobrazhensky Regiment, in St. Petersburg, as a private. He served with recruits recruited from serfs, and lived, out of poverty, in the same barracks with soldiers (three married and two single, he considers it important to mention Derzhavin in his autobiography).

Khodasevich: “He was dressed in the uniform of the Preobrazhensky Regiment. It was a short, dark green uniform of the Holstein type with gold buttonholes; a yellow camisole was visible from under the uniform; pants are also yellow; on the head - a powdered wig with a thick braid turned up; curls sticking out above the ears, glued together with thick greasy lipstick.

Derzhavin himself: "The strange outfit seemed very wonderful, so that it turned the eyes of stupid people on itself."

Further, out of false modesty, he writes about himself in the third person: “... it was ordered to the wingman to teach rifle techniques and military service ... at night, when everyone calmed down, he read books, which happened to get where, German and Russian, and he scribbled poetry without any rules, which, however, no matter how much he hid, but could not hide from his companions (meaning: brother-soldiers. – Z.P.), and even more so from their wives; that is why they began to ask him to write letters to their relatives in the villages.

(Morals in Russian army do not change, as we see, for centuries.)

Platoon. Officers and militias of Russian literature

Foreword

Distinct silhouettes

Half a century ago they were close.

A writer about the people of the Golden Age peered into a bottle of dark glass from an imported beer - and suddenly, as it seemed to him, he began to distinguish between people and situations.

Derzhavin's shaggy eyebrows, his eyes are old and blind. Shishkov tightens his stern mouth. Davydov does not want to be drawn in profile - his nose is small. Then he looks in the mirror: no, nothing. Glinka looks sadly out the window; outside the window is a Tver link. Batyushkov gets frightened alone in a dark room, abruptly runs out into the hall, barely lit by two blinking candles, calls the dog in a whisper - if the dog comes, then ... it means something, the main thing is to remember her name. Hey, how are you. Achilles? Please, Ahi-i-il. He tries to whistle, twists his lips - I forgot how. Or rather, never could. Katenin pours half a glass, then, holding the bottle at the ready, thinks and, after a moment, quickly tops up the glass. Vyazemsky can hardly suppress a smirk. Suddenly it turns out that his heart hurts terribly. He holds back a smirk, because if he laughs out loud, he will faint from pain. Chaadaev is bored, but he has already come up with a joke and is just waiting for the right moment to pronounce it wearily. Raevsky is angry and restless. Plays with jaws. Everything inside him is buzzing. Unbearable people, unbearable times! Bestuzhev looks at the ladies. The ladies are looking at Bestuzhev: Vera, I assure you, this is the same Marlinsky.

Finally, Pushkin.

Pushkin is on horseback, Pushkin cannot be overtaken.

Vial of dark glass, thank you.

It was easier for them, who lived then, in the middle of the last century: Bulat, Natan, or, say, Emil - it seems that some of them were called Emil, they were all called rare names. They described the Golden Age as if they were painting with the quietest, floating colors: a hint seemed to be everywhere, something white, pale flickered behind the bushes.

The inhabitants of the Golden Age, according to these descriptions, hated and despised tyrants and tyranny. But only absurd censors could think that we are talking about tyranny and tyrants. The conversation was about something else, closer, more disgusting....

If one listens to the slow current of novels about the Golden Age, one can discern the murmur of a secret speech that only a select few can understand. Bulat winked at Nathan. Nathan winked at Bulat. The rest just blinked.

But in the end, much remained as if unclear, unspoken.

Brilliant lieutenants went to the Caucasus - but what did they do there anyway? Yes, they behaved risky, as if to spite someone. But who shot at them, who did they shoot at? What kind of hillbillies are these? What mountains are they from?

Highlanders from the Caucasus Mountains are dangerous people. Mikhail Yurievich, you should duck. Not even an hour will fall into Lev Nikolaevich.

Sometimes the lieutenants fought with the Turks, but again no one understood why, why, for what purpose. What, after all, did they need from the Turks? Probably the Turks were the first to start.

Or, say, the Finns - what did they want from the Finns, these lieutenants? Or - from the Swedes?

And if, God forbid, the lieutenant ended up in Poland and crushed, like a flower, another Polish rebellion - it was generally not customary to talk about it. The lieutenant probably got there by accident. He didn’t want to, but he was ordered, they stomped on him: “Or maybe you, lieutenant, should be sent to the depths of Siberian ores?” Looks like they were screaming.