Alexey Tolstoy
gloomy morning
Live victorious or die with glory...
Svyatoslav
There were two people sitting by the fire, a man and a woman. A cold wind blew at their backs from the steppe gully, whistling through the long-falling stalks of wheat. The woman tucked her legs up under her skirt, shoved her hands into the sleeves of her drape coat. From under the knitted handkerchief lowered over her eyes, only a straight nose and stubbornly folded lips were visible.
The fire of the fire was not great, dry cakes of manure were burning, which the man had just picked up - a few armfuls - in a beam near the watering hole. It was not good that the wind was getting stronger.
The beauties of nature, of course, are much more pleasant to perceive under the crackling of a fireplace, sadness at the window ... Oh, my God, melancholy, melancholy of the steppe ...
The man said it not loudly, maliciously, with pleasure. The woman turned her chin towards him, but did not part her lips, did not answer. She was tired from the long journey, from hunger, and from the fact that this man talked a lot and guessed her innermost thoughts with a kind of self-satisfaction. Slightly throwing her head back, she looked from under the lowered kerchief at the dim, behind the barely distinguishable hills, the autumn sunset - it stretched out in a narrow crack and no longer illuminated the deserted and homeless steppe.
Let's bake potatoes now, Darya Dmitrievna, for the joy of the soul and body ... My God, what would you do without me?
He bent down and began to pick out the thicker cow-cakes, turning them this way and that, carefully placing them on the coals. He removed some of the coals and began to bury several potatoes under them, taking them out of the deep pockets of the bekeshi. He had a reddish, incredibly cunning - rather even sly - face, with a fleshy, flattened nose at the end, a sparsely growing beard, a disheveled mustache, smacking his lips.
I think about you, Darya Dmitrievna, there is little wildness in you, little tenacity, but civilization is superficial, my dear ... You are a ruddy apple, sweet, but unripe ...
He said this, fiddling with potatoes - just now, when they were passing by a steppe farm, he stole them in the garden. His fleshy nose, glossy from the heat of the fire, twitched his nostrils wisely and cunningly. The man's name was Kuzma Kuzmich Nefedov. He painfully annoyed Dasha with rantings and guessing thoughts.
Their acquaintance took place a few days ago, on a train dragging along a fantastic schedule and route and derailed by the White Cossacks.
The rear car, in which Dasha was traveling, remained on the rails, but they cut at it from a machine gun, and everyone who was there rushed into the steppe, because, according to the custom of that time, one had to expect robbery and reprisals against passengers.
This Kuzma Kuzmich, while still in the carriage, kept an eye on Dasha, - for some reason he liked her, although she was in no way inclined to frank conversations. Now, at dawn, in the desert steppe, Dasha grabbed him herself. The situation was desperate: where the wagons lay under the slope, shooting and screams were heard, then a flame flared up, driving away gloomy shadows from old burdocks and dried sagebrush bushes covered with hoarfrost. Where was it to go a thousand miles away?
Kuzma Kuzmich reasoned roughly as he walked beside Dasha in the direction from which the smell of furnace smoke wafted from the green dawn. “Not only are you scared, you, beauty, are unhappy, as it seems to me. I, in spite of numerous vicissitudes, never knew either misfortune, or - moreover - boredom ... I was a priest, for free-thinking he was stripped and imprisoned in a monastery. And now I wander "between the yard", as they used to say in the old days. If a person needs a warm bed for happiness, and a quiet lamp, and a shelf with books behind his back, such a person will not recognize happiness ... For such a person, it is always tomorrow, and on one ill-fated day there is no tomorrow, no bed. For such an eternal alas ... Here I am walking across the steppe, my nostrils hear the smell of baked bread, - it means that there is a farm on the other side, we will hear soon how the dogs will wander. My God! See how dawn breaks! Nearby is a companion in an angelic form, groaning, calling me to mercy, to the desire to stomp my hooves. Who am I? - the happiest person. A bag of salt is always in my pocket. I always pull potatoes from the garden. What's next? - a motley world, where passions clash ... Much, much, I, Darya Dmitrievna, discussed the fate of our intelligentsia. It's not all Russian, I must tell you ... So the wind blew it away, so - alas! - an empty place ... And I, defrocked, go playfully and intend to be mischievous for a long time ... "
Question for connoisseurs: Who wrote "Winter Morning"? Pushkin or Yesenin? I argued for 50 shalbanov! Help plizz!
Best regards, 0_o(KaraMelKa)o_0
Best Answers
Assel:
WINTER MORNING
It's time, beauty, wake up:
Open eyes closed by bliss
Towards the northern Aurora,
Be the star of the north!
In the cloudy sky, a haze hovered;
The moon is like a pale spot
Turned yellow through the gloomy clouds,
And you sat sad -
And now... look out the window:
Under blue skies
splendid carpets,
Shining in the sun, the snow lies;
The transparent forest alone turns black,
And the spruce turns green through the frost,
And the river under the ice glitters. etc.
if this verse is A. S. Pushkin
Dasha Dailid:
Pushkin A. S.
Pushkin like...
Irina Serkova:
Pushkin. And who won?
Irene:
Pushkin, so Yesenin lost a bet
Victor Schukin:
Is this like a sculpture of Tsereteli?
Oleg:
WINTER MORNING.
Frost and sun; wonderful day!
You are still dozing, my lovely friend
It's time, beauty, wake up:
Open eyes closed by bliss
Towards the northern Aurora,
Be the star of the north!
Evening, do you remember, the blizzard was angry,
In the cloudy sky, a haze hovered;
The moon is like a pale spot
Turned yellow through the gloomy clouds,
And you sat sad -
And now…. look out the window:
Under blue skies
splendid carpets,
Shining in the sun, the snow lies;
The transparent forest alone turns black,
And the spruce turns green through the frost,
And the river under the ice glitters.
The whole room amber gleam
Enlightened. Cheerful crackling
The fired oven crackles.
It's nice to think by the couch.
Ban the brown filly?
Gliding through the morning snow
Dear friend, let's run
impatient horse
And visit the empty fields
The forests, recently so dense,
And the shore, dear to me .... Alexander Sergeevich Pukin
A. S. Pushkin. Collected works in 10 volumes.
WINTER MORNING
Frost and sun; wonderful day!
You are still dozing, my lovely friend -
It's time, beauty, wake up:
Open eyes closed by bliss
Towards the northern Aurora,
Be the star of the north!
Evening, do you remember, the blizzard was angry,
In the cloudy sky, a haze hovered;
The moon is like a pale spot
Turned yellow through the gloomy clouds,
And you sat sad -
And now... look out the window:
Under blue skies
splendid carpets,
Shining in the sun, the snow lies;
The transparent forest alone turns black,
And the spruce turns green through the frost,
And the river under the ice glitters.
The whole room amber gleam
Enlightened. Cheerful crackling
The fired oven crackles.
It's nice to think by the couch.
But you know: do not order to the sled
Ban the brown filly?
Gliding through the morning snow
Dear friend, let's run
impatient horse
And visit the empty fields
The forests, recently so dense,
And the shore, dear to me.
Irina Khait:
A. S. Pushkin. Interesting: did any of you sharply become wiser after a series of clicks???
Ekaterina Ivanova:
I wonder what smart guy called “winter morning” Yesenen, he is taught at school in the third class
Alyonk@:
A. S. Pushkin.
Sergei Smolitsky:
"Winter Morning" was written by Pushkin. He also wrote “Winter Evening” (A storm covers the sky with darkness), “Winter Road” (Through wavy fogs), Winter. What should we do in the countryside and Winter! The peasant triumphant - this is from "Eugene Onegin".
Yesenin wrote the following poem on a related topic:
Winter sings - calls out
Shaggy forest cradles
The call of a pine forest.
Around with deep longing
Sailing to a distant land
Gray clouds.
And in the yard a snowstorm
Spreads like a silk carpet,
But it's painfully cold.
Sparrows are playful
Like orphan children
Huddled at the window.
Little birds are chilled,
Hungry, tired
And they huddle tighter.
A blizzard with a furious roar
Knocks on the shutters hung
And getting more and more angry.
And gentle birds doze
Under these whirlwinds of snow
At the frozen window.
And they dream of a beautiful
In the smiles of the sun is clear
Spring beauty.
Galiya Borisovna:
Pushkin of course
amnesia
It is interesting that Sviridov's music is at the same time good, both for Pushkin's texts of winter blizzards and mornings, and for Yesenin's "winter sings ..."; it's not surprising to confuse!
A. S. Pushkin
sakura:
Pushkin. Who will get in the forehead?
Arefin:
Marina Kaysina (Beresneva):
WINTER MORNING
Frost and sun; wonderful day!
You are still dozing, my lovely friend -
It's time, beauty, wake up:
Open eyes closed by bliss
Towards the northern Aurora,
Be the star of the north!
Evening, do you remember, the blizzard was angry,
In the cloudy sky, a haze hovered;
The moon is like a pale spot
Turned yellow through the gloomy clouds,
And you sat sad -
And now ... look out the window:
Under blue skies
splendid carpets,
Shining in the sun, the snow lies;
The transparent forest alone turns black,
And the spruce turns green through the frost,
And the river under the ice glitters.
The whole room amber gleam
Enlightened. Cheerful crackling
The fired oven crackles.
It's nice to think by the couch.
But you know: do not order to the sled
Ban the brown filly?
Gliding through the morning snow
Dear friend, let's run
impatient horse
And visit the empty fields
The forests, recently so dense,
And the shore, dear to me.
Written by A. S. Pushkin.
Veronika Alekseeva:
Video response
This video will help you understand
Expert answers
amnesia
Yes, this is Grieg. Music for Ibsen's drama "Peer Gynt". The composer created a two-part suite of musical numbers. The first number from the first part is called "Morning"
Modest™:
Most likely you mean Peer Gynt Morning by Edvard Grieg.
Elena Fedorovich:
ppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp
peter vasiliev:
Gloomy morning (WALKING THOROUGHLY) based on the novel by A. Tolstoy. Director: Grigory Roshal. Actors: Mikhail Kozakov, Evgeny Matveev, Viktor Avdyushko and others. Short description: The third film of the film trilogy ends the story of the Civil War in Russia in 1918-1920. .
Alexander Trofimov:
red devils
Red Devils is a Soviet silent feature film by Ivan Perestiani, an adaptation of the story of the same name by Pavel Blyakhin. One of the most famous and often quoted works of Soviet adventure cinema. The premiere screening of the film took place on September 25, 1923 in Tiflis.
Forever Brief:
The Road to Calvary.
Mishurov Vladimir:
"Gloomy Morning" - 3 series (1959) of the three-part feature film "Walking through the torments" based on the novel of the same name by Alexei Tolstoy. Mosfilm Studio. (1 series - "Sisters" (1957), 2 series "The Eighteenth Year" (1958))
Director of the entire trilogy Grigory Roshal
Screenplay: Boris Chirskov.
Operator: Leonid Kosmatov.
Composer: Dmitry Kabalevsky
Director of the film "Gloomy Morning": Meri Anjaparidze.
Vitaly Matveev as Nestor Makhno.
In the film (0.15.30 - 0.17.00) in the scene at the bazaar, Makhno not only rides on a carousel, but also shoots people with a revolver.
A. Tolstoy in the novel does not have Makhno riding on a carousel and execution:
“... In the bazaar, there was mainly barter, pure barbarism ... All these people were ready to move in the shortest possible time, run up and hide if serious shooting began, without which not a single bazaar took place in Gulyai-Pole.
Making his way between the carts, Vadim Petrovich got into an idle crowd near the carousel; on wooden horses with inconceivably arched necks and take-offs of the legs, mustachioed people in hussar jackets, pea coats, and cavalry sheepskin coats, hung with grenades and all kinds of cold and firearms, were spinning, sitting importantly.
... A man on a bicycle was riding towards him, wobbling the front wheel. Behind him on horseback are two military men in Circassian coats and broken sheepskin hats. A small and thin man on a bicycle was dressed in gray trousers and a gymnasium jacket, his straight hair almost to his shoulders hung from under the band of a blue gymnasium cap with a white edging. When he came abreast, Vadim Petrovich was amazed to see his tired, eyebrowless face. He stabbed Roshchin with a fixed look, at that moment the wheel wobbled, he with difficulty restrained himself, cruelly wrinkling his yellow face like a baked one, and drove on.
... A cyclist in a gymnasium cap shouted in a high voice stuck in his ears:
- He doesn't want to tell us, Levke will tell...
The horsemen neighed and on both sides crushed Roshchin with their horses. The cyclist rode forward, pedaling with all the strength of a drunken man. »
(A. Tolstoy. "Walking through the torment. Gloomy morning")
There were two people sitting by the fire, a man and a woman. A cold wind blew at their backs from the steppe gully, whistling through the long-falling stalks of wheat. The woman tucked her legs up under her skirt, shoved her hands into the sleeves of her drape coat. From under the knitted handkerchief lowered over her eyes, only a straight nose and stubbornly folded lips were visible.
The fire of the fire was not great, dry cakes of manure were burning, which the man had just picked up - a few armfuls - in a beam near the watering hole. It was not good that the wind was getting stronger.
The beauties of nature, of course, are much more pleasant to perceive under the crackling of a fireplace, sadness at the window ... Oh, my God, melancholy, melancholy of the steppe ...
The man said it not loudly, maliciously, with pleasure. The woman turned her chin towards him, but did not part her lips, did not answer. She was tired from the long journey, from hunger, and from the fact that this man talked a lot and guessed her innermost thoughts with a kind of self-satisfaction. Slightly throwing her head back, she looked from under the lowered kerchief at the dim, behind the barely distinguishable hills, the autumn sunset - it stretched out in a narrow crack and no longer illuminated the deserted and homeless steppe.
Let's bake potatoes now, Darya Dmitrievna, for the joy of the soul and body ... My God, what would you do without me?
He bent down and began to pick out the thicker cow-cakes, turning them this way and that, carefully placing them on the coals. He removed some of the coals and began to bury several potatoes under them, taking them out of the deep pockets of the bekeshi. He had a reddish, incredibly cunning - rather even sly - face, with a fleshy, flattened nose at the end, a sparsely growing beard, a disheveled mustache, smacking his lips.
I think about you, Darya Dmitrievna, there is little wildness in you, little tenacity, but civilization is superficial, my dear ... You are a ruddy apple, sweet, but unripe ...
He said this, fiddling with potatoes - just now, when they were passing by a steppe farm, he stole them in the garden. His fleshy nose, glossy from the heat of the fire, twitched his nostrils wisely and cunningly. The man's name was Kuzma Kuzmich Nefedov. He painfully annoyed Dasha with rantings and guessing thoughts.
Their acquaintance took place a few days ago, on a train dragging along a fantastic schedule and route and derailed by the White Cossacks.
The rear car, in which Dasha was traveling, remained on the rails, but they cut at it from a machine gun, and everyone who was there rushed into the steppe, because, according to the custom of that time, one had to expect robbery and reprisals against passengers.
This Kuzma Kuzmich, while still in the carriage, kept an eye on Dasha, - for some reason he liked her, although she was in no way inclined to frank conversations. Now, at dawn, in the desert steppe, Dasha grabbed him herself. The situation was desperate: where the wagons lay under the slope, shooting and screams were heard, then a flame flared up, driving away gloomy shadows from old burdocks and dried sagebrush bushes covered with hoarfrost. Where was it to go a thousand miles away?
Kuzma Kuzmich reasoned roughly as he walked beside Dasha in the direction from which the smell of furnace smoke wafted from the green dawn. “Not only are you scared, you, beauty, are unhappy, as it seems to me. I, in spite of numerous vicissitudes, never knew either misfortune, or - moreover - boredom ... I was a priest, for free-thinking he was stripped and imprisoned in a monastery. And now I wander "between the yard", as they used to say in the old days. If a person needs a warm bed for happiness, and a quiet lamp, and a shelf with books behind his back, such a person will not recognize happiness ... For such a person, it is always tomorrow, and on one ill-fated day there is no tomorrow, no bed. For such an eternal alas ... Here I am walking across the steppe, my nostrils hear the smell of baked bread, - it means that there is a farm on the other side, we will hear soon how the dogs will wander. My God! See how dawn breaks! Nearby is a companion in an angelic form, groaning, calling me to mercy, to the desire to stomp my hooves. Who am I? - the happiest person. A bag of salt is always in my pocket. I always pull potatoes from the garden. What's next? - a motley world, where passions clash ... Much, much, I, Darya Dmitrievna, discussed the fate of our intelligentsia. It's not all Russian, I must tell you ... So the wind blew it away, so - alas! - an empty place ... And I, defrocked, go playfully and intend to be mischievous for a long time ... "
Without him, Dasha would have disappeared. He didn't get lost in any way. When, at sunrise, they reached the farm, standing in the bare steppe, without a single tree, with an empty horse paddock, with a charred roof of an adobe yard, they were met at the well by a gray-haired evil Cossack with a Berdanka. Flashing from under his raised eyebrows with wildly bright eyes, he shouted: “Go away!” Kuzma Kuzmich eagerly entwined this old man: “I found a life, grandfather, oh, oh, my dear land! .. We run day and night from the revolution, our legs are nailed, our tongue is cracked from thirst, do me a favor - shoot, there’s nowhere to go anyway.” The old man was not terrible and even tearful. His sons were mobilized into Mamontov's corps, two daughters-in-law left the farm for the village. He did not plow the land today. Passed red - mobilized the horse. Passed white - mobilized poultry. So he sits alone on the farm, with a piece of green bread, and rubs last year's tobacco ...
Here we rested and went on at night, keeping the direction to Tsaritsyn, from where it was easiest to get to the south. We walked at night, slept during the day - most often in last year's bags. Kuzma Kuzmich avoided populated areas. Looking one day from a chalk hill at the village, which spread loosely white huts along the sides of a long pond, he said:
In the mass, a person in our time can be dangerous, especially for those who themselves do not know what they want. This is incomprehensible and suspicious: not knowing what to want. A Russian person is hot, Darya Dmitrievna, arrogant and does not count on her strength. Give him a task - it seems beyond his strength, but a rich task - for this he will bow at his feet ... And you will go down to the village, they will talk to you inquisitively. What will you answer? - intellectual! That you haven’t decided anything, nothing, not a single paragraph…
Listen, get away from me, - Dasha said quietly.
