Kedrin architects read in full. Verse architects
How the sovereign beat
Golden Horde near Kazan
He pointed to his courtyard
Come masters.
And the benefactor ordered,
The chronicler says,
In memory of this victory
Let them build a stone temple.
And they brought him
Florentines,
And the Germans
And others
foreign husbands,
Drinking a cup of wine in one breath.
And two came to him
Unknown Vladimir architects,
Two Russian builders
stately,
Young.
Light poured through the mica window,
The spirit was very stale.
Tiled oven.
Goddess.
Ugar I'm hot.
And in tight shirts
Before John the Fourth
holding hands tightly,
These masters stood.
Can you lay down the church
Foreign pretty people?
To be prettier
Overseas churches, I say?
And shaking my hair,
The architects replied:
Command, my lord!”
And they fell at the feet of the king.
The Emperor ordered.
And on Saturday in palm week,
Get baptized at sunrise
Grasping the hair with straps,
Sovereign architects
Aprons hastily put on
On broad shoulders
The bricks were taken to the scaffolding.
The masters weaved
Patterns of stone lace,
Pillars were brought out
And proud of their work
The dome was burned with gold,
The roofs were covered with azure from the outside
And in lead frames
Inserted mica flakes.
And already stretched
Lancet turrets up.
transitions,
balconies,
Onions and domes.
And learned people marveled,
Zane this church
More beautiful than Italian villas
And there were Indian pagodas!
There was a strange temple
Bogomazami all painted,
At the altar
And at the entrances
And in the royal porch itself.
picturesque artel
Monk Andrei Rublev
Decorated green
Byzantine stern writing...
And at the feet of the building
The marketplace buzzed
Torovato shouted to the merchants:
"Show me how you live!"
Vile people at night
Before the cross he drank in circles,
And in the morning he screamed heart-rendingly,
Getting right.
Tat, notched with a whip,
At the chopping block lay lifeless,
Staring straight into the sky
A comb of a gray beard,
And in Moscow captivity
The Tatar khans languished,
Messengers of the Golden
Black Horde scatterers.
And above all this shame
That church was
Like a bride!
And with his matting,
With a turquoise ring in his mouth -
indecent girl
Stood at the Execution Ground
And wondering
Like a fairy tale
Looking at that beauty...
And how the temple was consecrated,
That with a staff
In a nun's hat
The king bypassed him -
From cellars and services
To the cross.
And with a glance
Its ornate towers
"Lepota!" - said the king.
And they all answered: "Blepota!"
And the benefactor asked:
“Can you make it pretty?
Better than this temple
Another, I say?
And shaking my hair,
The architects replied:
Command, my lord!”
And they fell at the feet of the king.
And then the emperor
He ordered these architects to be blinded,
So that in his land
There was one like this
So that in the Suzdal lands
And in the lands of Ryazan
And others
They didn't put up a better temple,
Than the Church of the Intercession!
falcon eyes
Prick them with an iron awl,
To white light
They couldn't see.
And branded with a brand
They were flogged with batogs, sick,
And threw them
On the cold bosom of the earth.
And in the Glutton Row,
Where the blockage of the tavern sang,
Where the fuselage reeked
Where it was dark from a couple
Where the deacons shouted:
"The state's word and deed!" -
Masters for Christ's sake
They asked for bread and wine.
And their church stood
What seemed like a dream.
And she called
As if they were buried sobbing,
And a forbidden song
About the terrible royal mercy
Sang in secret places
Across the wide Rus'
Good afternoon. We continue the course "One Hundred Years - One Hundred Lectures". And today we have 1940, in which, to tell the truth, nothing particularly joyful happened in Russian literature, except for the release of a mutilated collection of poems by Dmitry Kedrin "Witnesses" in a small edition.
Kedrin prepared this collection for ten years, received it thirteen times for revision. At first, this book was called "Russian Poems", this word, "Russians", has not yet been officially rehabilitated, because it became possible to call everything Russian, and not Soviet, only at the beginning of the war. But even then, in 1942, a collection called "Russian Poems" Kedrin was stabbed to death. They killed his collection "Day of Wrath", where his military journalism was collected. He was surprisingly unlucky in Russian literature. It was not for nothing that he wrote to his wife in 1944: “I will soon be 40, my life has burned out mediocrely. I have no friends, I don’t see readers, and it’s all the fault of the craft that I chose, or rather, that chose me.
Nevertheless, in some inhuman way, Kedrin managed to print quite a lot in 1940. First, the dramatic poem "Rembrandt", which he considered one of his best works, and correctly considered, because, perhaps, two good plays in verse, well three, were in the Russian literary tradition. Kedrinsky's "Rembrandt", Antokolsky's poem "Francois Villon" and "A long time ago" by Gladkov. All other samples, of course, do not stand up to criticism. Secondly, in 1940 Kedrin managed to print his now most famous work. This, of course, is the ballad "Architects".
If you look for some analogue for Kedrin, compare him with great authors 19th century, perhaps, he is most similar to Alexei K. Tolstoy. The same magnificent chasing of the form, the same piercing lyrical feeling, surprisingly strong, the same love for historical subjects. Moreover, if, say, Antokolsky denied all his life that he meant direct historical analogies, he wrote: "I can never afford such vulgarity." But in fact, of course, every poet, referring to history, has in mind analogies. It is no coincidence that Alexei Tolstoy was most interested in the time of Ivan the Terrible, when the Russian matrix began to form. And this same era worried Kedrin the most.
It was necessary to have great talent and courage so that in 1940, when Ivan the Terrible was already the main historical figure, and Peter was already relegated to the far shelf, this year to print a poem in which Ivan the Terrible appeared as a beast, a villain. Kedrin expounds in The Architects a fairly common, and in general, without any basis, legend, but to judge an era, to judge people, one must not so much by facts as by those legends that remain from this era. Well, for example, we all know that Mother Mary did not change her number to another prisoner and did not go to the gas chamber for her, but died of dysentery in March 1945, but the legend has remained, and we are all sure that Kuzmina-Karavaeva went to the gas chamber for another person. Why is that? Yes, because it follows from the whole logic of her fate.
And from the whole logic of the reign of Ivan the Terrible it follows that he killed his son, although, as it turns out now, he did not kill his son. It turns out, in particular, that Barma and Postnik, the builders of the main masterpiece of Russian architecture, the builders of St. Basil's Cathedral, were not blinded. But indeed, such a legend arose without any reason, except for the fact that the basis for it was all the activities of Ivan the Terrible. Indeed, this is very in his spirit, first ask if you can, as Kedrin says,
"Death!
Can you lay down the church
Foreign pretty ones?
"Can!
Command, my lord!”
And they fell at the feet of the king.
And then he asks them again: “Can you build better than this temple?” “We can,” the architects answer.
And then the emperor
He ordered these architects to be blinded,
So that in his land
Church
There was one like this
So that in the Suzdal lands
And in the lands of Ryazan
And others
They didn't put up a better temple,
Than the Church of the Intercession!
Naturally, there are quite strong historical liberties, a lot of deviations from the facts, but in any case, all we know about Barma and Postnik is their names. Here are Barma and Postnik, two architects who built the best Russian church. And as a result, a legend arises that in order for no better temple to be built, they were ordered to be blinded. Even here there are certain discrepancies in their age, and in what kind of temple it was, and where it stood, but the fact that Grozny ordered such a construction, and then blinded the performers, survived until the 20th century. And it is this legend that in 1938 is processed by Kedrin, and in 1940 this poem is finally printed.
How did it happen, how did he do it? Many researchers of his work, both Russian and foreign, sincerely wonder how it was possible to print his poem "The Legend of Alena the Staritsa" in 1938. Everyone understands perfectly well that Alena Arzamasskaya, in question, is such a brutal character, a terrible associate of Stepan Razin, who was later tortured in Moscow for a long time, and we don’t know her age either, because the old woman does not mean age, it means that she , apparently from fugitive nuns. We don’t know anything at all about Alena Arzamasskaya, but the main thing we don’t understand is how Kedrin manages to print poetry in 1938:
All animals are sleeping.
All the birds are sleeping
Some clerks
People are being executed.
Here is this terrible picture of the torture chamber, which is drawn there, and the terrible words of Alena the old woman: "Today - us, and tomorrow - you!", how did it all slip through Soviet censorship?
It is clear that Stalin was very fond of historical works, but in fact, the Lord somehow helped here, because Kedrin knew very little about success in his life. But the fact that he printed Alena and The Architects during his lifetime is an unconditional and fundamental success.
The fate of this man is generally strange and dark. He was born in 1907, and was born out of wedlock. He was later adopted by the family of his older sister, and his mother, Olga, she gave birth to him from an accidental fluent romance. He lived all his childhood, spent in Yekaterinoslav, he lived in the care of a large, intelligent, cultured, not too rich family, which, with a very early years taught him poetry. He himself began to compose at the age of six or seven. He moved to Moscow, honestly did not hide in Moscow that he spent a year in Ukraine. He was imprisoned from 1928 to 1929 for, this is a new article that has returned with us, for what is called "failure to report." He knew that his friend's father was a Kolchak officer, and he did not inform, and for this he received a year. True, they gave him two, but he was released ahead of schedule. He did not hide this fact in any of his questionnaires. Several times he was offered to become an informant for the NKVD, and each time he managed to refuse. This is Kedrin's amazing feature, indeed, we can imagine Kedrin in any function, in any social role, but we cannot imagine him either as an executioner or an informer. How could one demand from him that he denounced a friend? Nevertheless, this was precisely the norm of the then morality.
Kedrin is an ideal stranger, fundamentally not fitting into this time. And although he has quite a few, very bad ones, by the way, what is there to justify him, a lot of bad, pitiful attempts to somehow reconcile his character, his disposition with the Soviet regime, to write a poem that would not be completely Soviet and not quite anti-Soviet. Such, for example, is the poem Dobro of 1931, or The Doll, which Gorky liked so much, because Gorky is mentioned there. All this is half. Kedrin was excellent at tragic lyrics, historical ballads, but he could not write anything about Soviet reality, he did not succeed clinically. All his attempts to touch this reality, they betray a terrible strain. But then look at what an organic, what a clean, what an unprecedented sound Kedrin has when it is a real Kedrin,
Miserable, sick and vicious
I wander through the wet garden.
Midnight nightingale whistles
Under a low window in the garden.
The cursed nightingale whistles
In the garden under the window of the hut.
"Unfortunate, vicious and drunk,
What fate do you want?
Rowan bitter and cranberries
Thirtieth autumn in the blood.
You yourself called out your grief,
Have mercy on him and live.
Do you remember how fun in childhood
The star rubbed her eyes
And the wind over the garden was salty,
Like children's lips in tears?
Do you remember how on hot nights
One between the stars and oaks,
I clicked you and prophesied
Your luck and love? .. "
Shut up, wild bird!
Dark is your bitter power:
You can't go down harder
It's impossible to fall down.
Rowan and bitter cranberries
The paths smelt in the forest.
I called my own grief
And I will die with this grief.
But at the hour when clods from a shovel
Fall into a hole, ringing,
You will become a raven, damned,
For fooling me!
This is very cool, because only Kedrin, with such an elegiac and seemingly stereotyped intonation, can lead the poem so smoothly to this final take-off, to this absolutely paradoxical finale, in which he accuses all the clichés of world poetry for being so criminal to him. lied. A man was prepared for a completely different life, and the life he had to live was a continuous desperate humiliation. But let's not think that there is a lot of this romantic anger in Kedrin's poems, in fact, he is just a poet of reconciliation, a poet of mercy, and it is no coincidence that his own approaching maturity, and then old age, does not cause him such a painful feeling.
But perhaps his most famous poem of the late thirties is “Grandma Mariula”, written, more precisely, already in 1940, all the same year.
After a night of drunken revelry
I went to the Cursed Creek
So that the gypsy grandmother Mariula
It gave me back my youth.
Grandma Mariula answered:
“Not even I will take it!
Where the shooting star flashed,
Your youth has fallen there!”
Of course, Kedrin is a poet of eternal longing for a vainly wasted life, for a life that could be beautiful and rich, and maybe even useful to someone. But it so happened that the best qualities are not in demand, but the disgusting ones, which he cannot afford, are in demand.
Why did "Architects" become the main, most famous poem of Kedrin? In general, it must be said that Kedrin survived a real posthumous glory, well, he did not survive, but his name survived this posthumous rise of interest in his lyrics. It actually started in the sixties, a lot of people tried to posthumously attract Kedrin into allies - and the so-called quiet lyrics, soil lyrics, rural lyrics, philosophical, and urban lyric tradition, such as Kushner or Chukhontsev. Many considered Kedrin one of the founding fathers of this trend. Why? Because in Soviet times he manages to write absolutely honest, very good, very resonant, wonderful, and from the formal side, too, classical Russian poetry. There is absolutely no touch of rather superficial Russian avant-garde in him, there is no outrageousness in him, there is no experiment, he continues this pure, classical Russian tradition, but at the same time, of course, Kedrin is an unconditional innovator in the interpretation of Russian history. Previously, Russian history was approached in two ways, either our history is a continuous torture space, we have no history, we have geography, as Chaadaev says, or vice versa - Russia's past is excellent, the present is beyond comparison, and the future exceeds the wildest expectations, as Benckendorff used to say. But Kedrin surprisingly, and this is perhaps his greatest historical merit, separates the history of the king from the history of the people. Here is a king obsessed with a mania of suspicion, a monster king, a king who is called bloody in legends, and not just formidable, but there is a people who actually create their own history, their art, a people who are independent of this power, the people who knows how to appreciate beauty.
And with his matting,
With a turquoise ring in his mouth, -
indecent girl
Stood at the Execution Ground
And wondering
Like a fairy tale
Looking at that beauty...
That is, a really obscene girl understands beauty and mercy more than the king, this is just the cherished Kedrin idea that nothing will be done to the people, the people still continue to keep in themselves this grain of freedom, beauty, independence. This is actually the main thing in Kedrin, and the main thing in the poem "Architects". It is no coincidence that it is called, in fact, "Architects". And I must tell you that later, oddly enough, the most direct successor of this theme in Russian literature turned out to be not some kind of soil, archaist, but the most avant-garde artist Voznesensky, who, in the footsteps of Kedrin's "Architects", wrote his poem "Masters ".
Bells, horns...
Ringing. Ringing...
Artists
All times!
michelangelo,
Barma, Dant!
You are alive with lightning
Burnt out talent.
This appeal to architects, builders, guardians of culture, it was Voznesensky's in 1959, almost 20 years after Kedrin's publication, that sounded like a direct succession.
Why is architecture becoming such an important symbol? Because, strictly speaking, architecture is the only face of the era. This temple was left from Ivan the Terrible, that's what Kedrin is trying to show us. The main thing that remains from the era is not its bloody atrocities, not the annexation of lands and not wretched theorizing, but the main thing that remains, the face of time, is what two unknown architects built. By the way, Kedrin had this idea much earlier, in the poem "Pyramid":
And he will say:
"Tsar!
Forgotten in the host of others
Your business
And your thoughts
But labor is eternal
Your unknown architects,
hardworking,
Like ants!”
Here is the fact that the main task of a person in the world is to create a temple of culture, the idea that was later voiced by the Strugatskys in The Doomed City is just Kedrin, this is Kedrin's concept. Because even putting your brick in the foundation of this temple already means more than annexing any land.
The further fate of Kedrin was very tragic. He survived during the war, asked for a volunteer several times, but they did not take him because of his eyesight minus 17. Eventually he ended up in a front-line newspaper, under the pseudonym Vasya Gashetkin wrote many poems of almost Terkin power, and in 1945 he died while still unclear circumstances, there is very strange story. He went to Moscow for fees, lived in Mytishchi, went to Moscow for a fee. There, in a bar not far from Mira Avenue, Mikhail Zenkevich, the last person he spoke to, saw him. And Zenkevich noticed that some strange type was constantly rubbing around them, who was trying to stick to their feast, watching them at a distance. And Zenkevich suggested that Kedrin spend the night with him, not go to Mytishchi, and Kedrin said: "No, my wife is sick, I'm taking medicine."
And Kedrin was found, by chance, in a completely different direction. Not far from the Veshnyaki station, he was thrown from the train, and his wife, who identified him, says that an expression of such horror, inhuman, was on his face, such as she had never seen in life. This, by the way, refutes the version of a possible suicide, which also walked for a long time. Three days before, some strange people tried to push him off the platform, but then the passengers intervened. Who killed him, and because of what, still no one knows. All his documents were thrown to the family two weeks later, just at the doorstep.
There were many investigations, there were many attempts to reopen this case, nothing is known. Why did he go the wrong way? Who did you go with? How did he even spend September 18, 1945, his last day? It is still a secret. And it is not clear, perhaps, whether it was really some kind of old NKVD provocations, provocateurs followed him, and some kind of dark trace trailed behind him, or whether he was supposed to get an apartment in Moscow, and someone like that barbaric I decided to bypass it in a way, we still do not know this. But this death on the rise is unbearably painful, the death of a man who was just beginning to gain some influence, some kind of fame, a man who was just beginning to take a wing. And what does it matter to all of us, and what does it matter to Kedrin himself, that in the sixties he became one of the most famous Russian poets? It must be said that he generally foresaw such an end, and his posthumous glory, and some terrible echo of this unfulfilled fate, it sounds in many of his prophetic verses.
What a vast sky! Take a look:
In the distant forest the road is dusty,
Strawberries grow on a quiet graveyard,
And the goats graze by the stone slabs.
If there is a fault or a mistake for you
One that is sad to death -
Everyone will forgive you these branches of bird cherry,
All these tall pines will forgive.
And there will be other madmen in the world
Throwing around in the snares of love and longing,
And tanned children will weave
Above your coffin are wreaths of daisies.
Some kind of intonation is completely from the beginning of the 20th, from the end of the 19th century, completely strange for Russian verse.
Kedrin's posthumous fate was also strange because in those days when the Soviet government did not publish much of Pasternak and did not publish Mandelstam at all, for the children of my generation Kedrin was such a bridge to real high poetry. In many of my peers, I found the same, read to the holes, orange collection of 1984, where Rembrandt was first printed in full, and most of the poems, including the brilliant Dowry, which I know by heart since then. There are a lot of Kedrinsky texts, which for us, as it were, replaced a touch with the genuine Russian classics of the 20th century. You can, of course, say that Kedrin is such a surrogate for this classic for a Soviet teenager. But it's not. It seems to me that this is a poet of absolutely Klyuev power, in fact, a poet of the classical, and not the graphomaniac, not the pop tradition. Many look at Kedrin arrogantly, saying, yes, this, of course, is not Mandelstam. I think that he is not much inferior to Mandelstam in his best things. And if we re-read The Dowry today, we will be amazed at the lyrical power there.
In general, “Architects”, and almost all of Kedrin pre-war, which ended so tragically by 1940, all this remains for us a unique monument not only of Russian lyrics, but also of simple, restrained, low-profile human courage, the very courage that in the twentieth century there were so few.
We, of course, have a question, and this question is quite predictable. Why was Kedrin not imprisoned?
You will laugh, but not everyone was imprisoned. To imagine that all the writers of that era, even those who had criminal cases in the past, were arrested in the thirties, this, you know, is not enough of any imagination. Some still survived. Why didn't they take Kedrin? First, who knew Kedrin? He sat in the position of a quiet literary consultant, by the way, he was one of the teachers of Naum Korzhavin, led a literary studio, where he once read his first poems. Korzhavin recalls that once he read his poems there, that if ever his enemies were deceived, "I will crawl to the old Lubyanka", there was such a line. And Kedrin told him, you don't have to crawl anywhere, they will come for you themselves. Which happened four years later.
In addition, Kedrin was very little known to anyone and did not pose any danger, he sat in such a quiet niche. And he lived in a communal apartment, where a quarter of the room served him as an office, he had no envious people, they did not write denunciations against him. Perhaps the fact that he so grumbled about his infamy was some mistake of his, because by and large one should have been glad that no one knows you. Maybe it was this complete lack of audience and fame when he was known, maybe three people - Shchipachev, Lugovskoy, Antokolsky - maybe that saved him then, but, as we see, did not save him after the war. Because a person who is dissonant with the era dies, if not from repression, then from bandits. True, he can be consoled by the fact that in the next era he will become one of the main characters of his time.
And next time we will talk about 1941 and about a much more famous poet.
Answer from Irina *[guru]
the poem "Architects" is one of my favorite works by Dm. Kedrin!
text:
How the sovereign beat
Golden Horde near Kazan
He pointed to his courtyard
Come masters.
And the benefactor ordered, -
The chronicler says,
In memory of this victory
Let them build a stone temple.
And they brought him
Florentines,
And the Germans
And others
foreign husbands,
Drinking a cup of wine in one breath.
And two came to him
Unknown Vladimir architects,
Two Russian builders
stately,
barefoot,
Young.
Light poured through the mica window,
The spirit was very stale.
Tiled oven.
Goddess.
Ugar I'm hot.
And in tight shirts
Before John the Fourth
holding hands tightly,
These masters stood.
"Death!
Can you lay down the church
Foreign pretty people?
To be prettier
Overseas churches, I say?
And shaking my hair,
The architects replied:
"Can!
Command, my lord!”
And they fell at the feet of the king.
The Emperor ordered.
And on Saturday in palm week,
Get baptized at sunrise
Grasping the hair with straps,
Sovereign architects
Aprons hastily put on
On broad shoulders
The bricks were taken to the scaffolding.
The masters weaved
Patterns of stone lace,
Pillars were brought out
And proud of their work
The dome was burned with gold,
The roofs were covered with azure from the outside
And in lead frames
Inserted mica flakes.
And already stretched
Lancet turrets up.
transitions,
balconies,
Onions and domes.
And learned people marveled,
Zane this church
More beautiful than Italian villas
And there were Indian pagodas!
There was a strange temple
Bogomazami all painted,
At the altar
And at the entrances
And in the royal porch itself.
picturesque artel
Monk Andrei Rublev
Decorated green
Byzantine stern writing...
And at the feet of the building
The marketplace buzzed
Torovato shouted to the merchants:
"Show me how you live!"
Vile people at night
Before the cross he drank in circles,
And in the morning he screamed heart-rendingly,
Getting right.
Tat, notched with a whip,
At the chopping block lay lifeless,
Staring straight into the sky
A comb of a gray beard,
And in Moscow captivity
The Tatar khans languished,
Messengers of the Golden
Black Horde scatterers.
And above all this shame
That church was
Like a bride!
And with his matting,
With a turquoise ring in his mouth, -
indecent girl
Stood at the Execution Ground
And wondering
Like a fairy tale
Looking at that beauty...
And how the temple was consecrated,
That with a staff
In a nun's hat
The king bypassed him -
From cellars and services
To the cross.
And with a glance
Its ornate towers
"Lepota!" - said the king.
And they all answered: "Blepota!"
And the benefactor asked:
“Can you make it pretty?
Better than this temple
Another, I say?
And shaking my hair,
The architects replied:
"Can!
Command, my lord!”
And they fell at the feet of the king.
And then the emperor
He ordered these architects to be blinded,
So that in his land
Church
There was one like this
So that in the Suzdal lands
And in the lands of Ryazan
And others
They didn't put up a better temple,
Than the Church of the Intercession!
falcon eyes
Prick them with an iron awl,
To white light
They couldn't see.
And branded with a brand
They were flogged with batogs, sick,
And threw them
dark,
On the cold bosom of the earth.
And in the Glutton Row,
Where the blockage of the tavern sang,
Where the fuselage reeked
Where it was dark from a couple
Where the deacons shouted:
"The state's word and deed!" -
Masters for Christ's sake
They asked for bread and wine.
And their church stood
Such
What seemed like a dream.
And she called
As if they were buried sobbing,
And a forbidden song
About the terrible royal mercy
Sang in secret places
Across the wide Rus'
Guslars.
---------
1. The poet writes about the great skill of Russian masters, about the high spirit of these people, about their selfless work, since, having high skill, they do not have any means to acquire any benefits for comfort, that is, they came to the king barefoot, in homespun linen shirts (approx. line - hemp fiber).
Moreover, when the king asked them:
"Death!
Can you lay down the church
Foreign pretty people?
To be prettier
Overseas churches, I say?
They didn't name
Irina *
(10021)
Not everything yet, this is the answer to only the 1st question. The work is worth reading. Read it, feel it!
How the sovereign beat
Golden Horde near Kazan
He pointed to his courtyard
Come masters.
And the benefactor ordered,
The chronicler says,
In memory of this victory
Let them build a stone temple.
And they brought him
Florentines,
And the Germans
And others
foreign husbands,
Drinking a cup of wine in one breath.
And two came to him
Unknown Vladimir architects,
Two Russian builders
stately,
barefoot,
Young.
Light poured through the mica window,
The spirit was very stale.
Tiled oven.
Goddess.
Ugar I'm hot.
And in tight shirts
Before John the Fourth
holding hands tightly,
These masters stood.
"Death!
Can you lay down the church
Foreign pretty people?
To be prettier
Overseas churches, I say?
And shaking my hair,
The architects replied:
"Can!
Command, my lord!"
And they fell at the feet of the king.
The Emperor ordered.
And on Saturday in palm week,
Get baptized at sunrise
Grasping the hair with straps,
Sovereign architects
Aprons hastily put on
On broad shoulders
The bricks were taken to the scaffolding.
The masters weaved
Patterns of stone lace,
Pillars were brought out
And proud of their work
The dome was burned with gold,
The roofs were covered with azure from the outside
And in lead frames
Inserted mica flakes.
And already stretched
Lancet turrets up.
transitions,
balconies,
Onions and domes.
And learned people marveled,
Zane this church
More beautiful than Italian villas
And there were Indian pagodas!
There was a strange temple
Bogomazami all painted,
At the altar
And at the entrances
And in the royal porch itself.
picturesque artel
Monk Andrei Rublev
Decorated green
Byzantine stern writing...
And at the feet of the building
The marketplace buzzed
Torovato shouted to the merchants:
"Show me how you live!"
Vile people at night
Before the cross he drank in circles,
And in the morning he screamed heart-rendingly,
Getting right.
Tat, notched with a whip,
At the chopping block lay lifeless,
Staring straight into the sky
A comb of a gray beard,
And in Moscow captivity
The Tatar khans languished,
Messengers of the Golden
Black Horde scatterers.
And above all this shame
That church was
Like a bride!
And with his matting,
With a turquoise ring in his mouth -
indecent girl
Stood at the Execution Ground
And wondering
Like a fairy tale
Looking at that beauty...
And how the temple was consecrated,
That with a staff
In a nun's hat
The king bypassed him -
From cellars and services
To the cross.
And with a glance
Its ornate towers
"Lepota!" - said the king.
And they all answered: "Blepota!"
And the benefactor asked:
"Can you make it pretty?
Better than this temple
Another, I say?
And shaking my hair,
The architects replied:
"Can!
Command, my lord!"
And they fell at the feet of the king.
And then the emperor
He ordered these architects to be blinded,
So that in his land
Church
There was one like this
So that in the Suzdal lands
And in the lands of Ryazan
And others
They didn't put up a better temple,
Than the Church of the Intercession!
falcon eyes
Prick them with an iron awl,
To white light
They couldn't see.
And branded with a brand
They were flogged with batogs, sick,
And threw them
dark,
On the cold bosom of the earth.
And in the Glutton Row,
Where the blockage of the tavern sang,
Where the fuselage reeked
Where it was dark from a couple
Where the deacons shouted:
"The state's word and deed!" -
Masters for Christ's sake
They asked for bread and wine.
And their church stood
Such
What seemed like a dream.
And she called
As if they were buried sobbing,
And a forbidden song
About the terrible royal mercy
Sang in secret places
Across the wide Rus'
Guslars.
