Dmitry Kedrin. "Architects

How did the sovereign beat
The Golden Horde near Kazan,
Pointed to his courtyard
Come to the masters.
And the benefactor ordered, -
The chronicler says the legend, -
In memory of this victory
May they build a stone temple.

And they brought to him
Florentines,
And the Germans
And others
Foreign husbands
Drinking a charm of wine in one go.
And two came to him
Unknown Vladimir architects,
Two Russian builders,
Stately,
Barefoot,
Young.

Light poured into the mica window,
The spirit of the velma was stale.
Tiled stove.
Goddess.
Burnout I'm hot.
And in tailored shirts
Before John the Fourth,
Holding hands tightly
These masters were standing.

"Smerds!
Can you fold the church
Foreign goodies?
So that it was more beautiful
Overseas churches, I say? "
And shaking her hair
The architects answered:
"Can!
Order, sir! "
And they hit the king's feet.

The sovereign ordered.
And on Saturday in Palm Sunday,
Be baptized at sunrise
Grabbing the hair with straps,
Sovereign architects
Hastily put on aprons,
On broad shoulders
They carried the bricks to the scaffolding.

Craftsmen weaved
Stone lace patterns
They took out the pillars
And, proud of my work,
The dome was burned with gold,
The roofs were covered with azure outside
And in lead frames
Flakes of mica were inserted.

And already reached out
Pointed turrets up.
Transitions,
Balconies,
Onions and domes.
And learned people wondered,
Zane this church
More beautiful than Italian villas
And there were Indian pagodas!

There was an outlandish temple
All painted with bogomaz,
In the altar
And at the entrances,
And in the royal narthex itself.
Picturesque artel
Monk Andrei Rublev
Jeweled zelo
Byzantine harsh writing ...

And at the feet of the building
The marketplace was buzzing
Torovato shouted to the merchants:
"Show me what you live!"
At night the vile people
I drank in circles until the cross,
And in the morning he screamed heart-rendingly,
Becoming right.

Thief, whipped,
At the block I lay breathless,
Staring straight into the sky
Comb of gray beard,
And in Moscow captivity
Tatar khans languished,
Messengers of the Golden,
Reapers of the Black Horde.

And over all this shame
That church was -
Like a bride!
And with his matting,
With a turquoise ring in my mouth, -
Obscene wench
Stood at the Execution Ground
And wondering
Like a fairy tale
I looked at that beauty ...

And how the temple was consecrated,
Then with a staff,
In a monk's hat,
The king walked around him -
From basements and services
Up to the cross.
And, casting a glance
Its patterned towers
"Whisper!" - said the king.
And everyone answered: "Whisper!"

And the benefactor asked:
"Can you make it handsome,
More splendid than this temple
Another, I say? "
And shaking her hair
The architects answered:
"Can!
Order, sir! "

And they hit the king's feet.
And then the sovereign
He commanded to blind these architects,
So that in his land
Church
There was one such
So that in the Suzdal lands
And in the lands of Ryazan
And others
They didn't build a better temple
Than the Church of the Intercession!

Falcon eyes
Stabbed them with an iron awl,
To white light
They could not see.
And branded with a stigma
They were flogged with batogs, sick,
And threw them
Dark,
To the cold bosom of the earth.

And in the Gluttony row,
Where the tavern was singing,
Where it smelled like a booze
Where it was dark from a couple
Where the clerks shouted:
"Sovereign's word and deed!" -
Masters for Christ's sake
They asked for bread and wine.

And their church stood
Such,
As if in a dream.
And she called
As if she was burying them with a burst of sobs,
And a forbidden song
About the terrible royal favor
Sang in secret places
Across wide Russia
Guslyars. (C)
1938
Dmitry Kedrin. Poems. Poems.
Moscow: "Moscow Worker", 1982.

I love these poems because they can be told, not just read, and each time you can tell a subtle difference in your story.
You can, speaking for Grozny, remember how Cherkasov played him, and a little bit nasal contemptuous and "majestic" (but the main thing here is not to get carried away and not oversalt!) You can sigh "Whisper!" convey his sincere admiration without any arrogance. But then change the deaf voice to a squeaky one, with a questioning and harmless intonation, like that of one who lures into a trap, and so in advance to make one feel that he has conceived a merciless cunning, which even his architects cannot have on their minds.
I often think about how to pronounce "We can!" at the beginning and at the end of the poem.
The first time it should be calm self-confidence, and "Order, sir!" - nothing more than an offer to try them.
But the second time - a sudden, clear feeling of gift, grace, genius. A timid but genuine insight - and a humble but passionate plea to allow the gift to be embodied.
The beginning and the order of blinding can be solemnly minted, blinding can be exclaimed with indignation, amazed at what you are reporting, or you can speak very calmly. And it’s better if it’s simple and calm and quiet, as the old chronicler used to say.
There is no need to overemphasize "those who drank the charm of wine in one go": the main thing, in my opinion, is not that the church was more beautiful than any Italian-Indian buildings there, but that it was more beautiful in the eyes of those for whom it was created.
Kedrin's poems are often characterized by a touching, straightforward naivety. He is sometimes cruel, but he is not dishonest; he never deceives, only deceives himself. In The Architects, this naivety is expressed in the words:
"More beautiful than Italian villas
And there were Indian pagodas! " (WITH)
The villas are secular structures, and the pagodas are what are called "cult". The beauty of both is manifested in a slightly different way, and in my opinion, it is inappropriate to compare the Church of the Intercession with those and others. But this is the author's business, he could not, apparently, say it differently.
And a little higher - a loving enumeration of details by a man who believes that all others will also inevitably share with him the belief in the beauty of what he described:
“And they have already reached out
Pointed turrets up.
Transitions,
Balconies,
Onions and domes ... "(C)
This listing does not convey the beauty of the church as much as short comparisons "like a bride" or "such that she was in a dream." But in it, on the other hand, the personality of the author reveals itself.
They say that it was this poem that inspired Tarkovsky to create the film "Andrei Rublev". But the words “the picturesque artel of the monk Andrei Rublev” cannot be taken literally: Andrei Rublev lived before Grozny. Rather, this refers to the icon painters as his students and followers.
The most important thing is the ending, the final stanzas. The "Architects" with the same text can have two completely different endings. One cannot but express pity for the architects and disgust for the verdict. The question is what will outweigh - whether the condemnation of the "terrible mercy" of the Terrible or the meek affection before the church and the light feeling that her creators have in it, no matter what else. You can, after all, read it in such a way as to hear: it is stronger than death, stronger than suffering. Overcame everything ...
But here you have to be very careful not to be either edifying or pompous, and not to be fake. You have to believe it in order to work. If you allow yourself to believe, there comes a moment when you feel: with all the seeming pathos and author's naivety, the poetry is at the level of national enlightenment.

And already reached out
Pointed turrets up.
Transitions,
Balconies,
Onions and domes.
And learned people wondered,
Zane this church
More beautiful than Italian villas
And there were Indian pagodas!

Thief, whipped,
At the block I lay breathless,
Staring straight into the sky
Comb of gray beard,
And in Moscow captivity
Tatar khans languished,
Messengers of the Golden,
Reapers of the Black Horde.

And the benefactor asked:
"Can you make it handsome,
More splendid than this temple
Another, I say? "
And shaking her hair
The architects answered:
"Can!
Order, sir! "

Falcon eyes
Stabbed them with an iron awl,
To white light
They could not see.
And branded with a stigma
They were flogged with batogs, sick,
And threw them
Dark,
To the cold bosom of the earth.

And in the Gluttony row,
Where the tavern was singing,
Where it smelled like a booze
Where it was dark from a couple
Where the clerks shouted:
"The sovereign's word and deed!"
Masters for Christ's sake
They asked for bread and wine.

Light poured into the mica window,
The spirit of the velma was stale.
Tiled stove.
Goddess.
Burnout and heat.
And in tailored shirts
Before John the Fourth,
Holding hands tightly
These masters were standing.

“Smerds!
Can you fold the church
Foreign goodies?
So that it was more beautiful
Overseas churches, I say? "
And shaking her hair
The architects answered:
"Can!
Order, sir! "
And they hit the king's feet.

The sovereign ordered.
And on Saturday in Palm Sunday,
Baptized at sunrise
Grabbing the hair with straps,
Sovereign architects
Hastily put on aprons,
On broad shoulders
They carried the bricks to the scaffolding.

And already reached out
Pointed turrets up.
Transitions,
Balconies,
Onions and domes.
And learned people wondered,
Zane this church
More beautiful than Italian villas
And there were Indian pagodas!

Thief, whipped,
At the block I lay breathless,
Staring straight into the sky
Comb of gray beard,
And in Moscow captivity
Tatar khans languished,
Messengers of the Golden,
Reapers of the Black Horde.

And the benefactor asked:
“Can you make it look good,
More splendid than this temple
Another, I say? "
And shaking her hair
The architects answered:
"Can!
Order, sir! "

Falcon eyes
Stabbed them with an iron awl,
To white light
They could not see.
They were branded with a stigma
They were flogged with batogs, sick,
And threw them
Dark,
To the cold bosom of the earth.

And in the Gluttony row,
Where it smelled like a booze
Where it was dark from a couple
Where the clerks shouted:
"The sovereign's word and deed!"
Masters for Christ's sake
They asked for bread and wine.

Analysis of the ballad "Architects" by Kedrin

“But labor is eternal
Your unknown architects
Hardworking
Like ants "

Dmitry Kedrin is a poet with a tragic fate. Raised in an intelligent family, he began to compose poetry early, and later it became his main craft, but real fame came to him posthumously. In the 60s, D. Kedrin became a guide for Soviet youth into classical Russian poetry of the late 20th century.

Theme

The Architect is one of the most famous works by Dmitry Kedrin. The historical background in this ballad is intertwined with the destinies of individuals, and the masses of the people become a reflection of all Russian life.

The poet continues in the "Architects" the folklore theme - the subject of his image is the legend of the creation of the Intercession Cathedral in 1555 by order of Ivan the Terrible. According to legend, the king ordered two architects to build a temple with eight domes. Thanks to the talent of its creators, the temple embodied all facets of the Russian worldview of the 16th century and became a real pearl of ancient Russian architecture. Ivan the Terrible, not wanting such a structure to be built anywhere else, ordered to blind the creators.

Idea

In all his historical subjects, D. Kedrin was directly interested in the life of the people themselves, penetration into those times when the Russian matrix, the basis of Russian culture and spirituality, was just beginning to be laid. The ballad "Architects" was no exception.

Separating the personality of a formidable, truly cruel tsar from an independent, strong people, D. Kedrin emphasizes that the national culture is based on the natural talents of nuggets, who come from an innumerable mass of people. Not numerous wars, executions and repressions, but the creations of these craftsmen remain in history forever. It is the people who are able to appreciate the beauty in the culture they create that becomes the main engine of history:

And with his matting,
With a turquoise ring in my mouth, -
Obscene wench
Stood at the Execution Ground
And wondering
Like a fairy tale
I looked at that beauty ...

Another idea permeates the ballad of Dmitry Kedrin. The idea of eternal confrontation on the one hand, natural, genuine art and brutal power on the other. A peculiar interpretation of the theme of the "little man" characteristic of Russian literature is reflected in the works of Kedrin, MA Bulgakov (the novel "The Master and Margarita"), and 40 years later it will be continued in the work of A. Voznesensky (the poem "The Master"). Art and violence are incompatible, just as the strength of the Russian people is incompatible with the selfishness and weakness of the rulers.

Visual and expressive means and composition

The language of the ballad corresponds to the style of the chronicle - it is neutral, the author seems to be aloof and leaves his pen to the chronicler. However, as different episodes are depicted, the style of the narrative changes. The tsar's remarks sound abruptly, clearly, with logical emphasis on almost every word:

“Smerds!
Can you fold the church
Foreign goodies?
So that it was more beautiful
Overseas churches, I say? "

For example, when describing the fate of architects, the intonation changes - we hear a certain semblance of Old Russian weeping, the stressed words merge into a single chain of lingering sounds. This is also facilitated by the use of anaphora:

And in the Gluttony row,
Where the tavern was singing,
Where it smelled like a booze
Where it was dark from a couple
Where the clerks shouted:

Compositionally, the poem is divided into two parts: events before the order of the tsar to blind the architects and after. The set of artistic means used by the author and the general rhythm of the work are also noticeably changing. This technique helps the reader to understand that with the punishment of the artists, something irreparable happened for the fate of the country, its Russian history. The emphasis is on the fact that no man can take away true talent.

Thus, D. Kedrin's ballad "The Architects" became a real monument to the strength and courage of the Russian people, which preserves the authenticity of culture. The very story of the poet's life, closely intertwined with his work, becomes the embodiment of spiritual strength and extraordinary talent.

Dmitry Kedrin

Who saw a lot, who knew a lot,
Knew hate and love
Who had everything, lost everything
And again he found everything again.

The taste that has recognized everything earthly
And greedy for life again,
Possessing everything and again
Afraid of losing everything.

Russian and Soviet poetry for foreign students. A.K. Demidova, I.A. Rudakov. Moscow, publishing house "Higher school", 1969.

A joker who walked around, white-toothed like a Turk,
Drunk, leaned against the post and drooped.
I threw my cigarette butt. He raised his cigarette butt
He lit a cigarette and said, a grateful debtor:

“Come to the crematorium, ask Ivanov,
You are a good man, I will burn you for free, brother. "
I memorized the words of the promise of the intoxicated
And a curl running along his sweaty forehead.

Postmen come, but letters from the Urals
They don't wear me in a bag on my side in Taganka.
If you died or stopped waiting,
If you stop loving me, I will go to the debtor.

I'll come to the crematorium, go down to the stoker
Where he mends a hole in the knees of his pants,
I will bring him to the furnace burning hot
And I whisper to him sadly: "Burn it, Ivanov!"

How did the sovereign beat
The Golden Horde near Kazan,
Pointed to his courtyard
Come to the masters.
And the benefactor ordered
The chronicler reads the legend,
In memory of this victory
May they build a stone temple.

And the Florentines were brought to him,
And the Germans
And others
Foreign husbands
Drinking a charm of wine in one go.
And two came to him
Unknown Vladimir architects,
Two Russian builders,
Stately,
Barefoot,
Young.

Light poured into the mica window,
The spirit of the velma was stale.
Tiled stove. Goddess.
Burnout and heat.
And in tailored shirts
Before John the Fourth,
Holding hands tightly
These masters were standing.

And already reached out
Pointed turrets up.
Transitions,
Balconies,
Onions and domes.
And learned people wondered,
Zane this church
More beautiful than Italian villas
And there were Indian pagodas!

Thief, whipped,
At the block I lay breathless,
Staring straight into the sky
Comb of gray beard,
And in Moscow captivity
Tatar khans languished,
Messengers of the Golden,
Reapers of the Black Horde.

And over all this shame
That church was
Like a bride!
And with his matting,
With a turquoise ring in my mouth
Obscene wench
Stood at the Execution Ground
And wondering
Like a fairy tale
I looked at that beauty ...

And how the temple was consecrated,
Then with a staff,
In a monk's hat,
The king walked around him
From basements and services
Up to the cross.
And, casting a glance
Its patterned towers
"Whisper!" - said the king.
And everyone answered: "Whisper!"

And the benefactor asked:
“Can you make it look good,
More splendid than this temple
Another, I say? "
And shaking her hair
The architects answered:
"Can!
Order, sir! "
And they hit the king's feet.

And then the sovereign
He commanded to blind these architects,
So that in his land
Church
There was one such
So that in the Suzdal lands
And in the lands of Ryazan
And others
They didn't build a better temple
Than the Church of the Intercession!

Falcon eyes
Stabbed them with an iron awl,
To white light
They could not see.
And branded with a stigma
They were flogged with batogs, sick,
And threw them
Dark,
To the cold bosom of the earth.

Dmitry Kedrin. Poems. Poems. Moscow: "Moscow Worker", 1982.

* * * “This is the evening of life. Late evening…"

This is the evening of life. Late evening.
It's cold and there is no fire in the house.
The lamp has burned out. Nothing else
Disperse the thickening darkness.

Dawn ray, look through my window!
Night Angel! Spare me:
I want to see the sun again
Sun of the first half of the Day!

Dmitry Kedrin. Poems. Poems. Moscow: "Moscow Worker", 1982.