Mass stampede during celebrations of the coronation of Emperor Nicholas II, in which 1,389 people died and more than 900 were injured.
The coronation festivities continued in the evening at the Kremlin Palace, and then with a ball at a reception with the French ambassador. Many expected that if the ball was not cancelled, then at least it would take place without the sovereign.
According to Sergei Alexandrovich, when Nicholas II was advised not to come to the ball, the tsar said that although the Khodynka disaster was the greatest misfortune, however should not overshadow holiday coronation Nicholas II opened the ball with Countess Montebello (the envoy's wife), and Alexandra Feodorovna danced with the count.
Khodynka. Watercolor by Vladimir Makovsky. 1899
The only article about Khodynka, which appeared the next day, was article by Vladimir Gilyarovsky (1855-1935) in Russian Gazette. Its title was typed in large letters: “Khodynska disaster.” She jumped out on time: other newspapers were immediately forbidden to write about these events...
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Gilyarovsky "Disaster on the Khodynka Field" (1896):
"P The cause of the disaster will be determined by the investigation, which has already begun and is ongoing. For now, I will limit myself to a description of everything I saw and the reliable information that I was able to obtain from eyewitnesses.
I begin with a description of the area where the disaster occurred. Poor placement of buffets for distributing mugs and treats certainly increased the number of victims. They are built like this: a hundred paces from the highway, in the direction of the Vagankovskoye cemetery, their chain stretches, at times breaking into more or less long intervals.
Dozens of buffets are connected by one roof, with a one-and-a-half-arshin passage tapering in the middle, since it was supposed to let people into the festivities from Moscow through these passages, handing each of the walkers a bundle with refreshments.
Parallel to the buffets, on the Moscow side, i.e. from where the people were expected, first stretches from the highway a deep ditch with steep edges and a yard-long shaft, turning opposite the first buffets into a wide, up to 30 fathoms, ditch - a former quarry where sand and clay were taken. The ditch, about two fathoms deep in places, has steep, steep banks and is pitted with a mass of sometimes very deep holes. It stretches for more than half a mile, right along the buffets, and in front of the buffets has a platform along its entire length, 20 to 30 steps wide.
It was, apparently, intended to be a place where the people would be presented with bundles and allowed to enter the field. However, it didn’t turn out that way: there was a crowd of people, and a thousandth of them couldn’t fit on the site.
The distribution was supposed to be carried out from 10 o'clock in the morning on May 18, and people began to gather the day before, on the 17th, almost from noon, and at night they came from everywhere, from Moscow, from factories and from villages, positively blocking the streets adjacent to the Tverskaya and Presnenskaya outposts and Butyrskaya.
By midnight, the huge square, pitted in many places, starting from the buffets, along their entire length, to the water pumping building and the surviving exhibition pavilion, looked like either a bivouac or a fair. On smoother places, away from the festivities, there were carts of people who had arrived from the villages and carts of traders with snacks and kvass. There were fires lit here and there. At dawn the bivouac began to come to life and move. Crowds of people kept arriving in droves.
Coronation glasses
Everyone tried to take seats closer to the buffets. A few managed to occupy a narrow smooth strip near the refreshment tents themselves, while the rest overflowed the huge 30-fathom ditch, which seemed like a living, swaying sea, as well as the bank of the ditch closest to Moscow and the high rampart. By three o'clock everyone was standing in the places they had occupied, more and more constrained by the influx of masses of people.
By five o'clock the gathering of people had reached an extreme level - I believe that there were at least several hundred thousand people. The mass was constrained. You couldn't move your hand, you couldn't move. Pressed in the ditch to both high banks, they had no opportunity to move. The ditch was jam-packed, and the heads of the people, merged into a continuous mass, did not represent a flat surface, but deepened and rose in accordance with the bottom of the ditch, dotted with pits.
The crush was terrible. Many became ill, some lost consciousness, unable to get out or even fall: deprived of feelings, with their eyes closed, squeezed as if in a vice, they swayed along with the mass. This went on for about an hour. Cries for help and suppressed groans were heard. The crowd somehow lifted the teenage children up and allowed them to crawl over their heads in one direction or another, and some managed to get out into the open, although not always unharmed. The guard soldiers carried two of these teenagers into the large theater No. 1, where Mr. Forcatti and doctors Anrikov and Ramm were located.
So, at 12 o’clock at night they brought in an unconscious girl of about 16 years old, and at about three o’clock they brought in a boy who, thanks to the care of the doctors, only came to his senses at noon of the second day and said that he was crushed in the crowd and then thrown out. He didn't remember anything further.
People were choking on Khodynka because of these gingerbreads
Few managed to escape the crowd onto the field. After five hours, many in the crowd had already fainted, pressed on all sides. And above the million-strong crowd, steam began to rise, similar to swamp fog. Evaporation came from this mass, and soon the crowd was enveloped in a white haze, especially below in the ditch, so strongly that from above, from the rampart, in some places only this haze was visible, hiding the people.
At about 6 o'clock, groans and cries for salvation began to be heard more and more often in the crowd. Finally, near a few middle tents, excitement became noticeable. It was the crowd that demanded that the artel workers in charge of the buffets give out treats. In two or three medium-sized booths, the artel workers actually began to distribute bundles, while in the rest there was no distribution. At the first tents they shouted “distributing”, and a huge crowd rushed to the left, towards the buffets where they were distributing. Terrible, soul-tearing moans and screams filled the air...
The crowd pressing from behind threw thousands of people into the ditch, those standing in the pits were trampled... Several dozen Cossacks and sentries guarding the buffets were crushed and pushed into the field, and those who had previously made their way into the field from the opposite side were climbing for bundles, not allowing those entering from the outside to pass. and the pressing crowd pressed people to the buffets and crushed them. This lasted no more than ten most painful minutes... The groans were audible and aroused horror even on the racing ring, where work was still going on at that time.
The crowd quickly flowed back, and from six o'clock the majority were already heading home, and from Khodynsky Field, crowding the streets of Moscow, people were moving all day long. During the celebration itself, not even one fifth of what was there in the morning remained.
Many, however, returned to look for their dead relatives. The authorities showed up. Piles of bodies began to be sorted out, separating the dead from the living. More than 500 wounded were taken to hospitals and emergency rooms; the corpses were taken out of the pits and laid out in a circle of tents over a huge space.
Mutilated, blue, their clothes torn and soaked through, they were terrible. The groans and lamentations of relatives who found theirs were beyond description... According to Russian custom, people threw money for burial on the chests of the dead... Meanwhile, military and fire trucks kept arriving and took dozens of corpses to the city.
Emergency rooms and hospitals were overflowing with wounded. Chapels at police houses and hospitals and barns are filled with corpses. Cleaning went on all day. By the way, 28 bodies were found in a well, which turned out to be in a ditch, opposite the middle buffets. This deep well, made by an overturned funnel, lined inside with wood, was covered with boards that could not withstand the pressure of the crowd. Among those who fell into the well, one was saved alive. In addition, corpses were also found in the field, quite far from the scene of the disaster. These were the wounded, who managed to leave in the heat of the moment, fell and died.
All night on Sunday they transported bodies from everywhere to the Vagankod cemetery. More than a thousand lay there, in the meadow in the sixth category of the cemetery. I was there around 6 o'clock in the morning. White coffins with the dead were being transported towards them along the highway. These are bodies released to relatives for burial. There are a lot of people at the cemetery itself ..."
("Russian Gazette". 1896. No. 137).
What is the difference between a smart monarchist and a stupid monarchist? An intelligent monarchist, while supporting the idea of monarchy as a principle, may well admit that a particular character sitting on the throne is not the embodiment of all conceivable and inconceivable virtues.
Original taken from red_advice in Contemporaries about Nicholas II
A short selection of quotes from contemporaries about the “passion-bearer” Nicholas II, whom they have been so persistently trying to rehabilitate in recent years.
From the diary of Professor B.V. Nikolsky, participant and ideologist of the monarchical “Russian Assembly”:
April 15: “...I think that the tsar cannot be organically brought to reason. He's worse than mediocre! He - God forgive me - is a complete nonentity...
April 26: “...The matter is clear to me. The unfortunate degenerate tsar with his insignificant, petty and pitiful character, completely stupid and weak-willed, not knowing what he is doing, is destroying Russia. If I were not a monarchist - oh, Lord! But to despair of a person for me does not mean to despair in principle”...
From M.O. Menshikov’s diary for 1918:
“...It is not we, the monarchists, who are traitors to him, but he to us. Is it possible to be faithful to a mutual obligation that is broken by one party? Is it possible to recognize a king and an heir who, at the first hint of overthrow, themselves renounce the throne? It’s like a throne, like a chair in an opera, which can be given to anyone who wants it.”
“...During the life of Nicholas II, I did not feel any respect for him and often felt burning hatred for his incomprehensibly stupid decisions arising from stubbornness and petty tyranny. He was an insignificant person in the sense of an owner. But still, I feel sorry for the unfortunate, deeply unhappy man: I don’t know a more tragic figure of “a man out of place…”
S.Yu. Witte: “Not a stupid person, but weak-willed” / Witte S.Yu. Memories. M., 1960. T.2. P. 280.
A.V. Bogdanovich: “A weak-willed, cowardly king” / Bogdanovich A.V. The last three autocrats. M., 1990. P. 371.
A.P. Izvolsky: “He had a weak and changeable character, difficult to accurately define” / Izvolsky A.P. Memories. Mn., 2003. P. 214.
S.D. Sazonov, former Minister of Foreign Affairs, August 3, 1916, in a conversation with M. Paleolog: “The Emperor reigns, but the Empress, inspired by Rasputin, rules” / Paleolog M. Decree. cit., p. 117.
And even the anti-Soviet Balmont in 1906:
Our king is Mukden, our king is Tsushima,
Our king is a bloody stain
The stench of gunpowder and smoke,
In which the mind is dark.
Our king is a blind misery,
Prison and whip, trial, execution,
The king is a hanged man, so half as low,
What he promised, but didn’t dare give.
He is a coward, he feels with hesitation,
But it will happen, the hour of reckoning awaits.
Who began to reign - Khodynka,
He will end up standing on the scaffold.
The final point in the description of the “Tsar-Father” is put by a quote from the memoirs of the famous lawyer and member of the State Council of the Russian Empire, Anatoly Fedorovich Koni:
“His view of himself, as God’s providential anointed one, sometimes evoked in him surges of such self-confidence that he disregarded all the advice and warnings of those few honest people who were still found in his circle...
Cowardice and betrayal ran like a red thread through his entire life, throughout his entire reign, and in this, and not in a lack of intelligence and will, we must look for some of the reasons for how both ended for him... Lack of heart and associated this is the lack of self-esteem, as a result of which he, amid the humiliation and misfortune of everyone close to him, continues to drag out his miserable life, unable to die with honor.”
June 15 marked the 151st anniversary of the birth of the outstanding Russian poet Konstantin Balmont. One of his poems, entitled “Our Tsar,” is very often used by modern haters of the last Tsar and the Russian monarchy in general. Like, look, even the famous poet harshly criticized Nikolai Alexandrovich. In this case, as a rule, the context of the poem’s appearance and what happened later are ignored. Meanwhile, if you study these circumstances, you can condemn the poet and praise the emperor. At the very least, it is advisable to know the context of the creation of this poetic text.
Konstantin Balmont
So here's the poem.
Our king is Mukden, our king is Tsushima,
Our king is a bloody stain,
The stench of gunpowder and smoke,
In which the mind is dark.
Our king is a blind misery,
Prison and whip, trial, execution,
The hanged king is twice as low,
What he promised, but didn’t dare give.
He is a coward, he feels with hesitation,
But it will happen - the hour of reckoning awaits.
Who began to reign - Khodynka,
He will end up standing on the scaffold.
The last line is sometimes called “prophetic”... After reading this poem, you immediately ask the question: “Why wasn’t the poet imprisoned?” Remembering at least the fate of Osip Mandelstam, who later wrote a similar poem about Stalin... And Balmont, in theory, should have at least been detained for this.
You begin to study the context of the creation of the text and find out that at that time Balmont was abroad - in Paris. Of course, it becomes interesting, how did he end up there? And it turns out that he participated in the revolution of 1905-1907, namely in the Moscow December uprising on Krasnaya Presnya. True, he participated more in poetry and probably did not shoot anyone. And then (just in time) I decided to emigrate. And while in exile he published the collection “Songs of the Avenger,” which included this work.
You need to remember this when you read this poem, since you can often come across the opinion that its end is an image, and not a call to action. But Balmont at that time moved in the company of people who aimed specifically at killing the Tsar. And the title of the collection is also indicative - “Songs of the Avenger.”
Well, in the end, you can look at other poems from this collection. For example, in the poem “To Nicholas the Last” there are the lines:
You must be executed by the hand of man,
Perhaps her own, accustomed to killing,
You have become too crippled in soul,
You can’t live like this, you are a seal of vileness.
You have defiled yourself, your country, all countries,
Who groan under your ugly heel,
You are a dwarf, you are Koschey, you are drunk with dirt and blood,
You should be killed, you have become a disaster for everyone.
As you can see, the vocabulary of the detractors of the supreme ruler has changed little over the past hundred years...
In any case, it clearly and unambiguously refers to regicide. Although, of course, one should not see this as something “prophetic” - this is just a statement of the revolutionaries’ plans. Yes, later some of them were able to carry out this threat. But with the same success one can call “prophetic” speeches during wars, when speakers say: “We will win,” and these wars actually turn out to be victorious for someone. Thus, in every war, half of the speakers (those who were on the winning side) turn out to be “prophets”. And Nikolai Alexandrovich did not stand on the scaffold. There was no trial, and his murder can hardly be called an execution.
Also, one should not judge all the poets of the Silver Age by Konstantin Dmitrievich Balmont. His behavior was rather an exception. Most poets preferred to be apolitical. And Balmont himself would later say that a poet essentially should be outside the parties.
But then he was actively involved in politics. In general, there is a lot of interesting things in this collection. For example, in the poem “Criminal Word” he writes the following.
Who will speak about the word of reconciliation,
He betrays himself and betrays others,
And I'm in his face, like bright contempt,
I throw away my lashing verse.
However, the poet soon regretted these poems. He was drawn to his homeland. “Life forced me to break away from Russia for a long time, and at times it seems to me that I am no longer living, that only my strings are still sounding,” he admitted. He wanted to write and publish poetry again in Russia. Essentially, he wanted to become a law-abiding citizen of the Russian Empire again. But he didn’t want to end up in an imperial prison.
And here it is interesting what the Russian authorities, that is, Nicholas II, did. In 1913, Russia celebrated the 300th anniversary of the Romanov dynasty. On this joyful occasion, an amnesty was announced for political emigrants. Konstantin Dmitrievich also came under this amnesty. He was given the opportunity to return, and he took advantage of this opportunity. In May 1913, he was given a magnificent meeting at the Brest station.
Sovereign Emperor Nikolai Alexandrovich
Balmont returned and again became a subject of the king, whom he once wished death. He ceased to be a revolutionary and again became what he is remembered and loved - a Russian poet. He traveled around the country giving lectures and published collections of poetry.
One must think that at this time he hoped that everyone would forget his revolutionary past and those poems of his would not appear anywhere.
But the word is not a sparrow, especially if it is the word of a great poet. The poems that come from his pen begin to live their own life, which the poet cannot always influence. It often happens that sometimes poets are remembered for works for which they themselves repented. And if the Russian authorities forgot about Balmont’s seditious poems, forgiving him for his revolutionary past, now many only know these poems of his.
In March 1917, as is known, Nicholas II was removed from power, and then his brother signed the manifesto on the Constituent Assembly. These events are known as the February Revolution. Konstantin Balmont did not take part in this revolution. True, he welcomed her, but here he was not original - many people welcomed her, including those who later regretted it. But the October Revolution made Balmont horrified. The poet characterized the Bolsheviks as carriers of destructive principles, suppressing personality.
Murder of the royal family
On July 17, 1918, Nicholas II, along with his family and servants, was killed in the Ipatiev House. The “prophecy” (or rather, the dream) that Balmont outlined in his “Songs of the Avenger” came true. Only he was no longer happy about it. Just as I was not happy about the fulfillment of another “prophecy”, from the poem “As if by Romanov.”
Will. It's over. We see you all.
The chopping block has been prepared for you.
The sin of the distorters is a mortal sin.
Wait for the reign of fear.
Under the Bolsheviks, this “reign of fear” came. However, Konstantin Dmitrievich was not happy to live there - at the first opportunity he emigrated again. True, he did not flee in secret, as in tsarist times, but received permission from the People's Commissar of Education Anatoly Lunacharsky to travel abroad. But if he returned to Tsarist Russia, he never returned to Soviet Russia. The poet, of course, was drawn to his homeland, but fear forced him to stay in France, in the country where he once wrote those poems for which fans of revolutionaries still love him. I wonder if he remembered the words from the poem “Inevitability” here?..
There is an accurate count for all days,
The movement in its very essence is reciprocal.
Throw a heavy pile of stones into the air,
Their severity will become instantly clear to you.
Tomb of Konstantin Balmont
So, let's summarize. The poems of Konstantin Dmitrievich Balmont were written when he was actually a revolutionary, and they should be perceived precisely as a pamphlet of a revolutionary. In Russia at that time, this was punishable by imprisonment. But forgiveness awaited the poet, because the tsarist government declared an amnesty for people like him. Balmont lived in Russia under the tsarist regime, but could not live under the revolutionary government.
Accordingly, now the spiritual heirs of the revolutionaries of the beginning of the last century remember him for those poems that he wanted to forget.
In the photo, 1896 is the year when its last emperor, Nicholas II, ascended the throne of the Russian Empire. Below the cut is a photo of those who became the first victims of his reign...Original taken from humus
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“Nicholas II was also characterized by such a quality as indifference to the fates of the people around him. This can be traced throughout his life. First of all, we must recall the events associated with the coronation of Nicholas II. This is the well-known disaster on the Khodynskoye field on May 18, 1896 when about 1,300 people died and many thousands were injured.What was the reaction of Nicholas II?
The festivities were not cancelled, clown performances and booths continued. Moreover, in the evening of the same day, the French Ambassador Montebello was supposed to host a ball in honor of Nicholas II and his wife. According to the Moscow Governor-General of Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich, Nikolai’s uncle, “many advised the sovereign to ask the ambassador to cancel the ball and in any case not to come to this ball, but the sovereign completely disagrees with this opinion. In his opinion, this catastrophe is the greatest misfortune , which should not overshadow the coronation holiday; the Khodynka disaster should be ignored in this sense". The ball was opened by Nikolai and Alexandra Fedorovna.
“Today a great sin happened,” Nicholas II wrote in his diary on May 18, “... about 1300 people trampled! This news left a disgusting impression. At 12 1/2 we had breakfast, and then Alix and I went to Khodynka to attend this sad “folk holiday”. Actually there was nothing there... Let's go to the ball at Montebello's. It was very nicely arranged".
Other events were not cancelled. The next day he wrote down: “At 2 o’clock Alix and I went to the Old Catherine Hospital, where we went around all the barracks and tents in which the unfortunate victims lay yesterday... At 7 o’clock the banquet for class representatives began in the Alexander Hall.” And on May 21, the diary records: “At 10 3/4 we went to a ball at the Assembly of the Nobility.”
This is how the emperor reacted to the Khodynka disaster. It is no coincidence that after this he was dubbed “bloody.” Those responsible for the disaster, primarily the Governor-General of Moscow, were not punished."
Source: E.S. Radzig "Nicholas II in the memoirs of those close to him"
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"Our king is Mukden, our king is Tsushima,
Our king is a bloody stain,
The stench of gunpowder and smoke,
In which the mind is dark.
Our king is a blind misery,
Prison and whip, trial, execution,
The king is a hanged man, so half as low,
What he promised, but didn’t dare give.
He is a coward, he feels with hesitation,
But it will happen, the hour of reckoning awaits.
Who began to reign - Khodynka,
He will end up standing on the scaffold".
K.D. Balmont, 1906, 12 years before the “scaffold”.
Forgotten Silver Age. Inciting social discord, justifying terrorism and calls for the violent overthrow of the autocratic system...
From the collection "Songs of the Avenger" (1907)
IF YOU WANT
If you want to sweep away the cobwebs,
So look and start with the spider.
If you want to cut a hole, remove the heavy one
ice floe
If you want to sing a song, let it be that song
call.
Live if you want. If in life there are only prisons and
walls,
Rise as a mighty wave - and overcome the barrier with aspiration
break it.
If the walls are stronger, scatter the lace of foam,
But if you live, live like that, and never feel sorry for yourself.
OUR KING
Our king is Mukden, our king is Tsushima,
Our king is a bloody stain,
The stench of gunpowder and smoke,
In which the mind is dark.
Our king is a blind misery,
Prison and whip, trial, execution,
The hanged king is twice as low,
What he promised, but didn’t dare give.
He is a coward, he feels with hesitation,
But it will happen - the hour of reckoning awaits.
Who began to reign - Khodynka,
He will end up standing on the scaffold.
TSING IS A LIE
The people thought: here it is dawn,
The melancholy has come to an end.
The people went to ask the king.
The answer is lead.
Ah, low despot! You are forever
In the blood, in the blood now.
You were an insignificant person
Now you are a dirty beast.
But the worker's blood rose,
Like an ear of corn in front of him.
And the minion of evil trembled
In front of such an ear.
He is red, he has no sickle, -
Anyone will break off.
The ears of corn are humming like a crowd,
The system of ears of ears is growing.
And each ear is a sharp knife,
And every ear is a look.
No, king, you won’t come now,
No, vile king, go back!
You won't fool us now
The ninth of January.
You are a king, and that means you are all lies
And we will sweep away the king!
THE BEAST IS LOSED
The beast is unleashed. Here it is, fun
Exposed executioners.
Animal face. Peals of laughter.
Animal voice: "Strike! Strike! Strike!"
And along all over Russia again
Tossed up, always dirty,
Autocracy rotten
Enraged horde.
The mighty blow of the general strike
They were thrown off track.
They need loot, handouts
From their Romanov family.
But we are not sleeping, we see clearly
The fighters of the uprising are countless.
And those we hate
In its due moment, revenge will come.
Go for a walk, Beast of autocracy,
Show all abomination to the eyes.
The lawlessness has ended forever.
You are condemned. Your hour has struck
LIKE ROMANOV
The Romanovs have weakened. It's high time to remove them.
Words from a Kostroma man
We had kings and princes.
Ruled. They ruled differently.
You are a family of depraved bastards,
You rule quite disgracefully.
You don't even edit. You're just bedlam
Angry, crazy-arrogant.
House of executioners, historical shame,
Stupid, mediocre and deceitful.
In those years there was a crazy Ivan,
He was monstrously-faced,
I was drunk with bloody arbitrariness,
Still, he was menacingly great.
He was overcome by a demonic dream,
He was a toy for the devils;
This present one is only an idol,
Puppet, Parsley.
In those years I was a complete idiot,
Ugly-faced Pavel,
A doll soldier - but still one
Left the best memory.
Paul should be valued compared to today,
May Paul be praised:
He did not pull his vile thread,
He quickly created Palen.
This same disgusting one, with a fox tail,
With a mouth fit for a wolf,
Calls people to the world, and, moreover,
Robs the whole world on the sly.
Robs, blasphemes, shrinks, lies,
It whines pitifully, like puppies.
You bastards are a court stronghold,
Praise the good brother.
Will. It's over. We see you all.
The chopping block has been prepared for you.
The sin of the distorters is a mortal sin.
Wait for the reign of fear!
INEVITABILITY
Murders, executions, prisons, robberies,
Investigation, search, search, human tentacles,
A web of shameless lies,
Words are one thing, and actions are another.
The Romanovs with the servile crowd,
With the permission of all who are low-hearted,
The workers are led like cattle to the slaughter.
One, two, over. But the hour of reckoning is near.
There is an accurate count for all days,
The movement in its very essence is reciprocal.
Throw a heavy pile of stones into the air,
Their severity will become instantly clear to you.
You'll feel in your head,
Who invented such amusements,
What is order in world life,
You love blood - you will enter into a bloody sleep.
From the blood that is shed, blood will arise,
Life wants to live, but to those who execute - execution is harsh.
Rather, Life, prepare retribution,
Death to Death, and let the Word live!
CRIMINAL WORD
As long as there are people going crazy in prisons,
He must find out for himself the horror of imprisonment,
Understand that there is a prison all around.
To feel that the mind that burned proudly within you
Became timidly seeking pleasure even in the abyss of sleep,
That the music has been erased - to the last chord:
Wall, wall and silence.
Who will speak about the word of reconciliation,
He betrays himself and betrays others,
And I'm in his face, like bright contempt,
I throw away my lashing verse.
From poems of 1906
POET TO THE WORKER
I am a poet, and I was a poet,
And therefore I will die.
But I have seen since childhood
There is late light in the factory windows, -
He left a mark on my mind
I will not erase this trace.
I also heard a beep -
At noon, at midnight, in the morning,
Okay I know the deadline
How great is such a lesson,
I couldn't forget the beep
Here - I take the sound of it.
Why am I singing now?
Why didn't you sing earlier?
I sang my song before,
I'm a foundry worker - I pour molds,
I am a blacksmith - I forge poetry
I sang that I was young and brave.
I was busy with myself
Well, I'm not hiding it.
An hour has passed. It's another time.
In front of me is a sea wall,
Oh worker, I'm with you,
I storm yours - I sing.
TO WORK
Worker, it’s strange for me to talk to you:
I look different. Oh, believe me, just by looking.
In the noise of the factory you twist your thread,
I will twist your insult into my thread, my brother.
Cut off, like you, from the silence of the fields,
Which seemed like a grave to the soul,
I'm in a noisy city, among strangers,
More than once I was exhausted from overwork.
I was like a plague in my own family,
Among the merchants of words, I was undoubtedly a stranger.
I sailed on the free sea in my boat -
And the sea expanded boundlessly, horizon-wide.
It makes me happy to think that my great-grandfathers
We wandered through the seas in the foggy North.
Streams are always singing in my soul,
They grow to fall into the sea in undeceiving desire.
In the swampy lowlands of the jubilant burghers
The free spirit is yearning, mad, restless.
But the marked one who remembers is the ocean,
He is waiting for liberation - and he will wait for the storm.
She came sooner than I would have thought,
You stood up - and thunder struck, everyone left the vestibule.
At the crossroads of all crossed roads
You are the only one I trust.
I know that you have a will of steel, -
It’s not for nothing that you stand near flames and steel.
You were able to read the words in the destinies of your homeland,
Which the wise, reading, did not see.
I know you can weave beautiful fabric,
Once you set your mind, you will do what you need to do.
You awakened the peaceful, you said to the corpse: “Get up,”
The corpse is alive, the fighters are coming, the mass is growing.
The whirlpool grows in powerful circles,
In vain are the babbles, in vain are the cries of fear, -
Now he will absorb everything around him into himself,
He will realize himself with all his might.
CLEARLY
Who doesn’t believe in the victory of conscious, brave workers?
He is playing a dishonest double game.
He takes other people's things, - they are quite willing to take someone else's things, -
He takes freedom, stained with the blood of workers, -
Well, take it, everyone, but say: “I’m taking someone else’s.”
Yes, freedom is for everyone, forever, and yet, this freedom,
And yet, this minute is not an indoor shower,
Not talkative, cowardly, but brave from the abyss of the people,
This will is captured in battle, and this freedom is
Not an eloquent table talker, not a pathetic meandering one.
This is the blood, I say, of the workers who dared and stood up,
And now - whoever is not with us is a corrupt cheater and a coward.
These peaceful, false-cultured, tinsel and other
I call: "Old rubbish!" And in the name of the rebel workers
You will be swept away! This I swear to you, like the voice of the tide!
LAND AND WILL
"Land and freedom" - the cry of the people,
“Land and freedom” is the cry of the peasants.
The worker shouted through the fog.
“Everything is anew, and freedom for everyone,”
It’s as if the ocean echoes.
It seems to me that in a stormy move
There's a tidal wave coming.
The end is the low prison vaults,
A wall in the prison has been destroyed.
The fate of Russia by all the people
Now it must be resolved.
The bad weather is howling,
But the worker's mind is a beacon.
In Earth and Will - the life of the people,
The darkness will not be able to choke again.
Everything is anew, and everyone has freedom.
Let it be so! Let it be so!
RUSSIAN WORKER
Worker, only for you
Hope for all Russia.
The heavy hammer fell, crushing
Fortress strongholds.
That hammer is yours. I sing to you
In the name of all Russia!
You knew the need, you know the work,
You know hunger too well.
But you rebelled. They're coming with you
All those who are young at heart.
Be strong, show your judgment again,
The prison is not completely split.
They want to deceive you
Again, again and again.
But you have outlined the path for us all,
Gave everyone freedom of speech.
So into battle with the darkness, and chest to chest, -
This is the watchman's call.
Watchman in the dark,
Watchman in the middle of the night -
Only you, fearlessly brave, you!
Your eyes shine for us.
All dreams will come true,
You will win, worker!
From the collection "Song of the Working Hammer" (1922)
FREE VERSE
To the Ivanovo-Voznesensk workers
What a proud happiness it is to know that people need you,
Feel that you can sing a verse that reaches your hearts.
Sisters! I see you, sisters. We will partake of fire.
Cup of intoxicating freedom, brothers, let's drink to the end!
By the strength of those who thought boldly, by the accomplishment of soldiers and workers
The greatest country in the world tells us to be free.
The chains rang for centuries. The chains are worn. Away with them.
Let us drain the cup of intoxicating happiness, brothers, to the bottom!
Brave sisters, I love you! In the wind you are living birds.
The wings of freedom rustle with the rustle of the first rains.
Glory and greatness to you, blessed in the countries of Russia,
A multi-peaked tree with a roll call and the hum of branches!
POET TO THE WORKER
Worker, I give you my verse
As a free gift from a loving heart,
In it is the measuring hammer of echoing workshops,
And in it is a candle, a covenant of a fellow believer.
It’s not a stranger talking to you here,
Not a pampered and idle darling:
I folded many slender slabs into a pattern,
Taking them with a thought from the ugly pile.
My crowbar, my persistent pickaxe
Worked in the quarry nights
Not a day, not two, but long centuries.
I am a worker of centuries. Know and remember.
Seer, architect, waiter and poet,
I am the elder brother of those who walk through the nights,
I am the memory of days, a link of countless years,
Guardian of all radiant centers.
Do you think that the heights of the pyramids
Did those who bent their backs also raise their hands?
Oh yeah! But I was the connection of these plates,
I conceived a single blueprint for everything.
And, changing the drawings over the centuries,
Diversifying the face of human centuries,
I didn't let my pupils sleep,
And I did not weave webs for the free.
When kings clouded you,
I was the first to start a riot with free speech
And he announced to you the coming of dawn, -
In it lies the death of the decaying foundations.
Was it not I who went to the chopping block for you?
Wasn’t it me who went to prison and exile?
But you can easily walk a hundred roads, loving,
He who wants sacrifice does not escape sorrow.
I waited and longed for your freedom,
I dream of a universal holiday of brotherhood -
Such a stream of caressing rays,
That not even a shadow of gloating will arise.
And the hour has come to begin creativity,
To double and triple everyone’s happiness.
So why separate the seal?
On the palace you want to build?
Who believes in his own creation,
He sees a lie in the schism of division.
The dawn has risen, it is burning, look at it,
The sun shines without limitation.
So we will finally be like the sun,
We acknowledge all our desires, embracing
And let us freely accept the liberty of all hearts
In the name of blossoming May.
NAMED AFTER HERZEN
Russia of executions, torture, investigation, prisons,
A country where the thoughts of minds are cut off from the shoulder,
The country where we eat and joke
In the bloody hour of the executioner's deeds.
The country where serfdom dances,
Where the snake is king, baby snakes are kings,
Where the rule is revelry in dirt and pus,
The country of blizzards, slavery and melancholy, -
He knew her, a noble thinker,
Whose spirit is the calling string to fight,
But he foresaw a full-flowing flood,
He figured out a well in it without a bottom.
Where a valuable treasure has been hidden for centuries -
And in fairy tales the giants sleep for a long time,
But in the fairy tale there is a reed pipe.
Breathe into such a reed - it will answer with a song,
And by will that tune is called,
It is expanding brighter and more wonderful,
The dream is cut, anger shines like a diamond.
The mysterious forge rumbles
A heavy hammer hits an anvil,
The reed sings, reads victory to the fire,
And in the flames there is a dance and a turn.
The whole white space is in aurora,
The polar star burns in the snow,
Life needs new decoration,
And the giant walks lightly towards the enemies.
Oceans splash to the oceans,
And the veche bell announces:
There are enchanted countries in the world,
Russia, to be like in a fairy tale is your lot.
Your ancient mansion is destroyed forever
With all its good and bad,
Above your city and above your village
There is a fire and red smoke is billowing.
But if in everyone there is the spirit of a fellow believer,
And this faith is the happiness of all free people,
We will be everything - a flaming heart,
And all the old sin will be expiated.
Whoever rang the bell believed in it,
Let only brother see brother in brother,
Let's build a life from just light,
So that the running of the clock would be a sonorous waterfall.
SONG OF THE WORKING HAMMER
Knock, knock, hammer,
Each strip has its own nail.
Every nail is just right
We will have a round table.
Complete the lesson in full
Knock, knock, hammer.
We will sit together at the table -
The whole working family.
It will be blizzard outside the window,
And in the frost your song.
Knock-knock - on the walls,
Cold and hunger are coming to us.
Knock-knock - into the attics,
We are not happy to see you, friends.
Drive them into a corner
Knock, knock, hammer.
Knock, knock, hurry up,
Prepare a bed for us.
Make it tighter
Heart and heart will be in her.
There is an hour and a time for happiness,
Knock, knock, hammer.
For hugs and conceptions
We are in the faithful gazebo - in it.
We are born in bed
We're sleeping. Let's fall asleep even better.
Knock, knock, hammer,
The fast leap dances loudly.
And let's finish our time here,
They will remember us with a kind word.
The sheaf is ready, and the sheaf is ready,
Knock, knock, hammer.
Strike, strike, my hammer,
There is darkness in the forge and heat in the forge.
Let's pour darkness into flame.
Where is the iron? We are forging a path.
In the sun - we go for the plow,
Sing, sing, my hammer.
Hear all who are alive and young:
Free labor is like an emerald.
I am dancing, I am a working hammer,
Centuries sing within me.
In Egypt, which had a different name,
And in ancient India, and where -
I have marked my face everywhere,
Like a silver moon on the water.
Like the messenger of the solar Horus,
What is: the dawn, -
I forged a blade for argument,
He opened up virgin soil, creating his time.
I forged hoes and plows,
Metal like lightning, swords,
I've been to the north and south
I am the hammer, listen and be silent.
I forged sickles and braids,
And the cutting ax
The mowers are walking in rows, barefoot,
But at dawn they will wear golden attire.
I danced merrily and loudly,
Loved to inhale and drink fire,
Forged a toy for a child,
The crown is to be broken.
How it touches the target
Like a falcon shooter,
So I rock in the cradle,
In work, a hammer is a hammer.
Dare left and right
Rain splashes gold,
Be a word of truth, a cry of anger,
Be a star on our way.
In the flowing flame there are blossoms,
There is comfort in the ore smelter,
Not all the tunes have been sung yet, -
For the first time centuries are singing to me.
I have crossed seas and mountains,
I looked out into the darkness,
My road patterns
I trace along the mountain ridge.
I will shout - a response to the east,
I will knock - the west trembles,
My shine is wide
And my flame was alarming.
I am the riot, I am the explosion, I am the one who
Destroyed blindness with laughter,
I spin clothes from the glow,
I grab stars on the fly.
The granite of the high rocks is split,
I dug passages in the depths,
I am the heart of the world, listen, hammer,
I am blood, I am life, be faithful to me.
I am where laughter splashes in abundance,
Where the steel turns pale blue,
Where are the sun's gold bars
And the most sleek crystal.
I'm where the fresh diamonds are
Where is the blue yacht and ruby,
I will shake all countries with the blow of communication,
I am a worker, I am a ruler.
And the story has been familiar to me since childhood,
What a May shower, shine and roar -
There is a dance, a cheerful laughter of thunder, -
Thunderer swung his hammer.
Over the first bright morning of May,
Where are the poppies of lightning - through the centuries,
Lifting a heavy hammer
A victorious hand was raised.
Knock, knock, my hammer,
Darkness after light, light after darkness.
We're hitting the anvil,
We know a song about ours.
With the sun - to happiness and home,
Knock, knock, my hammer.
